The Mersey Girls (23 page)

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said eagerly. ‘I do try not to make mistakes because rubbing out looks so messy.’

It was not precisely what she had meant to say – it sounded rather smug put into words like that – but it pleased Mr Cowan.

‘Exactly what I always think,’ he said. ‘I must have a word with your supervisor.’

When he had taken the letter and gone Miss Everett, who sat next to Linnet and was the nearest thing to a friend she had in the new offices, leaned across the narrow aisle between them. ‘Well, you’ve made a conquest,’ she said archly. ‘Our Mr Cowan seldom speaks to the typists. Ever so shy he is – he’s been worse since his wife died.’

‘Died? But she couldn’t have been all that old,’ Linnet said, beginning to tidy her desk in preparation for going home when Miss Harper or Miss Elphinstone rang the bell. The Eagle and General was very like school if you discounted the number of young men prowling around. ‘How old is he, forty-two or three? How did she die?’

‘You sound like Cock Robin,’ Miss Everett said, giggling. ‘Oh no, it’s who saw her die, I said the fly with my little eye, I saw her die.’

‘Oh don’t be silly, Miss Everett,’ Linnet said, carrying an armful of files over to the filing tray for the office girls to take back to the basement presently. ‘It was a perfectly ordinary question.’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry. She died of a fever . . .’

‘And no one could save her, and that was the end of sweet Mollie Malone,’ sang Linnet under her breath, returning to her desk. ‘There you are, I can be silly as well. And it did rather fit in with the song, wouldn’t you say?’

‘You’re a card, Miss Murphy,’ Miss Everett said, rather as though she meant something much ruder, though. ‘She died of milk fever, I should have said. It was awfully sad. She’d just had a little baby girl, you see, so Mr Cowan was left with the kid, to manage as best he could.’

‘Heavens. And how does he manage?’

‘Oh, I don’t know; I believe he has a mother,’ Miss Everett said vaguely. ‘I say, did he say he wanted a word with our supervisor?’

‘I believe he did,’ Linnet said. She put her shorthand notebook into her top drawer and arranged her pencils alongside it, then she straightened her typewriter, which would move sideways, crablike, across her desk as the day wore on, and unfolded her leatherette typewriter cover. ‘I expect he was going to tell her she’d done a good job getting me to work here.’

‘Oh, the conceit! No, but you see, Mr Cowan’s just been upgraded. Mr Smith retired ten days or so ago and Mr Cowan will be doing his job. And that means he’ll need a secretary and won’t be using the pool any more.’

‘Oh, that’s a pity,’ Linnet said, just as the bell tinkled for the end of the day. All over the long room with its lines of desks and its myriad young ladies, typewriter covers were slammed down over the machines in almost perfect unison, as though the girls had been practising for weeks. Just when he’s noticed my work . . .’

‘You
are
slow,’ Miss Everett said in a superior tone. She picked up her handbag and headed for the door, speaking over her shoulder as she went. ‘He’s looking for a secretary, Miss Murphy, and at least half the typing pool are hoping he’s looking at them!’

All the way along the corridor and down the stairs, Linnet mulled over the remark. She could see why Miss Everett had said it but she was sensible enough to attach very little importance to it. Had she not worked like anything at her first job, at the Majestic Assurance Company, staying late, arriving early? First as an office girl, then a junior typist, finally as a trainee shorthand typist? And despite two years’ service, had she not been told to pick up her cards when the bosses decided to cut down on staff? There’s a depression on, the remaining girls had said wearily as they waved goodbye to half the staff and prepared to do twice the amount of work for rather less wages. You can’t even complain when there’s a hundred people fighting for every job – you dare not complain. She knew she had been lucky to get this new job.

Still, unlikely though it was that she would be given preferment, she could dream, couldn’t she? She stood at her tram stop and stood, also, on the tram when it finally came clattering along, because it was crowded with homegoing workers, all as eager to get away from the city centre as she. She was pressed and pushed and pulled, but at last they reached The Boulevard and she dismounted, sighed and began to walk towards her home.

The sound of someone running along the pavement and shouting breathlessly wasn’t all that unusual, but she glanced back anyway, just in case she had left her handbag on the bus or missed a friend – and she had. It was Roddy.

‘Hello, our Roddy,’ Linnet said as he panted up beside her. She remembered that he had been for an interview for a job on board a ship and guessed from his whole manner that he had been successful, but knew he would want to tell her himself. ‘What happened? Any luck?’

There had been other jobs, other interviews; she could still remember the droop of his shoulders when someone had turned him down. But that had been when he had been kicked out of his previous job, before Sampsons on St John’s market had taken him on. Then he had been unemployed and beginning to believe himself unemployable. This time he had a job, a steady one, and simply wanted to change from one wage packet to another, or that was how she saw it. And going to sea could be dangerous – she did not know if she approved.

‘I gorr . . . I mean I got it.’ She had nagged him to improve his speech and now she patted his cheek affectionately, grateful that he realised she was doing it for his own good and did not laugh at her or ignore her advice. ‘We sail on Tuesday, at high tide, queen – I’m a deckhand on the SS
Mary Rose
.’

‘That’s wonderful, Roddy . . . but I’ll miss you very much, you know. How long will your voyages be? Is she a liner, or a cargo ship? I bet you’re excited . . . how do you know you won’t be seasick?’

‘She’s a cargo ship, a sizeable coaster, in fact. She’s out of Liverpool and carries timber, bricks, all sorts, up and down the coast and across to the Scottish islands, sometimes over to Sweden, and to Ireland, as well. Which means we could be away a week, or six, depending. But I don’t mind, me Dad was on cargo ships, he says they’re all right provided you keep out of the holds. How about comin’ out wi’ me tonight, to celebrate, like? I shaved on purpose an’ I’m still wearin’ me best kecks!’

‘We-ell . . . were you thinking of going to the flicks?’ Linnet asked hopefully. She did love the cinema, particularly the talkies, which had put the old silent films completely in the shade. ‘I’ve not been to the Rotunda for absolutely ages.’

‘I thought a dance; then we could cuddle,’ Roddy said with all his usual forthrightness. ‘I like to get me arms round you, Linnet Murphy, an’ hold you to me manly bosom!’

It made Linnet laugh but she took hold of his arm and gave it a pinch, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

‘Roddy Sullivan, you are a darlin’,’ she said vigorously. ‘Tell you what, though I know it’s not at all the thing, come back to my room and I’ll make us a little supper, then we can decide where to go later. What do you say?’

‘Gee whizz,’ Roddy said in true cinema fashion. ‘You say the cutest things, Miss Murphy – sure I’ll come to your place!’

‘Well, I know people might talk, but you’re like a brother to me, always have been,’ Linnet pointed out righteously. ‘And whilst I do the cooking you can tell me all about your new job. Now, why are you pulling that long face, our Roddy?’

‘I am not your bleedin’ brother,’ Roddy shouted, causing several heads to turn accusingly in their direction. ‘Nor I don’t want to be. I want . . . I want . . .’

‘I want never got; do you remember how your mam used to say that to us when we were kids?’ Linnet said diplomatically. She caught his hand and squeezed his fingers hard, then smiled up into his face. ‘She says it to Freddy and Jack still, I expect. Oh Roddy, don’t scowl, it spoils your nice, friendly face. Come on, I’ll race you to No 8!’

In all the excitement of going round to the Sullivans’ and helping Roddy decide what he should pack for his first voyage, Linnet completely forgot the brief visit of Mr Cowan to the typing pool and Miss Everett’s remarks. In fact, when she went up to Canning dock to wave Roddy off very early on Tuesday morning, with a light mist hovering over the face of the Mersey and the streets strangely hushed, she found herself crying so hard that work scarcely seemed important at all. Roddy was her childhood companion, her dearest friend, and he was going away, into danger, where she could not follow!

‘The lad’ll only be away five or six weeks, aren’t we daft?’ Mrs Sullivan said through her tears, clutching Linnet’s arm. ‘Why, when ’e comes ’ome it’ll be like me ‘olidays, that’s all!’

‘I know, but I like seeing him on a Sunday, I like talkin’ to him,’ Linnet said, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands. ‘He’s grand to talk to, is your Roddy.’

The two women stared out across the shining flagstones of the dock as the SS
Mary Rose,
siren sounding forlornly across the oily water, disappeared into the mist. Then they dried their eyes, blew their noses, said six weeks would soon go and wasn’t it a great chance for him, and went to a canny house nearby to eat bacon and eggs and drink strong tea before departing, Roddy’s mother back to her home and Linnet to the insurance office on Exchange Flags.

‘Miss Murphy? Miss Harper wants a word with you. Go to her room at once, please.’

‘Of course, Miss Elphinstone. I’ll go right away.’

Linnet felt her cheeks grow hot with apprehension but she typed to the end of the line anyway, then stood up. Summonses to the office usually meant that you had done something wrong but though she racked her brains as she walked sedately across the typing pool she could think of nothing. She had been in early this morning because of seeing Roddy off, she had started work immediately, however, and had not waited until her normal arrival time. What could it be? And did she look neat and tidy, because Miss Harper was always nagging them about personal appearance? She would have liked to rush along to the ladies’ cloaks to check her hair, make sure that her nose wasn’t shiny and that she hadn’t managed to transfer the ink from her typewriter ribbon to her cheeks or chin, but she would have to take a chance. Miss Harper disliked being kept waiting even more than she disliked a slapdash appearance.

Miss Elphinstone, being the junior of the two supervisors, usually worked at her machine at the long desk in the typing pool, opposite the door, whilst Miss Harper, as senior supervisor, could mostly be found in a tiny cell of an office just up the corridor. Here she checked the work going in and coming out, took calls from members of staff who wanted a shorthand writer to take dictation, chose who should go where and generally made sure that the pool ran smoothly. Linnet had only worked here for five weeks but already she knew that Miss Harper also brewed coffee in the office, sent out for sandwiches which she munched whilst hiding behind a large sheet of legal paper, and took personal calls on the telephone which stood on the right-hand side of her desk. Miss Elphinstone, who helped out when the typing pool was frantically busy and never let ‘her girls’ down if she could avoid it, was popular amongst them, to an extent at least, but Miss Harper was much disliked.

‘She can be vindictive,’ Linnet had been warned. ‘If she takes agin you she can make trouble. It’s best to be very, very polite to Miss Harper and don’t you ever call her just “Miss”, ’cos that’s asking for trouble; she likes us to use her full name.’

So Linnet tapped on the door, waited a moment, and then walked in.

Miss Harper was sitting behind her desk, apparently writing in a large ledger. There was a strong smell of coffee in the air and an empty cup stood beside the streamlined white typewriter which was a sign of Miss Harper’s power and influence – everyone else, including Miss Elphinstone, had a black machine. There was talk, of course, about how she got the machine; but I don’t believe a word of it, Linnet told herself, she’s too fat and spiteful and although Mr Cripps, the manager, is old and has bad breath, he surely wouldn’t . . .

‘Good morning, Miss Harper. Miss Elphinstone said you wanted to see me.’

Linnet stood as the nuns had taught her; feet demurely side by side, hands clasped before her, eyes on the ground. Then she looked up, because she knew people thought you were sly if you didn’t look them in the face and saw Miss Harper was staring at her. She was looking at Linnet as though she couldn’t understand something; her eyes were going up and down, up and down . . .

‘Ah, yes. So you’re Murphy, I couldn’t quite recall. You’ve not been with us long I believe, Miss Murphy.’

‘Just five weeks, Miss Harper,’ Linnet murmured. What was this all about? And why was the wretched woman staring at her like that, as though she was searching for a pair of horns growing out of Linnet’s newly shingled head?

‘So short a time? And already you’ve managed to catch a gentleman’s eye. Tell me, just how did you do it? I can’t say your looks are in any way exceptional – I’m not saying you’re plain, precisely, but you certainly aren’t as eye-catching as, say, Miss Franchini, yet no one’s approached me about her, yet.’

Miss Franchini was a flashing-eyed brunette, the result of a liaison between an Italian seaman and an Irish barmaid from a waterside pub. She was very beautiful but liable to throw tantrums – and typewriter rubbers – when things annoyed her. Perplexed, Linnet tried to remember whether she herself had ever lost her temper whilst working for the company, and decided she had not. So what on earth was Miss Harper going on about?

‘I’m sorry, I don’t quite . . .’

‘You don’t quite what, Miss Murphy? What have I said that has puzzled you so? Surely you must realise why I’ve called you into my office?’

Linnet shook her head. There seemed little point in pretending; she was completely in the dark. ‘No, I’m afraid . . .’

‘Oh, come now! Mr Cowan came to me a fortnight ago and said he would like you to do his work for a while. Since then, he’s been over to your desk on at least two occasions – at least! Surely you did not imagine that he was so enamoured of your work that he had to see you personally on two occasions, when he could just as easily have telephoned through to me that the work was urgent? I don’t know what you said to him, Miss Murphy, or what you offered . . .’