Women on the Home Front (4 page)

So much for her brother, Rick's, teasing that the only job she was likely to get in Selfridges was scrubbing its floors.

Dulcie headed for the kitchen. Unlike some in the area, who only had a couple of rooms to house a whole family and so had to buy hot food from one of the many small shops in the area, Mary Simmonds had her own kitchen. Today the kitchen smelled of cooking fish, making Dulcie wrinkle up her nose. Now that she was working at Selfridges she had a good dinner there in the canteen, and so she wasn't particularly hungry.

‘Rick called by Billingsgate on his way home and brought back with him a nice piece of hake,' her mother told her.

‘I passed Jimmy on my way home. He said that him and Rick had got their papers,' Dulcie informed her mother.

‘That's right,' Mary agreed. ‘I don't know why they're making them all do this training when there isn't supposed to be going to be a war.' She was frowning now.

Dulcie knew, from the photographs of her as a young girl, that her mother had once been pretty, but now she was thin, and her hair turning grey, and her frown was caused by her anxiety for Rick and what might happen to him if there was a war.

The Government had bombarded them all with that many leaflets and warnings about blacking out windows, getting fitted for gas masks, children being evacuated to the country, not to mention filling the streets with sandbags and the parks with trenches, and setting up Air Raid Precaution posts all over the place, but at the same time the Prime Minister had said that they weren't going to go to war with Germany.

Germany was going to war with other countries, though, and now the same Prime Minister who had said there would not be a war was saying that if Germany went ahead and invaded Poland then Britain simply wouldn't stand for it. Dulcie didn't think she trusted Germany – or the Prime Minister.

‘Come on, Dulcie,' her mother instructed sharply now. ‘Get that oilcloth on the table and get the table laid, will you? I'm in a bit of a rush tonight, what with Edith upstairs getting ready for her audition. It's lucky that Rick's around to go with her because your dad would never have let her go on her own.'

‘Not in my good frock, Mum. I'll have to get changed first,' Dulcie protested.

Although her mother sighed, she didn't argue, but then, as Dulcie knew, her mother was a stickler for keeping her home and her family clean. She'd been in service before she'd met Dulcie's father and married him, a country girl brought up to London by the family she worked for, and she had what she called ‘my standards'. Those standards meant that unlike many of their neighbours there were no bedbugs in their beds, even if that did mean standing the feet of the beds in jars of water, and Dulcie's father regularly putting a coat of lime wash on the bedroom walls.

As she reached the top of the stairs, Dulcie saw Rick coming out of the bathroom, his chest bare and damp, his trouser braces hanging from his waist, and his face obviously freshly shaved, a towel slung over one shoulder.

‘It's Edith who's being auditioned,' she mocked him, ‘not you, or are you hoping that one of the chorus girls might take a fancy to you?'

‘Can't see why they shouldn't take a shine to a good-looking chap like me,' Rick grinned back, not in the least bit put out by his sister's taunt. But then nothing and no one ever got under Rick's skin, Dulcie was forced to admit.

Over six foot tall, broad-chested and strong-armed from the local lads' boxing club he'd attended when he'd been at school, Rick, like Dulcie, had inherited their mother's family's good looks, although his hair was much darker than his sister's. Easy-going, with a sense of humour, Rick liked taking the mickey out of his sisters, especially Dulcie, who had such a high opinion of herself.

‘Well, seeing as you've got your papers to go and do your training, and that means you getting a short back and sides, I don't reckon much to your chances.'

Rick laughed and winked at her. ‘Much you know. Girls love a chap in uniform. Why don't you come with me and Edith down to the Empire?'

‘What, and have to listen to her caterwauling and then banging on about her ruddy singing for the rest of the evening? No, thanks.' Her mother and her brother could fuss round Edith as much as they liked, Dulcie wasn't going to join in.

Turning on her heel, Dulcie pushed open the door to the bedroom she shared with her sister, and then froze, as she saw what Edith was wearing as she sat at their shared dressing table, brushing her hair.

‘What do you think you're doing thieving my new blouse?' she demanded furiously, dropping her handbag onto the bed and going over to her sister.

‘I'm not thieving it, I'm only borrowing it.'

‘On, no, you aren't. You can take it off right this minute.'

As she spoke Dulcie reached out and grabbed hold of her sister, who immediately tried to push her off, yelling as she did so, ‘Mum, Mum, Dulcie's being rotten to me.'

‘That's my blouse and you aren't wearing it.' Dulcie had to raise her voice to make herself heard above her sister's screams of protest as Dulcie tried to unfasten her blouse. ‘You're always thieving my things, helping yourself to them, and then ruining them.'

‘No I'm not.'

‘Yes you are. Now get my blouse off.'

‘Dulcie, I've got to borrow it. I'm going for my audition this evening and I haven't got anything decent to wear. I'm not like you, working at Selfridges. Oww!' Edith screamed as Dulcie grabbed her hair and gave it a furious tug.

‘What's going on?'

Both of them turned to look at their mother, who was standing in the open doorway.

‘It's her, she's pinched my best blouse.'

‘It's Dulcie, Mum, she's being mean to me.'

‘Oh, for goodness' sake, Dulcie, why shouldn't she borrow your blouse? She won't harm it. She is your sister, after all.'

‘Sister? She's a thieving nuisance, and she's not wearing my blouse,' Dulcie insisted, her temper well and truly up now. ‘I'm sick and tired of her treating my things like they're hers, borrowing my stuff without so much as a by-your-leave.'

‘That's enough, Dulcie,' her mother told her sharply. ‘Look how you've upset Edith.' She gestured to the younger girl's tear-stained face. ‘I thought better of you than this, I really did.'

‘That's it,' Dulcie exploded. ‘I've had enough of this and her treating my clothes like she owns them. Do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to find myself somewhere to live. Somewhere I've got a room of my own, with no thieving sister sharing it.'

‘Dulcie!' Both her sister and her mother looked shocked.

Rick came in to join the fray, shaking his head and warning her, ‘It's all very well saying that, Miss Hoity-Toity, but who's going to rent you a room? Mind you, I'm not saying that this place won't be a lot more peaceful without you around.'

As always when she was challenged, Dulcie immediately dug her toes in and refused to back down. As the elder girl in her family it was her opinion that her younger sister should look up to her, and their mother should put her first and not fuss over Edith like she did. Dulcie's pride was smarting, and even though right now she had no idea how she would get herself a room of her own, she was determined that she would do so.

The sound of their father's voice downstairs, demanding to know where his tea was, had them dispersing, her mother hurrying back down, whilst Rick retreated whistling to his own room and Edith went back to brushing her hair, an expression on her face that to Dulcie was unbearably smug and triumphant.

Sibling quarrels were part and parcel of their shared home life, and normally blew over, but during the evening, the more Dulcie thought about renting a room of her own, the more appeal the idea had. She resented the cramped space she shared with her sister almost as much as she resented the way Edith thought she could help herself to her clothes, and, what was more, her pride was still stinging from the fact that their mother had taken Edith's side in the quarrel. Didn't she give her mother a whole two shillings a week for her keep more than Edith did? The trouble with her mother was that she didn't appreciate her like she should, and the trouble with her sister was that she didn't respect her like she should.

Dulcie might not have thought anything of the two of them sharing a bed before she had started to work for Selfridges, but now, from listening to the other girls, she recognised that most of them lived in rather better circumstances than her own, middle-class girls in the main, whose parents had neat houses on the outskirts of the city, instead of growing up at its heart as she had, in what was unpleasantly close to being a slum area. Dulcie could well imagine how Lydia, whose father was a director, would look down on her if she knew how Dulcie's family lived. She couldn't imagine David James-Thompson walking her home here after that date she intended to have with him. No, that certainly could not be allowed to happen. She'd have Edith hanging out of the window, gawping at him and then her mother insisting that he come in and listen to Edith's caterwauling, she was that proud of her. No, finding a room of her own somewhere a bit more respectable would suit the image she decided she needed to project if she was to win her bet with Lizzie.

First thing tomorrow she'd buy herself a paper and start looking for somewhere. With a room of her own, she could do what she wanted. There'd be no parents wanting to know where she was going and who she was seeing; no brother poking his nose in and warning her about not egging lads on, and knowing her place; no irritating sister. In her mind's eye Dulcie pictured herself dressed up to the nines, and going off to the Hammersmith Palais dancing with handsome David, the director's stuck-up daughter's beau, her clothes immaculately washed and ironed and not salvaged from her sister's disrespectful treatment of them.

* * *

Gratefully Tilly picked up from her desk the ‘Rooms to Let' notices she had been given permission to type out – and not just to type, but also to place on the notice board in the corridor outside the Lady Almoner's offices.

The office Tilly shared with Clara was in reality more of a long narrow corridor than a proper room. Its one small window overlooked an inner yard where waste bins were stored. Panelled in dark wood from floor to ceiling, the room was dark and smelled musty from the contents of the files stored in the ancient filing cabinets that lined both the long walls. To reach Tilly and Clara's desk, at which they sat on opposite sides to one another with their heavy typewriters, it was necessary to squeeze between the filing cabinets and the desk itself. Tilly's typewriter was old and very well used, its ‘d' key inclined to stick unless you knew just how much extra pressure to apply to it to make sure that it didn't. Each girl had a set of drawers in which she kept her stationery: Official-looking notepaper with the Lady Almoner's name and title printed on it, as well as Barts' address for official letters, thin copy paper and plain white paper for typing up patient notes, memos and envelopes. Here too were kept their very precious pieces of carbon paper, which had to be used until one could barely read the copy they made. Fresh supplies had to be pleaded for from Mr Davies, who was in charge of the stationery cupboard, and who, so Clara claimed, counted out every single sheet of paper he gave them.

The doors at either end of the office were never closed. There was normally a trail of people coming in and out: junior clerks carrying or wanting files for their superiors, senior clerks bringing in handwritten letters and notes that had to be typed immediately, or sometimes requesting that Tilly or Clara took down their dictation in shorthand. Tilly and Clara were certainly kept very busy. Once a week Miss Evans, the Lady Almoner's personal secretary, would march into their office, her greying hair swept back into its tight bun, the jacket of her tweed suit on over her blouse, no matter how warm it was, her eyes, behind her rimless glasses, seeming to notice immediately a typing mistake or a file that was in the wrong place, as she went through the week's diary with the two girls.

Now, grabbing some drawing pins, Tilly headed for the corridor outside the main office where the clerical staff worked, narrowly avoiding bumping into a senior nurse, and dropping her typed notice as she did so.

Both Tilly and the nurse, a tall slender girl with glorious dark copper-coloured hair drawn back under her cap, lovely cream-toned skin and eyes so intensely blue they were almost violet, came to a halt.

‘I'm so sorry,' Tilly said.

‘It was my fault.' The other girl smiled, both of them bending down to retrieve Tilly's notice.

The nurse reached it first, a small frown creasing her forehead as she read it.

‘Is this your notice?' she asked Tilly. ‘I mean, are you the one who is advertising the rooms to let?'

‘Yes. Well, my mother is. My grandfather died recently and since we've now got two spare bedrooms and a bathroom standing empty my mother thought we should let them out.'

‘Where? I mean, is your house within easy reach of the hospital? Only I'm looking for somewhere myself.'

Tilly recognised immediately that the other girl was exactly the type of lodger her mother was looking for. Tilly guessed that the nurse was older than she, perhaps in her early twenties, and that she had that air and manner about her that said she was responsible and reliable.

‘Yes. We live on Article Row in Holborn, at number thirteen. It isn't far away at all.'

Sally had been doing her own assessment. The young girl in front of her was well turned out and spotlessly clean, her manner bright and energetic, the kind of girl who quite obviously came from a good home. A home that would be clean and properly looked after, Sally judged.

‘Well, bumping into you looks like being a piece of good luck for me,' she announced. ‘I'm Sally Johnson, by the way.' She held out her hand for Tilly to shake.