Strawberry Fields (25 page)
‘Who cares?’ Sara said scornfully. ‘I like you as you are, Brogan. Now do stop being so silly and tell me all about Crewe, and your lodgings.’
He tried, that was the worst part. She could see him trying. He looked steadily at her as he spoke and he described his lodgings, his garden, even his work on the great engines chuffing all over the country, taking the LMS passengers to their various destinations. But Sara saw his eyes were full of misery and in the end she just couldn’t stand it. She interrupted a laborious description of one of the stations he visited as seen by a railwayman needing a bite to eat by jumping to her feet.
‘Brogan, I’m sorry, but you know I’m job-hunting – I told you, didn’t I? I’ve an interview with a Mr Esmond at the Ocean Accident Insurance this afternoon and it’s in Exchange Buildings, wherever that may be. So I’ll want to be getting something to eat before I leave and . . .’
Brogan got to his feet, too.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he said quickly. ‘Just goin’ I was . . . I want to do some revisin’ for this examination. It’s mathematics – you need to know mathematics if you’re goin’ to get on. Say goodbye to your gran for me, and t’anks for the cup of tea.’
And whilst Sara, appalled at herself, was beginning to stammer that she hadn’t meant . . . there was still time . . . he had left the room.
‘Brogan, don’t . . .’ she began, running after him, but he was halfway down the road, cap pulled low, coat collar pulled up, before she had got further than the step.
It put a damper on the rest of the day, of course. Sara changed into the grey flannel suit she and Gran had bought from a dealer in the market – it was a bit on the large side, but a piece taken out of the waistband soon cured that – and cleaned the shoes she had picked up at the same time. It was the first time Sara had ever worn a garment which had first been worn by someone else and she hated it, but needs must, she told herself resolutely. It had been washed and ironed, what more did she want? One thing was certain, she did not intend to go, cap in hand, back to Aigburth Road for the rest of her clothes – not after the things that had been said.
For the day after she moved in with Mrs Prescott, the Cordwainers had come visiting. They had sat side by side on the small sofa and tried to lay down rules for Sara’s return and future conduct. And when Sara and Mrs Prescott had made it clear they were not interested, both parties had lost their tempers.
‘If you don’t come with us right now, today, you’ll never darken my doors again,’ Mr Cordwainer had shouted, just like the papa in a Victorian melodrama. ‘You’re spoiled and selfish, you never gave a thought to your mother and myself when you stormed off after the harvest supper.’
‘Stormed off? Father, how can you say such a thing? I was still speaking when you just jumped into the taxi cab and told the driver to take you home! You left me, without a penny piece, to make my own way home! And what’s more I was in evening dress, with an icy wind blowing . . .’
‘Rubbish,’ her father blustered, his cheeks reddening slightly. ‘We implored you to accompany us, your mother and I, and you refused to do so. What choice had we?’
‘You’re a liar, like Mother,’ Sara shouted, shaking with fury. She had always thought herself a meek soul but now she discovered that this was not so. ‘She lied to me and to you too, for all I know. Mrs Prescott’s my grandmother, Father – did you know that? Yes, and that means she’s your wife’s mother . . . and look how your wife treats her! Believe me, I’m happier here than I could possibly be living in Aigburth Road surrounded by lies and evasions. You can tell your smart friends any story you like, maybe they’ll even believe you, but here people are judged on what they do, not what they say. And I’m staying here!’
‘Then we’ve much to be grateful for,’ Mrs Cordwainer shrieked, her voice rising to unladylike heights. ‘How dare you call your own mother a liar – your own mother, Sara! As for lying to you, I did no such thing! I simply kept the truth from you because . . . oh, because it didn’t suit me to have people, my sort of people, knowing about my background. I’d risen above it and I didn’t intend to be haunted by the – the spectre of Snowdrop Street! It was for your sake I did it, you detestable little prig – for your sake! Oh, what a serpent we’ve nourished in our bosoms, your father and I! You’ve had the best of everything, a marvellous education, beautiful clothes . . .’
‘But no love,’ Sara said softly, almost to herself. ‘Never, never that.’
It hadn’t ended there, of course, there had been more. But they’d left at last, handing out another ultimatum on the doorstep. Either Sara repented, apologised and came home at once . . .
‘Goodbye Mother, Father,’ Sara said politely at the end of the tirade. ‘I shan’t be seeing you for a while I don’t suppose, so take care of each other.’
It took the wind out of their sails. They stared at her, then her father gave a strangled snort and marched round to the driver’s side of the car, leaving her mother to fumble with the handle of the passenger door and sob into her handkerchief.
But at least I know where I stand, now, Sara said to herself as she walked to the tram stop in the grey flannel suit and the sensible black walking shoes with a small cream-coloured felt hat pulled down over her hair. I’ve got to earn my living, so I’ll accept the first job I’m offered, and I’ll give Gran most of my salary and keep myself decent with the rest. I’ve had eighteen years of being given whatever I wanted in the way of material things, now I’ll try to see how I manage on my own.
Two hours later however, sitting disconsolately on the tram as it roared and rattled up Vauxhall Road, it wasn’t nearly so easy to be optimistic. Mr Esmond was very kind, he said her languages were undoubtedly useful and she certainly seemed fluent – not that he could tell, since he knew only a modicum of schoolboy French – but the fact was, it was necessary to use a typewriter, and he could not afford to pay her a wage whilst she learned something which every other young lady he was interviewing had been doing for a number of years.
‘But they don’t all speak French, German and Italian, do they?’ Sara had said hopefully, giving him her very best smile. He had smiled too, but wearily, even as his eyes had flickered approvingly over the grey suit, the flat shoes. I believe Gran really was right; I’ll stand a better chance of a job in respectable, rather worn clothing than I would in something smart and new, Sara realised.
‘No, you’re the only one with any sort of command of foreign languages,’ Mr Esmond admitted. ‘But there’s a lady who runs a small translations bureau a few streets away from here. We use her if we have an emergency. And she can type.’
‘I see. Well, it’s been nice meeting you,’ Sara said, getting to her feet and holding out a hand. Mr Esmond shook it, looking stunned. How odd – did he expect me to snarl at him, or burst into tears? Sara wondered. But apparently it was the right thing to do because having shaken her hand he went over to the door and held it open for her, speaking as he did so.
‘I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, Miss Cordwainer, because I know jobs are difficult to find these days. But will you take a bit of advice? There are a number of establishments in the city which teach young girls all the essentials of office work, including typing. Or there are evening classes at which the same skills can be acquired. I believe it would be sensible to acquire such skills before applying for other jobs.’
‘But some people don’t want typing, do they?’ Sara asked hopefully. ‘Employers must know not everyone can type.’
‘That’s true, but most girls who are trying to find a job straight from school are fourteen or fifteen, considerably younger than yourself. I doubt you would be taken on as an office girl, not at eighteen years of age.’ His eyes flickered over her again, assessingly. ‘Look, your parents chose to continue your schooling so surely they wouldn’t balk at a secretarial course? It’s not costly and you’d find it easy work after all those foreign languages!’
‘And without secretarial skills you don’t think I’ll get work?’ Sara said slowly.
‘Oh yes, you might get shop work. But an employer is going to expect an eighteen-year-old to have had experience, you see.’ He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘It’s a bitter pill, more schooling, but it’s for the best. Good luck, Miss Cordwainer.’
It was not until she was actually on the tram that Sara began to feel, for the first time in her life, that she was a failure. She had been rejected because her skills were inadequate, because every other girl Mr Esmond interviewed could, at a pinch, have done the job.
So as the tram rattled down Vauxhall Road Sara scanned the copy of the
Echo
which she had bought from a street vendor, replayed Mr Esmond’s advice over in her head, and faced facts. She spoke several languages and she had passed several examinations, but she could not type, nor could she keep books. The paper did not have thousands of job advertisements, but every single one for office staff specified either book-keeping or typing. There were one or two office juniors wanted but she was sure that Mr Esmond had hit the nail on the head; she would not get offered such a job because she was too old, and anyway, the salary for such a position was so tiny that it would scarcely do more than pay her tram fare from Kirkdale to the city centre each morning.
Echo
which she had bought from a street vendor, replayed Mr Esmond’s advice over in her head, and faced facts. She spoke several languages and she had passed several examinations, but she could not type, nor could she keep books. The paper did not have thousands of job advertisements, but every single one for office staff specified either book-keeping or typing. There were one or two office juniors wanted but she was sure that Mr Esmond had hit the nail on the head; she would not get offered such a job because she was too old, and anyway, the salary for such a position was so tiny that it would scarcely do more than pay her tram fare from Kirkdale to the city centre each morning.
Still, it was no use sitting here fighting silly tears and letting despair drown her. She must be practical. As soon as Miss Boote arrived home this evening, she would take her to one side and explain her predicament. She had seen very little of the lodger apart from their first meeting and Gran said that Miss Boote did good works, evenings and weekends. Perhaps I could help her, Sara thought hopefully. Then, if I had to get just a little, tiny, badly paid job, at least I’d be doing some good, somewhere – and I wouldn’t feel so guilty, either.
When her stop came she got off the tram and headed for Snowdrop Street and as luck would have it just as she reached the front door and was about to tap and open it, Miss Boote came cycling down the road. She usually came straight past the front door, on to Commercial Road, and down the jigger on Pansy Street, because she left her bicycle in the back yard overnight, but today, seeing Sara, she dismounted and wheeled her bike on to the pavement.
‘Hello, Miss Cordwainer,’ she said. ‘Any luck with the interview? Mrs Preston told me you were seeing an insurance company this afternoon.’
Sara shook her head. ‘No, they needed a typist,’ she said rather bitterly. ‘It didn’t say that in the advertisement or I wouldn’t have bothered to apply. Still, the man was very nice. He gave me some good advice, or I imagine it was good advice. Miss Boote, I wonder whether I might beg a few moments of your time when you’ve had your evening meal? Only I do need to talk to someone about jobs!’
‘Certainly,’ Miss Boote said cheerfully. ‘Tell you what, I’m working in the soup kitchen on Westminster Road tonight; care to come along, give a hand? We can talk as we work, and no one will interfere with us.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ Sara said promptly. ‘But . . . won’t they expect me to – to bring something with me, like bread, or vegetables? Only I don’t have any money at all, apart from what Gran gives me for the tram.’
Miss Boote laughed. ‘No one will want anything but your labour, Miss Cordwainer,’ she said cheerfully. ‘But you’ll see, this evening. Can you be ready by seven? Only we serve from seven to ten, and after that it’s just preparing for the next day, so I get there around seven if I possibly can.’
‘Yes, of course. Only I don’t have a bicycle and I don’t know where Westminster Road is,’ Sara told her new friend. ‘And I can’t ask Gran for any more tram fares.’
‘A tram fare wouldn’t do you much good, anyway,’ Miss Boote assured her. ‘Trams don’t go across the city, through the small streets, you’d have to go into the centre and out again, which would make you later than if you’d
crawled,
I daresay. What about a seater?’
crawled,
I daresay. What about a seater?’
‘A seater?’ Sara stared. ‘What’s that?’
‘You sit on the bike seat and I stand up and pedal like fun,’ Miss Boote explained. ‘Or you could sit on the carrier,’ she slapped it, ‘which might be a bit safer, come to think. Only I daresay you wouldn’t want to be seen two to a bike, eh?’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ Sara said stoutly, though inwardly her heart failed her a little. If anyone she knew saw her they’d think she’d run mad or returned to her second childhood. Kids rode two to a bike, not adult ladies! But still, she didn’t have a tram fare, she didn’t fancy walking . . . ‘It will be fun,’ she added defiantly. ‘Seven o’clock it is, then. Shall I wear my grey suit?’
Miss Boote laughed heartily and ran her bicycle down the pavement again and on to the road. ‘To serve soup? No, no, Miss Cordwainer, you should wear your oldest rags – everyone else will!’
‘Ready, Miss Cordwainer? Hop aboard, then.’
Feeling really silly, Sara sat herself astride the narrow little carrier which was just above the rear mudguard. She clutched the bicycle seat and smiled a wobbly smile at Gran, who was watching them and laughing – it was enough to make a cat laugh, Sara thought ruefully as Miss Boote shouted to her to hold tight and launched herself, and the bicycle, into a wobble away from the kerb.
‘We’re off!’ Miss Boote called back over her shoulder. ‘Not much traffic about, fortunately, but we’ll push across Stanley Road, I think. You slide off when I stop, Miss Cordwainer.’
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