Rags to Riches, page 30
She spoke to Vi for advice. Vi and her intended were struggling hard to get enough together for a halfway decent wedding, a rented roof over their heads and a little furniture – all that went to make up a married life together. Another thing was that early in March she was sure that Vi had been pregnant. (She had suddenly been under the weather last March. Her mother had attended her, taking her into her own double bed and closing the door on everyone. Vi could be heard crying out and sobbing and not long afterwards Mrs Jordan had come downstairs with a pail covered by a towel and had gone into next door, not saying a word to any of them. Vi had stayed in her mother’s bed looking wan and tearful and had come down after two days to go back to work to tell her employers that she’d had a touch of ’flu.)
Vi, by virtue of those circumstances, would be someone to confide in. There had been times when Amy had confided in Alice, but those times were gone. Alice lived on a different plane now, would probably no logger understand or want to remember the problems of too little money and too great a pride. Amy still wrote to her occasionally, but Alice’s replies were always full of her own woes – Richard not doing this, and Richard not doing that, how tired she was at being taken for granted – shallow letters, no longer from the thoughtful, sympathetic, philosophical girl Amy had once known. She turned to Vi.
‘How can I make him see that there’s nothing belittling in using whatever money is available, even if it is mine.’
Vi looked solemn. ‘I thought yer knew Tom by now.’
I do.’
‘Not enough to see my brother’s always bin a proud man and always will be. What’s ’appened to ’im ’as taken away all ’is dignity and ’e’s fighting to get it back. You flinging your money in ’is face won’t ’elp ’im get it back, will it? We may be poor, Amy, poorer than we’ve ever bin, but we can still ’old up our ’eads.’
‘So what do I do?’ she asked, a bit put out by Vi’s almost rude bluntness.
‘I don’t know. You two’ll ’ave ter work out yer own salvation, like me an’ my Fred are doin’. No one can give yer advice – not the advice you want.’
So that was that. Left seething over Vi’s off-handedness, she had to bow to the truth in what she said – she couldn’t use her money and insult what dignity Tom had left. Yet it seemed so silly. No doubt it would sit there doing nothing for the rest of their lives, more than likely to be used to bury one or the other of them.
It would be hard. She’d have to keep working, hope to achieve promotion and a somewhat higher wage. There were two other ways: without letting on to Tom of course, she could go cap in hand to her parents and throw herself on their mercy, but up came the old problem – she’d been too long away from them, too silent; how could she spring her request on them now? So many times she thought about Alice’s words to her: ‘Don’t let too much time go by before you contact your parents.’ But she’d left it too late to heed them.
The second would be to approach Alice herself. She might provide a little something from the allowance Dicky Pritchard must obviously give her. No need to ask for too much – just enough for her and Tom to get married and rent a place near his mother. It would be a loan, to be paid back little by little out of her wages. But again there was a problem, this time her own pride. Alice had been her maid. How could she, of upper-class breeding, go begging to a girl who’d once been her maid, a girl who’d virtually taken her place in the world?
The only choice was to work hard and efficiently, try to get promotion, and hope to save enough for the pair of them to share a life together. Some hope of that. Obliged to give Mrs Jordan the lion’s share of her wages so as to keep the family going, there was little left to save. Nothing for clothes, yet she must continue to look decent for work.
That was another thing. As spring progressed, fashion had taken a great new leap. Hemlines had begun to creep down and according to magazines like Vogue which Amy, unable to afford, covertly thumbed through in paper shops, they threatened to reach calf-length by summer, the classic look as it was being called with long slim lines and waists back in their proper place. The cloche was at last going out, giving way to hats with wider brims, more hair shown, styled longer to curl below the ears. Amy found herself tugging constantly at her skirt to get it below the knees and praying for her shingled hair to grow as quickly as possible. But there was nothing she could do about hats and she breathed a sigh of relief every time she saw another person still wearing the cloche. By now she’d learned to look after her clothes – gone the days when she’d fling a dress aside after only three or four wearings – and they still looked in pretty good shape when seen alongside those of the girls with whom she worked.
*
Amy sat in Mr Goodburn’s spartan office – say that much for the man, if he afforded his staff small comfort in their surroundings and conditions, he afforded himself just as little.
All that earlier talk of promotion hadn’t come to much except a lot more work, typing mostly, with its compensation of two and sixpence a week rise. She had become very proficient as a typist but promotion had merely meant that she was in reality doing the job of two for a rise hardly acceptable as an office cleaner’s wages. Seven months on and this appeared to be all she was worth.
Bidden to sit down she watched Mr Goodburn close the frosted glass door between his and the outer office after giving the area a leisurely inspection to reassure himself that the staff were working as hard as they could, which of course they would with his pale grey eyes upon them.
She watched him return with slow measured strides to his side of the desk, wondered what he could want of her, and at the same time thought of Tom, though why, she didn’t know, except perhaps to make comparisons. This man, now in the act of sitting down in his scuffed leather wing chair, every action done with deliberation, was the antithesis of Tom who seemed to be failing by the day.
Tom had progressed little beyond taking a few steps with the aid of two sticks, which he hated, as far as one of the armchairs and back. A commode in the room erased any need to venture beyond to the outside loo, his mother willing to take charge of the emptying. It made Amy mad to see, but she was up against mother and son with Tom in danger of becoming quite apathetic. He hated being seen on his feet. She knew why. It had to be awful for him, knowing that people who had once seen a strong and virile man would now see a wreck hobbling on a pair of sticks. Yet Amy felt that if he were to pull himself upright, learn to balance properly without the need to lean on those sticks so, he’d master a much better gait. He would always limp of course. But even that could be done with dignity. His stiff knee thrown forward and his weak left knee growing in strength, he with his broad chest and his fine height could still command a place of note in this world.
Sometimes she daydreamed of him, owner of a thriving shipping company, moving with an arresting limp through an office full of young women typists as they bowed to every word he spoke in that full deep voice of his, much as they did to the tall, gaunt Mr Goodburn himself. She could imagine Mr Goodburn not having a friend in the world and wondered if he was married, and if he was how he had ever come to court a woman enough to marry her. She could visualise him proposing marriage as though announcing the commencement of a board meeting. And did he have children? Virtually impossible to imagine the man engaged in the most basic performance of copulation, gasping, sighing, at his most vulnerable. Mr Goodburn vulnerable? More she could almost hear his clipped instructions: ‘Right, my dear, ready when you are – one, two, three, four …’ Amy felt her lips beginning to curl.
‘And how are you coping these days, Miss Harrington?’ It was a command rather than an enquiry, pulling back her wandering thoughts, obviously alluding to her work rather than her social life.
‘I think …’ She paused. Be positive. ‘I am coping very well, Mr Goodburn.’
‘You enjoy it here?’
‘Yes, very much.’
‘And we in turn are pleased with your progress.’ He used the collective pronoun more to encompass the company than in the royal sense. ‘Indeed, we are very pleased.’
Lacing his thin bony fingers together, his forearms resting on the scratched desk, he leaned towards her in a confidential manner. ‘So saying, there is an offer of promotion for you, Miss Harrington, should you care to take it.’
Not another promotion! More work, another shilling or two? Amy kept her smile rigid on her lips, hoping it looked obliging or at least reached her eyes.
‘We are planning to offer you a position as my personal assistant.’
Amy’s gulp almost choked her. ‘But … I don’t have any shorthand.’ It had the element of a protest, but startled, for it was all she could think of to justify herself not being up to such esteem.
Mr Goodburn almost allowed himself a smile. ‘That shouldn’t matter. You’re very bright for a young lady, Miss Harrington, and I have known many shorthand typists who have virtually nothing between their ears. There are quite a few such young ladies there in my outer office.’ His long thin lips quirked into what Amy would definitely describe now as a smile. The next moment they had straightened. ‘Are you willing to take the position?’
He hadn’t yet said what rise would accompany this glittering advancement but the courage to ask had failed her. He was watching her closely, grey speckled eyebrows raised as if asking a question. She had to say something.
‘What does the position entail?’ she asked weakly.
Mr Goodburn’s eyes held hers so that she momentarily felt like a small animal held transfixed by the cold unblinking stare of a cobra as his voice filtered through to her brain, explaining the duties of a personal assistant. It held out great promise, but at the same time sounded daunting. She would be at his side and under his eye constantly, never able to escape, imprisoned by his imperious authority which she must respect yet not quail from and do his bidding even before he requested it. In other words, she must take over from him whenever and wherever necessary, take command of any situation in his absence, do what he would do but at a lower level and be answerable to him on his return, and at all times be at his beck and call and remain humble enough to take any criticism he might deal out without answering back.
He never said as much, but as he explained her duties, this she gleaned. Her first instinct was to quake in her shoes and refuse this awesome post immediately. In fact a little knot of rebellion had begun to rise up inside her as she listened until as he finally came to the end, finishing with the words, ‘Have you anything you wish to ask me?’ the words leapt into her mouth, from where Amy didn’t know.
‘Yes, Mr Goodburn. What will my salary be? I assume it’ll be substantial.’
His great guffaw, so unexpected, made her jump. She’d never before heard him laugh all the time she had been here, thought him incapable of it. In that moment, he seemed no longer the god he allowed his toadying staff to think him.
‘That was what I was waiting for, Miss Harrington. Had you not asked I’d have advised you not to take the post at all. I am looking for a young lady who can conduct herself with some authority in any given situation and discuss her findings and opinions with me on even terms. Such posts are usually filled by men, but I am of the opinion that most male personal assistants merely seek to fill their peers’ shoes. A woman by her very nature is in no danger of doing that. And I also like to think of myself as a radical. It would be quite off-putting to the people I deal with to see an efficient and attractive young lady as my aide-de-camp as it were.’
Amy was gaining confidence. The man was so arrogant. ‘What will my salary be?’ she reminded him, unsmiling. She saw him frown. Well, if she had blotted her copybook, she might have escaped a fate worse than death anyway. She felt suddenly resigned to the inevitable.
‘What are you earning now, Miss Harrington?’
‘Twenty-two shillings and sixpence a week.’
‘Then what do you say to another twenty-two shillings and sixpence?’
Amy looked at him. Two pounds five shillings! It was a fortune. A man’s wage – or nearly. Wordlessly, she nodded.
‘Good!’ He got up and came round the desk to her, helping her to her feet. ‘Well, Miss Harrington, from Monday you will be working with me. In there.’ He indicated a small glass door leading from his office, an inner sanctum, a cell from which there would be no escape. ‘That will be your office. I am sure you will like it. You have made the right decision, my dear, and I look forward to our association.’
Moments later, Amy stood outside in the general office, wondering just what she had got herself into. But the money. Oh, the money. In no time there would be enough for her and Tom to get married, live in comfort, so long as he didn’t get on his high horse and get uppity about her being the wage earner. But he would, she knew he would. The next few weeks, perhaps longer, were going to be fraught.
Chapter Twenty
Adversity, as it often did, closed the Jordans’ ranks ever more tightly against the outside world, growing suspicious of its motives in offering help if offered too frequently. It could be overdone, could be seen as excessive pity, a revelling in another’s downfall. Some understood that and let the family get on with its own life. Others hounded, reluctant to let go: ‘How are yer, luv? Must be ’orrible for yer wiv no man now. If there’s anyfink I can do, yer only ’ave ter ask. I just thank God I’ve still got me own family round me.’ They were given short shrift as Mrs Jordan lowered her portcullis against them.
Drawn in behind it, Amy felt the same way, fiercely protective, as if this was her true family. She seldom thought now of her own family, and if she did was struck by how false they’d been compared to this one standing shoulder to shoulder against all odds. Looking back, it struck her that hers had been fragmented from the start, her father taken up with his work and seldom out of his study when he was home, her mother taken up with her various charities, both of them following separate paths, hardly ever together. Her sister Kay had most likely gone off to a finishing school. She must be due home soon, coming out like young ladies still did, the idiotic dated parading of debutantes looking for an excellent marriage. Her brother Henry hadn’t lived at home since his prep school days – boarded out at seven, he was fifteen now and preparing for university, never seeing his family, not bothered anyway, destined for greater things, not a word of thanks for the money they’d paid out for him.
She was no different to them in leaving home, which was probably half the reason why her parents had never striven to bring her back. People of their class, at least in her experience, took it for granted that their offspring must seek pastures new, unlike the poor who clung tighter to each other the poorer they became.
Thinking of her old life, it seemed so false now, so full of affectation and concern about image that she wondered if she hadn’t been merely marking time until this life of struggle and honest reality had embraced her; that this was what she had been destined for all along, like a missionary perhaps.
She thought of Alice. Had she married a plain man she’d be living around the corner now, popping in maybe every other day for a chat with her mother, still as much part of the family. But marrying into money she had left, only now and again these days thinking to drop her mother a line. She had done so regularly after her father’s death. Mrs Jordan would look sadly at the envelope as it arrived, would gaze into the low flames in the fire grate as though her husband were bidding her to do what he would have done, throw it unopened into the flames, but instead would put it on the mantelshelf. Later she’d succumb to temptation, open it, draw out the expensive-looking notepaper and read, her eyes brimming with tears, then fold it, tuck it away somewhere, keeping its contents to herself as though she’d committed some crime against her husband by the mere fact of reading it. But as Alice got over her father’s death, so her letters to her mother diminished.
She still wrote to Amy occasionally – letters that spoke of unhappiness, making her in her turn feel her own small guilt in having introduced an innocent unsuspecting girl into a life she hadn’t been prepared for. But that was the life she had accepted and Amy told herself that she had more to concern her than worrying over Alice’s troubles – if she really had any.
Alice watched as the travelling bags were brought in. She was glad to be home. July in Vienna had been miserable, the way Richard had behaved towards her. And it wasn’t her fault. She’d every right to feel jealous, neglected. That horrid woman, Enid Smythe, blonde, waif-like, disgustingly pretty, and so sickeningly childish, fluttering her painted eyes at him, pursing her scarlet lips, waving her hands about like a drunken butterfly, her golden bracelets rattling on her slim, suntanned bare arms as she twittered, ‘Dicky darling … I haven’t a drinky – oh, do get me one, darling, would you?’ The way he’d fawned on her. Openly. Pandering to her every tiny whim.
Then had come nights when he came to bed late. He’d been with her, Alice was sure of it. If it was true, then she could demand a divorce. With alimony. She’d be a wealthy woman with her own money. Trouble was, she was so in love with Richard still that the mere thought of losing him tore her poor heart into pieces, especially as all the way home his mood had been dark and she knew he was missing the silly little Enid terribly.
Two days later she caught the maid who usually picked up Richard’s mail on her way out to post it. Going through the envelopes, on the silliest of pretexts but the only one she could think of on the spur of the moment, that he thought he had put the same address on two envelopes, there was one addressed to Miss Enid Smythe. Of course, she couldn’t open it before the maid’s questioning stare, nor even take it away. And with what excuse? But she knew it contained words of adoration, love even, was even more sure Richard had slept with her while they’d been away. And he was being so short with her. He had to be in love with someone else – Enid of course.
