5
Nancy looked out of the office window across the factory’s grey metal roof towards the electricity pylons that led her gaze to the grey bank of clouds floating over Coventry. Another dull, grey day, which was highly likely to be followed by plenty more. It was only one week into 1964, and she was already bored stiff. Could she really stick this out until September? There wasn’t even enough secretarial work to keep her mind occupied this morning.
Her old boss had retired before Christmas, so now she had a new manager to train: Mr Jefferson. He was in his early 30s, and he’d seemed quite personable when they’d been introduced yesterday morning, although he had terrible taste in aftershave, which was unfortunate as he liberally dowsed himself in it. At least she didn’t have to share an office with him. She’d overheard him spending most of yesterday afternoon on the telephone to various suppliers introducing himself. Based on the way he spoke, he obviously thought a lot of himself. But there was no sign of him this morning, which was odd as he hadn’t had any meetings in his diary.
Nancy looked at the stack of manila folders on the end of her desk. Filing was the most boring part of her job, but she was sick of looking at the large pile of cardboard and paper. She picked up the folders and went over to the row of filing cabinets that lined the back wall of her office. She’d spend fifteen minutes returning them to their proper homes, then reward herself with a cup of tea.
The top folder was labelled “Twist Co”. She moved over to the end filing cabinet, opened the second drawer down and flicked through the tabs until she found the correct location.
She picked up the brown Manila folder and was just about to slip it into the drawer when she felt a hand on her left buttock. She tensed. The overwhelming smell of Old Spice gave her a big clue as to who the offender was.
‘How about a drink at lunchtime?’ a voice whispered in her ear.
She swung around, hitting Mr Jefferson with the folder and slamming the drawer shut as she leaned against the cabinet. He stepped back in surprise.
‘No need for that, Nancy.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Jefferson?’ she asked in her most innocent voice.
‘There’s no need for the formality either. I’ve told you before you can call me Jim when no one else is around.’
He leaned over her, his right hand pulling her waist close against his body. The smell of stale cigarettes on his breath made her want to wretch.
She squirmed out of his grasp and hurried back to the safety of her desk.
He looked annoyed. ‘I could arrange for you to move into the typing pool. You’d have no privileges there.’
‘I think my father might have something to say about that.’ Though right now, the typing pool was quite appealing. Working with ten other women would mean that Mr Jefferson would be unlikely to corner her alone again. There was a lot to be said for safety in numbers.
He sniggered. ‘And what influence does your father have? Does he own the factory?’ Mr Jefferson’s easy charm had disappeared.
‘Actually, yes.’
It was satisfying watching the patronising smirk disappear from his face and seeing the colour drain from his skin as she added, ‘He is the son in G Smith and Son. I’m sure he’ll be most interested to hear how my day went when we have family dinner this evening.’
Nancy busied herself assembling multiple sheets of paper and carbon paper, tapping them on the desk to align them and slipping them into the typewriter, ready to type a letter, all the time avoiding eye contact with Mr Jefferson.
‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. There’s no need to mention this to your father,’ he said, quickly walking out of the office.
Nancy sighed. It wouldn’t have been like this if her parents had considered letting her go to Cambridge like her brother. She looked up at the ceiling, visualising walking across a sunlit quadrangle. Too late for that, Nancy. Focus on getting the cash together to pay for your share of Patty’s sailing project. She might even be able to meet up with Billy when they docked in Sydney. She typed the letter while fantasising about lounging on Bondi Beach with Billy rubbing suntan oil on her back.
‘All work and no play.’ The familiar voice of Nancy’s office neighbour, Bernie, brought Nancy back to reality. ‘I’m going to walk into town at lunchtime. Do you want to join me?’
Bernie was the Works Manager’s secretary. They had met when Bernie had been tasked with looking after Nancy in her first week. She was a couple of years older than Nancy, but they’d hit it off immediately. A lunchtime walk with Bernie would be far more entertaining than eating her cheese and pickle sandwiches alone in the office. ‘You’re on. I’ll be finished in half an hour.’
Bernie reappeared at Nancy’s office door five minutes early. ‘Are you ready yet?’ she asked. Judging by her big smile, she was bursting to tell Nancy something good.
Nancy grabbed her coat and handbag. ‘Go on them. What’s the news?’ she asked as they walked down the stairs to the office’s back door.
Bernie looked as excited as a puppy with a new tennis ball being dangled in front of its nose. ‘Trevor asked me to marry him last night.’
Nancy wasn’t surprised. Bernie had been going out with Trevor for well over a year and seemed to be besotted with him.
‘And what did you say?’
‘Yes, of course!’ Bernie looked as if Nancy was insane to think she would’ve said anything else.
Nancy had never met Trevor, but Bernie had described him in great detail during the time Nancy had known her. Based on Bernie’s updates, “reliable” and “conventional” were the two adjectives that sprang to mind - not Nancy’s type at all. Though, as Nancy hadn’t had a man in her life since she left Devon last summer, could she even claim to have a type?
‘Did he go down on one knee?’
‘Oh yes. We were outside the Odeon. We’d just watched The Pink Panther, and the rest of the cinemagoers gave us a round of applause. Aren’t you going to say congratulations?’
Nancy had been thinking about the horror of getting married at twenty-three. She pictured Bernie in a couple of years’ time, stuck at home with a bawling toddler and a baby on the way. But then Bernie was still living at home in a small three-bedroomed terrace with her parents and four younger siblings, so in those circumstances, Nancy might have been keen to escape. Nancy wanted to see some of the world before she settled down.
‘Sorry. Of course, I’m happy for you.’
‘Trevor’s suggesting we get married at Christmas.’
Nancy didn’t like the way Trevor dictated everything he and Bernie did. ‘And what do you think?’
‘I think it’s a marvellous idea. It will be nice to start 1965 as Mrs Foster. I do love the sound of that.’ Bernie looked dreamy at the prospect.
‘I hope you’ll be very happy together.’ Nancy said, trying to make up for her initial lack of enthusiasm.
‘So when are we going to get you fixed up?’ Bernie asked. ‘I’m sure Alan in Accounts fancies you. I’ve seen how he looks at you when you walk along the corridor.’
Alan in Accounts was made from the same mould as Trevor - conventional looking in his neat suit, highly polished shoes, and Brylcreemed hair. He always wore the same thin sky-blue tie - a nod to Coventry City Football Club’s latest football strip, no doubt. Nancy preferred someone more rugged. Her thoughts drifted to Billy and his extracurricular lessons around the back of the Dashford Sailing Club building. She suspected Bernie wouldn’t approve. Nor would Alan.
‘Nancy? Are you ok? You’re looking quite flushed.’
‘Sorry, I think I’ve got a cold coming on.’
‘We better pop into Boots to get you some Beecham’s powders.’