Open Writing

Miss Bryson, our innovative new headmistress, sailed in like a breath of fresh air, striding vibrantly along the corridors of the school in her olive green mortar board and billowing gown. She introduced streaming and then established houses within the school. They were named Slessor, Keller, Johnson and Cavell. I eventually became vice-captain of Cavell house playing second fiddle to my friend Barbara Owen who later became a successful journalist.

One afternoon in my last year at school I was asked to report to Miss Bryson's office. When I entered she told me that I was a bright pupil and suggested, instead of leaving at fourteen, that I should transfer to the Warrington Girls’ High School. She asked me to go home, think about it and talk it over with my parents before making any decision.

I passed on her remarks to them both but I felt Mum and Dad weren't really interested. Therefore I saw no purpose in pushing it, thinking that my parents were happier to see me working and earning money than loafing around at school any longer than necessary.

Later I discovered that Martha had also been interviewed, she said that she would rather leave at fourteen to train as a nursery nurse than stay on at school. This was a new career, which at that time was burgeoning due to the large number of married women now established in the workforce.

Dad had already said he'd spoken to Colonel Parrington, the Employment Officer at Rylands Brothers and he had promised that there would be an opening for me in one of their offices. In the end I said, “No thank you” to Miss Bryson, and I have never regretted it.

I started work at Rylands Brothers in September 1944. Not in the main offices in Church Street but in Mr. Smith's office. He was the manager of the Battersby Lane factory. At the latter end of 1944 Rylands Brothers still had Italian prisoners of war working in the factory. I don't know if they arrived with a song in their hearts everymorning at half past seven, but every evening when they departed they went home singing at the tops of their remarkable voices. 'O Sole Mio', 'Come Back to Sorrento' - all the Gigli favourites rendered in gorgeous Italian.

It was the high point of every working day for me. More than anything else it inspired in me a desire to visit the country where these happy and musically talented people came from. Since then I have visited Italy many times and have never been disappointed in either the Italian people or their beautiful country.

I worked as Miss Kearnes’s assistant, she was Mr. Smith's secretary and she didn't really require an assistant and by her attitude let me know I really wasn't wanted. She was hard put to find anything for me to do. Every morning and afternoon I went through the clock-cards marking up late-comers and absentees in the attendance register.

The rest of the time I ran messages, and I mean ran. I ran because I enjoyed running. "Please don't run, it isn't necessary, Miss Skinner."

That was another thing - 'Miss Skinner' who was she? Everyone else called me Betty. "What's yer name love?" they all asked and I told them and it certainly wasn't Miss Skinner; she sounded like a raddled old spinster to me! Very soon everyone including Mr. Smith addressed me as Betty, with the exception of Miss Kearnes. Then, thank goodness Miss Kearnes got married and left.

Her replacement was a wonderful, beautiful girl named Margery. She was four years older than myself and became my first grown-up friend. Margery had long, naturally blonde hair which she wore in a fashionable page-boy, Lana Turner style, and her large, lustrous eyes were brown.

On her this powerful combination attracted every man she came into contact with. Our office could hardly be called busy but the week after Margery's arrival, every male on the staff of the Battersby Lane plant managed to find some excuse, however feeble, to visit the manager's office to catch a fleeting glimpse of this entrancing vision. It was exciting and amusing to be a mere acolyte observing from the fringe Margery's formidable powers of attraction for the male of the species.

What was great was that Margery liked me, enjoyed my company and laughed at my jokes. Her parents were separated which made her appear even more exotic.

Margery's father had taken off with his secretary, a woman called Gwenny. "Gwenny! For god's sake! What sort of a name is that?" asked Margery shuddering.

Now I spent my Saturdays with Margery and Molly, her friend, in their comfortable sitting room, while her mother served the many customers in her busy shop. There was a photograph of a handsome young airman displayed upon the writing desk. This I knew was Norman, Margery's half brother who had been one of 'the few' shot down and killed in the battle of Britain.

What was so disconcerting about Margery was her open and sometimes embarrassing honesty. She told me Norman was her mother's illegitimate son and that her father had adopted him when he married her mother. "That made it alright you see - he was only my half-brother."

Not understanding immediately the significance of this strange remark I looked nonplussed.

"Well we loved one another."

No I didn't see; I might be little more than a child but I already knew that Norman was at least twelve years older than Margery and that incest was something not quite right, but even then I realised Margery was a law unto herself.