Read Online All the Days of Our Lives by Annie Murray - Free Book Online
Authors: Annie Murray
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friends with whom she’d shared the two years of evening classes – shorthand, typing and bookkeeping – at the Commercial School in Sparkhill, always said she looked dressed fit to kill. And thanks to Vera’s sewing lessons, Katie could make almost anything. She browsed round the Rag Market for second-hand clothes made of nice materials and remade them into garments to fit her.
‘I wish I could sew like you and your mom,’ Ann would grumble, pulling her badly fitting skirt down as it ruckled up over her plump hips. ‘I always look like a bag of muck tied up in the middle, compared with you!’
Today Katie was wearing a well-tailored suit in an attractive navy twill that Vera had made for her before the war. It always ironed up nicely and looked good as new, and under the jacket she wore a cream blouse with a Peter Pan collar and small pearl buttons. She had had her hair cut recently, level with her shoulders, which brought out its natural wave, and she wore it fashionably rolled and pinned back from her face at the front and sides. Her face had matured and filled out a little; she looked a little older than her years and had turned into a beauty, with her dark-haired Irish looks needing no make-up to improve them. Even the woman at the Labour Exchange looked at her with reluctant admiration.
She made her way across to Bradford Street and climbed the hill, pleased to see the imposing, blackened red-brick frontage of St Anne’s Church up on the right. The sight of it comforted her. She still went to Mass quite regularly. She had missed her uncle such a lot after he died, and still there was an ache in her heart whenever she thought of him. Going to Mass seemed to bring her closer to both him and her father. She had a Mass said for each of them every year, though she didn’t tell her mother about that. In fact, Vera was so nervy these days that Katie didn’t tell her about very much.
A few minutes later she was looking up at an imposing factory building with a row of arched windows on the second floor, below which ran a white banner on which was painted in dark-blue letters: ARTHUR COLLINGE.
Oh well, she thought. Here goes.
‘Well?’ Vera asked when she got home.
‘I’ve got it – a new job at Collinge’s! Shorthand typist for a Mr Graham!’
She saw her mother’s face relax. ‘Who’s Mr Graham?’
‘He’s the head of the something-or-other . . . Process Department, that was it. I could hardly take it all in. I haven’t met him yet – it was just the Labour Manager that I saw, who does all your cards and everything. Shall I put the kettle on?’ she offered. ‘I’m dying for a cuppa.’
They continued talking in the kitchen as the kettle hissed on the gas.
‘But as they were showing me out – it was one of the younger typists was told to take me – we passed this old lady with her specs on a chain round her neck. She looked ever so old to me, but the girl nudged me and said, “D’you know who that is?” Course I said no, and she said, “That’s Mr Collinge’s secretary, Miss Hurley. Ooh, she’s a tartar!” So I said, which I shouldn’t have really, “The sort who can strike you dead with a look!” I mean it was bad of me, but we just got the titters then. It’s a good job I was on my way out!’
To Katie’s relief, Vera smiled faintly. Her mimicry could often raise a smile from her mother. It seemed to bring out something irreverent in her.
‘I’ll be keeping out of her way.’ She turned from laying out the cups. Carefully she said, ‘Are you all right, Mother?’
‘Oh – yes, just a bit tired,’ Vera said. ‘I could do with a cup of tea. I’ve only just got in. So when do you start?’
‘Tomorrow. I hope I can do the job: I don’t know if he realized I’m only nineteen, but he never said anything. It’ll keep me on my toes all right – and I haven’t met Himself yet, either. That’ll be the acid test.’
As they drank tea she sneaked glances at her mother
‘I wish I could sew like you and your mom,’ Ann would grumble, pulling her badly fitting skirt down as it ruckled up over her plump hips. ‘I always look like a bag of muck tied up in the middle, compared with you!’
Today Katie was wearing a well-tailored suit in an attractive navy twill that Vera had made for her before the war. It always ironed up nicely and looked good as new, and under the jacket she wore a cream blouse with a Peter Pan collar and small pearl buttons. She had had her hair cut recently, level with her shoulders, which brought out its natural wave, and she wore it fashionably rolled and pinned back from her face at the front and sides. Her face had matured and filled out a little; she looked a little older than her years and had turned into a beauty, with her dark-haired Irish looks needing no make-up to improve them. Even the woman at the Labour Exchange looked at her with reluctant admiration.
She made her way across to Bradford Street and climbed the hill, pleased to see the imposing, blackened red-brick frontage of St Anne’s Church up on the right. The sight of it comforted her. She still went to Mass quite regularly. She had missed her uncle such a lot after he died, and still there was an ache in her heart whenever she thought of him. Going to Mass seemed to bring her closer to both him and her father. She had a Mass said for each of them every year, though she didn’t tell her mother about that. In fact, Vera was so nervy these days that Katie didn’t tell her about very much.
A few minutes later she was looking up at an imposing factory building with a row of arched windows on the second floor, below which ran a white banner on which was painted in dark-blue letters: ARTHUR COLLINGE.
Oh well, she thought. Here goes.
‘Well?’ Vera asked when she got home.
‘I’ve got it – a new job at Collinge’s! Shorthand typist for a Mr Graham!’
She saw her mother’s face relax. ‘Who’s Mr Graham?’
‘He’s the head of the something-or-other . . . Process Department, that was it. I could hardly take it all in. I haven’t met him yet – it was just the Labour Manager that I saw, who does all your cards and everything. Shall I put the kettle on?’ she offered. ‘I’m dying for a cuppa.’
They continued talking in the kitchen as the kettle hissed on the gas.
‘But as they were showing me out – it was one of the younger typists was told to take me – we passed this old lady with her specs on a chain round her neck. She looked ever so old to me, but the girl nudged me and said, “D’you know who that is?” Course I said no, and she said, “That’s Mr Collinge’s secretary, Miss Hurley. Ooh, she’s a tartar!” So I said, which I shouldn’t have really, “The sort who can strike you dead with a look!” I mean it was bad of me, but we just got the titters then. It’s a good job I was on my way out!’
To Katie’s relief, Vera smiled faintly. Her mimicry could often raise a smile from her mother. It seemed to bring out something irreverent in her.
‘I’ll be keeping out of her way.’ She turned from laying out the cups. Carefully she said, ‘Are you all right, Mother?’
‘Oh – yes, just a bit tired,’ Vera said. ‘I could do with a cup of tea. I’ve only just got in. So when do you start?’
‘Tomorrow. I hope I can do the job: I don’t know if he realized I’m only nineteen, but he never said anything. It’ll keep me on my toes all right – and I haven’t met Himself yet, either. That’ll be the acid test.’
As they drank tea she sneaked glances at her mother
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