Читать книгу Confessions of a Personal Secretary - Rosie Dixon - Страница 6

There is no doubt that it was the rupture – temporary I hope – of my romance with Geoffrey Wilkes that made me think seriously of getting some shorthand speeds behind me. A romantic rebuff is always good for the career-orientated side of my nature. If I am unhappy in love then I am determined to plunge into some new venture to take my mind off it.

It was unfortunate that Geoffrey and his Mummy and Daddy – that is what he calls them – should come upon me when I was teaching seven would-be rapists a lesson but these things do happen. (In Confessions of a Baby Sitter. Ed.) What I was less prepared for was their uncharitable attitude to the whole affair. To imagine that I was taking some kind of sexual initiative is completely to misunderstand my motives. Still, it is no good crying over spilt milk – there were quite enough tears that evening as I recall it. I think that Mrs Wilkes was in a bad mood because my mum and dad had refused to canvass for the Conservative Party and she was just looking for something to criticize. That is why me exposing my love grotto to Slasher and his gang played right into her hands. What a pity that Geoffrey is so completely under his mother’s thumb. I did expect more from him than a series of goldfish pouts leading up to a strangled sob. When Slasher and his horrible horde ran past him and escaped into the night he made no more effort than his father to stop them. Mr Wilkes just stood there staring at my exposed breasts until Mrs Wilkes hit him over the head with her umbrella.

Anyway, as I have already said, it is no good dwelling in the past. Mrs Wilkes put the phone down on me when I rang up to ask if Geoffrey was feeling better and if that is her attitude then I will rest on my dignity until the man himself has the grace to get in touch with me.

I am still smarting as I take my place at the breakfast table after the abortive telephone call. ‘I hear you were out on the job again last night,’ says Dad coldly.

Natalie, my precocious younger sister, sniggers. Something about Dad’s choice of words appeals to her infantile sense of humour. Neither of my parents approve of the Nightguard Babysitting Service which my friend Penny and I started in a fit of temporary insanity. Regular readers – God bless you! – know a number of reasons why.

‘It was the last time, Dad,’ I say. ‘I’m going to get in touch with Penny and wind the whole thing up.’

‘I think she’ll be relieved,’ says Mum. ‘I know she shared our concern. Such a nice girl.’

‘And so well spoken, too,’ says Dad. ‘You could take a leaf out of her book, Rose.’

I shudder to think what I would find on it, I think to myself. When Mum and Dad talk like that about Penny it makes my blood boil. She is my best friend but in the morals department she makes the late, great President Kennedy seem like a less frivolous version of Pope Paul. How my parents could believe that my virtually non-existent sexual experience is enough to contaminate anybody is beyond me. I suppose it is a case of your family always being the first to suspect the worst of you. If they saw a boa constrictor swallowing me they would worry in case I was giving it food poisoning.

With great difficulty I manage to avoid rising to Dad’s remark and take a ladylike nibble at my Weight-Off Minibicki. As so often happens, it disintegrates at the first touch of my teeth and most of it falls on the floor – I think that is why they are so good for weight reducing. It is virtually impossible to get one in your mouth.

‘You should have got a craft behind you,’ says Dad. ‘I always said that. All that escort agency stuff and being a courier on the continent …’ His voice fades away as if he is talking about the white slave trade – mind you, there was not a lot of difference sometimes.

‘It’s not too late for her to start,’ says Mum. ‘She could do the same secretarial course as Natalie.’

Natalie and I outvy each other with our protests and Dad closes his eyes and holds up a restraining hand.

‘It doesn’t have to be the same one,’ he says. ‘But your mother’s right. Secretaries are always in demand. Look what we have to pay Mrs Blanchard, and she only comes in three days a week.’ He is referring to the secretary they have at the builder’s merchant where Dad works. ‘And she can’t even make a decent cup of tea. Wants her own towel, as well now. Did I tell you that, Mary?’

I let Dad go off on a tack and gaze out of the window. Natalie has been drawing on the condensation and as I watch it melting and running down the pane I am suddenly reminded of something. ‘Robin Askwith’ is what her dreaming finger has written – I believe she concealed her age and saw him in some undesirable film where he was constantly exposing his body – but some of the lettering has vanished and now only ‘R-b-n A-kw-t’ remains. Rbn Akwt = Robin Askwith. It is a kind of speedwriting, isn’t it? And what a moment for it to reveal itself. Just when Dad was talking about secretaries and I was turning over in my mind new career opportunities. It is just like the writing on the wall in the Bible which I know was very significant even though we never did it at school. After the Book of Genitals we went straight on to the New Testament.

I am a great believer in signs and Robin Askwith’s name melting down the windowpane is just what I have been waiting for. Also, though I would not admit this to Dad, it backs up my own thinking. Secretarial qualifications always stand a girl in good stead and are likely to do so even more in the future. Geoffrey is always saying that with the government taking over more and more industries there will soon be half a dozen people working and thirty million civil servants supervising them. This should give rise to a lot of secretarial jobs.

I bite my lip when I think of Geoffrey because I had told myself that I was not going to think of him again until he got in touch to apologise for his lack of faith. He will probably never forgive himself if I get snapped up by some smooth executive type, but he will only have himself to blame. Nobody can say that he has not had ample opportunity to plight his troth. Despite all that he has been better at blighting it than plighting it and my patience is becoming exhausted. It has not escaped my attention that a lot of my friends have met their future husbands when working in offices – even though one of them was a window cleaner and not quite what I am looking for: I think it was that film Natalie saw that made me somewhat wary in their presence. Anyway, that is beside the point. I believe that Ruth Dangerfield has a little baby boy now and is very happy and I would willingly be the same. Working shoulder to shoulder in the restrained atmosphere of an office must provide the perfect opportunity to sum up the strengths and weaknesses of a future life partner. You must see their ability to cope with moments of stress and whether they are moody or good humoured most of the time. It must also be possible to get a good idea of how much money they are making. I am the last person in the world to wish to appear mercenary but these days, when everything is so expensive, it seems only sensible to go into marriage as well equipped as possible. Once the arrival of a little stranger is heralded I will have to give up work and the whole responsibility of supporting the family will rest upon my partner’s shoulders. That is one of the problems with Geoffrey – oh dear, I have thought of him again – working in a solicitor’s office. I know the money is good once you are qualified but he always seems to be failing his exams and there is a limit to the length of time a girl can be expected to wait. Even if he ever asked me to marry him I don’t know that I would be wise to say yes.

Such thoughts, and a hundred others, are speeding through my mind as I make my way down Chingford High Street after breakfast. Perhaps that is why I get so confused sometimes – I mean, all those thoughts. Perhaps life would be easier if I had a less active mind. Anyhow, it is no good thinking about that now. All my senses should be directed towards the poster I saw advertising ‘T Lft Sl o Fwt’ or, as you immediately recognized, ‘The Learnfast School of Fastwriting’. It is clever, isn’t it? And so much more identifiable than those shorthand scribbles which look like swear words reproduced in strip cartoons. Once I have mastered – or should I say ‘mistressed’ in this time of female equality? – the technique, I should be well on the way to one of those ‘Two Thousand a Year Plus!’ jobs the ads are always talking about. I mean, apart from the opportunity to meet a congenial life partner, that is a good enough reason to enrol in the first place, isn’t it? I can’t think why I never thought of this before. The typing side of the course could be a bit of a bore but when you think of some of the people you know who can type it can’t be too difficult, can it? After a bit your fingers must instinctively know which keys to go to. Just like driving a car. Which reminds me. I must take some driving lessons.

Ah! there is the poster. Partially obscured by one reading: ‘From he who hath nothing will be taken everything. Corinthians XI.’ I seem to remember the Corinthians XI. They were a football team made up of nice young men from Oxford and Cambridge universities who used to play at the Oval. I remember going to see them once. They were beaten 11–0 by Dulwich Hamlet. Why they should resort to this rather obscure form of recruitment advertising is beyond me but I don’t have time to think about that either. The poster has only just been put on so it is easy to peel it back and find the address of the ‘L.S.F.’ Learnfast House, 136 Edgeley Road. It is interesting that they do not use Fastwriting when setting out the address. I suppose that they don’t want to run the risk of losing potential pupils who never find out where the school is. I do not waste any time but hop on a bus and go straight round to the school. Once I get an idea into my head I really bash it – the idea, I mean.

I am a little surprised to find that Learnfast House looks just like all the other semi-detached houses in the street. I had been expecting a large glass building like the ones that stand empty all over the centre of London. Still, it is definitely the right place because there is a small sign in the front garden and the plastic venetian blinds in the bay windows speak of business efficiency. I pat my hair into place, brush some bits of fluff off the front of my skirt and press the front door bell. It is perhaps unfortunate that I notice a speck of dirt on my sweater at the same moment and am engaged in removing it as the door opens. By the time I raise my eyes, those of the door-opener are glued firmly on my breasts and it takes a nervous cough from myself before our orbs make contact.

‘Good morning,’ I say. ‘Is this the Lftslofwt?’

Of course, I know it is but I want to demonstrate my keenness and willingness to adapt to the new language.

The man who has opened the door is small and wiry with wispy black hair that he brushes back from his forehead. He is also swarthy and possessed of several gold teeth which I notice when he smiles slowly like a crocodile sensing feeding time approaching. At a guess I would say he was foreign. ‘No understand,’ he says. ‘Girls for Rio. They go yesterday.’

‘The Learnfast School of Fastwriting,’ I say with as charming a smile as I can muster. ‘I would like to enrol.’

‘Ah,’ says the man. ‘You want Mr Kruger, I think. He come back soon.’

As if on cue, a large important-looking man comes up the garden path behind me. ‘Goodness gracious me,’ says the newcomer. ‘And still they come. No sooner one batch of lucky graduates transported to a new world of pleasure and riches than others flock to take their places. That’s what makes this job so satisfying, isn’t it, eh Sandor? Always new faces, new opportunities. Come inside, my dear.’

‘Do you find positions for your students?’ I ask, stepping over the threshold.

‘Very much so,’ says Mr Kruger, taking off his astrakan-collared topcoat and throwing it at Sandor. ‘That’s what gives us the edge over all our competitiors. If we agree to take you on then we guarantee you employment – and abroad as well. Think how attractive that is nowadays.’

‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘It must seem strange, I know, but I don’t particularly want to work abroad. I had quite enough of it when I was a travel courier and in the WRACs.’

‘Goodness me,’ says Mr Kruger. ‘You have got around, haven’t you? Well, there’s no need to rush a decision at this point. You’re under no pressure at Learnfast. You can make up your mind in your own good time. Come into my office and I’ll fill out your form.’

I follow Mr Kruger, pondering the exact meaning of his words, and find myself in a pleasant oak-panelled room surrounded by colour photographs of Rio de Janeiro, Port Said and Tangiers – all places I have often wanted to visit. I wonder if I will weaken in Mr Kruger’s presence.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Let’s get down to business. Take your clothes off.’

‘Take my clothes off?’ I say. Mr Kruger clearly fails to detect the question mark in my voice because he shrugs and starts feeling for the zip at my waist. ‘I mean, why should I take my clothes off?’ I say, starting back hurriedly.

‘Haven’t you noticed how warm it is in here?’ says Kruger as if explaining something to a backward child.

‘It’s not that warm!’ I say. ‘Anyway, you could turn the radiators off.’

‘I’m trying to simulate the conditions you would be working under,’ says Kruger. ‘Alexandria can get pretty torrid, you know. Some of these electric typewriters throw off quite a heat. The less clothes you wear the less hot you get and the less danger there is of large furry spiders getting trapped in them.’ He starts turning a handle underneath his desk and a large furry spider decends from the ceiling. After my first scream I realize that it has been let down on a piece of string. ‘Not very nice, eh?’ continues Kruger. ‘You can imagine what it would be like if you started forward in terror, caught your dress in the typewriter and were sucked into the works. No, it’s not a risk I’m prepared to take with any of my girls. Other schools may push their pupils out into the world willy-nilly but not Honest Jack Kruger.’

‘It is for just the kind of reasons that you have outlined, that I wish to work in this country,’ I tell him. ‘That way, with any luck I should be able to keep my clothes on all the time.’

‘Right,’ says Kruger. ‘On your own head be it. I’m only grateful that there’s time before the course is over for you to see sense. Another class should be starting a week on Monday. Leave your telephone number and five pounds registration fee – deductable when you take your clothes off – and Sandor will confirm the arrangements if he’s back in time from his speech therapist – oh, by the way, do you read music?’

‘No,’ I say, trying to keep up with everything Mr Kruger is saying. ‘Is that important?’

‘It’s a big help with our typing course,’ says Mr Kruger. ‘You’ll find out on Monday week, I hope. Don’t forget to wear a loose, flowing garment.’

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘Because I think it will suit you,’ says Mr Kruger. ‘Good afternoon.’