Page 7 of Be Less Panda

‘You don’t need to be fluent. You’ll be dealing with customers who can read English. And you’ll be amazed how much you’ll pick up just by being surrounded by French people.’

Nancy and Olivia walked on in silence for a few minutes while Nancy pondered Olivia’s suggestion. It would beat being wolf-whistled at by the men in the press shop whenever she had to walk the length of the factory. And the bookshop job would probably pay as much as her current one, given how little her father thought she was worth. But there was a flaw in the plan.

‘I can’t see my loving, caring papa going for that suggestion,’ she said. ‘Education is wasted on girls, Nancy,’ she added, doing a passable impression of her father in rant mode. He’d quashed any hopes she’d had of going to university, so she very much doubted he’d be up for funding a trip abroad, particularly Paris. His opinion of the French was unrepeatable for reasons he wasn’t prepared to divulge, but the implication was it had something to do with the war.

‘Why don’t you tell him that improving your foreign language skills would help the factory’s export department?’ Olivia suggested.

‘But I don’t want to work in the export department. I can’t think of anything worse. They’re not exactly the most dynamic of people. Audrey never smiles and reeks of mothballs. And Alec, her manager, has raging halitosis and no idea that deodorant has been invented, which is rather unfortunate given he only ever wears nylon shirts.’

‘But you wouldn’t have to go back to the export department. Once you’ve escaped the clutches of G Smith & Son, the world’s your oyster. No one will be able to force you to return to the family business.’

Olivia had a point.

‘I’ll think about it,’ Nancy said.

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 filingcabinets 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?’

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