Ironmonger's Daughter by Harry Bowling Page B

facing her, her chin supported on her cupped hand. The room was warm and cosy and, after listening to the wireless for a while and chatting about trivial things, Molly brought up the subject of work.
    ‘I wonder what jobs the labour exchange will offer us, Con?’
    Connie shrugged her shoulders. ‘I bet they won’t send us after office jobs. Me mum keeps on at me ter get a job in an office. She reckons I should learn ter type an’ do short’and. I don’t wanna work in offices, Molly. Most o’ them office workers are real posh. I couldn’t talk posh, could you?’
    Molly laughed and sat up. ‘Fancy us bein’ all posh. The kids round ’ere wouldn’t talk to us. Anyway, those office fellas ’ave got funny names, like Clarence and Rodney. There’s a fella who works in the office at Armitage’s called Bertrum. Fancy’avin’ a name like Bertrum. I couldn’t go around all day sayin’ names like that. I’d burst out laughin’.’
    Connie grinned and leaned forward. ‘I reckon they’ll send us ter Shuttleworths, or Peek Frean’s. Most o’ the girls who left last term work at Shut’s.’
    ‘Cor! Fancy ’avin’ a job packin’ choc’lates. We could eat’em all day, Con.’
    ‘What about workin’ at Peek’s, Molly? Cream biscuits, jam rolls, and luvverly choc’late digestives.’
    Molly pulled her knees up. ‘I bet yer don’t get a chance ter touch a fing. I bet they’ve got some ole witch of a forelady standin’ over yer all day. Someone like Widow Pacey.’
    ‘P’raps they’ll send us ter one o’ those bottlin’ stores,’ Connie said, as she picked up the poker and stabbed at the glowing coals.
    ‘What would we ’ave ter do there, Con?’
    ‘Well, accordin’ ter that Rita Arnold, yer label wine bottles an’ do packin’. She’s worked there fer ages.’
    Molly stretched her legs and rubbed the side of her back. ‘I’ope we do get ter work tergevver, Con. The labour exchange might send us ter different places. Can’t we say we wanna work tergevver?’
    ‘I s’pose we could do,’ Connie replied.
    Molly’s face became serious and for a time she stared into the fire. Presently she looked at Connie. ‘S’posin’ they won’t give me a job?’
    ‘What d’yer mean, Molly. ’Course they’ll offer yer a job. You could do any job I could do.’
    ‘I dunno. Lots o’ firms won’t take people like me on. Bella Richards couldn’t get any jobs at all. I don’t fink she’s ever ’ad a job since she left school.’
    Connie looked into her friend’s large sad eyes and felt a familiar wave of pity flowing through her. ‘Don’t be so silly, Molly. Bella Richards is not like you. She’s got somefing wrong wiv ’er brain. She keeps ’avin’ fits. That’s why she can’t get a job. There’s nufink wrong wiv yer brain. You was always better than me at classes. You’ll get a job anywhere.’
    Molly stared back into the fire, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames. ‘Will yer get married one day, Con?’ she asked suddenly.
    Connie laughed, and a slight flush tinged her pretty face. ‘Oh, I dunno. I might, one day.’
    ‘Will yer ’ave lots o’ babies?’
    ‘I might. What about you?’
    Molly’s eyes had remained fixed to the flames. ‘Yer need boys ter make babies, Con. Boys won’t wanna go out wiv somebody like me.’
    Connie leaned forward and squeezed Molly’s arm gently. ‘Yes they will. You jus’ wait. Now let’s ferget boys. Let’s talk about Christmas presents, an’ mince pies, an’ ’ot chestnuts.’
    Laughter rang out in the cosy room, while across the gaslit landing, in the flat opposite, old Mrs Walker wrapped her thick shawl around her frail shoulders and dreamed of Christmas long ago. The laughter that carried into her drab, draughty flat was the laughter of the street in more tranquil times, when the ragtime piano blared out, and when the banging coming from the scullery was music to her ears. The shelf was now hanging off the wall, although she did