Liverpool Annie (15 page)

Now, at half past ten on a bitter March night, she felt erself drawn towards the dark isolation offered by the tter-strewn beach . . .

upper Parliament Street

Sylvia stuck her head round the office door. 'Lunch time!' she sang.

'Already?' replied Annie without looking up. Her eyes were glued to the paper in her typewriter. 'Are you sure?'

'You must be the only typist in Liverpool who doesn't watch the clock all day long,' Sylvia said as she came into the tiny room. She wore a knitted shawl with a long fringe over an ankle-length black jersey dress, boots, and a red scarf tied around her head like a gypsy. Gold hoops dangled from her ears. The outfit looked casual, as if it had been thrown on without a thought, yet she'd probably spent ages deciding what to wear that day for Art College.

'I'll just finish this letter,' Annie murmured. Sylvia stood behind and watched, impressed, as her friend's fingers flew over the keys.

'There!' Annie typed 'Yours faithfully', left five clear spaces, then 'J. Rupert', and withdrew the sheet with a flourish. 'I'll do the rest this afternoon.'

'I should think so!' Sylvia lounged against a filing cabinet and said with a twinkle, 'Where's your boss?'

'Now as he's seen you, likely to come in any minute, I reckon.'

The words were scarcely out of her mouth when, through the glazed wall separating her cubbyhole from Jeremy Rupert's luxurious office, they saw a bulky

figure rise from the desk. Sylvia was as visible to him as he was to them. The girls grinned at each other.

Annie's door opened and a man entered. His roly-poly figure and noticeably short arms and legs must have presented a challenge to his tailor. Chubby red cheeks and round spectacles gave him a Billy Bunter look. He had tiny feet and walked in a curiously dainty manner for someone of his bulk. 'Can I have a copy of this please, Annie.' His eyes widened in surprise which both girls knew was entirely faked. 'Oh, hello, Sylvia, I didn't know you were here.'

'Hello, Jeremy.'

Annie could never get used to Sylvia addressing her boss as 'Jeremy'. 'I don't work for him, so if he calls me by my first name, I shall call him by his,' Sylvia argued.

'You look a sight for sore eyes, I must say,' Jeremy Rupert's mouth almost watered as he looked Sylvia up and down.

'Thank you,' Sylvia said prettily. 'I'm about to whisk your secretary off to lunch. She's already five minutes late.'

'Then she must take an extra five minutes for her lunch hour,' Annie's boss said expansively. 'No, another ten. In fact, Annie, I don't expect to see you back until two fifteen.'

As his own lunch hour was quite likely to stretch to three or even later, there was no likelihood of him seeing Annie at two fifteen. Nevertheless, she unhooked her coat from behind the door, and said demurely, 'Thank you, Mr Rupert.'

'Well, we're off,' smiled Sylvia. 'Nice seeing you, Jeremy.'

Jeremy Rupert opened the door with exaggerated courtesy. As the girls went through, he put a heavy arm around Sylvia's waist to usher her out. Sylvia paused

deliberately, and with an expression of distaste, took his cuff between her thumb and forefinger and let the arm drop. No words were spoken, but the man smiled as if it were a great joke.

'Is he always like that?' Sylvia asked when they were outside.

'Like what?'

'Like a bloody octopus. He can't keep his hands to himself.'

'I do have a job fighting him off sometimes,' Annie conceded. She'd only worked for Jeremy Rupert for two months. At first, she thought the way he slipped his arm around her waist or shoulders was merely a paternal gesture on his part - he had two daughters slightly older than herself - but lately she'd noticed his hand brush her breasts. She hadn't said anything because she couldn't think of a way to put him off without risking her job. She acted as if the incidents hadn't occurred.

'You should slap his face,' Sylvia said indignantly.

'And get the sack?' Annie hooted.

'If Bruno knew, he'd give the creep a good punch on the nose.'

'In that case, I'd get the sack and Bruno would end up in jail.'

'Bruno wouldn't mind. He'd think it a cause worth fighting for,'

'But I would,' Annie argued. 'It's a good job. I get eight pounds ten a week, which is at least a pound more than in another solicitor's. Not only that, I really enjoy the work since I was promoted.'

Stickley & Plumm, solicitors, were situated in North John Street, in the business centre of Liverpool, where they occupied three floors above an exclusive gentlemen's outfitters and a travel agent. An old-established, highly reputable firm, Mr Stickley and Mr Plumm were old bones, and of the four partners, Jeremy Rupert was

the most junior. There were nine other solicitors, ranging from very young to very old.

Annie had started in the typing pool two and a half years ago. She was sixteen and had just left Machin & Harpers with the next to highest speeds in her class; 120 words per minute shorthand, 60 typing.

Just as she had been a good pupil, Annie was an equally good worker. She was neat, both in her dress and in her work, conscientious and punctual. Only Annie herself was surprised when, despite her youth, she was offered the job of Jeremy Rupert's secretary when the current occupant retired. The other secretaries were more than twice her age.

Not only did it mean an increase in wages, but Mr Rupert was head of the Litigation Department, where the work was vastly more interesting than conveyancing or probate, involving simple but fascinating disputes from litigants squabbling over the situation of boundary walls and fences, to violent criminal activities including the occasional murder.

Annie loved the work. Lately, though, Mr Rupert's roving hands had become a problem.

Sylvia linked her arm. 'Let's have lunch in the New Court.'

'But it'll be nearly all men,' Annie protested.

Sylvia flung the corner of her shawl over her shoulder with a flourish. 'Why do you think I want to go?'

'You know what you are?' said Annie as they strolled along. The streets were packed with office workers. It was a crisp, sunny December day and the small shops were tastefully decorated for Christmas. 'You're a prickteaser. You enjoy flaunting yourself in front of men,'

Sylvia raised her fine eyebrows. 'That's a rather vulgar expression coming from the prim and proper Miss Annie Harrison!'

'That's how Mike described his new girlfriend. Mind you, Dot still gave him a clip round the ear, even though he's twenty-three.'

'Mike! Is he still so depressingly boring?'

'Mike isn't the least bit boring.' Annie sprang to the defence of her cousin. 'Anyroad, he considers you incredibly conceited.'

'That's because I've got plenty to be conceited about.' Sylvia glanced at her reflection in a shop window as if to confirm the truth of this remark: not that there was any need for confirmation, the admiring looks from passers-by, particularly the men, were enough to convince any girl she was outstanding.

The looks weren't just for Sylvia. The two girls were in stark contrast to each other: Sylvia in her flamboyant outfit, her straight creamy hair spread fanlike over her woollen shawl, and Annie, quietly dressed in a sensible coat, the frill of her white blouse spurting from under the collar, yet, in her own way, equally flamboyant with her russet curls, cheeks pinker than usual from the cold, and gold-lashed blue-grey eyes. Both were tall, though Sylvia was as slender as a model and two sizes smaller than her more voluptuous companion.

The men in the New Court were suitably impressed when the girls went in. Sylvia swept haughtily up to the bar and ordered shandy and cheese sandwiches, apparently oblivious to the stir they had created. She winked at Annie. 'If you ignore them, it drives them wild.'

'Do you like my shawl?' she asked when they were seated.

'It's very nice,' Annie said dutifully.

'Cecy had it made. She'll order one for you, if you hke.'

'I don't want to hurt her feelings, but tell her no ta. I can't see meself in a shawl.'

'She misses you terribly, Annie,' Sylvia said, serious for once.

'I miss her, too - and Bruno.'

'You didn't have to leave. You can come back any time you want.'

'I know, Syl,' Annie said patiently. They had the same discussion at least once a week. 'But it was time me and Marie lived together.'

'But Marie will be moving to London once she finishes her drama course. You can't live in that horrible little flat all on your own!'

'It's not little and it's not horrible. I really like it there.'

'Better than the Grand?' Sylvia looked hurt.

'Of course not!'

The girls finished their meal and left the pub. Outside, they made arrangements to meet when Annie finished work at Saturday lunchtime. 'We'll go shopping, catch a movie, and finish off at the Cavern,' Sylvia announced.

Annie couldn't help but smile at the 'catch a movie'. Her friend had become very Americanised since she started College. She referred to men as 'guys' and said 'kinda' instead of 'kind of.

Sylvia kissed her cheek and said, 'See ya, Annie', and waltzed off into the crowd. Annie submitted to the kiss, embarrassed. It was something else Sylvia had started to do. They must be a pretentious lot at Art College.

As she climbed the stairs to her office on the second floor, she passed Reception, where Miss Hunt, secretary to Mr Granger, the senior partner, was on the telephone. She put the receiver down and glanced pointedly at her watch.

Annie stuck her head inside. 'Mr Rupert said I could have an extra fifteen minutes. I was late leaving.'

Miss Hunt was the longest-serving female employee

in the firm. A tall, painfully thin woman with a penchant for pastel twinsets and tight perms, she was the butt of cruel office jokes of which Annie hoped she was ignorant, or her permanent anguished frown might have grown deeper. Miss Hunt had spent most of her adult life attending to Arnold Grayson's every whim. She shopped for him, to the extent, it was rumoured, of buying his underwear. On his behalf, she sent birthday presents to his wife and children, arranged his holidays, paid his bills. More than once, she had been seen kneeling on the floor tying Arnold Grayson's shoelaces.

Outside his office. Miss Hunt was a different person. She was nominally in charge of female employees, who often felt the lash of her acerbic tongue if they were late or their work didn't come up to scratch, and woe betide them if they spent too much time gossiping in the Ladies.

Her narrow yellow face twisted into what might possibly be a smile when Annie spoke. 'I thought it wasn't like you to be late. Miss Harrison. Was that your friend who came for you earlier?'

'Yes, Sylvia. It's all right for her to come in, isn't it?'

'Of course. She looks rather Bohemian,' Miss Hunt said wistfully, as if she wouldn't have minded being a bit Bohemian herself.

'She's at Art College,' said Annie, as if that explained everything. She was never sure if Sylvia was a Bohemian, an Existentialist or a Beatnik. 'We only lunch on Thursdays, when she has a free period.'

Back at her desk, Annie flicked through her shorthand notebook and found only two more letters, both short. She typed them quickly, put them in the blotting folder on Mr Rupert's desk ready for him to sign along with those done that morning, and swept the leather top clear of cigarette ash. She then caught up with the filing. It wasn't yet half two and she had nothing else to do. In

practice, she was supposed to collect work from the typing pool to fill in time before her boss appeared, but Annie wasn't in the mood to be a model secretary that afternoon.

She sank her chin onto her hands, laid palm downwards on the typewriter. She'd hated leaving the Grand and upsetting Cecy, but there'd been Marie to consider. Marie was living next door to Auntie Dot with an increasingly ailing old lady, and Annie was left with the old, familiar sensation of guilt, of feeling responsible for her sister.

The telephone rang in Mr Rupert's office. Annie picked up her extension, which usually made her feel very important, and made an appointment for a client to see him the following week.

Downstairs, someone called, 'Rose, Ro-ose. Mr Bunyon and his client would like a cup of tea straight away.'

'I've only got one bloody pair of hands. I'll be as quick as I can,' a hoarse voice replied. Rose, the tealady, could be heard angrily banging dishes in the kitchen. Almost eighty. Rose was a breath of fresh air in the dull and stultifying atmosphere that prevailed in the offices of Stickley & Plumm. She never hesitated to speak her mind. If anyone didn't like it, all they had to do was sack her, she said challengingly.

Annie returned to her reverie. Rose!

'How are you getting on with the girls, Rosef Don't forget, I'd be happy to have them if they're too much for you.'

'Don't put on your little act with me. Rose.'

'It's time to forgive and forget. Rose.'

Dot's voice. Then another, throbbing with excitement. 'It's the Harrisons, they've done themselves in. Gas, I think it was.'

Although she was sitting down, Annie's legs felt

weak, as if she'd been running too fast and too far. Perspiration trickled down her armpits, despite the deodorant she'd rubbed on that morning, as she began to relive that terrible night. She'd relived it a thousand times already. Lately the memory returned less and less, but it took the smallest thing, like someone calling 'Rose', for it all to come flooding back.

She left the sands and ran towards the Grand, trying to keep a look-out for Bruno, but the cars that whizzed by all looked the same. Suppose he just dropped Marie off at the end of Orlando Street!

Bruno was about to leave when Annie came stumbling up. She threw herself onto the bonnet, and the Mercedes stopped with a screech of brakes. 'For goodness' sake, Annie!' came Bruno's irritable voice. 'Are you trying to commit suicide?'

She tried to explain, but the words refused to come. There seemed no words in the dictionary to describe what she'd just seen. 'Me mam, me dad' she croaked, but that was all. She stood, ice-cold and trembling. Even when Bruno shook her by the shoulders, she still couldn't speak.