pennies on her eyes.
Joan
‘I’ve got a new job,’ Joan announced to her family during their evening meal. Her stomach rippled with tension. ‘Down in London. Frances told me about it. And I wrote to apply and they’ve offered me it.’
She held up the letter. She had typed it herself earlier that day. Betty had gone to the post office for stamps and Duncan was out seeing a customer. It was the first chance she’d had. She’d invented an address in London. She’d never been there but had heard of Shepherd's Bush. It was easy enough to come up with 16 Market Street, Shepherd’s Bush. Her fingers flew over the keys, offering herself the position of secretary. She had signed it with a flourish. Arthur Bell Esquire. She found a used envelope with an illegible postmark and inserted the letter.
‘Good grief!’ Her mother froze in the process of dishing up the treacle tart. ‘It’s all a bit sudden, isn’t it? You never said a word.’
Her younger brother Tommy gawped, her father looked stunned. ‘What’s brought all this on?’ he asked her. ‘What sort of position?’ He held his hand out for the letter.
Her mother resumed sharing out the sweet, one eye on Joan.
‘Secretarial, small firm. You know I’ve been wanting to go for ages. Frances says it’s super there. Very lively. There’s a room coming up at her lodgings, so I won’t even need to find a place.’
‘And you’re leaving Harrison’s just like that?’ He frowned at the letter.
‘Daddy, I’ll work my notice and they’ll find someone else easy enough. I don’t want to work in the same office all my life.’
‘Don’t know you’re born,’ he muttered. ‘Pass the Carnation.’
Joan handed him the jug of evaporated milk. He held the letter out to her mother.
‘It’s a bit of a shock, Joan,’ her mother managed. ‘I wish you’d said something.’
‘I was going to but it’s all happened so quickly. This job at Bell’s is vacant now and if I don’t jump at it they’ll take someone else. Manchester is so stuffy,’ she said. ‘I want to see what London's like.’
‘When’s all this going to happen?’ Her father said. ‘How long’s your notice?’
‘A week. I thought I could get the coach next Saturday.’
‘You’ll miss Grandad’s birthday,’ her mother complained.
‘Grandad won’t mind.’
There was a pause. Joan listened to the clock ticking, to her father’s huffs and puffs as he ate.
‘Your mother’s right,’ he said. ‘You could have given the family a bit more consideration, springing it on us like this.’
She sighed. ‘I want you to be pleased for me,’ Joan tried. ‘It’s so exciting.’
‘We are, Joan.’ Her mother smiled. ‘It’s just so fast. But we are. Aren’t we, Ted?’
He raised his eyebrows and nodded, making it clear that any pleasure was tempered by reservations at how Joan had behaved.
‘You’ll need something to manage on until your first wages come through,’ her mother said.
‘I’ve got a bit in my savings.’
‘You’re dipping into your savings for this?’ Her father looked disapproving. Joan felt a wave of irritation which she fought to hide. The last thing she wanted was to lose her temper now. ‘It’s a week in hand,’ she lied. ‘I won’t need much.’
‘Things are dearer in London,’ her mother put in.
‘Frances will help me out, too. It’ll be fine.’ Joan wiped the sweat from her palms on her slacks and resumed eating. Lies all told. Relief lapping at the edges of her skull. Better than the truth. Why hurt them? They’d be disgusted, ashamed of her. They’d demand to know who the father was. There'd be scene after scene. She couldn’t do that. The tart was sweet and cloying in her mouth, the Carnation milk silky. She was ravenous and nauseous all at once. She wanted more. She’d go for chips later.
‘I’ll see the Tower of London,’ she said to Tommy, feeling a little giddy now it was done, ‘and Buckingham
Joan
‘I’ve got a new job,’ Joan announced to her family during their evening meal. Her stomach rippled with tension. ‘Down in London. Frances told me about it. And I wrote to apply and they’ve offered me it.’
She held up the letter. She had typed it herself earlier that day. Betty had gone to the post office for stamps and Duncan was out seeing a customer. It was the first chance she’d had. She’d invented an address in London. She’d never been there but had heard of Shepherd's Bush. It was easy enough to come up with 16 Market Street, Shepherd’s Bush. Her fingers flew over the keys, offering herself the position of secretary. She had signed it with a flourish. Arthur Bell Esquire. She found a used envelope with an illegible postmark and inserted the letter.
‘Good grief!’ Her mother froze in the process of dishing up the treacle tart. ‘It’s all a bit sudden, isn’t it? You never said a word.’
Her younger brother Tommy gawped, her father looked stunned. ‘What’s brought all this on?’ he asked her. ‘What sort of position?’ He held his hand out for the letter.
Her mother resumed sharing out the sweet, one eye on Joan.
‘Secretarial, small firm. You know I’ve been wanting to go for ages. Frances says it’s super there. Very lively. There’s a room coming up at her lodgings, so I won’t even need to find a place.’
‘And you’re leaving Harrison’s just like that?’ He frowned at the letter.
‘Daddy, I’ll work my notice and they’ll find someone else easy enough. I don’t want to work in the same office all my life.’
‘Don’t know you’re born,’ he muttered. ‘Pass the Carnation.’
Joan handed him the jug of evaporated milk. He held the letter out to her mother.
‘It’s a bit of a shock, Joan,’ her mother managed. ‘I wish you’d said something.’
‘I was going to but it’s all happened so quickly. This job at Bell’s is vacant now and if I don’t jump at it they’ll take someone else. Manchester is so stuffy,’ she said. ‘I want to see what London's like.’
‘When’s all this going to happen?’ Her father said. ‘How long’s your notice?’
‘A week. I thought I could get the coach next Saturday.’
‘You’ll miss Grandad’s birthday,’ her mother complained.
‘Grandad won’t mind.’
There was a pause. Joan listened to the clock ticking, to her father’s huffs and puffs as he ate.
‘Your mother’s right,’ he said. ‘You could have given the family a bit more consideration, springing it on us like this.’
She sighed. ‘I want you to be pleased for me,’ Joan tried. ‘It’s so exciting.’
‘We are, Joan.’ Her mother smiled. ‘It’s just so fast. But we are. Aren’t we, Ted?’
He raised his eyebrows and nodded, making it clear that any pleasure was tempered by reservations at how Joan had behaved.
‘You’ll need something to manage on until your first wages come through,’ her mother said.
‘I’ve got a bit in my savings.’
‘You’re dipping into your savings for this?’ Her father looked disapproving. Joan felt a wave of irritation which she fought to hide. The last thing she wanted was to lose her temper now. ‘It’s a week in hand,’ she lied. ‘I won’t need much.’
‘Things are dearer in London,’ her mother put in.
‘Frances will help me out, too. It’ll be fine.’ Joan wiped the sweat from her palms on her slacks and resumed eating. Lies all told. Relief lapping at the edges of her skull. Better than the truth. Why hurt them? They’d be disgusted, ashamed of her. They’d demand to know who the father was. There'd be scene after scene. She couldn’t do that. The tart was sweet and cloying in her mouth, the Carnation milk silky. She was ravenous and nauseous all at once. She wanted more. She’d go for chips later.
‘I’ll see the Tower of London,’ she said to Tommy, feeling a little giddy now it was done, ‘and Buckingham
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