When the Lights Come on Again Read Online Free PDF

room to be able to see them. Miss Gilchrist was in there, taking dictation from Mr Murray. If only they would hurry up and finish...
    Liz felt like a trapped animal, her back pressed against the wall, her left shoulder feeling the cold metal of the filing cabinet through the thin crèpe de Chine of her short-sleeved blouse, Eric Mitchell’s arm blocking any escape on the other side.
    ‘Isn’t it better to be businesslike at work?’ she asked desperately.
    ‘Och, little Lizzie,’ he said, shaking his head at her in mock despair. ‘So conscientious.’
    She hated it when he called her that. She hated everything about Eric Mitchell: the way he looked her up and down, the way he stood behind her while she was typing, the way his hand - accidentally on purpose - managed to brush against her leg as she passed his desk. She shuddered.
    ‘Cold, little Lizzie? Perhaps I could do something about that. Mmm?’ He moved closer, looming over her, one sandy eyebrow raised in interrogation. She could smell the cigarette smoke which clung always to his clothes, practically count the hairs in his moustache. Oh, Mammy, Daddy, what was she going to do if he tried to touch her? Or even, horror of horrors, kiss her...
    She looked at-him, her heart thumping wildly. She wished she could tell him to get lost, give him a really good mouthful. She’d never actually used the words, but she knew them well enough. Living beneath Nan Simpson for several years had seen to that.
    There were several reasons why Liz couldn’t swear at Eric Mitchell. Nor could she remind him that he had a wife and child, that he shouldn’t be pestering her in this way, that he was fifteen years older than her, that she herself wasn’t very far away from being a gawky schoolgirl, that it just wasn’t fair.
    He was a member of the same Orange Lodge as William MacMillan and had ‘put in a good word for the lassie’ when Murray’s had been looking for a junior member of staff to assist Mr Murray’s personal secretary, and she couldn’t afford to antagonize him.
    As her father had reminded her the other night, Eddie had to be seen through college. He had won a bursary to go to the Uni, but it didn’t pay for everything. Her pay really was needed at home.
    The door of the inner office opened and Miss Gilchrist came out. Eric Mitchell moved rapidly away from Liz and she scurried back to her desk, laid the file to one side of the solid Underwood typewriter and sat down. She was all fingers and thumbs as she searched through the papers to find the address she needed for the next letter she had to type.
    Liz thought grimly that maybe she could understand why Nan Simpson swore at her husband. Even saying the words to yourself helped relieve your feelings.
    Damn you, Eric Mitchell, and damn being only eighteen and damn having no say in anything and damn having to work here—
    Her index finger slid on to the wrong typewriter key. Did she have to work here? She’d been at Murray’s for two years, surely long enough to repay the favour done when Eric Mitchell had recommended her for the position. Maybe she could find a better job, one that paid a bit more. Her father wouldn’t be able to object to that. And waiting the three long years until she was twenty-one would be a lot pleasanter if she didn’t have to put up with unwanted attentions day in, day out.
    Over the next week Liz made enquiries about three shorthand-typist’s jobs she saw advertised. She went to the relevant offices either during her midday break or at the end of the afternoon so that neither Miss Gilchrist nor Eric Mitchell would know she was planning a move.
    At the first office, a lady quite as formidable as Miss Gilchrist looked her up and down and told her that they were looking for an experienced stenographer. Liz was far too young.
    They were friendlier at the second place, but the pay was lousy, even less than she was getting at Murray’s. At the third they seemed interested in her, and