"Paperclips and Petulance" by Jan Jack

Prologue

I never wanted to get married. Watching my mother on a Saturday, with her head in the bath and her bottom in the air, scrubbing at yet another dubious stain was enough to convince me of that.

The day I changed my mind is one I’ll never forget; the day I saw Mr and Mrs Armstrong dancing in their kitchen. As Dean Martin began to play on the radio, I watched Mr Armstrong abandon his tea towel and hold out his arms to his wife. The two of them twirled joyfully round and round; Mr Armstrong singing softly to his wife as they spun past me. That was the moment I knew for sure that real love made everything all right, and that Happy Ever Afters weren’t just for fairy tales.
Of course, I was wrong. But I didn’t know that at sixteen years old. Perhaps if I had, things might have been different.


Chapter One - Of Profit and Loss

1976
14 May

It’s the long hot summer. The bees are buzzing, the birds are singing, and the Bellamy Brothers are urging us to Let Our Love Flow. And if you look closely enough, you can see there are various students taking their advice in the long wavy grass of the college gardens.

But me? I’m dipping my toes into the River Thames, pondering over whether I really want to be a secretary, but more importantly trying to decide whether to go back to college for my Commerce class.

1 July

College is over, and the postman has called. I am now in possession of a certificate that tells me I can write down what other people are saying at a speed of 80 words a minute, and type them back fractionally slower than that.
That’s great then.
My certificates for Commerce, Physics, and French have mysteriously failed to arrive, but fortunately Mother and Father are both wearing Pleased Smiles because of my brand new secretarial qualifications, and so far, they don’t appear to have noticed.

3 July

The Pleased Smiles have now gone, and Mother and Father are putting increasing pressure on me to get a job. So armed with the local newspaper I sit at the dining room table laboriously writing out job applications to banks, accountants and solicitors, in my best handwriting. It’s not too long before I’m pretty bored, and when I look out of the window I can see the sun urging me temptingly through the door.

With a furtive look around me, I notice that Father is busy watching Tiswas and Mother is mowing the grass, so five minutes later I have slipped un-noticed out of the house and gone off to find Mr Armstrong.

Mr Armstrong is one of my favourite people. I have known him since I was a little girl, and he lives with his wife Victoria and two cats, in a well-kept house just down the street. He has thick dark curly hair, and the cheeriest face I have ever seen, and he is always happy to stop what he is doing to talk to me.

Mr Armstrong is very proud of his garden, which is a wonderful vision of bright reds and vivid yellows. He’s often to be found tending his roses, and today is no exception. He is bending and leaning and totally engrossed, until he sees me, and straightens up with a smile.

“I could do with a drop of rain for my garden. Did you know this is the hottest summer for two hundred years? We’ll all be queuing for our water in the street before long.” He pats his low garden wall encouragingly, inviting me to sit down. “So, what have you been up to then?”

I haven’t seen him for a while, so I tell him about leaving college, my new certificates, and all the jobs I am applying for. His brow furrows for a moment as he wipes a streak of sweat from his face, and he tells me that try as he might, he just can’t picture me working in any of those places.

“Are you sure it’s really what you want to be doing, Love?” he asks me gently.
I give this a little thought as I sit on the sunny wall, feeling the warmth on my bottom, and it crosses my mind that I don’t remember either Mother or Father ever asking me that question.

10 July

It’s the usual sort of Saturday in the Matthews household. My brother is propped up on his elbows watching Multi Coloured Swap Shop, Father is snoring on the sofa, and Mother is queuing up with a bucket at the standpipe that has miraculously appeared overnight in the middle of our street.

And once again, I’m sitting at the dining room table in abject misery, with a local newspaper propped up in front of me. As more job applications pile up beside me, I’m thinking about what Mr Armstrong has asked me, and to be honest, I’m not actually convinced that I really do want to work in any of these places. But I push the doubts to the back of my mind and carry on with the task in hand.
After all, college was fun. So work will be fun too.

20 July

Mother has bristled up the stairs and into my bedroom brandishing an envelope that she has already opened. Nothing like opening your own post!

“You’ve an interview in two days time at the local bank.”

Oh joy. I groan and bury my head under the pillow. I’m sixteen years old. And I’m far too young to go out to work.

23 July

The interview day has dawned, and the butterflies are swooping and diving inside my tummy. I don’t even know what a girl should actually wear for her first interview. So after several minutes of rummaging in my wardrobe I pick out my best bell bottomed trousers and a bright pink jumper and lay them expectantly on my bed.

Of course, I have a sneaky feeling that this may be an exercise in optimism - I’m well aware it’s not my decision what I should wear. Oh no. Not in this house.
Surveying the clothes laid out before me, I am in the process of adding a nice pink belt to the ensemble when I hear familiar heavy footsteps tread up the stairs to my bedroom.

Four hours later, and wearing an ancient blouse with a floppy bow, a drab grey skirt and a deep scowl, I find myself at the local bank, sitting in front of a small man who looks about ninety-eight. I’m trying not to be nervous, but it’s pretty difficult. It becomes almost impossible however, when I notice that unfortunately for me (and actually, not too fortunately for him either) he has a glass eye.

I forage around in my brain for information I was given at college about interviews. “Make eye contact,” they said. Yes, well that’s all very well... but which eye?

Well...obviously not the one I have been concentrating on, as I have suddenly found myself looking out of the window at a very nice tree.
“ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION?” he barks at me.

I jump out of my skin and try and regain my composure. But the interview appears to be over. Feeling somewhat flustered, I open the wrong door on the way out, and jump out of my skin for a second time, as I find myself staring at a sea of unfamiliar faces, all registering some surprise at my unannounced entrance.
Anyway, the man said they said they would let me know...

© Jan Jack 2006