My new life couldn't have varied more from the
old had I taken up lion-taming. Having been housed by my bemused future
mother-in-law, I'd swiftly scoured the Evening Standard jobs section and within
days, had joined William Hill, the large betting company in the City, which
then, as now, paid out on sports winnings. On day one as Pools Clerk, my new
title, I was met and escorted to a large room full of tables and chairs to
become the eighth woman alongside seven others. The work was bafflingly
non-skilled and having been told that speed was essential, particularly when
the 'payout' was large, I soon caught on. Briefly, it comprised of opening and
sorting piles of post from piles of mailbags, each envelope containing a pools
coupon and one or more postal orders, the value of which covered the number of
'lines' submitted. Having stamped and checked the coupons - retaining all
winners to be paid out later - we'd sit speculating on how to spend their cash
(in those days a £75,000 win was the maximum). It seemed unbelievable that such
hassle-free work warranted a wage-packet. Full of chat, fuelled by gossip and
smoke (almost everyone did) we worked fast and within weeks I knew what seemed
like every engrossing detail of my co-workers existence, each day bringing
forth yet more riveting information.
At that time, the girls were all native-born
Londoners, bar two; beautiful, blonde, Birgitte, from a small town in Germany -
the fastest, neatest worker on the floor - and Thelma, a quick-witted
Mancunian, renown not only for her truly phenomenal consumption of chips but
also for being first with the filthiest of jokes, the delivery of which could,
as a stand-up, have kept her in luxury for life. Soon, having realised that my
initial quiet demeanor was down to shyness, as opposed to 'We thought you was stuck-up'
they began quizzing me about my former life with a daily 'Any news from home
then?' As the baby of the group, I was well looked after and at lunchtimes,
hauled off to Fred's Cafe, in City Road, for 'Egg and double chips, two slices
and a tea, please' before moving on to Doreen's.
What a shop. Always friendly and packed with
the latest fashions; a small deposit
secured any garment. 'Quality" barely featured on a weekly wage of £6:00
(overtime paid extra but cropped up only two or three times a month) but who
cared? Any overtime was useful as G. and I were saving hard - a new experience
for us both - and trying to spend wisely. Ignoring the constant echo of
Mother's voice and the phrase 'Cheap tat' wasn't easy.
A few weeks after joining W.H. I arrived one
Monday morning to find larger than usual stacks of mailbags piled everywhere,
unopened. Two or three of the older women were circuiting each table in turn,
instructing everyone to 'Leave the bags. We're on strike.' A strike; a real
strike. I felt like a character in a film as everyone sat around smoking and
chatting, debating if and when there would be a settlement, murmuring 'Let the
buggers sweat. You wait, they'll have to come round in the end.' The problem
was overtime rates, not exactly generous at
£1:50 for a Saturday, 9:00-5:30 and, £2:50 for the same hours on a
Sunday - although it would never have occurred to me to have made such a stand.
Throughout the morning, management appeared briefly and intermittently with a
cajoling 'Now come along girls, back to work, if you please' to no effect
whatsoever. By 2pm. they were back, looking seriously worried and stationed at
the top end of the room, pleaded with us 'Please, girls. Please get back to
work'. After two hours when no one had moved, negotiations went up a rung or
two and by 5pm it was all over; although a few stalwarts stayed on to move the
backlog. Such excitement. A totally new world and I loved it.
from SINGING TO THE GOLDFISH by Bev Pettifar
Bu your copy HERE
http://bretwaldabooks.com/book.php?p=155
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