A Fickle Wind. Elizabeth Bourne

class count was taken for home and school lunches, it was off by one. Much consternation ensued until I volunteered that I wasn’t on either list. Even more consternation as to why. I explained my case and said that I would like to bring my lunch. Out of the question! I countered with the idea of eating more on the breaks and skipping lunch altogether. They looked flabbergasted.

      I’m sure a staff conference followed with concern as to what would happen if it became public knowledge that they were denying a child her lunch. The senior mistress called me in to her office several days later with their mandate: I would be allowed to bring my lunch but would have to eat it in the headmaster’s office every day! In that facility, he was king. He sailed through the corridors, black robe flowing, with people almost genuflecting as he passed.

      Much to the senior mistress’s horror, I agreed! And that’s what happened. Stella was panicked. How could I do that? She was terrified of the man! So, for the rest of that term, I sat outside his office every day until his lunch was served on a tray, and then I was admitted to sit on a chair in the corner and eat. He glared at me over his glasses when I entered and then proceeded to ignore me until we were both finished and I was dismissed. After a while, he broke the ice, but he soon gave up on me when he heard I had no plans to go to university. At the beginning of the following term, there was an announcement that anyone who wished to do so could bring lunch from home. To say I was pleased would be an understatement!

      The second recollection, on which I have reflected many times, was actually just a class discussion. It was at a time in Britain when many families were emigrating to the colonies, particularly to Australia, where for ten pounds one was given passage on a ship with the proviso that one stayed for two years. The government was betting that such a stay would be for a lifetime, as it invariably was. Britain was still not doing well economically; many men who had returned from the war were still out of work. Women had entered the workforce to help with the war effort and were reluctant to return to their previous status. They had acquired their independence and their own paychecks and weren’t about to give them up. Could this have been the seeds of the women’s liberation movement? I think perhaps so. Anyway, the colonies needed the manpower and could use some of the overflow.

      We were a class of about forty children. The teacher decided to poll the class. First question: Would we ever want to emigrate to one of the colonies? Second: If we had decided to do so and our parents objected, would we still go? With little thought, the majority of the class said no to the first question. The 10 percent who said yes to that question said no if the second question came into play. I was the sole dissenter. I said yes to both. I recall thinking it was extraordinary. I concluded my mother’s dictate that I stand on my own two feet was working—actually to her detriment later. Or was that dictate not meant to include her? I think not!

      Learning shorthand and typing was my “career” choice. Stella and I had decided to be secretaries and labored our way through our lessons together until high school graduation, when we nervously started the interview process for our first jobs. What if we couldn’t read back the letter they dictated? What if we couldn’t spell some of the words? What if we didn’t look right or speak right? Or just what if…?

      Actually, Stella’s first interview was a disaster, at least according to her, and she immediately changed her mind about her career. They dictated and she typed back a fairly long letter, but when she produced it, she had put the carbon paper in the wrong way, and the imprint was on the back of the original, with nothing on the copy. She was mortified and decided then and there that secretarial work was not for her. She interviewed at a bank and learned how to operate a National Cash Register—very boring work—which she did for the remainder of her working years. That was so unfortunate, as she was, in fact, a better student than I at shorthand, and she had often helped me.

       Chapter Four

      It wasn’t a great job, but it was the only one offered, so I took it. It was with Barclays Bank, and I was to be the mail girl with the promise that I could, from time to time, fill in for one of the shorthand typists. My mother had thought that the office of one of the local factories would be a better place for me to work, as I wouldn’t have to spend a quarter of my paycheck on transportation costs and add two travel hours to my day. But London was so much more appealing.

      The location was in the financial district, not in the West End where all the great shops were. Nonetheless, it was a happening place, and I felt as though I were making a good start! None of the other girls was welcoming or friendly. Funny how people are sometimes, especially at that time in England. It was almost as if they needed to protect their territory. From what or whom, I wondered, as I was not really much of a threat. But as is the case with most things, if you bide your time, don’t make waves, and go about your own business, people come around, and they did. And once I acclimated, things were pretty easy.

      I started to worry that I would lose my hard-earned skills unless someone started to dictate a letter to me soon. On the other hand, I was so nervous when someone actually did, I enrolled in an evening course to make sure I didn’t forget everything I had learned. It was a get-your-feet-wet kind of job, and at least I would have more confidence for the next one. It took about a year for me to move on, and when I did, I soon found I wanted to run for cover back to Barclays!

      I joined a shipping company, and I was expected to sit for an hour or more per session taking shorthand and then produce perfect letters to go out in the next day’s mail. At the end of my first session, I realized that I couldn’t read even one of the letters through in its entirety. I was panicked. Fortunately, it was late afternoon, so I left, shorthand notepad hidden in my bag, to enlist my parents’ help and sweat over it all evening. My parents sat and worried with me, but since they didn’t know a bill of lading from a plate of fish-and-chips, there was not much help there. So, I would have to face the consequences the next morning and tender my resignation.

      I arrived at the office fully intending to do this. Fortunately for me, I was seated next to a very nice, welcoming girl named Marion. She smilingly asked how I was, and I replied that I wasn’t great. I explained that I should have to resign and gave my reason. She offered to go over my shorthand notes with me to see if she could read any of the areas where I was having problems. She was able to read everything! We both used Pitman shorthand. My outlines were correct; it was my unfamiliarity with the shipping terms that had confounded me. So I stayed, became skilled at my craft, and made one of my very best friends for life!

      Fifty years later, Marion and I still communicate frequently, have a wonderful understanding of each other, share all our trials and tribulations as well as our joys and sorrows, and have lovingly supported each other through it all. Shipping terms have made very little difference in my life, but the woman who helped me learn them surely has.

      I want to digress to tell you a rather amazing story along similar lines. Stella had a sister two years younger than she named Monica. She had attended the same high school as we attended, so I knew her quite well. She was very bright, vibrant, funny, insightful, and a bit of a rebel. If she didn’t think something was right, she had no hesitation in so stating. She actually walked out of school a few months before graduation, as she decided she’d had enough of the rules and would be better off out of there. She had several jobs before the one where this incident took place.

      In this particular situation, she was the assistant to the assistant of the managing director, who was a somewhat intimidating, daunting figure. Monica had listed on her resume that she knew shorthand; she did not say she was proficient, but they obviously assumed she was. She was not called upon to use it until her boss went on vacation. Late one Friday afternoon, the managing director called her in to take down some letters. She was terrified. She sat down with her notebook, and he proceeded to unrelentingly dictate. She gave up even trying, didn’t stop him, and just started to scribble on the pad, emulating outlines that could be interpreted from his side of the desk as shorthand. He concluded many letters later and said he would like this to be her first project on Monday morning. She left in a total daze.

      She had a terrible weekend and was prepared to be fired on Monday morning when she would have to admit her inadequacy. She was at her desk early, and the senior vice president approached and asked