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war effort but a small Fleet Street newspaper – a vacancy for a filing clerk. That had to be easy, surely. Filing things didn’t call for much more brains than gluing boxes together. And working in an office would be a luxury after factory work. She nipped quickly home to get her school report before returning to the bus stop.
    Folding the newspaper at the page the advertisement was on, she glanced up in time to see a bus going in the direction of the firm. Newspaper tucked under her arm, handbag held firmly, hobble skirt only slightly impeding her, she joined the queue of those boarding it, thankful she’d not had to wait for ages; the cold brisk wind threatened snow and played with the upturned brim of her hat.
    Standing outside the tall building scanning the several firms marked on the front of the building, she felt her heart sink. What made her think herself capable of office work? Even so, she summoned enough courage to step into the cage of a lift to the second floor.
    Knocking lightly, she waited. A girl in a smart, narrow-skirted suit answered, smiled and said, ‘Just come in, dear – no need to knock.’
    Five young women sat on chairs against the wall, each with that tense about-to-be-interviewed look on their face, each clearly dressed in their best, which was so much better than her own clothing. Each obviously with far more intelligence than she imagined herself to have – girls who knew about offices, not factory girls used to standing at some conveyor belt for hours on end for a pittance, girls no doubt with a high school education.
    She’d never gone on to high school despite her excellent marks. ‘We ain’t got that kind of money for uniforms and books and things,’ her father had decreed. ‘Your sisters didn’t, nor your brothers. Wastin’ time for another couple of years when you could be earning honest money. Makin’ out you’re posh when you aint.’
    So she’d never been given that privilege.
    Handed a form to fill in: her name, previous employment, schools she had attended, any additional education she’d had. She took a seat at the end of the queue.
    As the next hour eased along and the first chair was vacated, in turn occupied by another hopeful, her confidence began to fade. Against all those still coming in and those that had been before, what chance did she stand?
    Finally it was her turn. The inner office door opened to disgorge the previous applicant and Connie got up at a signal from the young lady at the desk, who said that Mr Clayton would see her now. She was a little more encouraged by the fact that being quite tall she might look older and more efficient than she felt, as she tried to stop her eyes from watering.
    A man in a grey suit sat behind a desk. He looked somewhat debonair and had a nice smile as he gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk to where he sat.
    â€˜Please, sit down, er …’ He broke off to consult the form. ‘Miss Lovell.’
    Obediently she sat.
    He looked up at her. ‘Are you working now?’
    She nodded.
    â€˜References?’
    She shook her head.
    â€˜A school report?’ He had a nice voice with a certain deep ring to it.
    Pushing the thought aside, she nodded and quickly produced it, glad to have had the forethought to nip back home after she’d seen the advertisement. Now she watched him scan it, her heart thumping fit to burst as she waited. He murmured, ‘Hmm,’ several times, which screamed, ‘Sorry, but we’re looking for only high school or college-educated applicants.’ After a third ‘Hmm,’ he looked up.
    â€˜I see one of your tutors thought highly of your art skills, especially portraits, enough to help you. Have you kept it up?’
    â€˜All the time,’ Connie burst out with more enthusiasm than she had intended. ‘I really love sketching and drawing and painting!’
    He sat looking at her as