check that the fire had been doused, Emma hurried out, running down the stairs with her heart full of hope as she headed for the nearest row of shops.
Later that day, Emma was trudging to the market, footsore and near to tears. When she thought about the reception she’d received, her cheeks reddened with humiliation. She’d gone into a dress shop in Falcon Road first, her eyes lighting up when she saw the lovely garments hanging on rails. There were pretty pastel dresses, nipped in at the waist with matching belts, and she itched to touch them, to feel the material, but had resisted, going up to the counter wide-eyed with eagerness to ask if they had any vacancies.
‘Miss Fisher,’ the young and very smart girl behind the counter had called.
‘Yes, can I help you?’ a slim, middle-aged and sophisticated woman asked as she came out from a back room.
‘I…I’m looking for work,’ Emma stammered.
‘I’m sorry, but we already have a cleaner.’
In her innocence, Emma had smiled, ‘Oh, no, I haven’t come for a cleaning job. I’d like to work in the shop.’
‘You must be joking,’ Miss Fisher said, eyebrows rising haughtily as she eyed Emma up and down. ‘We have very high standards here, and I could hardly offer you employment looking like that.’
Emma had seen the smirk on the young sales assistant’s face, and flushed, but, fighting to hide her humiliation, she’d kept her head up. ‘Fine, I wouldn’t want to work here anyway.’ And on that note she’d turned on her heels, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Blimey, what a couple of snobs, Emma decided as she’d walked away, refusing to let this encounter stop her. Yet by the time she had tried a few other garment shops the penny had well and truly dropped. Compared to all the sales assistants’ attire, her clothes looked awful, scruffy. No wonder they wouldn’t employ her. She’d tried a grocer, a baker, a haberdashery shop, but she’d received the same reception time and again.
The colourful stalls failed to lift Emma’s spirits as she reached the market. It was buzzing with noise and several traders raised their hands to wave at her.
‘Watcha, gorgeous,’ called one. ‘If I wasn’t a married man I’d come out from behind me stall to give you a smacker.’
Emma forced a smile, but it failed to reach her eyes. She didn’t look gorgeous. She looked a mess.
‘What’s up, Em?’ Dick asked as she approached his stall. ‘You look a bit down in the mouth.’
‘I’m too scruffy to get a job in a shop,’ she told him.
‘You look fine to me.’
‘Don’t look so downhearted, girl,’ Charlie, the stall-holder, consoled, and, holding out a mug, he added, ‘Here, you can have me tea. It’ll buck you up no end.’
Emma gratefully took the mug, the strong tea tasting like nectar as she gulped it down. It did make her feel better, invigorated, but she still had no idea where to try next for a job. ‘Thanks, Charlie,’ she said, handing him the empty mug.
Charlie Roper was a nice man, but showing his age now, his gnarled fingers gripping the mug. ‘Try the factories, love. There’s Tate and Lyle’s round the corner, for a start.’
She lowered her eyes. She didn’t want to work in a factory, but there didn’t seem to be any choice. ‘Yes, I’ll do that.’
As customers approached the stall, she called a quick goodbye before moving away.
At four o’clock, Emma was on her way home, her cheeks burning at the memories. Even the factories had turned her down, saying there weren’t any vacancies for unskilled workers, but at least this time she believed them, believed that her appearance hadn’t made any difference. She’d been led through countless factory floors to foremen’s offices, seen women working on machines, their hair in turbans and clothes covered by overalls. Sometimes the noise was deafening and she wondered how they put up with it, but by this time she would have taken anything.
Emma was still brooding when she finally reached her street. It was treeless, grey and dingy, but she was used to the scenery. A few children were playing marbles in the gutter, and a couple of little girls were arguing over a skipping rope made from an old clothes line. Emma hardly noticed. She went into the dilapidated house where she lived and climbed the stairs wearily to the attic.
As she walked into the room the children clambered around her. ‘Did you get a job, Em?’ ‘Where will you be working?’ ‘Will you be earning lots of money?’
Impatiently brushing them aside, Emma looked around and her temper flared. ‘Look at the state of this place. You were supposed to do your jobs, but this room hasn’t been touched.’
‘We’ve only been home for five minutes, Em,’ Luke said. ‘We were just about to start.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, love,’ Emma cried as she flopped onto a chair. ‘I shouldn’t be taking it out on you, but I’ve been walking for hours.’ She pushed off her shoes, massaging her aching feet.
‘Did you get a job?’ Susan asked again.
Emma tried to sound more assured than she felt. ‘No, not yet, but don’t worry, I’ll try again tomorrow.’
‘Come on, you lot,’ Luke said, sounding older than his years. ‘Let’s get our jobs done. Emma’s worn out and needs a rest.’
The tears broke then. Oh, Luke was such a good boy, so thoughtful.
He rushed to her side and his arm snaked around her shoulder. ‘What’s up, Em? Do you want me to get Alice?’
‘No, I’ll be all right. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’ They were all looking at her worriedly and she fought to pull herself together. ‘Go on then, get on with your jobs,’ she urged, pleased when they all did her bidding. She had told them she’d try for work again tomorrow, and she’d do just that. But where?
After trudging around Fulham the following day, Emma had paused on Wandsworth Bridge on her way home, staring down into the grey, murky water of the River Thames as a coal barge passed below. It was hopeless, nobody wanted to employ her, and she had hated telling the kids that she still hadn’t found work. It was her appearance, she was sure of it, especially when even an ironmonger had given her the cold shoulder.
Now it was ten o’clock on Friday morning, but instead of going out to look for work again, she was slumped on a stool at home. Her father was growing impatient, telling her to look harder, but then the door was flung open as James rushed into the room.
‘Alice sent me up. She wants to see you.’
Emma forced a smile as she rose to her feet. James looked lovely in his new clothes. He was wearing grey shorts that just reached his knees, a pristine white shirt, and he even had a pair of little slippers on his feet. She may have had doubts about the two youngest living with Alice, but seeing how well James looked, any lingering reservations were dispelled.
‘What does Alice want?’
‘I dunno. She just said to tell you that the kettle’s on.’
A cup of tea, Emma thought, appreciating the woman’s kindness. With James in the lead she went downstairs.
‘Blimey, you look a bit fed up, love. What’s the matter?’ Alice said as she walked in.
‘I’ve been looking for a job, but nobody wants to take me on. I look too scruffy to work in a shop and the factories haven’t any vacancies.’
‘You’re such a pretty girl and we can spruce you up to look like a princess, more than fit to work in a shop. Come on, get this cup of tea down you and then we’ll start with your hair.’