by Anne Moore
Remember your first job? When you bring it to mind, do the feelings,
events, people good or otherwise, come flooding back? Maybe it was a
big mistake or the initial step on the ladder of a long and fulfilling
career. Do you feel a fondness for your young and inexperienced self,
setting out on the road to self-sufficiency, or at the very least,
full of hope and pride, in the heady days of the Sixties?
Recently, I was scraping wallpaper, inch by painful inch - stay with
me here! Despite getting a crick in my neck and an attack of sciatica,
it gave me valuable thinking time which I used to review life in
general and mine in particular. I got to laughing about my first
venture into the world of work, and wondering how many people can
relate to it, having shared similar experiences.
I was 14 and receiving a good convent education helped by great
parental sacrifice. As ever in life, there was a big fly in my
ointment - I had no money. What would a young convent girl want with
money, you're asking yourself? My granny always slipped me a half
crown on pension day, my daddy did the same on pay day, great Aunt
Kitty on pension day and Aunt Maggie when she got paid. So with ten
whole shillings a week, by most peoples' reckoning, I was well off!
That was two whole dollars in 1963.
Finally, mother allowed me to go dancing on Saturday nights with my
more sophisticated best friend who had a real job, a secretary at
Short & Harland, famous aircraft manufacturers. A dance lasted from
nine till midnight and cost seven shillings and sixpence, so there
went three of the half crowns in one fell swoop. Nothing left for busfares, make-up, records, a nice pair of dancing shoes and a mineral
- translated for the modern reader, we are talking Coke or Fanta.
The dances meant wonderful live music of Irish showbands, then at the
height of their popularity. A ten or twelve piece band with one or two
lead vocalists. Think 'Blues Brothers' and you have and idea of which
I speak. The youth of Ireland could often be found queueing from eight
in the evening to get through the doors by nine thirty when the Miami
or Royal Showbands played, entrancing with their sparkly suits, big
sound and unlimited energy. Naturally, they expected their followers
to reflect these qualities, so I needed money for the sparkly parts,
being well endowed with big sound and unlimited energy, neither of
which cost anything.
I think, with the dubious wisdom of age, that my mother was very wily.
On one hand, here was the freedom, on the other, no money to avail
myself of it. To be allowed out till after midnight at the age of
fourteen in Belfast was not so dangerous as it might seem today. I am
talking 1963, when being out at any time of day or night did not only
seem safer but actually was. Often, my friend and I would be tripping
home over the Queen's Bridge, desperately hoping that Ken's Kafe had a
few chips left, (that's french fries in the U.S. of A). We would spy a
fella or two going our way, approach them and ask if we could walk
along, finding ourselves escorted home with friendly courtesy, by
complete strangers.
Well, help was at hand. F. W. Woolworths needed 'Saturday girls'. Pay
was as much as fourteen shillings and sixpence at fourteen and rose to
sixteen shillings and ninepence age fifteen! Today, this amounts to
seventy five pence and eighty seven and a half pence. Not even $3!
Such riches, prompting some sensible souls to open savings accounts
for college or university. Not me, I would spend it on pleasure - now!
First I had to get a job there, where
according to my grandad, they sold everything from a needle to an
anchor.
My mother was skeptical, knowing my inability to get out of bed in the
mornings. I was adamant, though, and so I found myself at the staff
entrance, in Pottenger's Entry, of that Aladdin's Cave known as F. W.
Woolworth's. A tasteful facade in those days, dark wood trim to
windows and doors and golden Roman script bearing that famous name. As
with all facades, a darker side existed, embodied in the staff
entrance. At eight a.m. promptly, a portly gentleman opened the staff
door to a crush of young females of all shapes, sizes and tones of
voice.
"Hold yer horses, take it easy now"
he roared, pressing himself against the stair well to avoid being
trampled, or possibly gassed by the fumes of a thousand different
scents from the budget end of the fragrance market. Swinging handbags
also posed no small threat, but the man was nimble and experienced.
No time to think, only to follow the stampede up a narrow concrete
stairway which went on forever, it seemed. Finally, we arrived in a
square hallway. To the right, I saw two office doors, opaque glassed,
with the legend in gold 'Personnel' thereon. To the left, a long
counter ran the length of the room behind which were rows and rows of
shelves with boxes. Some held a handbag. On this counter leaned two
totally disinterested, possibly deaf females in pale jade overalls. I
learned that the boxes were numbered and called pigeon holes and these
two beauties were the keepers of the boxes.
It was all unbelievably noisy, strident and littered with humour and
insults of great wit, the essence of a Belfast gathering. I noticed
girls beginning to queue at the counter. The keepers took their coats
and handbags, issued pins with metal numbers attached and continued to
converse with each other, remaining efficient yet detached. The crowd
quickly became a sea of green, with a few lemon flowers appearing as
overalls were revealed. People then fought their way through the
'plain clothes' element back to the stairway and could be heard
clattering and chattering downwards in an ever decreasing echo of
sound.
Their departure lessened the noise and subdued us to near silence. The
door marked 'Personnel' opened and out strode Miss Ruby Gillis, she of
the pleated navy overall, name badge and clipboard. "Personnel
Manager" declaimed the badge pinned to an impressive chest. She of the
grey curls and impeccable bearing.
"Expectant hush" was now a reality for me, not something I'd read in a
book and rarely ever experienced. She cast a knowing eye (another
thing I'd read about) over us and pointed her pen at certain hopefuls,
selecting about ten girls. To the rest of us she said,
"Come back next week."
I didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. I couldn't go
back to bed, it was just on 9 a.m! I had to go home and face the
sympathetic commiserations at my failure to "get a start". That's
Belfast for getting a job and not a sudden scare. Mixed feelings
accompanied me down the thousands of echoing concrete steps. I had
enjoyed the rush, belonging to that raucous crowd, the expectancy of
getting work and being a Woolies Saturday girl. I experienced the
disappointment of the discarded. A walk round the town centre looking
at things I couldn't afford helped to get it straight in my head. I
prepared an acceptable
presentation for the folks back home, telling it repeatedly to myself
as I ambled back to East Belfast over the Queen's Bridge.
"They had enough girls for now, I've to go back next week for my
interview."
I said it until it sounded like the God's truth to me. If I believed
it, then so would everybody else.
The following Saturday morning I was up and away. Again the portly
person opened the door and stood aside. This time, I shoved myself
forward to the front of the stampede.
The same cast appeared, same order of appearance but now I was at the
front of the hushed, expectant hopefuls. Miss Gillis pointed her pen
at ME! I stood to one side as ordered and one by one, ten girls were
taken into the golden-lettered sanctum of 'Personnel'. I went last,
noticing that people came out clad in a green overall, looking very
smart.
It was my turn and I have never forgotten the kindness of Miss Gillis
that day. Did I mention how fat I was? She sort of interviewed me,
details of home address, school, religion, the latter always had
bearing on a person's ability to do any job in Northern Ireland.
(Tongue in cheek, the backlash sadly came later). Miss Gillis told me
religion was of no importance to her and I was grateful. Finding me an
overall to fit was the problem at hand.
The 'modern' ones for evenly- shaped people had buttons down the front
and a neat little belt.. If they fitted my girth, they tripped me up
and had to be tucked up into the belt, turning me into a fair copy of
a green Michelin man. Miss Gillis had a big cupboard full of overalls
and she finally found one. A handbag keeper then escorted me down to
the shop floor where I was placed on Blades and Haircreams
(toothpaste, toothbrushes, combs and all manner of gentlemens'
grooming artefacts).
At break time I ran up the four flights of steps, through the 'holding
hall' to the canteen. Miss Gillis called me into her office and
produced an old fashioned crossover style green overall, just right
for me. It used to be hers and she had had it shortened for me that
morning. I must take it home each week to wash and not leave it with
the others in case I didn't get it again. I was so touched that I
considered giving up my academic ambitions and dedicating myself to
the service of Woolies for life.
Lucky somebody was kind because an ogre guarded the Blades and Haircream fiercely, as sharp as a packet of Seven O'Clock Blades.
Within the first half hour of my working life, Olive, charge girl and
keeper of the blade cabinet keys, organiser of the toothpaste
pyramids, stick-like and over fifty, put the fear of God into me. Kind
Moya was "second girl". I was just plain Saturday assistant. Olive had
dry orange hair, bravely trying to assert its natural grey origins,
her thin orange lips took pleasure in berating me for stupidity in the
presence of our male customers. Moya assured me that Olive's bark was
worse than her bite, I was not convinced.
That first morning, she pushed me around her small domain, issuing
rules, sliding doors, waving dusters and generally frightening me. The
counter, centre of her universe, was a strong wooden edifice, about
twelve feet long by six feet wide with a display depth of three feet.
We displayed; toothpaste, shaving soap, brushes, plastic pots for
dentures, sticks to stop bleeding from shaving accidents, all
accoutrements for the male of the species. A big metal cash
register resided at either end and we slid past each other in the thin
passage in the middle, meeting our customers' needs with joy and
efficiency - mostly.
The glass shelves at intervals along the counter scared me. These held
pyramids of toothpaste and pots of haircream, which Olive made me
dust. I promise you that one jar of Brylcreem, let alone twentyone
goes a long way when it crashes to the floor. Picking up of broken
glass, mopping of greasy floors, warning customers, is very soul
destroying. Exacerbated by the constant harangue of Olive, I needed
three hours to stop blushing and trembling.
Fortunately Olive was on holiday when I extracted a large tube of
Colgate from the toothpaste pyramid and brought the whole lot down
around innocent passers by. The young male floor walker saw the funny
side and assisted me in rebuilding the artistic display, after he
stopped laughing. And they still didn't sack me!
Oh, it was lovely on that counter, with cheeky young fellas for
customers. In those far off days before bombs, guns and troubles,
Belfast was a courtesy port for every Navy in the world. The glory
days of Harland and Wolff shipyards meant repairs and long stays for
some. Sailors ready for a good time came to stock up on grooming
essentials. The Americans were polite, friendly and blond. The Dutch
were tall, smiling and also blond. The Germans were most proper and
business-like but the French, what charm and flirtatiousness! Days
when the Fleet was in just flew by, any fleet at all.
Six weeks school holidays loomed. The Saturday girls were hoping for
full time work. I wasn't hopeful, my track record for dropping things
and being told off was not good. But I was chosen and could move
counters, a "floater". After two weeks with Moya and no Olive, bliss,
I was sent upstairs to the soap powders and household cleaning goods.
A big mistake - I didn't stop sneezing long enough to serve more than
four customers. I got moved onto Paints and Home Decorating.
It was laid back, as people only painted their houses once a year,
unlike cleaning their teeth or shaving every day. More opportunities
for flirting, discussing colour schemes knowedgeably, spraying samples
about and having long conversations without fear of retribution. There
were two girls and Mr. Howe the Home Man, your Decorating Consultant.
He was a lovely wee man, with badge and white coat. Our counter was at
the top of the stairs and many cheeky young fellas on their way to
placing stink bombs under the staircase, would stop to exchange
pleasantries of the insulting kind. I deferred often to Mr Howe, but
could not understand his purple-faced, fist-waving anger when I asked
him if we sold left handed cups. I only wanted to help the young man
who had enquired. Ten minutes later the penny dropped and I giggled.
Mr. Howe was not amused. I saw no harm in requests for striped paint
or tartan paint but I knew by Mr. Howe's reaction that I'd got it
wrong again. That summer was fun and gave me nearly ?4.00 or call it
$8 a week and a bit of confidence.
Studywise, my examinations were coming up. Passing them meant I kept
my scholarship place, by order of the Northern Ireland Education
Authority. I'd like to say I was sad when tendering my notice to Miss
Ruby Gillis, but our school motto was 'Veritas', so I won't lie. I was
fed up with being bossed about. I got the offer of a rise in pocket
money if I'd study more, so I took it. I had to do the ironing, the
windows, my granny's errands and walk the dog to come by this extra
money. What a lesson in life, all pleasure had to be paid for.
Regarding handing in the resignation, I felt fear and anxiety,
believing I'd be letting down
Woolies and Miss Gillis. I prepared a speech about how important my
education was, how my mammy wanted me to go to the library and study
on a Saturday and how very, very sorry I was. To her credit, Miss
Gillis let me ramble on, then smilingly wished me all the best, saying
I was a good wee worker and she'd be sad to lose me.
Happily I trotted down the thousands of steps to work my last day,
much to the relief of my feet. Thus ended my sojourn at Woolies. Think
of the learning gained there. I knew a bit about decorating, I could
deal efficiently with drunken sailors, jokers, shoplifters, flirts,
etc. and had improved my social and mathematical skills. Not bad for a
year at Woolies! Thank you F. W. Woolworth, I would do it all again.
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