By Catherine O’Dowd
Transcript
As a young seventeen-year-old Irish girl, anxious, yet full of anticipation, I found myself being introduced to the Company’s Secretary, on my first day at work at Charles Skipper and East in Basingstoke. ‘Skippers’, as it was affectionately known, was a printing firm, one of the McCorquodale group.
A strikingly good looking man, with a shock of black hair, Mr Parkinson was jolly and friendly. With an outstretched hand he said, “Ah, and you must be Kathleen, and I hear you come from the capital of Ireland, Liverpool.”
Thoughts raced through my head, “Since when was the capital of Ireland, Liverpool?” but I was nervous and doubting myself. Was there a place in Ireland called Liverpool? Geography was not one of my strengths at school…and I didn’t see the joke at the time!
Also, I wanted to put the records straight, my name was not Kathleen, but I thought better of it, and left it for another day…
My mentor was a young man called Alan. His hobby was ballroom dancing, he competed all over the UK at weekends. I was full of admiration for his talent, especially as I have two left feet, and no rhythm.
Alan introduced me to other staff members, Mr Prendergast, Miss Waller, Mr Wilson and Mr Courtier. All names were totally new to my ears.
Pleasantries dealt with, I was taken to my desk. What was that black phone doing on my desk? I swiftly moved it. I was to be a wages and accounts clerk, surely I didn’t need a phone to do that job! It was 1964, we were not familiar with phones then. I had only used one once, and that was, in a call box where you had to put in the money to make a call, when the money ran out you were cut off, end of conversation.
As Alan went on to explain different aspects of my job, he reached out to reposition the phone, with its long black rope like cord, back on my desk.
You will need to use it, he said, to deal with tax and wage queries. He assured me, most of those queries came in Friday afternoons after the wages had been delivered to the factory. In those days wages were made up by hand, cash was put in brown wage packets together with the employees’ wage payslip.
Part of my induction was a trip to the factory where cheques, and glossy magazines were printed. On entering, the noise from printing press, guillotines and conveyer belts was deafening. I was eager to exit, but thought best to show an interest in the workings of these machines. No ear muffs in those days!
Soon it was lunchtime. There was an exodus to the “Ladies” to renew the Pan stick foundation and do the hair before going to the canteen for lunch. I still dislike the smell of mass produced food…bay leaf and beef stew, and overcooked vegetables.
Afternoon included the introduction to, clock in cards, and a tome explaining trade union entitlements. It was 5 o’clock, the day had flown. My head was scrambled, but I had enjoyed it. Lots to take in.
As I walked through the industrial estate, past Lancing Bagnalls, and Crook’s Laboratories to catch the train to Bramley I started to compose a letter to Mammy and Daddy in my head. It had been three weeks since I had arrived on the mail train from Dun Laoghaire to Holyhead and on to Euston, London. I wanted Daddy to know that my boss thought the Capital of Ireland was Liverpool!…and I wanted mammy to know that I had been called Kathleen, Mammy was particular about her children being called by proper names.
I assured them both I would be fine because I knew they would include me in their prayers after the nightly family rosary.
As I walked the half mile home from the railway station, my thoughts drifted to what I could do to help myself at work. Maybe I would do a correspondence course on bookkeeping. I wanted to prove as an Irish girl, I could do the job well.
A reminder to myself, I must buy some Pan Stick, and hair Lacquer. I might even change my bouffant hairstyle…
Stepping it out I wanted to get home on time to see Ena Sharples in Coronation Street, It was all the rage on the television at the time. Sure, you had to have something to talk about at work the next day.
Some weeks later in response to my letter, Daddy assured me that there was such a large population of Irish emigrants living in Liverpool, that it was known as the Capital of Ireland…I had missed the joke…