were inadmissible, even in summer. ‘No one dared defy Auntie’s edict.’ Phyllis decided to give Silktona a try. Applying the creamevenly turned out to be a laborious procedure, as was drawing in the seams and clocks, but in the end she felt proud of the result – ‘the illusion was completely convincing.’ Unfortunately, she couldn’t resist letting a couple of her fellow clerks into the secret, and soon the rumour that ‘Miss Noble was not wearing stockings’ was all over the bank. Her legs became the irresistible focus of the male employees, who followed her, practically on hands and knees, gawping at the backs of her calves. Despite this, Auntie and the authorities caved in, and ‘leggy nudity’ was permitted, provided it was discreet.
For Helen Forrester in Liverpool, a deadlock over stockings was to prove far more intractable, and also exposed the appallingly sexist standards of the day. Heartbroken at the loss of her fiancé, Helen had struggled on hungry, downcast and browbeaten through the winter of 1940–41, still working for a pittance at the charity in Bootle. The first glimmer of hope for her came in March 1941, when she was interviewed for a post as a clerk in the Wages Department of the Petroleum Board, a consortium of fuel companies (she was appointed, she later discovered, because Mr Fox, the pudgy, pasty installation manager, only ever picked pretty girls with nice legs). As Helen started her new job she felt a cloud begin to lift. The other girls were friendly, and the pay was £2 7s 6d a week; she bought a pair of much-needed new shoes with high heels, with enough left over for some morale-boosting dentistry – for these were still the days when the poor paid a high price for toothache. Then in the first week of May Liverpool was mercilessly bombed, with over 1,700 people killed and 76,000 left homeless. Without warning, Helen’s mother decided to move the family away from the blitzed area to a damp bungalow in the suburb of Moreton on the other side of the Mersey, leaving her – after fares were paid – with subsistence money. She was back where she started. It was at this point that the Stocking War broke out.
Quite simply, Helen and her workmates could not afford stockings, so they went bare-legged. Helen would coat her legs with a solution of tinted wash, cheaper than make-up, which proved adequate, though in cold weather the skin of her legs got badly chapped, and she had to suffer the ribald remarks made by the male staff at the Petroleum Board. For some time the girls’ stockingless condition went unnoticed by the unpleasant Mr Fox; his secretary, Miss Hughes, was always immaculate in lisle. But one day an order wasissued. This indecency must end. The female employees were to cover their legs forthwith. Next morning two of the girls turned up in slacks. Outraged, Mr Fox retaliated by calling them into his office and threatening them with dismissal, from where they emerged in tears. Something about this injustice emboldened Helen. All her life she had been bullied at home; now here were the bullies again, this time taking over the office. ‘Let’s talk to Miss Hughes,’ she suggested.
Miss Hughes couldn’t advise them, however, she bravely promised to speak to Mr Fox. But here she hit a wall.
Written in stone, the edict came down once more. All ladies on the staff would in future wear stockings.
Back they went to Miss Hughes, this time with a stronger card in their hand. Trembling at her own audacity, Helen explained that, if the order was enforced, they would all have to resign, reserved occupations or no reserved occupations, and they would do so even if it meant signing up to the ATS. At least there they would be provided with stockings, however woolly and awful. Reluctantly, Miss Hughes agreed to try again, and returned saying that Mr Fox would see them in his office the next morning.
Helen felt ‘caught between male pigheadedness and dire necessity’. She agreed to
For Helen Forrester in Liverpool, a deadlock over stockings was to prove far more intractable, and also exposed the appallingly sexist standards of the day. Heartbroken at the loss of her fiancé, Helen had struggled on hungry, downcast and browbeaten through the winter of 1940–41, still working for a pittance at the charity in Bootle. The first glimmer of hope for her came in March 1941, when she was interviewed for a post as a clerk in the Wages Department of the Petroleum Board, a consortium of fuel companies (she was appointed, she later discovered, because Mr Fox, the pudgy, pasty installation manager, only ever picked pretty girls with nice legs). As Helen started her new job she felt a cloud begin to lift. The other girls were friendly, and the pay was £2 7s 6d a week; she bought a pair of much-needed new shoes with high heels, with enough left over for some morale-boosting dentistry – for these were still the days when the poor paid a high price for toothache. Then in the first week of May Liverpool was mercilessly bombed, with over 1,700 people killed and 76,000 left homeless. Without warning, Helen’s mother decided to move the family away from the blitzed area to a damp bungalow in the suburb of Moreton on the other side of the Mersey, leaving her – after fares were paid – with subsistence money. She was back where she started. It was at this point that the Stocking War broke out.
Quite simply, Helen and her workmates could not afford stockings, so they went bare-legged. Helen would coat her legs with a solution of tinted wash, cheaper than make-up, which proved adequate, though in cold weather the skin of her legs got badly chapped, and she had to suffer the ribald remarks made by the male staff at the Petroleum Board. For some time the girls’ stockingless condition went unnoticed by the unpleasant Mr Fox; his secretary, Miss Hughes, was always immaculate in lisle. But one day an order wasissued. This indecency must end. The female employees were to cover their legs forthwith. Next morning two of the girls turned up in slacks. Outraged, Mr Fox retaliated by calling them into his office and threatening them with dismissal, from where they emerged in tears. Something about this injustice emboldened Helen. All her life she had been bullied at home; now here were the bullies again, this time taking over the office. ‘Let’s talk to Miss Hughes,’ she suggested.
Miss Hughes couldn’t advise them, however, she bravely promised to speak to Mr Fox. But here she hit a wall.
Written in stone, the edict came down once more. All ladies on the staff would in future wear stockings.
Back they went to Miss Hughes, this time with a stronger card in their hand. Trembling at her own audacity, Helen explained that, if the order was enforced, they would all have to resign, reserved occupations or no reserved occupations, and they would do so even if it meant signing up to the ATS. At least there they would be provided with stockings, however woolly and awful. Reluctantly, Miss Hughes agreed to try again, and returned saying that Mr Fox would see them in his office the next morning.
Helen felt ‘caught between male pigheadedness and dire necessity’. She agreed to
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