Tuppence to Tooley Street by Harry Bowling Page B

had an almost irresistible urge to scream some obscenity into the official’s ear but he ignored the temptation and looked back at the posters.
    ‘I see you are unfit for heavy work,’ the man said at last. ‘That makes it rather awkward for me to fit you in.’
    ‘It makes it rather awkward fer me as well,’ Danny said sharply.
    ‘Quite, but I can’t fit you in at the lead mills, and I can’t see where I can send you. Most of the jobs I’ve got to offer are for fit men. Do you see?’
    Danny could see quite clearly, and his temper began to rise. ‘Look, I can’t ’elp it if I’m not A 1. I didn’t ask ter get shot at, an’ I—’
    The official stopped Danny by holding both hands up in front of his chest. ‘You haven’t got a trade, have you, Mr Sutton? You see I’m looking for skilled workers for munition factories, or for people to be trained to work lathes and milling machines. You don’t fall into that category unfortunately.’
    Danny’s eyes focused on the official’s rather bulbous nose and his thick-rimmed spectacles, which made his eyes seem like two large marbles. His long, thin fingers were tapping the paper in front of him in irritation, and Danny noticed the cluster of well-chewed pencils sticking out from a round tin. Suddenly the official grabbed one of the pencils and started to make notes. When he had finished he leaned back in his chair and sucked on the pencil, his eyes staring at his unskilled client.
    Herbert Snelling had interviewed a few of these ex-service types recently, and in his opinion they were an insolent lot. After all, they shouldn’t expect special treatment and, as he had remarked to his colleagues, most of them were probably making heavy weather of their disabilities. A few weeks in the lead mills would have got them back into shape. Sutton looked fit enough to do manual work. It was a pity the Ministry were so tolerant of those types. Everyone had to make sacrifices these days, as he had explained to his wife when she remarked that it was time she had a new coat. It was all so irritating, he mused as he chewed on the pencil.
    Danny was getting more angry. He felt as though the official was expecting him to fall down on his knees and plead for a job with tears in his eyes and with his hands clasped together in anguish, just like in one of those old silent pictures. Danny had other ideas, although he was, too, aware of the consequences. After all, he had come here for a job, not to provoke a magistrate into giving him six months’ hard labour for assault. Danny took a deep breath and sat up straight in his chair. ‘Surely you’ve got somefink ter give us? There’s gotta be plenty o’ jobs about, now that everybody’s gettin’ called up?’
    The official looked at Danny through his thick lenses and reluctantly pulled open the drawer of a small cabinet that sat at his elbow. He hummed tunelessly as he fingered through the small white cards until he found the right one. ‘Here we are, Mr Sutton, here’s something you could do. The Acme Glass Company are looking for glass inspectors. It’s a sitting down job, no hard work.’
    The young cockney’s heart dropped. Bonky Williams had told him all about glass inspectors. He knew that he would not last more than a day at that job and he shook his head. ‘Yer mean ter tell me that’s the only job yer got fer me? What about all those vacancies frew the call-up? That’s a rubbish job, it’s soul-destroyin’. Yer must ’ave somefink else in that box.’
    The official looked at Danny over his glasses. ‘I don’t think you understand. All those jobs you talk about are being filled by women. Yes, women. It releases the men for war-work and the forces, you see. We’ve got vacancies for manual workers, but you are disabled, aren’t you?’
    It was the emphasis placed on the end of the sentence that finally brought Danny to the boil. He got up and put his hands on his hips, his pale face flushed angrily and the