We’re pleased to announce the winner of the April WWWC: Cheryl Williss! Cheryl’s response to the prompt ‘I started a joke’ is a light-hearted tale of misfortune in an elevator. In Cheryl’s winning story, ‘Going Up’, a young woman rushing to a job interview runs into a strange roadblock.
This is the second time that Cheryl has won the WWWC – read her first winning entry, responding to the prompt ‘moving around’, here.
Cheryl has generously opted to donate her $250 voucher to the Fleurieu Peninsula Family History Group, which is incredibly generous of her.
Read Cheryl’s winning entry below.
Going Up
Lift Attendant
A position requiring the services of a
YOUNG LADY
of pleasing manner, confident and capable of meeting the public.
Experience is desirable, but good personality is an
essential requirement.
Uniforms provided.
Rain had been forecast for the evening. No surprises there, with the ANZAC march tomorrow. But already the sky was ominous. I had taken the precaution of carrying my umbrella, although I did find it a nuisance unopened. Once before when I was in the city, I tore a pocket off the coat of a passer-by. Well, it wasn’t me exactly. It was the hooked handle of the brolly in my hand. Just as well I had it with me today though, or I would have been soaked.
By the time the bus reached my destination, the gutters in the streets were overflowing. I thought of the money I had spent yesterday on my appointment at the hair salon, and pulled my hat a little further down my head. As I alighted from the bus, I paused on the bottom step to open my brolly.
‘Get a move-on, lassie. We haven’t got all day.’
I know already. The bus was late, and now I was too. I did as I was told and took another step, only to land my feet in the gutter. Surely the driver could have parked a little closer. Worse, the heel of my right shoe had caught in a grate, and my foot had slipped straight out of it. I turned back to retrieve the shoe while my fellow bus commuters tut-tutted their way around me.
As I placed my (wet) stockinged foot into my (also wet) shoe, I noticed that a ladder had run in the sole of my stocking and was now advancing ominously up the back of my leg. If only I had brought my nail polish with me, I could have used it to stem the flow.
I really wanted this job, needed it. I was fired from my last job for listening in. I didn’t mean to. Three minutes, are you extending? How many times had I said that in the last six months? Worse, it invaded my dreams and woke me up at night. Three minutes, are you extending? Three minutes, are you extending?
But this time the caller ignored me and I had to repeat myself. Three minutes, are you extending? And the caller said – well, I am unable to repeat what he said, because I am a lady. But this caller was no gentleman and I felt bound to tell him so. An hour later, I was hauled into Miss Lane’s office and fired on the spot. I did my best to explain the circumstances but, ‘Rules are rules, young lady’.
According to the advertisement for the lift attendant position, experience was ‘desirable’, but a good personality was ‘essential’. I had with me a character reference from my Church minister. ‘Betty always wears a smile on her face.’ That might help.
Definitely no smile on my face this morning. With my opened brolly firmly in place above my hat, I pushed my way onto the crowded footpath and made haste for the department store. Now, the rain was bucketing down. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed a flash of lightning, which was instantly followed by a bellow of thunder. I was surprised how many people were in town on a day like today. Surely they were not all heading for job interviews.
I had only three minutes left until my scheduled appointment, so I had no time to buy new stockings, or even go to the powder room for that matter. I reached into the bottom of my handbag for my compact, and checked my reflection in its mirror – leaving me feeling even more miserable. I had been instructed to attend an interview at the office of one Mr Higgins, located on the top floor. I raced to the lift, arriving just as the door was closing. In my haste I skidded on my wet shoes, straight into the arms of a well-dressed man in the centre front row. He had a bulbous red nose, and a balding pate which he was trying to disguise with a combover. I smelt Chesterfields. That was the brand my brother smoked.
‘Ease up my dear, I am a married man!’ The lift crowd chuckled. Sigh.
Dressed impeccably in her starched uniform and as unflappable as ever, the lift attendant operated the lever that drove us on and upwards. I imagined myself as her – nails perfectly manicured, hair permed, straight seams up the back of my stockings, not a ladder in sight.
‘Going up. First floor, haberdashery, ladies’ lingerie and underwear.’ The door opened and we all waited patiently while three women got out and two came in.
‘Are we there yet?’ said a small voice at the back. ‘Two more floors to go, Donald.’ The toys, then.
But as we rose towards the next floor, there was a sudden jolt. We all lurched forward. Another jolt, and for a moment the lights flickered. Just as the woman directly behind me screamed into my ear, the lift came to a halt.
But the lift attendant stayed in control. ‘Everyone, remain calm. I’m sure we’ll be back on our way in no time.’
‘Are we there yet?’ The little boy again.
‘Not quite, Donald.’
A man in the back row started to sniffle. ‘I can’t handle enclosed spaces. It was the war, you see.’ I felt for him. My brother had been a prisoner of war in Malaya and came home a walking skeleton. What little he told me was shattering. Now I considered offering to trade places with this man. He might feel better in the front row.
‘Please calm down, sir. You’ll upset my little boy.’
Right on cue, little Donald began to wail. ‘I need to pee!’
We all do, little boy, we all do. I decided to stay where I was – a wise decision as it happened. Donald jiggled up and down. ‘I need to do pee-pee!’ He was right. A steady stream proceeded to trickle down his legs, leaving his shoes as wet as mine. I felt for the person next to him.
The minutes ticked by. Somebody started to pray. Another bout of sniffling in the back row. Then, horror of horrors, a malodour permeated my nostrils. I glanced across at the lift attendant. She looked mortified, although I sensed – pun not intended – she was innocent of the crime. She did not look the type to have a meaty breakfast. More of the simple porridge variety, like me. I couldn’t resist a peek at the man on my right. He pulled a funny face and offered a mischievous wink. He was a porridge person too. I checked the married man on my left. A rash the same shade as his nose had crept up from the collar of his shirt, rather like the ladder in my stocking earlier on. In an effort to deflect attention from himself, he looked at the person on his left, who thought best to look back over his shoulder, and so on until there was no one left to stare at but the poor child.
More minutes passed.
‘Are we there yet?’
‘No.’
I considered what I would do in the lift attendant’s position. I started a joke, something I had heard on the wireless recently. ‘Knock, knock.’ A collection of groans proceeded.
‘Go on. Knock, knock.’
Tap, tap. ‘Who’s there?’
Hold on a minute. The question had come from outside the lift, somewhere above us.
‘Ten of us in here, including Mr. Higgins,’ yelled the lift attendant, ‘and a small child.’ And, in afterthought, ‘He needed to pee!’
Mr Higgins? I glanced at my watch. I was due to meet Mr Higgins 23 minutes ago. The married man checked his watch too. ‘It’s about time you boys got here. I had an appointment scheduled for 23 minutes ago.’
Three more minutes, one more jolt and we reached the second floor. The doors mercifully cranked open to a waiting band of merry workmen.
‘Perhaps we should all get off here,’ suggested Mr Higgins. The lift attendant was the first to oblige, then promptly burst into tears. I felt for her too.
After spending a half hour in the lift with Mr Higgins, I knew this job was not for me. But I chose to be optimistic. After all, we were now in the 50s, and the economy was picking up again. There were plenty of positions vacant for single women. Perhaps I could be a typiste. As I headed for the stairs that took me back to the ground floor and out of the building, I resolved to check the afternoon’s News. After all, my typing speed was not too bad. I just needed to match it with accuracy.
About the author
Cheryl Williss grew up in Adelaide’s beachside suburb of Brighton. She is sixth-generation South Australian with several families arriving in the first three years of colonial settlement. Cheryl has long held a keen interest in South Australia’s social history, particularly women’s history and the untold stories. Her contributions to the biographical HerStory project appear on the websites SA History Hub and Adelaidia, and she is the current editor of the quarterly newsletter of the Kangaroo Island Pioneers Association.
Cheryl has three books published with Wakefield Press: The Pioneers Association of South Australia, Miss Marryat’s Circle and Then Tina Met Will.