Be Less Panda

Chapter 1 - Devon, February 2020

Nancy closed the door to her study and sat down in her chair. She put the envelope on the desk in front of her and took a deep breath to steady herself. She hadn’t seen that neat handwriting for over 50 years, and she’d never expected to see it again.

She picked up the envelope again and sniffed it. It smelled of paper. Did you expect it to smell of him, you old fool? No point looking at it, Nancy Smith. Open it!

Smith. Funny how her inner voice admonished her using her maiden name. She’d been a Farnham for how long? 49 years. She and Xander would be celebrating their golden wedding anniversary next year if he hadn’t had that stupid heart attack. Not that it was much of a marriage. He’d probably been faithful to her for a year at most. But she knew all about his flirtatious ways with women before she married him. After all, he’d used his charms to get her into bed with him as well. She should never have marched into that register office and said, ‘I will’. But then, if she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have Nigel and Mark. And after all that funny business in Paris, at least becoming Mrs Farnham had given her an air of respectability.

Stop procrastinating! She put the envelope back on the desk while she searched in the top drawer for her father’s old letter opener. If this letter was from the person she suspected it was from, it deserved to be opened neatly. She finally found the miniature silver sword with Joan of Arc clasping the handle at the top. It had been hiding behind a large roll of parcel tape at the back of the drawer. Her father had probably used it all those years ago to open the letter she sent him saying she wouldn’t be coming back home.

She carefully inserted the tip of the blade into the small gap at the top corner of the envelope, slowly eased it under the flap, and then angled it away from herself, quickly pushing it away from the envelope. It made a satisfying tearing sound as it cut through the first half of the flap. She repeated the movement to complete the job. She gulped. It was open now.

Nancy took another deep breath before slipping her fingers inside the envelope and pulling out its contents - a single sheet of good-quality paper, filled with writing in the same hand as the address. She unfolded it and began to read.

CHAPTER 2 - London 1964

‘Happy New Year!’ Olivia shouted in Nancy’s ear as the crowds jostled around them.

‘Happy New Year!’ Nancy shouted back just as a drunken man trying to make his way to Nelson’s column shoved her in the back. ‘Whose idea was this again?’ she laughed.

‘It’s better than being stuck at home with my parents,' Olivia replied as they watched another reveller attempt to climb the Trafalgar Square Christmas Tree. 'I should have stayed in Paris. I bet the celebrations are a lot more civilised there.’

A man clutching a beer bottle staggered up to Nancy. ‘Happy Christmas, darlin’!’

‘I think you’re a week late for that.’ Nancy said, rolling her eyes.

‘Stuck up cow,’ he growled and walked off, managing to spill some of his beer down Nancy’s new coat as he went.

Olivia handed Nancy a handkerchief. ‘Not the best start to 1964.’

‘No,’ Nancy said thoughtfully as she dabbed at the damp patch left by the beer. ‘Let’s hope it improves.’

‘We may as well head back home before things turn nasty.’ Olivia grabbed Nancy’s hand, and they weaved their way through the crowds and onto Pall Mall. ‘The tube’s going to be a nightmare. Let’s walk.’

They headed in the general direction of Chelsea, where Olivia’s parents owned a large townhouse with views over the River Thames.

‘So what’s your New Year’s resolution?’ Olivia asked as soon as the crowds had thinned enough for them to walk side by side.

‘To save enough money to join Patty’s yacht crew.’

‘Has she still got that mad idea of sailing around the world?’

Ever since Olivia and Nancy had first met Patty at school, she’d been hatching plans for ambitious sailing trips.

Nancy was annoyed. ‘It’s not mad at all. Men have been doing it for centuries.’

‘In large sailing ships, not little boats.’

‘Patty’s bought a big ocean-going yacht, nothing like the little ones you’ve watched me manoeuvre around Dashford Bay.’

‘I don’t care how big it is, the only way you’re getting me on a yacht is if it involves a champagne reception with canapés.’

‘I’m sure we’ll get champagne at the end,’ Nancy laughed.

‘After months at sea! You’ll be positively feral by the time you get back to Portsmouth.’

‘We get a few stops en route. It will be an enormous improvement on spending the winter sitting in an office. You’ve got no sense of adventure!’

‘How does that fit in with being groomed to take over the family business?’

‘You really think my father wants me to take over running his beloved factory? He thinks all women are fit for is keeping a nice home and producing babies. I’m allowed to do some secretarial work to keep me out of mischief until a suitable man is willing to marry me, but that’s all. Not that running a factory is my idea of fun.’

‘Manufacturing car headlights not lighting you up, then?’ Olivia grinned.

‘Ha ha!’ Nancy had no desire to spend the rest of her life working at G Smith and Son Ltd. She was only tolerating it now to save enough money to fund her place on Patty’s trip. Her grandfather had set up the business in a small garage in the centre of Coventry in the 1920s, but now her father ran the large sprawling factory it had evolved into. When he retired, there would only be Nancy and her older brother Eddie in line to take control. And Eddie was a budding actor who preferred much more artistic pursuits.

‘Has he given up on Eddie ever taking an interest in manufacturing?’ Olivia asked.

‘I think so. Eddie’s got his sights set on Hollywood. And I don’t mean the one in Birmingham. Car headlights are nowhere near as appealing as film set lights as far as Eddie is concerned. What about you?’

‘I can’t say that I’ve considered car part manufacturing as a career.’

Nancy chuckled. ‘I meant your New Year’s resolution.’

‘I’m not bothering with one of those this year. I'm enjoying life in France. I don’t want that to change for a while.’ Olivia looked thoughtful. ‘If you’re fed up, why don’t you come and live with me?’

‘I’d need a visa or something. And what would I do?’

‘Paint views of the Seine?’

‘You remember what our art teacher used to say to me? “Even Jackson Pollock would consider your creations messy, Nancy.”’

‘Write a book, then. You were much better than me in English Language classes.’

‘And how will that earn me enough money by June?’

‘June? I thought Patty was planning to set sail in September?’

‘She is, but she needs my financial contribution by June, and even if it was September, I’d have barely finished the first draft of a book by then, let alone got a publishing deal. Looks like I’m stuck in Coventry for the time being.’

‘It’s not like you to be this negative.’

‘I’m sorry. The postman delivered a Christmas card from Billy before I left home yesterday.’

‘The Hot Ozzie?’ Olivia grinned. She obviously remembered Nancy’s racy tales of how she’d spent last summer on the North Devon coast. ‘And what did he have to say for himself?’

‘He won’t be able to get over here from Australia again. He’s getting married.’ Nancy tried to hide her disappointment, but Olivia knew her too well.

‘You were expecting him to come back, weren’t you?’

‘I suppose I hoped he would.’ Nancy sighed. Billy, with his cheeky attitude and, let's face it, very fit body, had been the most exciting thing that had happened to her so far. He’d taught her how to surf and a lot more besides. English men, at least the ones in her social circle, were plain dull by comparison.

‘You didn’t fall in love with him, did you?’

‘No.’ Nancy wasn’t so sure about that. ‘He was just fun, that’s all. I feel like I’m stuck in a rut.’

‘So join me in Paris. There are plenty of attractive, eligible men there.’

‘I’m not looking for love. There’s no point if I’m only going to be there for a few months. I don’t need a man holding me back.’

‘We’ll see,’ Olivia said, not looking convinced. ‘You could work in the English bookshop near my apartment. They’re always looking for new staff. Father dearest knows the owner, Madame Dubois. She seems charming whenever I go in there. I’m sure he could pull a few strings to get your paperwork sorted quickly.’

Olivia’s father was a civil servant who did something important in the Foreign Office, which probably explained how Olivia had got a job as a translator at NATO HQ as soon as she’d graduated from Oxford last year.

‘I don’t think my French is good enough. It wasn’t my favourite subject at school. I wouldn’t have got any marks at all if I hadn’t copied your homework,’ Nancy said.

Olivia had always been top of the class. Her regular summer holidays to the Dordogne must have helped. But as there wasn’t much call for speaking French in Devon or Coventry, Nancy doubted she could even manage to introduce herself now.

‘You don’t need to be fluent. You’ll be dealing with customers who can read English. And you’ll be amazed how much you’ll pick up just by being surrounded by French people.’

Nancy and Olivia walked on in silence for a few minutes while Nancy pondered Olivia’s suggestion. It would beat being wolf-whistled at by the men in the press shop whenever she had to walk the length of the factory. And the bookshop job would probably pay as much as her current one, given how little her father thought she was worth. But there was a flaw in the plan.

‘I can’t see my loving, caring papa going for that suggestion,’ she said. ‘Education is wasted on girls, Nancy,’ she added, doing a passable impression of her father in rant mode. He’d quashed any hopes she’d had of going to university, so she very much doubted he’d be up for funding a trip abroad, particularly Paris. His opinion of the French was unrepeatable for reasons he wasn’t prepared to divulge, but he implied it had something to do with the war.

‘Why don’t you tell him that improving your foreign language skills would help the factory’s export department?’ Olivia suggested.

‘But I don’t want to work in the export department. I can’t think of anything worse. They’re not exactly the most dynamic of people. Audrey never smiles and reeks of mothballs. And her manager, Alec, has raging halitosis and no idea that deodorant has been invented, which is rather unfortunate given he only ever wears nylon shirts.’

‘But you wouldn’t have to go back to the export department. Once you’ve escaped the clutches of G Smith & Son, the world’s your oyster. No one will be able to force you to return to the family business.’

Olivia had a point.

‘I’ll think about it,’ Nancy said.

CHAPTER 3

Nancy looked out of the office window across the factory’s grey metal roof towards the electricity pylons that led her gaze to the grey bank of clouds floating over Coventry. Another dull day, which was highly likely to be followed by plenty more. Only one week into 1964, and she was already bored stiff. Could she really stick this out until September? There wasn’t even enough secretarial work to keep her mind occupied this morning.

Her old boss had retired before Christmas, so now she had a new manager to train: Mr Jefferson. He was in his early 30s, and he’d seemed quite personable when they’d been introduced yesterday morning, although he had terrible taste in aftershave, which was unfortunate as he liberally dowsed himself in it. At least she didn’t have to share an office with him. She’d overheard him spending most of yesterday afternoon on the telephone to various suppliers. Based on the way he spoke, he obviously thought a lot of himself. But there was no sign of him this morning, which was odd as he hadn’t had any meetings in his diary.

Nancy looked at the stack of manila folders on the end of her desk. Filing was the most boring part of her job, but she was sick of looking at the large pile of cardboard and paper. She picked up the folders and went over to the row of filing cabinets that lined the back wall of her office. She’d spend fifteen minutes returning them to their proper homes, then reward herself with a cup of tea.

The top folder was labelled “Twist & Co”. She moved over to the end filing cabinet, opened the second drawer down and flicked through the tabs until she found the correct location.

She picked up the brown Manila folder and was just about to slip it into the drawer when she felt a hand on her left buttock. She tensed. The overwhelming smell of Old Spice gave her a big clue as to who the offender was.

‘How about a drink at lunchtime?’ a voice whispered in her ear.

She swung around, hitting Mr Jefferson with the folder and slamming the drawer shut as she leaned against the cabinet. He stepped back in surprise.

‘No need for that, Nancy.’

‘What do you mean, Mr Jefferson?’ she asked in her most innocent voice.

‘There’s no need for the formality either. I’ve told you before you can call me Jim when no one else is around.’

He leaned over her, his right hand pulling her waist close against his body. The smell of stale cigarettes on his breath made her want to wretch.

She wriggled out of his grasp and hurried back to the safety of her desk.

He looked annoyed. ‘I could arrange for you to move into the typing pool. You’d have no privileges there.’

‘I think my father might have something to say about that,’ she snapped back. Though right now, the typing pool was quite appealing. Working with ten other women would mean that Mr Jefferson would be unlikely to corner her alone again. There was a lot to be said for safety in numbers.

He sniggered. ‘And what influence does your father have? Does he own the factory?’ Mr Jefferson’s easy charm had disappeared.

‘Actually, yes.’

It was satisfying watching the patronising smirk disappear from his face and seeing the colour drain from his skin as she added, ‘He is the son in G Smith and Son. I’m sure he’ll be most interested to hear how my day went when we have family dinner this evening.’

Nancy busied herself assembling multiple sheets of paper and carbon paper, tapping them on the desk to align them and slipping them into the typewriter, ready to type a letter, all the time avoiding eye contact with Mr Jefferson.

‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding. There’s no need to mention this to your father,’ he said, quickly walking out of the office.

Nancy sighed. It wouldn’t have been like this if her parents had considered letting her go to Cambridge like her brother. She looked up at the ceiling, visualising walking across a sunlit quadrangle. Too late for that, Nancy. Focus on getting the cash together to pay for your share of Patty’s sailing project. She might even be able to meet up with Billy when they docked in Sydney. She typed the letter while she fantasised about lounging on Bondi Beach with Billy rubbing suntan oil on her back.

‘All work and no play.’ The familiar voice of Nancy’s office neighbour, Bernie, brought Nancy back to reality. ‘I’m going to walk into town at lunchtime. Do you want to join me?’

Bernie was the Works Manager’s secretary. They had met when Bernie had been tasked with looking after Nancy in her first week. She was a couple of years older than Nancy, but they’d hit it off immediately. A lunchtime walk with Bernie would be far more entertaining than eating her cheese and pickle sandwiches alone in the office. ‘You’re on. I’ll be finished in half an hour.’

----

Bernie reappeared at Nancy’s office door five minutes early. ‘Are you ready yet?’ she asked. Judging by her big smile, she was bursting to tell Nancy something good.

Nancy grabbed her coat and handbag. ‘Go on then. What’s your news?’ she asked as they walked down the stairs to the office’s back door.

Bernie looked as excited as a puppy with a new tennis ball being dangled in front of its nose. ‘Trevor asked me to marry him last night.’

Nancy wasn’t surprised. Bernie had been going out with Trevor for well over a year and was besotted with him.

‘And what did you say?’

‘Yes, of course!’ Bernie looked as if Nancy was insane to think she would’ve said anything else.

Nancy had never met Trevor, but Bernie had described him in great detail during the time Nancy had known her. Based on Bernie’s updates, “reliable” and “conventional” were the two adjectives that sprang to mind - not Nancy’s type at all. Though, as Nancy hadn’t had a man in her life since she left Devon last summer, could she even claim to have a type?

‘Did he go down on one knee?’