The Dollhouse - Fiona Davis Page 0,29

1952

So this was what a hangover felt like.

Darby wanted to curl back in bed and wait for the pounding in her right temple to subside, but that wasn’t what a Katie Gibbs girl did. No, a Katie Gibbs girl gets up and goes to work no matter how ill she might be, knowing that her boss depends on her punctuality. Or at least that’s what the typing teacher said as Darby slunk to her seat five minutes after the other girls had arrived.

“Punctuality and presence. If you’re not there to answer Mr. Blake’s phone, he may miss a very important call, one that the entire organization depends on. Would you want to be the girl who causes a business crisis?” Mrs. Allen peered at Darby through thick-framed glasses, like a scientist staring into a petri dish. “Darby McLaughlin. You are late.”

Darby’s stomach churned. She had never been late a day in high school. As a matter of fact, she’d always arrived early, terrified of standing out.

“I’m sorry. I got lost, but it won’t happen again.”

“You got lost?”

Thankfully, the girl who sat next to Darby raised her hand, and Mrs. Allen was momentarily distracted.

“Yes, Maureen.”

“Mrs. Allen, who is Mr. Blake?”

“Mr. Blake is the name of the first boss I ever had. I learned much from him, so I use him as my teaching tool.” She glared in their direction. “Any other questions?”

“No, ma’am.”

She turned away from Darby and began handing out sample letters. Darby slid hers into the stand at the right of the gray Remington typewriter and wished her eyes weren’t so blurry. She had taken a terrible risk, going out with Esme. No more taking reckless chances. She’d experienced two sides of New York City, the snooty and the subversive, and from now on, her studies would take precedence.

Mrs. Allen turned on the record player and they began typing in time to a slow march. By the end of a couple of months, according to Mrs. Allen, they’d progress to the Ringing Anvil March, typing forty-seven words per minute. Upon completion of the course, they’d be up to fifty-five. The music helped, flowing through Darby like water and making her fingers dance on the keys. At the end of the class, Darby was pleased to be one of the only students whose letter was deemed “mailable.” Her desk mate, the girl named Maureen, had also done well.

As they walked to the next class, Darby tapped her on the arm. She had thin blond hair that looked almost white, and pale blue eyes. A pretty girl, but Darby’s mother would probably have described her as big-boned. “Thank you for distracting Mrs. Allen. I thought she might expel me there and then.”

“Happy to do it. I heard that one girl in her class went to put in a new sheet of paper after she made a mistake, and Mrs. Allen tossed her out on the spot.”

“That’s the last thing I want.”

“It’s only until June, and then you get the advantages of lifetime placement. They’ll find jobs for us that’ll last all the way until we get married.”

“Or die.”

She hadn’t meant for the words to seem so harsh, but Maureen flinched.

Darby was quick to explain. “I don’t mean that we’ll die right away, just that some of us may not get married.”

“I know.” Maureen offered up a pout. “That’s so sad.”

Unfortunately, Mrs. Allen was seated behind the desk of their next class.

“How did she get here so fast?” whispered Maureen in astonishment.

“She probably flew on her broom.”

Maureen giggled, and Darby smiled, too.

Mrs. Allen peered up at the two of them over her glasses. Obviously, a Katie Gibbs girl was not permitted to share a joke with a friend. “Darby, your hair is touching your shoulders. You’ll get a demerit for that.”

Darby patted at her hair, trying to tuck back the one errant lock. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Allen.”

“Very well, be seated and we’ll begin.” She stood and pointed to the black phone that sat on her desk facing out, the cord curled up neatly. “This is your first class in phone etiquette. Since Katharine Gibbs founded the school in 1911, we have adapted to the changing times. As you can imagine, back in the early days, there were no phones. But they’ve become a vital instrument in the modern secretary’s tool kit. As such, we have found it necessary to train you to use them properly.”

The phone was identical to the one Darby had back home. Not that anyone ever called for her.