Spike: An Intimate Memoir. Norma Farnes

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      Pat Howden, my friend from hitch-hiking days, had gone to work in London a year or so earlier. She had asked me to join her but I did not want to leave Jack. ‘Idiot!’ she said. ‘There’s no future in that.’

      Since then I had spent the odd weekend in London, staying in the flat she shared with four other girls. I got on well with all of them, particularly Diana Holloway, a lovely Welsh girl. When Pat moved to Paris to join her future husband I telephoned Diana to see if I could bum a bed for three or four weeks until I found a flat. ‘You can have the spare room and it’ll help us with the rent,’ said the ever practical Diana. So off I set for my new home, a flat with two double bedrooms, both with two single beds, and a box room – the one I was to use – in a Victorian house on the Fulham Road.

      I have no trouble remembering the date I moved in because as I walked through the front door a television newsreader announced, ‘Marilyn Monroe has been found dead.’ 4 August 1962. Marilyn was, and still is, someone I idolize. Instead of an evening of celebration for the start of a new period in my life it was one of mourning. ‘Welcome to London and all its glitter,’ I thought glumly.

      I unpacked my case in the box room, squeezed six outfits into the built-in wardrobe, turned a small table under the window into a dressing table, shoved my suitcase under the bed, and Norma Fames of 32 Langley Avenue, Thornaby sank onto it to mourn Norma Jean of Tinsel Town. What a depressing start to my new life.

      The next morning my eyes opened to sunshine. No time to waste. Up bright and early to find some temp work to pay for my share of the expenses.

      Household duties were on a roster basis. The one who did the shopping also did the cooking, and it soon emerged that only Diana and I were prepared to splurge on extravagances to relieve the interminable diet of chops and mince. Diana worked in the Burlington Arcade and told me there was an employment agency round the corner, Nu Type. I put on my glad rags and was interviewed by a Mrs Long, who tested my shorthand and typing speeds. Satisfied, she eyed me. ‘You’re very well groomed, very smart. You’ll be easy to place.’ She made me feel like the final piece of a jigsaw. I said I needed temporary work until I found something permanent.

      ‘No trouble,’ she said. ‘Felicity Green – she’s Woman’s page editor on the Daily Mirror – wants someone for a week.’

      I was familiar with newspaper work, loved the job, worked hard and Felicity gave a glowing report. Mrs Long was delighted. ‘You’ll be a wonderful advertisement for the agency,’ she said. I did not give a damn as long as I got the plum jobs.

      My second assignment was with Granada Television in Golden Square, another familiar medium; the third with a peer in sumptuous offices in Half Moon Street, which was easy-peasy, just answering the phone, typing a few letters, plus walks in Green Park. Within weeks I was earning more than I had dreamed possible, and happy to work evenings and weekends.

      Two weeks after I arrived in London, when we were relaxing in the flat on a Saturday morning, the front bell rang. It was my father. Mum had sent him to make certain I had not been debauched by the big city, that I was not living in a hovel or suspect neighbourhood, that my flat-mates would have met with her approval and that my employers were not gangsters or whiteslave traders. His anxious face soon relaxed into a smile. Then I noticed a large carrier bag. Food for the needy: lamb chops, pork chops complete with succulent kidneys, fillet steaks, sirloin steaks and pork sausages, just to make sure I did not die from malnutrition. These visits went on for five months until I told him it would have to stop. Instead I agreed to travel home once a month, which I did for many years. He was always there, waiting for me on the platform at Thornaby station.

      After a year or so I started wondering whether I should get a ‘proper job’, that is, a permanent one. I still wanted to become a television producer so was happy when Mrs Long found me a job as assistant to the information officer at the Independent Television Companies’ Association (ITCA), Television House, not far from Covent Garden. But as I found out the ITCA’s rôle was mostly administrative, serving as the industry’s watchdog.

      My boss liked to use his wartime title of major. On my first day he went to lunch at 12.30 p.m. precisely. At five o’clock he telephoned. ‘Are you coping, my dear? Good. I knew you would be. No point in coming back to the office now.’ A cough. ‘I’m afraid I fell among thieves.’ As he did most days. Although he was almost a caricature of the retired Army officer he was very kind and I liked him. However, after a couple of years covering up for him he was abruptly fired and I took over his responsibilities.

      Every month since I started there had been obituary meetings to update the planned coverage for the funeral of Sir Winston Churchill, and like him they went on for ever. Three days after we had said goodbye to the major Sir Winston died and I was thrown in at the deep end, having to liaise with each television station to let them know what their rôle would be. Up to that time the longest outside broadcast had been two hours but this would last five. We all worked night and day but it was worth it when newspapers acclaimed our coverage, which they reckoned was superior to the BBC’s.

      I saw the cortège as it passed our offices and remember wondering how such a small coffin could contain this giant of a man. All those who worked on the funeral were given a specially printed brochure, The Valiant Man, which is still one of my treasured possessions.

      Then I was offered the major’s post. All very well, I said, but what was in it for me? I could have a secretary and my name on the door. How about increasing my salary? Two pounds a week was the offer, far less than they had paid the major. It was decision time. I could not even consult Kenneth because he had been lost in the various moves. But I did not need to. This had been a man’s job and I wanted a man’s rate of pay for it. Oh dear no! That would never do. Equal pay simply was not on as far as they were concerned. But it was for me. So after two years it was time for a change. The ITCA was too much like the Civil Service for my liking. I would seek temporary work until I could find a job in television production. Something to tide me over for a few months would be ideal.