Miss Sharp had interviewed Maggie only last week. She was poker-thin and angular, like her name, and she hadn’t smiled once. Miss Sharp didn’t seem the sympathetic type. Maggie had passed the shorthand and typing tests, but the older woman had seemed doubtful, pursing her lips and peering at Maggie over tortoiseshell spectacles as Maggie assured her that yes, the journey from Poplar was perfectly manageable. She’d have said anything to get that job, to be a business girl at last!

She’d left the interview feeling quite down, convinced she hadn’t come up to scratch. So, it had been a surprise when the letter came, confirming her position at the bank. Even Dad, who was never impressed by anything, had nodded his head in something like a ‘Well done’ when she’d shown him the letter.

For once, it had seemed things were going her way. Mutti – when Maggie finally got the chance to tell her the good news – would be so proud.

But now, doubtful Miss Sharp was about to be proved right: the journey from home to the bank wasn’t manageable, after all.

Maggie couldn’t bear the thought of being late. She’d been told to arrive punctually. Could they sack her before she’d even started? Dad would go barmy. And, on top of everything, she’d be letting dear Mrs Leibervich down.

Oh, thank God! The warbling all-clear was sounding. There was a collective sigh on the bus and the tension lifted.

Other passengers around Maggie started to shuffle, moving their limbs and struggling to their feet. There were bangs and thuds on the ceiling, as people in the upper deck did the same.

The clippie waited, her finger poised on the bell, while everyone got up, dusted themselves down and retrieved their gas masks and bags. Maggie helped the old woman into a seat.

The bell sounded. ‘Off we go, fella!’ the clippie called to the driver, wiping dust from her trousers.

* * *

When Maggie eventually reached the panelled front door of Rosman’s Merchant Bank on Bond Street, without further mishap or delay, she was over an hour late. And she couldn’t find the knocker.

The interview had been at a hotel in town; she’d never been to the bank before. Maybe this wasn’t the entrance? There was no one around to ask. Should she go down the alley at the side? Or perhaps there was a doorbell here, set into the stone wall? She couldn’t see anything that resembled one.

She pushed on the huge door without much hope but it gave a little, so she shoved with all her weight and it finally creaked and then swung open, whereupon she tripped up the step and fell inside. Blast! She’d landed on the rough horsehair mat inside the door.