Happy Birthday, 1951

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It was five o’clock in the morning when an eager Stephen Smith arrived on his bicycle at the Electra House telegraph station. The London air was cold and foggy, but there had not been a drop of rain. He was the only person who held the keys to the vast building, the biggest telephone exchange in London. Here he was the boss, and all the operators did as he told them. Stephen Smith had donned his finest three-piece suit to showcase the new tie his wife had given him for his birthday. Today, he was 38. He had no doubt that the women who worked for him would wish him a happy birthday in their own way. Stephen Smith had worked at the Electra House telephone exchange for fifteen years now. He’d seen many people come and go; young women learning on the job and old ladies leaving for retirement. He knew their lives, their daily habits and their worries. He loved his team like a second family. He was proud of his career, and could not have dreamed for better. He had been hired upon graduating from Oxford, one of the UK’s finest universities. He had studied electromagnetic engineering with a specialisation in telephone communications. He was the representative of a major company, embodying the modernity of the age.

Stephen entered the office, and laid his jacket on his desk. The day had only just begun. Mr. Smith had to turn on all the switches, then prepare the cables and headsets. The operators would soon be arriving. Stephen Smith was well used to these busy, stressful days. But today was not just any day – it was his birthday. Finally, two of the operators arrived. They walked in and sat down at their switchboards. One took from her bag a small wrapped parcel, which she handed to Stephen Smith: “Happy birthday, Mr. Smith!” He ripped open the paper and saw that the gift was his favourite tea – Chinese jasmine. Stephen Smith was an aficionado. As for any Englishman, tea time was a sacred ritual to him. “Thank you, Elizabeth. How thoughtful of you. You really shouldn’t have!” he said with a broad smile. The surprises were not over yet: Victoria, who was respectfully nicknamed “Queen Vic” in light of her seniority, handed him a card signed by the whole team. It read: “Happy Birthday to the best boss Electra House ever had! We’re all so proud of you!” Stephen Smith was touched. The previous week, he had been decorated by the local government for his devotion to telephone services. 

A few hours had gone by, and the operators were working at full tilt. They unplugged cables from the boards and inserted them into different ports. It was rush hour, with calls coming in from all across the UK. There were incomings, outgoings, and telegrams to send and decode. A telephone switchboard is usually designed to facilitate the work of the operator sitting opposite it. The board is made up of a panel studded with rows of female jacks, with each jack designated and wired as a local extension of the switchboard (which serves an individual subscriber) or as an incoming or outgoing trunk line. Stephen Smith stood straight, undaunted by the apparent chaos. He let his jasmine tea brew and thought about the end of the day. Victoria and Elizabeth called for a smoke break, which was granted. They walked out into the cold.

“I always wanted to be a typist in a big law firm. Been stuck here two years now,” said Elizabeth, her voice tinged with the confidence of youth. “Still, I’m not complaining. Mr. Smith is a good boss. Tough, but understanding. Still, I’d like to try something else one day. I’m still young.”

  “Not me, love. I started working here in 1945. Started working the lines during the war, and I was hooked from day one. I’d never had a job before. The Navy called up hundreds of women to help break enemy codes. At least one good thing came out of that damn war!” replied Victoria.

Alan Alfredo Geday