TYPIST-IN-CHARGE. Chapter 21, Customs Department Head Office, 1978

Hi there

TYPIST-IN-CHARGE, CUSTOMS HO TYPING POOL WELLINGTON

Well, here I was, Typist-in-Charge at Customs.  It was the first time I wasn't actually typing anymore.  Just checking the work before it left the room.  And being responsible for any pool shennanigans.  If a typist had a personal problem that was affecting her work, I was required to learn about it.  And help her.

I  hoped that after my first horrible day at the place, my future would be brighter...

I had an ordinary electric typewriter, as did the typists.  Except for Mavis who had been given a prestige IBM Golfball Selectric machine.  And rightly so; it didn't take me long to realise she was the most accurate and speediest typist in the room.  And she let us know about it.  Constantly.  To be fair to Mavis, she was one of only two typists I came across in my entire career who was 100% accurate in everything she typed.

But her personality could have been better.  Mavis was a snob, never letting up about how she was better-bred than any of us, more intelligent than us, had a family who excelled in everything.  Mavis never argued; she just looked condescendingly down her nose at others - even the high-up bosses -  and pointed out in genteel tones that "No, you're wrong, of course..."  Think of Leonard's mother in "The Big Bang Theory": that was Mavis to a T.  Several heads of divisions confided to me that they found her ... difficult.

Nicole was a good basic grade typist, a dark-haired woman in her twenties, who looked like she had just stepped out from a Sunsilk commercial.  When our section was granted one more IBM Golfball typewriter (One???  Talk about stingy), I awarded it to Nicole.  Sullen Nicole, who never smiled at me.  I was always in some sort of paranoia when I caught her giggling to her friends, and then looking straight at me, along with the smirk to end all smirks.

However. after Nicole had sat and passed her TCB typing exam, she thanked me for coaching her in both the speed tests and the confused manuscript practise papers from previous exams. She hadn't even known the Trades Certification Board exams existed.  Or that there was a salary raise for passing.

One afternoon, the typing room door swung open.  An officer raced in:

"I need two girls," he shouted.

"Um...?"  What did he mean?  My mind conjured up several naughty reasons.

"We're short of female customs officers down on the wharf.  We want two officers for frisk duties."

Now, here is where it gets so interesting about being a typist at Customs...

We were all customs officers.  A title bestowed on everyone who worked there.  I think this came from the fact that (real) head office customs officers worked on rotation jobs.  They moved from section to section.  It was so they could learn every job in every area and never be caught out...

Until...  Well, now.

Nicole and Mia shot up their hands.  "Pick us!"  shouted Mia, the bubbly junior.

"Only older typists please," said the officer.

Trudy and Nicole trotted off.  They never did tell us what happened.  Confidentiality was paramount.

Occasionally Customs sniffer dogs came into the building.  I was told there was one floor they were never allowed on.  The floor where drugs were kept.  Samples of many individual drugs had to be kept on hand to train the dogs, but because there were so many different substances kept in the one room, the sniffer dogs would get a little manic if they were brought onto that floor.  

Every Friday evening, after work, was party time.  Lots of people trooped upstairs to an officer's room for drinks and chips.  Alcohol supplied.  A light-hearted rumour was that the drinks were confiscated bottles that came with the compliments of naughty passengers entering New Zealand who had tried the smuggling game.

The 'girls' loved typing about the smugglers.  Some stories were hilarious.  Like the rather well-built gentleman who'd squashed himself into a woman's costly fur coat - a very small size - as he stepped out from the plane.  He pretended it was his own personal fur coat and that he'd owned it for ages. Really, it was brand new and bought overseas for his wife, a dainty woman waiting for him in the terminal.

Homely typist Marilyn had never been known as a drinker.  She belonged to a religious organisation, and stuck to lemonade. But on one Friday night after she had been asked many times by the officers whether she really didn't want an alcoholic drink....

"I'll have a gin," said Marilyn.

We typists all but fell over with shock...

Though Customs had practically all of the building, we didn't have the first floor.  The Public Service Investment Society was there.  It was a bank for government and allied workers, and also a  shop where customers could buy things cheaper than at 'outside' stores.  Everything from make-up to refrigerators.

above: PSIS shop, make-up section.  Stock photo.  From the 1960's, judging by the clothing and hairstyle.

And then - suddenly - the girls in the pool kept getting calls from friends and loved ones.  Our one phone was ultra-busy that day.

"The PSIS has gone into liquidation!"

What?

So many public servants had money in the PSIS bank.  I only had $400, but a friend over at Education had that very day been going to draw out enough money to pay a travel agent for her trip to England.

"I'll go check," I shouted.  I ran down the stairs to the first floor.  The PSIS doors were locked shut.  A dozen or so people were milling around the doors.

It turned out that it wasn't quite liquidation but very close.  A government receiver was brought in to try to sort out the bank's finances.  Other banks immediately helped those in urgent circumstances, like my friend.  It took a few years but everyone eventually got their money back.  That receiver was worth his salary in gold.  The PSIS bank eventually turned into the Co-Operative Bank.

After nearly two years in Customs I was browsing through the Public Service Official Circular and, bingo!, there was a Supervising Typist-in-Charge job going at Health Head Office.

Once before, a lower-graded job had been advertised in Palmerston North and I had casually mentioned to the room, "Oh I'd love to put in for this position.  I used to live in Palmerston.  Great place."

 Weeks later the Palmerston  position was filled.  Mavis read about the appointment in the PSOC.

 "Oh, it was all just talk with you then?" She snipped. "About applying for the Palmerston job?"

But as for the Health Department position ...  I'd worked at Health Regional Office,  I was on the direct grade underneath the advertised position, and I now had my shorthand-typing exam.  Hoorah, I knew teaching shorthand to myself for a year, every night after dinner, would eventually pay off.

Of course I put in for the job.

And I got it.

 On my last day at Customs, I brought in a 'shout' for morning tea.  Chips,  sandwiches I had made myself, a couple of sponges, sausage rolls.

Mavis sidled up to me.  "If you don't mind my saying this, your sandwiches are a bit dry.  You should have brought them wrapped up in a damp tea-towel..."

......