The Blue Sapphire

by D. E. Stevenson

  By this time Julia was laughing so uncontrollably that ‘the chapeau’ fell off onto the floor.

  Miss Martineau pounced upon it, shook it out, and replaced it on the back of the chair. ‘That’s the way to sell hats,’ she said in her ordinary voice.

  ‘Oh goodness! I don’t know when I’ve laughed like this!’ cried Julia holding her sides.

  Miss Martineau chuckled. ‘It wasn’t very good,’ she said. ‘Not really good. I’m out of practice.’

  Julia was still giggling feebly. ‘Thank you for the lesson. I see the idea of course, but I’m not sure that I could do it.’

  ‘Have a try,’ suggested Miss Martineau.

  Chapter Six

  Madame Claire wanted an assistant immediately, and as Julia was free and anxious to get settled as soon as possible it was arranged that she should go for a week’s trial. She was somewhat alarmed at the idea of her new job, and said so to Miss Martineau as they breakfasted together in the dining-room.

  ‘You’ll do it easily,’ declared her new friend encouragingly. ‘If you can’t do it I’ll eat my hat—my chapeau, I mean. I’ve got a little present for you, just to bring you luck.’

  The little present was a small pair of gilt scissors, shaped like a stork, with a long beak and a tiny red glass eye. It was a charming piece of nonsense; Julia was delighted with it and accepted it with becoming gratitude.

  ‘Just to bring you luck,’ nodded Miss Martineau. ‘They belonged to Great-Aunt Anne—so they’re really old—but they’ll be useful. You must hang them round your waist with a piece of ribbon and they’ll be handy when you want them.’

  ‘It’s very, very kind of you,’ said Julia. ‘I’m sure they’ll bring me luck.’

  Miss Martineau came out onto the steps to see her off. ‘Don’t you let her bully you,’ she said, wagging an admonitory finger at her protégée. ‘People don’t value doormats; they just wipe their feet on them and pass on.’

  Julia smiled at this as she went down the street; but although she had not far to go, the smile had faded and an expression of intense anxiety had taken its place by the time she arrived at the gaily-painted door of Madame Claire’s establishment. She was a little early, and at first she thought the shop was empty. Then she saw a spread-out newspaper and two long elegant legs clad in sheer nylon stockings coming out from beneath it. When the door-bell tinkled the lady who was reading the newspaper put it to one side and looked at Julia inquiringly. She had very black hair and dark brown eyes. Her face was pale, her eyebrows dark, her lips scarlet.

  ‘I came to see Madame Claire,’ said Julia timidly.

  ‘That is me,’ said the lady, rising and putting down the paper. ‘It is early—but no matter. You would like to see some chapeaux?’

  ‘I’m Julia Harburn. Miss Martineau said—’

  ‘Ah, the good kind May!’ exclaimed Madame Claire. ‘You have come to help me! It is understood. Ivonne and Fifi, they have not yet arrived. They are late always. I myself will show you the little room where you will leave your coat and put on the overall.’

  She hurried into the back premises and Julia followed.

  Julia had not expected her new job to begin immediately without any sort of preparation. She had expected to be interviewed by her employer; she had expected some sort of explanation of what she was to do and how she was to do it. Instead of which, almost before she could get her breath, she found herself attired in a very pretty blue nylon overall showing hats to a stout lady with a square red face. (The other two girls had arrived by this time, but there was nothing French about them except their names.)

  The stout lady, Julia’s first customer, tried on a great many hats and eventually went away saying she would think about it.

  This was not a good start, in fact it was so bad that, when Madame approached, Julia quite expected her to say that Julia must take off the overall, put on her coat and leave immediately never to return.

  However, Madame did not say that. She said, ‘It is not any use to trouble with that sort of person. You wasted your time being so kind and attentive . . . but how could you know? Soon you will know at a glance whether it is a chapeau the woman desires or whether she is too early for her appointment with the dentist . . . or to meet her friend at the little café round the corner.’

  Julia laughed, partly in amusement and partly in relief. ‘But what am I to say?’

  ‘You will be tactful,’ replied Madame. ‘You will not say, “We have no chapeaux in this establishment to suit a square red face”; that will nevaire do. It is true, of course, the chapeaux in this establishment are designed for pretty faces, but the truth is not always wise. Look, Julie, here is a client who desires to buy a chapeau! You will sell her the little red straw on the stand in the corner, but you will show her some others first.’

  Julia noticed that she had become ‘Julie’ and the pretty girl with dark hair who had just entered the ‘establishment’ was a ‘client.’ The girl was looking round rather vaguely, so Julia advanced upon her with a smile. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked ingratiatingly.

  It was quite easy after that. Julia showed the client several hats, and then, taking the red one off the stand, said, ‘I believe this is the very one! I’m sure it will suit you,’ and so saying put it on herself.

  ‘It’s certainly very nice on you,’ agreed the girl. ‘I had better try it, hadn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you should wear it like this,’ replied Julia, arranging it carefully upon the head of the client.

  Of course it suited her admirably . . . there was nothing much that Madame did not know about hats.

  ‘Yes, it is nice,’ said the client. ‘I like it.’

  Julia gave her the hand-mirror and she looked at the back.

  ‘I like it,’ repeated the client emphatically.

  ‘It suits you awfully well,’ declared Julia. Fortunately this was true, so she was able to say it with enthusiasm.

  ‘I suppose it’s frightfully expensive?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so. I’ll just look at the label . . . no, it’s only five guineas.’

  ‘Oh dear, that’s a lot to pay for a hat!’

  Julia felt like saying she couldn’t agree more; instead she said, ‘But it’s so becoming, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the girl. ‘Yes—well—I wonder.’

  ‘Try it on again,’ suggested Julia.

  The client tried it on again. ‘It really is rather nice, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I like the way it turns up at the side; quite an unusual line and very becoming.’

  ‘Perhaps I had better have it.’

  ‘I think you should—really,’ declared Julia with absolute truth—for of course the girl should buy the hat, for Julia’s sake if not for her own.

  Madame had been watching, and, much to Julia’s relief, she strolled over to put the finishing touch. ‘The little chapeau is charming,’ she said. ‘It is a model from Paris—très chic. You have chosen well, Mademoiselle. Perhaps you would like to wear it?’

  Yes, Mademoiselle would wear it and have her old hat sent home.

  Madame watched while Julia took the address, made out the bill, received the money, gave the correct change, and showed her first client out of the door.

  ‘That was nice, Julie,’ she said. ‘Very nice indeed.’

  ‘She was easy,’ replied Julia.

  ‘She was easy because you are her own kind,’ explained Madame. ‘And because you treated her just right. It is very important to treat people just right. There are some who like to be flattered: “Oh, Madame! It is your chapeau! Who else could wear it with such elegance?” There are others who prefer to hear sense. There are those who cannot make up their minds and must have their minds made up for them, and again others who dislike to be pressed. There are all kinds of people,’ declared Madame with a gesture of her expressive hands which seemed to embrace the whole of humanity. ‘Remember that, Julie. It will not always be so easy as that young girl, nor so difficu
lt as the fat lady, but I think you will do very nicely.’

  ‘Je vous remercie, Madame. Je ferai de mon mieux pour vous plaire.’

  These simple words acted like a charm. Immediately Madame broke into a torrent of French . . . if only she had known Julie spoke French! But she knew now, and they would converse together. Julie could not imagine how Madame had yearned for an assistant with whom she could converse in her own beautiful language. It had occurred to Madame to search for such a one in France, but there were difficulties. . . . Madame enumerated the difficulties volubly.

  Julia commiserated and put in a few words whenever Madame paused for breath.

  How was it that Julie spoke French so beautifully, Madame wanted to know.

  Julia explained that her mother was a very good linguist. They had spoken French together and read it aloud to each other and had spent several winters in France because her mother was delicate and the climate of London did not suit her.

  ‘She is better now, I hope?’

  ‘She is dead, Madame.’

  ‘Ah, pauvre petite,’ said. Madame, patting her on the shoulder. ‘C’est vraiment triste de perdre sa mère.’

  The other girls were idle at the moment and were watching the little scene with disfavour. They were even less pleased when Madame told them to put away the hats which Julia’s client had discarded, whilst she continued to converse in an excited manner with the new assistant.

  ‘Tidying up after her!’ whispered Ivonne to Fifi as she shut one of the drawers with a vigorous slam. ‘That’s what we’ve got to do . . . just because she can gabble in French.’

  Chapter Seven

  Miss Martineau was sitting at the window in the dining-room when Julia returned from her first day at Madame Claire’s. As a matter of fact Miss Martineau often sat there; it was a good point of vantage, for the dining-room was on the ground floor and its window looked out into the street. From here Miss Martineau could watch people passing and could see all that was going on. The dining-room was the same size as the parlour but it seemed much larger, for it contained less furniture and its furnishings were modern. It was used by Miss Martineau and her boarders as an all-purpose apartment, not only for eating but for sitting and talking and taking their ease. The telephone and the television cabinet were here, so also was Miss Martineau’s somewhat untidy workbasket and various odds and ends belonging to her boarders. The parlour was used only for special occasions and sometimes in the evening when Miss Martineau wanted to be cosy.

  This afternoon Miss Martineau was on the lookout for Julia and rushed out to meet her at the door.

  ‘How did you get on?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘Quite all right. I sold six hats,’ replied Julia proudly. ‘Madame was very kind and said I would do very nicely.’

  People are always pleased when their arrangements prove successful and Miss Martineau was no exception to the rule. She beamed with delight. ‘That’s lovely!’ she declared. ‘I knew you could do it. I said so, didn’t I? Come and talk to me, dulling, I want to hear all that happened—every single thing—but I must get on with my sewing. Look, I’m making this for Peter’s birthday!’

  ‘For Peter’s birthday!’ echoed Julia, surveying the peach-coloured nylon slip in amazement.

  ‘What a job I had getting the nylon lace!’ continued Miss Martineau. ‘I tried half a dozen shops before I could get what I wanted. You see, I’m letting it into the bodice and I’m putting peach-coloured ribbon shoulder straps. It’s sweet, isn’t it? Do you think Peter will like it?’

  ‘Peter!’ gasped Julia.

  Miss Martineau chuckled. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d told you. I thought you understood. Come and sit down and I’ll tell you all about it,’ she added, taking up her sewing and preparing for a comfortable chat.

  ‘It was like this,’ continued Miss Martineau. ‘When the baby was coming I said to Norman, “Now don’t forget; if it’s a boy it’s to be Peter and if it’s a girl it’s to be Wendy.” “All right,” he said. “That suits me—but why make such a point about me remembering? You can remind me about it after it has arrived.” “I might die,” I said. Norman just told me not to be silly but I could see he was upset, so I didn’t say another word.’

  ‘Did you really think you were going to die?’ asked Julia in horrified tones.

  ‘Off and on I did,’ nodded Miss Martineau. ‘But I kept it to myself. I was sorry I’d said it, really, because Norman didn’t forget. He was very fond of me, you see—sometimes when he thought I wasn’t looking he would sit and gaze at me. Oh well, I didn’t die,’ she continued more cheerfully. ‘Though between you and me I wasn’t far off it. I had an awful time. When I came round and found I was alive and kicking I was quite surprised. Norman was there, holding my hand. He said, “The doc says it’s Wendy. Are you pleased?” Pleased! I felt too ill to care. If he’d said it was a kitten I wouldn’t have minded.’

  ‘It was Wendy?’ asked Julia in bewilderment. ‘But I thought——’

  ‘Yes, it was Wendy—at least it ought to have been—but one day, when the baby was six weeks old and we were going to have it christened, Norman said to me, “I know it’s a girl but it isn’t my idea of a Wendy. You can hear it bawling all over the house. It’s more like a tiger-cub than a baby. I can’t imagine that baby growing up domesticated, mending the boy’s socks and doing the spring cleaning.”

  ‘I couldn’t imagine it either, to tell you the truth. It was a fierce little creature with a lot of black hair and it got into the most awful rage if it had to wait for its bottle, clenched its fists and screamed itself crimson in the face. It wasn’t cuddly and soft; it was independent. You felt from the very beginning that it could look out for itself. I said to Norman, “Well, I believe you’re right, but I made up my mind it was to be Peter or Wendy so if it isn’t Wendy it had better be Peter.” Norman said that would be queer (he didn’t like things to be queer) so I said, “It won’t be queer if we spell it p—e—t—a.” So that’s what we did.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Julia, who had been listening to the story with interest.

  ‘It’s a nice name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, very nice—and most unusual.’

  ‘She’s a very unusual sort of girl,’ said her mother. ‘It certainly suits her a lot better than Wendy. She was a bit of a problem when she was a child. (I told you that, didn’t I?) Independent, you know, and wild as heather, always wanting her own way . . . but I understand why she was like that, she was Peter to the life, so I just went on loving her and it turned out all right. She’s still a bit wild and independent but she’s got a kind heart; that’s the main thing, isn’t it? She’ll be coming home one of these days, so you’ll see her. It will be nice company for you to have a girl of your own age to chat to.’

  Julia agreed politely, but she felt doubtful. What she had heard about Peta was somewhat alarming.

  *

  2

  The other boarders in Miss Martineau’s house were a cheerful lot, young and gay, but Julia saw very little of them for they were asleep in bed when Julia went off to work and when Julia returned they had gone to the theatre. Occasionally she heard them coming home late at night, talking and laughing, but more often she was asleep by that time and their voices did not disturb her. She wondered when Miss Martineau slept, for she was always there when the theatre-party came back and was up and about in good time to have breakfast with Julia; but on making tactful inquiries Julia discovered that she always had ‘a little shut-eye’ in the afternoon. All the same, Julia was slightly worried about it, and on Saturday night she told her hostess that she would not want breakfast on Sunday. She had decided to go to church early and have breakfast afterwards somewhere in town.

  ‘Just as you like,’ said Miss Martineau. ‘I like going to church myself, but eight o’clock is a bit much when you’ve had a late night on Saturday. You can come home to lunch, if you don’t mind cold ham and salad.’

  ‘I thought you said y
ou wouldn’t do lunches for the Queen,’ said Julia teasingly.

  Miss Martineau chuckled. ‘Well, I couldn’t give the Queen cold ham and salad, could I, dulling?’

  Meanwhile Julia was settling down in her new job and finding it very interesting indeed. She realised that Madame Claire’s establishment must be a veritable gold-mine. Some of the hats came from wholesale manufacturers and some from well-known houses in Paris, but many of them were made by Madame with her own clever fingers. Quite often these consisted of a few artificial flowers and a piece of gauze or straw. The materials cost a few shillings and the ‘creations’ were sold for pounds. It seemed wrong, somehow, but Julia comforted herself by the reflection that the clients were paying for Madame’s skilful work. Like a picture, thought Julia. How much did a picture cost in actual money? The canvas and paint were practically worthless. It was the skill of the painter which made the picture valuable.

  Chapter Eight

  On Friday when Julia returned from work Miss Martineau rushed out of the dining-room to meet her.

  ‘He’s come!’ she cried in excitement.

  ‘Who’s come?’

  ‘Your young man, of course!’ She approached nearer, and sinking her voice to a conspiratorial whisper she added, ‘Such a nice young chap—just the very one—you couldn’t do better.’

  ‘But it can’t be! He’s at Gleneagles.’

  ‘He’s in the parlour, dulling. He’s waiting for you. I gave him the Telegraph to keep him happy . . . but he’s been waiting twenty minutes or more, so you better pop upstairs quickly.’