Fire

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘We are,’ Daisy said. ‘I’ve made a new sundress specially.’

  Louise said, ‘So are we. Susan can’t wait. Rob told her Santa Claus will be there. I hope to God he is this year.’

  Allie frowned. ‘Is she old enough to know who Santa is?’

  ‘Crikey, yes,’ Louise replied. ‘She knows exactly where presents come from at Christmas time. Santa’s house at the Norf Po, apparently.’

  ‘And I suppose Mr Max will be Santa again this year,’ Irene said. ‘He needn’t think I’m sitting on his knee.’

  I bet you would if you could, Allie thought, still smarting slightly.

  Irene read her mind and laughed. ‘Look at him, though, he’s fifty if he’s a day! His heart would give out!’

  Louise, who believed very strongly in the sanctity of marriage and knew about Irene and Vincent Reynolds, looked disapproving.

  ‘He’s forty-eight, actually,’ Daisy said. ‘Terry told me.’

  ‘And how would Terry know?’ Irene asked.

  Daisy just smiled, comfortable in her conviction that her beloved fiancé, who was only a year older than her, knew everything.

  ‘Apparently he really enjoys it, Mr Max,’ Louise said, ‘handing out presents to all the kids. It’s very generous of Dunbar & Jones, isn’t it?’

  Irene slid the ashtray closer and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I’m off to the loo, then it’s back to the salt mines.’

  On their way out they met Vincent Reynolds coming in. His hair was immaculately pomaded and as black as nugget, and his moustache bracketed his top lip like a set of spare eyebrows. He slowed as he passed Irene and gave her a long, greasy wink. She simpered and Allie looked away, annoyed at the stab of envy in her stomach. But Vince Reynolds was repulsive and Allie wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot barge pole. It was more that Irene, of whom she was genuinely fond, already had a perfectly nice husband, and it wasn’t right that she was, well, dallying.

  Allie hurried down the two flights of stairs to the first floor where she worked. Before nine in the morning and after five at night, when the store was empty, she rode on the escalator because it was such fun, but during opening hours staff were supposed to use the stairway behind the scenes at the rear of the store that zigzagged from the third floor all the way down to the basement. Mr Beaumont believed that, ideally, sales assistants should only be seen standing at their counters, ready and politely waiting to be of help, not tripping about as if they owned the place. But unlike the grand marble public stairs that ran from the ground floor to the second floor on the south-western side of the building, and had views of Wyndham Street below, the staff stairs were narrow, wooden and somewhat rickety. And as customers never went up to the third floor anyway, and Mr Max and Mr Beaumont had their offices on the first floor just off the foyer outside the White Room, the staff stairs had never been refurbished. They did make a very satisfying, echoey racket, however, if you ran down them fast enough.

  Allie loved the store at Christmas. Last year, her first Christmas at Dunbar & Jones, had been an exciting and magical time, not least because of the magnificent decorations that went up halfway through December. She adored their glittering promise of everything to come. At home they always had a real tree with a handful of shiny shop-bought balls, stars and tinsel, plus the decorations she and her sisters had made when they were little. The latter were getting very tatty now—Allie’s cotton-wool Santa had lost one of his eyes and the paint was flaking off his red hat—but they were the most cherished of the lot, unpacked every year with squeals of delight and cries of ‘Oh, look, remember this one?’, and put carefully away again when the tree came down. Allie always felt sorry for the tree, lying outside on the back lawn, unloved and unwanted, going brown with its needles falling off until her father got around to disposing of it.

  But Dunbar & Jones’s Christmas decorations, many imported from overseas, were in a class of their own. There were the miles of red, green and gold swags of organza intertwined with Christmas lights, caught up every twelve feet with red velvet bows and suspended from the ceilings of all three shopping floors. Then around the walls were dozens of enormous wreaths, their glossy green-painted leaves, gold bows and red holly berries reflected in the hanging mirrored balls.

  On the ground floor, just inside the main front door, was a huge artificial tree that twinkled and gleamed with glass and tinsel and coloured electric lights, though these wouldn’t be turned on until the weekend before Christmas. Surrounding the tree’s base were piles of beautifully wrapped parcels, which almost every child who entered the store picked up and shook, then dropped disappointedly because the boxes were empty. In the end, Mr Beaumont had a velvet rope erected around the display. The children weren’t completely discouraged, however, as in the furniture department on the second floor the bedroom suites had been moved over to make room for Santa’s Magic Grotto, a cave made of papier mâché over chicken-wire, decorated with artificial ferns and rows of tiny electric ‘glow-worms’. Santa Claus (not Mr Max, but a bloke hired especially) sat in the cave from nine until five each day, with morning and afternoon tea breaks and forty minutes off for lunch so he could go for a smoke, dispensing yuletide cheer and the exhortation that, if children were good, Santa might bring them something from the wonderful selection of toys Dunbar & Jones had stocked especially for Christmas.

  But most impressive of all, as far as Allie was concerned, was the massive model of Santa, his sleigh and his four reindeer, which usually sat above the verandah extending over the footpaths on both the Queen Street and Wyndham Street frontages. This year, however, because of the royal tour, Santa had been relegated to the Wyndham Street side, and an equally enormous crown flanked by a huge kiwi holding the New Zealand flag and a giant lion waving the Union Jack had pride of place above the front door on Queen Street.

  Coming a close second were the Christmas window displays, an annual spectacular showcasing the skills and imaginations of Dunbar & Jones’s windowdressers. This year the windows contained frothy, glittering tableaux depicting ‘The Sleeping Beauty’, ‘The Snow Queen’, ‘The Twelve Dancing Princesses’ and ‘The Princess and the Pea’, all lit with thousands of tiny lights that stayed on all night, providing a dose of after-dark Christmas magic. Dunbar & Jones didn’t, however, put on a Christmas parade: Farmers had cornered the market on that one.

  On the first floor, Allie slid her handbag into the cupboard under the main counter of the ladies’ dress department. When she straightened up, Sonny Someone was leaning on the other side of it. In his blue work shirt and no tie he looked very out of place, slouched in the middle of the pale pink and cream dress salon.

  He smiled at her, his brown eyes twinkling in a way that made Allie take a short, involuntary breath.

  Flustered, she said, ‘You’ll get into trouble if Miss Willow sees you. You’re not supposed to be on the shop floor.’ And then she felt silly for sounding so insipid.

  ‘Who’s Miss Willow?’ he asked. He had a nice voice, soft and rich, and he held her eye a moment longer than was necessary.

  ‘Head of the dress department. My supervisor.’

  ‘The old biddy with her hair in a bun?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think she’s that old,’ Allie said, praying that Miss Willow wasn’t within earshot.

  He shrugged, and nodded at a box on the floor. ‘It’s all right, I brought a parcel up for her.’

  ‘Oh. Did you?’

  ‘I did. Arrived just before lunch. Had “Urgent” on it so I thought I’d better deliver it pronto.’ He was still leaning on the counter, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows revealing muscled forearms, and he didn’t appear to be in a hurry to leave.

  ‘Oh,’ Allie said again. ‘Right then.’

  Feeling self-conscious and rather unnerved by his steady gaze, she smoothed her shoulder-length golden-blonde hair, wishing she’d taken the time after lunch to brush it. She felt short of breath.

  He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You look worried,’
he said finally.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Allie replied too quickly, her face heating up. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but did you want something else?’

  ‘Yep.’

  She waited, trying to avoid his amused look, but finding, to her annoyance, that her gaze kept creeping back to his. ‘Well, what is it?’ she said, more tersely than she meant to.

  ‘Do you want to come to the flicks with me on Wednesday night? High Noon, at the Civic?’

  Allie stared at him. ‘But I don’t even know your name!’

  ‘It’s Sonny Manaia: so now you do. Will you?’

  She opened her mouth to say she didn’t really think so, and was startled to hear herself say yes, thank you, that would be nice, and she would meet him outside the picture theatre just before eight o’clock.

  He grinned even more widely, nodded at her and sauntered over to the escalator. The last she saw of him was a waving brown hand as he descended to the floor below.

  ‘Cheeky monkey,’ Miss Willow said, coming to stand beside Allie. ‘I heard all that. And Mr Beaumont won’t be very happy if he sees him joy-riding on the escalator.’

  Allie eyed Miss Willow, not sure how to respond. She wasn’t a bad old stick, but she’d worked for Dunbar & Jones for ever and had an abiding respect for Max Jones, as she had had for his father James and grandmother Isobel Dunbar before him. And she believed in the rules imposed by the store’s management to which, these days, she belonged.

  According to staff who had been with Dunbar & Jones for some time, Ruby Willow never changed. A child of the new century, the same age as the year, she had surprisingly smooth skin—which she attributed to a daily application of Elizabeth Arden face cream—and unfailingly wore her long hair pulled back in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her lips were painted with the same coral shade of lipstick every day of the year, and she wore no jewellery except for discreet clip-on pearls at her ears. Her only other accessory was a pair of reading spectacles which, when not in use, hung against her modest bosom on a long, goldplated chain. Unmarried, she had for years shared a small house with Beatrice Button, another Dunbar & Jones spinster who was head milliner.

  Allie finally mumbled, ‘Yes, he was a bit cheeky.’

  ‘But not a bad sort, by all accounts,’ Miss Willow said. ‘A hard worker, I hear, and honest. But I’d watch myself, if I were you,’ she cautioned. ‘And you know of course that liaisons between staff are not allowed.’

  Allie nodded. But that hadn’t stopped Daisy and Terry getting together, and several other members of staff, not to mention Irene and the oily Vince Reynolds.

  The lift doors rattled open: Miss Willow glanced up and gave a barely audible sigh. ‘Allie, go and serve Mrs Goodman, please.’

  Allie stepped out from behind the counter to greet Mrs Goodman, a wealthy Dunbar & Jones customer who was well known for dithering for ages over a purchase, then choosing the exact item of clothing that suited her least. Allie and the other girls had entertained each other at the lunch table for hours inventing the most hideous outfits for Mrs Goodman to wear during the royal visit. Her shopping expedition was not unexpected, and Allie had been dreading it.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Goodman,’ she said. ‘May I help you with something today?’

  Too vain to wear spectacles, Mrs Goodman regarded Allie through small, short-sighted eyes. ‘Hello, dear. Yes, actually, I’m looking for something to wear to the civic reception at the town hall on the twenty-third. It’s for the queen, you know.’

  Allie did know—at least a battalion of well-heeled women had been in over the past few weeks looking for outfits for that particular social engagement.

  Cautiously, she asked, ‘Did you have anything specific in mind, Mrs Goodman?’

  ‘Well, obviously something very elegant, don’t you think? But still discreet, of course. I don’t want to outshine Her Majesty!’

  As if, Allie thought.

  ‘Perhaps something from Christian Dior?’ Mrs Goodman suggested hopefully.

  Allie thought of the tiny waists, tight bodices and very full skirts on the Dior gowns currently in stock, and her heart sank; Mrs Goodman didn’t have a hope in hell of shoe-horning herself into anything remotely approaching a Dior.

  At Allie’s hesitation, Mrs Goodman made a moue of indecision. ‘What have other people been buying?’

  Allie seized the opportunity. ‘Well, for the civic reception, we’ve been selling a lot of very smart formal dress-and-coat ensembles.’

  ‘Long or short?’

  ‘Short, mostly, because it’s a daytime event.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Mrs Goodman thought for a moment. ‘Well, perhaps Dior would be more suited to evening. What else can you show me?’

  ‘What about something in a nice delustred satin? That’s been very popular. We have some lovely lines off the peg.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. I really should have had something made.’

  As there obviously wasn’t time left for that, Allie pressed on. She took a coffee-hued dress off a rack and draped it over a nearby chair. ‘This would look wonderful on you, Mrs Goodman. And we have a coat in a very pretty brocade that would go beautifully over it. What do you think?’

  ‘What size is it?’

  This was the difficult part. Allie pretended to look at the label inside the dress. ‘Actually, I think this one would be just about right for you.’

  Mrs Goodman looked doubtful. ‘It seems rather large. I have quite a neat waist, you know.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Allie lied. ‘But this particular style is designed to just skim the waist and hips, rather than deliberately emphasize the figure. I think you’ll find it’s very complimentary on. And extremely elegant.’

  ‘Mmm, well, perhaps. Hold onto that one, dear. What else can you show me?’

  After a further gruelling half-hour of Allie selecting options and having most of them dismissed out of hand, Mrs Goodman was finally ready to enter the dressing rooms and try something on. Eventually, and despite Allie doing her tactful best to dissuade her, she chose a shantung silk in a vibrant jade that did nothing for her complexion, and which was too tight around the waist (although the princess-line skirt did help to disguise the size of her bottom), and featured a self-fabric stole that fastened across the front with a bow that made her bust look monolithic.

  ‘Charge that to my account, please,’ Mrs Goodman said.

  Allie laid the dress across the counter for packing and delivery, wrote out the credit docket and put the bottom copy with the dress. The top copy she tucked into a brass capsule and placed it into the Lamson tube, to be whizzed off to the credit office on the first floor.

  Mrs Goodman looked thoughtful. ‘I’ll need a hat, of course, and gloves. And shoes, too, I think. I have nothing to wear with that shade of green. And probably a handbag as well. What can you show me in hats?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Goodman, but I don’t have any expertise in the millinery department,’ Allie said, extremely grateful that this was the truth.

  Mrs Goodman’s face fell. ‘But you have such an eye for putting things together. Surely you could take a minute to help me pick something out?’

  Allie glanced helplessly at Miss Willow, who said helpfully, ‘I’m sure we can manage without you for fifteen minutes, Miss Roberts’.

  Stifling a sigh, Allie followed Mrs Goodman over to millinery, where she eventually chose a net half-hat covered in navy-blue feathers that made her head look like a hard-boiled egg. ‘Just something small so I don’t block other people’s view of Her Majesty. We’re seated very near the front, you know,’ Mrs Goodman said for the third time as she signed another credit docket.

  Then it was on to shoes. Mrs Goodman jammed her feet into at least a dozen pair before finally settling on navy suede pumps. Fortunately, the shoes came with a matching handbag, so Allie was spared the agony of watching Mrs Goodman dither for another hour.

  Finally, it was time to select gloves. As the glove counter was on the ground floor,
Allie escorted Mrs Goodman, who did not ‘trust’ the escalator, down in the lift. She had to look away when Walter, one of the store’s two lift boys, resplendent in his black and charcoal uniform with gold buttons, winked at her behind Mrs Goodman’s back.

  At the glove counter, Allie pulled out one of the high wooden chairs for Mrs Goodman and waved at the sales assistant, a girl with the rather exotic name of Simone.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Goodman,’ Simone said a little too brightly. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘I want some gloves, to go with my new outfit,’ Mrs Goodman said, awkwardly hoisting her bulk up onto the chair and settling her elbows on the glass counter top. Beneath was a display of white lace and crocheted gloves, elegantly arranged on disembodied hands. ‘It’s green.’

  ‘Jade green,’ Allie added.

  ‘Day or evening, Mrs Goodman?’ Simone asked.

  ‘Oh, day, but formal.’

  ‘French?’

  ‘Preferably.’

  ‘Leather, cotton or fancy?’

  ‘Fancy. Or maybe leather. I don’t know. What do you think?’ Mrs Goodman asked Allie.

  ‘I think fine leather would be more sophisticated.’ Lace or crocheted gloves might be a tad frivolous for the occasion.

  ‘Show me some leather ones then, dear,’ Mrs Goodman said to Simone.

  ‘Would you prefer kid, suede, doeskin or nappa?’

  ‘Probably suede. My new shoes and bag are suede.’

  Simone turned to the shelves behind her. ‘In the French suede we have yellow, grey, white, beige, black and navy.’

  ‘Beige,’ Mrs Goodman said.

  Oh no, Allie thought, not with jade green. Simone selected a stack of small, flat boxes from the shelves and began to open them. ‘What size glove do you normally take?’

  Mrs Goodman told her and Simone stretched each glove in turn, dusted them inside with talcum powder, then slid a pair of velvet cushions under Mrs Goodman’s elbows before beginning to ease a glove onto her hand.

  ‘Are you sure this is your size?’ Simone said after several minutes.