by Jane Tulloch
“OK,” sighed Harry who was smitten.
Realising the situation, and with tempers flaring throughout the store, Mrs Pegram’s plan was put into place not a moment too soon. A meeting was called for all staff who had directly benefited from Miss McPherson’s thoughtfulness. Looking round the packed board-room, Mrs Pegram outlined her plan for a small committee to meet to identify possibilities for the use of the money and to act as a steering group for its disbursement. She wanted this to be a representative group of younger and older staff members of either gender and varying length of service. Meetings were to be outside work time, which had the intended effect of ruling out less enthusiastic members and an appropriate group was duly appointed. Sent away to find out suggestions from everyone to feed back to the next meeting, they left the meeting buzzing with excitement.
Miss Collins was quite overcome at her being chosen. “Fancy me! On a committee!” she burst out to her mother in the canteen later.
“Aye well, mind you spend that money well. Dinnae let Miss McPherson down,” her mother replied with a reproving frown. Miss Collins nodded, fully aware of the responsibility of it all.
“The suggestions are as follows,” read out Mrs Pegram at the management meeting later that month.
“1 Divide the entire bequest evenly between the whole staff group.
2. Invest the money for income and use the income to give everyone a little extra at Christmas.
3. Set up a grants scheme that people can apply for if in need.
4. Remodel the canteen and staff changing rooms and subsidise the canteen until the money runs out.
5. Set up a holiday fund.”
“They all have some merit,” mused Miss Murray. “I don’t think we should spend it on upgrading the canteen though. Surely that’s our responsibility?”
“Why not?” drawled Mr McElvey. “Save us a bob or two!” he looked round for agreement from Mr Philipson and Mr Soames. He didn’t get it.
“Investments and grants would need to be administered,” said Mr Soames. “We’d need lawyers and special bank accounts and things. That could take up a lot of money.”
“A holiday fund though?” queried Miss Murray. “That would be nice.”
“How could it be run? How could we decide who gets what?” Mrs Pegram was not averse to the idea. “It certainly would be in the spirit of the bequest though.”
The others (except Mr McElvey) nodded. “Leave it with me,” said Mrs Pegram, “We’ve got another committee meeting next week. I’ll try to see how we could do this.”
“Would you mind if I joined you?” asked Miss Murray. “I’m really keen to see this through.”
“Of course. We could probably do with your advice on the financial side.” She ignored Mr McElvey’s snort of disapproval.
The final decision for the bequest was discussed throughout the store during the next month and met with general approval. The committee were quietly pleased with the plans that they had drawn up with Miss Murray’s input. It would be complicated; the committee members would be involved in some unusual activities and would have to meet over the long term to oversee their investment. However, it was a plan that would have entirely met with Miss McPherson’s approval and was transparently fair to all.
Six months later, Miss Collins, as the youngest member of permanent staff, was asked to cut the ribbon and officially open “McPherson’s Rest” as the pretty detached cottage was called. Nestling in the shade of a low hill and within easy walking distance of the small seaside town, it was an ideal size and in an ideal location for a holiday home.
Coaches had been laid on to transport all the staff who wished to visit and attend the opening day. As they wandered from room to room, sipping their sparkling wine, they imagined their own week’s allocation there. Fifty-two weeks of the year offered most staff and their families a week at least every other year. Staff with no family of their own were encouraged to get together in friendly groups and share their weeks. With four bedrooms this was no problem; in fact, Miss Collins and her mother were going to go at the same time as Miss Manson. There was even talk of Jimmy from Packing and Dispatch coming too. That had been Miss Manson’s idea. She was going to bring her camera.
The bequest covered the running of the cottage and provided for transport. The first four occupants were all going down on the 11.42 next Saturday. Mr Glen, Miss Murray’s chauffeur, was to collect them all and take them to the station. The thought of travelling in Miss Murray’s Bentley thrilled them. They’d feel like royalty, Miss Collins had admitted to Miss Murray in a burst of excitement on hearing of the offer. Miss Murray experienced a momentary glow of satisfaction, much like Miss McPherson must have done time and again over the years. Silently, Miss Murray toasted Miss McPherson in the sparkling wine and resolved to be more like her.
Chapter 5
Downfall
Violet Parsons, Violet P as she was known to all, was the undisputed queen of Murrays. She’d worked there since she was just 14 many years ago, and loved Murrays every bit as much as Murrays loved her. She was warm and friendly to all and was as popular with customers as she was with staff of all ages. In the canteen she could be seen every breaktime holding court and listening sympathetically to anyone from the most junior of juniors pouring out their romantic worries to the most senior of staff talking of their disappointments or rare triumphs in life and all points in between. She was a gem.
Her department was Linens on the top tier of the galleried Grand Hall and she revelled in the luxurious supplies of fabrics to be found there. Nothing gave her greater pleasure than helping a young bride to be and her mother to select just the right sets of bed linens and towels to start off married life. She always had a secret supply of lavender sprigs to wrap up with these purchases as ‘just a wee gift you understand’, as she’d say. It was hardly surprising that her customers returned year after year sometimes just to say hello or to introduce her to friends who, in their turn, became customers themselves.
The people in management were big fans. She had known them all since they were juniors and knew many of their innermost secrets too, but would never ever divulge them, even under the closest questioning by her friends, of which she had many scattered throughout the store.
Every morning, while the juniors in Linens were dusting and rearranging the stock, she would take a turn round the shop. This was more in the nature of a triumphal progress than just a walk around. She was greeted by all and urged to examine their latest goods. In China and Glass she’d marvel at the latest Royal Worcester deliveries, running her fingers admiringly over the smooth surfaces of the painted cups and plates. Sportswear held an apparent fascination for her, and she’d be invited to try out the newest tennis racquets, swooping them about, looking like the unlikeliest tennis player ever, to the encouragement of the young lads there. In a shop like Murrays there was always something new to see.
Mrs Parsons was that rare being: a person happy in her work. Her kindly eyes shone out from behind thick spectacles. Her wide smile was livened by slightly protruding teeth, and frizzy grey hair sprang out all round her head. Her slightly dowdy skirt and cardigan were not, strictly speaking, Murrays uniform but no one dreamt of complaining about it.
One Monday, as she made her stately way through the shop, Murrays’ newest recruit, a raw gangly young man, all elbows and knees, was nodding solemnly as his department head outlined his role. Jamie Spence was to be employed to beef up the store security department. His boss, Barry Hughes, was a failed policeman. He’d left the force under a non-specified cloud and had languished at Murrays ever since. Mrs Pegram from Personnel could never find out quite why he’d left the police in his late 30s but now, 15 years on, she was glad that they had someone with his background onboard.
The only problem with Barry was that he was really quite outstandingly lazy. He would be in the canteen for first break at 9.30, after a cursory glance round the shop, to consume the first of many, substantial, largely fried, meal
s. He’d stay there until first lunch, which he would also consume, then sit on through second lunch huddled over his newspaper until first afternoon break. As everyone else was only allowed 20 minutes for breaks and an hour for lunch, no one knew that he actually spent virtually all day up there in the canteen, which was located in the eaves of the ornate old building. The canteen staff were busy sweating in the greasy atmosphere of the kitchen churning out rolls and sausages or that old favourite ‘cauliflower au gratin with cheese’ or the delicious ‘jam spong’ (sic). And so Barry passed his days in a haze of grease and cigarette smoke poring over the paper to see how his horses had done in yesterday’s races.
Jamie’s arrival in his department was a considerable irritation for him. He was used to his peaceful and uneventful life, and he had explained time and again to the management that there was always going to be some ‘shrinkage’, as shoplifting or frank theft was known.
It was inevitable and these people knew what they were doing. “Probably gangs of them over from Glasgow,” he’d say. “Nothing you could do about it.”
Now however, as shrinkage reached epidemic proportions, the management had decided that there was indeed something to be done about it, and the appointment of an apprentice store detective was what they were doing.
“As I see it, son,” Barry breathed wheezily over Jamie at their first meeting after his staff induction week, “your job will be to walk about the store to see what you can see and, more important, to be seen seeing it, if you know what I mean.” He looked searchingly up at the lanky lad who towered over his new boss. “On no account get too friendly with anyone. You never know who’s at it.” He nodded meaningfully, holding Jamie’s gaze. Jamie gulped.
To Barry’s dismay, Jamie was almost embarrassingly enthusiastic. He nodded keenly at his boss’s words. At last he had found his true vocation. He was a keen reader of detective stories and was all set for a life probing mysterious crimes and tracking down criminals. His greatest disappointment in life so far had been his failure to meet the physical standards for a career in the police force. This was due to his extreme height and the resultant gangliness and weakness of his joints. It was unfortunate for a potential detective that he presented such a noticeable figure as it would be almost impossible for anyone to miss someone of his stature and build. His slight Highland accent, acquired in his native Inverness where his mother still lived, also marked him out from the Edinburgh crowd. However, the aspect of Jamie most inimical to his being a successful detective was his extreme friendliness and keenness to chat. His mother had always said “There’s something of the Labrador dog in our Jamie’s personality.” No one had ever disagreed.
It was thus a great problem for Jamie to ignore Barry Hughes’s instructions to keep himself at a distance from the staff and to avoid forming any friendships with them. He was quite simply constitutionally unable to be distant or unfriendly to anyone.
Needless to say, his transits around the shop ‘seeing what he could see and being seen to see it’ as instructed, resulted in him getting to know and like everyone, including many customers who he gladly assisted whenever possible. To Barry’s despair, Jamie soon became a popular and well-known figure to all. No sort of detective or deterrent at all.
He was summoned to meet with Barry and Mrs Pegram to review progress. This was in the nature of a final warning. Mrs Pegram liked the lad and wanted to encourage him, but Barry’s exasperation, resulting mostly from the embarrassment of an actual increase in ‘shrinkage’, was palpable.
“Shape up, son, or ship out,” he barked trying (but failing) to impress Mrs Pegram.
Jamie flinched. He really was trying his hardest. He hadn’t known, for example, that by carrying an old lady’s bag out to her waiting car he was helpfully transferring £1,000 worth of goods from the Jewellery department. He always did his best to visit each department every day. He couldn’t help falling into conversation with people.
Life was not as good as he’d hoped on moving to Edinburgh. His bedsitter was very tiny. Sleep was a problem, as the bed was too short and ablutions were carried out at half-sized sink in the corner. He struggled with laundry and, as his great friend Violet P from Linens always said, he often looked like an unmade bed.
He confided in her now, and she was, as ever, sympathetic.
“Tell you what, son,” she said, “just you bring in your shirts and I’ll put them through my machine and give them a wee iron. It’s no bother to me. I’m used to it, and since my laddie left home I’ve time to do it.” This helpful offer became a regular habit. Jamie’s new smarter appearance was remarked on positively by Mrs Pegram next time she met him walking up the tiled staff stairs between departments.
Jamie’s mother was slightly concerned to hear of this new arrangement. “Oh Jamie, that’s awfully kind of her,” she told him during one of their weekly phone calls. “What can you do in exchange? Is there anything she’s needing done since her own boy left home?”
“Good point, Mum. I’ll give it some thought. It’s Mother’s Day next week and as her son has left maybe I could take round a bunch of flowers?”
His mother was torn between a feeling of quiet pride that he’d remembered it was Mother’s Day and a vague feeling of jealously at this apparent other mother figure in her only son’s life. She suppressed this ignoble thought. She was a fair woman and proud of his popularity.
“Aye son, you do that,” she said. “Mind and get nice ones though.”
Jamie put his methodical detective’s mind to the issue. He’d need to find out Violet’s address and also buy a lovely bunch of flowers. His legacy of friendliness helped out here: Mrs Carr, the director’s secretary, had always liked Jamie, especially after he’d helped her with her house move one weekend. She willingly, but possibly illegally, supplied him with Violet’s home address. Another great friend, Irene from the Florists, was delighted to put together a bouquet of flowers. She suggested blooms in varying shades of purple and lilac to echo the name Violet. He happily accepted the suggestion and made complicated arrangements to collect it after the shop closed at Saturday lunchtime. He hoped he could sneak it out without Violet seeing it. He was thrilled at the cloak-and-dagger nature of his mission and so pleased at the prospect of Violet’s surprise and joy at his thank-you gift.
The next day, he judged that about Sunday lunchtime might be a good time to arrive. There was a possibility that he might be pressed to stay for lunch, so pleased would she be by his thoughtfulness. He hoped so anyway.
He found the house, a neat bungalow, without difficulty. It was further from Murrays than he’d thought it would be, but no matter. A van was parked outside with its back doors open. There was no one about. He walked up the path and rang the bell. There was no reply, which surprised him as the door was slightly ajar. He debated with himself briefly then gave the door a gentle push and stepped hesitantly inside calling “Yoo-hoo. Anyone home? It’s only me.”
As he crossed over the little doormat, his eyes widened, he swallowed painfully, his heart thumped. The sight that met his eyes shocked him to the core. The hallway and stairs were piled high with a huge range of Murrays’ goods, all still in their packaging and with delivery stickers and labels still on them. As he mutely examined the bales of towels, canteens of cutlery, record players and crates of expensive cosmetics, he became aware of being watched. He looked up. Violet was standing in an open door, silhouetted against the light, her frizzy hair stood out around her head like a halo. A voice called from upstairs, “Everything all right, Mum?”
“Mum?” Jamie whispered “I thought he was away. I brought you these for Mother’s Day.” He thrust the bouquet towards her awkwardly.
“He was. He’s back.”
To cover the awkward silence, he asked conversationally, “Where was he?”
“Perth,” came the terse reply.
“What was he doing there?” Jamie continued, stuck in a conversational rut and unsure how to move on.
“Eighte
en months,” came the even more terse reply.
“Oh,” said Jamie.
There was a pause, then she said, “For God’s sake, just come in.” Jamie was torn between running for it and trying to be professional. His urge to be a good detective overcame his initial impulse. He stepped forward telling himself to remember everything he’d seen and mentally preparing to recount it all to Barry.
In the little living room surrounded by souvenirs from various departments of Murrays, he sat down on the chair indicated. He noticed with a small shock that it still had its sales labels attached.
“Now, Violet,” he began at the same time as she burst out, “Och, Jamie.”
They looked at each other across the fireside rug (a bargain reduced from £35). He sat back looking at her expectantly.
He was hoping against hope that there was some absolutely fine explanation for the contraband-filled house. Unfortunately, this was not to be. It transpired that Violet had been stealing from Murrays almost from her first day. It had become a challenge to her to get as much stock out as she possibly could without being discovered. There had been close shaves over the years, but she had never been found out. As she told him this, her eyes glinted. She appeared almost triumphant, almost taking pleasure in recounting her ever-increasing successes in smuggling out goods. “But how?” he stammered, thinking about the sheer quantity and bulk of what he’d seen.
“Various ways,” she said airily waving her hand. “Distraction, diversion, just plain-looking, official and efficient. People are very stupid,” she said dismissively.
Excess goods were sold on by her son who had a wide and shady range of acquaintances. Jamie listened to the small bumps and thuds emanating from the hall and surmised that the stock in the hall was being transferred to the waiting van.
He listened to this with ever-mounting dismay. He felt hot and cold with shock. Violet, his dear friend Violet P, was not who he had thought she was. He felt sick. Sick and stupid. What sort of store detective was he? He raged internally. He didn’t know how Barry would take it. Either he’d be praised for bringing this significant thief to justice, or he’d be sacked for the sheer incompetence of befriending what appeared to be a master criminal.
