by Jane Tulloch
He had become aware throughout this confession that Violet had adopted a rather different manner from her usual self. Even accounting for her shock at his arrival, she seemed harsh and her voice and facial expression seemed harder. There was a faint but palpable air of menace to her, and he struggled not to be intimidated by it. She looked at him through narrowed eyes.
“So what are you going to do about me?” she asked briskly.
He gulped again. To buy a little time to think through his options he said “I think we should talk about this. How about a cup of tea?” There had not been the hoped-for smell of a Sunday roast, but the hoped-for familiar Violet P was simply not there either. His appetite had disappeared. Grudgingly, she got up and went through to the kitchen. He could hear her muttering to herself.
“Thanks for these by the way,” she said offhandedly as she re-entered the room carrying the flowers in a Royal Copenhagen vase he recognised as having disappeared last week, to the consternation of Miss Piper in China and Glass.
“They’re to thank you for the washing and ironing,” he told her. “I thought I’d surprise you with them.”
“You certainly did that,” she replied. He heard the front door closing quietly. Everything gone, he reckoned. He’d need to remember as much as he could from his first entrance to the house.
“Oh Jamie,” she suddenly cried plaintively, “what am I going to do? It’s not my fault, it’s that Brian.”
“Brian?”
“Brian. My husband.”
“Your husband? You never said you had a husband. Well, you must have had one, of course, but you’ve never spoken about him.”
“He’s away too.”
“Perth?” Jamie queried feeling knowledgeable.
“Carstairs,” came the reply. Jamie gulped again. Oh dear, this was just not at all the family he’d imagined. He comforted himself thinking that at least he wasn’t the only person duped by Violet’s kindly persona. It was incredible how she’d managed to maintain this double life for so long and so well. What sort of person was she? Jamie’s internal debate raged on. He had to reconcile the friendly popular Violet that everyone loved with this cold-eyed criminal from what felt like a fractured, dangerous family.
He pulled himself together and took a sip of tea from the proffered cup. “You’ll have to give yourself up,” he started. “That would really count in your favour.” She looked at him sceptically.
“You could say that your Brian forced you to,” he continued hurriedly. “People don’t get sent to Carstairs for nothing. Was he violent? Were you afraid of him? You could say you were?” he offered hopefully.
“Oh, he was violent all right,” she said tonelessly. “Not to me or the boy though, and he’s not getting out any time soon. If at all.”
Jamie shivered, drew himself up, then said, “Well, that’s a plan then. How shall we do it?” Violet nodded as she noted his use of “we.”
They talked on during the next few hours over more tea and some toasted cheese. The old Violet began to re-emerge, much to Jamie’s relief. The eventual plan they made was that they would meet in the Linens department at 10 the next morning and would both go up to Mrs Pegram’s office, rather than the store detective’s office, and present the shoplifting as a result of mental anxiety or some such vaguely medical reason. Either way it would not really be her fault and her long and excellent record at Murrays would stand her in good stead. He managed to convince himself that criminal proceedings were unlikely even given the sheer quantity of stolen goods. She would probably lose her job but was coming up for retirement anyway. Jamie knew of a small newsagent who could employ her for a few days a week so, on the whole, she’d be all right. He sighed with relief at having resolved the appalling dilemma his kind act had led him into. As he left through the now empty hall to walk back to his bedsit, he even began to feel proud of his ability as both sleuth and diplomat. Violet waved him off down the path.
Only one person saw what had precipitated Jamie’s fall from the third-floor gallery, but many horrified onlookers caught sight of his body, arms wildly flailing and mouth open emitting a thin wail, as it tumbled down past the tiers of galleries landing finally with a ghastly crash in a glass display cabinet in Menswear on the ground floor of the Grand Hall. Some, the lucky ones, had turned their heads away to avoid seeing the landing but others were less fortunate. There was a stunned silence for a moment, then screams and cries began to ring out. Older staff quickly drew the juniors away from the balconies to spare them the sight of Jamie’s body lying among the jagged shards of glass and now bloodstained shirts.
On the top floor, Violet fell to her knees then appeared to pass out briefly. She was helped up by a kindly passing customer, one of her regulars, and passed from person to person in a well-meaning attempt to get her to a chair by the window. Several glasses of water for her were produced by others with shaking hands, all keen to do what they could in this awful situation. They looked at one another in consternation. Muttered phrases were uttered and drifted out in the atmosphere of distress:
“How awful.”
“It’s dreadful.”
“Who was that?”
“Too ghastly.”
One appalled junior was led away by Mrs Ritchie, a great friend of Violet’s, in case her language offended any of the customers the girl’s cries of ‘it’s shit, just shit’ gradually becoming quieter as she reached the staff staircase. She then sat down abruptly and burst into noisy tears. Sitting beside the trembling girl on the chilly step, Mrs Ritchie, shivering herself now, pondered. One never knew how people would take unexpected events. She then found herself thinking it is shit, just shit. That poor young man.
It was Jock, the lift operator, who had caught sight of Violet herself giving Jamie a hard push as he leant over the balcony to retrieve a napkin that had fallen from her display. He saw him overbalance; his height and gangly frame against him, attain a precarious equilibrium for a brief second then finally topple over into space with the aid of another quick push from Violet. Jock shook his head as though to bring to life his useless left eye. It had only been a glimpse as the lift door shut and began its clanking transit down in response to a call from Ladies Outdoor Clothing on the floor below.
In Menswear, confusion reigned. At first, people were frozen into immobility, then those who were accustomed to dealing with crises sprang into action.
“Call an ambulance,” cried one voice, agitatedly.
“No point,” responded a gloomier one.
We must get everyone out of here thought one woman who had been mindlessly examining ties and cufflinks as potential birthday gifts for her husband moments before. She turned and left. She had dropped her bags at the moment of the crash and didn’t think to retrieve them. She walked downstairs slowly and out through the Perfumery and Cosmetics department, ignoring the frantic requests from the girls there.
“What’s happened?” asked one exotic creature. “Is it a bomb?”
The woman stared straight ahead: didn’t, couldn’t respond. She left through the revolving doors, telling her husband later that she could never go back to Murrays.
‘Flash’ Harry Ferguson, Menswear’s Casanova, saw it all and was precipitately and quietly sick in a convenient fire bucket. As he was congratulating himself on his presence of mind, he inadvertently caught sight of the shattered display cabinet and its ghastly contents and was sick again: this time on his new Italian shoes. Och, he thought.
Meanwhile the management had been alerted to the catastrophic event in the Grand Hall. The police were called and, for the first time since the great fire in 1877, the store was closed to the public for the rest of the day.
The shell-shocked staff assembled in the canteen. It was a tight squeeze, as people usually only went there in the strict rotation of breaks. The cook sweated as she calculated how much bacon and black pudding to put on for the anticipated vastly increased demand. As it happened, nobody felt very hungry after all. What a waste, sh
e thought, first about the fried food then, with a jolt, about Jamie’s poor mother.
Barry Hughes, as head of Security, would have been the obvious person to address them but, as Jamie’s immediate boss, he was thought to be too shocked and distressed to take up this role at present. It was a former colleague of his, Sgt Hansen, who spoke up.
“Now everybody who saw what happened, please stay behind,” he started. “Anyone else who thinks they might have useful information for us, stay too, please. You others can go.”
The exotic girls from Perfumery and Cosmetics and the people from Toys, Lingerie and the Cookshop got up and left, in some cases casting regretful glances back at their colleagues. A police investigation? How exciting. Of course, they were fortunate enough not to have witnessed the harrowing event.
Jock wondered if he should stay. Best not, he thought. Nobody would believe him, he hardly believed it himself. It couldn’t have happened; it must have been a trick of the light or his remaining eye not focusing properly. He was beginning to worry about his eyesight. He got up and left, walking slowly down the many flights of stairs and out to the street. He’d go back to his beloved pigeons and relax. He thought he might break the habit of a lifetime, though, and have a medicinal brandy. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt so shaken up.
The police investigation was remarkably perfunctory. Sgt Hansen had viewed the location of the fall and his men had interviewed everyone. They could only conclude that it had been a tragic accident due to a combination of the young lad’s height and willingness to help out an older member of staff. They hadn’t actually interviewed Violet, as she was known to be so extremely distressed at the shocking death of such a close friend. She had been so upset that Mrs Pegram had given her a few days off. Mrs Ritchie had relayed to the police officers what Violet had told her about the fallen napkin dangling from the balcony, which Jamie had offered to retrieve.
The funeral was well attended by Jamie’s many friends from Murrays, his very recent school mates and, of course, his widowed mother. Violet sat with her, leaning in comfortingly at times and wiping away what looked like tears of her own. Jock, observing from a side aisle, wondered.
Chapter 6
The Square Peg
Mrs Da Costa in Accounts had always worried about her son, Martin. He was her only child, a bright boy who had somehow not fulfilled the promise he had shown in his early days at school. It was hard to believe that her clever boy, the darling of the teachers, had turned into this silent, apparently friendless, young man. He seemed entirely happy with his own company and only occasionally joined her and his dad after tea. His only pleasure was his collection of football statistics, which he pored over intently. Despite his father’s urgings, he would never actually attend a match, preferring to spend his evenings collating goal averages and similar, to her mind, useless information.
The question of his employment was an issue for the couple. There were no openings at the large engineering works where Mr Da Costa worked, and Martin seemed an unlikely employee for Murrays. He showed no particular inclination himself, wanting only to fill the void left by his school days. He mooched around unhappily at home seemingly unwilling to seek out employment for himself.
Mrs Da Costa made an appointment to see Mrs Pegram about possibilities for him at Murrays. “The trouble is,” as she explained to her, “Martin’s just too honest for his own good.”
“That’s not a bad thing,” Mrs Pegram responded. “I like to hear about honest young people. Frankly it’s a refreshing change.” She had to deal with petty pilfering by staff on only too frequent an occasion. “Of course we’ll find a place for him. If he’s anything like his mother, I’m sure he’ll be an asset to the shop.” Mrs Da Costa smiled and thanked her returning to Accounts by the staff staircase.
Martin started the next Monday, and by Wednesday had alienated the entire staff group in the Ironmongery department, where he had been placed. He had rearranged the stock out of its time-honoured display into an apparently more logical order, identified anomalies in the stock-taking system and suggested to the buyer, Mr Handley, a 50-a-day man, that it was unhealthy to smoke and that it should be banned indoors.
“He has to go, Mrs Pegram,” Mr Handley raged wheezily. “I’ll have a riot on my hands otherwise.”
Privately thinking that it was unlikely that the notoriously quiet and industrious staff group in Ironmongery could be incensed to such a degree, she agreed that Martin could, indeed must, be moved.
His next placement, with the Porters was similarly unsuccessful. He complained about the length of their numerous breaks and insisted on working on throughout them. He made them feel most uncomfortable and showed them up for the idle bunch they undoubtedly were. “The trouble is,” Mrs Pegram mused aloud to her secretary, “he’s not actually wrong.” The two women pondered the next placement for Martin.
His short time in the Cookshop was a disaster as was his very short time in the Stationery department. A pattern was emerging. Mrs Pegram didn’t want to upset his mother, a longstanding and valued member of staff, but still …
Finally, she had an idea. He only tended to last for short spells in each department so why not positively harness this tendency and use him as a ‘mobile’? Mobiles were emergency staff members who could be placed at short notice in any department to fill unexpected vacancies, staff illness or holiday cover. Martin had a very sound grasp indeed of the paperwork and procedures that underpinned all the departments and, if only in each one for a short time, he was less likely to upset the existing staff who might even be grateful for an extra pair of hands at busy times.
She put this to him in a short interview to discuss his latest debacle, which involved him switching off the lights in the Electrical Goods department if there were no customers present, his reasoning being that he was only trying to save Murrays money on their electricity bill. This was the last straw for that particular exasperated staff team.
He considered her suggestion of a transfer to the ‘mobile’ team with considerable concern. He was already distressed at having had to face so many moves in such a short time. Mrs Pegram was ready for this. She gave him a detailed job description and outlined the new procedures for each day: he was to report to her at 8.50am when he would receive the day’s orders. That seemed to provide sufficient structure and he set off for the back door examining the job description for a ‘mobile’. He noted some typing errors, which he underlined to show Mrs Pegram tomorrow.
The new system worked well enough for a few weeks. He couldn’t be expected to get to know the other staff members during his transitory placements in first Hosiery, Toys, then Fancy Goods and Notions (concepts that he simply couldn’t comprehend). “What is a fancy good?” he asked his mother later, “And what on earth is a notion?” Mrs Da Costa sighed.
Sometimes a day comes when destiny calls. For Martin this unequivocal occasion arrived on the day that Mrs Pegram, with a heavy heart yet desperately short of staff, despatched him to Model Gowns.
This department was the inner sanctum of Ladies Apparel and housed the most exclusive and expensive one-off designer models. Only the very wealthy ladies shopped there and only then for very special occasions. The thought of Martin in this dainty department was disconcerting, to say the least. However, it was a grey, rainy day, a Tuesday in February, so possibly only a few customers would be in, and maybe Martin could be employed in the back room ironing the newly arrived stock? Mrs Pegram hoped so.
It was unfortunate then, that just as Mrs Hope the senior sales person was enjoying her break in the canteen (going so far as to have a second bacon roll), Mrs Margo Clapperton decided to visit Model Gowns with a view to buying a stunning outfit for her stepdaughter’s wedding.
Mrs Clapperton was the wife of a prominent businessman and Ladies’ Captain of her golf club. Theirs had been a second marriage for her much older husband and relations were strained between her and her stepdaughter, Stella, who resented her widowed father�
��s infatuation with his bubbly ex-secretary. At the time of her marriage, Margo had been a stunning blonde with a slim figure and sensational legs, which she displayed as much of and as often as possible. Pink was her signature colour, and she had a vast wardrobe of clothes in all its shades. She loved clothes and had very much found her ‘style’, as she put it to her friends (the ‘girls’), and stuck with it rigidly. Time had taken its toll and, in her case, this had involved a slight but significant increase in weight, affecting her now downright chubby face and solid body. Only strenuous efforts by hairdressers had retained her blonde curls with a resulting requirement for more make-up to prevent her from looking washed out. Endearingly, Mr Clapperton still thought she was absolutely gorgeous. Her stepdaughter thought she looked a joke. Relations at home could only be improved by her departure on her forthcoming marriage. This happy event couldn’t come quickly enough for Mrs Clapperton.
She scanned the racks of dresses on display. Martin observed her from slightly behind the curtain that divided the display area from the back shop. Delightedly, she pounced on a dress and matching jacket in shocking pink satin. He suppressed a wince.
“Can I help you with that, madam?” he asked, suavely stepping forward. Margo looked around
“Where’s Mrs Hope?” she asked. “I usually deal with Mrs Hope.”
He replied, “Mrs Hope is no longer with us,” which was completely true in that she was no longer in the department but in the canteen.
“Oh dear,” said Margo, “I usually rely on her to help me.”
“Would you like to try this on, madam?” he enquired.
