by Jane Tulloch
“Oh yes, I suppose so,” said Margo, “but I do wish Mrs Hope hadn’t left. She hasn’t died?” she asked quickly, that unfortunate thought having just struck her.
“No, no, madam nothing like that,” he assured her as they walked towards the changing rooms. Although it was only a matter of time, he thought, given her predilection for fried food. He congratulated himself on refraining from expressing this thought aloud. I’m learning, he thought to himself. Mrs Pegram will be pleased with me.
A short while later, she pushed aside the curtains of the changing room and walked out into the department to survey herself in the full-length mirrors. She was delighted with the ensemble and envisaged a subsequent happy time selecting shoes and accessories to match. It was only by accident that she caught sight of Martin’s face in the mirror behind her. Expecting to hear the usual complimentary remarks, she turned to him confidently. “Just perfect, isn’t it?” She was quite stunned at his response.
“No.”
“What do you mean no?” she asked in her most formal voice.
“It’s just that it’s completely the wrong colour and style for you,” he stated, his head on one side as he narrowed his eyes and scrutinised her more closely. He was too interested to attend to the growing likelihood of his being in trouble yet again. Before she could say anything else, he rushed off to the racks of garments under the windows: racks that she hadn’t bothered to look at, as they didn’t contain ‘her’ colours.
He returned breathlessly with a long dress and jacket on a hanger. “Try that,” he said in a peremptory manner, thrusting it at her. Gulping back her outrage, she looked at what he’d brought her.
“These aren’t my colours.”
“Yes, they are,” he said firmly. “With your skin tone and hair colour, pink looks awful. You need to highlight your underlying skin tone and emphasise the real colour of your hair, which I can just see down there at your parting.”
She blushed a deep scarlet, more with rage than embarrassment. So her roots were showing. How dare he mention this! Her eye fell on the outfit he was still proffering. It was a curious colour combination of sort of khaki and navy. Quite ghastly. How she wished Mrs Hope was still there.
“Just put it on.” Martin’s firm voice stirred her into action. Something about its emphatic nature made her take it and return to the changing room throwing him angry looks over her shoulder as she went. She had no intention of doing other than putting her own clothes back on and stalking out, never to return. She glimpsed herself in the large mirror as she hung up the offending garments. In the harsh light from the window, she saw that, horribly, unbelievably, he was actually right. She slumped down onto a stool, aware of the pressure from the tight pink satin dress as she did so. It rode up on her legs exposing a large expanse of plump knees in shiny pale tights. Who was she kidding? she asked herself. She was the wrong side of fifty. She’d clung to her old look for far too long. Collecting her thoughts she decided, I’ll try this other outfit on. Why not? If only to prove that insolent young so and so wrong.
Margo Clapperton’s transformation was the talk of the golf club, the neighbours and the “girls.” Everyone had become so accustomed to her plump rosy figure that the sudden appearance of this sophisticated, slimmer, darker-haired and very attractive woman had been a shock to all. She looked and felt years younger. Even Stella grudgingly admitted that she looked stunning in her stepmother-of-the-bride outfit. To the bride’s fury, Margo’s khaki and navy colour scheme replicated in a wonderful hat and fabulous shoes made her a centre of attraction in most, but – for the furious Stella’s sake – hopefully not all the photographs. The photographer tactfully suppressed some of the negatives, thinking that few brides would relish their being captured on film shooting such glances at their glamorous stepmother. The bride’s father beamed with pride out of the photographs at the two women in his life.
Martin’s extreme honesty and eye for detail had finally found its ideal home. Margo was effusive in her praise for this rather distant, apparently modest, young man. She was wildly indiscreet, so it hadn’t occurred to her to keep this phenomenon to herself.
“The great thing about Martin is,” Margo gushed to the ‘girls’ at the golf club, “he’s so completely honest. If you look awful, he’ll tell you, and then he’ll tell you exactly why and what to do about it.”
The girls were thrilled at this novelty to be found in Ladies Outfitting. They were all accustomed to gushing praise from sales assistants with an eye to their commission. They crowded in to Model Gowns to see this phenomenon and to experience for themselves the refreshing change of his constructive, if biting, criticism. They relished his outrageous personal comments and rushed to telephone them to their friends after a chastening session with him. “He said I’m too fat for trousers,” “I must never wear blue, as it emphasises the bags under my eyes,” “Isn’t he awful?” they trilled to one another “It’s wonderful!”
At certain times of year –, the royal garden party, charity balls, society weddings etc. Murrays Model Gowns department was under siege by ladies of a certain age. Martin always did his best focusing on only one lady at a time and producing unexpected and entirely successful outcomes.
Mrs Pegram expedited Martin’s permanent transfer to Model Gowns, much to Mrs Hope’s disgust. Even Mrs Hope, though, couldn’t complain about the colossal upturn in business following Martin’s arrival and all agreed that this particular square peg had found his square hole.
Thank God, thought his mother.
Chapter 7
Storm in the Teacups
Miss Piper smiled to herself as she looked around the China and Glass department. This was her favourite time of day. She had the department to herself before all the youngsters, as she thought of the other staff, arrived. She moved swiftly among the display stands whisking off the night-time dust covers. The Paragon, Royal Doulton, Royal Crown Derby and Wedgwood tea sets, all her special favourites, were revealed with a flourish. Finally, her holy of holies, the Spode, Royal Worcester and Coalport teacups and saucers, plates and bowls emerged from under the covers. The lights under the display units flickered and hummed, as they came to life and illuminated Miss Piper’s treasures.
As she went about her early morning duties, she reflected on her many years in the China and Glass department at Murrays of Edinburgh. She supposed she was now ‘First Sales’ assistant, not that anyone had called it that since her friend Miss Archer had retired from Haberdashery in 1964. Still, she knew she was First Sales, and that was good enough for her.
The internal door opened and Mr McInnes, the buyer, walked purposefully over the dust-coloured carpet towards her. “Might I have a word, Miss Piper? In my office, please.”
She followed him into the little glassed-off section of the packing room.
“Now, Miss Piper,” he began, “as you know, the board has decided it’s time that Murrays began to move into the 1970s, along with all the other department stores.”
Her heart sank. What would be happening now? For 30 years her department had run like clockwork. The previous buyer had been very complimentary to her until his stroke. He continued: “We’ll be making a few changes round here. Samples of the new uniforms are going to be taken around all the departments today, so we can see how they look.”
She opened her mouth to ask more about them, but he continued, “We also think that, as a sign of the times, we should start using our first names. Much less formal I think, nicer for the customers. My name’s James, what can I call you?”
She, paused, then swallowed. “Miss Piper,” she replied, and turned and left the office. James stared after her and sighed. They had warned him that she was a dinosaur.
The other staff members of the China and Glass department began to drift in. First Miss Glover, the junior, closely followed by Shirley Smith and Eric Upton, both recent transfers from the Fancy Goods and Notions department. Clearly a very badly run section, Miss Piper had often thought. Mrs Hay
and Mrs Henderson rushed in at the last minute. Miss Piper sniffed. Both were part-timers and had young children at school. Miss Piper disapproved of this. No commitment to Murrays there.
The work of the department commenced in its usual way. As rays of sunlight began to pierce the gloom of the old department, the assistants were kept busy: dusting and polishing, helping customers, packing and unpacking plates and cups, tureens and bowls, all under the eye of Miss Piper.
“No, Miss Glover, that’s not how we display Poole Pottery,” she reproved Miss Glover, the junior.
“Och, pay no attention to her,” said Shirley, the marginally older assistant, when she noticed Miss Glover’s disconcerted face. “She’s just an old stick in the mud.” They both giggled and looked longingly at their watches. Surely it must be tea break soon.
Miss Piper listened to this whispered conversation. Did they think she was deaf? She just liked things to be done properly. She only wanted the beautiful china to be displayed as it deserved to be. Nobody seemed to care about ‘Victoriana Rose’ or ‘Old Country Roses’ or even Spode ‘Chinese Rose’ any more. She sighed. These young assistants with their slapdash ways were only interested in their next night out or what would be Top of the Pops this week.
At eleven the internal door opened and Mr McInnes (James!) walked in carrying some items of clothing over his arm. Glancing round and seeing that no customers were requiring attention he said: “Right, gather round everyone. I’ve got the new uniforms here. Murrays is on its way into the 1970s. See what you think.”
The assistants excitedly did as they were told. Miss Piper hung back, to let the others see better, she told herself, but really she dreaded what the uniforms might look like. She was a woman of a certain age and size and well knew what suited her and what did not.
“Miss Piper, what do you think?” asked Mr McInnes. The others drew back slightly to let her see. She examined the somewhat skimpy Crimplene garment with distaste. Compared to her dignified black skirt and plain white blouse (with pearls at the neck, of course), the French blue pinafore with the zip up the front looked completely inappropriate. She looked again.
“But this will be far too short,” she burst out.
“It will be a bright new change for us all,” said Mr McInnes with a warning look. “I’m sure we’ll all get used to it, even you, Miss Piper, which reminds me. We will all be issued with new badges with our first names on them instead of that dreary Miss This or Mr That.” The others smiled and nodded approvingly.
Miss Piper held the pinafore up against her. It finished a few inches above where her knees would be were they not securely covered by the good black skirt. “But this is far too short,” she said again. The others began to laugh. Exasperated, she hissed, in case customers might hear. “We’ll look like tarts! Tarts!” she repeated.
“Well you won’t be mistaken for one, dear, that’s for sure,” choked Shirley. The others erupted into laughter.
Miss Piper became aware of a humming in her ears and a prickling behind her eyelids. She lowered them in confusion. A hesitant customer approached the group of staff.
“Excuse me; do you have such a thing as an eared egg dish?” she asked.
“Would that be for eared eggs?” said Shirley, by this time quite beyond herself. The others howled with laughter, holding on to one another for support. The customer, a small woman in a beige raincoat, looked crestfallen.
Miss Piper looked up, this was too much. Embarrassing customers! It was inexcusable. She looked to Mr McInnes expectantly. Surely he would say something. She was aware of him avoiding her eye. Momentarily incensed at this new lapse, then seizing a chance to escape, “Certainly, madam,” she breezed. “What size do you require? I’ll have to go down to the stockroom to check.”
Miss Glover tensed, expecting to be sent to the stockroom as befitted her lowly status. To her surprise, Miss Piper herself set off down the stairs leaving the knot of excited assistants and the humiliated customer. Mr McInnes, tutting half-heartedly at his staff, withdrew to his office to check the order forms.
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The next day, the staff arrived in dribs and drabs with excuses for lateness carefully worked out on the bus. On his entrance, Mr McInnes viewed the department in astonishment. The covers were all still in place over the display units. The lights had not been switched on. Most astonishing of all, there was no Miss Piper. It was unheard of. He mentally reviewed the last time she was off – it was her annual October trip to Nuneaton to visit her cousin. She wasn’t booked in for a holiday this week. Come to think of it her behaviour yesterday had been most odd. That poor customer finally gave up waiting for her and left after half an hour. Miss Piper had not re-emerged from the stockroom until everyone had gone. Oh dear, he thought before turning brightly to the staff.
“Now, Mr –, sorry, Eric, you’re in charge today.”
Mr Upton, a plump young man who hoped to get on to the management training programme, brightened up.
“Yes, sir! Sorry, er, James,” he said, blushing deeply.
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Miss Glover struggled to get off the bus, fighting a combination of the Edinburgh wind and the crowds trying to get on as she stepped off the rear platform. Really it had been a trying day. Eric was showing off and bossing everyone around or at least trying to. Shirley and he were flirting like anything and some customers had just walked out without being served. She had done her best, but she didn’t know how the order system worked and the others had all taken extra-long breaks. Miss Piper had been off for a week now, and the department was all to pot. She sighed and contemplated a long soak in the bath. She just hoped there would be enough hot water.
Her thoughts on her planned evening, she hardly noticed the old lady in front until the old lady’s paper carrier bag burst and, with a howl, she tried desperately to stop her oranges and packet of biscuits rolling away down the hill. Miss Glover rushed to help.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll get the fruit; you get the biscuits over there.” It was only when she returned to the lady with her hands full of fruit that she looked at her with a start. “Oh Miss Piper, I didn’t recognise you.” It wasn’t surprising really – Miss Piper’s usually immaculately pinned hair was loose and flying around her face. She wore an old coat and, blimey, were those her slippers? Surely not, thought Miss Glover wildly.
Miss Piper’s shoulders straightened. “Thank you. I’ll manage now,” she said in a tight voice. Something impelled Miss Glover to say “I’ll help you home with those. It’s hard to carry all that without a bag.” There was a slight pause.
“Very well,” said Miss Piper. “It’s just along here.”
They turned into the entrance of a rather shabby tenement. “I’m on the second floor,” said Miss Piper and they trudged silently up the stairs. When they reached her door, Miss Piper turned to her to thank her for her help and dismiss her, but something about the tired look on the young girl’s face made her hesitate. “I don’t suppose you’d like a cup of tea?” she ventured.
“Oh,” said Miss Glover, “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Nonsense,” replied Miss Piper, her determination returning. “You can tell me what’s going on at work. What other new developments have been introduced? Did that man from Spode bring along those samples?” She refrained from asking about the other staff.
As she waited for Miss Piper to make the tea, Miss Glover sat in the rather formal sitting room. A grey cat viewed her suspiciously from behind a chair. It had been a long time since there had been a visitor. Looking nervously at the cat, she began to examine the various ornaments adorning the mantlepiece and bookcase. There were pictures too and some photographs. She stood up to look at them more closely. One photograph in particular looked vaguely familiar.
When Miss Piper re-entered the room carrying the tea tray, she said,
“What’s that you’re looking at?”
“This photograph,” said Miss Glover. “It looks like it was taken at night from the roof of Murrays.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact it was. I borrowed Father’s box Brownie one night when I was up there on fire watching duty during the War.”
Miss Glover’s eyes widened. “Gosh. How exciting. Tell me about that.”
“Oh, it was so long ago,” Miss Piper said dismissively.
Then she thought about it a bit longer. They had been happy hours up on the roof with Mr Pringle, before he had been called up, and old Mr Arnold from Accounts. He should, by rights, have retired but stayed on to ‘do his bit’. What a time she and Mr Pringle had had trying to get him up that last steep flight of wooden stairs to the roof door. Mr Pringle. She thought of him, as ever, with a slight pang, getting slighter, but still painful. He hadn’t come back from the war. Not that he had been killed; just that he met a WAAF and settled down with her in Cardiff. It was not to be, it seemed, but during those wartime hours on the roof he had been her Mr Pringle, Malcolm. There had been no one else. Mother had said it was for the best.
She sighed, then gathered her breath and said, “Well, it was all very different, of course. We had to pack up the best fancy china pieces, furs, paintings, all the very valuable items and send them for storage to the country. Mr McDougall, he was the general manager then, he insisted that we try to carry on as normal. You should have seen what the staff canteen served up.” She continued in an unabated flow of reminiscence until she became abruptly aware of Miss Glover’s rumbling stomach. It was after eight o’clock. The poor girl must be starving, and her mother would be frantic. She apologised rapidly.
“I’m so sorry to keep you back. What must you think of me?”
“Not at all, Miss Piper,” Miss Glover replied breathlessly. “It’s been absolutely fascinating. I had never thought about all that. It’s like something off the telly.”
