Our Best Attention

by Jane Tulloch

  Miss Piper’s face twitched slightly at that. She thought the better of reproving her. She was a nice girl. “Now you really must get off home. Thank you for your help and for listening to me blether on about the old days.”

  Miss Glover set off down the street with a thoughtful expression on her face. It really had been an enlightening evening.

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  Miss Piper pinned her new gold badge to her white blouse. ‘Senior Sales Assistant’, it said proudly. The effect was slightly spoilt by having ‘Isobel’ printed underneath it. But we must move with the times, she thought to herself and stepped out on to the sales floor to see that all was as it should be. ‘Shirley’ and ‘Eric’ stared somewhat resentfully, then went back to arranging and pricing the floral ornaments. Miss Glover, ‘Jan’, walked past with a bucket of water. “Good Morning, Miss Piper,” she said brightly and carried on towards the crystal and glass.

  At the management meeting next day, Mrs Pegram was keen to introduce a new piece of business: Miss Glover had hesitatingly knocked on her door earlier on. She had offered up the idea of an interesting angle regarding the Murrays centenary. Miss Murray was immediately interested to hear of the wartime experience of staff at Murrays. Mr Philipson set off eagerly after the meeting to look out the old accounts for 1939–1945. Mrs Pegram was going to go through the old records of personnel: who had enlisted, who had stayed on, and what changes had been made in the day-to-day running of the store. They were all excited, even Mr McElvey was interested and set off to his office to think up how they could collate and present the experiences of wartime in Murrays.

  Miss Piper contemplated her 11am meeting ‘upstairs’. Who would have thought that she, Miss Piper, was the last remaining staff member who remembered Murrays in wartime? Fancy them wanting to include her memories in a history of the department store. Mother was right after all. Time did tell.

  Chapter 8

  The Inside Outsiders

  Murrays was a large, old-fashioned building. Indeed, it was something of a rabbit warren of winding corridors with little departments peppered throughout the rambling old building and arranged around the Grand Hall. The extensive wood panelling gave a cosy feel during the day and the richly carved woodwork glowed in the light reflected down in jewel like rays from the cupola over the galleries and Grand Hall. After closing time, however, it was a place of darkness and sudden creaks as the old shop settled down for the night. Most likely the sounds were from the old wood cooling and pipes rattling but “You never know,” said one old hand to another, both enjoying the creepy feeling thus engendered. The canteen agreed with this vehemently and most staff were quick to leave the building at the end of the working day.

  One staff group had to remain on duty: Barry’s trusty band of elderly security guards. It seemed difficult to recruit and retain security staff somehow since Jamie’s demise, and Barry was glad of his older, long-serving men. Night duty was not popular at Murrays. Security guards were always careful to keep their powerful torches close by and one, Stan, even asked if he could bring his dog with him on duty. Barry examined this creature, which looked to be an uneasy mixture of near corgi and enterprising dachshund: the sort of dog that other dogs laugh at, and opined that Stan wanted him more as a security blanket than to scare off any potential intruders. Nevertheless, feeling sorry for the little man, and in recognition of his many years of loyal service, he had allowed it on strict condition that no unwanted ‘deposits’ be left anywhere in the building. “I mean it mind,” Barry had said with emphasis.

  Stan was very pleased at this relaxation of the rules and soon set up a comfortable routine for himself and Sabre. They would patrol each department hourly starting from the ground floor. Only Sabre was witness to his rushing past certain shadowy areas and knew that he avoided the Grand Hall altogether. The awareness of the scene of Jamie’s catastrophic fall haunted Stan, despite his best intentions. Sabre never minded about Stan’s tendency to sing hymns loudly to ward off his fears, and they often proceeded through the darkest places in the old shop to a rousing version of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.

  The elderly building creaked and groaned, unseen plumbing and piping emitted sudden sounds and the occasional noises from the ancient boiler far below intruded into the peace of the old store. Stan had worked in Murrays for many years and was generally accustomed to all the sounds but could never really relax. He was quite jumpy. His wife often told him that the reason he was so thin was that he lived on his nerves in that old building. He acknowledged that, but a job was a job and they were hard to come by for older men. Besides he was a creature of habit. His job was just such a habit. “Not a great habit though, eh?” his wife twitted him impatiently. Well at least she hardly had to see him she consoled herself. They had been married for a long time. She sometimes thought that the only thing that kept them together was their only child, Janine, and now the baby that she was expecting any time. This thought, as usual, cheered her immeasurably.

  One Thursday night in January, Stan and his canine companion set off on their rounds. He deplored the mess that the sales had given rise to in the shop. Cardboard and packaging materials were piled up behind doors and in departmental packing areas. Not his business, he thought, but he did wonder about fire as a potential hazard. The two walked through the various departments, checking that switches were off, windows closed and everything as it should be. Suddenly, Sabre stilled and stiffened. The sound of footsteps upstairs penetrated the silence. Sabre barked and the walking noise stopped. Stan strained to hear further. Eventually, he shook his head and told Sabre fondly he was ‘just being a daft lad, wasn’t he? What was he then? A daft lad that’s what’. The little dog jumped up to lick his face feeling inappropriately proud. The two carried on patrolling. There were no further incidents that night.

  The following Saturday night the two were once again on duty. Stan was as usual nervous, especially as Barry had told him that last night’s security guard had reported some odd noises too. Nothing had been found missing or out of place, but Stan was told to be extra vigilant. He set off firmly having decided to stick to his usual routine. Tonight’s hymn of choice was the cheerful ‘Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven’, which he felt would be likely to be most off-putting to any potential wandering ghost. He only knew the first verse so after several repetitions he fancied a change. So soon after Christmas an old carol was the first thing that came to mind. As they started to walk through China and Glass singing ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’ at full blast, he became aware that he was not alone. Somewhere far off another voice was joining in. He froze and stopped singing. The voice continued. A child’s voice. What could this mean? A juvenile shoplifter? Surely not. Strangely enough, for once he wasn’t afraid. He decided calmly that his mind was playing tricks on him, as he was so taken up with thinking of his impending first grandchild. He wasn’t sure whether he could tell Barry about it. He didn’t want him to think he was losing his marbles.

  The next night, just as they approached the Carpets department on the top floor, Stan thought that he could, for some reason, smell cooking. Not ordinary cooking though. Something exotic and strange. Stan had, perhaps foolishly, been reading up on hauntings during his day off and had learned that spirits can materialise or convey their presence in a variety of ways: visual, auditory or even as smells. Sabre had picked up the scent too but this time began to wave his little tail enthusiastically. Stan was undecided. On one hand it was scary, on the other it was not an off-putting smell but, on a confusing third hand it shouldn’t be there. At that point the telephone in his little booth rang out and could be heard through the silence of the store. He turned and quickly made his way downstairs to answer it. He was waiting for news of the baby and rushed to see if he was a granddad yet. Slightly out of breath from the headlong rush downstairs he reached his ‘office’. Lifting the receiver he was glad to hear his wife’s excited voice. “Stan, oh
Stan, it’s a girl. She’s had a girl!” Stan was quite suddenly suffused with an unfamiliar feeling he recognised as happiness. He sank onto the stool next to the table. He couldn’t think of anything to say but a distracted ‘Thank you’ and hung up. He could hear a disconcerted squawk from his wife just as the receiver hit the phone. He’d pay for that in the morning, he thought briefly but then lost himself in contemplating the news. A new baby in the family, another birthday party each year, another place at the table for Christmas, presents to buy, songs to sing, a whole new way of life opened up before him. He felt glad tears welling up. Sabre sensing something momentous had happened drew himself up on his little legs and tried to jump up to lick the tears away.

  “Oh son, it’s a girl,” Stan said, feeling that it was somehow right that his faithful companion should be the first person that he could tell the good news. Sabre’s little tail wagged at double time. Still sitting on the stool with his hand distractedly on the dog’s neck Stan resolved to leave early that shift. There would be a lot to do back home. Barry would understand.

  A few days later at the management meeting, Barry brought up a concern that several of his staff had reported: the build-up of paper and packaging materials. All staff had been told already several times to clear it away, but it seemed not to have been done. The question of how to impress the risk on the staff was considered.

  “Of course, we could have a fire drill,” suggested Mrs Pegram. “We don’t have to tell them it’s a drill. That might make them think.”

  “Good heavens, do you mean scare them into thinking about it?” responded Mr Philipson. “Not very ethical. I’m surprised at you!” he said with a smile. She cheerily winked back at him. They were great friends. He helped himself to a biscuit.

  “Well, we could inform the department heads in advance. They could then bring the staff registers and we could check that everyone is accounted for,” put forward Miss Murray after some thought. “We could say that everyone could muster in the back car park as the fire doors open onto it.”

  All agreed on the plan, and the meeting continued moving on to agenda item seven: how to reduce staff catering costs. More macaroni, thought Barry with a sigh.

  The fire drill was set for the following Monday morning as early as possible in order to reduce the length of the closure of the store. Business being, after all, business.

  When the shrill alarm first rang out, it gave staff in all departments an almighty fright. Cups were dropped in the canteen, older members of staff had to have a ‘wee seat’ and juniors were sent scurrying to find the fire drill information from the backs of obscure cupboards or wherever they had last been seen. Shirley in China and Glass moved into air hostess mode and shepherded the confused staff group to the correct staircase and out to the car park. In the Grand Hall, Harry Ferguson furtively stubbed out a cigarette in the fire bucket and started to importantly usher out old Mr Smith and the younger members of staff. They looked at him crossly – who did he think he was? Thus slowly and complainingly the staff all trickled out of the fire door downstairs at the back of the shop. The other doors had all been closed to prevent customers entering. Notices had been placed outside these doors for customers to inform them about the fire drill and the store’s likely time of reopening for business.

  In the car park, the management team dressed in warm coats and jackets stood waiting for the disgruntled evacuees. Mrs Pegram had even kept her furry boots on, Mrs Carr noted resentfully.

  The department heads produced the duty sheets and the different departments all assembled together. Mrs Pegram had a note of who was absent, off duty, ill or on holiday. As the seconds ticked by and the large group of men and women shivered, her brows wrinkled. Somehow the numbers didn’t add up. There seemed to be four more people than there should be. She became aware of a ripple of concern, a mutter gathering momentum as it reached her. Finally she could discern the whispers of “Who are they?” She looked up. Imperceptibly the crowd moved apart and revealed in the centre a small bedraggled group of people. It looked like a family; certainly there were two small children and two adults. The man lifted his head and looked directly at her. “Good morning,” he said proudly. “I am Mr Joshi, and I live here.”

  It was hard to say who was most taken aback. Miss Murray stared at the man, temporarily lost for words. Mrs Pegram collected her thoughts quickly though and declared that the fire drill was over and that everyone must return to their departments. Barely half an hour had passed. The staff turned with gratitude and filed back through the door, some casting backward glances at the little group in the car park who had made no move. One of the strangers began to cry, it was a little girl. What a shame, thought kind-hearted Mrs Ritchie from Linens and produced a sticky boiling from her cardigan pocket. She proffered it to the little girl who, with a glance at her mother, took it with alacrity and popped it in her mouth before she could be stopped. “Children are the same all over,” said Mrs Ritchie with a smile to her friend Mrs Anderson.

  “Well, they’re certainly not from here,” said Mrs Anderson stating the obvious. The group were plainly of Asian origin.

  Miss Murray stepped forward to join Mrs Pegram. “Perhaps you’d like to come back inside and warm up,” she said pleasantly. “I think we have some matters to discuss,” she said to the man who replied with dignity, “Indeed we do, madam.”

  They went up to Miss Murray’s office. Hot drinks and toast were ordered from the canteen and the group sat down. Mrs Pegram sat in with Miss Murray but the male members of management were dismissed. Miss Murray thought that it would be somehow less threatening. Barry hovered in the corridor, worrying about any potential security implications.

  Mr Joshi, sitting opposite the two women, looked directly at them and introduced himself and his wife and two daughters. Miss Murray was impressed by his simple dignity. Something that must have been hard to maintain under the circumstances, yet she sensed that it was important for him. He went on to say that they came from Uganda, where they had been wealthy business people. His wife nodded to emphasise this. “We are not poor people,” she said and hurriedly continued, “When Idi Amin came to power, he said that we must all go.”

  Her husband took up the story: “We had to go quickly; it wasn’t safe for us. We weren’t allowed to transfer our money. We took what we could and left.” He hung his head.

  Miss Murray nodded and sighed. She had been aware that was the situation in Uganda but hadn’t really thought about it. It was something happening far away from her everyday concerns. It was very sad that it had happened to this obviously well-educated and caring couple and their family, sad they had lost their home. Suddenly the situation seemed very immediate. Mrs Pegram took up the questioning. “You said you lived here? I don’t understand. Nobody lives here.”

  Mr Joshi sighed “We found a place. We didn’t bother anyone or take or damage anything.”

  “But where?” persisted Mrs Pegram.He tried to explain, but good though his English was, it was not up to explaining the exact spot. He hesitated. “I’ll show you?” he offered.

  They stood up. The children were still tucking in to hot milk and toast so Mrs Carr was called in to supervise them while the Joshis led Miss Murray and Mrs Pegram to their ‘home’. They passed through the management corridor door out into the stairwell and across to the Carpets department. This was on the top floor of the building: a long thin department hung with rolls of carpets and with piles of rugs on the floor. It was always quiet here. There was only a small staff, as people tended to prefer home visits with carpet samples rather than coming in to view a large range. The stock here was expensive and exclusive, so the number of customers might be small, but the order value could be very high as large Georgian mansions or Victorian villas were brought back to life by wealthy new owners.

  Mr Joshi led them over to a small door almost imperceptible against the wood panelling. He pushed it open. It had been a very small store room in the eaves of the roof space. Bending over, t
he two women stepped in.

  “Oh!” gasped Miss Murray unable to prevent herself exclaiming. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

  The space was enclosed by beautiful, soft, gleaming rugs the colours of emeralds, rubies and sapphires. The designs were intricate: leaves entwined flowers, which enclosed exotic animals – fabulous gardens were brought to mind on looking at them. They were of the finest quality and silky smooth. These were no ordinary floor coverings and were certainly finer than any they had ever seen. The four rugs were strung from the rafters to enclose a small tent-like space.

  Various blankets and plates were in neat piles on the floor, but the ladies continued to stare up at the rugs. Mr Joshi noticed their attention drawn to the rugs rather than the other evidence of their occupation. “These are my treasures,” he said sadly. “I couldn’t leave them. I just couldn’t.”

  “No, I can quite understand that,” said Miss Murray. “They are fabulous. I’ve never seen such beautiful things.” She shook her head in disbelief.

  Mrs Pegram forgot herself. “They must be worth a fortune,” she burst out.

  “No,” he barked frowning. “I could never sell them. Never. They are all I have of… of…” He finally broke down and wept for his lost home and previous life. Mrs Joshi took up the story.

  “They are his treasures, all our treasures. His family brought them from India in the old days. They are very old. I don’t know how old, but so beautiful, so important to us. He –” she indicated her husband, now shaking with the effort to control his sobs – “knows all about good rugs. He used to travel all over buying rugs from Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, Turkey, nomadic tribes. It was our business. These are our family rugs, but we had to leave all our others behind in our shop. They’ll all be gone now, lost like everything else.” Her chin began to tremble now too in contemplating their lives and losses.