Our Best Attention

by Jane Tulloch

  Miss Murray gathered her thoughts. “Right, let’s go back to my office while we think what to do.” They trooped out of the little door in single file and crossed back to Miss Murray’s office.

  Barry, who had followed the little group, stepped into the little rug-lined space. Blimey, he thought, Stan was right, there was something going on here after all. Wait till I tell him. Then he wondered if he should sack him for failing to get to the bottom of it. He decided against it. He was fond of old Stan. Barry, my boy, he told himself, you’re turning into an old softy. Besides, he thought pragmatically, he’d never find anyone to replace him.

  Back in Miss Murray’s office, they all sat down again.

  “Well, you can’t stay here. That’s for one thing. No, please don’t worry,” she said seeing their agitation. “I’ll think of something in the meantime, I’ll arrange somewhere better for you to stay.” She picked up the phone and made a quick call. “That’s fine,” she said, hanging up. Then turning to Mrs Pegram she said, “I wonder if you could take Mrs Joshi and the girls round to see if you could find something a little warmer to wear. Charge anything to my account.”

  After Mrs Pegram, Mrs Joshi and the little girls had left, Mr Joshi looked at her questioningly.

  “What are you going to do about us? We haven’t done anything wrong except be in the wrong place in Uganda and now in your shop. What can we do? Where can we go? Where do we belong? We have British passports, we went to English schools, but we have nowhere to go and no family here. We just took the first flight we could and ended up here. We were looking at your carpet department during the sale and spotted the little door. It seemed just right for us and we had nowhere else. Our money had run out. I was so happy to see that you had good rugs here too. It made me happy to see them, although they are not, of course, as good as my own.”

  “No, of course not,” agreed Miss Murray. “Why did you come into Murrays at all though?”

  “It was so bright in the darkness and cold, we just had to come in. Then I saw the sign to Carpets, and it all just fell into place.” Miss Murray nodded.

  She looked at the thin man sitting in front of her, tired and weary from his flight. Lines of tension etched on his face. Her face softened.

  “Let me think what I can do to help. In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to freshen up? You look cold too.” She picked up the phone and asked Mr Philipson to come to her office. When he put his enquiring head around her door, he was told, “This is Mr Joshi, I wonder could you show him the gentlemen’s bathroom, then perhaps take a look at the outfitting department for some warmer clothes for him. On my account.”

  Mr Philipson took in the situation at a glance and nodded. “Of course, do come with me, Mr Joshi, we’ll soon make you more comfortable.”

  Mr Joshi, sensing what a kind man Mr Philipson was, stood up and willingly followed him. He turned back at the door. “Thank you, madam, thank you so much. You have been so kind to me and my family. I never, I couldn’t…” he faltered.

  Miss Murray nodded graciously. “It’s a pleasure, Mr Joshi, I’m only sorry that the situation in Uganda was so unpleasant for you. Idi Amin has a lot to answer for.” They all nodded in agreement. The two men left the room.

  Mrs Pegram returned shortly after this to report back. She told Miss Murray that Mrs Joshi and the girls were now warmly kitted out and tucking into some hot soup in the canteen. Barry had been charged to supervise them and to get them whatever they wanted to eat or drink. He was slightly resentful but also quite pleased to be involved in the excitement and novelty of it all.

  “He’s a fool, that Amin,” started Miss Murray, “kicking out his hardest workers, the most prosperous people.” She sighed.

  Mrs Pegram continued. “They seem such a nice family. Mrs Joshi was telling me that the girls were doing so well at school that they had hopes of one of them doing medicine and the other following in the dad’s footsteps at the business. Sounds like it had been a good going business, too.” She sighed. “So hard to just lose it all, to lose everything. They had to take the first UK flight out they could get and landed up here. They don’t know where the rest of their family are or anything,” she petered out.

  “What can we do? I want to help them. I don’t just want to hand them over to social services or the police or whatever we should do. They’ve done nothing wrong and they have British passports, so they just need help to settle, to find a way to live here.”

  The two women paused, lost in thought.

  At the management meeting next morning the unexpected presence of the ‘stowaways’, as Mr McElvey called them, was the first topic of discussion.

  “So, what happened to them after they left here?” Mr Philipson asked. “Are they all right? You didn’t turn them out into the cold?”

  “Of course not,” snapped Mrs Pegram. “As a matter of fact, Miss Murray put them up.”

  “Really?” said Mr McElvey turning towards her. “Was that wise? We don’t know anything about these people.” He frowned.

  Miss Murray replied, “They are perfectly respectable, hardworking people who have had a very hard time. Sometimes you have to take a chance. As it happens, the old lodge house is empty and would benefit from someone living in it. The Glens set to yesterday afternoon, bless them, and cleaned it up a bit and got the heating going. It’s still needing a fair amount of attention, though. I’ve got Maintenance going in this morning. Now, in a not entirely unrelated matter, I’ve had an idea.”

  Mr McElvey groaned audibly. With a reproving glance at him, Miss Murray continued.

  “Mr Joshi is an expert in oriental rugs. That used to be his business in Uganda. He knows his stuff. I wondered,” she sighed. “In fact, I’ve already spoken to Gavin Clark in the Carpets department about possibly employing Mr Joshi to develop our stock of Persian and oriental rugs. There’s certainly a demand for them but it’s such a highly specialised area that we’ve not ventured into it in the past. Gavin was all for it. What do you think?” She looked around at them all.

  Gavin would be! thought Mr McElvey. The boss asks him to confirm a decision she’s already made so he’s not going to say no. He himself said nothing.

  Mr Soames cautiously asked about revenues. “Presumably we’d need to invest in a certain amount of expensive stock, can we be sure we’d recoup it and cover Mr Joshi’s salary?”

  “Good point and it’s certainly something we need to clarify. Mr Philipson can you have a chat about it with Gavin and Mr Joshi? I’ve asked Mr Glen to bring him in later today.” She turned to Mrs Pegram. “Mrs Glen is having the time of her life with Mrs Joshi and the little girls. She’s finally getting to use her nanny skills again although Mrs J is looking a bit mutinous. They’re going to have a look around the area and check out schools and things. What they all need really is a chance to rest and relax and try to recover a bit from the ordeal they’ve been through.

  Sometimes in life things do all fall into place. The management team were, with the exception of Mr McElvey, pleased to find such an expert in Persian rugs available for employment and Mr Joshi was delighted to accept the offer of employment in such a prestigious shop and to have his old familiar skills and knowledge appreciated.

  Mrs Joshi was busy meanwhile setting up home in the lodge house of Miss Murray’s home. It was located slightly on the outskirts of town, so she had to learn rapidly about the vagaries of public transport. It was all very new to Mrs Joshi, but once the girls started school she met lots of other mothers and soon found a group of friends. They instinctively liked the little woman who had had such a frightening time and vied with each other to demonstrate new skills vital for life in Edinburgh. They patiently explained about the language: how doing the ‘messages’ meant shopping, ‘chumming’ meant accompanying and that sooner or later they were all ‘skint’. In return she introduced them to delicious new dishes. The Joshis were no longer outsiders and had found a place to be and to belong.

  Stan, meanwhile, contemplated
retirement in order to spend time with his new little granddaughter. He and Sabre discussed the possibility as they continued to patrol the shop each night. Sabre thought it was a great idea. Apparently.

  Chapter 9

  Weepers

  The restaurant on the third floor at Murrays (or the Tea Room as its most regular customers referred to it) was a comfortable sort of place. To some it seemed rather old-fashioned or even shabby but to its regulars it was just right. Miss Murray had voiced an unexpected resistance to plans for updating the place. Management had wanted to make it more attractive to the younger market and had even had thoughts of introducing background pop music and such like. Miss Murray had remembered how much her mother had liked it as it was and was also aware that the sort of ladies who frequented it were the backbone of their customers. Not necessarily wealthy at all but appreciative of the good quality and service that Murrays had to offer. Murrays had always been seen as a bit ‘posh’. Indeed it had been a bit posh. She had once overheard an older member of staff comment on their customers, ‘Of course, these are just people in off the street.’ She had then gone on to talk of ‘the carriage trade’. Long gone now, of course, and Murrays welcomed all comers.

  The Tea Room manager, Alan, had started here as a junior ten years ago and somehow stuck. He was proud of his Tea Room and what it offered to its mostly elderly clientele. The tea was of the finest quality and served in little china pots. He took pride in the small floral decorations on each table and was punctilious as to cleanliness. Scones were the subject of much detailed and well-informed scrutiny by the regular elderly baking experts. Any shortcomings in texture, flavour or consistency would be discussed and reported back to Alan. He didn’t take this criticism personally but would solemnly convey the disapproval of his ladies to the often exasperated baker.

  Alan’s ladies never had any complaints to make about him personally. He sometimes felt like a sort of universal or even surrogate grandson. His birthdays were marked by the passing of cards across the counter to him along with occasional scarves or other small gifts. He had a friendly word for all the regulars, and his beaming smile welcomed newcomers, even the odd man who had the temerity to enter this predominantly female enclave.

  The third-floor Tea Room was a bastion of respectability. It was not inexpensive for a pot of tea and a scone, but the quality was generally unimpeachable and appreciated by those and such as those in Edinburgh. It was true, nevertheless, that many of the regular ladies were not particularly well off. Pensions had not stood the test of time, anticipated legacies had not come to pass or insurance policies had not come to the fruition promised by enthusiastic salesmen years before. Life was generally more of a struggle than some had expected. Tiny economies were sometimes necessitated in order to afford the vital weekly trip to the Tea Room. There was no shame in this nor was it always secret.

  He looked across the room to the group huddled around the window table. He had noticed that Edinburgh ladies seemed to fall into distinct groups all of which seemed to be represented there: those who dressed up to go into town, such as the lady in the window group with the blonde hair; those who resolutely dressed for convenience, like the rather aggressively short-haired one; or those who were forced by sheer girth to dress for comfort. A small, slim, rather non-descript woman joined them and sat down, her arrival barely acknowledged.

  The group of ladies who met on Fridays at 10.30 had known one another for their entire lives. As children they had all lived in the same neighbourhood and went to the same school. They had attended one another’s weddings, children’s christenings, anniversaries and, sadly, the funerals of their various husbands. Such was life. Helen, Sandra, Irene and Noreen were the best and closest of friends. They had even grown to look alike or maybe their similar ages and tastes led them to like similar colours, clothes and style of spectacles. Despite this, there were differences mostly dictated by genetics, appetites or a variable preference for exercise. Helen was tall and well-built with hair cropped very short – for purposes of economy, she always said. “Can’t get my hair cut short enough to make it last longer till the next time.” The others were less sure of the importance of economy over style. Certainly Sandra preferred to have longer hair and took pride in its suspiciously blonde appearance. Irene was considered privately by all to have ‘let herself go’ and had increased in size considerably since retirement, but her unlined face conveyed a relaxed attitude to this or perhaps her facial chubbiness had pushed out any incipient wrinkles as Helen had once, uncharitably, said. Noreen was small and slim with dark hair gradually turning to silver. Her perpetually anxious demeanour had led her to have frown lines and a slightly downturned mouth.

  Alan looked over at them sitting at their usual table by the window. “Makes you wonder what on earth they all still have to talk to one another about,” he remarked to Susan, his assistant.

  “Beats me,” shrugged Susan and continued wiping down the counter. She was bored up here in the Tea Room and longed for a move to a more exciting department.

  The ladies had been chatting desultorily about the latest doings of grandchildren: tutting, sighing or nodding approvingly, depending on the tale being recounted. The royal family were discussed in detail and general disapproval expressed regarding the choice of the Queen’s hat at Royal Ascot. The conversation stalled briefly then

  “Well, that’s the electricity bills out,” groaned Helen “I can’t believe it.”

  “I know,” sighed Sandra. “I can’t understand how I’ve used so much electricity. I only ever have one bar on unless the grandchildren are coming round.”

  “I blame the government,” said Irene, who usually did.

  Noreen was quiet. Unlike the others, she had never worked. Helen had been a doctor’s receptionist, Sandra a hairdresser and Irene a typist in an insurance company. Noreen had always enjoyed the company of small children and had longed to work in a nursery after her children had grown up, but her husband, Hugh, had put his foot down. “He didn’t want a wife of his to be out at work,” she had told them miserably at the time.

  They had never liked Hugh and thought that his old-fashioned attitude was ludicrously out of date. It was irrelevant now that they had all retired, but Noreen had always felt somehow left out, not part of the whole world of work and its companionship. She was glad that her oldest friends had never lost touch. Hugh’s death had not left her with much of a pension, and she was grateful for her children Norbert and Estelle (“ridiculous names,” Helen had snorted when told what the baby twins were to be called) contributing to the bills when they came in.

  “What are we going to do for a holiday this year, girls?” Sandra asked, to change the subject.

  “Well,” Helen shifted uncomfortably in her seat, “I think I could only afford the proverbial day here and there. Certainly not the usual week away somewhere.”

  “Oh dear, me too,” chipped in Sandra. They had shared a pot of tea this week, Noreen had noticed.

  “Wouldn’t it be just wonderful to go out for a meal in a lovely hotel?” continued Sandra. “With wine and coffee and everything?”

  “By Jove, yes,” said Irene emphatically. “I can’t remember the last time we had a good meal out.” The others looked at her.

  “Well, I can,” said Helen, uncharacteristically quietly. “Jimmy’s funeral.”

  “Oh yes,” said Irene quickly. “That was a terrific send-off. You really did him proud.”

  The others nodded. Helen looked down at her tweed covered lap and smiled to herself. I really did, didn’t I? she thought proudly to herself. Jimmy would have enjoyed it. She frowned slightly and shook that thought out of her head.

  “You get wonderful meals at funerals,” continued Irene. “Well, depends on the family, I suppose,” she mused.

  “Yes,” they all agreed, adding that they felt vaguely uncomfortable to be talking about funerals.

  Collecting up raincoats and scarves in a general hustle they called out ‘cheerio’ to
Alan and the clearly bored Susan and agreed to meet up the same time next week. Alan turned to Susan then looked beyond her to the other two counter assistants “Bless them,” he said, nodding in the direction of the departing ladies. One of the assistants smiled back in agreement. She enjoyed her work here too.

  Next week Irene was the first to arrive. She had had an idea during the week. It had been a particularly miserable week and she had been very bored. There’s only so much cleaning and polishing a person can do, she had fumed and she’d read all the new books in the library that were of interest to her. Thank goodness for Barbara Cartland, she had often thought to herself. A lovely window into a different world. She knew better than to say that aloud though as she’d often been laughed at by the others for her literary preferences.

  Sandra and Helen arrived together having travelled on the same bus and Noreen arrived slightly later looking tired.

  “Same as usual, girls?” Alan bustled over to their table himself. “There’s new jam…” he said enticingly “I’d like you to test it for me. No charge of course as you’d be doing me a favour.”

  “Oh well, of course,” the girls agreed happily.

  Once they were all settled, tea poured, scones split, buttered and jammed, Irene leaned forward. “I’ve had an idea,” she breathed importantly.

  “Go on,” said Sandra

  “Well, you know we all fancied a nice meal out?”

  “Yes,” they chimed cautiously

  “Could we go to a funeral?” said Irene in a rush.

  “But we can’t,” protested Noreen. “Nobody’s dead.”

  “Well nobody that we know,” said Irene with emphasis.

  “What do you mean by that?” Helen asked looking puzzled

  “Look at this girls,” said Irene producing the day’s newspaper. “I’ve marked one.”

  Sure enough one intimation was circled in blue biro.

  The family of Ina McDougall were sad to announce the death of their dear mother. Funeral next Tuesday at the crematorium and afterwards at the Royal Hotel. All welcome.