Our Best Attention

by Jane Tulloch

  Dora had rapidly become the doyenne of the first-floor gallery, her clear blue eyes made male hearts beat slightly faster as she fixed on them, imploring them to admire the hats their wives were trying on and to ignore the cost of these little concoctions. Her slightly breathy voice as she pointed out how this creation balanced the lady’s face, or that one cast an inviting shadow over her eyes was instantly convincing and her sales figures were astronomical for such a small department. She was an undoubted asset to Murrays.

  Although Dora remained tantalisingly polite, she still kept a distance between herself and the others in the canteen. Many were itching to know more about the beautiful, mysterious Mrs Warren. Gradually, resentment set in as she was observed sitting by herself reading a French novel and drinking coffee, having declined to join a bustling table of staff from Ladies Separates.

  “Who does she think she is?” sniffed Mrs Renfrew.

  “Lady Muck?” replied Mrs McBride.

  The two continued to mutter and glare. Meanwhile, across the canteen, one person was also watching Dora. Mr Laszlo, Ugo to his friends (who numbered one: his budgie), was completely absorbed in her beauty. He had found to his dismay that he had developed an almost all-consuming crush on Dora. She filled his waking thoughts and nightly dreams. He saw her angelic face before him as he sat on the bus to work. He heard her breathy voice as shaved each morning. He found himself foolishly seeking opportunities to talk to her on almost any thin pretext. He knew that Mrs Hope from Model Gowns and Susan Smith from Bridal had noticed him slipping out to the Millinery department whenever he could think of a pretext, but he dismissed their laughter. He had become impervious to ridicule in his ever-growing obsession with Dora. For him it was as though the sun was breaking through the ice he felt around his heart and this ice was cracking and breaking up painfully. Finally, finally I’ve found the one, he told himself. He was lost. His love of furs was nothing to him now compared to Dora.

  On Dora’s part, she was aware of his interest in her but was very accustomed to men being attracted to her. She had perfected an air of apparent lack of interest. However, this was interspersed with warm glances, which served only to stoke up the fires within the hearts of the men on whom she chose to bestow this approach. For other men she had a much more down-to-earth style. She said only enough for her wishes to be met. She was polite but no more and left some with an aggrieved sense of exclusion from her good books without knowing exactly where they had gone wrong. She was like a glowing planet with constellations of intrigued men in orbit around her.

  It could be expected that she would be very unpopular with other women but this was not entirely so. Her customers benefited from her concentrated efforts on finding exactly the right style and colour of hat to match each woman for each event. The fortunate recipients of her intense focus would leave the Millinery department quite sure that they had received the best attention of the best saleswoman in the country. She was extremely good at her job.

  Over time Dora became accustomed to Ugo’s interest in her. She would graciously accept the gift of a small bunch of violets, for example, and, on one wonderful occasion for him, she joined him in the canteen. She chatted coolly about this and that as he struggled manfully not to stare at her too obviously.

  One day, to everyone’s surprise, she strolled into Model Gowns. Once through the great doors she turned left and wandered elegantly towards the display of furs. It was unfortunate that Ugo was not there at the time. He would have relished her obvious liking for his precious wares. She stroked the sables, mink and Arctic fox coats and jackets regretfully. As her fingers lingered over a wolf-skin rug she gave a huge sigh. Tears filled her eyes as she pulled the cheetah lining of a camel hair jacket towards her cheek. Coming up behind her Mrs Hope from Model Gowns called out, “Go on, try it on, there’s no one watching.”

  “I can’t,” was the response. “I just can’t.” With that Dora turned around and walked smartly out of the department. Mrs Hope and Susan Smith exchanged glances and shrugged their shoulders. Dora remained a mystery.

  When Ugo returned to the department they thoroughly enjoyed telling him of his missed opportunity.

  “She came right in,” said Mrs Hope. “Right up to your stock. You should have seen her stroking and patting everything.”

  “She looked quite upset too. Probably because she can’t find anyone to buy her a mink coat,” added Susan uncharacteristically spitefully.

  “With her looks, it’s a matter of time! I reckon that so-called husband of hers doesn’t exist,” ventured Mrs Hope, always one for a drama.

  “Ladies, ladies – enough!” snapped Ugo. He walked over to his sales desk and immersed himself in paperwork and rummaging about for his keys, which seemed to be missing. The ladies returned to their respective sections of the department.

  That night, Ugo – ruminating as ever on the delightful Dora – resolved to take direct action. He decided to ask her to model some of the fur coats for photographs for the planned Christmas catalogue. He was very pleased with this plan that he’d concocted. It wasn’t altogether fabricated but it was a long shot. He would need to discuss it with Mr Williams from Display and Advertising but it should be OK, he reasoned.

  The next day, just after lunch, he walked through to Millinery. Checking that she didn’t have a customer with her, he moved smoothly towards Dora.

  “Mrs Warren,” he started, “I wonder if I might ask a favour of you?”

  “Probably,” she answered warily. “Depends on what it is.”

  He outlined the details of his request. After the store closed the plan was for her to model the various coats and accessories for the catalogue. Obviously she would have to rehearse this before the actual photography session to accustom herself to the ‘feel of the garments’, as he put it.

  She looked at him doubtfully through her large blue eyes. “Really?” she breathed. “Me? A model? Well, I don’t know.”

  “Oh go on,” he pleaded. “You’d really be doing me, I mean Murrays, a favour.”

  “Well, all right,” she acquiesced. “When were you thinking?”

  “Tonight? Is that too soon?” His heart thumped so loudly that he could hardly hear her when she agreed.

  The modelling session went well. After an initial reluctance she twirled elegantly round the department in a selection of the choicest coats and jackets. Although she looked beautiful as ever she also looked somehow uncomfortable and tiny frown lines radiated across her lovely face.

  “Is anything wrong?” Ugo asked urgently, distressed to see his darling Dora unhappy.

  “No, No. I’m just tired. It’s been a long day and Henry will be expecting me at home,” came the crushing response.

  Dejection flooded Ugo.

  “Of course. We’ll call it a day right now. I’ve got to return everything to the cold store anyway.”

  He was cheered, however, when she offered to help him. Between them they carefully laid the valuable cargo onto a large trolley and made several journeys via the service lift to the cold store. Finally, locking the door behind him, he thanked Dora for her help and they went their separate ways to their respective cloakrooms.

  The next morning Dora was late. Then later still, then it became clear that she was not going to turn up at all. The other staff grumbled and cover had to be arranged. It was spring and many events were coming up that would require fabulous hats. Mrs Pegram asked the new girl from Bridal to step into the breach with assistance from Susan Smith if required. Mrs Pegram was surprised at Dora’s non-appearance as she had always been reliable up until then. However, her attention moved on rapidly when a highly distressed Mr Laszlo presented himself at her door.

  “Mrs Pegram, come quickly, please,” he begged, grasping her arm and half dragging her from her desk. She recoiled in surprise.

  “Mr Laszlo!” she exclaimed.

  “Ahm offy sorry,” he responded exposing his Fife roots. “Jist come will ye.”

  Unwillingly she
followed him to the service lift casting worried glances towards his tormented figure. Whatever it was, it was serious she concluded.

  As they entered the cold room she immediately understood his anguish – every one of the coats, jackets and all the various fur accessories had been daubed liberally with red paint: all were completely ruined. Every last, beautiful, furry item was saturated. The red paint had also been used to scrawl MURDERER on the wall. Leaflets for a French animal protection organisation had been thrown around.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “How dreadful.” She tried to comfort the now sobbing Mr Laszlo. “Animal activists here? But how? Who?” she faltered.

  “It must have been her,” he groaned frantically searching for any fur that had been missed by the fateful red paint. “Gloss, too,” he noted angrily.

  “Who?”

  “Dora. Dora Warren. She helped me put it all away last night.”

  “Oh yes. She’s not appeared for work this morning.”

  They looked at each other. “Better come with me,” said Mrs Pegram. “We’ll need to inform the police, of course.”

  Mr Laszlo followed behind her dejectedly.

  The policeman who was sent to investigate the unusual crime was not very sympathetic. He almost seemed to be enjoying finding out that the exotic Ugo Laszlo was, in fact, Hugh Lachlan from Cardenden. However, no blame was attached to him. She had copied his keys. He had merely been the victim of a cunning scheme set up by animal activists: the foolish dupe. He hung his head in shame and hoped and hoped fruitlessly that the story would not reach the newspapers.

  The next day the matter was discussed at length at the management meeting.

  “What a bloody fool!” roared Mr McElvey as Mrs Pegram recounted the details.

  “He was besotted I gather, putty in her hands,” was Mr Philipson’s contribution. He had liked Mrs Warren too.

  “Poor thing. He does feel such a fool,” Mrs Pegram said in a quiet voice. Miss Murray concurred.

  “Nevertheless, it leaves us with a colossal loss. It’s unlikely the insurance company will cover it.”

  “So what do you suggest we do?” Miss Murray asked.

  “Sack him for a start. Sack that idiot.”

  “That’s harsh. He’s suffering enough and he’s a decent chap. I meant what do we do about replenishing the fur stock?” Miss Murray clarified her question.

  Mr Soames cut in. “Do we really need a Fur department? Is this anti-fur attitude going to grow? It could be that this happens again or that furs just go out of fashion. It’s a hell of an investment to go wrong again.”

  This time even Mr McElvey nodded agreement. “Yes, maybe it’s time we thought of another use for that space, a more economical one.” He was off on a familiar line of thought. “I’ve always thought than an exclusive range of jewellery would fit well in Model Gowns, pearls maybe.” He trailed off.

  In Menton, many miles away, a very pretty blonde lady sat reading the English newspapers under the shade of a colourful umbrella. She turned her large blue eyes towards her companion. “Ah, I see I’ve made it to the newspapers. I wondered if Murrays would try to hush it up, but apparently not.”

  “Give it here,” requested the man, exhaling a thin plume of cigarette smoke. “Ha, better than that.” He exclaimed. “They’re going to close the Fur department altogether due to an increase in awareness of endangered species. They’ve somehow managed to turn it into a media coup!”

  “Who cares, darling,” she cooed. “That will save the lives of so many beautiful animals that deserve so much better than to adorn the backs of fat, middle-aged women. What a result. It was well worth it!”

  They clinked their cups of coffee together in triumph and resumed reading.

  Back in Murrays, Hugh, the newest lift operator, wearily asked “Which floor please?” to the women crowding in. He was lucky to still have a job, he supposed, but he did miss his old persona and all that went with it. As he looked at one of the women she thought he looked sad, like a wounded animal. Poor thing.

  Chapter 14

  Company

  I love this time of year now. There’s something special about Christmas. The shops are full of busy, happy people. There’s a sense of expectation in the air. Of course it’s all so commercial nowadays in the 1970s. There is such a market for nostalgia: vaguely ‘Victorian’ effect decorations abound, artificially created ‘authentic’ smells of Christmas scent public places and ‘traditional’ ready meals are available at your convenience everywhere. Still, I love it. I love wandering round Murrays marvelling at their giant Christmas tree and visiting all the departments to enjoy their displays. I buy lots of toys and treats to lavish on my loved one.

  I didn’t always love Christmas. Christmas was not special when I was young. I’m 62 now. When I look back on my early life at the Manse, all I can remember of Christmas is the cold. That and the sense of disappointment pervading, well, every aspect of life really. I was an only child: a surprise development in the chilly relationship of my elderly parents. Theirs was a life of self-denial and thrift. My father was minister for three far-flung rural parishes. He spent a great deal of time driving his ancient, unreliable Morris between the three churches in his care. He was an undemonstrative parent, most often with his head in Greek textbooks, relics of his time at Theological College so many years before. Maybe he read to recreate youthful memories but more likely, it felt to us, to exclude mother and me from intruding on him in his study. Nevertheless, his sermons were carefully, painstakingly prepared and delivered to ever-shrinking congregations oblivious to the intellectual arguments so skilfully argued to their freezing indifference.

  Mother threw herself into the sorts of activities that ministers’ wives were expected to involve themselves in. In those days, back in the 1920s and 1930s, this meant the Women’s Rural Institute, known as ‘the Rural’, visiting indigent parishioners, baking, sewing, Girl Guides, Brownies and so on. As the minister’s daughter, I was expected to do this too. This wasn’t easy. Our efforts did not seem to be welcomed. Despite Mother’s efforts she was not a popular woman. Somehow, she didn’t have the knack of easy conversation. Times spent with her in the company of the noticeably dwindling group of congregational wives were awkward and often embarrassing. Either she didn’t know what to say or she said completely the wrong thing. Her perceived tactlessness was a bone of contention between my parents. Word would get back to Father about some clanger Mother had dropped and it would be formally brought to her attention at supper that night. Mother’s stammering embarrassment was desperately uncomfortable to witness. I wished I had the courage to stand up for her to Father but I knew I risked banishment from the table or that he would turn his steely attention to me and begin to recount my many failings. To make matters worse for her, Mother was a terrible cook. She boiled things that should be roasted, fried things that should be boiled and many pans and cooking implements were ruined in her inept attempts to produce edible meals or credible baking. This, in a time and in a place when women were very much measured by their skills in the kitchen rendered her as worthy of contempt or worse, of laughter, in the country parish. Father reminded her frequently of her ineptitude as a minister’s wife and how this was holding him back from a move to a parish where his intellectual abilities would be more highly valued. She would hang her head of unruly hair and stare miserably down at her best tweed skirt. She always tried to dress for the evening meal. She told me it was important to make the effort and I was always expected to make some minor alteration to my own appearance in that respect. It wasn’t as though Father ever noticed; indeed he often read the newspaper throughout supper and ignored Mother’s attempts to engage him in conversation. Eventually, she would give up and try to ask me about my day at school, but he would frequently silence us harshly as he wanted to concentrate on his paper.

  Needless to say my life in this atmosphere was not happy. It was not enlivened by grandparents: Mothers’ had both died and Father’s mother, a dea
r little bundle of hugs and chuckles lived, ignored by her only son, in a tiny cottage in the north of Scotland. I only met her once but often wished I could see more of her. She died when I was ten. Both my parents were only children. There were no fussy aunts, cheerful uncles or friendly cousins. There was no one for me.

  At school I was made fun of for my shabby clothes and word of my mother’s latest conversational calamity would almost always penetrate the playground where I would be taunted mercilessly. I didn’t seem to be able to laugh it off and join in the playground banter. I was excluded from the little social activities enjoyed by the other girls. It was no use appealing to teachers. They were happy to withdraw to the fortress of the staff room for respite from the thankless task of educating us. I was on my own.

  Against this background, Christmas, so eagerly anticipated by my schoolmates, was unlikely ever to be other than another of life’s disappointments. I would wake in my freezing bedroom at the top of the draughty old manse, built at time of large families with many staff, to find an old sock on the bed. There was no nonsense about Santa. This sock would contain an orange, some nuts and a florin. The orange would have to be returned to the fruit bowl, the nuts to the small supply of such ‘treats’ as were produced at lunch and the florin to go in the collection at the church service. Attendance at church was, of course, compulsory.

  After the service, lunch could be variable. Sometimes mother got some parts right: one year the small roast of beef was declared acceptable by father but the roast potatoes were like bullets. Sprouts and carrots would be left on his plate in silent testimony to their rawness. Routinely, the bottoms of pans were burnt out while steaming the pudding. These meals were often eaten in silent endurance punctuated by gasps from Mother as she remembered something in the kitchen.