Goodmans of Glassford Street

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  ‘Oh, Tom.’

  She touched the television screen but it was cold and unresponsive. And she knew she could not go on like this and she would have to start the process of moving.

  She decided to get started the first thing next morning. She would not ask Douglas Benson for help or advice. He would try to persuade her to buy a house that was miles away from the store. She could just hear him. ‘It would be so good for your health to live your remaining years by the seaside. Good bracing fresh air.’ Or ‘A little country cottage would be perfect for you. All that peace and quiet. It would do you the world of good.’

  Do him the world of good, he’d mean. Yet she felt so unlike her normal energetic, capable, efficient self. She needed help and advice. Next day, instead of going across the square towards Ingram Street and Glassford Street, she forced her feet into the Millennium Hotel.

  Mr Webster strode towards her, his handsome features showing both surprise and concern.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Webster,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to sack you or anything like that. Quite the reverse. I need your help and advice.’

  ‘Anything I can do, Mrs Goodman … I’m more than willing to do anything I possibly can to help you. But first of all, can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Webster.’

  He led her by the arm across to one of the chairs and gently sat her down before going to give an order to the waiter at the serving counter. He had no sooner settled himself in a chair opposite Abi when the waiter appeared at the table with a tray that held a pot of tea, cups and saucers, and milk and sugar. He set everything out in front of them, poured the tea, and then left, carrying the empty tray.

  Mr Webster said, ‘Now, Mrs Goodman, tell me how I can help you.’

  ‘Well …’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve been feeling somewhat unhappy and isolated in the house in Huntershill since my husband’s death. I’ve come to the conclusion that I should move to a more central location, and perhaps a smaller house. I thought perhaps a flat somewhere in the Merchant City.’

  ‘That sounds a sensible idea. Somewhere nearer to the store, are you thinking of?’

  ‘Yes. That would be ideal.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll help you all I can. There is a new, very modern conversion I could show you. Then there’s the Italian Centre and the flats in the square. To mention just a few locations.’

  ‘I like the situation of the Italian Centre. Have you seen inside any of the flats there?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have. There’s a luxury one going at the moment. The entry date is a bit further on but if you’re not wanting to move immediately … The flat is a bit out of my league in my present circumstances. I’m looking at flats in the High Street at the moment. There are older properties that need a bit of work but that’s reflected in the asking price, which suits me better.’

  ‘I’d like to view the one in the Italian Centre.’

  ‘I’ll arrange that for you right away, and I’ll go with you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Webster.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do after you were so kind and helpful to me.’

  ‘I don’t want to involve my family.’

  ‘I quite understand. I’ll see to all the arrangements. You won’t need to worry about anything. I’ll come out to Huntershill and see what needs to be done there. Perhaps you won’t have room for all your furniture if you get the flat in the Italian Centre. That would mean you’d have to choose what you’re going to keep, and so on. Or there’s the option of starting afresh and buying all new furniture and furnishings for the flat. But one step at a time. We must see about getting you the flat first. It’s a popular place and flats there are usually snapped up immediately.’

  He dug a mobile phone from an inside pocket.

  ‘I’ll get on to it right now.’

  Abi felt a flutter of panic.

  29

  ‘I would have asked John,’ Abi said, ‘but he is inundated with work and there’s been all the upset and worry about the murder as well.’

  They had been to see the flat and Mr Webster had contacted his solicitor and instructed him to put in an offer on her behalf. She had not wanted to use the Goodman family solicitor in case Douglas Benson got to know about it.

  The offer was accepted.

  ‘Have they found anybody for the murder yet?’ Mr Webster asked eventually. ‘I believe there’s a reward been offered.’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Her mind was not really on the conversation. Everything was happening too quickly. All right, she had been thinking about moving, swithering about it for what seemed ages. But suddenly it was actually happening and she didn’t feel ready. Not really. Not in her mind. How could she give up Tom’s house? The house his father had built and that had always been part of the family’s history and background. She kept fingering the engagement ring Tom had given her. It had a huge cluster of diamonds in a setting which needed mending. It had become sharp and jaggy. But she couldn’t even bear to take it off and give it to a jeweller to fix.

  Mr Webster didn’t understand. He was so enthusiastic, so obviously eager to repay her for what she’d done for him. She had done nothing really, except perhaps save him from Douglas Benson. She knew, and he knew, that Douglas Benson would have sacked him.

  But he didn’t understand that while it was one thing accepting the fact that moving from Huntershill was the sensible thing to do in her circumstances, it was quite another making it a reality, making it actually happen. And so quickly.

  She felt confused. Why on earth had she spoken to Mr Webster? She’d seen the day when she never had any doubts about anything. She knew what she wanted and went after it, made snap decisions, never asked anyone’s advice or opinion. Never cared. Had a hundred per cent confidence in herself.

  She felt frightened at getting old. She felt she was becoming a completely different person. If anyone had told her ten years ago that she would become like this, she would not have believed them. ‘No way,’ she would have scoffed. ‘Not me.’

  Of course, the shock of Tom dying and the terrible feeling of loss had contributed to how she was now. To be without Tom had changed her life. It was impossible to be the same without him. Then Douglas Benson’s hardening attitude towards her and his determination to ruin everything that Tom and his father before him had built up had obviously had an effect on her.

  Benson would be furious at her moving so near to the store. It would have made him happy if she had retired and moved to the Bahamas or Australia, anywhere as far from the store as possible. He wanted rid of her.

  ‘You’ll know such a difference,’ Mr Webster was saying. ‘I know Huntershill and the house you’re in just now. I’ve passed up that way a couple of times in the car on my way to do a bit of business in Bishopbriggs. The house can’t have any outlook, surrounded by all those high bushes and trees. You’ll find it so much cheerier and more interesting looking out the windows of the flat.’

  It was all perfectly true and sensible. Yet she still couldn’t believe it was going to happen. The person who was selling the flat had been offered a job abroad, apparently. He was starting in a month or two. It was as if everything was conspiring against her. Or was it for her? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure of anything any more. Except that she was frightened.

  Christmas had come and gone and she hardly remembered what she had done. Douglas Benson and Minna had taken the children to London to spend Christmas with Douglas’s brother. She hadn’t told John this so that he wouldn’t feel guilty about not spending it with her. He had been invited to various parties in his constituency. She knew he would have cancelled everything to be with her. He had asked her if she’d be spending Christmas with the children and she’d said yes because at the time she had taken it for granted that she would be.

  John had added, ‘Now, are you sure, Mum, because I don’t want you to be on your own? I’ll cancel everything and come through to be with you in Huntershill
. Or you can come to Edinburgh – whichever you prefer. Just let me know.’

  The news was sprung on her – almost at the last moment – that Benson and his family were not having her at Christmas but were going away to London. She didn’t feel then that it would be fair to John to spoil his Christmas and so she didn’t tell him about the last-minute change of plans.

  As a result, she had the worst Christmas of her life. It had been an absolute agony of grief and loneliness. She didn’t know what she would have done without her dear, kind Horatio for company. She supposed, in a way, that the awful Christmas, the desperation she’d suffered, had been what forced her to make her final decision.

  ‘Now, when do you want me to come out to Huntershill?’ Mr Webster was saying now. She was back in the hotel for yet another meeting. They could meet in private there without arousing any curiosity, any suspicion from Douglas Benson, or anyone else in the store. She needed to get everything done and dusted (to use Mr Webster’s words) to avoid any difficulties being put in her way, or any distress being caused to her by Benson. She was really very grateful to Mr Webster. She had always known that he was an excellent and conscientious employee. Now she was finding him a good, kind friend.

  She was able, as a result, to testify to his good and trustworthy character in the court case against the South Castle-on-Sea woman who had been tormenting him. The woman had escaped a jail sentence, helped perhaps by her tearful apologies and pleas for mercy. She had been given community service and served with a restraining order preventing her going near Mr Webster again.

  He hadn’t been down in South Castle-on-Sea since and she hoped the woman had learned her lesson by now. Needless to say, Mr Webster was hoping the same thing.

  ‘Let’s hope, Mr Webster,’ Abi tried to sound positive, ‘that her stay in a police cell and the threat of a jail sentence if she comes near you again will make her see sense.’

  He made the effort but failed to appear a hundred per cent confident. ‘Yes, and there’s her business to consider. She can’t continue neglecting that or she’ll go broke.’

  ‘And now people are starting to think about summer holidays, she’s bound to be getting bookings.’

  ‘Yes, people have to book early these days, especially in South Castle-on-Sea. It’s a very popular place for holidays.’

  ‘So just put the whole business out of your head and stop worrying.’

  She was a fine one to talk. She worried continuously.

  At least Mr Webster was happily settled in a flat. After a bit of haggling, his offer had been accepted and he had bought furniture and all the household goods and some clothes that he and the family urgently needed, all at very reduced prices from Goodmans. She had insisted on that, despite Benson’s bitter comments that if she went on as she was doing, she would end up being the ruination of the store. He always added, ‘It’s high time you gave up and retired.’

  Mr Webster’s daughters were back at university and Mrs Webster had a part-time job in Books and Stationery.

  ‘Just until you get back on your feet,’ Abi had told her when Mrs Webster had protested.

  ‘You’ve done too much for us already, Mrs Goodman. I don’t want to take advantage.’

  ‘You’re not taking advantage. We need an extra hand in Books and Stationery just now. At least for a couple of afternoons a week. Somebody to tidy and replenish the bookshelves and the stationery counter. You’ll earn your pay.’

  ‘When do you want me to come over to help clear the Huntershill house?’ Mr Webster repeated. ‘You obviously can’t take everything with you to your new place.’

  ‘Well …’ She didn’t want to say because, ridiculous though it sounded, she still didn’t believe it was happening. Leaving Tom’s home and all the memories it held. No, surely not.

  ‘How about right now? You weren’t planning on going back to the shop again today, were you? There’s no urgent business you’ve to attend to that can’t be put off until tomorrow, is there?’

  ‘Well, no …’

  ‘Right then. My car’s parked round the corner. Let’s go.’ Abi could have wept. She knew it was totally unfair, but just at the moment, she hated Mr Webster. She was silent all during the drive to Huntershill. She was conscious of Mr Webster glancing round at her several times. But she did not respond and he made no attempt to force conversation.

  Once at the house, however, he couldn’t contain himself. ‘Mrs Goodman, I don’t know how you’ve managed to stick it out here for so long on your own. It’s really spooky.’

  She unlocked the door and he followed her inside. Once in the drawing room, he said, ‘This is a lovely room, right enough. All that artistic cornicing. But you’re lucky. The Italian Centre flats are listed and they have the same features. Is that a picture of your late husband’s father?’

  ‘Yes. Tom Senior who founded Goodmans.’

  ‘A fine looking gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’

  And so was my Tom, she thought. Tall and slim, with a quirky smile that was reflected in his eyes. He had a way of leaning forward and listening with genuine and sympathetic interest to whoever was speaking to him – even if it was the most junior employee. It didn’t matter if it was a manager or a cleaner. He had that same gentle concentration. Just like Horatio.

  ‘I wonder if that settee and those easy chairs will fit into the sitting room in the flat?’ Mr Webster was walking around staring at everything. ‘They’re very attractive and comfortable-looking. But extremely large, aren’t they? Have you got a measuring tape anywhere, Mrs Goodman?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve one in the sewing box over there beside that chair.’ Mr Webster went over to where she had indicated. After retrieving the tape, he began taking measurements of the chairs and other pieces of furniture and writing everything down in his notebook.

  He did the same in the other rooms, including the five bedrooms. She left her own bedroom till last. She felt it a terrible intrusion to show anyone into such a private place. It had been the room where she had shared so many loving and passionate nights with Tom.

  ‘Of course, with only three bedrooms in the flat, you’ll have to get rid of a couple of the bedroom suites you have here. I’d keep the brass beds. They’ve become fashionable again. But forgive me, Mrs Goodman. There’s a dreadful amount of clutter that you’ll have to get rid of. I know it’s all very attractive and no doubt worth a lot of money …’

  Oh, more than money, she thought. Oh, so much more.

  ‘And I’ve no doubt much of it is also of great sentimental value, but it’s a matter of the space available in your flat compared to here. This is a very big house.’

  ‘Yes, I quite understand,’ she agreed politely. But she didn’t understand at all. It was a nightmare scenario. She wanted it to stop. Not happen. Cancel everything. But there were already people booked to view the house. She dreaded doing the viewings but Mr Webster had promised to be with her.

  The first people who came were a young couple who said they were into selling. Something to do with the internet. Abi couldn’t make head nor tail of what they were talking about. No doubt Benson would have known. He knew all about the internet and God knew all what else that could be done with computers. She hated the things and, if anything needed to be typed, she had her secretary do it.

  For anything that wasn’t related to business, like personal letters and, of course, the silly book of poems and songs, she wrote longhand. Though she’d probably have to get the poems and songs typed up before sending them off to a publisher. John said that email was used for that nowadays. He was certainly nagging her about the project, as he called it. Every time he saw her, he asked her how she was getting on with it.

  It had been an agony showing the couple round the house. They were obviously going to change the whole atmosphere of the place. They said things to each other like, ‘This room could be your office. And this one could be mine …’

  It wasn’t going to be like a home at all.

/>   Abi felt quite ill after the experience and told Mr Webster she didn’t want to show anyone else around. He said not to worry, there was no need. He would see to that side of it, and the solicitor would no doubt advise her to accept the highest offer.

  And so it was done. There was no turning back. The house was sold.

  30

  Robert Louis Stevenson had once said, ‘There are no stars so lovely as Edinburgh street lamps.’ Right enough, Edinburgh was a lovely city. Abi had stayed with John the night before and had seen for herself how beautiful the city could be at night, as well as during the day. A bit frightening too, in the Old Town at least, with its dark, narrow alleyways and half-hidden closes or wynds. John had taken her out for dinner, but had previously warned her not to wander about on her own after dark. The police still hadn’t caught Julie’s killer and had come to the conclusion that they had a serial killer on their hands. Three women had now been killed around the Royal Mile area.

  ‘There might be more hope of finding him now with their knowledge of DNA,’ John had said. ‘They even took a sample from me.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake!’ Abi shook her head. ‘I thought they’d realised by now that you had nothing whatever to do with poor Julie’s death.’

  She had come through to Edinburgh on Mr Webster’s advice. The removers were coming first thing in the morning and he said it would be better if she wasn’t there when they came. It might be a little upsetting for her.

  A little? She couldn’t even bear to think about it. By now, it would have happened. By the time she returned to Glasgow, it would have to be to the flat in the Italian Centre. It had been bad enough picking out what to keep and what to discard or sell or abandon among the furniture and furnishings and personal belongings. Mr Webster advised her to stay in Edinburgh for another couple of nights to give him time to have the carpets laid and the curtains hung and so on. The only areas to be carpeted, though, were the bedrooms. The rest of the flat had shiny parquet flooring with only a few rugs dotted here and there.