Packards

by Patricia Burns

  ‘I haven’t really thought about the details yet. It only popped into my head this morning as I was walking round the store,’ Amelie admitted. ‘But we could start with a corner of Ladies’ Outerwear and maybe two or three shopgirls, and we’d stock clothing for every sort of sport that women do these days. You’d be amazed how many there are, Grandpa! Tennis, croquet, bathing, horseriding, golf, archery, hockey, cycling, skating – and motoring, though I don’t really count that as a sport. We’d have all the things a woman might need for any sport from underwear to gloves, all in one department. That way they’d be sure to buy the whole outfit from Packards, and it would be so convenient that any woman wanting anything to do with sports would automatically come to us rather than go from department to department in one of the other stores. And just think what an up-to-date thing it would be, Grandpa. Packards would be catering for the modern woman. We don’t want the store to be all stuffy and old-fashioned, do we?’

  ‘We certainly do not,’ Thomas agreed.

  She gave his shoulders a little squeeze.

  ‘And of course you’ll let me run it, won’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  This really was a shock. Thomas looked at her closely, trying to work out whether she was joking. Amelie’s face was deadly serious.

  ‘You’ll let me run it,’ she repeated. ‘I’d be very good at it, Grandpa, I’m certain of it. After all, you’ve always said that I’m a chip off the old block. Shopkeeping runs in my blood, whatever Mama might say.’

  ‘Crafty little minx,’ Thomas said.

  He could see through what she was trying to do. She was using Winifred’s snobbish attitude to the source of the family money as a way to get round him. The idea did have a certain appeal. He mulled over the consequences. If he gave Amelie the authority to start up and run her new department, Winifred would indeed be highly incensed, which would be amusing, if nothing else. Over the years he had paid out thousands of pounds supporting her and her ne’er-do-well husband, because he could not bear to see his daughter and her children living in less than the manner to which they wanted to be accustomed. It had rankled that Winifred did her best to forget just where that money came from.

  More important than that, it would bring young Edward up short. He would no longer be able to assume that he was the sole heir to the Packards empire. Some healthy competition would make him toe the line.

  Most important of all, it would be giving Amelie something she wanted, and that was always a great source of pleasure to him. But it would not do. Reluctantly, he patted her hand.

  ‘Now I know you could make a splendid job of it, my dear, but you won’t have the time, will you? You’re to come out this Season. You’ll be spending all your days visiting and going to parties.’

  It hurt to see the disappointment in her face.

  ‘Grandpa! You know I don’t want to be a beastly debutante. It’s all Mother’s stupid idea. You don’t want me married off to some lordling with not a sensible idea in his head, now do you?’

  ‘Of course not, darling. But you do have to get married, and your mother knows the best way to go about it. Running a department certainly isn’t going to put you in the way of suitable young men.’

  ‘But you can’t give my department to somebody else! It would be too unfair after I thought it up. Please – darling Gramps – to please me?’

  Thomas just could not resist. He compromised.

  ‘You can set it up. Get it going before the Season starts, and then you can leave it in the hands of the head of Ladies’ Outerwear and come in whenever you can to keep an eye on it. How does that sound?’

  ‘We-ell – it’s better than nothing, I suppose. Thank you, Gramps.’

  Thomas frowned at her in mock severity. ‘This isn’t a game, mind. I shall expect your department to make a profit. If it doesn’t, then that’s an end to it.’

  Amelie’s voice lost its girlish tone and took on a new edge. ‘Don’t you worry, Grandpa. It will make a profit all right. I shall see to that.’

  4

  SO MANY PEOPLE, and all so happy, so confident. Isobel Norton found herself shrinking from them. They had such loud voices, such a lordly way of carrying themselves. The men were glossy and well-tailored, the women corseted and elaborately coiffured and dressed in layers of silk, fur and finest wool. None of them with anything more pressing on their minds than which pair of gloves to buy and what to wear that evening.

  After only a week in London, Isobel found it hard to believe that she had once been as pampered and carefree as they. Just four months ago she had been Mama and Papa’s darling daughter, enjoying the round of teas and dinners and card parties and small private dances, idly visiting the shops, just like these people all around her now, in search of a pretty length of ribbon or a spray of silk flowers. Now her feet throbbed, her whole body ached with weariness, a tearing anxiety pulled at her heart. Now she had only enough money to pay for her room till the end of the week. Now she was going to the shops not to buy, but to seek employment. The trouble was, she had been totally unsuccessful so far. Nobody wanted a young woman with no previous experience and no character references and who, what was more, had obviously not done a serious day’s work in her life.

  Isobel stopped and gazed at the nearest shop window. An array of blouses crowded the space, displayed on wire frames, blouses of silk or muslin or nun’s veiling, all elaborately trimmed with tucks and frills and lace, all neatly ticketed with a price. How her dearest mama would have enjoyed such a wonderful selection.

  ‘One can never have enough pretty blouses,’ she used to say, when selecting yet another. ‘Such a useful addition to the wardrobe. So very feminine.’

  Blinking back tears, Isobel looked to find the name of the shop. Packards. Dearest Mama had always been enthusiastic about Packards.

  ‘Such a genteel establishment, and such a profusion of departments. When we go to London, my dear, we shall treat ourselves to a trip to Packards.’

  But the long-promised expedition had never come to be. Dearest Mama lay in the churchyard next to Papa, and Isobel was in London all alone, cold, frightened and nearly destitute. She moved on till she came to the main entrance, and once again hesitated, trying to steel herself to face another possible rejection. The warmth and light of the store beckoned. Isobel swallowed and squared her shoulders. She still looked perfectly respectable. She could enter without danger of being escorted out by a floorwalker. She went inside.

  She knew what to do by now. No wandering about pretending she was just another customer, because the longer she did that, the more her courage oozed away. She found the lifts. If Packards was like the other stores she had been to, then she probably needed the very top floor. Her good intentions were undermined by the lift attendant mentioning the restaurant and the tea room. She was desperate for a cup of tea. But she knew just how little money she had in her purse. It was essential that she thought three times about every penny. No, no tea. But when the ladies’ rest room was called out, she succumbed to temptation. The one thing she wanted most, even more than a cup of tea, was simply to sit down. She stepped out at the third floor.

  Packards’ ladies’ rest room was a haven of warmth and comfort. There were soft carpets, pink-shaded lamps, a tasteful arrangement of flowers. Rows of dressing tables and looking-glasses were built along two of the pink-papered walls and upholstered benches on the others. Isobel sank on to one of these with a sigh of relief. She had to get her strength back, she told herself in justification, or she would not be able to face the interview, always supposing she got as far as an interview. She closed her eyes, trying not to think of anything, trying to cut out the last dreadful week, trying even harder not to remember the terrifying events that had led to her running away, but as always when she relaxed for a moment, the images came flooding back. The policeman announcing Papa’s death, his partner telling them of the pile of debts, Mama’s last illness, the look in her brother-in-law’s eyes . . . Isobel pulled herself
together at this point. She must not think of that or she would be physically sick. With shaking knees, she walked across the room and sat at one of the dressing tables.

  A pale-faced girl with dark shadows under her bluebell eyes stared back at her from the looking-glass. She raised weary arms to take off her hat and pin up escaping strands of blonde hair. That was where her new poverty was already showing itself. Her clothes were good. The black costume with its braid trim had been newly made for her during the week following her father’s death. But managing long hair and styling it into fashionable piles of smooth curls without any help was well-nigh impossible. Isobel had opted for neatness and simplicity. At least it was clean. She had had to pay extra for warm water and shiver for hours in her unheated hotel room waiting for it to dry, but it had been worth it to see it glossy again, free of London dirt.

  Around her, women chatted to friends about what they had bought, where they should go next, what they should provide for the next supper party. Not for the first time, Isobel considered going back to Tillchester, the pleasant cathedral city that had been her home all her life. But to go back would mean admitting to what had driven her away, and she could never, ever tell anyone about that. So there was only one thing to do. She stood up and made her way to the top floor to ask if there were any vacancies.

  Carpets and inviting displays gave way to lino and plain cream walls. A clerk of indeterminate age and colourless face sat behind a desk at the staffing office. He addressed her as ‘Madam’. Slight surprise registered when he heard what Isobel had come for. His pale eyes flicked over her, not quite tying up her appearance and accent with her request.

  ‘You’re applying for a job behind the counter?’

  Isobel swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  His entire attitude changed. She was an inferior, and one who needed something from him. He pushed a form towards her.

  ‘Fill this in, give it back to me, then take a seat in the waiting room through there. You’re in luck, miss. They’re interviewing today.’

  At dear Papa’s office, men like him had treated her with the utmost respect, as mere clerks should do when the senior partner’s daughter dropped by. Now this one was addressing her with barely disguised insolence. Isobel bit her lip. She must not mind it. At least she had got over the first hurdle. She looked around and saw a table at which she could fill in the form.

  Name, Date of Birth, Address, Religion. She dipped the pen in the inkwell and filled in her details in an elegant hand, substituting the name ‘Brand’ for her own. After that, it became more difficult.

  Name and address of previous employer. Nature of previous employment. She left both blank. It seemed better than writing ‘None’.

  Reasons for wishing to obtain employment with Packards. At least she could write something in here. The question was, what exactly should she put? The truth? ‘Because I am desperate and nearly destitute and need a position and somewhere to live.’ Not really suitable. Isobel frowned over the question, then wrote, ‘My late mother always spoke in the highest terms of Packards, so I know it to be an establishment of integrity.’

  Will you require living-in accommodation? A firm ‘Yes’ to this one.

  Please attach two character references. Perhaps the most difficult one of all. She blotted the ink and handed the form back to the clerk. He glanced at it with undisguised disdain.

  ‘You don’t stand a cat’s chance, miss. Character references?’

  Isobel experienced a brief burst of anger. It was at the tip of her tongue to tell him to keep his opinions to himself. But she swallowed it down. After all, he could refuse to forward the form to the next person on the grounds that it would be wasting company time. Instead she stammered, ‘I – I don’t have them about my person just now.’

  The clerk shrugged. ‘Then you really don’t have a cat’s chance. I shouldn’t bother staying if I was you.’

  If only she could just take his advice and go. He was sure to be right. Nobody in their right mind was going to employ her. Her mother would not have considered for one moment taking on even a daily cleaning woman without a character reference. But she had no choice. She had to try.

  ‘J-Just pass on that form to whom it concerns, if you please,’ she said, and made her way through the inner door.

  The waiting room was full of young men and women, all stiffly seated on wooden chairs placed around the walls. Silence fell the moment Isobel went in, and two dozen pairs of eyes looked at her, weighing up the chances of her getting the job they wanted. Some looked away almost immediately, others stared at her. Isobel felt a flush spread up her neck and into her face. She glanced round the room. There was just one chair unoccupied, between two men. With the greatest reluctance, she sat on it, trying to shrink her body so that no part of it touched one of her neighbours. A low murmur of conversation started up again.

  The minutes dragged by. Every so often a worn-looking middle-aged man appeared at the far door and barked a name, and another hopeful applicant went in for an interview. Some came out looking pleased, more were disappointed. Though she knew it was most impolite to eavesdrop, Isobel could not help overhearing some of the talk around her.

  ‘I been with my place in Bristol three years. Done haberdashery, baby linens and stationery.’

  ‘I started on haberdashery and all. They say you got a better chance here if you’re a girl. Some places don’t hardly take no girls.’

  ‘Look at him over there. One what looks like he’s got all the cares of the world on his shoulders. He won’t get nothing if he don’t liven up a bit. You got to be a bit eager, ain’t you?’

  ‘Prob’ly got a wife and seven kids at home all hoping he’ll get this job. Mind you, I bet he’s a churchgoer. They like churchgoers, this lot. S’pose they think they’re more honest.’

  Everyone seemed to know what they were doing, except for her. Isobel sat with her back straight and her feet together and her hands clasped in her lap, and prayed.

  ‘Miss Brand!’

  For a moment, Isobel didn’t realise it was she who was being called. She still was not used to her alias.

  ‘Miss Brand not here?’

  ‘Oh yes – I’m sorry –’

  Flustered, Isobel jumped to her feet, dropped her gloves, felt the blood rush to her head as she stooped to pick them up. The man at the door tutted impatiently.

  ‘Come along, come along.’

  With a sinking sense of failure, Isobel followed him into his office and sat down on the chair in front of the polished oak desk. A brass nameplate declared the owner of it to be Mr R. Mason, Staff Manager. Neat piles of application forms filled the in- and out-baskets on each side of the desk and, on the blotter in the middle, Isobel recognised her own effort, with its glaring blank spaces. Mr Mason settled wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose and read through the form before sighing and looking across at Isobel.

  ‘No previous experience and no character references?’

  ‘Er – no,’ Isobel admitted.

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Well – I – I have not needed to take paid employment in the past.’

  ‘So you have not worked at all?’

  ‘I have assisted at charity bazaars.’

  ‘Charity bazaars. I see. I think you would find Packards a rather different kettle of fish.’

  The interview was taking an all-too-familiar path. Isobel tried to assure him that she was not afraid of hard work.

  ‘Well yes, but I’m sure I –’

  ‘I see you have put down that you would like to live in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you are currently residing at a hotel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So where is your home address?’

  ‘I –’

  She did not want to reveal that. It was essential that she covered her tracks. They were sure to come after her.

  ‘Eastbourne,’ she said. She had happy memories of the resort. They had spent a holiday there, her parents and hers
elf, the summer before last.

  ‘Eastbourne,’ Mr Mason repeated, scepticism plain in his face. ‘So no doubt there are persons in that town to whom you could apply for a reference?’

  All hope ran out then. Isobel opened her mouth to answer. She even started to stand up and leave, since there was no point in staying. But at that moment the outer door opened and a young woman came breezing in, dressed in the height of fashion in a cherry-red walking dress and a delightful little hat trimmed with velvet flowers.

  The staff manager jumped to his feet.

  ‘Miss Packard –’

  ‘Oh Mr Mason, I’m so sorry I’m late. I had to do beastly afternoon calls. A card here and a card there and fifteen minutes’ stupid small talk. You cannot think how tedious. But here I am now, and I shall take over. Thank you so much for all you have done. I really am most grateful.’

  The all-powerful staff manager, the man who held Isobel’s fate in his hands, was cheerfully dismissed by a girl no older than Isobel herself. She gave a friendly smile and sat down behind the desk.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ She adopted a businesslike manner that sat uneasily on her glowing face and frivolous outfit. ‘I’m Amelie Amberley Packard, and I’m looking for people to work in my new department, Ladies’ Sportswear. Tell me, Miss – er –’ she glanced at the form ‘– Brand, do you by any chance play any sports?’

  Isobel blinked at her, not quite believing what she was hearing. One of the Packard family was personally interviewing her, and she was asking about her hobbies. One thing was sure, it was better than being grilled about her lack of references.

  ‘Well – yes, yes I do,’ she said. ‘I’m very fond of lawn tennis, and croquet.’

  Miss Amberley Packard beamed at her. ‘How absolutely splendid. Do you know you are the first person I’ve spoken to who knows the least thing about it. What about golf?’