Packards

by Patricia Burns

  ‘Now, you understand that this is only a rough estimate,’ Nathan said, then named a price that took Amelie’s breath away.

  ‘That’s nearly twice as much as your other samples,’ she objected.

  ‘Ah, but these are top quality, and we shall be making them exclusively for Packards,’ Nathan pointed out.

  ‘That’s as maybe, but even rich ladies aren’t going to pay that much for something they won’t actually be seen in. They walk straight down the bathing machine steps and into the sea,’ Amelie said. She tried not to look too regretfully at the designs. They really were wonderful, and she was sure she could sell them, but not at that price.

  Then she realised that this was all part of the game. The Baums were just trying her out. The bargaining began.

  Amelie finally emerged from the building exhausted but elated. Nathan escorted her down to the motor and shook hands.

  ‘It has been a great pleasure to do business, Miss Packard.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Baum. I think I can say the same. Now remember, only take any notice of letters or orders that have my own signature on them.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  He handed her in beside a furiously impatient Perry, and obligingly swung the starter handle of the Renault.

  As they chugged off down the street, Perry complained even more vociferously than on the way out.

  ‘What have you been doing in there, Mel? You’ve been two hours! I was never so bored in my life. We’re sure to be late now. God knows what Mother’s going to say.’

  Amelie hardly listened, and laughed off what she did hear. What did it matter what Mother said? She had had a very successful afternoon.

  It gave her strength to face the rest of the day. The Season was now getting under way, and days were filling with a round of entertainment that required constant changes of clothes, all of them highly corseted and uncomfortable, a great deal of waiting about and the making of polite but meaningless conversation to people whom Amelie mostly found extremely uninteresting. That evening, they were due to go to a dinner, then on to a dance.

  Winifred, fortunately, did not get in till six. She looked in on Amelie to make sure she was resting before the rigours of the evening and to inspect her choice of dress, which met with her approval.

  ‘Did you make all your calls?’ she asked

  ‘Perry squired me around very ably,’ Amelie evaded, crossing her fingers.

  Winifred nodded. She was in a good humour, having been introduced to an aristocratic lady of the old school with whom she had longed to be on calling terms.

  ‘Very good. Now remember to be ready by half-past seven. You must start getting changed at least an hour beforehand.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  Amelie breathed a sigh of relief and submitted to the lengthy process of preparing for public display. Her mother’s maid came in and dressed her hair in elaborate rolls and curls, pinning it up over pads to get the required shape. Then everything she had worn during the day from stockings outwards had to be changed. Layers of underwear went on, followed by a raspberry pink crepe-de-Chine dinner dress trimmed with falls of cream-coloured lace. Shoes, elbow-length gloves, jewellery, flowers, hair ornaments and a fan then had to be chosen, but of course not a breath of makeup. Pale girls had to resort to a quick biting of the lips and pinching of the cheeks to raise a little colour before entering a room.

  Her mother looked her over critically when she entered the drawing room.

  ‘Mmm. You will pass,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure about that colour on you, but I think you can get away with it.’

  Her father smiled approvingly. ‘Very pretty, my dear. Very pretty indeed.’

  A short carriage ride brought them to the house of the Wyatts, a family whom Winifred had been cultivating for some time. Sixteen people assembled in the drawing room and made desultory conversation. Amelie found herself in a group with one of the Misses Wyatt and a young married lady, neither of whom was interested in anything other than clothes.

  ‘Do either of you bathe?’ Amelie asked, her afternoon’s business still fresh in her mind.

  ‘I’ve tried it, but I was rather frightened. One’s clothes seem to pull one under the water, and it does sting the eyes so,’ the married lady complained.

  ‘Ah well, you need one of my new bathing dresses,’ Amelie told her, and began to describe them in detail.

  She had almost succeeded in convincing them that they both needed one when the butler announced that dinner was served. The son of the house paraded up to Amelie to take her in to dinner. Amelie looked at his pudgy face and pompous expression and wished that it was Nathan Baum who was offering her his arm. Nathan, she was sure, would make an amusing dinner companion, whereas Herbert Wyatt had nothing of interest to say at all. She smiled to herself as she went down the stairs to the dining room, thinking of what her mother would say if she were to be escorted into dinner by an East End clothing manufacturer, and a Jewish immigrant to boot.

  The dinner was everything that was expected of such an occasion. A choice of two soups was followed by two fish, three entrées, two removes, three sorts of game, five sweets, two ices and four types of fruit. Herbert Wyatt turned out to be obsessed with fishing and polo, which he could, and did, talk about at length. Polo he did not play, but watched with a devotion that enabled him to remember shots from matches three years in the past. Amelie felt her eyes glazing over like those of the many fish he described to her. It was with relief that she turned to the gentleman on her other side, a short man called Orton, of indeterminate age and intense gaze.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Amberley, are you aware of the theory of eugenics?’ he asked her.

  Amelie’s heart sank. She seemed to be doomed to an evening of fanatics.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘but I have a feeling that I soon shall be.’

  This rolled right off his back.

  ‘It’s a very serious matter, one that concerns each and every one of us. The very future of our great British race is at stake.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Amelie said, hesitating between curried eggs, mushrooms and sweetbreads, and vol-au-vent à la financière.

  ‘Oh yes. Did you know that of all the recruits presenting themselves for our armed forces, nearly half of them have to be rejected because of their poor physique?’

  ‘Really?’ She decided on the vol-au-vent, but only had a very tiny helping, as her corset was digging cruelly into her.

  ‘The poor are becoming degenerate, you see. Just think of the feats performed by the British private soldier, and even the British workman in the past. Waterloo, Balaclava, our great bridges and our railways. None of that could be achieved today by the specimens you see about you.’

  Amelie thought of the people she had seen that very afternoon, the tired women bending over the sewing machines, the ragged children in the street.

  ‘Could that be because they don’t have enough to eat, or enough of the right food to eat?’

  ‘No, no, you are quite mistaken. A common misconception, but wrong nevertheless.’ Mr Orton took a generous portion of curried eggs. ‘It’s a question of selective breeding, you see. You are acquainted with the work of Mr Charles Darwin?’

  ‘Of course,’ Amelie said, not wanting to have the theory of natural selection explained to her.

  ‘Then you will understand how it happens. The very poorest and most degenerate people gravitate towards each other, and because they have not the same control over their animal instincts as the better type of person, then they breed the most, and produce copius offspring feeble in both mind and body. The process therefore perpetuates itself. How many brothers and sisters do you have, Miss Amberley?’

  ‘Ah – two brothers,’ Amelie said, momentarily floored by so ordinary a question after all the theorising.

  ‘There, that proves my point entirely. And if I were to ask a similar question of the rest of the guests round this table, no doubt I would elicit a similar answer from each of them. We, the superior
people, produce superior offspring. I have not the honour of acquaintance with your brothers, but I have no doubt they are as handsome and intelligent as I might be so bold as to say that you are, Miss Amberley. But there are only three of you. We are dying out, Miss Amberley, dying out. If we don’t do something about it soon, the country will be overrun by the degenerate poor and this great nation of ours will fall from its natural position of pre-eminence.’

  ‘Dear me, that sounds rather dramatic,’ Amelie said, trying not to laugh.

  Orton failed to notice her scepticism. ‘The case cannot be overstated. Luckily, a group of us are now aware of the situation and are working to stem the tide. We have recently made a most useful recruit, as fine an example of young British manhood as could be found, a Mr Rutherford. Are you acquainted with him?’

  ‘Er, no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Splendid young man, splendid. Just the type we need. I hope we shall attract many others. And young women as well, of course. Most necessary. Would you be interested in joining our group, Miss Amberley?’

  For once, Amelie was glad of her mother’s tight restrictions.

  ‘I don’t think that would be at all possible, Mr Orton. My mother would never allow it.’

  ‘Pity, great pity,’ Orton sighed, and turned back to his partner.

  It was almost a relief to listen to Herbert Wyatt again.

  She was finally released from the dinner party at just gone eleven, but the evening was not yet over. During the short drive home Amelie was grilled by her mother about Herbert Wyatt and annoyed her by saying roundly how boring he was, and then it was up to her room for another change, for of course however rich and impressive a dinner dress might be, it was not a ballgown. Resplendent now in peach organdie over cream silk, with a fresh corsage of flowers, Amelie set out again for another house and a dance.

  The first few dances she had been to, Amelie had looked forward to, for she loved dancing. But the general run of Mayfair houses, however impressive, were simply not big enough. So many guests were always invited that there was hardly any space left on the floor for couples to do anything more than shuffle about together. And then there was always the problem of there being more women than men attending, made worse by the fact that many of the younger men made no effort at all to dance, but just stood and talked and ate and drank while running an eye over the many disgruntled girls sitting down with their chaperons. This dance proved to be no better than any of the rest. Amelie danced just once in three hours and had to wait for ages for a supper that she did not really want. She complained about it to an old schoolfriend over the supper table.

  ‘I do agree with you, but my sister says they’re not all like this,’ the friend assured her. ‘Apparently, if you go to one of the great houses with a real ballroom, it’s utterly deevy. A proper orchestra instead of a three-piece band, a sprung floor and lots of space.’

  ‘But do the young men dance?’ Amelie asked. Now that really would be divine.

  Her friend laughed. ‘Well enough not to tread on your feet. What’s the matter, Melly, aren’t you enjoying your Season?’

  ‘Not a bit. At least – I like going to the theatre, and riding in the park, and I expect I should enjoy a ball in a great house should I be invited to one. But apart from that, it’s all so boring, and so pointless.’

  ‘Oh Mel! For someone who was so clever at school, you can be very stupid. Of course it isn’t pointless. The point is to meet suitable young men and get married. You do want to get married, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes –’ Amelie conceded, ‘but not yet. And not to the sort of men I’ve met so far. When I do get married, it’s got to be to somebody who’ll let me carry on with my work at the store.’

  ‘You and your store! I rather think you’re asking for the impossible. How is this department of yours going ahead, anyway?’

  Amelie told her, leaving out such worrying details as water pipes that burst all over the walls and orders that got mysteriously cancelled.

  ‘It all sounds quite delightful. I must come in and buy a new tennis racquet. Mine is good for nothing and Mama has promised to give a tennis party once the weather improves.’

  ‘Do. I’ll show you our range of tennis blouses as well. In fact I’ll give you one if you’ll promise to invite me to the party.’

  ‘I’m not sure whether I shall accept the bribe, Mel. You’re sure to win every match.’

  It was the only conversation she found at all amusing during the whole evening. Amelie finally flopped into bed at three o’clock, wishing that instead of setting off on another round of social events the next day she could go to the store and make sure that none of her other orders had been cancelled.

  11

  ‘ARE YOU CERTAIN there’s nobody waiting outside?’ Isobel asked.

  Daisy stifled an impatient sigh. Isobel really was acting very oddly. Like there was someone about to strangle her or something.

  ‘Look, the store’s empty, ain’t it? Last customers all went ages ago. There’s only us lot left.’

  ‘I know, I know, but would you just make sure, Daisy? Please.’

  To keep her quiet, Daisy walked under the archway and took a good look round Ladies’ Outerwear. The only people to be seen were Packards’ employees hurrying out.

  ‘It’s all clear, I promise,’ she assured Isobel.

  Her friend consented to leave the department, but not without clutching at Daisy’s arm. Daisy could feel her trembling.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Who is this bloke? Why are you afraid of him?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ Isobel said.

  They fetched their hats and jackets from the staff cloakrooms and joined the flood of shopmen and girls leaving the store. Isobel, usually the one who stayed aloof, pulled Daisy into the centre of a large knot of women. Daisy couldn’t understand it.

  ‘You’re right funny about blokes, ain’t you? You won’t give Johnny or Arthur the time of day, and now you’re scared of this one. What’s he got on you? You owe him money or something?’

  ‘No! No, nothing like that.’

  ‘Here, you’re not married to him, are you? Is that it? You run away from him?’

  If that was the case, then Isobel did have problems. Married was married, there was no getting away from it. It would explain why she was so standoffish with Johnny and Arthur.

  ‘Married? Oh no, he’s –’ Isobel stopped short.

  ‘He’s what?’ Daisy prompted.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Daisy looked at her friend. Even now, white and drawn with this fear of hers, she was beautiful. Jealousy squeezed at her heart. It was so unfair. All the men noticed Isobel. Only this afternoon, Miss Packard’s brother had been gazing at her. Not that Daisy envied her that, or any other man. It was Johnny. Johnny had taken her breath away the moment she saw him, but he had eyes only for Isobel.

  ‘Wish I had ‘em all after me like what you have,’ she said.

  Isobel shuddered. ‘It’s horrible. I hate it,’ she said, with such depth of feeling that Daisy was silenced. Her friend was the oddest person she had ever met.

  At the steps of number twenty-four, Daisy stopped to get out her latchkey. She was just about to insert it in the lock when she heard a gasp and a cry behind her.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Isobel,’ a man’s voice said. ‘So it is you.’

  Daisy spun round. Isobel was cowering against the railings, staring like a trapped animal at a man in a homburg hat. He didn’t look very frightening. He was of medium height, in his mid-thirties, fresh-complexioned, neither handsome nor ugly. Judging by his clothes and accent, he was a gentleman. And he was speaking very kindly to Isobel.

  ‘My dear girl, you cannot think how relieved I am to have found you. We have both been so worried about you. Your poor sister has been half out of her mind. To leave like that without even a note – but there must be no recriminations. I have found you, that is the only thing that matters. I have found you, and
now you can come home to your family.’

  Daisy thought he sounded very nice. There seemed to be real concern in his face. But when he put out a hand towards Isobel’s arm, she flinched away with a stifled scream.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’

  He held up both hands as if assuring her he was unarmed.

  ‘All right, all right. You’re evidently in a highly nervous state. No wonder, having to fend for yourself in a wicked city like this. But you’re safe now, Isobel. I’ve come to take you home.’

  But Isobel only shrunk further from him, her arms wrapped protectively across her chest.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, never.’

  A hint of conscious patience crept into his voice. ‘Come along now, Isobel, don’t be foolish. Your place is with us, with your family. You can’t stay here working as a common shopgirl, it’s quite unthinkable. If you come now, we could be home before midnight.’

  Still Isobel refused, shaking her head. ‘Never. I will never go back.’

  He changed tack. ‘I know you are still suffering from your sad bereavement. Maybe the shock of it has unhinged you a little. But think of your sister. Poor Margery has endured such terrors on your behalf, wondering where you were, not knowing why you left, not even knowing whether you were dead or alive. If you could see the sorry state she is in, Isobel, you would not hesitate. She has not known a night’s sleep since you left. She has grown so thin and pale you would hardly recognise her. And all because of you, Isobel. How can you be so cruel as to refuse to come back to her, to your own sister?’

  Tears started in Isobel’s eyes and spilled down her face. Daisy was compelled to step forward. She put an arm round Isobel’s shoulders.

  ‘If they’re your family, Izzy – families ought to stick together, you know –’

  Isobel started and clutched at her like a wild thing.

  ‘No – I can’t – you don’t know – please don’t make me –’