Packards

by Patricia Burns

  ‘Naturally, I would have liked to have had a son,’ he said carefully. ‘But a son as well as you, not instead of you.’

  Winifred tightened her lips. She patently did not believe him. He despaired of convincing her. How could he, when he was not convinced of it himself?

  ‘Look how you’ve gone one better. You’ve given me two grandsons.’

  ‘Then kindly leave me my daughter,’ Winifred retorted.

  Thomas emanated sweet reason. ‘My dear girl, when have I ever tried to take Amelie away from you?’

  ‘All the time! In the past it was not so important. She was still at school. It did not matter if she came here and played about the store. But now it is altogether different. She is a debutante. She should be devoting herself to the matter of making a suitable marriage.’

  ‘To donkeys like Lord Feiston?’ Thomas enquired, with a suggestion of a smile.

  ‘To somebody from a good family.’

  ‘Somebody, I hope, whom she likes?’

  Winifred flushed. ‘But of course. What do you think I am about? I have introduced her to dozens of very likeable young men. Lord Feiston is merely an example. There are plenty of others, but she hardly looks at them. It is her whole attitude that is the problem. She was bad enough without your encouraging her, giving her that ridiculous department. I managed to pass that off when it opened, but she will keep talking about it wherever we go. I certainly cannot see her making a match this Season. In fact, the way she is going, I cannot see it happening at all. And of course my chances with her are very much hampered by not being able to entertain in the country.’

  So that was it. Yet another try at persuading him to buy a country estate. The joke of it was, he was really rather attracted to the idea. On beautiful May days like today, the thought of strolling round well-kept grounds or riding a glossy horse – a suitably docile one, since he had never learnt to ride – through woods and fields was very pleasant. He had no doubt that he would soon grasp the workings of landownership. A man who had built Packards from scratch would not find that difficult. It would be a challenge, a complex toy for his old age. If he could only feel sure that Edward would carry on running the store his way, then he might well consider it.

  ‘Now then, Winifred,’ he said. ‘You know you’ll never make a country gentleman of me.’

  Winifred contained her annoyance. ‘It would be a good investment,’ she said with the air of one who has delivered the clinching argument.

  ‘As a stage for a Society hostess, I am sure it would be. In terms of monetary value, I doubt it. Agriculture is in a bad way. The colonies can produce food much cheaper than we can. Why do you think it is that so many estates are up for sale? Because they don’t pay their way. The tenants can’t make enough out of farming to pay their rents. Those of your friends who don’t have nice solid investments or something useful like coal on their land are having to sell up.’

  Winifred changed tack. She was sensible enough to know that she could not argue with him on monetary matters.

  ‘It would be so nice for Amelie to have somewhere to invite her friends once the Season is over. There is nothing so pleasant as a cosy little house party, with some shooting or hunting maybe. You would enjoy shooting, Father. Or fishing. If you bought somewhere with a good trout stream, I am sure you would become quite a sportsman. And Mother would like to be away from the noise and dirt of London.’

  There was that as well – the chance that Margaret would really take to country life and stay there when he was in London. It might even make her happy. That was a fairly remote possibility, since nothing he had ever done in all his long years of growing success had ever really satisfied her expectations of him. He wasn’t sure if she really knew what those expectations were, simply that he did not measure up to them. Running a big house might at least take her mind off them.

  ‘Nonsense. Your mother would not know what to do with herself in the country,’ he said. ‘Now, Winifred dear, let us not have an argument. How would you like it if I had a litde talk with Amelie, and reminded her of her family obligations?’

  ‘Considering that you are being so stubborn over this matter of a country house, I think that is the very least you could do. I shall send her along to you when her dress fitting is finished,’ Winifred said.

  She swept out, leaving Thomas with the suspicion that he had been outmanoeuvred. His daughter never had believed she would convince him on the matter of the estate. She simply wanted him to bring Amelie into line.

  Five minutes later, Amelie arrived, looking every bit as annoyed as her mother. Thomas asked after the fitting with a sympathetic twinkle.

  ‘Oh the gown is beautiful,’ Amelie had to admit. ‘It’s just Mother –’

  Thomas plied her with coffee and listened to Amelie’s side of the story. The interminable meals, the boring people, the dance floors that were always too crowded to move properly, the old men who looked down your décolletage, the young men with nothing to say for themselves, the grand hostesses who froze you out if you said or did anything the least bit out of line.

  ‘I seem to remember you went to a tennis party only the other day. You liked that, surely?’

  Amelie conceded that tennis parties were all right, in fact they were fun. Riding in the park was enjoyable too, and so were boating parties on the Thames.

  ‘I hear your mother’s managed to secure a houseboat for Henley. Now that should be a real spectacle. Your grandmother and I are coming to that.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Amelie admitted. ‘But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, Gramps.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  He might have known that Amelie had not come to see him simply to be lectured on being an obedient daughter.

  ‘Yes. It’s about Selfridges. Have you seen how well the building’s coming along?’

  ‘I have. It all looks very impressive, but I don’t think it will outshine Packards. Nothing could be as beautiful as our entrance hall and marble staircase.’

  ‘I know, Grandpa, and I agree. But when it opens, Mr Selfridge is sure to do something really spectacular. He was famous for it in Chicago. People will go to see out of curiosity. Our customers will go there. If we don’t do something, he’s going to take some of our trade.’

  Thomas was touched by her concern. Amelie really cared about the store. It was almost as close to her heart as to his. But in this case she was worrying needlessly.

  ‘Don’t bother yourself about Mr Selfridge,’ he said. ‘It’s well known that he’s severely underfinanced for this store of his. Look at the way he’s going about it, plunging straight into building a complete department store here on Oxford Street. None of us other traders has done that. John Lewis, Peter Robinson, Debenham and Freebody, we’ve all worked our way up from single shops. That’s the way to make a business. I wouldn’t be surprised if Selfridges failed even before the building’s completed.’

  The anxious expression on Amelie’s face did not change.

  ‘But supposing it doesn’t, Grandpa? Supposing people start going to Selfridges instead of to us?’

  ‘I’m not afraid of competition, my dear. There’s plenty of competition now, after all, and a depression in trade, but we’re more than holding our own.’

  ‘We might not when Selfridges opens. The Americans do things differently. There’s more – more show to it, like – like a parade.’

  Thomas was genuinely puzzled. How could a shop be like a parade?

  Amelie delved into the bag she had with her and produced some photographs, which she handed to Thomas.

  ‘I asked the Schneiders to send me these and they arrived today. They’re pictures of Marshall Field’s windows.’

  Thomas studied the photographs. He had seen examples of American window dressing in the Drapers Record, but these were particularly spectacular. One showed a room, complete to the curtained window and view through to a garden, with a dining table set out as if for a dinner party, and a lady, presumably the ho
stess, standing gorgeously gowned with one hand resting on a chair back. The second was an outdoor scene, with an open picnic hamper around which a family were grouped amongst what he supposed must be artificial flowers. The third looked like an oriental tent, with drapes and carpets, and a low round table in the centre on which stood an eastern-style coffee set.

  ‘They’re very pretty,’ he admitted, ‘but –’

  Amelie interrupted him. ‘Yes, that’s exactly it. People come especially to see them. They talk about them.’

  ‘But do they come in and buy?’ Thomas asked. ‘We’re not a gallery showing fine art, we’re a shop. Our customers want to be able to look in the windows and see exactly what we have on offer. Now, this dining room scene shows just one dinner service, one set of cutlery and one set of linen. When our customers look in the cutlery window, they see an example of every canteen we sell, and its price. That way they know that we have what they want at a price which they can afford. This window tells them nothing.’

  ‘So they go in and find out. The window’s so pretty they want to go into the shop and see what else is available.’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘That’s not how it works, my dear. You mark my words, if Selfridge does try these American ways here, people will go and look at his pretty displays, but they’ll come here to buy.’

  Amelie gave a sigh of frustration. ‘Oh Grandpa, won’t you just try it? Let me arrange just two windows this way, and see if it makes a difference to our sales? For me?’

  Thomas was torn. It was very hard to resist her when she looked at him like that. He loved to give her what she wanted. But in this case it was bad business, and he had to refuse. Besides, Winifred was right in a way. If Amelie was going to be a debutante and a member of Society, then she had to do it properly.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I know you mean well, and I expect it does work in Chicago, but this is London. And besides, you are far too busy with the Season to be arranging windows.’

  Amelie’s face crumpled in disappointment. ‘Oh Grandpa! I thought you understood. I thought you were on my side. You know I hate the beastly Season. And you let me have my department, didn’t you? That’s a success, isn’t it? I know I could make a success of the window displays if you would only let me try.’

  Thomas couldn’t bear it.

  ‘Look, my dear, you be a good girl for your mother and do the Season and make her happy. Then next year, I’ll see about giving you something else here at the store.’

  Amelie jumped up and threw her arms round his neck.

  ‘Really, Gramps? Promise? Oh, I’ll be a model debutante, just you see. Then together we’ll make Packards even better than ever.’

  Thomas hugged her waist and kissed her smooth cheek. Beneath the armour of her corset he could sense the vibrance of her young healthy body. This beautiful creature was his, his flesh and blood. He let her go with reluctance.

  ‘That’s my girl.’

  The office felt dead and empty after she had gone. Thomas sat staring at the door through which she had departed. He wouldn’t change one tiny part of her, and yet – if she had been born a boy, he would have happily left the running of the store to her. Five years teaching her the business from the bottom upwards and he could have gone off to retire in the country knowing that Packards was in safe hands. She would have made mistakes, of course, but she had something that Edward did not. An instinct, a flair which was not definable. As it was, she would only ever be able to play a minor part in the store. By this time next year she might even be married, and even if she wasn’t, who had ever heard of a woman running a business as large as Packards?

  14

  ‘DO I LOOK all right in this?’ Daisy asked, twisting and turning before the small looking-glass.

  ‘You look very pretty,’ Isobel assured her.

  Daisy still gazed at herself, unsure. The white blouse with the high neck and the ruffled yoke was the first brand-new garment she had ever possessed. She had bought it, from Packards of course, with money saved out of her wages. She loved every stitch, but most of all she loved the sheer newness of it, its virgin whiteness, the crisp feel to the cotton lawn, the very smell of it. Below it, her old green skirt looked drab, but she tried not to look at that. Instead, she completed the outfit by pinning on her newly trimmed straw hat. She had spent hours patiently stitching on pink ribbons and three glorious artificial peonies until it looked like a summer garden blooming on the brim. She smiled, and in the glass her pert little face smiled back. In any other circumstances, she would have been pleased with her appearance. Solid food and much improved grooming had added to her looks no end. Back home, they would think her real posh. The trouble was, she was no longer comparing herself to the girls from back home. She was up against Isobel.

  She looked at her friend. Isobel was dressed all in black, with a plain black straw hat. She looked as if she were going to a funeral rather than a music hall, but still she outshone Daisy on all counts. She was taller, her figure was far more voluptuous, her hair was that striking natural blonde and most of all her face was simply lovely. Daisy was consumed with envy.

  ‘It’s all right for you. You could wear rags and look beautiful. What’ve you got all that dull stuff on for, anyway? We’re not going to church.’

  ‘I’m still in mourning for my dear mama and papa. I should not be going to a place of public entertainment at all. I’m only doing so because I feel I cannot refuse, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Too true, after what they done – did – for you,’ Daisy agreed.

  Just as she had guessed they would, Johnny and Arthur had pressed home their advantage and asked the girls out. To make sure it would be an evening to remember, it was not to be simply a walk and perhaps a visit to a teashop, but a trip to the music hall.

  The excitement of it welled up in Daisy, overcoming much of the envy. She had built so much on this evening, dreamt so many dreams. Who knew, perhaps Johnny would get fed up with Isobel giving him the cold shoulder all the time and look at her instead. Certainly Isobel showed no sign of pleasure at all. Daisy found she was feeling almost sorry for her.

  ‘Come on, Sourpuss, put a smile on it! We’re going to have fun,’ she cried.

  Isobel said nothing, and followed her reluctantly as she made her way downstairs.

  The young men were waiting for them at the door. Both sported rather loud checked jackets in contrast to the dull suits they had to wear all week, and both had bowler hats at jaunty angles on their heads. Daisy was delighted. She had never been out with a man in a bowler hat before. All the lads round her way wore flat caps.

  Arthur staggered back in mock amazement as the girls came out.

  ‘Blimey, are these the ladies what we’re taking out? I thought they was debutantes or something.’

  ‘We’re the lucky ones tonight, all right,’ Johnny agreed.

  His eyes were only for Isobel. Daisy fought back the pang of disappointment. She might have known it.

  Isobel tucked her arm firmly inside that of her friend, and refused to be parted. The arrangement held all the way to the Empire, to the chagrin of the men, but once they were there Isobel was outflanked. As they took their seats in the fourth row of the circle, the girls stayed together, but Arthur sat on Daisy’s other side and Johnny on Isobel’s.

  Daisy was too enchanted by her surroundings at first to let it worry her. She gazed about her at the theatre. It was just about the most exotic place she had ever been to. She was almost used now to the magnificence of Packards, but this was something different. While Packards had restrained splendour, the Empire was a riot of red and gold, with brilliant chandeliers, polished brass rails, plush seats and silk-effect walls, with gilt cherubs and foliage sprouting from every available surface. On top of that, there was the atmosphere. The place seemed to hum with the same happy expectancy that she felt. All around her there was a hubbub of voices as people found their seats, settled themselves in, talked to their neighbours or called across the rows and
aisles. Daisy drank it in, along with the smell of cigars and drink and chocolates. A great sigh of pleasure escaped her.

  ‘Like it?’

  She realised that Arthur had been watching her, and flushed. She didn’t want him thinking she was a little nobody who’d been nowhere.

  ‘’S all right. Bit hot. Nice, though,’ she conceded.

  ‘They got a good line-up tonight. Little Titch and Clara Deare! You don’t often get to see them both on one night.’

  ‘I love Clara Deare,’ Daisy said, wanting to sound knowledgeable. It was true enough. She might never have watched her on stage, but she had seen the great star’s photographs in shop windows and in the newspapers and had been attracted to her knowing smile. Clara Deare seemed like a woman who was in charge of her own life.

  ‘Yeah, she’s a wonder, ain’t she? What a performer – gets the audience eating out of her hand, she does. And as for Little Titch – well! Last time I saw him I thought I was going to die, I laughed so much. And the others on the bill, they’re all good and all. The Great Khan – you seen him? Now there’s an act . . .’

  Arthur talked on at length about the entertainment ahead of them. According to him, they were all masters and mistresses of their art. It was almost as if he had personally booked them for Daisy’s pleasure. She listened to him with half an ear while continuing to look about her. She especially liked the boxes, which were filled with swells, the men in black and white evening dress and the women in gorgeous gowns, reds and pinks and greens and blues, cut low on the bust and sparkling with jewels. How she wished she had a dress like one of them. Johnny would be sure to notice her then.

  The lights dimmed, and with a crash of chords the band began to play a lively selection of popular song tunes. Late arrivals hurried to their places. The audience settled down. The master of ceremonies picked up his gavel and cleared his throat.

  ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen –’

  The show had begun.

  Daisy completely forgot she was trying to act worldly wise. She watched each act with total concentration and loved every one. She laughed at the comics, thrilled at the tumblers and the fire-eater, wiped tears away after the sentimental singers and joined in with all the choruses. She hardly noticed Isobel shrinking ever closer to her on one side or Arthur hoping for approval on the other. The first half finished with Clara Deare, and Arthur was absolutely right, she did have the audience eating out of her hand. The curtain came down to deafening applause and roars of ‘More!’ with Daisy clapping and shouting as loud as any, but Miss Deare did not come back. She was off to top the bill at another Empire across town.