Packards

by Patricia Burns

  As she stood at the rail, furious at the unfairness of life, she chanced to overhear a conversation between a couple of middle-aged men.

  ‘Young Rutherford walked it this afternoon, didn’t he?’

  ‘I should say! I’ll lay you anything you care to name he’ll take the Sculls again this year.’

  Amelie’s attention was caught. She eavesdropped unashamedly.

  ‘I’m not taking you up on that one, old boy. Dead cert, barring accidents. Not an Eton man, is he?’

  ‘No, he’s from my Alma Mater. You Eton men like to think you have the monopoly of sportsmen, but it’s not so. Hugo Rutherford being a case in point. He’s not just good with the old oars, y’know. He’s an excellent fast bowler and a terror on the rugby field. Splendid all-round sportsman, in fact.’

  ‘Ah, but young Rutherford’s the only one you can cite, now isn’t he? Whereas I can point to any number of Old Etonians . . .’

  The conversation ceased to interest Amelie at that point. But she had a name now. Hugo Rutherford. She had a vague feeling that she had heard of him before, but then one spoke to and heard others speaking of so many different people during the Season that it was difficult to place just when it was and in what context he had been mentioned. The important thing was that she now knew who he was. Somehow, the setback over her ideas for the store did not seem quite so important any more.

  Winifred sat back after luncheon on the third day and allowed herself a few minutes’ respite from her social duties to review the Henley campaign. From several points of view it had been a success. The meals she had offered had been nothing short of a triumph. She would defy any other hostess along the riverbank to have arranged such a lavish amount of food for so many guests. The one that had just been cleared away had consisted of twenty dishes in five courses, accompanied by ten different wines and spirits, including a particularly fine Château Lafite. A number of the gentlemen had complimented her on that.

  The quality of guests had been almost what she had hoped for. She had taken the wise step of sending out invitations at the very earliest moment that it could be done without seeming overanxious, and so had prevented those whom she was courting from pleading prior engagements. Consequently, a gratifying number of the titled and the fashionable had graced the blue houseboat during the three days, and return invitations could therefore be expected.

  About her family, she had mixed feelings. Bertie had played the host admirably when it was required of him, and had not embarrassed her by paying attention to any vulgar actresses or the like. Her mother had kept quiet, which was all Winifred asked of her. Edward had looked the gentleman, squired Amelie about, been pleasant to important guests’ daughters and generally proved himself quite a social asset. Perry could always be relied upon to chat to people and bring along some much-needed unmarried men. Her parents-in-law had been graciously pleased to give the Amberley seal of approval to the events. Which left her father, and Amelie. Her father had been loudly ebullient, almost acting as if the houseboat were his. The fact that it was his money that was paying for the whole junket was something that Winifred preferred to forget. The sound of him laughing and exorting people to enjoy themselves had grated throughout the three days, but she had to admit that nobody had appeared to have been offended by him. In fact several people had remarked on what a character he was, and even seemed to be courting his attention and opinions. Mortified as she was at being the daughter of a shopkeeper, it had not occurred to her before that her father had become enough of a success to be something of a celebrity. If he could just be persuaded to purchase a country estate, she could almost forgive his being the founder of Packards.

  But Amelie was quite another matter. Winifred’s eyes roved over the guests as they gathered at the sides to watch another race. There was her daughter, leaning eagerly over the rail and straining to see the competitors. Amelie had been a severe disappointment to her over Henley. Everything had seemed set fair. The Teignmeretons had accepted her invitation to luncheon on the first day and supper on the second, the Hon. George had danced attendance morning, noon and night, and what had Amelie made of the opportunity? Nothing. She had treated the Hon. George as if he were a particularly stupid younger brother. Winifred was very angry with her.

  ‘There they are!’

  Amelie’s cry made Winifred jump. Then as if to confirm her mother’s poor opinion, she started to draw attention to herself in a most ridiculous way. While other people were waving hats and handkerchiefs in an elegant fashion and maybe letting out the odd decorous cheer or cry of encouragement, Amelie was jumping up and down and fairly shrieking.

  ‘Come on, come on! Oh yes, yes, he’s doing it! Yes! He’s pulling ahead . . .’

  Winifred arose from her wicker chaise longue and drew her daughter aside. Amelie’s face was alight with excitement, making her look so pretty as to be almost beautiful. Winifred could have slapped her. With all her chances, she had been a total failure at attracting a husband.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, child,’ she hissed, low enough not to be heard by any of her guests, but fierce enough to make her displeasure understood. ‘Stop behaving like a hoyden. You are a debutante now, remember, not a schoolgirl. No one looking at you would believe you had been presented at court. You are acting more like a factory girl on a spree. I’m ashamed of you.’

  To her chagrin, Amelie laughed.

  ‘Oh Mother! It’s the final of the Diamond Sculls!’

  And before Winifred could say anything more, she broke away and regained her place at the rails, to begin wheedling an elderly man with a pair of binoculars.

  ‘Who’s winning? May I see? Oh thank you, you’re so kind! Is it –? Yes! It’s him! He’s done it!’

  Her father strolled by, and stopped to talk.

  ‘Our little Amelie’s enjoying herself.’

  Winifred tightened her mouth. ‘Yes, you could put it that way.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘Come now, don’t you think it’s rather charming to see such enthusiasm? The young should be full of fun. There’s time enough to be weary and cynical when you get old.’

  ‘There’s fun and there’s screaming like an oaf at the football match,’ Winifred retorted. ‘I am displeased with Amelie. Most displeased.’

  Thomas patted her arm. ‘I think you’ve been overdoing it, Winifred. Lot of work involved in organising an affair of this kind, I’m sure. Now come and sit down.’

  Winifred found herself sitting back in her chaise longue while her father waved at a passing footman – her footman, that was – to bring her some tea.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, settling himself next to her, ‘what’s my favourite granddaughter been doing to upset her mama so badly?’

  ‘Where do I begin?’ Winifred said.

  ‘Let me guess – you’re cross because she has not hooked one of these vacuous young men with an undershot chin?’

  There were times when Winifred felt murderous towards her father. He had an uncanny way of putting his finger on something then turning it to one’s disadvantage.

  ‘Of course not,’ she lied.

  Her father smiled, patently unconvinced. ‘Surely that’s the crown of success for a mother and a Society hostess? To get her daughter married off to someone suitable in her first Season? Personally, I think it’s barbarous, but who am I to comment? I’m only an old-fashioned merchant, after all.’

  It took all Winifred’s considerable self-control not to agree out loud with that last remark.

  ‘After all the money that has been spent on her, I do think Amelie might at least play the part,’ she said.

  ‘But she has been playing the part! She has been paddling up and down the river looking as pretty as a picture, and decorating all your nice parties and talking to all the young men you’ve pushed under her nose.’

  ‘She’s been abominably rude to the Hon. George Teignmereton, and he’s the only one who’s shown any real interest.’

  And she had had to pay off some of Perry�
�s debts for him in order to get him to bring his friend along to the Peacock Party in the first place.

  ‘Teignmereton!’ Thomas laughed. ‘The boy’s an idiot. You don’t really want her hitched to him, do you?’

  In agony least his voice should have carried to any of the guests, Winifred hushed him.

  ‘The Teignmeretons are one of the foremost families in Shropshire.’

  ‘That’s as maybe. The boy’s still an idiot. Our little Amelie can do better than that.’

  ‘It’s somewhat late to be saying that now. The Season’s nearly over. Everyone will be going off to Cowes or Deauville or to the grouse moors, and where will we be? Still in town! Nobody, but nobody else will be back until next April. Now, if we had a country estate, it would be different. We could invite people to stay and they would invite us back . . .’ Winifred poured out at length her thoughts on why they should have a family seat.

  It was no use, though. Her father was immovable.

  ‘If you feel so strongly about it, my dear, why don’t you get your Bertie’s people to invite your friends for you? After all, they’re the ones with the respectable name, as you’re always so quick to point out. Now, I mustn’t keep you any longer from your duties as a hostess. Splendid party. Simply splendid.’

  He left her nearly spluttering with rage. The stubborn old man! He could well afford to benefit his family by buying an estate. He was just too selfish to do so.

  A black cloud settled over Winifred’s Henley party, souring the success it had undoubtedly been. And it was all the fault of her father and her ungrateful daughter.

  19

  ‘BIT NIPPY THIS morning, ain’t – isn’t – it?’ Daisy said, splashing water rapidly over her body.

  ‘Yes, I think autumn is truly here at last,’ Isobel agreed.

  ‘Nice to feel a bit of a snap after all that heat. Like being in a blooming Turkish bath,’ Daisy said, though she had never seen one, and had very little idea of what they were like. But everyone had been saying it throughout the heatwave. It had been baking in the attic room during August, even at nighttime, making it difficult for the girls to get to sleep, though the temperature made them tireder than ever and their ankles swelled in the heat.

  ‘But it will mean it will be getting colder up here,’ Isobel pointed out.

  ‘Yeah, but we can always sit downstairs of an evening, can’t we?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  It was all right while they were talking like this. As long as they kept to light chat, they got on. But as Daisy finished washing and started pulling on her clothes, her eyes strayed to where Isobel was brushing her beautiful honey-blonde hair, and the sick knot of envy tightened once more. Isobel had everything – luscious figure, lovely face, beautiful hair.

  ‘You are lucky,’ she blurted out.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Isobel asked, her voice guarded.

  She did not turn to look at her. Instead she carried on with the complicated task of pinning her heavy tresses into a neat style.

  ‘Having that lovely colour hair,’ Daisy said, making do with part of the truth. ‘It’s so striking, catches your eye, like. Mine’s just mouse. Nobody notices it at all.’

  ‘It isn’t always an advantage, you know. I often wish I wasn’t so noticeable. I don’t like it.’

  But Daisy couldn’t really believe that. Only someone who had always had good looks could think that. It was different when you were ordinary. Then you longed and longed for something that would make people look at you. Or rather, make one particular person look at you.

  ‘We’d better hurry up. I can smell breakfast,’ she said.

  It was the usual rush to eat and get out. The girls from number twenty-four grabbed their jackets and hats and hurried out of the door to join the flood of Packards’ workers making their way up Trent Street towards the store. As usual, Johnny and Arthur were waiting for them, and as usual, Johnny fell in alongside Isobel, leaving Arthur with Daisy. Also as usual, Isobel made no attempt at conversation, and only answered Johnny’s chat with monosyllables. Daisy was forced to acknowledge that Isobel was not just playing hard to get. She genuinely did not want Johnny’s attentions. But though it meant she had nothing to accuse Isobel of, it still gave her cause for jealousy. She did not like herself for it, but she could not help it. From the moment she had first spoken to Johnny, seen his ready smile, listened to his cheerful banter, she had loved him. It was as simple as that.

  ‘I wonder if Miss Packard will be in today?’ she said, to distract herself.

  ‘You expecting her?’ Arthur asked.

  ‘She was in yesterday, all full of ideas for Ladies’ Sportswear. We’re going to have a special autumn display. All branches and leaves and stuff, with the goods all sort of hung in around it. Kind of like Christmas, only not, so Miss Packard says.’

  ‘Sounds a rum idea to me,’ Arthur shrugged.

  ‘It’s a wonderful idea! It will make people come and look.’

  They debated the issue all the way to the store. It helped Daisy to deal with the sight of Johnny’s head leaning towards Isobel’s just ahead of her.

  Just after nine o’clock, Miss Packard arrived, charmingly dressed in a peach-coloured dress with the new higher waist and kimono sleeves. Trailing behind her were five men carrying great bundles of branches, corn sheaves and artificial autumn leaves.

  ‘I’d rather have real ones, but of course they’d drop in a couple of days and make a mess. Now, we must set all these up, and I’ve some bunches of chrysanthemums being delivered later, so we must allow for them as well.’

  Daisy found herself swept along by Miss Packard’s enthusiasm. It was like a fresh wind blowing through the place whenever she turned up.

  ‘Oh, that sounds lovely!’ she exclaimed.

  Miss Higgs glared at her, but Miss Packard smiled.

  ‘Yes, I think so too. Now, Miss Higgs, if you will be so kind as to allow two of the girls to assist me – Miss Phipps here, do you think, and Miss Brand? – then that will leave you and the other two to the more important job of serving customers. We must do all this without losing any sales.’

  Daisy was quick to see the deftness of her approach. She could easily just march in and take over. She had every right. But instead, she gave at least the appearance of deferring to Miss Higgs, and saved the senior saleswoman’s face. For herself, she was delighted to be chosen to dress up the department, and she could see that Isobel was pleased to be let off sales duties as well.

  It wasn’t like work, helping Miss Packard. It was fun. They tied on the artificial leaves, heaved around the branches and put them in place, arranged the wheat sheaves and placed big vases where the chrysanthemums were going to go. Miss Packard changed her mind a lot, stopping often to step back and survey what she had done, then switch it all round another way, but Daisy did not mind. On the contrary, it spun out the pleasure.

  ‘We must remember to leave some things for the window. We’ll dress that this afternoon,’ Miss Packard said. ‘Now, how are we doing?’

  ‘It’s already looking pretty. Like an autumn bower,’ Isobel said.

  Miss Packard considered their efforts. ‘Yes, it does, does it not? I think we might give ourselves a pat on the back. But what really matters is that it will bring in the customers. I want to prove that special displays like this can improve sales.’

  ‘I’m sure people will come and look,’ Daisy said.

  ‘Exactly, and then you and the other girls must seize the opportunity to sell them something. Not so many women play sports in the winter, so we have to encourage them in.’

  Just after midday, they were interrupted by the arrival of Mr Edward Packard. He strolled in and stood watching them as they arranged the newly arrived flowers, a small smile on his handsome face.

  ‘So this is what you are doing to Ladies’ Sportswear, Mel. Very – ah – striking.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Miss Packard said, ignoring the edge of sarcasm.

  ‘You only nee
d add a few prize vegetable marrows and it will look like a harvest festival.’

  ‘Yes, and just think how wonderful churches look then.’

  Her brother did not answer immediately. His glance had strayed over to where Isobel was sorting tawny and gold chrysanthemums into a big cut-glass vase. Daisy, who had been unashamedly eavesdropping on the exchange, could not fail to notice the interest in his face. It was quickly gone, but unmistakable. He dragged his attention back to the display.

  ‘This is a store, Mel, not a church.’

  Miss Packard was unmoved.

  ‘We shall see who’s right,’ she said.

  From just the other side of the archway – now decorated with leaves, wheat sheaves and golf clubs and gloves – came another conversation, conducted in the strident tones of the English upper class.

  ‘Whatever is all this?’

  ‘I cannot think. But how pretty! Do let us go and look.’

  A middle-aged lady with what looked like her two unmarried daughters in tow sailed into the department. They gazed about them in surprise, ignoring the Packards and the shopgirls, and making loud appreciative comments. Miss Higgs, primed beforehand by Miss Packard, let them look their fill before moving in. It was easy work then to persuade them to buy hats, scarves and motoring goggles.

  Miss Packard said nothing. She didn’t need to. Her suppressed smile was enough.

  Mr Edward took it well.

  ‘Very impressive, Mel. Keep up the good work.’

  ‘Thank you, Edward. I shall.’

  Once he was out of earshot, Miss Packard laughed out loud.

  ‘There! What did I tell you? It does work. I know it does, I saw it being done in Chicago. All we need now is some good advertisements and we shall be all set.’

  She sent Isobel and Daisy off for dinner, then when they came back they started disposing goods for sale in an artistic manner amongst the display. Waterproof cycling capes made a backdrop for comsheaves, golf clubs sprouted amongst the flowers, hats and gloves hung from the branches like strange fruit. And all the while, the curious came to look, and stayed to buy.