by Jane Tulloch
In the office, he slumped down in a chair. To his surprise, Mrs Pegram didn’t sit behind her desk but took a seat next to him. She recognised that there was more to this distress than might be expected. “What is it Harry?” she asked gently.
There was a long pause. She was about to reframe her question when he blurted out, “It’s here. Just here. Being here in Murrays. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.”
He shook his head vehemently.
Taken aback Mrs Pegram replied, “I know yesterday was an awful shock for us all. That poor young man, but I expect you’ll soon feel a bit better and enjoy getting back to work.” He looked unconvinced.
“There’s something about getting back into the old routine,” she finished kindly.
He jerked his head back at that and turned to look very directly at her, “But that’s just it! I don’t like the ‘old routine’. I don’t want to do it anymore.” With that he stood up and marched out. Mrs Pegram called after him but he didn’t return nor did he go back to Menswear as she discovered when she phoned to check on how he seemed. Mr Clark was positively glowing when he happily informed her that no, young Mr Ferguson had not, apparently, found it necessary to return to his post. He then enquired whether or not he had been sacked.
“No. No, he hasn’t. Let me have a think about it and I’ll let you know.” She sat back to have the promised think. After a while, she consulted a file then lifted the telephone.
Mrs Ferguson sat outside Mrs Pegram’s office in some trepidation. Of course, she had sat outside a head teacher’s office often enough waiting to be told that the school were disappointed in Harry in some way or another: insufficient effort in Maths, complaining about the school dinners or, worst of all, some form of impertinence. Always “disappointed” though. A particularly depressing word, she thought. She wondered what he’d done now. The door opened and a pleasant smiling woman emerged.
“Mrs Ferguson, thank you so much for coming. I’m Mrs Pegram,” the smiling woman introduced herself. “Do come in.”
Mrs Ferguson entered the small cluttered office cautiously, still waiting for trouble. However, she was surprised when Mrs Pegram explained why she had requested the meeting.
“We were very pleased with your Harry when he first joined us. Such a smart young man. But something seems to have happened to him. I know he was, naturally, very upset at the tragic incident which he most unfortunately witnessed but it seems to go beyond that. He tells me that he’s very unhappy in Murrays. I wondered if you could cast any light on that?” She finished hopefully.
“Oh,” responded Mrs Ferguson in surprise. Her first instinct was to deny that Harry had any problems at all but, on seeing Mrs Pegram’s concerned expression, she relented. With a sigh, her face relaxed and she replied, “No, you’re right. There’s something wrong with the laddie. He’s not himself.”
“Any idea what it might be? I don’t want to pry into personal matters but is there, maybe, anything going on at home that might be upsetting him?
“No, not that I can think of. Mrs McNichol is going for a hip replacement and he was concerned about that and Mrs Stevenson’s not what she was.”
She paused while they both thought about that. Then she continued: “He’s not got the time he had for Norma and the gang from school of course.”
“Now, who are all these people?” enquired Mrs Pegram, “Relatives? Friends?”
“Well, Mrs McNichol and Mrs Stevenson are friends of mine who more or less helped me to bring Harry up. He was just left with me you know,” she confided. “I had to just get on with it. Mrs Jarvis helped too of course. We all did our best and he’s not turned out badly?” she finished plaintively. “We’re all very proud of him.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” Mrs Pegram responded, nodding her head vehemently. “I take it Norma’s a girlfriend?”
“No. Well, not exactly. To let you understand,” she continued, using the time-honoured Scottish phrase. “She’s a girl, they all are, his school friends I mean, but they’re not ‘girlfriend’ girlfriends if you know what I mean.” She stuttered to a halt, eyebrows raised, willing Mrs Pegram to understand what she meant.
“I see,” said Mrs Pegram, sitting back in her chair reflectively. “Tell me, do you think there’s something about the department he works in that he doesn’t like? Is it the people there or the stock maybe?”
“Maybe,” Mrs Ferguson ventured cautiously, having wondered about that too.
“Look, I’ll have a think about this, tell him to come and see me first thing on Monday.”
The two ladies looked at each other and nodded, their thoughts taken up by the problem of what to do with Harry.
The following Monday a somewhat subdued Harry presented himself at Mrs Pegram’s door.
“Come in Harry,” her disembodied voice called out.
He entered and found Mrs Pegram standing at an open filing cabinet, a file in her hand.
“Sit down Harry.” He took a seat.
“Now,” she said turning to look at him. “I gather that you’re not altogether happy in your current department.”
“Well. I don’t know.” Harry had never really thought about this as a possibility. He didn’t really like it and felt excluded by the other men but had just accepted the situation passively. He’d just put up with it.
“Would you like a move?” she suggested.
“Oh. Gosh. Where to?” His mind reeled as he contemplated the sort of department that were usually staffed by men. He wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of Ironmongery or Electrical. He’d struggle to be interested in Furniture or even the Food Hall.
“I was wondering about Ladies Separates actually,” Mrs Pegram continued smoothly. “I gather that you have an eye for matching clothes, colours and so on. How would you feel about that? We don’t usually place male staff there but something tells me that you might fit in well there. The ladies are a friendly bunch – and I hear you are a bit of a ladies’ man,” she added teasingly.
He reddened but was undeniably interested in the prospect. He already had some friends in that department and the Ladies Outdoor clothing department which abutted it.
“Oh, that would be,” he corrected himself, “could be terrific. In fact, I think I’d like that. Yes, please.” He inwardly rebuked himself for such an uncool response but couldn’t help himself. It was a wonderful prospect. To be back among the sort of people he was most comfortable with, to be able to share in their conversations and to be complimented on his work (which would be beyond reproach he told himself) would be such a relief.
The news of his transfer went down well in several quarters: Menswear were delighted to see the back of him, but he was welcomed by all in Ladies Separates (and Ladies Outdoor clothing, Swimwear and even Model Gowns if truth be told).
Safely installed, Harry himself was once more surrounded by a circle of friendly females. He was very happy.
To the irritation of his “girlfriend du jour”, Norma and the gang were frequent poppers in and were encouraged to try on various unlikely items for fun. His grandmother and the elderly ladies were often accommodated in the backroom and surreptitiously plied with tea and biscuits carefully carried down from the canteen to revive them from strenuous shopping expeditions.
Nor was this transfer a one-way street for Murrays. Harry proved to be a very able member of staff and his suggestions and personal attention went down very well with customers. His eye for colour and style was noted by the Management and he was once more pencilled in for a place on the Management training course.
The Ladies' man was back where he had always been: with the ladies.
Chapter 3
A Renaissance
Hard as it was to imagine Mr McElvey, Murrays’ Finance Director, having sprung from an actual family, it was a biological fact that he had. His parents, now late, had lived a quiet life of unimpeachable respectability in relative financial security. His father approved of his son's transition from the grammar school into a w
orld of figures; what his mother thought was of no relevance in their stern Calvinist household. Life for the McElveys had been a daily striving and suppression of selfish impulses. Regrettably, this had gone along with a strong tendency to deplore those less well off than themselves and to blame the less fortunate for their own misfortunes.
Charity, such as it was, strictly began at home for the McElveys.
In this stronghold of self-denial and general misery, there was one jarring note – Mr McElvey's sister Norah. She was ten years younger than him and her arrival had been a huge surprise for all concerned. From the start, she was so different from the rest of her family that she was considered by her West Highland Free Presbyterian mother to be a changeling. Her less fanciful father was quite sure they had been given the wrong baby on discharge from the maternity hospital. However, her strong physical resemblance to her progenitors disproved this. Where their sharp features appeared stern on both parents and elder brother, on Norah’s little face they looked positively pixyish.
Little Norah would have been a joy in any other family. She had an infectious smile which turned rapidly into a bubbling laugh. She loved nothing more than to dance and sing and was generally a tremendous source of embarrassment for her family. Nor did she change as she grew up. She was popular at school with both pupils and staff and her irrepressible good humour appeared incapable of being curbed by the intense disapproval she daily experienced at home.
At the same time that her newly qualified older brother was settling into his job at Murrays, Norah's talent as an artist began to emerge. Her head teacher pleaded with her parents to allow her to attend the Art College, but they were adamantly against such frivolity.
“Norah is to be a teacher or a nurse,” her father stated with some finality. As a placatory gesture, he continued, “Of course she may draw her wee pictures in her spare time.”
The head teacher sighed. Poor Norah, she thought. This was the general consensus in the staff room. All the teachers wanted to help Norah, but it was not to be. She was duly enrolled at the local teacher training college despite her lack of aptitude in this field.
The summer before she started college, Mr McElvey found her a temporary job at Murrays. He was pleased that she seemed to accept this so well at a time when her friends were either off on exotic foreign holidays or lounging at home playing tennis and swimming every day. Norah put her head down and worked hard in the packing department. She didn't chat or distract others and was always open to working overtime. Mr McElvey was gratified that she was such a credit to him. Her parents felt she had settled down at last and they relaxed their iron discipline sufficiently to allow her some time to herself and to keep her meagre earnings.
“It'll be good for her to see what it takes to earn a living,” her father told her mother. “We'll not be here forever and she'll need to find her own way in life.” His wife nodded.
Thus, it was a huge surprise to them all when she did indeed find her own way in life. She found her own way all the way to Australia. The first they knew of this was one Sunday when she didn’t appear for breakfast before church. On finding her empty room and a short note saying she was leaving, they were devastated. A thousand questions flooded in. Where could she have gone? Who knows about this? What should we do? A long night followed as the three considered the situation. The McElveys were as one in their desire to keep the police out of it. “What would the neighbours think?” was a key imperative. They waited for her to return home chastened by her experience, but this was not to be. Norah had escaped.
In time, they discovered that she was in Melbourne. Letters arrived at six-monthly intervals but, naturally, her parents didn’t respond. It was only when they had both expired (of influenza in their unheated, cheerless house) and Mr McElvey junior was going through their papers that he found the small packet of airmail letters. From these he gathered that Norah was now married to a prosperous builder called Bruce and was mother to three sons and a daughter. His eyes glistened as he examined a photograph enclosed in the most recent communication. The family smiled out at him, a vision of suntanned vigour and cheerful happiness. The strapping boys looked like rugby players and the girl like a cheerleader: all had healthy bronzed skin and plenty of excellent teeth displayed in wide smiles.
A happy looking family, he concluded gloomily and resolved to write to the latest address to inform Norah of her parents’ death. She was not mentioned in Mr and Mrs McElvey’s will, but he was quite prepared to do the decent thing and forward her share.
Norah responded quickly to the letter. To his amazement, she telephoned: an extravagance that shocked her brother.
He was startled to hear the breezy Australian voice say, “Jeez I guess I’m not surprised the oldies never changed their phone number! Hi, it’s me Norah!”
They talked briefly of business matters. She shrugged off his offer of half the inheritance, saying, “It’s quite OK. It’s good of you, but Bruce has done well and we really don’t need any more.”
He felt tempted to question this, but held himself back.
She continued, “We may be able to set up the kids too. Why don’t you just keep it for your own family?”
He told her stiffly that he had no family, having never married (a pre-requisite for Scottish McElveys). He winced as she expressed surprise.
“Gee why the hell not, you old dog? Got a chick on the side? One Ma and Pa never got to hear about?” she teased.
Tautly, he denied this and outlined his proposed new living arrangements: he would sell the family house and invest the money, using the income to offset the expense of living in a residential club near Murrays. There he would be fully looked after and would not have to worry about maintaining a house, shopping, cleaning, laundry and all the sundry activities of running a home. He was looking forward to it. All Norah said was a heartfelt, “Strewth!”
Further pleasantries were exchanged and the call came to an end. As he hung up he felt a tiny pang of something that he would much later recognise as loneliness.
The move to the club was a great success. It was conveniently located for his work at Murrays, negating the need for a car. The food was excellent, the housekeeping department understood his laundry and cleaning requirements and he felt quite at home in the starchy atmosphere of the club drawing room and bar. This club was very much for ‘those and such as those’ and, should he feel the need for company, there was always a polite acquaintance to talk to. He settled in very well.
The years passed and he never met anyone he wanted to settle down with or felt the need to set up home elsewhere; he remained a fixture at the club. At breakfast one grey morning, as he was gloomily contemplating his usual single poached egg, he became aware of a disturbance at the entrance to the dining room. As he had assiduously avoided looking up, he was surprised to hear a discreet cough at his side from Simpson the Head Porter.
“Do excuse me sir, but a young person is asking to see you. I have informed her that you are currently occupied, but she is most insistent I inform you of her presence.”
“A young person? Are you quite sure it is me she is looking for? I can’t think who it could be. It must be some mistake,” he said dismissively, turning back to his plate.
“No mistake Uncle Ian,” said a loud voice across the expanse of carpet. Other silent breakfasters looked up askance. With a sigh, he threw down his napkin and strode across the room. To his horror, as he arrived in her proximity, she started forward and threw her arms around him, shouting, “Uncle Ian, I can’t believe it’s you! You look just like Mum said you would.”
With an inward groan he realised this must be his Australian niece. He had almost forgotten his conversation with his sister so many years ago. Indicating irritably that she should follow him, he abandoned his breakfast with some regret.
They went to the empty drawing room. It was cold in there and they sat near the window at the young woman’s request, “Want to catch some rays after all, Unc.”
&nb
sp; He winced. “May I offer you some refreshment?” he asked politely but distantly. “Some tea perhaps?”
“Any chance I could get a big pot of coffee and a snag?”
“A what?” he asked faintly.
“Sorry Unc, I mean a sarnie? A bacon roll? Whatever you guys eat at breakfast?” she continued.
“I daresay they might find you some tea and toast.” He quelled her with a look.
Crestfallen and suddenly very tired after her long flight, she slumped in her seat. “OK Unc, whatever.”
He signalled to the hovering waitress and made his request.
Over an awkward breakfast, the story emerged. Despite her informing him that she was called Sam, he persisted, to her growing irritation and weariness, in calling her Samantha. Samantha had embarked, with her mother’s encouragement, on a trip home to the old country, as she persisted in calling it. She had assumed she would be welcomed by her uncle and, naturally, she would stay with him.
With a sinking heart Sam began to realise that the old guy of her imaginings bore no resemblance to the person now examining her with some distaste. She gulped down the lukewarm tea, coughing a little over the dry toast crumbs, and said sadly, “Well I guess I’m not really welcome here.” She stood up and began to gather her assortment of rucksacks and bags together.
With a sigh, Mr McElvey, realising that he had some responsibility for this young family member, reassured her. “No, no, you just took me by surprise that’s all. I’ll see if I can organise accommodation for you for a few nights.” He stood up and walked across the room towards the door. Looking back at her he took in her crumpled rather grubby appearance and sighed again. He told himself that she had, after all, just travelled half way around the world so she was probably very tired and in need of a rest.
