by Jane Tulloch
Arrangements were made for the short-term occupancy of a single room at the club and they arranged to meet at 6pm. This would give her time for a bath and a good sleep and him time to put in a day’s work at Murrays. Sam hoped they would both feel a little more relaxed later.
Her uncle’s thoughts were less charitable. By the time they met up again that evening, they’d both had time to think. Sam was much the better for a long sleep and a short bath. Mr McElvey was rather tired after an irritating day at work: things had not gone his way at the management meeting and he was mentally formulating a response.
Sam greeted him cheerfully. “Hi there Uncle Ian.” She called out across the library bar. She remembered her mother’s instructions: she was to brighten up the old guy and try to get him to change his old-fashioned ways. Looking at him now as he picked his way irritably between the tables, she doubted that such a task would be possible, but, nevertheless, she was game.
“So Unc. What’s the plan for tonight?”
“The plan?” He replied. “Dinner of course. It will be served at 7.30.”
He continued hospitably, “Now, may I offer you a glass of sherry?”
“I’d rather have a beer if they’ve got it Unc.” She countered.
“Beer?”
“Yes, a bottle if poss.”
“It certainly won’t be poss, er possible. I’ll just ask for my usual. I trust that will do?” He raised his eyebrows.
Humbled, she agreed. He nodded over to the watching barman and two small glasses of dry sherry were brought to their table.
Over the formal dinner in the dining room he interrogated her on her past, her immediate plans and her long-term prospects. He was startled to find that she had no particular plans other than to “hang around Scotland for a while.” He persevered. Surely she had a university place waiting for her? Apparently not. She was just like her mother he eventually concluded. Australia was probably the best place for her.
Sam was a little hurt at his keenness for her to return and explained that she had an open ticket and could remain for a short while at least. Perhaps she could visit him at work? He was appalled by the prospect. In her current clean but decidedly shabby state, she would not be a credit to him. He simply didn’t know what to do with this unexpected, unwanted visitor. The unfortunate young woman quite suddenly became more than a little hurt and, in her surprise, tiredness and culture shock, she began to cry. Scotland was nothing like the sunny, happy life she was accustomed to and had foolishly expected to find.
Mr McElvey had no experience in dealing with weeping women and he was embarrassed to be seen with one by the other club members. The staff were plainly enthralled at this drama involving the stuffiest member of the stuffy club. He suggested she have an early night and retired to his room to ponder the dilemma.
He was surprised to be joined by her at breakfast the next morning, but jet lag had struck and she was wide awake. Mr McElvey had thought long and hard during the night and had come to certain conclusions. These he outlined to her over his usual single poached egg. He noted that Samantha’s appetite was not affected by her jet lag and she consumed enormous quantities of bacon and eggs. His plan was to take a week’s annual leave and introduce her to her Scottish cultural heritage. He had meticulously drawn up a programme of visits to art galleries, museums and concerts. Fortuitously, Scottish Opera were performing this week and the club concierge had already been despatched to collect tickets for two performances. Mr McElvey was very pleased with his plan and felt that no uncle could be expected to do more. He was actually looking forward to it.
Sam was appalled. She could think of nothing more boring than the planned activities. Remembering her mother’s strict instructions to, “lighten the old guy up,” she could not see how she possibly could under these circumstances. However, she nodded politely “Sure thing Unc. Sounds good.”
He winced. “Please, I must ask you to refrain from calling me that name.” He couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud.
“I would prefer it if you would call me Uncle Ian,” he stated clearly.
“OK Uncle Ian,” she said humbly. “When do we start the cultural bonanza?”
“I will need to make arrangements at work so I’ll have to go in today, but I expect that we could start tomorrow.” He examined his programme, “Yes, it’s the National Gallery in the morning and the Portrait Gallery in the afternoon. Then we have The Marriage of Figaro in the evening.”
“Oh goody,” she said “A wedding! Have we been invited?”
He sighed as he pointed out that it was an opera not a social function. He had a thought. “Do you have more suitable clothes with you?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, “These are my best jeans and my warmest top.”
“Well, you’ll have to do better than that.” He thought for a moment, “I’ll ask Mrs Carr our secretary to take you around Murrays and choose some more appropriate outfits. Don’t worry, I’ll have them put on my account.”
He stood up. “I’m off now, but if you come to my office in Murrays at, say, 11am I’ll arrange for you and Mrs Carr to meet. She’ll know what to do.”
“See you there, Uncle Ian,” came the reply. With a nod he set off across the dining room, pleased with his plans.
Mrs Carr was the secretary for Miss Murray and Mr McElvey. She had often been referred to as an excellent woman and, indeed, she was. A small, somewhat dumpy woman of indeterminate age, she always wore severe black suits for work, except on her birthday or other (not very) festive occasions, when she donned a navy blue one. She considered pearls to be ‘de rigueur’, something that she and Miss Murray very much agreed on. She was a very serious woman who applied the same serious attitude to her work. There was a Mr Carr and there was talk of her having a son, but neither were ever referred to nor had they ever been seen visiting the store. She was an enthusiastic teetotaller who had cast a dampener on many social occasions. Surprisingly, her main interest was the ups and downs of the London stock exchange, not that she had ever invested any money in shares or was ever likely to. She had explained this interest to Miss Murray as a form of, for her, inexpensive gambling. She enjoyed plotting what she would have gained or lost had she ever actually invested. If she was notably downcast on any day, Miss Murray would sympathetically ask, “Rio Tinto again? Or was it British Plasterboard?” Mrs Carr would shake her head miserably muttering, “I can’t think why they went in for Sudanese alluvial minerals,” or some such.
This, then, was the person Mr McElvey thought best placed to take his young niece around the shop to choose appropriate clothes.
At the appointed hour of 11am, she and Sam regarded each other with some misgiving. On her part, Mrs Carr was appalled. She could hardly believe Mr McElvey could be related to such a disreputable young person. Sam herself had made a real effort to smarten up and had gone so far as to tie her hair back with an elastic band. Mrs Carr had already made a short tour of appropriate departments and had identified some items that she thought suitable.
“Come along, let’s go.” She said briskly, “I can’t spare much time.”
The two set off down the stairs to Ladies Separates, Model Gowns and the Designer Rooms being thought too extravagant for such a young woman. Looking at Samantha some hours later, Mr McElvey concluded that he had asked just the right person to guide his niece towards a more apposite style of dress. Not only had she two new suits with matching blouses, shoes and handbags, but a visit to Hairdressing had tamed her unruly locks to a considerable extent. Mrs Carr promised that they would go shopping again soon for, “weekend clothes,” as she called them. This couldn’t happen soon enough thought Sam unhappily. She was most uncomfortable in the stiff suit and blouse with its “charming” constricting pussycat bow at the neck. She longed for her jeans and tee shirt.
To the surprise of both Mr McElvey and Sam, their week of cultural pursuits went very well.
Sam found the art galleries most interesting and particularly li
ked the Scottish Colourists. She and her uncle (who naturally preferred eighteenth century Scottish artists) even enjoyed discussing artists over dinner in the evening. The opera visits did not go so well and even Uncle Ian had to admit they had not seen the operatic ensembles at their inspiring best. The Botanic Gardens were in full flower as they walked around and the view from the castle was much appreciated and exclaimed over. Scottish history intrigued Sam and Uncle Ian tracked down a series of open lectures at the University that she could attend while he was at work.
Sam did not forget her mother’s instructions to try to, “lighten up Uncle Ian,” and he did seem to be more cheerful as he threw himself into expanding her cultural horizons. This included discussions around differing social behaviour between Australian and Scottish cultures: what was and was not acceptable over here as opposed to over there was carefully outlined. After some initial protests, Sam took this on board. She stopped using certain words and phrases, reduced the volume of her speech altogether and became politer in general. This was not achieved without some strain.
They soon settled into a routine. Each morning, Mr McElvey went to work and Sam set off to the University or one of the museums; they would then meet to compare notes over dinner. Mr McElvey gradually began to talk more about his work and enjoyed the audience she provided as he outlined the various issues involved. He was surprised to find that she had a very good head for figures and was a fast learner. It became clear to his mind that she was a natural chartered accountant. This had never previously occurred to her, but, as he talked about it, she gradually saw that this could indeed be just the profession for her. Fancy me having a profession, she thought.
One evening, the two were invited to Rosehill for dinner. Miss Murray and Mrs Pegram were both intrigued to meet Mr McElvey’s Antipodean niece. They had wondered what she might be like and Miss Murray, knowing of her housekeeper’s standards, warned her that the young girl might be “not quite.” Mrs Glen understood but did not necessarily approve.
They all expected an uncouth young person speaking in a marked Australian accent and using unfamiliar, potentially unsavoury, words. However, all of them were delightfully surprised by the tidy young woman who arrived with her uncle at the precise time they were invited. Sam was plainly on her best behaviour and trying her hardest to demonstrate her newly acquired social skills. She liked Miss Murray and Mrs Pegram and appreciated their efforts to draw her out and show an interest in her. The dinner party went very well and Miss Murray, impressed by the pleasantly demure young woman, found herself offering Miss Cooper a clerical job in the office; Mrs Carr needed an assistant. It was made clear to Miss Murray that this would be a temporary arrangement until such time as Miss Cooper started her accountancy course.
“Of course,” Miss Murray responded, “and maybe when you’ve completed your training you can take over your uncle’s job when he retires!”
They all laughed, except for Mr McElvey.
Several months later, Mr McElvey and Sam were having breakfast in the dining room of the club. They were both dressed in rather severe business suits and happily discussing the financial arrangements relating to the purchase of some new stock from Denmark. He was pleased to note that Samantha made some useful suggestions. Once more, there was a commotion at the door, but this time no staff member could check the rush of two casually dressed, middle-aged people as they careered towards the McElvey table.
“Sam, Sam,” shouted the man.
“Over here doll!” called the woman, “Sam, Sammy it’s us!”
“Oh God” said Sam. “It’s Mum and Dad.”
By this time the dishevelled couple had reached the table. Mr McElvey and Sam stood up awkwardly. The woman threw her arms around her daughter and the man enthusiastically pumped Mr McElvey’s hand up and down. The other breakfasters stared at the scene unashamedly.
“Uncle Ian,” said Sam politely, “these are my parents. May I introduce Bruce and Norah Cooper from Melbourne Australia?”
“Sam,” said her mother, staring hard, “What’s wrong with you?” She turned accusingly towards her brother “What have you done you bastard? Why is she speaking to me like that?” Mr McElvey winced at such strong language so freely introduced.
“Strewth, forget that,” said Bruce, “What’s she wearing for God’s sake? That’s not my Sammy,” he said with some feeling.
“You know what?” said Norah, sagging down resignedly into a nearby chair.
“We sent her over here to change Ian. But instead he did it.”
“Did what?” asked Mr McElvey.
“Turned her into a right McElvey, that’s what!” she spat.
Sam wiped her mouth politely on her linen napkin and, in an unconscious echo of the welcome she herself had received, said smoothly, “Now, Mum, I may I offer you some refreshment? Some tea perhaps?”
Chapter 4
Convenience
Elma looked at the letter in front of her with unseeing eyes, or at least eyes that refused to believe what they had just read. £10,000 for me, she thought. Just me. She shook her head as though to dissolve what she had read, but the words refused to disappear. It was plain that Mrs Elma Struthers had indeed won £10,000 on the Premium Bonds. She had completely forgotten the ten premium bonds her father had solemnly presented her with so many years ago. He would be so pleased, she mused. A small smile played over her careworn face. At last she let her heart leap as she pondered her good fortune. The money would allow her to give up work and tide her over until her pension was payable; it would even supplement the pension considerably if it was invested judiciously.
A whole new train of thought was set off: who would help her to invest it? Who could she, should she, trust? If only Tom was still alive. If only Matthew hadn’t emigrated to Canada. Her heart leapt again. She could move to Canada! This new idea was just flooding her thoughts when there was a knock at the door.
“Excuse me,” a disembodied voice asked “Is it possible to refill the soap dispenser? It seems to be empty.”
Shaking herself from her reverie, Elma got heavily to her feet. She opened the hatch in the door to reveal a flustered face. “Of course,” she replied. “With you in a minute,” and, turning to the shelf behind her in her little cubby hole, she lifted down a tin of liquid soap. She bustled into the Ladies Room where a small group were clustered around the sinks.
“Do excuse me ladies,” she called out, refilling the soap dispenser that had unaccountably emptied itself over the course of just one morning. She then topped up the other soap dispensers, and put the tin back in the cupboard. A quick check of the vacant cubicles to ensure all was well within and there was sufficient toilet paper set her mind at rest. She returned to her cubby hole to resume thinking.
Elma had started work early that morning, grabbing her letter from the postman as she rushed down her tenement stairs to catch the bus. Now, late morning, was the first opportunity she’d had to open her mail. The morning’s work had been the usual flurry of cleaning, mopping and replenishing the various consumables provided in a ladies’ ‘cloakroom’ as it was euphemistically called. As this was one of Murrays’ ladies’ cloakrooms, these consumables were rather more than just toilet paper and soap. Elma took enormous pride in her work and her ‘cloakroom’ was the convenience of choice for any lady coming into town. The immaculate sinks, each with sparkling taps, were interspersed with small vases of fresh flowers. Roller towels were replaced regularly and, for those who preferred not to use the communal rollers, discreet napkins were folded in neat piles in front of the gleaming mirrors. The soap in the shining dispensers was delicately scented and resolutely not the usual utilitarian cleaning product found in bathrooms.
The ladies’ cloakroom at Murrays didn’t just offer an opportunity for the obvious convenience: chairs were placed at the mirrors to allow exhausted customers a short respite and this was a popular resting place for those unfortunate ladies who needed a break but couldn’t quite rise to the prices in the te
a room. Elma knew this coterie very well and kept a kettle in her cubby hole, judiciously supplying refreshingly strong cups of tea to those that she deemed in need.
Elma herself was an institution. She had worked in the Ladies Room for the past twenty-five years. In that time, she had been witness to many of life’s ups and downs. She still remembered the day when Mrs Potter, a long-term customer, remained a bit too long in the end cubicle. Elma had waited for a lull in ladies’ use of the facilities before whispering, “Mrs Potter? Are you all right?”
After receiving no response to her increasingly urgent enquiries, she had responded to the ultimate dilemma presented to any ladies’ room attendant by whisking out her pass key and carefully opening the door. Mrs Potter was found to be at her final rest in this, the rest room at Murrays. It was as it should be, thought Elma, as she gently closed her oldest customer’s eyes.
The following week a hollow-eyed woman in her mid-fifties appeared at the door of Elma’s ‘office.’ Elma recognised her at once and knew what the woman wanted. Respectfully, she waited until a harassed looking woman vacated the end cubicle before indicating it to her visitor, “It was that one” she said quietly and tactfully withdrew.
A small floral arrangement was later found resting on the cistern to mark a daughter’s sorrow at her mother’s passing.
On another occasion, a young woman had rushed into the room, rudely pushing aside some of the customers clustered around the mirror rearranging their hair. She plumped down hard on one of the chairs and it became quickly obvious to most of the ladies what the problem was when she began to groan and gasp, panting for air. “It’s too soon,” she had called out plaintively, “Help me please, the baby’s coming.”
