by Jane Tulloch
Glancing after her, Mrs Garland sighed and shook her head complacently.
“She’s so devoted to me, poor thing,” she called across the floor to Mrs Jackson.
Mrs Jackson shook her head back in return but for very different reasons. “Poor wee thing, poor little Not Now Susan,” she thought.
During these breaks, fifteen minutes morning and afternoon and a whole hour for lunch, Susan paced the staff areas disconsolately. She walked aimlessly up and down the many flights of staff stairs, paused in the locker room as long as she dared and found a quiet stock room where she could eat her packed lunch. From time to time she anxiously checked her watch, counting down the time until she could return to the cosy glow of the Hosiery department.
Mrs Garland, while an obviously self-absorbed person, sure that she was absolutely correct in all her views (especially those that were completely wrong, in the opinion of others), had become aware of the young girl’s regard for her. She was flattered by the enormous respect of this unexpected acolyte. She became increasingly fond of Susan and accustomed to her automatic agreement. Susan was a willing worker, always happy to do any heavy lifting or leg work that might spare Mrs Garland any effort at all. After a while, Mrs Garland began to wonder why Susan prevaricated so often when told to go for her break. She discussed it with her friend Mrs Morton from Perfumery when they were in the canteen one day.
“I can’t understand why she seems to avoid breaks,” she confided to Mrs Morton.
“Maybe she’s fallen out with her pals in the canteen?” offered her friend.
“That’s just it though. I don’t think she has any pals in the canteen. I mean I’ve never heard her mention any and no one’s ever popped in to the department to see her, you know the way they do.”
The two women pondered this. Surely everyone had a group whose breaks tended to coincide and who drifted together to form vaguely age-appropriate tables? Could it be that Susan had somehow missed out on this natural Murrays development?
“I’ll check with Mrs Collins. She’ll know the regulars.” Mrs Garland heaved herself to her feet and puffed over to the counter. Mrs Collins, having finished the cooking and preparation of the food, was perched behind the till enjoying a leisurely cigarette.
“Mrs Collins, can you tell me who my Susan is friends with? I mean, what table does she usually join?” asked Mrs Garland.
“Susan?” queried Mrs Collins. “Young Susan. I know who you mean, I’ve seen her in your department, but she never comes up here. I thought she maybe went out for breaks or brought in sandwiches or something.”
“What? She doesn’t come up here at all?”
Mrs Collins shook her head, then turned to the person patiently waiting to pay for a steaming plateful of stovies.
Mrs Garland returned to her table, where Mrs da Costa from Accounts had now joined them. They were old friends, or at least both were long standing members of staff. Mrs Morton had filled her in on Mrs Garland’s concern about her assistant. Mrs da Costa waved her hand dismissively.
“Lots of people don’t come to the canteen.”
Mrs Garland looked around the packed room dubiously.
“Most people do, though,” she reposted.
“Take my Martin for example,” Mrs da Costa continued. The other two women groaned internally. It was always a matter of time before Mrs da Costa introduced the topic of her son, now a byword for excellence in sales in the Model Gowns Department. His frankness, which was breath-taking at times, had gained the confidence and admiration of the cream of Edinburgh’s society ladies. He was a most unusual young man, but much valued by the management (and his mother).
“He doesn’t like the canteen at all,” her voice rang out and was noted by Mrs Collins whose lips tightened.
“He says it’s too noisy and smelly and the food is indigestible.”
That’s it, thought Mrs Collins. I’ll be serving her tiny portions from now on. Who knows, maybe even some fag ash might accidentally fall into them, she resolved with a sniff. Indigestible indeed!
Unaware of the offence caused, Mrs Garland ploughed on. “But it’s not natural for a young girl not to have friends.” This was a sore point for Mrs da Costa. They had often discussed Martin’s solitary nature.
“Maybe she’s just shy, or an old-fashioned homebody?” offered Mrs Morton.
“I’ve never heard much about her family right enough.” Mrs Garland frowned “Actually, I’ve never heard her say much about anything at all.” She lapsed inwardly to search her soul. “I’ll need to try harder with her, she’s a good girl,” she continued thoughtfully. The conversation moved on.
Over the next few days, Susan became aware of Mrs Garland watching her. She would turn around from making an adjustment to a display stand and find her boss staring. Susan wondered what she had done wrong. In another unsettling development, Mrs Garland seemed to have become noticeably nicer to her. Her mind reeled. What was going on? What could she have done wrong? She was almost glad to hear the familiar phrase “Not now, Susan,” as she attempted to interject that the item a particular customer had asked for was indeed available in other shades. She withdrew gratefully until the customer moved on.
She was taken completely by surprise one Monday morning when Mrs Garland asked about her weekend. In an off-hand way, the older woman asked, “I suppose you spend most of your time with your boyfriend?”
“A boyfriend?” stammered Susan, “Oh no. I’ve not got a, never had a, a, a, boyfriend. Mother says…” She lapsed into awkward silence. Mrs Garland was sorry to have embarrassed the girl, but she continued, “Well, there are lots of other girls to hang around with then? I bet you have lots of fun with them.”
There was a long silence. Susan looked away, “No. I don’t seem to have girl friends as such. I’m just with Mum and Dad really. I like it,” she said, suddenly defiant. In a rare show of discretion, Mrs Garland quietened and busied herself tidying the already immaculate sales desk.
A few days later, Mrs Garland started her enquiries again.
“So, who’s the favourite pin-up of you young girls these days?” she asked casually.
Susan blushed. “I rather like Tom Selleck. You know, Magnum PI. We watch it every week. Never miss it,” she admitted.
“Magnum PI,” exclaimed Mrs G. “The pushy, shouting man with the big moustache?”
“Well I don’t like the moustache,” Susan conceded, nodding. “But he always knows what’s right and what’s the best thing to do. He’s sort of in charge.” Her voice dwindled as she finished the sentence.
“Well I never! I couldn’t abide being bossed around.” Mrs Garland contemplated her husband – small and malleable and much the better for it too. She shook her head.
Over the next few months, Susan settled into a comfortable routine at work. She grew in confidence as she became more familiar with the work involved in Hosiery and even began to have her own customers: ladies who sought her out in particular. Mrs Garland noted this with mixed pleasure, but eventually, magnanimously, she admitted to Mrs Jackson that Susan’s kind heart and quiet personality endeared her to some.
“She just lets them rattle on about their personal problems. I’ve told her not to encourage them, but, bless her, she’s a kind wee soul and told me that she doesn’t like to think of them going home sad. As if anything she said would make a difference,” she scoffed.
But make a difference it did. Soon, almost every day, Susan was holding court, an attentive listener to one or other lady, each with a troubled expression on their face. They usually left the department with an expensive parcel of goods and a smiling countenance. Takings were up in Hosiery. Naturally, Mrs Garland took the credit and continued in her usual domineering way. Susan remained happy to exist in orbit around her.
Despite her new-found confidence in her work and the appreciation for her empathetic manner, Susan still found breaks a trial. She avoided the canteen and wandered around the staff side of the building until it was time
to return to the department. Occasionally, during her perambulations, she passed another member of staff similarly unaccompanied. She would drop her eyes to avoid looking directly at Mr da Costa as he hurried past her up the stairs or along an access corridor. Once he stopped, turned around, frowned at her and called out, “Lose the hairband,” before walking purposefully on.
Susan tentatively reached up to the offending item. She eased it off, but her hair flopped forward over her face so she retied it thoughtfully. Tonight, she thought, I’ll try out a new style.
The next day her arrival in the department was greeted by a gasp, “Oh Susan! What have you done to your hair?” This was called out in a complimentary manner by Mrs Garland, who continued, “It looks so much nicer. We can see your face now.”
Susan ducked her head in an attempt to cover her blushes, but she was very pleased with the result of hours in front of the mirror the previous night. Indeed, compliments flew all morning as the Lingerie staff arrived and the porters delivered the latest boxes of new stock. Susan hardly knew where to look. She really only wanted to hear Mr da Costa’s opinion on her new style. For once in her life she could hardly wait for lunch break.
At 12.30 Mrs Garland noticed that Susan was looking at her watch impatiently.
“Do you want to go for lunch break now?” she asked and was surprised at Susan’s rapid response as she grabbed her handbag and rushed off.
Well I never, thought Mrs Garland.
After a quick visit to the Junior Staff Ladies Room to check that her hair was behaving itself, Susan tried to walk slowly up the back stairs. She hovered agitatedly for a brief moment outside the back entrance to Model Gowns, then resolutely walked up to the access corridor on the top floor of the building. Once there, she slowly paced until she heard a familiar measured step on the stairs. It was him. She turned and casually walked towards the top of the stairs. On seeing her, Mr da Costa dropped his eyes and might have walked past her, but, seeing this, she hesitatingly called out “Mr da Costa...”
He looked alarmed, but was inwardly pleased she had initiated an interaction. “Yes? Ah! I see you’ve done your hair as I suggested. Much better. Very much better. The hairband made you look like an overgrown schoolgirl.” He scrutinised her from head to toe, “In fact you could do with shortening that skirt by one and a half inches. Where it sits now makes your calves look fat.”
Susan absorbed these comments with a slight pang before remembering that he had been right about her hair and he was famous for his relentless tactlessness. Seeing that she seemed lost for words, he swept forward.
“Come down here and I’ll show you what I mean.” Silently, she followed him to an old sofa stored in a corner, a relic left months ago by the porters as a job for another day.
“Sit down,” he ordered. Mutely, she obeyed, glad he had taken over the situation. From his pockets he produced a small pin cushion and proceeded without explanation to pin up her hem. She leaned back against the back of the sofa and wondered what to say. He seemed happily occupied in his task. She stood up when instructed to let him finish the back. He stood back.
“That’s much better,” he pronounced.
“Is it?” she faltered.
“Yes,” was the resounding response. “Now take it off so it can be properly sewn up; one of the seamstresses will do it right away.”
She quailed “I can’t. I can’t just take off my skirt, not here, not now.” She blushed hotly.
Giving the matter some thought, he agreed. “Well, bring it in tomorrow morning and I’ll get it seen to then.” Abruptly, he stood up and walked away.
In confusion, Susan called after him, “Mr da Costa?”
“Martin,” he called back without turning. “Call me Martin.” She smiled broadly, happy for some unknown reason.
That afternoon Martin was surprised to find himself thinking of the girl on the sixth floor as he called her. He liked her quiet, undemanding presence and the way she did as instructed without demur. With her, there was none of the inane chatter he usually experienced from his customers. He regarded this prattle as part of his job and the customers as necessary evils, although he did enjoy transforming their appearance for the better. He thought more about the girl and resolved to discuss the matter with his mother.
That evening he startled Mrs da Costa over their evening meal, usually consumed in silence, by asking her, “Do you think I should get a girlfriend?”
She choked on her cottage pie. Somehow the prospect of Martin and a girlfriend had never crossed her mind. She had been resigned to his living with them for the foreseeable future. Girlfriends led to fiancées and fiancées to wives. Martin married?
Her thoughts raced ahead.
“Well, that might be nice,” she responded guardedly, “Do you have anyone in mind?”
“I met a nice quiet girl at work. That’s all. I just wondered.” He pointedly went on chewing and looked away, the subject at an end. Accustomed to his abrupt conversational style, Mrs da Costa continued with her meal in silence, tantalised by his response and resolving to make enquiries the next day. Surely somebody would know who this mystery girl was?
Throughout this brief conversation, her husband had remained behind his newspaper. After Martin left the table, he lowered the paper and looked at his wife questioningly.
“Well, that’s a turn up, isn’t it?”
“Certainly is,” she responded mildly. Her world had just tilted on its axis. “Do you think John, oh do you think, maybe it’s a sign that he’s…” The word ‘normal’ hovered unspoken between them.
“He’s just not usually a people person,” he replied severely. “He’s not one for frivolous friends.”
“Or any friends really,” she added knowingly. She and her husband had frequently discussed Asperger syndrome in connection with their boy.
“Indeed,” was the response as the paper was raised once more, indicating that the discussion was at an end. Mrs da Costa retreated into her own thoughts. With a sigh, she contemplated that once far distant, but now just possible, Holy Grail for ladies of a certain age: grandchildren.
Across town a similar meal was taking place. No one was reading of course, but Susan’s parents’ polite silences were always alert for the requirement to pass something to one or other of the family. They were a very courteous family, anxious to be as helpful as possible. Good listeners are not often prolific talkers and the Harrisons were extremely good listeners. After Susan left the table intent on hemming her skirt, Mrs Harrison looked at her husband. “Susan’s looking very…” she hesitated, uncertain of how to describe Susan’s discernible glow.
“Yes,” replied her husband in agreement. The subject was then, for the Harrisons, closed.
Slowly, very slowly, over the next few weeks and months, Martin and Susan began to see more of each other. It became accepted between them that they would meet at lunch break on the abandoned sofa on the top corridor. Unspoken, this arrangement was sometimes broken by one or other due to departmental expediency or the vagaries of demanding customers. When this happened the one left sitting by him or herself felt unaccountably bereft. Susan would be sorry to miss out on hearing about the latest outrage in Model Gowns or the ups and downs of the fortunes of certain football teams. She seldom contributed much herself other than encouraging nods and indications of interest. For his part, Martin found himself preparing topics of interest (to him) the night before. It never crossed his mind that she wouldn’t be as fascinated as he was by goal averages and other football statistics. He appreciated her clear explanations of what customers might have meant when they said certain things or why they had reacted to something he said. He began to understand what people meant by empathy. More than that though, he began to dwell on her clear blue eyes and soft complexion. He thought about the inviting curves beneath her uniform in a way that he had never thought of them on his customers. He began to have unsettling dreams. He missed her undemanding presence when she wasn’t there. He really miss
ed her…
Susan now spent a great deal of time on her personal appearance, prompted by Martin’s caustic comments on any transgression of style. She knew this was not personal in any way; it was merely constructive criticism on his part. He was, after all, famous for turning out society ladies at their absolute best. As she restyled her hair or thought up different combinations of skirts and blouses, she sometimes let her thoughts wander further than just shared lunch breaks. She was proud to have such a handsome boyfriend and felt safe with him in charge. She began to long for closer proximity on the sofa. Once, he had impulsively taken her hand and she went over this exciting memory each night, wondering how she could create a situation where he did so again. Or more.
Feeling so much smarter, Susan’s confidence improved greatly and Mrs Garland wondered what was going on. Her question was answered one lunchtime when a small, insignificant lady of indeterminate age walked hesitatingly into the department. She approached the counter. “Mrs Garland?” she asked politely.
“Yes Madam. Can I help you?” Mrs Garland replied cautiously. This didn’t look like a typical customer.
“I wonder if you can? I’m Susan’s mother.”
Mrs Garland nodded and Mrs Harrison continued, “We were wondering if, by any chance, you knew who this Martin might be?”
“Martin?”
“Yes, Susan’s been talking about a Martin such a lot at home and it’s not like her, not like her at all and she looks so different too…” she lapsed, looking hopefully at Mrs Garland.
“Sit down Mrs Harrison,” Mrs Garland indicated the little chair drawn up at the counter. “I think I might know who you mean.”
