Assured Attention

by Jane Tulloch

  “Could the letter be from Jim himself? Could it possibly be,” ventured Barry, “an attempt to punish the management?”

  “Surely not,” replied Jock after some thought. “It’s a funny thing to do, don’t you think? It risks the whole shop. Anyway, there’s no ‘retrieval’ aspect to it.”

  “What do you mean?” Barry looked searchingly at his friend.

  “Well it just says ‘you’d better find the poison in the food hall before a customer does.’ It doesn’t say, ‘unless you give us another day off or a pay rise,’ or anything. It doesn’t look like there’s anything in it for the writer, he or she doesn’t offer any way out. It’s not a ransom note.” He lapsed and took a long draught of his orange-coloured tea.

  “It could be a union thing though,” persisted Barry, by this time certain the union was behind it. “I’ll need to raise the possibility with the management.” He really felt he was on to something.

  Mrs Pegram grudgingly agreed that it could be a threat from the porters. She did support Jock’s view, however, that there didn’t seem to be more to it than a threat against the entire store. The risk of a customer being poisoned was insupportable. The Food Hall had been closed now for almost two days. Questions were being asked. The staff were unsettled and unhappy at having to deal with customers’ enquiries about its closure. At the management meeting it was agreed to call Jim up to the boardroom to discuss the matter.

  “He’ll appreciate being involved.” Mr Philipson felt. “Might cheer him up a bit, make him feel more important.” Miss Murray nodded in agreement.

  Mr McElvey snorted, his views on the trade union leader were well known.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jim blustered into the room.

  “What’s all this I hear?” he declared loudly, having jumped to all sorts of inaccurate conclusions on being summoned to the boardroom. “My boys at fault for the closure of the Food Hall?”

  “Now, now,” said Miss Murray kindly, albeit unwisely, as though addressing a child, “No one’s blaming the porters.”

  Incensed at being patronised, Jim continued, “I’ve had enough of management’s attitude to the workers here!”

  Even more unwisely, Mr McElvey burst into loud laughter.

  “What man? Had enough of a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay?” he asked. “As if the porters do that!” he added as an afterthought, looking around at the others in expectation of agreement.

  “Mr McElvey!” shouted Miss Murray and Mrs Pegram in irritated unison. Jim was never one to miss the chance to take offence and he grasped this golden opportunity with both hands. His eyes bulged and a vein throbbed in his throat.

  “Well that’s it.” he whispered almost to himself, then: “All out!” he shouted hoarsely to no one in particular and turning on his heel he marched out of the room.

  “Apologise at once!” said Mr Soames urgently, alas too late, as they observed Jim’s departing brown-coated back. High dudgeon didn’t exactly cover what it conveyed. He could be heard ranting all down the corridor towards the canteen.

  The management team slumped back in their seats, casting despairing glances towards Mr McElvey.

  “What have you done now?” Miss Murray hissed at him.

  With airy indifference he stood up. “Well if there’s nothing else to discuss I’ll get back to work.” He left the room stiffly. The others looked at each other.

  “Brace yourselves.” Miss Murray breathed as they all stood up and went thoughtfully back to their offices.

  “What next?” Mrs Pegram wondered wearily.

  Jim Hudson had marched straight to the staff canteen where second break was in full swing. The loud hubbub was punctuated by shrieks of laughter from the Cosmetics and Perfumery girls and bursts of coughing from the smokers’ section. From his coat pocket Jim produced a whistle and gave three sharp blasts on it. Conversation faltered at all the tables around the room. From the kitchen, oblivious to the drama, Mrs Collins continued to tunelessly urge someone to, “Hit me with your rhythm stick.” The juniors, at their table under the window, giggled nervously.

  “Brothers and sisters,” Jim began pompously, “Now is the time to withdraw your labour, the time to show your support for your beleaguered brothers, the time to show a united front to our enemy: the management!”

  He took a deep breath ready for another oratorical outburst once he had worked out what to say.

  Meanwhile, muttering was breaking out at every table as the staff quizzed each other on what was going on. Was the management our enemy wondered several of the more senior tables. Who exactly were the beleaguered brothers pondered Menswear. What would happen if their labour was withdrawn? Would they still get paid the juniors queried. Questions and worries echoed around the room. Whatever had happened it was certainly a serious matter. Jim was questioned closely about what had led to his momentous pronouncements. The staff were used to him trying to get them to strike over apparent trivialities, but this seemed a much graver situation. He explained in his loudest voice that the porters were being blamed for threatening to poison customers. This would inevitably lead to the closure of the store as, if word got out, customers would obviously boycott Murrays.

  “– and who could blame them!” shouted one wag getting carried away.

  A well-spoken voice called out in a cut-glass accent, “So was it you then? Was it the porters who wrote the poison pen letter?”

  Jim hadn’t spotted Miss McFarlane at a table in the corner with Miss Butters. Talk of a poison pen letter rippled through the room. Staff coming up for a late tea break stood in the doorway asking what was going on. The letter had not been common knowledge.

  “Of course not!” gasped Jim with heavy emphasis. “As if we’d put everyone’s livelihoods at risk!” He was appalled that people could think that. He was a sincere man who took his responsibilities as shop steward very seriously and, beyond that, he really cared about the welfare and security of his brothers and sisters in employment as he thought of them. Those next to him could see he was very upset and his anger was turning to despair. He was near to tears as conflicting emotions raged through his small frame. The room was silent.

  “Fair enough. I believe you,” said Mr Smith of Menswear. “What next then? Should we go to discuss this with the management? Perhaps Miss Murray herself?” he offered reasonably.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. I think I’ll need to speak to the Union about this. We’ll need to do this properly if we’re going to close down the store. I’ll keep you all informed.”

  He called over his shoulder as he agitatedly moved towards one door then the other, eventually taking the door furthest from the management corridor and hurrying away to telephone the branch secretary from the porters’ department extension.

  “Close down the store!” rippled through the room. Some staff members were more aghast than others; the juniors relished the excitement. Older employees shook their heads, unsure if they had actually agreed to anything in the way of industrial action.

  Mrs Carr, the management secretary, had been poised outside the door to listen to what was going on. She quickly turned, re-entered the management corridor and sought out Miss Murray. She found her deep in conversation with Mrs Pegram in her office. Without hesitating, she walked in, “They’re going to strike Miss Murray. That porter says he’s going to close down the shop.”

  “Oh God. Surely not. He just misunderstood what was being said,” sighed Miss Murray.

  “Well maybe not,” put in Mrs Pegram, “After all, we were acting on Barry’s suggestion, and it was only a suggestion, that the porters might have written that note.”

  “True enough,” nodded Miss Murray, “but we can’t have him calling out all the staff. How was it going down with them Mrs Carr?” she questioned, frowning anxiously.

  “Quite well I’d say. Nobody actually disagreed. They seemed quite concerned about a department being thought to have put the whole store at risk.”

  “Even though that’s exa
ctly what a strike would, itself do. Oh God,” Miss Murray repeated in dismay.

  As the three women were pondering what to do, Miss Murray tapping the table top restlessly, Mrs Pegram pacing and Mrs Carr wringing her hands, there was a timid knock at the door. Mrs Carr looked questioningly at Miss Murray who nodded, and she went to open it. To their surprise Miss Butters sidled in, doing a slight double take at finding Miss Murray herself there.

  “I wis jist wanting a wee word with Mrs Pegram,” she announced hoarsely.

  “I’m afraid we’re a bit busy just now,” Mrs Pegram responded.

  “Could you come back in the morning do you think?” she enquired pleasantly.

  “If the shop’s open in the morning.” Miss Murray cut in gloomily with a big sigh.

  “That’s it though. That’s whit I was wanting to talk aboot,” the dishevelled little woman persisted.

  “You’d better come in then Miss Butters.”

  “Aye well I jist wanted to see you Mrs Pegram, no that one,” her chin dipped respectfully as she indicated Miss Murray. She seemed afraid to even look at her directly.

  “There’s nothing you can’t say in front of Miss Murray,” Mrs Pegram said kindly, “but Mrs Carr I wonder if you could excuse us? Thank you.” With noticeably bad grace, Mrs Carr left the room, closing the door sharply behind her.

  “Now what seems to be the matter?” opened Miss Murray kindly, taking pity on the shy little woman in front of her. “Perhaps we should all sit down?”

  She indicated a chair for Miss Butters.

  They sat down and Mrs Pegram and Miss Murray looked expectantly at her as she began.

  “It’s like this,” she started. “To let you understand….” she faltered, then in a burst, “It wis me.” She glared suddenly up at the two startled women.

  “You what?” asked Mrs Pegram.

  “Ah did it. Ah wrote thon letter.”

  “You wrote the letter about there being poison in the Food Hall?”

  “Aye.”

  “But why? Why would you do such a thing? You’ve worked there for years. I thought you liked it?”

  “Aye I do.” She looked momentarily downcast. “I did,” she continued defiantly, looking up suddenly. Seeing the incomprehension written all over Miss Murray and Mrs Pegram’s faces, she continued, “I’ve had enough you see. I cannae stand seeing that woman treating people the way she does. She’s poison, she’s the poison herself.”

  “You mean there are no actual poisoned goods in the Food Hall?” Miss Murray asked slowly.

  “No. Just her.”

  Rapidly summing up the situation, Mrs Pegram asked, “So you’re saying there’s no risk to our customers at all? And no risk to the store’s reputation?”

  “No just the staff. But she cannae go on like that. She cannae go on being cruel to poor souls like my laddie.” The outburst continued with increased vehemence.

  Mrs Pegram pricked up her ears, “Your laddie, er boy?”

  “Aye, Darren Smith. He’s my laddie. I had him when I was that young. My mother said I couldnae keep him but my sister did. She’s married,” she added with a defiant nod.

  Daylight was dawning for Miss Murray. “We must speak to Jim Hudson at once. We must completely exonerate the porters and put a stop to this strike.” She had a thought. “Does Miss McFarlane know?”

  “Of course not,” scoffed Miss Butters. She was well aware that there was no longer any possibility of her continued employment at Murrays and she had nothing further to lose.

  A notice went up in the canteen:

  The management team wish to make it quite clear that the Porters’ Department played no part in the recent closure of the Food Hall and to apologise for any distress that their actions in this regard may have inadvertently caused.

  Naturally, there was a very difficult interview between Jim Hudson and the management team. Various concessions had to be made and the porters now rejoiced in an extra fifteen-minute break each day and an extra week’s holiday a year. Mr McElvey almost had to take a day off to recover from the negotiations. The Food Hall reopened and did a roaring trade under its new manager, Alan from the third-floor Tea Room. He had been due for promotion and it was felt that his people skills would be an asset as the department recovered from its years under Miss McFarlane’s iron rule. Miss Butters, as she had suspected, became surplus to requirements and found herself another job in a local grocer’s shop where she unnerved the customers with her dark comments about her previous employers and general muttering.

  Miss McFarlane was a different matter. Redeploying her was not straightforward. As she saw it, she had done nothing wrong, she had only sought to do her best for her employers. Mrs Pegram thought about it. Given that she was a proven hard worker with high standards but less in the way of people skills, it was thought that she might be best placed where there were extra hours to fill. The porters, to allow for their extended breaks and longer holidays, would need to have their numbers increased.

  Surely Miss McFarlane could be useful; she could be counted on to efficiently tally up the paperwork on the arrival of goods, organising timeous deliveries to each department.

  “Perfect,” said Miss Murray when she heard about the plan.

  “All out!” said Jim (but not aloud – yet).

  Chapter 14

  The Biter Bit

  “The trouble with Neville is that people just don’t like him,” his mother confided to her sister over coffee in Murrays’ Tea Room. She reflected for a moment, “In fact, I don’t like him very much.” She eyed her sister anxiously as she expressed this long held, long repressed opinion.

  Her sister desperately tried to think of something reassuring to say but could think of nothing more consoling than to pat her hand nervously and ask if she’d like another scone. Privately, she was, of course, in entire agreement with her unfortunate sister and had held the same view since Neville was an irritable baby, awkward toddler, horrible child, deeply unpleasant youth, and had continued his career in unpopularity into his twenties.

  It was not that he wasn’t clever. He was. Extremely so. However, this intelligence took a most disagreeable form: he thoroughly enjoyed finding out other people’s secrets. Not just any secrets either. He revelled in making discoveries of a negative nature and, where possible, broadcasting them to the maximum discomfort of his unfortunate victim. He was extremely skilled at this. His talent in the field manifested itself at an early age. As a six-year-old guest at a classmate’s party (invited in the interests of fairness against the birthday boy’s wishes, “Oh, Mum. Not Neville!”), his exhaustive searches through the bathroom cabinet revealed all sorts of embarrassing truths. He found that the kindly and hitherto glamorous hostess dyed her hair, that the presence of anti-haemorrhoid preparations underpinned her husband’s general snappiness, and that the birthday boy had very recently suffered from nits. All of this was relayed to an interested audience of children and their parents seated in expectation of the magician’s appearance.

  His appalled mother led him instantly away. His protests, “But it’s true Mum, the bottle said ‘Glorious Blonde’ on it!” echoed through the hall and could be heard in the street even after the stony-faced hostess slammed the front door after them.

  So it had continued. He was soon in trouble at school, Boy Scouts and even at Sunday school where he related his discovery of the minister’s secret supply of gin to all and sundry one memorable Sunday morning. His mother could no longer attend that particular place of worship thereafter. Discussing the results of their only son’s latest sleuthing was often looked on by his mother as the last straw for her husband. He had sighed and shaken his head, then slowly closed his eyes and sunk into a lethargy from which he never recovered. Of course, Neville was keen to inform his classmates of his father’s suicide attempt with an overdose of antidepressants.

  Neville enjoyed his visits to the psychiatric hospital where his father now lived and found many opportunities to read through the ot
her patients’ medical notes and pass on the most interesting of his discoveries to their, generally horrified, visitors. Various members of the staff were duly censured and one negligent nurse found her employment at an end after certain of Neville’s lurid revelations. Neville felt he had found his niche as an investigator at a very early age.

  It is sometimes the case that the most reprehensible of people have the nicest friends, or at least one. So it was with Neville. Peter Gibson had been Neville’s firm friend since nursery school (despite having been exposed by Neville to his classmates as not being entirely reliable as to his toilet training and therefore occasionally suffering accidents to a greater or lesser extent). The nursery staff couldn’t fathom Peter’s attachment to young Neville, yet he remained loyal to his nasty friend. This friendship continued throughout his school career where, naturally, Neville shone briefly as editor of the school magazine until his exposé of the gym master’s punishment exercises. Having been relieved of his editorial role, Neville threw himself into his studies, determined to follow his ideal career as an investigative journalist. The Headmaster couldn’t deny that this could, indeed, be a way forward for the least popular pupil he’d ever had. He was only sorry that Peter seemed to be drawn sufficiently into Neville’s ambit to want to follow the same career path. The view from the staff room was that Peter was destined for a caring profession. However, it was not to be and the two young men moved on to college to study journalism.