Assured Attention

by Jane Tulloch

  The great day dawned bright and sunny. This was forecast to remain all day, a great relief for Miss Murray and the house staff. Looking out of the kitchen window at breakfast, Mrs Glen remarked, “Well, no need to set up in the garages this year anyway, we can use the big lawn.” To her surprise, Miss Murray, who had joined the Glens for breakfast claiming she needed an early start, responded, “No, actually I’d prefer it if you kept things the way they were last year. Set up the tea table in the garages. Oh, is that the time? I’ll need to get going.”

  With that she got up and left the room by the back door. A van could now be seen on the driveway and Miss Murray hurried towards it.

  The kitchen party looked at each other, then Mrs Glen shrugged, “Wonder what she’s up to? She was just saying last month how boring she’d found last year’s do.”

  “A magician?” Mr Glen offered hopefully. He loved a conjuror.

  “No,” scoffed his wife, “They’re just for kiddies’ parties.” She saw he’d sat back to relight his pipe. “There’s no time for that. Go out to see what she’s up to. We’ve got our hands full enough getting the teas all organised.”

  Grumpily, he followed orders. She tied on her apron and grimly braced herself for the day’s events.

  Outside, Miss Murray was directing the van men to set up their cargo at the side of the big lawn. A small platform was built and a tent erected to one side of it.

  As they laboured back and forth with the tables and chairs, Mr Glen and Mr Joshi, now joined by the management team and a few volunteers from the shop staff, looked at the new set up on the lawn.

  Mr McElvey tried to give the lofty impression that he was in on whatever the surprise was, but the others were doubtful.

  “So what exactly is going on then?” queried Mr Soames directly.

  “It’s not for me to say.” Mr McElvey fobbed him off expertly.

  “Well I’m off to find out,” said Barry, putting down his load of folding chairs and sauntering off towards the lawn. He returned almost immediately. “No luck. All they could say was that they were to make the delivery and set it up.”

  The management resumed their tasks and soon all the tea tables and chairs were set up on the driveway near the garages. Mrs Joshi, Siri and Mrs Glen could be seen ferrying the tea things and putting them out on the trestle tables in the triple garage. The bunting had been put up the previous evening and everything looked festive.

  After a brief respite for lunch, the managers and the staff helpers left to change into their more formal tea party outfits. Meanwhile, having already changed, Miss Murray and Mrs Pegram conferred on how best to organise the afternoon. Two secret VIPs had already arrived and were comfortably accommodated in the tent with the flap firmly secured. They had run the gauntlet of Mrs Glen’s scrutiny but she could ascertain nothing useful from the two nondescript men each carrying holdalls and one with an oblong box.

  It was decided that Mrs Pegram would greet the staff as they arrived and direct them straight to the lawn. Miss Murray would be waiting for them, standing on the platform. She wanted to give a little speech of thanks for the sterling efforts of the staff before introducing the main event of the afternoon.

  “Oh Margaret. Do you think it will really be all right?” Mrs Pegram was worried. “Some of them are not as young as they were.”

  “It’ll be fine,” her friend reassured her. “They’ll enjoy it.” The two women, after a last check in the long mirror in Miss Murray’s room, descended the staircase and went out into the garden ready for the event.

  Mrs Pegram stationed herself by the large gates and firmly directed the initial trickle and then the increasingly large torrent of staff over to the lawn. The staff of the various departments milled about aimlessly, wondering what was going to happen. Ladies in higher heeled shoes discreetly changed them as directed in the invitation and some of the men removed their overcoats.

  It was getting pretty warm. The garden looked its best, the flower beds bursting with colourful blooms and some ladies looked longingly towards them and the benches placed at intervals around the garden.

  “I’m too old for all this standing about,” complained Miss Piper from China and Glass. Others nodded in agreement. Some of the younger staff were actually sitting on the grass and chatting unconcernedly. They were used to doing what they were told. The staff from Menswear were getting more and more desperate for a cigarette. “For God’s sake get on with it whatever it is,” groaned one through gritted teeth. Hearing this, Mr Philipson turned from his place near the front and fixed him with an icy glare. Nothing was said, but it was easy enough to extract his meaning. Time wore on.

  Eventually, Mrs Pegram nodded to Miss Murray to indicate that the bulk of the staff had arrived. Miss Murray stepped to the edge of the platform and a hush descended on the waiting crowd. There was a perceptible move forward. The youngsters scrambled to their feet, brushing off loose grass.

  Miss Murray began. “Ladies and gentlemen, firstly how nice it is to see you all here again. If this is your first time at Rosehill, welcome. I hope you enjoy your day.”

  She smiled towards a group of the younger men women and to Anjuli and Samantha standing together at the fringe of the management group. They smiled back in pleasurable anticipation.

  “Now you’re probably wondering what all this is about.” She indicated the tent and the lawn. There were nods. “Well I’m going to try to explain, but I think it would be better done by Mr McPhail.”

  At that, the tent flap opened and a small man in an outdated army uniform festooned with medals stepped onto the platform. Muttering broke out all around.

  Miss Murray continued: “Mr McPhail is going to tell us about a famous dance: the Reel of the 51st. His grandson, Mr Upton from China and Glass, was telling me about it and I was fascinated. I think you will be too. After that we’ll all have a well-deserved tea.”

  The muttering reached a crescendo. Mostly negative. How boring. A historical talk. The porters glowered mutinously from the very edge of the crowd, planning an escape. However, the little man moved to the front of the platform and began to talk in a quiet West Highland accent.

  He began to tell them of the brave exploits of the Gordon Highlanders and how the 51st Highland Division were captured after fierce fighting, and were eventually imprisoned at Laufen, a POW camp in Bavaria. To help alleviate the boredom, one of the officers had started to run Highland dancing classes on the roof of the prison hospital. Some officers from other captured divisions joined in and a reel club was formed. The men enjoyed this form of exercise and the bored officers began to think of different dances to teach them. Eventually, they came up with the idea for an entirely new one. It was to be a dance based on the Saltire, the badge of the 51st.

  By this time everyone was silent, leaning in towards the little man telling his tale. People looked toward each other and nodded appreciatively. A fine story. What had it to do with them though?

  Everything became clear when Mr McPhail finished by saying, “And so ladies and gentlemen, today we’re going to re-enact what happened then.

  “We’re going to dance the Reel of the 51st.”

  There was an immediate outcry. Calls of “I can’t do that,” rang out. Miss Murray moved forward and smoothly announced that they would indeed at least try and that Mr McPhail would guide them through it at walking pace. There were grudging nods and sighs as Mr McPhail, now speaking in a loud commanding voice, called out, “Ladies and gentlemen take your partners please.” Everyone looked around for a partner. Several ladies immediately joined hands as there were far more ladies than men among the staff. In the general hubbub, Mr da Costa could be seen trying to slope off. Susan called after him.

  “Not now, Susan,” he replied irritably.

  To everyone’s amazement, she bellowed, “Yes now Martin. Come here at once. We’re going to dance this.” Surprising his mother and her partner, Mrs Garland, he turned meekly round and joined her.

  Over in the mana
gement group, Barry immediately triumphed by capturing Mrs Pegram’s hand. Seeing that she had no choice, she smiled and the two of them stepped forward. Mr McElvey offered his arm stiffly to Miss Murray who took it with dignity and joined the others. Sets were being made up all over the lawn. Mr McPhail was much in evidence as he moved among them directing them into place. From the relative security of the tea urn in the garage, Mrs Glen and Mrs Joshi looked at each other. Before a word could be spoken, their respective spouses stepped forward, “Shall we dance?” said Mr Glen to the consternation of Mrs Glen.

  “Why not dance with Mrs Joshi?” she suggested indicating her friend. “Give her a change from Indian dancing?”

  “What a good idea,” said Mr Joshi, moving towards Mrs Glen, “In that case you must give me the pleasure of this dance.” Swept up by his courtly offer, she awkwardly agreed and the two couples crossed over to the lawn to find a set to join.

  Spotting the escaping porters, Mr Soames called out, “Now then gentlemen, which of you would like to partner the ladies from Cosmetics and Perfumery?”

  These ladies, in their customary heavy make-up, looked decidedly uncomfortable. Each had been hoping to catch the eye of Flash Harry Ferguson, late of Menswear and now a key member of the Ladies Separates team. However, they good naturedly accepted the proffered hands of Jim and his staff and formed sets. The staff from Menswear had found a quiet spot for a smoke, but stubbed out their cigarettes and hastened across the lawn to snap up the more glamorous female staff looking for partners. Flash Harry, to his dismay, had been captured by Mrs Hope from Model Gowns.

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment,” she told him with a wink. He quailed.

  Once the sets were made up, Mr McPhail walked them through the steps. The key section being when a large St Andrew’s cross was formed by the couples in each set. They stepped and counted and stepped and counted, all at walking pace. Mr da Costa found that he enjoyed the structure of this sort of activity and felt secure with Susan as his partner hissing instructions as required. He saw her in a new light. He liked it.

  After a while, people began to be a little bored. Rueful eyes were cast towards to the tea area. However, when Mr McPhail was finally satisfied, the tent flap opened and out stepped Ewan the porter, unrecognisable in full Highland dress and carrying his bagpipes. At a nod from Mr McPhail, he struck the pipes and commenced the traditional tune for the Reel of the 51st: ‘the Drunken Piper’. As the lilting pipe music echoed through the air, its magic revitalised the weary staff. The counting and stepping and counting and stepping gradually transformed into dancing. Suddenly they were dancing. They were all dancing. Heads were thrown back and faces were wreathed in smiles. Mr McPhail shouted encouragement from the platform, “That’s it ladies and gentlemen, that’s it, that’s it!”

  Joyous cries of, “Gaun yersel,” and the traditional, “Heeugh,” rang out as they all birled and skipped through the dance’s formations. Cardigans and ties were abandoned and shoes slipped off altogether for the pleasure of dancing on grass in bare feet. Catching her breath briefly, Miss Murray berated herself for not thinking of a photographer. This was such a wonderful moment it was a pity not to capture it. However, she didn’t think she’d ever forget it, the time that the entire staff of Murrays, department store of distinction, two hundred of them, danced on her lawn. Her breath caught momentarily in her throat as she thought about it. It was wonderful.

  In twos and threes, the older ladies hirpled off complaining, albeit smilingly, of throbbing bunions and nipping varicose veins. “Well that’s me had my exercise for the year!” laughed one. “It was great though. Took me right back to the church hall dances when I was courting,” said another.

  One by one, the sets slowed to a standstill and Mrs Glen and Mrs Joshi rushed over to the tea table ready for the onslaught. Siri Joshi, who had watched the whole thing from a window above the garage with Bluebell at her side, now shuttled from the kitchen to the tea table with big jugs of orange juice for the thirsty dancers.

  On the lawn, the final sets were slowing and the valiant piper finally finished his last reel and put down his pipes. He smiled towards Mr McPhail who inclined his head in recognition of the lad’s piping skills. The two went back into the tent where an excellent bottle of whisky awaited them in the traditional way.

  The noise level at the tea tables was colossal. Everyone was talking and laughing at the tops of their voices. Any ice was long broken and people chatted to the managers as though they were old friends (which, in many cases, they were). Moving from table to table gulping down the cold orange juice, Miss Murray was thrilled to hear how well her surprise had gone down with the staff.

  Mrs Saunders told her, “It was the most enjoyable thing I’ve done in years. It makes me think that we should do more of it.” She looked around at the other ladies sitting at her own and nearby tables, “What do you think girls? Should we set up a reel club of our own?” On the receipt of enthusiastic nods all round she turned back to Miss Murray, “Looks like you should get the prize for initiative this year,” she jokily informed her. Miss Murray smiled.

  By 5pm the last stragglers were walking wearily out of the big gates to catch their buses home. Everyone agreed that the afternoon had been a great success.

  Back at the house after the final chairs and tables had been stored away, the tea cups, saucers and plates washed up and the final crumbs thrown to the birds, the management team and the house staff relaxed. Sitting in the kitchen, Miss Murray looked worriedly at Mrs Glen. “You’ve overdone it,” she scolded fondly, “I told you to have a seat and leave the hard work to the youngsters.”

  “It’ll be a black day when that happens,” was the sharp response. Miss Murray shook her head.

  Grasping an awkward nettle, Mr McElvey pointed out, “You’re a fine one to talk Margaret. When will we be sitting back and letting the youngsters take over?” He was in a mellow mood, partly due to the tiring exertions of the afternoon and partly due to his helping Mr McPhail and Ewan finish the bottle of whisky. Barry had found him sitting by himself in the tent as the men came to fold it away.

  “Less of that talk Ian. I’m surprised at you,” Margaret reproved him. Sensing the slight change in the happy atmosphere, Mrs Pegram poured her friend another glass of Chablis and suggested they repeat last year’s fish supper. This suggestion was enthusiastically taken up and Barry set off with a list.

  Later that evening, sitting by herself at the fire in the study, Miss Murray contemplated the day. It had gone so well. It had been wonderful to see the entire staff group dancing the intricate figures together. They worked so well, staff and management, together producing and running an efficient and valuable business. Another year had passed at Murrays. The management, with the hard work of the staff team, had steered the old store through some difficult times. A strike had been circumvented, dangerous exposure on public media had been dealt with and the customers had remained loyal. Neither births, deaths nor difficult relationships had held back the progress of Murrays. New staff had been recruited and promising youngsters had been earmarked for greater things. Innovative ideas had been developed and all the indications were that new horizons beckoned and Murrays would, indeed, remain a department store of distinction and could still assure customers of its best attention.

  She stood up, stretched, turned off the table lamp next to her and, calling for the cat, continued up the stairs, sure of a good night’s sleep. Back to work on Monday…

  The End

  Acknowledgements

  Profoundest thanks, as ever, are due to the wonderful people at Comely Bank Publishing without whom this book would never have seen the light of day. Special thanks are due to Emma Baird, who was the editor for this book and who made such excellent suggestions in such a tactful way. Thank you, Emma!

  Grateful thanks are also due to Gordon Lawrie at Comely Bank Publishing for arranging all the various technical aspects related to publishing as well as his tireless promotion of my boo
ks.

  Where would I be without readers? I am most grateful to Maureen Hope the most encouraging of fans: my first ever reader. Fortunately, there have been many more. Throughout the past year I’ve been fortunate enough to meet very many people at author events who have enthusiastically embraced Murrays and all who sail in her. I’ve heard wonderful reminiscences of the old days in shops like Murrays. Such stories!

  As ever I must thank my family. My husband Paul has been ever encouraging and supportive. My children and their families have been interested and happy to comment on suggested storylines. Last of all, Baz, my giant cat, has quietly supervised every word I have written.

  About The Author

  Jane Tulloch was born in Edinburgh and has lived there ever since. For 30 years she worked for the NHS as a psychologist in the field of adults with autism. Before that, however, she worked in a large department store which provided the inspiration for the Murrays series of books. Her first book, Our Best Attention, was published in 2016.

  She lives with her husband, giant cat and occasional welcome interruptions by boisterous grandsons.

  Further resources for Assured Attention and other books, as well as information about the author, including contact details for Jane herself, can be found at www.janetulloch.com.

  About Comely Bank Publishing

  Comely Bank Publishing (CBP) is a co-operative publishing house giving bright, new talent a platform.

  Founded in 2012, CBP aims to tackle the quality issues faced by traditional publishing, i.e. the concentration on books only by established authors or bankable names. CPB helps new authors publish at low cost and makes no profits from its authors.