As November became December there seemed almost no time to eat, let alone sleep. She picked up orders for a further two Madam shops, and five market stalls, and still ran the Gosforn stall, though she never saw Maud or Teresa there. She spent her evenings with Sarah, her nights working.
She called on the kitchen and craft shops. The manager of one was rude and turned her away, the other took a dozen aprons and gloves, then rang for more. Tom suggested that they sewed holly on to the knickers with Christmas approaching and they did so, though Annie felt they would surely not sell, because there was no way she would wear a pair, or Gracie. But sell they did and once again she made a note not to allow her personal taste to influence her view of the market place.
She rang shops and stores offering larger discounts but only a few buyers from the smaller shops saw her and only one placed an order. In desperation she took Davy and Sarah to Newcastle for tea in the restaurant of the main department store.
They ate meringues with forks and watched the mannequins parade while she told them of the pantomime she had seen as a child and how she had clapped with all the other children when Tinkerbell was fading, and was convinced that it was only because of her longing that the fairy had lived.
She told how, long before that, she and Don had played jacks on the thick white cloth while they waited for Sophie and their father to finish talking in the front room, how she had wanted to turn herself into gossamer and float beneath the door so that she could listen to all that they were saying.
‘I’ve not heard back from Australia,’ she said. ‘Sophie can’t have seen my letter.’
‘Mum, you’re just putting it off. Go on, you wanted to talk to the buyer,’ Sarah said, drinking her tea.
‘Plenty of time for that,’ said Annie, playing with her meringue. She still had a problem with rich food after the deprivations of the war. So did poor old Prue from the sound of her last letter from India in which she’d told Annie not to send out a Christmas pudding as usual. Just can’t cope, darling. So unfair, she’d said.
‘Oh damn,’ Annie said, ‘I haven’t sent off Prue’s biscuits.’ She sat back in the chair, there had been no time, too much to do. ‘I’d better nip off and get a tin and we’ll send it on Monday.’
Sarah looked at her. ‘Mum, just go and talk to the buyer, she won’t eat you, she’s not like Miss Simpson.’
‘So, how is your work going both of you?’ Annie asked, leaning forward.
‘Auntie Annie, go and talk, we’ll stay here and we won’t pinch the sugar lumps and we won’t spill our tea.’ Davy was picking up her handbag and scarf.
‘Yes, go on, Mum, just put on some lipstick, that’s right, you look great.’
Annie stood up, her legs were trembling. She hadn’t rung to make an appointment, there was no point.
‘Be good,’ she muttered.
‘You be good, sell it to them, that’s what Da said.’
Annie nodded, well, he would, wouldn’t he, tucked safely down a thousand feet under the bloody ground. She checked her samples, pulled her skirt, and had a word with the head waitress who nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, I’ll keep an eye on them, no bother.’
The lift to lingerie was crowded, carols were playing in the store as she weaved between the stands, checking the stock, the pants, the bras. There were none like hers.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ the salesgirl asked, her face fixed in a smile which disappeared when Annie said, ‘May I speak to the buyer please? It’s Mrs Armstrong from Wassingham Textiles.’
The girl ran her finger along her eyebrow, her nails were red.
‘Have you an appointment?’
‘No, I just happen to be in the area.’ Annie pulled out the pants. ‘We make pants and bras to any specification.’
The girl didn’t even look but said in a flat, bored voice, ‘Mrs Wilvercombe doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.’
‘Then how do I get an appointment?’ Annie asked as first one woman came to the till and then another.
‘You phone or write,’ the girl replied. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I have customers waiting.’
Annie stood for a moment, wanting to take the girl by the collar and march her to Mrs Wilvercombe – wherever that old battle-axe might be.
‘I am in a hurry you know,’ the woman behind her said and Annie moved to one side, her face flushed. She rammed the pants back into the box, then the box into the bag and walked towards the lift. She passed a phone by the stairwell and stopped, looking back at the girl. Damn it, cheeky little monkey. She fed in coins, rang the store, asked to speak to Mrs Wilvercombe.
‘I’m actually in your store, at the stairwell, I have improved discounts to offer and an excellent range of underwear,’ Annie began.
‘I’m far too busy, it’s pre-Christmas you know. Perhaps you could try again in February.’ Mrs Wilvercombe’s voice was brittle, hurried.
‘But we’re offering extended credit to big stores,’ Annie said.
‘Thank you no, try again in February.’
‘Thank you so much,’ Annie said, wanting to ask what she had to do to get a foot in the door – beg? Probably she told herself as she replaced the receiver. She walked up the stairs to the restaurant, paid the bill and shook her head at the children. They grimaced, took her bags, held her hands and came with her while she bought biscuits for Prue. All the time the carols played until she could have screamed.
In February she rang Mrs Wilvercombe again who said that she was too busy. She rang all the other stores and was told that there were no more appointments available, they had all been reserved for the wholesalers who would be touring with their samples in two weeks’ time – didn’t she know? No, she hadn’t known, God damn it, and she sat that day and did nothing but think and use the telephone. That evening she called a meeting and discussed mail order with Georgie, Tom and Gracie.
‘It’s direct selling, the money comes in first then the orders are filled, none of this chasing for payment, none of this long slow build, this tortuous begging.’ She had cleared the dining-table and lit the fire and she watched as the flames darted and curved around the coal. Her head was aching, she was tired. It was all so slow. Georgie was still in the pit, the lines on his face more deeply etched with each week that passed. ‘We’re just not breaking in.’
Georgie tapped with his pencil. For God’s sake don’t do that, she wanted to shout. What was the matter with her?
‘We knew it would take time, Annie, and we can’t afford to gamble on mail order. What d’you think, Tom?’
Annie looked across at Tom who nodded. ‘Too much outlay. We’d have to set up the advertisement, place it, order up the cloth, probably retain homeworkers to make sure we had them for the push and what if we guessed wrong and the design didn’t appeal? We don’t know enough yet.’
Annie tried not to hear the tapping of the pencil and looked at Gracie. ‘What do you think?’
‘Too much of a gamble and we are building, Annie, don’t be too impatient.’
‘But for heaven’s sake, we’re way behind the schedule we set ourselves.’ She pushed the minutes in front of them. ‘Look at Georgie, he’s worn out.’
The pencil tapping stopped and Georgie looked at her, his eyes angry. ‘Don’t tell me how tired I am, bonny lass, you’re panicking – we just need the big order, that’s all. It’ll come.’
‘When though, Georgie, when? I’m your wife for Christ’s sake, I know when you’re tired, when Gracie’s tired, we’re all tired.’ She was trembling. Was her face as tense as Georgie’s? Tom’s expression told her that it was and she sat down and hung her head, gripped her arms, took a deep breath. ‘I think mail order is worth a shot, we can keep on the regulars as our cushion and we’ll end up with direct and indirect sales. Please think about it, we’re getting nowhere fast the way we’re going.’
They did think and talk and argue and she told them how she’d rung and sounded out suppliers of second-hand rotary cutters and sewing machine
s during the afternoon, how she’d contacted the estate agents and yes, the warehouse was still vacant so they’d have premises to move into once the mailshot got them off the ground.
She ignored Georgie’s raised eyebrows and continued. ‘I’ve talked to the homeworkers, they’ve agreed to a retainer of two pounds a week once the advertisement has gone out but there’ll be some capital outlay on training them up to the required standard. Brenda will help while Gracie keeps up with the regulars.’
‘We’d need too much capital to fund it,’ Georgie said.
‘We’ve got it in the bank, we’ve built up that much of a reserve,’ Annie countered.
‘But if it fails, we’re back to square one,’ Tom said, drinking his beer.
‘You’ve got a moustache,’ Annie snapped. ‘It won’t fail.’
‘I think we should respond to definite orders or we’re working blind. Look how far on we are, after all, we only had two accounts in June,’ Gracie said.
‘But it’s not fast enough, can’t you see that? We had December blocked in for a big order, and it’s February now. For heaven’s sake, we’re working flat out and the money’s trickling in. We’ve got to make that leap so that we can employ others, push the goods out. At the moment we’re working all hours of the day and night to virtually stand still – it’s just not cost-effective.’ She paused. ‘Look, we need a shop window to show our wares, to tempt people in. Mail order would do that for us, and once the big stores see we’ve something good to offer they’ll want us too.’
Georgie was writing, working out figures, he shoved the pad over to Tom who nodded, passed them to Gracie and then to Annie.
‘Look at those, darling. It would run us right down. If we guessed wrong we’d jeopardise the house and we can’t do that, not again. We’ll just have to respond to orders, keep to the plan.’
Annie sat back, looked at her hands, at the carpet covered in threads, at the fire which had died down, at the ash which had spilt on to the hearth, the word ‘again’ ringing in her ears. Suddenly she wasn’t as sure as she had been.
‘I insist on a vote,’ she said, but the crispness had gone from her voice.
It was three to one against and it was then that the frustration exploded and she banged her fist on the table and shouted, ‘So what the bloody hell do we do now, I can’t get through to the buyers, I can’t get through to you, so what exactly do we do?’
There was silence and then Georgie said, ‘For a start you can come out into the kitchen and help me make another cup of tea.’ While they made the tea he told her that she was working too hard, that there was nothing to worry about, that she was over reacting, the business was fine and she said nothing but wanted to shout at him, at them all, Isn’t it enough that you won’t let me nurse, now you won’t let me lead the business, don’t you understand anything?
The next day she worked in the morning, and then sat and thought until Sarah came in. That evening she phoned Mr Isaacs and then called another meeting. Tom and Gracie came at nine p.m. and she barely gave them time to remove their coats before calling the meeting to order. ‘OK, no mail order but we need to get professional. We need to get on the wholesalers’ tour. I’ve rung Isaacs, he’s told me the route, explained the wherewithal. One of us needs to take the samples to Edinburgh, Glasgow and all towns en route, then down to Liverpool and across to York. We need to phone ahead and make appointments with buyers at the time that other wholesalers are doing the same thing so we become part of the circus. I’ve got the timetable.’ She pushed it towards Tom. ‘We need to book into hotels, a cheap bedroom but a good room for the presentation and order up coffee by room service for each buyer and we mustn’t try and sell the same stuff to competitors. I think I know those.’ She passed round the list she’d written up earlier. ‘We need to display the wares and discuss terms, they’ll try and hem us in but as long as it’s a reasonable margin we can deal with it, but we can’t go any longer than thirty days’ credit. We must have the cash flow. While Tom’s doing that, we can do the same in Newcastle, Durham, and so on …’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Tom interrupted. ‘I’m not going, this is your patch. You have the expertise, the knowledge, you’re the right sex for God’s sake. Otherwise it’s a damned good idea.’
‘Not as good as mail order. I’m not going, I’ve got Sarah. You can use your holiday.’ Annie insisted.
They argued long into the night again but Tom wouldn’t go despite Annie’s best efforts to persuade him. Georgie agreed with Tom, Annie was the one with the knowledge, and after all, for Tom is sell pants and bras personally to women alone in a hotel room wasn’t right.
The next morning Annie was on the phone, ringing up buyers, talking her way into appointments, using Mr Isaacs’ name as he had said she could – his only proviso that she should leave London, the South East and the West Country alone. That afternoon though, she left the phone and the samples and walked round to Betsy. She drank tea with her, talking of her plans, then took Betsy’s stiff swollen hands in hers and asked her if she would mother Sarah and Georgie in her absence.
‘They need someone they love, someone who will have a meal ready for them and ears to listen to them.’
‘I’d love that, I’d really love it, pet, but what about the sewing? I’d not have time for much.’
Annie spoke carefully, gently. ‘Listen, if all this goes well then we’ll have made the jump, we can set on a homeworker so don’t do anything while I’m away.’ She still held Betsy’s hands. ‘The thing is, Bet, I’ll need someone to mother me too, when I get back. I can’t cope any more with the dinner, the ironing. I need to be out or in the dining-room for more hours in the day but how can I with Sarah?’
She looked at her stepmother and Betsy nodded, then said, ‘Can I come and cook for you, lass? Can I be there for Sarah and for you? I don’t like to think of you working when most folks are asleep and I’d like to have another go at looking after you.’ She took her hands from Annie and reached for her cup. ‘But I feel bad about letting you down with the sewing.’
‘Anyone can sew, not many can keep the three of us in order,’ Annie said, smiling gently.
A week later Annie took the train to the north to show the bras and pants ‘in the hand’, not on models. She and Gracie had worked into the night all week, cutting, sewing, checking the garments, listing them for insurance purposes, packing them in reams of tissue paper which Sarah and Davy pinched, wrapped round combs and blew until Annie shouted and their lips were numb. She arrived in Dundee, lugged her skips to the taxi, fell into bed and saw the first of the buyers at ten o’clock the next morning. She called for coffee but the buyer drank tea, then said that the the jute trade was in a bad way, had been since ’53 and there wasn’t a lot of money around. He couldn’t take anything.
The last buyer said her budget was already committed but yes, she’d like coffee and perhaps a cake. At Stirling, Perth and the Lowlands they liked the samples and said they’d take a few ‘to help her out’, but they’d want extended credit. She refused but offered them another five per cent discount. One refused, the others accepted but when she took the train for Edinburgh she knew that so far their costs had not nearly been covered.
In Edinburgh a central buyer told her she should get her stationery and advice notes and invoices printed up properly. ‘Can’t expect anyone to take you seriously unless you put on a good front,’ the woman said. ‘Come round again in the autumn, let’s see how you’re doing then. May I have your card?’ Annie did not have one, had never had one.
The buyer bought nothing, and Annie toured the Madam shops and sold six dozen bra and pant sets. A buyer in Glasgow liked the samples but had committed his budget almost before the tour began. ‘Might be an idea to put out a catalogue,’ he said as she left.
With what? Annie longed to ask.
She took the train to Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, Sheffield, Nottingham and York and sold a total of thirty dozen pants and bras, fifteen dozen apr
ons and gloves. It would perhaps pay for printed stationery but not for the train fares, the hotel charges or the taxi fares, she thought as she caught the train from Newcastle to Wassingham and wondered how she could tell the others.
Georgie was waiting for her at the station, running towards her, lifting her in his arms, kissing her, then hauling along the skips. She told him the total sales and then, when he seemed not to care, she set those against their expenses, but he just shrugged, heaved the skips into the boot and opened the door for her.
‘We need proper stationery, proper advance planning, collapsible boxes for neat presentation, we must dip further into our resources, Georgie, it’s not that much to ask.’
He smiled at her, touching he shoulder. ‘Come on, we’ve got to get back, I’m nursing the phone.’ He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. ‘I’ve had a call from a wholesaler, Nigel Manners, who supplies hundreds of small shops. Apparently his wife was in Newby’s while I was trying to flog some to the buyer. She liked them, or so he says. I’ve sent him a sample and he’s ringing back tonight at half past eight. Says if the terms are right he’ll want thousands, so I’ve sorted it all out for you, darling, there’s no more need for you to worry.’
Annie looked at her watch. It was eight o’clock. She looked ahead and made herself smile because all the months she’d worked, all the miles she’d travelled had been a waste of time – she’d been right in the first place, it was Georgie who should have run the business – and the knowledge churned deep inside her.
CHAPTER 5
There was no call at half past eight but at nine o’clock Nigel Manners rang and ordered eight thousand bra and pant sets as per the sample but with a few modifications.
Annie's Promise Page 7
