Lydia recognized and approved the intention, but was acutely conscious that the pen of the lady at the writing-table had ceased its scratching, and that the newspaper of Miss Lillicrap was no longer rustling.
In the motionless silence of the large room Miss Graham gave Lydia information concerning the establishment of Madame Elena.
“You’ve seen old Madam, I know. She always interviews us girls herself before engaging us. That’s one of the things that’s done quite different to other places. But it’s your first experience, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’ve only just left school.”
If Lydia hoped to impress Miss Graham by the announcement, she was destined to disappointment.
“You may thank your lucky stars,” said that young lady impressively, “that old Madam took to you. Girls have been tumbling over one another, by all accounts, to get that job of yours.”
“Madame Ribeiro seemed very kind,” said Lydia demurely.
“You won’t see anything of her in the shop.
Madame Elena runs that part of it altogether. She bosses the staff, of course, and does all the buying, but she’s no head for figures, and that’s why there’s to be an accountant. You’ll be sort of different from the other girls, in your position. Higher up, I mean.”
Lydia felt very pleased, but she only said: “Are all the others saleswomen?”
“Elena mostly does that herself, but she lets the senior girl, Miss Ryott, help. She and the other one, Miss Saxon, are really models. I’m at the desk.”
“Do you like it?” Miss Graham shrugged her little thin shoulders.
“I see plenty of life,” she remarked. “You’ll be in the show-room too. There’s a table behind a screen for you, all ready. The bills will be brought to you as soon as I’ve stamped them.”
“Shall I help in the selling?”
“You’re sure to be roped in at sale-time. That’s only once a year, thank God, and that was over last month. On the whole, we’ve got a very good berth there; I fancy quite different to shop-girls, or anything like that. You get a topping meal in the middle of the day — they say old Madam is frightfully keen on the girls being well-fed. It’s a fad of hers. There’s a housekeeper in the basement, an old woman called Entwhistle, and she looks after the meals. There’s a first and second table for dinner.”
“Are there enough of you for that?”
“Oh, yes. There are two young ladies in the millinery, and a fitter besides. And surely to goodness,” said Miss Graham, “you know enough to know that the shop couldn’t be left to look after itself for an hour in the middle of the day.”
Lydia was not pleased at the slighting tone employed by her visitor, and replied briefly: “I suppose not.”
Then her natural instinct to engage the liking, and, if possible, the friendship of those with whom her lot might be thrown, made her exclaim frankly: “I shan’t know anything at first, I’m afraid. But I hope you’ll help me a little.”
“Oh,” said Miss Graham matter-of-factly, “I shan’t have anything much to do with you. Old Madam only sent round to say I was to come and look you up because there was nobody else. Miss Ryott is on her holiday, and won’t get back till to-morrow, and Miss Saxon is a new-comer herself.”
She rose, apparently indifferent to the effect of extreme ungraciousness that her speech might well have produced.
“I’d better call for you to-morrow morning. It’s out of my way, but then Elena said you didn’t know London, and would probably get lost. Will you be ready by half-past eight?”
“Yes,” said Lydia. “I’m sorry it’s out of your way.”
“So am I, but it can’t be helped. Whatever made you come to a place like this?” inquired Miss Graham, throwing round her a glance expressive of anything but admiration.
“The manageress is a friend of ours,” Lydia said stiffly. “Do you live at home, then?”
“Lord, no. I share diggings with another girl.
Well, so long then. Half-past eight to-morrow.”
“I shall be waiting in the hall,” said Lydia. “Goodbye, and thank you for coming.”
She politely escorted Miss Graham to the front door, where the smell of cooking was stronger than ever.
As she went upstairs again, the lady of the writing’ table came out of the drawing-room.
“Good morning,” said she brightly. “We must introduce ourselves. I’m Miss Forster.”
She laughed heartily as she spoke.
“It’s nearly luncheon-time. Won’t you come back into the drawing-room?” Lydia inwardly wondered slightly why Miss Forster, who had, according to the manageress, only been in the house a few weeks, should adopt so proprietary a tone and manner, but she followed her into the drawing-room.
Miss Lillicrap had gone away, and the room was empty, as they took possession of two arm-chairs.
“We’ve got the place to ourselves!” proclaimed Miss Forster with some obviousness. “Most people have gone to church, but I’m a terrible pagan, I’m afraid.
Now, I wonder if I’m right, Miss Raymond — but I’ve an idea that you’re a bit of a pagan, too?” Lydia made a civil, but meaningless, sound in reply.
She had every intention of going to church in the evening with Miss Nettleship, but considered that it would appear offensive to proclaim her Christianity bluntly aloud in the face of what Miss Forster so evidently looked upon as a compliment.
She gazed at the lady, who continued to talk gaily, and instinctively drew certain conclusions from the scrutiny.
Miss Forster was a handsome, hard-faced woman, presenting a great effect of careful smartness, between forty and fifty years of age. She had obviously devoted much whalebone and a certain amount of physical force to the rigid corsetting of an over-ample figure.
Her extremely white hair showed the deep, regular indentations of artificial waving, and was elaborately dressed with a good many sparkling prongs and high combs, visible even beneath the large be-feathered black hat, pinned very much on to one side of her head. Her shoes were small, with Louis XV heels, and looked overtight for her short, plump feet, and her hands were carefully manicured.
Lydia uncharitably surmised that one of the effects at which she aimed was that of a woman who could have married well had she chosen to do so, and that it was to this end that she wore a sapphire and diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand, and another one with a large blue scarab on the forefinger of her right.
Her voice was high-pitched and emphatic.
“Is this your first glimpse of the world?” she demanded playfully.
Lydia felt rather at a loss for a reply.
“I’ve come up to work,” she said at last. “But I hope I shall see something of the world while I’m here.”
“Oh, I expect so. Of course, this is a quiet part of town — not like Kensington or the West End, by any means — in fact, I’ve never lived so far out before. My friends are always trying to get me to move into a little West End flat somewhere, but I say, ‘No; I don’t care for the bother of housekeeping.’ And really we’re quite well done here, you know, and of course I don’t hesitate to order in any little extra thing. I’m afraid I like my comforts, Miss Raymond. It’s what I’ve been accustomed to all my life.”
“Have you always lived in London?” Lydia politely inquired.
She was remembering Grandpapa’s axiom: Always let the other people talk about themselves.
It appeared that Miss Forster did not require much encouragement to do so with great animation, and a number of rather superfluous gesticulations, illustrative of her words.
“Oh, my dear Miss Raymond! I always say I’m a rolling stone!” Miss Forster’s hands described rapid revolutions one over the other in the air.
“I’ve been in all sorts of places, but I’ve come to the conclusion that London is the place to live in. There’s always something to do there. If it’s bad weather, there are concerts or theatres always going on — and one can always pop round to one’s club and get a
game of Bridge.”
As Miss Forster enumerated these resources of urban life, she successively agitated her fingers up and down an imaginary key-board, gazed eagerly through imaginary opera-glasses held up to her eyes, and rapidly dealt out a few imaginary cards.
“I’m a tremendous gambler, I’m afraid. I love my, game of Bridge. There are some dear friends of mine living in Lexham Gardens, who frequently give Bridge parties. I daresay you’ve heard of them — Sir Rupert and Lady Honoret?”
“I don’t think I have.”
“No?” said Miss Forster, looking rather disappointed. “She’s so very well known in Society that I thought you might have. I must introduce you some day. Such a clever woman!” Suddenly an echo came back to Lydia’s well-trained memory. She was in the drawing-room of the Wimbledon house again, listening to Aunt Evelyn’s droning voice reading from her illustrated paper: “Fancy! it says here that ‘the wife of this city magnate is no mean critic of L’ecole moderne, having herself contributed on several occasions to the sum of New Thought literature, in the shape of several charmingly written sketches pour nos autres.’ That would be this Sir Rupert Honoret’s wife, I suppose.
They say she’s a Jewess.”
“Doesn’t Lady Honoret write?” said Lydia.
“That’s it!” cried Miss Forster delightedly. “I thought you must have heard of her; she’s so well known.”
“Yes, I have heard of her. I remember now,” said Lydia, inwardly congratulating herself on the excellence of her memory.
“I feel certain that you and I are going to be pals,” Miss Forster exclaimed breezily. “Between ourselves, there’s nobody I’ve taken to very violently here. I really thought it was more of a residential hotel than a boarding-house, or I shouldn’t have com-.-.
One really can’t entertain one’s friends here, with such awful servants, and that terrible old Miss Lillicrap always about the place. She has a heart, you know, so one can’t say much.”
Both Miss Forster’s hands flew to her ample bust, in indication of the nature of Miss Lillicrap’s complaint.
“However, I belong to a very smart West End Ladies’ Club, so I can always give my little card parties there. You must come and have tea there some day,” said Miss Forster airily.
“I should like to,” replied Lydia truthfully. She was not attracted by Miss Forster, but people with literary ladyships for their friends might be very useful, and Lydia quite complacently told herself that the accident of her having listened to, and remembered, Aunt Evelyn’s item of information, had done her good service with this woman, who might easily bring her into that world where she most wished to find herself.
She began to think that, perhaps, after all, the boarding-house might count for even more than Madame Elena’s.
At dinner, which on Sundays was in the middle of the day, the Greek, who was her neighbour, talked to her and asked if she were going out in the afternoon.
“I have to unpack,” said Lydia demurely.
She had unpacked almost everything in the course of the morning, but she thought that the Greek meant to ask if she would go out with him, and instinct told her that his evident admiration would only be increased by a pretence at coyness.
“Do you care for the theatre?” he inquired next.
“Oh, I love it,” said Lydia frankly.
“We must make up a party one evening. Mrs. Bulteel is very fond of a good show, I know,” said the Greek.
Lydia felt excited.
Evidently her life was not to be all hard work.
She ventured into the drawing-room after the hot and heavy meal, but found that Sunday afternoon was by common consent given up to repose.
Miss Lillicrap and Miss Forster both went to their rooms, little Mrs. Clarence, sunk into an arm-chair with a library novel, fell asleep at once, and snored faintly from time to time; Mrs. Bulteel disposed herself elegantly upon the drawing-room sofa, and said to Lydia: “I hope you don’t mind me having my toes up like this?”
“Oh, no, indeed.”
“I’m not very strong. My husband and my son go for a walk on Sunday afternoons, but I’m not very strong.”
Mrs. Bulteel closed her eyes complacently, and also went to sleep.
Lydia took her fountain-pen from her pocket, having first sampled the pens on the writing-table, and found them all very old, rather rusty, and either broken or cross-nibbed, and wrote a letter to Aunt Beryl. She gave full details of Miss Nettleship’s good-nature, and of her visit from Miss Graham, and even reported a little of her conversation with Miss Forster, the friend of Sir Rupert and Lady Honoret. She said nothing at all about the Greek gentleman.
The evening meal, at seven o’clock on week-days, was not until half-past eight on Sundays, and Miss Nettleship, after entertaining Lydia to tea in her own room, took her to church at six o’clock, talking all the way.
Lydia was bored, and in church began to feel rather homesick and apprehensive of her first day’s work on the morrow.
Supper proved to be a cheerless meal. There was no soup, only portions of cold pressed beef and beetroot, and a chilly helping of custard-pudding upon each plate.
The cheese was substantial enough, but the section of the dish that held biscuits was empty by the time it reached Lydia, and although she asked Irene for some bread, Irene forgot to bring it.
She went to bed still feeling hungry.
Next morning she was introduced to the establishment of Madame Elena.
“Us girls have to use the side door, of course,” Miss Graham explained. But before they went inside she showed Lydia the front entrance, with “Elena” scrawled in gilt letters above the door, and a small, diamond-paned window that displayed only a gilt chair, over which was flung a brilliant scarlet and gold kimono, and a little gilt stand, on which hung a necklace of green jade, surmounted by a minute hat composed entirely of fluted purple tulle, apparently held together by a jewelled buckle.
“Madame Elena dressed the window herself,” said Miss Graham. “She goes in for colour contrasts.”
Her tone denoted no particular admiration, but Lydia privately was a good deal impressed by the window. Not with this wonderfully effective restraint were the shop fronts decked into which she had hitherto been accustomed to gaze.
She expected Madame Elena to be an aesthetic looking creature in an artistic smock, and was disappointed at the sight of a very fat, good-natured-faced woman, with an immense mop of auburn hair and a heavily-powdered face. Instead of the art-smock, she wore a tight black skirt, that seemed to emphasize the disproportionate shortness of her legs, and a lace shirt with an elaborate high collar and falling jabot of lace.
“Brought a black dress?” she inquired. “Rosie here will show you where the girls’ dressing-room is, and where you can leave your things. You change here, of course. What about shoes and stockings?” She shook her head at Lydia’s black Oxford shoes.
“Get a pair of court slippers at lunch-time. Rosie will tell you where to go. Stockings don’t matter, as you’ll be behind your desk all the time. You needn’t worry about corsets, either, not being a model. Now go and change, then you can come back to me here, and we’ll go through the books together and give you some idea of your job.”
“Are you nervous?” Rosie Graham asked Lydia with a quick look, when they were in the basement dressing-room.
“Oh, no, not really,” Lydia replied, with more spirit than accuracy.
Miss Graham burst into an impish laugh.
“Oh, you lovely little liar’.” said she.
Lydia was not sure whether to admit the truth of the apostrophe or not.
She used all her intelligence during the next three hours, but Madame Elena’s method of instruction was slap-dash and sketchy, and Lydia learnt most during the frequent intervals when her teacher was called away, and she was left alone with the great ledgers and invoice-books.
The technical terms, and the abbreviations especially, puzzled her greatly, but much of the work
reminded her of the old problems at Miss Glover’s, when she had been told to “show the working” on the black-board for the benefit of the other girls.
The stock appeared to consist of evening gowns, millinery and an occasional scarf or veil. Nothing was made on the premises except hats, but Madame Elena sometimes undertook commissions, for very favoured customers, during her trips to Paris.
Some of the papers relating to wholesale purchases were in French, and Lydia regretfully felt that her old deficiency would find her out again.
In spite of the French, however, she thought that the book-keeping would prove to be well within her capacity, and felt cheered.
Madame Elena was very good-natured, not at all the overbearing and dictatorial principal that Lydia had half expected to find her. They worked together in her room all the morning, Lydia uninterruptedly, and Madame Elena in the midst of many respectful summonses and urgent telephone calls.
Just before one o’clock, a tall girl with dark hair, dressed in the saleswoman’s austerely smart black and white, once more announced the arrival of an important client.
Madame Elena darted through into the shop again, and this time was away for nearly an hour.
Through the door of her tiny office, which she had left ajar, Lydia could hear an occasional phrase: “I really don’t think you’d ever regret it... it’s so exactly your style. I really shouldn’t urge it if I didn’t think you’d be pleased with it.... Oh, no, Maddam — you couldn’t call that cerise by any possibility. Old rose it is — just your shade....”
Madame Elena came back at last, flinging herself into the chair before the writing-table.
“Oof! I thought we should never get done. She meant to take it, all the time, too. Now, Miss Raymond, let’s see you enter that. Here’s the bill.”
“Motor-bonnet, at seventy-five and sixpence,” Lydia read.
“You must describe it in your entry, so that we shall recognize it,” Madame Elena declared. “Turn up the invoice.”
When Lydia had found it she discovered with surprise that the recent purchase figured as “Rose-red and ash-grey motoring capote.” “That sounds more like it!” said the principal, in satisfied accents. “Now you’ll know how it should go down on the account.”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 155