Sarah Morris Remembers

by D. E. Stevenson

  He looked at me in astonishment.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” I explained. “I tried to think why it was that I wanted this job so much. That’s the reason.”

  “If you put it like that I can’t say anything more. You must do as you want, Sarah. If you find the work too arduous we can——”

  “It won’t be. It will be quite easy, and I know I can do it satisfactorily. That’s half the battle, isn’t it?”

  He smiled and replied, “It’s nine-tenths of the battle. Well, if you’re going to Barrington’s to-morrow don’t forget your coat.”

  *

  Mr. Duncan was in the office when I arrived. He welcomed me warmly and explained that he had been wondering if I would come; it had seemed too good to be true. He asked, somewhat diffidently, if I would mind wearing a uniform.

  I suppose I looked a little startled.

  “Of course if you have any objection you can wear what you like,” said Mr. Duncan hastily. “I just thought it would give you a sort of status. A plain black charmeuse dress would suit you, Miss Morris.”

  I replied that I had no objection to wearing a plain black charmeuse dress; I had imagined that he meant me to be attired in a page-boy uniform.

  He laughed and said, “Let’s go and choose it now. Then you can start work to-morrow.”

  “Wait a moment!” I exclaimed. “What about Mademoiselle Claire. I don’t want to take her job.”

  “Oh, she just comes ‘to oblige.’ She’ll be quite pleased to hear we’ve found someone. Anyhow she isn’t satisfactory, is she, Marriott?”

  “Never here when she’s wanted,” agreed Mr. Marriott. “And what’s more everyone hates her like poison.”

  “Why do they hate her?” I asked apprehensively.

  “She puts people’s backs up.”

  “We were in a jam,” explained Mr. Duncan. “We had an excellent man, Herr Straker. He can speak half a dozen languages, but he’s been interned as an enemy alien. Come along, Miss Morris. We mustn’t waste time.”

  I soon discovered that Mr. Duncan never wasted time.

  We went up in the lift to the dress department and Mr. Duncan explained to the manageress – a very grand lady – exactly what he had in mind:

  “Miss Morris has a beautiful figure so the dress must fit her perfectly, Miss Fitzroy.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Duncan.”

  Various dresses were produced for his approval but he approved of none of them. “I don’t like all those bits and pieces – buttons and frills and bows. I know exactly what I want for Miss Morris; you’ll have to make it for her, that’s all. I want a perfectly plain black charmeuse dress with a round, closely-fitting neck and long sleeves.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Duncan.”

  “We’ll choose the material and you can take her measurements.”

  “Yes, certainly. We’re very busy in the work-room but I think I can promise it for next week.”

  “It must be ready at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning.”

  “To-morrow morning!” echoed Miss Fitzroy in dismay.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Duncan. “And put your best dressmakers on to the job. The dress must fit Miss Morris like a black skin.”

  The grand lady looked so astonished that I was obliged to hide a smile . . . and smiles did not come easily to me at the time.

  When my measurements had been carefully taken and the material chosen I told Mr. Duncan that I wanted to buy a coat.

  “Your coat!” he exclaimed. “That’s what you came for, of course! I forgot all about it. Shall I come and help you to choose it? They pay attention to what I say.”

  I said I had noticed this.

  Mr. Duncan chuckled. “Miss Fitzroy is very high and mighty, isn’t she? But she’s good at her job. I like people who are good at their jobs.”

  I wasn’t very anxious to have Mr. Duncan with me when I was choosing my coat for I was sure he would insist on my having the best and most expensive in the department. Mr. Duncan was paying for my dress – or at least Barrington’s was paying for it – but I would have to pay for the coat. However a very smart little page pursued us into the lift and informed Mr. Duncan that he was wanted urgently in the “Ladies Underwear.”

  “It’s the buyer, I suppose,” said Mr. Duncan with a sigh. “He’s a fat man with pudgy hands, quite unsuitable for frillies, but he’s good at his job.”

  The manageress of the Coat Department had heard all about me and was helpful and kind. Her name was Maud Renfrew – later I got to know her well. She chatted to me as she brought out the various coats to show me:

  “You’ll be very useful, Miss Morris. We often have trouble with foreigners, especially since the war started; there are hundreds of people of different nationalities in London now. I’m so sorry for them when they come in here to buy something and we can’t understand what they want. It makes me feel such an idiot. I learnt French at school, like everyone else, but it hasn’t helped me to understand French people talking.”

  “It doesn’t,” I agreed.

  “Mr. Marriott says you’re very clever. You can speak French and German like a native.”

  I wondered how Mr. Marriott knew, since he was unable to speak a word of either language.

  “Mr. Barrington told me we were to ring up the office if we needed you,” said Miss Renfrew.

  “Mr. Barrington?” I asked.

  “Mr. Duncan Barrington,” she explained. “He’s the grandson of old Mr. Barrington, of course. Old Mr. Thomas Barrington started the business and is still on the Board of Directors. He’s too old to take an active interest – over ninety I believe! – but he comes in now and then and has a look round. Mr. Duncan is the manager; he’s very capable and go-ahead. Some people call him ‘the Dictator’ but I don’t blame him for liking his own way; a big place like this needs someone with a firm hand to run it properly. If you do your best he’ll always back you up.”

  ‘The customer isn’t always right?” I suggested.

  “Oh, she is – while she’s there,” replied Miss Renfrew. “When she has gone he’ll tell you it’s all right and you aren’t to worry.”

  This concerned me because I was going to work here and the sooner I got to know the ins and outs of the business the better.

  I chose my coat, a very nice dark-brown tweed with a fur collar, and discovered to my surprise that I was to get ten per cent off the marked price.

  “We all do,” explained Miss Renfrew. “It’s one of Mr. Duncan’s bright ideas. He says if you treat your employees well they work all the better. You should get a hat while you’re about it, Miss Morris. A little fur cap to match the collar would be nice . . . and if you want a perm you can get ten per cent off that,” she added with a glance at my hair.

  She was quite right; my hair was a mess, I hadn’t bothered about it for months.

  The hair-dressing department was on the top floor. Here, too, I was kindly received and told that I would be very useful . . . and I was given an invitation to “drop in” any afternoon at four-thirty for a cup of tea.

  “We don’t go down to the restaurant for tea,” explained Miss Balcombe. “It takes too long. We just make tea ourselves in the wash-room and have a cup and a slice of cake between shampoos and perms. Several of my best girls have enlisted in one or other of the women’s services, so we’re frightfully under-staffed, but if you come this afternoon I’ll fit you in somehow.”

  *

  My duties at Barrington’s were erratic. At first I was sent for two or three times a day and spent the rest of the time in the office, translating business letters, but soon my work became much more active. I was in constant demand as an interpreter; sometimes I was sent for by several departments at once and was obliged to hurry from one end of the building to the other.

  Mr. Marriott explained this by saying, “They didn’t like Claire so they managed without her whenever they could.”

  Neither he nor Mr. Duncan was in the habit of wasting words. />
  I remember my first customer particularly well. It was my first day on duty; I had arrived in the office at eleven o’clock, my hair had been cut and permed and I was wearing my new dress.

  Mr. Duncan examined me carefully. “It’s exactly right,” he said. “It’s elegant and it’s businesslike . . . but just to finish it off you must have a long gold chain with a medallion on the end of it. They’ve got some in the Jewellery Department.”

  “They want Miss Morris in ‘Footwear,’” said Mr. Marriott, emerging from his post in the telephone-room. “It’s urgent. Shall I take her, Mr, Duncan?”

  “I’ll take her,” replied Mr. Duncan. “We can stop in ‘Jewellery’ on the way.” He set off at a brisk pace; I followed, half walking, half running. We stopped in the Jewellery Department for my chain and then rushed on to “Footwear.” By this time I was quite breathless and had begun to wonder whether I should be able to stand the pace of my new job . . . and whether I should ever be able to find my way about the enormous building.

  “Here you are!” said Mr. Duncan. “You can manage by yourself, can’t you? Come back to the office when you’ve finished. . . . I’m wanted in ‘Millinery.’” He was gone before I could reply.

  A well-dressed lady in a blue hat was sitting on a chair with one shoe on; the assistant was standing with the other shoe in her hand. Both were flushed and heated.

  “She doesn’t understand,” said the assistant, turning to me in desperation. “I’ve told her we don’t stock threes in that make of shoe. We could get her a pair of threes, of course; it wouldn’t take more than a few days. That’s a four she’s got on and it’s much too large – she could never wear it with any comfort – but she won’t take it off. She really is awfully silly.”

  I looked at the lady in the blue hat – her eyes were blue, too – she was petite and elegant and, in spite of her mulish expression, she was very attractive.

  She said, “Elle est imbécile, cette jeune fille.”

  I smiled at her and replied in French, asking her why she wanted to buy shoes which were too large for her “so elegant little feet.”

  She threw back her head and laughed merrily and burst into a torrent of explanations: the shoes were not for herself – no, indeed, they were much too large! – she intended to give them to her sister. It was to be a surprise for her sister so she had come by herself to buy them and would hide them away until her sister’s anniversaire. She knew nothing about “trees an’ fours” – that girl was an imbecile – but she had tried on a pair of her sister’s shoes this morning before she came out, so she was aware that if a shoe were a little too large for herself it would fit Cécile very nicely. That imbecile girl had tried to prevent her from trying on the shoe but it was essential for her to try it on; how otherwise was she to know if it would be the correct size? Surely I would understand that it would be a thousand pities if, when she gave the shoes to Cécile, they did not fit her perfectly?

  I assured her that I understood and explained the matter to the assistant.

  “Well, what d’you know!” exclaimed the girl. “I never heard of such a crazy idea in all my life! I’d like to see my sister’s face if I went and bought her a pair of shoes!”

  I admitted that it was a strange idea and that my sister would certainly not appreciate such a gift.

  “Supposing the lady’s sister doesn’t like the shoes?” asked the girl doubtfully.

  “They can be changed, can’t they? I’ll explain that to her; meanwhile you can do up the parcel and make out the bill.”

  While we were waiting I chatted to the lady; it was pleasant to air my French, which had been in cold storage for so long. She told me that her name was Madame Breuchaud and her husband was in the Free French Forces. Her sister had come to England and was living with them in lodgings. “Cécile can speak English, not too badly, so it is good to have her with us. She can speak Dutch, too; our mother was Hollandaise.”

  “Do you like being here?” I asked.

  “It is a little strange. We do not know many people here in London.”

  It was not always so easy to sort out the muddles – and on several occasions it was impossible to smooth things over and make everyone happy.

  For instance, I was summoned urgently by the glove department, where I found a very irate lady displaying a glove which had split between the fingers. There was a very young gentleman with a very red face behind the counter.

  “Thank goodness you’ve come, Miss Morris!” he exclaimed in relief.

  The lady turned to me and explained volubly in French that she had bought the gloves only last week – and look what had happened when she had put them on for the first time! Just look! Was it not disgraceful? She had been told that this was a good store but I could see for myself that it sold rubbish. Could I not see that the glove was badly fashioned, badly finished? The gloves must be replaced instantly by a new pair.

  I turned to the young man behind the counter. “It seems rather an inferior make of glove,” I said.

  “It is,” he agreed. “It’s a very cheap make of glove . . . but it wasn’t sold here. Barrington’s has never sold this make; we only stock the best. Can you explain to the lady that she must have bought the gloves somewhere else?”

  This was neither easy nor pleasant; the irate lady knew she had bought the gloves here – yes, here at this very counter! She remembered the occasion distinctly; she remembered that stupid boy with the red face. Could I, or could I not, replace this rubbish with a new pair of gloves?

  I could not.

  In that case the manager must be summoned.

  Mr. Duncan was sent for and the matter explained, but even he could not accomplish the impossible and after a lengthy argument – translated by me – the lady went off in a rage, saying she would never again cross the threshold of this third-rate establishment.

  “We had better put up the shutters right away,” said Mr. Duncan. He winked at the assistant, grinned at me . . . and strode off at his usual pace.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was the day of the Zumbach luncheon party. Mr. Duncan sent for me to come to the English Rose Room and showed me all the arrangements: the long table looked very festive, with cut glass and silver and flat bowls of flowers and fruit down the centre.

  “Oh, how lovely!” I exclaimed. “I’m so glad you haven’t put large arrangements of flowers in the middle; it’s nice to be able to see people on the other side of the table.”

  “Can you suggest anything else?” he asked anxiously.

  I looked round the room. “What about a big jar of chrysanthemums over there in the corner?”

  “You’re right! That corner looks bare. Go down to ‘Flowers’ and get as many as you want. Tell them I said so.”

  I glanced at my watch and saw that I had less than half an hour to accomplish my assignment . . . and wished I had held my tongue!

  Fortunately the manager of the flower department was very friendly and entered into the spirit of the affair; he allowed me to choose a great armful of bronze and gold chrysanthemums and several large sprays of beech leaves; he gave me an enormous chinese jar with dragons on it and detailed his best assistant to help me.

  “Kitty will carry up the jar for you,” he said. “And I’ll lend you a sheet to spread on the floor. You won’t be popular if you make a mess of the place.”

  “I hope that jar isn’t terribly heavy,” I said, as Kitty and I went up in the lift.

  “Oh, no, it’s a little bulky, that’s all,” she replied, smiling cheerfully. “This is fun, Miss Morris; the other girls will be awfully jealous when they hear I’ve been helping you.”

  Kitty’s words gave me a fleeting glimpse of the monotony of her daily life; anything that was different from usual was a treat to be welcomed with delight! These glimpses into the lives of other people were interesting. I should have liked to hear more about Kitty’s life, but there was no time to think of that now.

  We spread the sheet and arrange
d the flowers in the jar and we were just gathering up the debris when the Zumbachs arrived. I had intended to change for the party and had brought my rose-red frock with me but there was no chance of escape. Mevrouw Zumbach greeted me warmly and introduced me to her son and daughter – both of whom could speak English.

  “Oh, what a pretty room!” exclaimed the girl. “The table looks lovely, doesn’t it?” She turned to her mother and repeated her remarks in Dutch.

  Then the guests began to appear in twos and threes and were regaled with cocktails.

  “Do you like schnapps, Miss Morris?” asked young Mijnheer Zumbach.

  “I’ve never tasted it,” I replied.

  “It is nice,” he declared, smiling at me and handing me a glass.

  It wasn’t nice – or at least I didn’t like it – however, I had to pretend I was enjoying his national drink.

  Many of the guests were Dutch but most of them could speak English, after a fashion, and insisted on speaking English to me. I had hoped that some of them would speak German, but I was disappointed; there was so much rage in these people at the way their country was being treated that they preferred to remain silent rather than to speak the hated language of their enemies. There were some Belgians who spoke French, several Polish officers who spoke their own language to each other and French to me . . . and a dark-skinned Spaniard (who looked like my idea of a hidalgo) was conversing gravely in Spanish with an elderly Frenchwoman.

  It crossed my mind that the Tower of Babel must have been something like this.

  At luncheon I found myself sitting next to a young Dutchman with very fair hair and light blue eyes.

  “Food goot,” he said, tucking into his hors d’oeuvres with obvious enjoyment.

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “Blooms pretty,” he suggested, pointing to the flowers.

  “Yes, very pretty.”

  “I luff goot food and pretty womans,” he declared with zest.

  I couldn’t help laughing.

  “What this name?” he asked, holding up his spoon.

  “Spoon.”

  “Schpoon,” he said, nodding.