Sarah Morris Remembers

by D. E. Stevenson

  My official lunch hour was from one to two, but there was no reason why I shouldn’t have lunch a little earlier, so the matter was settled and I met them as arranged. Cécile was a delightful girl; she resembled Madame Breuchaud but was younger . . . and a size larger, as was to be expected. Jules was not so pleasant; he was a natty little Frenchman with a dark moustache and a roving eye. His eye roved in my direction rather too often and his foot touched mine once or twice under the table . . . but I took no notice of his advances.

  He admired my black charmeuse dress and declared that only a woman with a perfect figure could wear it. (We were speaking French, of course, so the flattery didn’t sound so blatant.)

  “It is my uniform,” I said coldly.

  “But it is extremely becoming,” said Cécile, nodding. “And how interesting it must be to have such a wonderful post!”

  “It is because she is clever and can speak half a dozen different languages,” declared Madame Breuchaud admiringly.

  I laughed and said, “Not half a dozen – just French and German.”

  “Is it permitted for one to inquire why you are not in one of the women’s services?” asked Jules Breuchaud, twirling his moustaches.

  I had been asked this question before, several times. The answer was that I was keeping house for my father and working in the air-raid shelter. Mr. Duncan had managed to get me exempted. I was glad of this because I didn’t see how father and Willy could have got on without me.

  “Ah!” exclaimed Jules. “It is one of your famous English ‘wangles’!”

  I didn’t reply. As a matter of fact I had never felt guilty for having avoided conscription; I was doing three jobs and working to the limit of my capacity.

  Perhaps it was unfair to dislike Jules Breuchaud so heartily, for at that time officers in the Free French Forces were finding life somewhat difficult. (France had let us down, so many of them assumed an aggressive manner to hide an inferiority complex.) Anyhow, I didn’t bother about Jules, I was much more interested in Cécile, who continued to question me about my work and repeated that it must be interesting and amusing. She was an attractive creature, intelligent and full of vim, and it occurred to me that she would make a valuable assistant. I could say nothing until I had spoken to Mr. Duncan, but I had become so busy that I really needed someone to help me.

  For some time I had been trying to avoid Mr. Duncan – and had met him frequently – but now, when I wanted to speak to him, he was extremely elusive. I was nearly run off my feet that afternoon, but near closing time I had a respite so I asked Mr. Marriott where Mr. Duncan could be found.

  “Furniture,” said Mr. Marriott. “If he isn’t there he may have looked in at ‘Groceries’ about the latest consignment of tea; failing that you might try ‘Bed Linen.”

  To cut a long story short I pursued Mr. Duncan from one end of Barrington’s to the other and eventually discovered him in the Pets Department talking to the vet, who had been summoned to have a look at a sick monkey.

  “Hallo, Miss Morris!” he exclaimed in surprise. “Haven’t you gone home?”

  “I wanted to speak to you for a minute,” I told him.

  “Yes, of course! This is Mr. Player . . . Miss Morris. Mr. Player has come to see poor Jacko. I’m afraid poor Jacko’s days are numbered. I’m not going to have any more monkeys. Children love them, of course, but this climate doesn’t suit the poor little beasts.”

  “They’re delicate,” put in Mr. Player. “I’ll take Jacko home with me and see what I can do . . . but I can’t hold out much hope, Mr. Duncan.”

  He wrapped up the monkey very carefully, put it in a covered basket, and went away.

  “Poor Jacko,” said Mr. Duncan with a sigh. “He might have lived to be a great grandfather if he’d been left peacefully in his native jungle.”

  “Or he might have been eaten by a tiger,” I suggested.

  “That’s true,” agreed Mr. Duncan, more cheerfully. “Well, what’s the trouble, Sarah?”

  It was the first time he had called me Sarah – and it gave me a slight shock of surprise – but we were alone in the Pets Department and it was “after hours” so no doubt he felt that our strictly businesslike relationship could be relaxed.

  “It isn’t trouble,” I replied. “It’s just that I think it would be a good plan for me to have an assistant; there are more and more strangers in London and I feel I can’t cope with the work satisfactorily. I simply haven’t time.”

  “I was wondering about that,” admitted Mr. Duncan. “I’ve watched you trying your best to be in three places at once. I’d have suggested before that you should have help, but you’ve made this job – it’s a very personal job – and it would be difficult to find you an understudy. However, now that you’ve raised the subject, I’ll tell Marriott to advertise for——”

  “Mr. Duncan, I know someone who might agree to come.”

  “In that case you had better fix it up.”

  “You mean I’m to fix it up?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But I haven’t told you anything about her!”

  He smiled. “You’ve told me all I need to know. You’re anxious to have her, therefore she’s the right person for the job. See what I mean?”

  I saw what he meant. Obviously I wouldn’t be anxious to have an “understudy” unless I was sure she would do.

  “Well, that’s settled,” he said. “I’ll speak to Marriott about it. You can get her dress from Miss Fitzroy and she can have a silver chain – not a gold one. She can start with two-thirds of your salary and we’ll raise it if she makes out. Is that all right?”

  I laughed and said, “It’s all right except that you’re going too fast. I haven’t asked her yet.”

  “I’m always being told I go too fast,” declared Mr. Duncan ruefully. “But it’s my considered opinion that other people go too slow. They make such a song and dance about things instead of going ahead and getting on with the job.” He added, “Ask her, Sarah. Persuade her to come. She can have a bigger pay-packet if there’s any trouble about that. Now tell me about your brother: did he write to Sir Edgar Romford?”

  “Yes, and Sir Edgar asked him to come for an interview. Willy went to see Sir Edgar and took some blueprints of a gadget which he has been working at for several months——”

  “What sort of a gadget?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Really, ‘don’t know’ or ‘top secret’?”

  “Both,” I said, smiling. “Anyhow, Sir Edgar was interested and in some way managed to get Willy out of that horrible tank factory and has put him into the drawing office in Romford’s. Willy is ever so much happier – it’s splendid! I can’t thank you enough for your help.”

  “I did nothing except hand on a few scraps of information.”

  “You may think it was nothing, but it has meant a great deal to me, Mr. Duncan.”

  “Need it be ‘Mister Duncan’?”

  “Yes, you’re the boss and I’m an employee.”

  “Here in Barrington’s I’m the boss; but supposing we had a little jaunt together? We could go to the Savoy and have dinner and dance . . . if that would appeal to you?”

  I wondered how to get out of it without being unkind.

  “It doesn’t appeal to you,” said Mr. Duncan sadly.

  “Not really,” I told him. “I have a lot to do and I get very tired. I help to run a shelter, which means being there two nights a week. It’s very kind of you, but I really need a good deal of sleep or I couldn’t carry on; besides, as you know, I’m engaged to be married.”

  He sighed and said, “Does that prevent us from being friends?”

  “No, it needn’t prevent us from being friends.”

  “And you can call me Duncan, can’t you?”

  “Well, perhaps . . . after office hours, Duncan,” I replied, smiling at him.

  “Good,” said Duncan. “We’ll shake hands on that.”

  We shook hands solemnly.
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br />   I was glad we had had this talk for now I knew exactly where I was. He, also, knew where he was and would keep his side of the bargain: Duncan was the last man on earth to go back on his given word. We were friends, no more and no less, so I needn’t avoid him in future; it had been difficult to avoid him and I liked him so much that I wanted to be friendly.

  “You look happy,” said Duncan.

  “It’s good to have a friend.”

  “I shall always be your friend, Sarah. If ever there happens to be anything that a friend can do . . . well, you know what I mean, don’t you? That’s part of the bargain.”

  He was gazing at me anxiously so I nodded and said, “Yes.”

  “Good,” said Duncan.

  We came down the stairs together – six flights of stairs; the lifts were not working as the lift-men had gone home. Everyone had gone home: the huge building was empty of life; everything had been tidied up for the night and most of the stalls were covered with white dust sheets. As we walked through the Grocery Department our voices echoed eerily from the tiled walls.

  “How queer it is to see the place like this!” I exclaimed.

  “I like it,” replied Duncan. “It sort of belongs to me – if you know what I mean.”

  “You’re king of all you survey,” I suggested.

  “Are you laughing at me, Sarah?”

  “No, indeed! Why should I? You are a king and you take good care of your kingdom. I’ve always thought so.”

  He was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “I’ve come here to live. I’ve got a little flat on the top floor. Had you heard about that?”

  Of course I had heard about it! The news had gone round Barrington’s in a few hours: Mr. Duncan had taken over a suite of rooms on the top floor; he was having them done up; he was making a bathroom and a kitchenette – all by Barrington’s, of course. At first it was rumoured that the bijou flat was for display, it was going to be furnished by Barrington’s and shown to customers. Then, one night after everyone had gone home, Mr. Duncan moved in (with his own furniture) and in the morning he was actually in residence. Mr. Duncan was here, in residence! The news was so exciting that the war news paled in comparison.

  I told Duncan all about it and he laughed delightedly. “It’s fun to get inside knowledge of Barrington’s Babblings. I had no idea my movements were so important . . . but it’s not a bad idea, you know,” he added thoughtfully. “We might have a small flat done up to show people.”

  “But don’t you think people would prefer to choose their own decorations?”

  “No, I don’t,” he declared. “People have no imagination. You must help me, Sarah.”

  “Miss Cole, in the Furniture Department, is surely the right person——”

  “No,” said Duncan. “The flat must be a comfortable home, not a showroom furnished with a suite. It must be the sort of place that people will want to live in. See?”

  I saw – but I wasn’t very keen to help him. Miss Cole would be annoyed and Barrington’s was a hot-bed of gossip. However I didn’t take the matter seriously for Duncan was a person who liked choosing things himself.

  “Why did you come to live here?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “It worried me when I heard the bombs exploding in all directions – I kept wondering if that one had got Barrington’s – I sleep a lot better now that I’m on the spot. Sometimes at night I wander round to see if everything is all right and have a word with the night-watchmen. It keeps them up to the mark.”

  Duncan walked with me to the main exit and opened the door to let me out. He reminded me to “fix it up with the Understudy” and we said good night.

  *

  “Oh, Mees Morreese, but this is too good to be true! To work with you at your so interesting job and to receive such good remuneration! No, no, I cannot believe it!” Cécile’s voice had risen to an excited squeak at the end of the telephone.

  “The job is yours if you want it,” I told her. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Duncan Barrington and he said I was to persuade you to come.”

  “Persuade me!” cried Cécile. “No persuasion is necessary . . . but will I be able to do it nicely? That is the trouble. I have had no secretarial training – no training at all – and my English is not good.”

  “Your English is adequate and it will improve.”

  “Yes, yes, I shall work very hard to improve!”

  “Listen, Cécile. It’s only fair to warn you that you will be rushing about from one end of the building to the other, sorting out muddles. You may find it tiring.”

  “No matter! I am strong and active . . . but how shall I learn, Mees Morreese? I have never done anything like this before.”

  “Neither had I, but I soon discovered that tact and common sense was all that was needed. We’ll work together for the first few days until you get into the way of it and learn to find your way about.”

  “Mees Morreese, shall I have a black gown – like you?”

  “Yes, and a silver chain.”

  “Oh, this is wonderful! I have been wanting a job so much. You see, I have not any money. My sister and my brother-in-law are very kind but I do not like to be dependent. I have taken some pupils but they pay very little.”

  “Will you be able to get rid of the pupils?”

  “I shall not get rid of them,” declared Cécile, laughing. “My sister will be glad to take them and she will teach them better, so everyone will be pleased. When shall I come, Mees Morreese?”

  “Come to-morrow at a quarter to eleven. I’ll wait for you in the office . . . and you had better call me Sarah.”

  “But you are to be my boss!”

  It was true that I would be her boss but I couldn’t bear to be called “Mees Morreese.”

  I had told Mr. Marriott that Miss Dubonnet was coming and he must have passed on the news for when I arrived at twenty minutes to eleven, Mr. Duncan was in the office. Cécile came in punctually at a quarter to eleven, so I introduced them and Mr. Duncan shook hands with her.

  “All serene?” he asked cheerfully.

  “All serene?” echoed poor Cécile in bewilderment.

  I said quickly, “Mr. Duncan means, ‘is everything all right?’”

  “Oh yes,” said Cécile happily. “Everything is very serene; I am so pleased to work here in this beautiful place with Sarah and I hope I shall be able to do it very nicely.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Duncan, nodding. “Very good indeed.” He turned to me and added, “You’ll see Miss Fitzroy and fix up about Miss Dubonnet’s uniform, won’t you, Miss Morris?” Then he sped off before I could reply.

  “He is very fast!” exclaimed Cécile in astonishment.

  I laughed and replied, “He says everyone else is very slow.”

  “One sees that he might think so,” she admitted.

  “It’s this new Display Flat,” explained Mr. Marriott. “The boss wants it to look like a home . . . with a pipe on the mantelpiece and a pair of slippers warming at the fire.”

  “Oh!” I said, somewhat apprehensively.

  “It’s not a bad idea,” declared Mr. Marriott . . . and disappeared quickly into the telephone room.

  I soon discovered that Cécile was all I had hoped. She was full of enthusiasm; she was intelligent and had a keen sense of humour. It was all to the good that she was untrained for she had no stereotyped ideas; she watched how I dealt with the various situations and copied my methods. In a few days she was able to work by herself . . . and she was so charming and unassuming that everyone liked her.

  It was just as well that I had “an understudy” for Duncan was quite determined that I was to help him make his Display Flat into a home. In a way I enjoyed this new commitment (what woman wouldn’t have enjoyed choosing papers and cretonnes and carpets and pieces of furniture – not to speak of bathroom equipment and all sorts of pots and pans and dishes for a small kitchen?) but it brought me into too close contact with Duncan and it made Miss Cole my enemy . . . last but not lea
st I was well aware that Barrington’s was babbling about me.

  However I had no choice but to live it down and once the flat was finished, and I returned to my old ways, Barrington’s found something else to babble about – all but Miss Cole, who would never forgive me as long as she lived!

  Now that I had Cécile life wasn’t such a rush: there was more time to give to individual customers, and we arranged the work so that now and then we could take it in turns to have a whole day off.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Sarah, I must see you! Something ghastly has happened!” It was Lottie’s voice on the telephone, a fluttering, frightened voice.

  “My dear! What is it?”

  “I can’t tell you – like this. I must see you! Will you be there if I come now?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, I’m in town. I’ll get a taxi and come – now.”

  “But, Lottie, what’s the matter? Why do you . . .”

  The line was cleared; she had rung off.

  It was March, and I had arranged with Cécile to have a day off to do some spring cleaning, otherwise I wouldn’t have been at home at half past eleven in the morning. I was in my oldest clothes and an overall, with my hair tied up in a duster, but fortunately I had finished turning out the sitting-room.

  I lighted the fire, made some coffee and rushed to my room to change. I was worried about Lottie but all the same I didn’t want to receive her “looking like a drab.”

  When the bell rang I was ready; the fire was burning brightly and the tray with the coffee cups was on the little table.

  For once in her life Lottie was pale and dishevelled, she collapsed into a chair and burst into tears.

  “Lottie, darling! What on earth has happened?”

  “I’m caught!” she sobbed. “It’s all his fault – he promised faithfully that it would be all right. He said I needn’t worry – I hate him!”

  “Who?” I asked in alarm.

  “Clive, of course! He promised me . . . and now this has happened.”