by Mary Portas
‘Can I sign this one out, please?’ I say to a sales assistant standing behind the counter. ‘I’m doing the display case by door five.’
She purses her lips as she looks at me. ‘We’re trying to push the Chopard,’ she replies. ‘Can’t you use one of those?’
For a moment, I almost falter. But already a picture is forming in my mind. ‘Sorry, but I need that one.’
With a sigh, she hands it to me and I fill out a chit for her to sign. A clutch bag in conker brown crocodile and a red Yves Saint Laurent lipstick are soon added to my pile. After walking down to the studio and attaching the chits to the notice-board listing what product has been signed out by whom, I get myself a tool belt and cut some pieces of yellow felt. With shaking legs, I walk back upstairs, open the case, and line the bottom with the felt, gluing it in place.
Then I take the display wire out of my tool belt.
Wiring fabric is one of the most important skills that a visual merchandiser can have. It sounds simple enough: just thread a hair thin wire along a seam and then mould it into whatever shape you want the fabric to follow. But while anyone can stick wire into a hem and make do, only the really talented can wire a product so delicately, so precisely, that the colour, pile and cut suddenly become three-dimensional as the fabric takes on a life of its own.
Unrolling the wire, I carefully start to thread it into the seam of the scarf. If I mess this up, I will never be able to set foot in this shop again. With shaking hands, I place the crocodile clutch half open at the back of the case and gently put the unwired side of the scarf into it. Then I arrange the wired section so that it cascades out of the clutch like snakes slithering across the bottom of the case. The lipstick stands livid red in the front right corner. A calfskin wallet is laid beside it. I stand back and wait for Duncan. I want him to think of a sunrise, see the scarf streaming out of the bag as the first rays.
Duncan stops six feet from the box and narrows his gaze. Then he walks up to the case, bends down and stares again. ‘It’s good,’ he says, with a smile. ‘The scarf needs a bit of work but you’ve got some talent, haven’t you, darling?’
‘You like it?’
‘Yes. I do. Now let’s nip out and see what Harrods has done today with those shithole windows of hers, shall we?’
Clearasil cleanser
Everything was changing as the 1970s drew to a close: the Winter of Discontent saw Margaret Thatcher swept to power and Sid Vicious overdose in a blaze of publicity. Earl Mountbatten was blown up off the coast of Ireland, and a killer dubbed the Yorkshire Ripper terrorized women.
But time was suspended in Windsor Road as we waited to see what would happen with the house and where we would go. Dad stayed more and more at Rebecca’s after the estate agent’s board went up. Coming home only to drop off some money for food and give me a bag of his washing, he’d look nervously around before leaving again. Once he appeared with a cuddly Womble he’d bought at Clements.
‘Thought you might like it,’ he said, as he handed it to me and I stared at the cuddly toy, wondering why my father would think it was appropriate for a daughter he kept insisting was old enough to fend completely for herself.
The air between us hummed, yet neither of us said a word. I dreaded the moment when I heard the familiar thrum of his Rover outside. I dreaded the moment when I heard it disappear into the distance again.
Despite what had happened at Harvey Nichols, there were many days when I stayed in bed instead of going into college. Lying underneath the blankets, I’d hear the phone ring and reluctantly go downstairs to pick it up.
‘Can I speak to Mr Newton, please? It’s Matthew from Rennies Estate Agents.’
‘He’s not here. Can I help?’
‘I’ve got a couple who want to see the house. Can I bring them over tonight, please?’
Some days the phone rang several times and each time it did I’d reluctantly agree to show people around. Couples would appear on the doorstep, smiling eagerly before walking around and peering into cupboards as they discussed what colour they’d paint the walls. As I listened to them, I did not trust myself to speak. I knew the house would sell soon and I had hoped that I could move in with Tish and Phil. But while I often went to stay in the two-bed maisonette they’d bought around the corner in Leavesden Road, I knew I couldn’t stay there permanently. It was tiny and they were starting a new life together. My sister would have done anything for me but I couldn’t ask her that.
I dreaded the thought of Lawrence leaving for the police cadets. He was going to the Metropolitan Police Academy in Hendon initially and would then move to Sunbury-on-Thames to do more training. After turning eighteen, he’d train to be an officer proper and I wished I could protect him from a path that I feared wasn’t right for him. Music was Lawrence’s passion. He listened to John Peel religiously, bought all the latest releases and took me off to see gigs by new bands like the Cure. Standing watching Robert Smith, with his wonky red lipstick and nest of hair, Lawrence was truly happy. Then he looked at me and laughed.
‘You look like a budgie, Mary,’ he said, as he stared at the cropped haircut that Joe had recently dyed green, blue and yellow.
Lawrence wanted to be a sound engineer or a producer. Instead Dad had convinced him that becoming a police officer was the right thing. A. Good. Steady. Job.
By the time Lawrence left for Hendon, Dad had proposed to Rebecca. The thought of being without my brother made me feel hollow as I packed up his wash bag with a bottle of Clearasil and some toothpaste. Looking after him had given me structure ever since Mum’s death and now he was leaving. I’d baked him a coffee cake, made sure he’d had a haircut and hugged him for what felt like the final time.
We all took him to Hendon, cramming into his room as he looked around and tried to smile. Holding him tightly, I said goodbye.
‘Don’t worry about me, Mary,’ Lawrence said. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m not a baby, you know.’
John was waiting at the house when we got home. He’d brought me a box of chocolates and followed me as I walked into the kitchen where I took out the mop and bucket.
‘Joe and I are going to clean,’ I said. ‘I want the house to be clean.’
‘Shall I give you a hand?’
‘Okay, then.’
He walked up to me and pulled me into his arms. ‘You okay?’ he said. ‘There’s a good film on TV tonight. Jack Lemmon. It should be funny. Why don’t we watch that?’
I breathed in his familiar scent and told myself that everything was going to be fine.
Two months later Andrew called from Harvey Nichols and offered me two weeks’ paid work in December. As the store doors closed on Christmas Eve, he said that he would give me a job when I left Cassio.
Cookery In Colour by Marguerite Patten
My father’s wedding is quiet, very civilized. Rebecca is a Seventh Day Adventist and suddenly Dad is one too. Even so, he is wearing the best suit in church. Silver-grey mohair. He’s always known how to dress.
Michael has tried to talk to Dad in the run-up to today. Walking out of my bedroom, I have heard their voices downstairs.
‘You don’t need to do this, Dad,’ Michael said, in a low voice. ‘Sell the house if you want, but marriage? It’s too soon. You’re rushing into this.’
‘I’m not, son. You kids have got your lives ahead of you. Rebecca is a good woman.’
‘I’m not saying she isn’t, Dad. But we hardly know her. And neither do you. It’s too quick. It’s only been a couple of years since you lost Mum.’
‘I know. But she’s gone and this is my chance.’
‘I understand, Dad. I really do. You don’t want to be left alone without us. Without Mum. But you’re not thinking properly. Please reconsider.’
‘Why can’t you kids just accept that I’m happy?’
‘Because you’re not, Dad. You think you are but you’re not.’
‘And how would you know that?’
‘I know you, Dad. We can a
ll see. Just slow down. Please. I’m begging you.’
‘No, Michael. I’m going to marry Rebecca. I’ve made my decision. And you kids can either accept it or not. It’s your choice.’
The reception – just a quiet lunch – is held at the Noke Hotel in St Albans. Don, Sadie, Sheila, Harry and the five of us silently chew our way through prawn cocktail, silver-side beef and Pavlova before walking outside to wave off the newly-weds. When the gear stick on Dad’s car breaks and he has to phone a taxi, Rebecca’s face sets in a rictus grin as they wait for it to take them away to their new life.
We are all adjusting to new beginnings. The house has finally been sold and I’ve packed up a couple of boxes but can’t take too much because I am not sure where I will end up. I am staying for now with Sheila and Harry but don’t know how long I’ll be there and can’t go humping a string of suitcases around the place. Joe has moved in with Don and Sadie but at weekends when Lawrence and Michael are home the four of us will cram into Tish’s flat. Our mother’s pride is dug deep inside us: we all feel embarrassed at having to ask people to put roofs over our heads. At least we can leave them in peace on the weekends when we are all together at Tish’s.
And so I’ve packed a suitcase with some essentials, like clothes and toiletries, before filling a box with records and books that Tish is going to store. Her flat is tiny so all she can have is one box from each of us. The only things of Mum’s that I have taken are her statue of St Therese of the Roses and the Marguerite Patten cookery book. Otherwise Dad has all her things at the new home in Dunstable that he is now sharing with Rebecca. The last traces of our life together have gone.
As I watch them drive away, I wonder what Dad’s life will be like now that we are no longer in it. It is clear that we will hardly see him. But something shifts inside me as I watch the taxi putter down the drive. There will be no more hoping that Dad might come through, no more arguing with him about money, the house or his responsibilities to us. He has made his choice and we are on our own. I feel free.
Youth Dew
As a child I had no idea what my mother was talking about when she came out with a string of idioms.
‘Dick Froome was pulling my leg today when I went into the shop,’ she’d tell Dad, with a laugh.
Staring at her in surprise, I’d imagine Mr Froome tugging at Mum as she chose which Cheddar to buy.
‘Least said soonest mended,’ she’d advise, when I was arguing with Joe and would only stop long enough to let her speak before screaming again.
‘I wish he’d put a cork in it,’ she’d say, when Bob Monkhouse came on the TV. I’d shudder at the thought of where the cork would go.
But there was only one saying that I should have learned the meaning of: pride comes before a fall. My job offer at Harvey Nichols increased my disinterest in my college course, and the only thing I put any effort into was creating the Friday windows – and my endless battle of wills with Dora Reeve.
‘How could you?’ she’d screeched, one day, as we stood in the studio. ‘Do you know how much these mannequins cost?’
I stared at her, feeling laughter about to explode. ‘It was just a joke!’
‘But it isn’t funny. This is an Adel Rootstein mannequin. Do you realize what that means? And look what you’ve done to it!’
It was a Friday afternoon and Dora was due to mark what we’d produced that week. But during our lunch break, I’d nipped back to the studio and plonked a naked mannequin into Danielle’s window. Then I’d cut a piece off a red wig and stuck it on the mannequin’s crotch.
Dora Reeve had bright red hair.
Adel Rootstein mannequins are worth thousands. They are works of art in themselves, so lifelike and graceful that she supplies all the world’s top stores. Cassio was lucky enough to be given old mannequins when shops bought Adel’s new collection because she was constantly updating the look of her product, just as fashion houses did. Adel created mannequins to resemble the hottest models so when some fell out of fashion they were passed on to places like Cassio. Dora cherished those mannequins like children.
‘How you think you will ever make a career when you behave like this is beyond me,’ she said. ‘Now clear this up and there will be serious consequences if you ever damage college property like this again.’
But I felt protected by knowing that I had a job to go to. I wasn’t going to listen to Dora but I should have known better. Soon I was knocking on her door after Andrew phoned to tell me that he could no longer give me the job. Harvey Nichols had implemented a recruitment freeze and now I had nothing to go to when I left Cassio.
‘I’m so sorry, Mary,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing I can do. They’re not letting us hire anyone. But if anything changes I’ll let you know. We’d love to have you here with us.’
There was only one solution: Harrods. Danielle had got a job there after doing her work experience and I had to convince them to give me one too, if I could get an interview. Maybe all the trainee places would be filled by now. But I had nothing to lose.
‘Can you put me forward for Harrods?’ I asked Dora, when I went to see her.
She stared at me in surprise. ‘But I thought you were going to Harvey Nichols.’
‘The job has fallen through. Recruitment freeze. Can you help me get an interview at Harrods?’
Dora said nothing as she picked some imaginary fluff off her Cacharel.
‘Harvey Nichols wanted me,’ I said.
‘Be that as it may, you haven’t been the best student here.’
‘And you haven’t been the best tutor.’
Dora’s cheeks flamed red as she looked at me. ‘Why don’t you try somewhere local?’ she said.
In the end, I’d got an interview at Harrods by applying directly but they’d turned me down. As had Waitrose, John Lewis and Marks & Spencer. No one seemed to want to give me a job and I knew that Estée Lauder was my last hope when I walked in to see them about a trainee scheme.
The air was heavy with the smell of Youth Dew as the recruitment officer smiled at me, her face so perfectly made up she resembled a waxwork doll. ‘So why do you want to work for Estée Lauder?’ she said.
‘Why do I want the job?’ I replied, asking myself the question more than the interviewer.
There was a moment of silence. ‘Because I really love make-up?’
The woman’s smile faltered for just a second.
Lord John jumper
‘Please, Mary,’ John says, as I sob in the passenger seat beside him. ‘Please, please, don’t cry.’
‘But I don’t understand. I know you love me. I know you do.’
‘I don’t know if I do any more.’
‘But you do.’
‘It’s too hard having a long-distance relationship. York is miles away. And I feel like I have to come back to see you each weekend. I can’t do it.’
‘But you promised me it would be fine when you got the job!’
‘I know I did. I thought it would be. But it’s not.’
‘If we love each other, then nothing matters, does it? We can make it work.’
‘We can’t. We’ve been arguing ever since I moved. It’s just not making either one of us happy any more.’
‘But it is! I’m happy. Don’t you see, John? We’re going to marry, have children, have a family. We’ve talked about it.’
‘Yes. We have. But I don’t feel that way any more.’
Panic washes over me as I look at John. He is light, his home a haven. His dad John is a train driver and his mum Gladys invites me for Sunday lunches with all the family. They breed miniature dachshunds. Their world feels safe and familiar. I am part of it. John is part of mine.
We are sitting in the car outside Tish’s flat. I am living in her and Phil’s spare room now that I have left Sheila and Harry’s. My sister is getting married in two months and I am going to be a bridesmaid. John is going to be there with me. We will get married one day too.
Sitting beside me, John sta
rts to cry as he looks at me. ‘I’m so sorry, Mary,’ he says. ‘I’m just so sorry.’
Phil finds me crumpled in a heap on the doorstep after I knock on the front door. As he takes me inside, Joe and Tish stare at me in confusion.
‘I just don’t understand,’ I sob. ‘I know we’ve been arguing a bit but I know he loves me too. I’m sure of it. I am.’
Tish cries too as Joe and Phil sit either side of me on the sofa. They all love John. He is part of our team. As Hurricane Higgins hits snooker balls into pockets on the TV, Joe and Phil each take one of my hands in theirs. For the next month, I go to bed wearing a Lord John jumper – one of John’s favourites which he left at Tish’s the last time he came over. As I try to sleep surrounded by his familiar smell, I feel my heart breaking in a way it hasn’t since Mum died.
Yale key
‘How are you, Mary?’ Dad asks.
I’ve got a Saturday job at Clements as a floater. I go from department to department, depending on where I’m needed, and it’s earning me just about enough to get by. I can’t pay my way properly with the people I’m living with but they understand. It’s about all I can do to eke out my Saturday wage for bus fares and other essentials. I don’t see Dad too often now. He doesn’t work every weekend at Clements and is either in his office or sitting in the management canteen if he does come in.
‘Isn’t he a lovely man, your father?’ the other sales girls say, when they discover I’m Sam’s daughter. ‘Such a gentleman. So kind.’
I try to avoid him. But every so often he brings some post for me to give to Joe or Tish if he doesn’t have time to drop it off at Clipso.