He smiled and looked more like his normal self again.
‘You are always so busy here. I’m truly amazed that you can spare the time, Mrs Goodman.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. I know how to delegate. And the change will do me good. Not that there’s anything wrong with me,’ she hastened to add. ‘But variety is the spice of life, they say, and a visit to South Castle-on-Sea will add a bit of variety to my working day.’
‘We can’t get back on the same day, you understand. I’ve business to do with …’
‘Of course! Stay as long as you have to. The store won’t suddenly collapse if I’m not here for a few days.’
‘Right.’ He smiled again. ‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements.’
She had been talking to him in the toy department. Now she returned to her office with a spring in her step. John kept telling her she ought to get out and about more, and as usual, he was right. She phoned him. Not to tell him about her proposed visit to South Castle-on-Sea, but just to say she was coming to Edinburgh for one of her visits to have lunch with him and enjoy her usual short spell in the gallery of the debating chamber. She looked forward to surprising him and she hoped he would be pleased with her news.
One thing was for sure, Douglas Benson would be delighted to get rid of her when she went off to South Castle-on-Sea. He would encourage her to stay as long as she liked. Not because, like John, he wanted the visit to do her good. Only because he’d have free run of the store while she was away.
She went over that evening to announce her news. Every time she passed through George Square, whether in a taxi or on foot, she could not help admiring the City Chambers building. It had taken seven years to build and craftsmen from places as far away as France and Italy had helped to build it. She had often been inside the building too, sometimes at events to which she had been invited. At other times she had taken a guided tour or just gone in and looked around by herself. By now, she knew most of the guides and other staff. She never failed to feel a sense of awe at the imposing and beautiful marble staircase and the wonderful Venetian mosaic that the roof was composed of. It had a million and a half different pieces of mosaic, half-inch cubes, each of which had been inserted by hand. However, most of the interior decoration was carried out by Glasgow men employed by Glasgow firms.
In the summer in her lunch hour, she often sat on one of the benches in George Square admiring the flowerbeds or the statues. It always annoyed her, though, that the statue of Sir Walter Scott was so much bigger, higher and more imposing than that of Robert Burns. (It was the same in Edinburgh.) She’d read somewhere that there wouldn’t have been a statue of the poet at all if it had not been for the citizens of Glasgow, who managed to raise the money for it themselves.
The Benson penthouse looked down on the Square. Sometimes when musical or other events were held there, it was fascinating to watch everything going on from such a good vantage point.
Douglas and Minna had friends in for dinner, and when she arrived, give them their due, both Minna and Douglas invited her to join the company for a meal. She refused, however.
‘Thank you, but I have eaten. I’ll just go to the nursery and spend some time with the children. I’ll see you both at the store tomorrow.’
As usual, the children were delighted to see her and the usual cry went up, ‘Tell us a story, Grandma. Sing us a song.’
John said she should write a book with all the songs and poems and her made-up stories in it.
‘If you don’t, they’ll probably all die out,’ he told her. ‘It’s only the likes of you that keep them going. And your stories are really good, Mum. They deserve to be published.’
She had laughed at him. All her songs and poems were silly and daft things that very few people nowadays would even understand. And half the stories she made up were equally daft. Perhaps a few elderly Glasgow people, especially people who had lived through the war, would recognise some of the silly songs. But that was all.
She remembered all the ones her mother used to sing to her.
Whenever there’s an air raid on
You can hear me cry,
An aeroplane, an aeroplane, away up a kye,
So don’t run helter skelter,
And don’t run after me,
You’ll no’ get in my shelter,
For it’s far too wee.
The children always enjoyed another one, particularly.
Wee chukie birdie,
To lo lo,
Laid an egg on the window sole,
The window sole began to crack,
And wee chukie birdie roared and grat.
After telling them a story about a clever fairy, she noticed them getting so sleepy that they could hardly keep their eyes open, and so she ended by singing softly:
Show me the way to go home,
I’m tired and I want to go to bed.
I had a little drink about an hour ago,
And it’s gone right to my head.
No matter where I roam,
Over land or sea or foam,
You can always hear me singing this song,
Show me the way to go home.
A book indeed! She smiled to herself as she slipped away from the house. John had such faith in her. For a start, a lot of people nowadays would think her songs and stories were unsuitable for children. Well, they had never done her generation any harm. Children were too coddled nowadays. They weren’t even supposed to compete with each other in school sports in case those who lost would suffer trauma or something or other. What nonsense! Life was competitive. How did the powers that be think they were preparing children to face life? She pitied teachers because they were not even allowed to raise their voices to children now. One of the customers she’d spoken to the other day in Hosiery was a teacher and had told her that when she tried to correct a youngster in her class, he refused to be told anything and said cheekily to her, ‘I know my rights!’ Another, who had been caught stealing, sneered, ‘You can’t do anything. I’m under age.’
In her day, if you were cheeky to the teachers (and who would dare?), you got the belt. And if you told your mother that you’d got belted, your mother would say, ‘You must have done something to deserve it.’
And she would box your ears for good measure. It had never done her any harm. And you learned everything by rote. The arithmetic tables, especially. As a result, she’d never forgotten them. That kind of learning was not fashionable now – not PC, to use the in-phrase. As a result, she’d read that many students were leaving school unable even to spell or understand the most basic maths. Fancy!
Well, one thing was certain – university or not, they wouldn’t get a job at Goodmans of Glassford Street. Not while she had anything to do with it. As for cheek or any lack of politeness, any bad manners – especially to customers, God forbid – it would be an immediate sacking.
She got a taxi home and, as she went into the dark and empty Victorian house, it was like stepping back into another kind of world. Everything was different when you were alone. No more childhood pals. No mother or father, no teachers, and worst of all, no husband and lover.
She could have wept but didn’t. She switched on the lights and went through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. She struggled to concentrate on her proposed visit to South Castle-on-Sea. Mr Webster would look after her well, and it would be interesting to meet his clever inventor and any wholesalers he had there. He had been dealing with others in South Castle-on-Sea before he’d had the good fortune to meet the inventor, and he still dealt with the others. The toy department catered for all tastes and ages. Mr Webster was one of the most trusted and able of her staff. She had always had faith in him and his abilities, and he had built up the department until it was the most successful financially, and in every other way, in the store.
She began to feel more positive and cheerful. Yes, she was really looking forward to her visit.
10
‘You’re spoiling them, darling,’ Moir
a said. Sam Webster went on handing out notes to each of his daughters.
‘They work hard and deserve a bit of a reward now and again. Away and treat yourselves, girls.’
‘Thanks, Daddy.’ His daughters hugged and kissed him before hurrying off to examine all the windows of the Princes Square speciality and designer-label shops. They’d all enjoyed a good dinner in the downstairs courtyard and he and Moira had just been served with coffee.
They looked out on to a huge area with a brightly coloured floor and, overhead, was a clear glass roof. At one side stood a grand piano. Nobody was playing it at the moment but often there was a pianist there. People would lean from the upper galleries to look and listen. Sometimes there would be a group playing or a choir singing. The place had a great variety of restaurants as well as shops, and a wall of paintings and counters of silver and jewellery. You name it, Princes Square had it, and all at the luxury end of the market. To think that it had once been a dark, dirty lane with stables and offices and coach houses. Now even the outside on Buchanan Street was luxurious and impressive. Glass arched canopies contained within flowing wrought metalwork extended over the pavement. High on top of the building sat a huge silver peacock with its silver tail stretched wide, and hanging from the edge of the roof was a line of silver chandeliers.
Moira sighed. ‘I wish you didn’t need to keep going away down south. I hate it when you’re away from home. It’s not so bad when it’s just somewhere in Scotland where you can get back the same day, or the next morning.’
‘I hate it too, Moira, but it’s the nature of the job.’
She sighed again. ‘I know, but I can’t help hating it at times.’
Oh, didn’t he hate it at times too! The words ‘away down south’ immediately brought back all the worries and now horrors of South Castle-on-Sea. When Mrs Goodman announced she was coming with him, he had gone rigid with shock and horror. What on earth had possessed her – now of all times – to suddenly decide to go to South Castle-on-Sea? Things had been bad enough without her adding to the problem and complicating the situation even further. How on earth was he going to prevent her bumping into Viv? Or Viv seeing them? He could skulk around the back streets. Mrs Goodman would not. She would expect him to show her around all the best parts and Viv’s B. & B. was in the best part, on the seafront, looking right onto the pier. Indeed, Mrs Goodman would wonder why he didn’t book her in there. He had compromised by booking a couple of rooms in a good hotel on the seafront, but away at the other end from Viv’s place.
He was still in an agony of anxiety and suspense. In the end, he decided it might be best to write to Viv or phone her and tell her that he was coming with his boss on his next visit. He would not be staying in her place because, as he’d already made plain, their relationship was over and he thought it wiser in the circumstances to make a booking elsewhere.
Otherwise, if Viv did bump into him with Mrs Goodman, she might think he’d got another woman and be enraged. There was no telling what Viv was capable of. Mrs Goodman was older than him, but she was a nice-looking woman with her blonde hair and shapely figure. She didn’t look her age.
He phoned eventually and was much relieved to get Viv’s answering machine. Better that than having to have any sort of conversation with her.
The few days at work passed almost in a dream. Or a nightmare, to be more accurate. Moira noticed and said worriedly, ‘Sam, is there something wrong? You look so tense.’
‘Oh, I suppose it’s just the thought of the boss coming with me on this next trip. I’m not sure what her idea is. She says she just wants to meet the inventor but it feels as if she’s going to be watching my every move.’
‘I’m sure it’ll be just as she says, darling. Why should she want to watch your every move? You’re one of her most successful employees. She’s never had any complaints about you, has she?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then.’
‘It just doesn’t seem right.’
Moira gave him a comforting kiss. ‘Try to relax, Sam. Just do your job the same as usual. And it’s only for a few days, after all.’
He nodded. But he couldn’t relax. Who could, even if they had nothing to hide? Anybody would feel a bit tense and anxious with thoughts of the boss breathing down their neck from morning to night. Even just for a few days.
He even worried about Viv not getting the message he’d left on her answering machine. Often landladies went away in the winter. The summer was the busy time in all the seaside hotels and B. & B.s. In the winter, there was never much – if any – trade and so most landladies and hotel owners took a winter holiday abroad.
What if Viv had been away and didn’t get his message, and then saw him with Mrs Goodman? Bad enough to see him at all, but to see him with an attractive woman … But now he was being ridiculous. He knew it. Even if she’d been abroad, or away anywhere, Viv would still get the message. The first thing most people did on their return was play back their answering machine messages.
She could still pester him, though, or do something to purposely cause trouble. He cursed the day he’d walked into her B. & B. From the moment he’d arrived at the reception desk, she was on to him. She gave him every ‘come on’ signal in the book. She even came out with corny things like, ‘It’s not often I get such a tall, dark and handsome man in here looking for a bed.’
He had smiled. Otherwise he’d tried to ignore her unexpected behaviour. This wasn’t his normal reception in hotels. And anyway, he was tired after a long drive and just wanted a drink and to relax. He’d thought of Moira and the wonderfully relaxing atmosphere of their pretty little bungalow in respectable Bearsden. And he wished he was back there.
But there was no wishing a woman like Viv away. He had been flattered by her eager attention, of course, and he had succumbed to her charms. Idiot that he had been. He might have known that a woman like that was bound to cause trouble. Well, no use berating himself now. He’d just have to get on with it as best he could. After all, maybe Viv would accept his words as final and make no trouble at all. He couldn’t convince himself and when it came to the actual day of the journey to South Castle-on-Sea, he was stiff with apprehension.
Mrs Goodman noticed. ‘You’re unusually quiet, Mr Webster.’
‘Sorry, I’ve a lot on my mind at the moment.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No, it’s personal stuff. But thanks all the same. Now, where would you like to stop for coffee?’ He forced his voice to sound cheerful. ‘I know a nice place in Gretna. Is that too long to wait?’ He detailed a list of places he usually called at for coffee, lunch and afternoon tea.
Eventually Abi interrupted him. ‘Mr Webster, you don’t need to make conversation all the way to South Castle-on-Sea. I’d prefer it if you just concentrated on your driving.’
After that, he was thankfully silent, only exchanging a few pleasantries with her over coffee or a meal. The journey would have been fine if it hadn’t been for all his worries about Viv.
Once in South Castle-on-Sea, he saw Abi safely to her room in the tall, many-storeyed hotel. It was very different from Viv’s place. Viv’s was called The Floral because of the ring of flowers surrounding it from early summer right through till autumn. Even in winter it had an attractive splash of colour with potted plants. It was small but had an excellent location on the most popular and busiest part of the front. This hotel was away at the far end in a quiet area.
Mrs Goodman had suggested a walk after she’d unpacked, and asked if he’d accompany her. He struggled to look perfectly happy to do so. Soon, however, she was saying, ‘Why on earth are we going around all the quiet back streets?’
‘There are some nice shops and boutiques I thought you’d like to see.’
‘Most of them are shut.’
‘True, but now you’ll know where they are if you want to go out on your own tomorrow.’
‘For goodness’ sake, Mr Webster, I’ve just come from a shop.
I want to walk along the front and enjoy the sea air and see all that’s going on on the pier.’
‘Of course.’
With a sinking heart, he changed direction. He began feverishly thinking and planning what he’d say and do if confronted by Viv. He kept praying that she was in Cyprus or Tenerife – anywhere but here. If she was here, however, and she was not outside, she could glance from one of her windows and see him. He cursed his six feet four. He could so easily be picked out in any crowd.
He steeled himself not to look over at The Floral as they reached it. He strolled on to the pier with Mrs Goodman at his side as if he were doing the most natural thing in the world.
11
Norman McKay was quaking inside but he was determined to go through with his plan. He had to now. He’d taken the plunge and booked Jenny into the clinic. Bills at the clinic were to be paid at the end of each month and the end of the month was not far away. He worked at the store as normal all day, although it seemed a miracle that he had managed to do so. Eventually, he collected several thousand pounds and, after he’d locked up as usual and with the money in his case, he left the shop by the back door. A narrow lane stretched along the back of the store. The back wall was of solid brick, with only a few lavatory windows at the very top. At one part, there was the back entrance. As well as stairs up to the departments, it had stairs going down to the basement, where dispatch was situated and the workshops of the electricians and joiners.
In an adjoining area just inside the door, two lines of bins were situated. There was never much rubbish to fill them, except perhaps some packaging materials, and dust from the cleaners’ hoovers, and occasionally some food such as sandwiches from the canteen that had gone past their sell-by date. More often than not, however, the less fussy canteen workers would take the ‘past their sell-by date’ stuff home. That was allowed, although dates were always checked at the door just to make sure that there was no fiddling going on.
Goodmans of Glassford Street Page 6