by Jane Tulloch
Harry Ferguson, known to all as Flash Harry, had worked in Murrays since he had left school. He didn’t work there because he liked it or wanted to, but because his long-widowed grandmother had insisted on it. For her, as for most grandmothers in the area, Murrays was quite the only place to aim for from a career point of view – and most other points of view too. Mrs Ferguson senior, as she preferred to be called as opposed to old Mrs Ferguson, had brought up Harry since he came into the world kicking, screaming and unwanted by his mother: a very fleeting girlfriend of her seagoing son. Mrs Ferguson had been taken aback one night to open her door to a red-faced, shouting man who thrust the infant Harry into her arms saying “Take him. He’s your laddie’s and we’re no’ having him.”
The gallant Mrs Ferguson had risen to the occasion and, with the help of her other elderly friends, Mrs McNichol, Mrs Jarvis and Mrs Stevenson, had done her very best to give the boy a good start in life. These ladies had walked the floor with him as a baby, picked him up when he fell over when learning to walk and encouraged his earliest attempts at talking. As a boy, Harry had lacked for nothing, in the way of nourishing stews and good home baking. Similarly, hand-knitted jumpers and scarves were produced in profusion by them all and the little group of ladies cheered him on enthusiastically from the touchline at school football matches and proudly applauded his every brief appearance in school concerts. His end of term reports were eagerly awaited and perused by them all. Mrs McNichol helped him with arithmetic, Mrs Jarvis with English grammar and Mrs Stevenson took him to the library every week. His grandmother ensured that his homework was always done to her complete satisfaction. The late arrival of this child to raise brightened up all their lives.
Of course, this was a generation of ladies who would no more praise a child than fly in the air. Modesty, honesty and hard work were the precepts underpinning their approach to life. Harry grew up quite sure that, “no one’s looking at you”, “children should be seen and not heard”, and that bodily functions should never, ever be discussed under any circumstances. Nevertheless, despite the apparently strict attitude of this committee of ladies who brought him up, he was always aware that he was deeply loved and cared for by them all. They each spoiled him with little secret treats; sugary tablet from Mrs Stevenson, permission to stay up late to watch TV on Mrs McNichol’s watch, games of Ludo and Snap with Mrs Jarvis when he should have been doing his homework and huge, silent hugs from his grandmother when no one else was looking.
He wasn’t really aware of how different his upbringing was until he reached senior school where his unconventional family of old ladies was remarked upon in less than complimentary terms by other, bigger boys. At first, he fought them back but it soon came to his attention that there was a group of giggling girls who always sprang to his defence. One, Big Norma, weighed in to save him from a particularly unpleasant encounter with Big Craig and sent Harry’s would-be assailant off with his tail between his legs. The girls shouted most unladylike comments after the retreating lad and his cohorts. Now it seemed that Harry had acquired another group of females to look after him.
He grew into a rather handsome teenager and outside his home was always seen in the company of his clique of girls. They were not strictly speaking girlfriends in the accepted sense of the word (although Norma did harbour hopes in this direction), but his close circle of friends. Other boys were wary of them, frightened off by their sharply sarcastic tongues and focused jeering. Harry lorded over ‘his’ girls sure of their support and agreement in all matters. He learned a lot from them and was soon well versed in the manifold troubles facing young women today as well as all the latest views on hairstyles, make up, dance steps and who’s who in pop music. With their help, his personal grooming was beyond reproach.
Despite the best efforts of the old ladies to encourage Harry to work hard at school, it soon became clear that he was not university material. In a way, this was a relief for the ladies who had been assiduously saving to fund his attendance at a university should the opportunity arise. They met one afternoon to discuss his future.
“Well, he’ll no’ be for the University anyway,” said Mrs Jarvis sadly reading his latest school report. (“Struggling towards satisfactory”, “Must try harder”, “Poor concentration”.)
“There’s still time though,” offered his Grandmother.
“Doesn’t seem likely, not now he’s found the lassies,” Mrs McNichol added mournfully, “or rather now they’ve found him.” This was something they all agreed on and regretted.
“He’s an awful good looking laddie so you can’t be too surprised at it.” Mrs Stevenson didn’t say much as a rule but when she did, they usually all agreed. They nodded sagely: old Mrs Ferguson particularly proudly.
“He could leave school this summer. What should he do?” Mrs Jarvis asked. The others stayed silent, pondering the problem.
“In my opinion, for what it’s worth…” Mrs Jarvis began tentatively. They all looked doubtful but she continued nevertheless. “There would be no better place for a young man to start than at Murrays.”
“They’d train him up and he could even get to be a manager one day,” Mrs Ferguson put in. They all sighed wistfully at this lofty ambition. “They’d be lucky to have a good-looking boy like that. He’d be a credit to the store.”
The nodding continued but they were all aware of the risk for big headedness and remained keen to make sure he knew his place. It was very important that he didn’t get “beyond himself” as Mrs Ferguson had always put it.
Of course, thanks to his ring of girls, he was already far “beyond himself”. Harry was now very sure of his extreme attractiveness to the opposite sex and had become something of a peacock. His interest in dress and fashion had grown immeasurably over the years and he became quite unable to pass a mirror without checking his reflection and making some minor alteration to his appearance. On one occasion when he was off school, a classroom wag (male) had remarked loudly that he must be off with a broken comb. Harry’s girls had glared fiercely and the wag had quailed, rightly dreading break time.
The old ladies shook their heads. Despite their best efforts, Harry had become a completely, self-assured dandy. “Those girls!” they thought angrily, unaware that the atmosphere of care that they had created and their concerted attention to him when growing up, had itself contributed to the young man’s immense self-possession.
Thus, it was an extremely smart and confident young man who faced Mrs Pegram at his interview for Murrays.
Mrs Pegram was immediately impressed by his immaculate appearance and how he was instantly at ease with her, unlike most of the young men she interviewed over the course of a year. She mentally pencilled him in for the management training scheme. She was happy to say that she would be delighted to offer him a position at Murrays. There were vacancies in the Food Hall, Ladies Separates and in Menswear. Given his extremely good presentation, it seemed entirely appropriate to assign him to Menswear. Harry was interested in this as he saw a good opportunity to equip himself with more smart clothes thanks to the staff discount. He presumed there would be one. However, on reflection, he decided that asking about it in his first interview might not look good so he didn’t mention this intriguing possibility. Mrs Pegram arranged for him to start the following Monday.
The old ladies were thrilled for him and jubilant that the man they called “their boy” had secured what they saw as a prestigious position with good prospects. His younger circle of friends were less impressed.
“That old-fashioned place!” Norma burst out in disgust. “You’ll be stuck with a bunch of old fogeys selling mackintoshes and leather gloves. God! You could have at least have got a job at C&A’s then we could all get new things.” The others joined in sneering at the uncool job their friend had taken.
Harry was momentarily nonplussed, caught again between the old ladies and the younger ones. He hung his head briefly before recovering his usual jaunty confidence. “I’ll give them a go a
nd see where it takes me,” he said defiantly. “If it’s just too boring I’ll walk out.” Although keen to impress the girls he still felt a deep affection and respect for the ladies who had brought him up so devotedly. He knew he owed them this opportunity to be proud of him.
The first few days in Menswear passed in a blur of impressions. So much new information to take in and systems to learn quite apart from navigating the geographical layout of the old shop. His feet and legs ached after a day of walking about the department, following other staff members to the store rooms to collect and unpack new stock, and even his break involved a long tramp up many flights of stairs to the staff canteen. He felt quite unable to answer the flurry of questions that greeted him on his return home.
The four old ladies were assembled expectantly, keen to hear all about every aspect of his day. All he wanted to know was whether there was sufficient hot water for him to have a long soak in the bath right now. After that he just wanted a plateful of his grandmother’s restoring stew and to flop in front of the television, too tired even to phone Norma and the girls for the usual daily catch up. The ladies were nonplussed and looked at each other over their cups of tea.
“Surely it’s not that hard work?” queried Mrs Stevenson.
“It can’t be,” replied Mrs McNichol.
Answering the phone to Norma, his grandmother took great satisfaction in telling her that Harry couldn’t come to the phone as he was too tired to speak to her. Putting the phone down on Norma’s spluttering outrage Mrs Ferguson turned to the others,
“Well that’s her gas at a peep anyway!” They nodded self-righteously. They still resented the hold the young group of girls held over him.
After his initial tiredness and the overwhelming nature of the new range of experiences he was facing died down a little, Harry was more able to think about the various aspects of his new life: for new life it was. Gone were the days of intense discussion with the girls about such topics as the uselessness of ‘Rock Bottom’ in the Eurovision song contest and the desirability of straight-legged jeans over flares. Additionally, there was no time for lengthy sessions involving tea and scones with the old ladies as they went over his apparently glowing prospects. Admittedly, he was glad not to have to hear them exchange the various inconvenient symptoms that seemed to go along with ageing in women. For the first time, however, he was resolutely in a world of men.
It wasn’t that Menswear was an unattractive department. Located in the Grand Hall, it stretched out to a side door flanked by large windows. There were various sections within the department. Among these was one for Harris Tweed sports jackets and other casual outerwear including raincoats. There was a large display around a central glass case of shirts of all sorts: formal, with and without detachable collars, short and long sleeved. The exclusive made to measure section took up space under the gallery and contained many books of wool, wool and cashmere and cashmere only fabrics for the discerning customer to choose from. The counter was typically festooned with measuring tapes, pins and all the impedimenta of a tailor’s shop. Facing this counter across the Grand Hall and similarly tucked under the gallery was the gentlemen’s underwear section. Here a wide variety of underwear in all shapes and sizes was discreetly displayed on improbably endowed plaster models and otherwise safely stowed in a bank of glass-fronted drawers. There were rails and rails of trousers and slacks in a worrying variety of sizes. Harry found himself wondering who could possibly require trousers of such enormous waist sizes and short leg lengths. Ties, gloves, scarves, golf umbrellas, cuff links and other more minor but vital gentlemen’s requirements were distributed in various logical nooks and crannies throughout the department.
It was a world populated almost exclusively by men selling items designed only for men. To Harry, it seemed the clothes in Menswear were designed mostly for old men but even the more modern stock left him cold. In fact, the other staff left him cold too. Out in the cold. He seemed to have nothing in common with any of them. Initial conversational forays related to enquiries as to what team he supported. Once it was established that he had no interest in football, motor racing, horse racing or even golf, he was regarded with some suspicion. In a muttered aside to old Mr Smith the specialist in measuring and fitting in the tailoring section, Mr Clark, the recently promoted senior sales assistant, was overheard, casting aspersions on Harry’s sexual orientation. His smart appearance and comparatively high standards of personal grooming seemed to them to confirm this suspicion. Thereafter, he was aware of the others either avoiding him or stopping talking as he approached.
For the first time in his whole life, Harry felt uncomfortable. He was used to being popular and for his company to be sought out. He felt aggrieved that his undoubted skills were not appreciated here. He could identify, at a glance, the correct colour or style for a person but this was all too obviously of no interest to the male customers who would back away if he made suggestions such as, “Sir, avoid wearing eau de nil as it is so draining.” Nor was the fact that he could strike up conversation on a wide variety of topics (except sport of any kind of course) appreciated. He was knowledgeable and up to date on current affairs: he knew which celebrity or minor member of the Royal family was engaged and to whom. Pop music held no mysteries for him, and his hitherto widely acclaimed dancing skills were of no interest to staff or customers.
That the other members of staff enjoyed working there was apparent. Like most Murrays staff they made their own entertainment. Small wagers were made as to the likelihood of Mr Clark being able to persuade a certain reluctant customer to buy a hideous jacket that they’d been trying to get rid of for years. Scraps of paper with unlikely names and telephone numbers would be slipped into newly purchased trouser pockets, “for a laugh,” Harry was told. He didn’t find that very funny as he contemplated the notes being found by suspicious wives. Particularly jarring colour combinations were highlighted as the very latest and sold as such to less confident members of the public anxious to look up to date. How the staff laughed as the unfortunate customers concerned scuttled out of the side door. Harry found it impossible to join in the salacious comments about female customers or staff members. Somehow, it didn’t feel right to him. Menswear seemed a harsh, unkind sort of place.
Although he was unpopular with the staff in Menswear, his good looks had made him the focus of a great deal of female attention. Girls from China and Glass or Linens would lean over the gallery banisters and feast their eyes on him. The bolder of them would send little notes fluttering down offering to meet him in the stock room. Looking up at one of the senders of these missives he blew a kiss to her. And so began his career as the Murrays’ Casanova. As ever, the ladies loved him. This did not endear him to the male staff who, when it emerged that he was most certainly not gay, shunned him even more.
“Jealous I expect,” opined Harry nonchalantly to his latest conquest, Miss Reid from the Shoe department. She agreed, basking in her position as his girlfriend du jour. Norma was not happy. His female coterie was growing out of her control. She even confided this to Mrs Ferguson during a phone call she had made trying to catch Harry in.
“Never mind dear,” Mrs Ferguson had said kindly, “A boy like him was always going to be popular.”
Despite his growing number of female fans, Harry spent long, lonely, tedious days at work. He began to alarm his Grandmother with his deep sighs and clear reluctance to go to work. Some days it took two of the old ladies to force him to eat some breakfast and run for the bus. He was noticeably dejected. He would pace about the large department regarding the racks of jackets, cabinets of jumpers and rows of ties with loathing. He grew to hate and despise the entire stock. The underwear in the discreet drawers, the displays of dull shirts and so-called leisure gear seemed to underline everything that he disliked in the department. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to wear any of it. He tried to engage with ladies who came to choose items as presents for husbands or sons. They would often ask his advice.
It was unfortunate that his response of, “Well not that anyway,” was overheard by Mr Clark. He was severely reprimanded and told to remember that he was in Murrays and owed each customer his best attention,
“Your best attention son, or you’re oot,” he finished with a curt nod.
Harry nodded back miserably.
And he was miserable. As the weeks went on and grew into months he became more and more disconsolate. He would rally occasionally, buoyed up by a pep talk from the old ladies or by the sight of the girls parading past the windows making faces and gesticulating at him. He would decide to smarten up his attitude and try to chat to his co-workers. He did face a major setback, however, when he was unfortunate enough to witness the unexpected and fatal arrival of a young store detective pushed to his death from an upstairs gallery. The poor young man’s fall had ended in a glass display cabinet. Unsurprisingly, Harry and all the floor staff were very shocked and distressed. This ghastly event did serve as an unlikely catalyst though.
Mrs Pegram from Personnel, keen as ever to support her staff, had been drawn to the Grand Hall in the aftermath of the accident. She wanted to check that everyone had recovered at least a little from the shock of it all. Everyone was sent home on the day but were expected back at work the next day. Mr Clark reassured her that they were all fine with one exception: Harry. He indicated the young man idly rearranging socks. “He’s not much use today,” he said, “or any day either.”
Noticing Harry’s pallor, she walked over to him. “Good morning Mr Ferguson or can I call you Harry?” she queried.
“Oh, hello Mrs Pegram,” he replied listlessly, putting the socks down.
“I was just wondering how you were after, you know, yesterday.”
“Oh fine,” he said with some asperity. “Well, no, now you mention it, I’m not fine. Not fine at all.” He heaved an unexpected sigh that sounded suspiciously like a sob. Taking another look at him Mrs Pegram suggested that he come up to her office. Nodding at the other staff members who stood together watching what was going on, she took Harry by the arm and marched him up to the entrance of the staff staircase. He complied passively. “I suppose I’m fired,” he thought glumly to himself. Then, in slight agitation, “Oh no! What will Gran say?”