by Jane Tulloch
“Now Mrs Garland, I see you have suggested you wear a flamenco costume for the duration of the Festival. Is there any particular reason for this? Are you a dancer yourself perhaps?” she asked out of politeness rather than any genuine consideration that this was the case.
“No, no. I’ve just always wanted to wear one,” Mrs Garland responded. “It’s festive, isn’t it?” she added defensively, “I thought you wanted something festive.”
Susan moved forward to say something in her support but, before she could say anything, Mrs Garland moved her firmly aside, “Not now, Susan.” Susan retreated.
“Well it certainly would be festive,” Miss Murray said. “But I wonder what the customers might think. Would they, perhaps, expect that there would be a display of flamenco dancing in here?” She looked at the low-ceilinged Hosiery area and at the Ladies Lingerie Department that it led to. “Might it be rather confusing?”
“Well maybe,” Mrs Garland conceded. Then, to everyone’s surprise, including her own, Susan managed to interject.
“I could do Highland dancing. I’ve got all my medals for it and the costume.” She lapsed into a sheepish silence. Mrs Garland glowered at her and she visibly quailed.
Mrs Pegram came to the rescue. “What an excellent idea! I had no idea you were harbouring such talent here Mrs Garland.”
Mrs Garland bridled, keen to take the credit for her protégée’s skills. “Well of course we don’t want to make too much of it.” She then began to see how it could all work.
“She could wear her Highland dancing outfit and I could wear my good white dress with a tartan sash,” she added. “We could stock up on tartan tights and Scottish-type things to put on display.”
“Excellent. Now you’re talking,” Miss Murray stoked her enthusiasm and turned to Susan, “Do you think you could do a display of Highland dancing? I bet we could find a piper among the staff.” She looked enquiringly at Mrs Pegram.
“Yes, I believe one of the porters is a piper. He mentioned it at his interview. I don’t know how good he is, but I’ll try to find out. Would that be all right with you Susan?” Susan hung her head, abashed at her temerity, but secretly rather excited at the prospect of demonstrating her hitherto unsuspected skill. She nodded shyly. Mrs Garland, now sure it was entirely her idea, beamed at them all.
“Well that’s settled. This is going to be fun.”
“I just hope my fiancé Martin doesn’t mind,” Susan worried. “He really doesn’t like change and disruption.”
Moving on to the China and Glass Department, the two ladies were met by a rather breathless Eric Upton. He was aflame with enthusiasm for a pet project of his own. Despite Miss Piper’s best efforts to subdue him, he persisted.
“Miss Murray I’ve had a brilliant idea.” His eyebrows raised in hope.
Keen to encourage his eagerness, Mrs Pegram said, “Go on then, tell us.” She threw a warning yet placatory glance at the outraged Miss Piper.
“Well it’s this. You see my grandad was a prisoner of war…”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I don’t quite see…” Miss Murray was puzzled.
“Well he was in a Highland Regiment. The Gordon Highlanders.” He looked at her expectantly. She looked back blankly.
“The reel. The Reel of the 51st? Everyone knows about that.” He looked defiantly at the ladies. Miss Piper tutted impatiently. Miss Murray shook her head, apologetic.
“Tell us more.” Mrs Pegram rescued him.
“Well when the regiment was in this prisoner of war camp they invented a special Scottish country dance. It’s called the Reel of the 51st. The main point is that the dancers form a large St Andrew’s cross. The Germans didn’t understand what was going on when the Colonel sent back the instructions to Scotland. They thought it was some sort of dangerous code! Hilarious.”
The ladies were interested. “How would you see the China Department commemorating this?” Miss Murray said.
“We could dance it of course! My grandad could teach us all, and that piper, Ewan from the Porters could play for it. The right tune is ‘The Drunken Piper’; I bet he knows it. We could do it no bother once we’d cleared all the china away,” he continued hopefully.
“Ah. Well there’s the snag I’m afraid,” Miss Murray dashed his hopes as kindly as she could. “You see we’re in business here. We need to have the stock available for sale.” She gestured at the tables and display stands of china. She also wondered if the ageing floorboards could even take the jumping and thumping an enthusiastic reel would entail, however daintily they tried to perform it.
“But it’s a lovely idea. I’m so interested to hear about it all.”
Miss Piper cleared her throat.
“Miss Murray,” she said, taking the conversational floor, “I’ve spoken to a couple of the manufacturers and they suggested sending up some china painters. Customers might like to see them at work? Then they might like to actually buy some items?” She looked triumphantly at the dejected Eric.
“What a good idea Miss Piper.” Mrs Pegram was keen to support China and Glass, although she could see how crestfallen Eric was. “Don’t worry Eric, there is going to be some Highland dancing and the piping porter will be involved.” He shrugged his shoulders and, sighing, withdrew to the packing room to hide his disappointment. He knew Miss Piper would be having words with him about his pushiness after the ladies left.
Susan was quite accurate in her fears about Martin’s reaction. Mr da Costa was very concerned about the disruption to his quiet, ordered department. Mrs Hope placated him by wondering how they could contribute to the festive atmosphere on his terms and, after a word with Mrs Pegram, a plan evolved which met with his approval. Unlike Ladies Separates, Ladies Outdoor Clothing and Casualwear, Model Gowns would not be providing a fashion show. They would have an exhibition of Model Gowns through the ages (or at least since Murrays had opened). Miss Murray recalled that all the best dresses belonging to the first, second and third Mrs Murray were safely stowed away in vast wardrobes in the attics of Rosehill. A dusty afternoon in a heady miasma of mothballs provided a treasure trove of fashionable garments from the nineteenth to the mid twentieth century. The big names were all represented as the various Mr Murrays had always insisted their wives’ appearance reflected the very best of Murrays’ fashionable clothing. There were dresses and costumes by Worth, Vionnet, Chanel and others; some dresses handmade in the workrooms of Murrays were also chosen and set up on models throughout the Model Gowns Department. Together with the appropriate hats, furs and accessories, the display was fabulous. Mr da Costa only hoped that the department wouldn’t be invaded by “inappropriate ladies” as he put it, meaning those unlikely to afford the prices. These hopes were to be swiftly dashed.
And so the preparations continued. Department after department came up with ideas great and small to reflect an overall impression that Murrays was running a festival of its very own. The Tea Room was braced to provide the required scones. Although this was only after prolonged negotiations with Mr McElvey and agreement that the free scones would be slightly smaller than usual and resolutely plain only. No cheese or fruit scone was to be provided free of charge and there was to be no question of jam.
As the festival drew near, there was a discernible feeling of excitement throughout the store. Even those staff who did not have direct contact with customers felt the change in the air. In the staff canteen, Mrs Collins gave herself permission to be rather more experimental with her cuisine than usual and her Spaghetti Bolognese was widely considered to be an improvement on the usual pasta dishes. Usually, she only offered macaroni.
When the festival officially opened and tourists flooded the city, the increased alertness and enthusiasm among the staff was immediately noticeable to the customers who began to visit the store in larger and larger numbers. The scone enticement to local customers also paid dividends and, week on week, the sales takings increased markedly. Customers from abroad, mostly American, but European
s too, really liked the store itself. Various conversations were held between these visitors and individual staff members and positive relationships were forged. Many of the new customers resolved to return to the store and most certainly to tell their friends and families about the Scottish store where they enjoyed whiling away many hours (and dollars) while enjoying dance displays, art exhibitions and various other cultural events. The display of Model Gowns through the ages was heavily photographed and several glossy magazines featured it in their autumn editions. For the most part, the images of Mr da Costa glowering in the background were edited out.
After the festival finally petered out, and the city returned to some form of normality, the management team convened to review the final figures and discuss the outcome of the project.
“Well, first of all, congratulations to Mr Philipson on his excellent idea,” opened Miss Murray. “It’s all gone so well. I couldn’t be more pleased. The whole store seemed energised and it looks like the figures have been supercharged!”
She smiled towards Mr McElvey who grudgingly nodded, then started dolorously, “That’s all very well but of course our problem now is how to maintain these sales levels. We’re bound to slump before Christmas and then have to sell off the excess stock in the January sales.”
There was silence, then Mrs Pegram spoke up, “I’ve been talking to Mr Morrison in Display and Advertising and he’s had a good idea.” The others looked expectantly at her. “Well, basically, we’ve had so many direct export sales when customers from abroad have arranged for us to send their newly purchased goods direct to their homes, that we now have a huge directory of the home addresses of overseas customers. How about we really develop our, what he called, ‘off site sales’? We could do a beefed-up catalogue and make it part of a direct marketing campaign, an international campaign capitalising on all our new customers?”
“Gosh,” said Miss Murray, sitting back in her seat reflectively. “That could be terrific. Would it be expensive to set up?”
“Not necessarily,” cut in Mr Soames. “The advertising department can design and produce the catalogues and letters etcetera and we could look at creating a special link between potential mail order sales and administration, item retrieval and the packing department. It’s all there. We’ve just got to do a little work on the reconfiguration.”
“Postage of all these catalogues will be expensive,” put in Mr McElvey.
“Yes, but try to look on it as an investment.” Miss Murray had already made up her mind.
“This sounds like a very specific project. We would need to study what changes have to be made and pull it all into shape with Display and Advertising to carry it through. Who should we put in charge of it? We’ll need some fresh ideas and Mr Morrison can steer it generally.”
“Well, naturally Samantha would be ideal,” suggested Mr McElvey.
“Yes, good idea, she’s got your head for figures Ian,” Miss Murray agreed, then looked at Mrs Pegram enquiringly. “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”
“I was wondering about Anjali Joshi,” she started. “She’s such a bright girl and she’s done her time in Floristry. She made some excellent suggestions for improvements there and despite that she still got on well with everyone in the department. I was just wondering where she could be placed next.”
“Oh yes. Those two could work together very well. I like it. Is everyone agreed? It’s a great project for them to get their teeth into. Good training too. This could be a real development for Murrays.” Miss Murray was very enthusiastic. She could see new avenues opening up for Murrays just when they might need them most. The demise of Smedleys cast a long shadow.
“Now, back to business. The welcome back project. Who’d like to spearhead that? It’s time to tempt our account customers back now the festival is over.”
“Not more free scones.” Mr McElvey groaned. The others sighed and shook their heads at him.
Back in her office, a wide smile spread across Mrs Pegram’s face. Well, fancy that! Murrays were thinking big and thinking far away. She was in exactly the right place at the right time. She was where she was needed. She was staying at Murrays.
Looking vaguely upwards, she mentally called out, “Thank you, Iain Pegram.”
Chapter 12
An Emergence
The management corridor was on the same floor as the staff canteen. The entrances to both led from the same staircase, but there the resemblance ended. Where the canteen featured tiled walls, often streaming with condensation, the management corridor was wood panelled with bevelled glass doors leading from it. The floor in the management corridor was covered in good quality but not extravagant carpeting laid on the orders of (very) old Mr Murray. The floor in the canteen was of unapologetic linoleum. The landing at the top of the stairs leading to the fifth floor was thus a no man’s land between Murrays’ management and staff.
The canteen, despite its depressing décor, was generally a cheerful place. It was uncertain whether this was due to the food or the respite it provided from work in Murrays’ various departments. The sound of staff conversation rose and fell in volume throughout the day depending on the meal break in question. Between 9.30 and 11.30am there was a gradually increasing hum as the first break was taken in relays. From 11.30am till 1.30pm, the noise level rose again as lunch took place, then there was quiet until the afternoon breaks began at 2.30pm. After 4pm it changed again and a blessed silence reigned.
Four pm was Mrs Collins’ favourite time of day. She could sit down, have a cigarette and go over the food orders for the next few days, checking there was enough of all the provisions to fulfil the not very adventurous menu. She often longed to make more exciting food, but there had been disasters and since the dreadful day of the goat curry she restricted herself to the perennial favourites such as macaroni or the eponymous cauliflower au gratin with cheese. She still felt strongly that it was not food poisoning as such that had had such an effect on the staff, but instead a sort of mass hysteria that had led to soaring levels of absence after the fateful curry. Mrs Pegram had been sympathetic, but strongly encouraged her to stick to the old favourites. Mrs Collins reluctantly agreed.
This afternoon Mrs Collins went through to the store room. Geographically, it lay between the canteen and the management corridor, but could only be accessed via a door at the back of the canteen kitchen. Being windowless, it was dark until the light was switched on. Shelves stretched around three walls and large metal bins and sagging cardboard containers were kept on the floor against the other wall.
It is a sad, or at least uncomfortable, fact that where there is food there also tends to be creatures other than humans feeding on it. In this case, whenever the light was switched on, brownish cockroaches could be seen scuttling for cover. Mrs Collins was quite accustomed to this and, depending on her mood, stamped on them wildly.
Today she unthinkingly took out six. She sometimes wondered about mice. Did they keep down cockroaches or vice versa? Absent mindedly, she registered that there seemed to be fewer cockroaches these days and certainly no mice at all. Unusually for a cook, she quite liked mice; she liked most animals. In the interests of hygiene and keeping her job she did set traps for the mice, but always got Jim the porter to dispose of the tiny bodies.
As she examined her list and crossed off or added items as appropriate, she became aware of a slight movement from one of the boxes on the floor. Shaking her head a little she decided she’d had too much coffee that day as she had a slight headache. Five minutes later, more obviously, a small sound came from within the box. It really could not be ignored. In some trepidation, and wondering whether to call for someone else, she opened the cardboard flap at the top of the box. She peered inside, hesitantly at first and then much more enthusiastically; peering straight back at her were a pair of crystal blue eyes set in a mass of chocolate brown fur and cream coloured whiskers. The little creature emitted a small, polite miaow.
“Hello,” she said. �
��Who are you then? What on earth are you doing in my store room?”
The little cat yawned, stretched and delicately jumped out of the box. It leaned companionably against Mrs Collins’ legs.
“Oh, you are just so beautiful!” she exclaimed gathering it up in her arms. The little cat made no objection to being handled like this, but struggled awkwardly as Mrs Collins ascertained that the cat was a female. Regaining her dignity, the little creature allowed herself to be cuddled. Mrs Collins was a confirmed cat lover and knew just how to hold her. The little cat purred quietly.
“What are we going to do with you?” Mrs Collins asked plaintively. “You can’t stay here, really you can’t.”
The cat looked back at her unconcernedly. Secure in her beauty, she was quite sure that she would be looked after and all would be well. The end of the working day was rapidly approaching and Mrs Collins couldn’t think what to do with her new friend. Registering that doors downstairs were closing noisily and lights were being switched off as staff called out loud goodnights, she made a snap decision.
“You stay here tonight gorgeous, and I’ll think of something in the morning.” She quickly put out a saucer of milk and some leftover stovies and apologetically left the store room saying, “Night- night,” as she went.
The little cat responded with a small goodnight miaow.
The next morning Mrs Collins arrived at work earlier than usual. Registering this, Mr Timmins the caretaker asked her anxiously “You’re early today Mrs Collins. Not planning anything special in the canteen I hope?”
She shook her head impatiently. Mr Timmins was one of those who had apparently suffered food poisoning following the curry. She carried on upstairs, panting slightly as she approached the fifth floor. Quickly crossing to the canteen kitchen, she was appalled to see that the store room door was ajar. Opening it and calling out “Puss, puss,” she entered to find that the little cat had gone. She panicked, rushing round the kitchen and canteen looking for her new friend, but to no avail. Her mind reeling, she was just wondering what to do next when she heard a loud cry. It came from the open door to the staircase. The cry was of such distress that, without thinking, she rushed towards it, crossed the landing and entered the management corridor.