by Jane Tulloch
Miss McFarlane, in conversation with a customer vehemently outlining her preference for Beluga as opposed to Sevruga Caviar, observed Lady Harrison, a favoured customer, walk briskly out of the department after a few sharp words to Darren.
“Oh, I do entirely agree with you,” she purred to her customer, “For me it’s Beluga all the way.” Then, “do excuse me.” She moved smoothly over to Darren, a pleasant smile on her face for the benefit of passing customers.
“What was all that about?” she hissed. Taking in his rumpled and distasteful appearance, she continued, “Oh for God’s sake what do you look like? You’re a disgrace. A complete disgrace. I don’t know what Mrs Pegram was thinking of. I’ve seen smarter more intelligent monkeys than you!”
Darren gasped at this and his eyes filled with tears, which were much magnified by his glasses. He mumbled and sniffed unappealingly. Miss Butters, attracted by the appearance of an altercation, had arrived in time to hear Miss McFarlane’s comments. Miss McFarlane told her what she’d seen. Darren tried his best to interject that he was just trying to do as he’d been told, but he was completely ignored by Miss McFarlane. Miss Butters looked on as Darren was told to collect his things at once. His days, or rather his half day, in the Food Hall was over. With a last despairing sniff, he withdrew to the cloakroom, collected his grubby jacket, and departed from Murrays. Miss MacFarlane raised her eyebrows in mock horror at Miss Butters and set off after Lady Harrison. A good customer like that had to be retrieved and ruffled feathers smoothed.
The management team, to their discredit, laughed to hear of the shortest ever employment in the Food Hall. “So far,” added Mrs Pegram darkly.
She had telephoned the young man at home to ascertain his side of the story and offer him a job working with the porters. He accepted this offer with touching gratitude.
And so life went on in the Food Hall. The seasons came and went, reflected by fluctuations in the stock: the Christmas and Easter specialities, the appearance and disappearance of soft fruits, cheeses and pâtés, as supplies waxed and waned.
Profit margins were maintained and occasionally exceeded and all went well until the fateful day of the letter.
It arrived, no one knew how, on Miss Murray’s desk. Hand written and addressed “To whom it may concern.” Miss Murray was certainly concerned, especially once she had read what was neatly written on the single sheet of paper that it contained:
You’d better find the poison in the Food Hall before a customer does.
Miss Murray blanched and fumbled blindly for the phone.
The hastily assembled management team discussed the note in anxious tones. Mr Soames wanted to call the Police or the Public Health Inspectors at once, but this was rapidly vetoed as they considered the potential effect it could have on sales.
“Customers could avoid us completely if word got out,” said Mrs Pegram.
“And it would get out,” added Mr McElvey sourly, “and they would never come back.” He continued, shaking his head. He was a glass half empty sort of person.
Mr Philipson, a glass half full man, put forward a more cheerful option, “It’s a joke, just a joke. No one could really mean it.” They mulled this over doubtfully.
“It’s no use. We have to do something,” said Miss Murray who only believed in the wrong size of glass. “We simply cannot risk anyone being poisoned by something bought from Murrays’ Food Hall.”
“We’ll need to close the Food Hall at least temporarily.” Mr Soames said, stung by his first suggestion being so summarily dismissed.
“Yes, that’s quite right. Phone down and get the Food Hall doors closed off. Say it’s for decoration or Health and Safety checks or something in the meantime.” Miss Murray took charge. “Let’s get Miss McFarlane up here and call Barry Hughes to come in too. This is a security matter.”
Half an hour later, the team had arranged for the Food Hall to be closed for “repairs” according to the smart new notice produced by Display and Advertising, staff had been dispersed to other departments and deliveries of fresh produce diverted. Disappointed regular customers made their way out of the shop, complaining as they went. Barry, observing this, thought about their lucky escape; they could be complaining about much more than not having their usual brand of smoked salmon pâté. He’d had food poisoning before and it certainly wasn’t pleasant. He grimaced as he remembered it.
Back in the boardroom, a distraught Miss McFarlane and a more than usually dishevelled Miss Butters looked wordlessly at Miss Murray. They scanned the note and Miss McFarlane had to sit down. Her shock was palpable. She trembled and her teeth chattered. She tried to speak but only half syllables were emitted.
Eventually, Miss Butters put their combined thoughts into words: “Thon’s awfy.” She pronounced slowly.
Miss McFarlane looked up at her, still standing, and smiled gratefully.
Collecting herself visibly, Miss McFarlane rose to the occasion. “We must clear the shelves of all perishables and closely examine all and any sealed containers, bottles or tins.” She stood up, ready to begin a battle against this unseen and dangerous enemy.
“Not so fast, Miss McFarlane,” began Barry, keen to use his self-reported detective skills. “Why has this happened? Why would anyone want to cause such havoc?” He had been reading the latest newspaper and continued, “Is it political by any chance? Have you been buying in stock from some country with a nasty human rights policy?”
Her Ladyship shook her well-bred head nervously, “I don’t know, I don’t think so. Can you think of anything like that Miss Butters?” Obviously flustered, she turned to her ally.
“Well that last batch of shortbread came from Northern Ireland,” Marge ventured cautiously, “Some of the ladies weren’t too happy that we didn’t stock good Scottish shortie.”
“I can’t see typical Murrays ladies going to such lengths over imported biscuits.” Barry replied impatiently, then turned his, purely imaginary, laser-like attention towards Miss Murray, “or could this be someone striking a blow against Murrays itself? This could cost thousands of pounds in destruction of stock or even tens of thousands if a customer is poisoned. The adverse publicity could close the shop,” he continued, oblivious to Miss Murray’s increasing distress.
Miss Murray swallowed nervously. “I don’t think I could be accused of having done anything to upset anyone…” she started. “But then it could be anyone that had a grudge against any department, anyone at all.” She sighed unhappily, wondering who or why anyone would want to carry out such an act against Murrays.
She had a terrifying thought – could it be a competitor? Her thoughts turned darkly towards the new owners of Smedleys, Murrays’ long-term rivals. Was this the start of a dirty tricks campaign with the aim of another aggressive takeover bid? Her mind reeled at the possibilities.
For the first time she felt her age. The day had started so well and now this: the store and its future, catapulted into uncertainty.
Meanwhile, a sudden thought occurred to Barry about the letter itself, “How exactly did this arrive? In the post? There’s no stamp.”
“It was just on my blotter when I came in this morning. It was in the internal mail pile.”
Barry picked up on this excitedly, “Oho, so it’s an inside job then?” he asked of no one in particular. “Right. I’m off to Mr Timmins to check on who has been posting what in the internal mail box and who sorts it into individual piles etc.” He turned on his heel eagerly and left the room. The others looked at each other. Miss Murray was near to tears with a combination of shock and dismay.
Miss McFarlane and Miss Butters returned forlornly to the now unoccupied Food Hall to look listlessly and accusingly at their beloved stock. No order had yet been given to clear the shelves. Miss McFarlane picked up various of the more perishable items. Could this be a puncture mark in a packet of smoked salmon? Was this loaf of speciality bread unusually heavy? Might this jar’s lid be a little loose? She speculated endlessly o
n how exactly or where precisely the poison could be placed, looking around hopelessly. Marge made soothing noises but couldn’t think what to do. All the familiar routines of life in the Food Hall had evaporated. Outside the closed doors they could clearly hear disappointed customers vociferously expressing their displeasure at the closure of their favourite department. The two women sighed and huddled together for comfort. It was a sad scene.
After his visit to the caretaker to discuss the internal mail, Barry went up to the canteen, “to have a think,” as he put it to himself. In reality he wanted to discuss the matter with his friend Jock the lift operator. He tried to play it cool, or so he thought.
“So Jock, old boy. Busy morning. Can’t say much. Top Secret, hush hush and all that,” he tapped the side of his nose.
Jock interrupted him, “Is it about the Food Hall?” he asked. “One of the ladies in my lift was saying it was closed.”
“Possibly, possibly,” continued Barry loftily, then relented. He had to discuss it with someone. Jock had always been discreet, besides which he was his only friend. He outlined the facts so far: the arrival of the note, the closure of the Food Hall and the fact that the note was, as confirmed by Mr Timmins, in the internal mail. No one unexpected had been seen to place any letters for internal distribution. “So it could have been any member of staff at all,” he exclaimed in frustration. “I don’t know what to do next.” He looked at Jock hopefully. Jock continued chewing his bacon roll, but indicated that he was considering what he had heard.
Eventually, Jock offered, “Well the Food Hall itself isn’t very popular with staff. Could it be from a disgruntled ex-employee? Trying to make trouble? Mrs Pegram seems to keep people on if she can after they’ve left Her Ladyship’s department. Could one of them be getting their own back on Miss McFarlane?”
Barry looked doubtful, he didn’t want to show that he hadn’t actually thought of that. “Well it’s a long shot but I suppose I could look into it,” he responded wearily. This plan had the added benefit of an excuse to see Mrs Pegram for whom he had yearned at a distance for years. She repeatedly rejected his invitations, but he still entertained hopes in her direction. These were undoubtedly wasted hopes, but he had never accepted this. “I’ll pop up and see old Louise after I’ve finished this,” he said, gulping his still red hot coffee down. Coughing slightly as he stood up, he called, “See you later. Are you on first or second lunch today?” but barely waited for a response in his headlong rush to the Personnel Department. Jock, looking after him, shook his head ruefully. When will he learn, he thought.
Mrs Pegram looked doubtfully at Barry.
“An inside job?” she queried, “Do you really think it could be?” She had also wondered if it was a warning shot in a takeover battle. She had heard of such things. If it was, it didn’t bode well for Murrays that the new owners of Smedleys were prepared to stoop to such tactics. Times were beginning to tell for large independent department stores. However, the nature of the threat seemed so personal. Poison pen letters were a very feminine sort of threat. Not the sort of activity of a large commercial organisation. She realised that they were all becoming overstressed and wildly thinking up possible reasons. Barry’s suggestion seemed, improbably, to be quite a useful one. She considered the list of the most recent departures from the Food Hall. Of the last eight, five had been re-employed. Two ladies to Haberdashery and one man each to Furnishings, Electricals and the Porters. The three who had left altogether were employed in varying capacities at other, lesser, shops. She passed this on to Barry.
“Thanks Louise, that gives me something to work on,” he breezed. “While I’m here I don’t suppose…” he looked at her hopefully.
Sensing what was coming, she cut in, “Er, no Barry, I don’t think so,” before he could continue with his invitation to join him for a light dinner at The Golden Egg.
Barry made his way down to Haberdashery. Located in the basement of the shop, it was a destination of necessity rather than a place that needed to tempt customers. Reels of elastic, sewing requisites, safety pins, tapestry wool, buttons and zips were the staples. It was a relatively busy department, but not a very exciting one to work in. The two ladies behind the counter were busy with customers but another woman was just visible behind the stock room curtain reading a magazine with obvious enjoyment, her lips moving as she scanned each line. Clearly, the head of that department was off or on her break otherwise such slackness would never be tolerated.
Barry tiptoed up to her then loudly enquired what her name was. In a flurry she dropped the flimsy magazine and looked up, angry at being disturbed. “What do you want?” she asked rudely.
“You may not know me but I’m Mr Hughes, Head of Security, and I might ask you what you were doing young lady?” He could see at once that she was exactly the sort of person that wouldn’t have lasted long under Miss McFarlane’s iron rule.
“I’m Sonia Halliday,” she sniffed and continued cheekily, “And I don’t see what that’s got to do with security.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Barry snapped, quite taken aback at her attitude. He didn’t think she’d last long at Murrays at all. However, looking at her and listening to her tone he somehow couldn’t see her as the sort of person who would go to such energetic lengths as writing and sending a poison pen letter to the Managing Director. “You used to work in the Food Hall I gather,” he continued.
“Yes. What of it? I hated it there and that’s the truth. Standing all day long while Lady Muck swanned around issuing orders. I much prefer it here. I don’t have to do much at all. Turn up and get the money each week. Suits me.” She shrugged inelegantly. Barry thought that it probably did suit her down to the ground. He asked which of the two ladies behind the counter had also come from the Food Hall.
“Neither of them. Yolande left last month, went to new Smedleys’ Soft Furnishings. Better money and more holidays. Lucky thing.” It would seem that Sonia had been unable to stir herself sufficiently from her idle routine to find a better job. Barry dismissed the possibility of the potential poisoner being from Haberdashery and set off for Furnishings, his quarry a certain Mr Duke.
Unfortunately, Mr Duke was easily ruled out due to his marked tremor. The unlucky man had very shaky hands indeed. While neat writing was extremely difficult for him, he could easily manage larger motor activities such as the lifting and carrying required in the Furnishings Department. He was very co-operative and had such a pleasant manner that Barry quite warmed to him and ended up feeling very sorry for him. He could see how a move from the Food Hall was a welcome relief for Mr Duke and that he was glad to forget all about his time there.
Barry’s next move was to interview young Mr Pearson in the Electrical Department. On being questioned, he shrugged off Barry’s heavy-handed suggestion that he might feel sufficiently vindictive to mount an unspecified campaign against the Food Hall.
He beamed as he explained how happy he now was in Electricals.
“I just fit in here see?” he said “It’s just the job for me. I can reach up to all the lamps and the high switches and let the others deal with the smaller appliances.” He became positively enthusiastic discussing his new responsibilities and friendly colleagues. Barry discounted him. He very obviously wouldn’t want anything to affect his employment at Murrays.
So, one had already left, one was too lazy to bother, one was too shaky to have written any sort of legible note and one was patently too happy at Murrays to endanger the store in any way. There was only one more person on the list. He set off down the stairs to the porters’ office before checking his watch and, noting that lunch break was approaching, retracing his steps and continuing up to the canteen.
Jock was already seated at their usual table. He looked up and raised a hand in greeting. Barry went to the counter, closely supervised the overloading of a large plateful of mince and tatties, and then walked across to join him.
“How did you get on?” Jock queried.
&nb
sp; “Not much luck with any of them so far. Just one left to grill,” Barry responded through a mouthful.
“Which one?”
“The one now ‘working’ with the porters.”
They both laughed. The porters were well known to be somewhat lacking in their understanding of a day’s work. Their leader, Jim Hudson, was a keen but unsuccessful trade unionist forever declaring that staff must put down their tools in support of something or other. The other departments mostly ignored his demands but the men under his direct command had to adhere to his work ethic. This meant that all departments were in a permanent state of irritation at delays in deliveries that they knew had already arrived and were just awaiting transfer from the loading bay. That was if the loading bay was not already in use as a football pitch for the unofficial matches against porters from other stores and businesses around the area.
“Oh God,” groaned Barry, “I can’t say I relish tackling that lot. Trying to question one of Jim’s boys could bring the whole department to a standstill.”
Jock agreed, nodding silently. The two men contemplated how best to tackle the porters’ latest recruit without inflaming Jim to new heights of irritation against the management.
Jim was a small man with a large but constantly frustrated personality. He struggled to hold his head high in the presence of other shop stewards due to the Murrays managements’ perceived intransigence. To his continued annoyance, Miss Murray insisted that Murrays be completely fair to their staff. Her time in large department stores in other capital cities had demonstrated the value of involving staff and giving them the incentive to work their hardest. She made sure this was in their interests: if Murrays had a good year, the percentage increase in profits was returned to the staff as a percentage pay rise. Very occasionally, a bonus would be declared. As she often stated, to Mr McElvey’s despair, “Fair’s fair. We must share the profits that they helped to earn us.” Some years, of course, no profit was made or even a small loss was incurred, but no resultant reduction was made in staff pay. Thus, the staff appreciated the financial situation and also the consideration of their boss. This resulted in indifference to the calls for action, or rather inaction, by the shop steward.