by Jane Tulloch
“No, no, no! Not this stuff!” He shouted unpleasant question after unpleasant question in Peter’s earpiece. Peter manfully tried to comply but to little avail.
Eventually, Neville barked, “Shoplifting. Get them to tell us how much gets nicked. How the cost of this is passed on to customers, that sort of thing?”
Peter started to ask about this when he was interrupted by a quiet voice.
“Shoplifting. That’s a nicer way of talking about stealing. It’s theft really. No more and no less. My son’s a shoplifter. A thief. Every year since he was a little boy he’s stolen something from here for my birthday. And Christmas presents. I know he has. He told me. He’s proud of it. Of getting something over on the shop. It’s not very nice really. Not nice at all. He’s not nice at all and now he’s stealing again. He’s trying to take Murrays’ good name and it is a good name. They treat their staff fairly and the customers like coming here.”
There was a thin cheer from the staff of Ladies Separates and Model Gowns hanging over the gallery rails.
She continued, her voice growing in confidence, “He’s the one making this documentary. Peter here is just the front man. Neville’s somewhere around making the bullets for Peter to fire. I’m ashamed of him. I’m ashamed of my own son. I’m ashamed of myself for staying quiet about it for so long.”
She sat back down, her cheeks flaming; she was clearly on the point of tears. There was a stunned silence. Ladies in neighbouring seats reached over to pat her reassuringly. They all glared at Peter who sat still, for once flummoxed. There was silence in his ear. Neville had gone.
Later that day in the boardroom, Peter faced the angry management team.
“So,” raged Mr McElvey, “What you intended all along was to make a scurrilous programme about us?”
“I’d prefer to say frank and open documentary…” Peter faltered.
“Frank and open indeed,” Miss Murray took up the baton. “You have wasted a great deal of our time in your attempt to misrepresent us and cause distress to our staff and customers. In fact, I’m not sure if there isn’t a case to be made against you for loss of business at the very least. I feel sure that we could sue you for all you’re worth.”
She paused. “If you’re actually worth anything at all,” she added derisively.
“My colleague…” began Peter again.
“Yes? Do you mean the one we now know is a long-term shoplifter?”
“Yes. I mean…” Peter was floundering. He cursed Neville for landing him in this awkward situation. He didn’t know what to say. Looking round the table at the angry faces he quailed. He had been warned so often about his association with Neville. Was this it then? The end of their friendship? He decided that it was. He stood up.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I can make this up to you…”
“No. Neither do I.” Miss Murray was uncharacteristically unrelenting. “We work hard to make this business as good as it can be and to be fair to our employees. Then someone like you comes along with the clear aim of undermining it all. Undermining us all...” She shook with barely suppressed rage. Fearing that her friend might actually hit the cowering young man, Mrs Pegram stood up and smoothly took over the situation.
“Right, well, you’ve done quite enough young man. I don’t think there’s anything more to be said. Now will you please remove yourself and all your equipment and staff immediately.”
She ushered him to the door past the figure of Barry, standing there bristling with antagonism, clearly keen to take the young man outside and giving him a serious ‘sort out’ in the car park. He snarled menacingly.
“That’s enough Barry.” Mrs Pegram put paid to his hopes.
As Peter slunk out, Mr McElvey’s voice called after him, “Don’t think this is the end of it. You may well be hearing from our lawyers.”
And Neville? After his precipitous departure from the shop he had walked the streets for some hours. Surely he had suffered the ultimate humiliation. To be so publicly denounced by his own mother. What could be worse? He ruminated on her. Stupid cow was his first thought. Then his mind moved on in its usual nasty way to how to pay her back. But just where he expected to find a solution he found a strange blank. He couldn’t think how to do it. There wasn’t anything left to do to hurt her that he hadn’t already done at one time or another in his life. That thought brought him to a standstill. Passers-by stared at the white-faced young man as he held his hands to his face and groaned. He had lied and cheated and embarrassed his mother time and again, and, by his reprehensible behaviour, led her to be isolated from her church and her friends. He had taken advantage of his own father’s weak mental state. He thought further. He was the absolute personification of a bad son. The best thing he could do would be to remove himself from her life. And Peter’s. Somewhere within him, he dimly perceived that he had not been a good friend to Peter. He had left him spluttering at the cameras and a row of outraged ladies, trying to somehow restore order to the situation after his mother’s outburst. He’d even left him to carry the can with the Murrays management. He had got him into this trouble, this career even. He realised now that he’d lost him. He’d lost his best friend. He’d lost everything. If only they hadn’t gone to Murrays.
He’d come away from that store once again with something he hadn’t paid for in a financial sense anyway – a conscience at last. It hurt.
Chapter 15
Chameleon/Chimera
Mrs Pegram looked at the vision of loveliness standing in front of her dressed in the smartest of haute couture casual wear. She marvelled at the fine features and the beautiful black hair that cascaded in a sparkle of curls from a central parting.
Wow, she thought, what a stunner! She smiled as she responded to his initial greeting.
“How lovely to meet you at last, Antoine. We were expecting you last week. Miss Murray has told me so much about your father and the store in Paris.”
His voice when he spoke was an aural evocation of his appearance – just as gorgeous. He purred in a deep voice and a thrilling French accent.
“The pleasure is all mine Meeses Pegram.” He looked deeply into her eyes as he said this. She found herself quite flushed and embarrassed at her own reaction. Crossly, she told herself to get a grip.
She went on, “Now Antoine, you don’t mind if I call you Antoine?”
“Ah, non,” he reassured her. “Everyone calls me Antoine.” He flashed her another of his devastating smiles.
“Miss Murray has told me about how she came to work in your father’s company as part of her training. I assume this is some sort of delayed reciprocal arrangement?”
“Well, yes I hope so. My father told me so much about Miss Murray and her shop. I want to find out how the British shopper shops so I can sell more to them when I return to Paris,” he explained.
“Well I’m not sure exactly how much you can learn about that here but we can try to help. Is there a particular department you want to spend time in or do you want to shadow one of the management perhaps?”
“Non. Not the management.” He stifled her hopes of prolonged exposure to his charm. “Perhaps a little time in as many departments as possible?”
“Right,” she pondered the most useful starting point for him. “Is there a particular focus for your store in Paris?” she queried. “I mean do you mostly cover fashion or cosmetics or household goods for example?”
“Household goods?” He shuddered. “Oh no. We supply ladies, not their staff. We have the best designer clothes, hats and jewellery for the smartest dressers in Paris.”
She stifled a gasp at his blatant snobbery. When or if she got to know him better she’d tell him not to say such things out loud. He was welcome to think them of course.
Antoine’s first day in Model Gowns went well. Mrs Hope was slightly taken aback at his super smart, beautifully-cut business suit, exquisite tie and long, carefully coiffed hair. He breezed into the department exuding a very sligh
t scent of exclusive cologne. “How lovely,” she thought. Then, “What a sweetie, must be gay.” The others in the department and the adjoining Ladies Wear Department all came to the same conclusion. He was clearly very knowledgeable about cutting-edge fashion and, if Murrays’ stock seemed rather less than ‘a la mode,’ he was tactful enough not to say it out loud.
Thanks to his cutting but absolutely correct remarks on his customers’ appearances, up till now Mr da Costa had been the main attraction of Model Gowns. He was unsure about this wonderful new addition to the staff, taken aback at finding someone with the same fashion skills as himself, but a much more tactful way of putting it to the ladies. Direct as ever, he asked, “Who are you anyway? Why are you here?”
Mrs Hope was secretly surprised that he didn’t go the whole hog and ask, “Who do you think you are?” However, he refrained from that level of directness. Mr da Costa wasn’t an aggressive person.
Antoine handled the potentially difficult conversation with admirable aplomb and smoothness. In his quiet, sincere voice, he responded. “I hope to learn from you all here in Scotland. Where I live, the ladies care more for style than comfort. This shows in their faces I think. They can have a strained look. Your ladies here have radiant complexions and relaxed faces. This takes years off them, I feel. I want to learn how to do this for my ladies back home.”
Mr da Costa nodded, both relieved and convinced. Listening female members of staff reached up to their faces as though to check for this hitherto unsuspected beneficial side effect of their elasticated waistbands and comfortable shoes. They nodded in satisfaction, impressed at his discernment.
He remained in Model Gowns for several weeks, just enough time for him to gather respect and admiration from staff and even some customers. Mr da Costa was slightly disconcerted to find that one of his key clients, Margo Clapperton, had been into the department during one of his breaks and had not waited for him. Antoine had overcome her objections to his selection of clothing and she had been delighted to purchase a whole range of cruise wear. Mr da Costa had previously been informed of this forthcoming cruise and prepared a selection of items for her. It was fortunate that Antoine had concurred on this and basically sold her the clothes Mr da Costa had already put aside for her. She was delighted with the outfits and even more delighted to be served by such a polite and respectful young man.
“Quite a contrast.” She told the ‘girls’ at the golf club. “I usually need to brace myself before going to Model Gowns. You just don’t know what Mr D will say next!” The ‘girls’ took note.
Mr da Costa mused on Antoine’s way with his ladies and practised Antoine’s interested gaze and knowing nod as one customer after another blurted out her hopes and fears for her next social engagement. He found that he didn’t actually need to say much at all, but instead he should leave the lady concerned to think that she, herself, had selected the perfect outfit for the event in question.
Antoine’s time in Model Gowns was thus a tremendous success. He moved onto the next department with good luck messages ringing in his ears.
Antoine had requested that he be placed in as wide a variety of departments as possible. To Mrs Pegram’s surprise, he had asked to be assigned to the porters next.
“But why?” she asked him. “I thought you were mostly interested in the sales aspect of the shop.”
“Ah Meeses Pegram, but they are integral to the smooth working of it all.” He waved his arms gracefully to indicate the whole store. “They convey the stock to all the departments, they are the arteries of the store and keep it all going. Without them, phut! Every department would grind to a halt. I want to find out where the blockages are, and the ‘aneurisms’, where the arterial bleeds occur, where the cholesterol builds up in the system.”
An odd metaphor, thought Mrs Pegram, but she saw his point. “Very well. I’ll have a word with Jim our head porter and you can start there on Monday.
She looked up at him pointedly. “I should say that they start at 7.30am, not 9am like the others.”
He waved away this information. “I will be there.”
“Dressed appropriately too,” she added with a lingering look at his exquisite suit.
“Mais oui!” With an elegant wave he left the office and wandered off down the customers’ carpeted staircase.
The following Monday, a grumbling Jim unlocked the door to the porters’ lodge, as their subterranean department was called. He sat down on an upturned crate and shouted to Darren, the newest member of the team, to bring him a cup of tea.
“And mind you make it strong enough,” he added. He had been most annoyed to hear from Mrs Pegram that they were to be joined by some French bloke coming to learn from them. “Look for trouble more like.” He had told her, concluding suspiciously, “I hope this isn’t some sort of management spy. I’ll not have it!”
“Just wait and see,” Mrs Pegram reassured him. “I’m sure you’ll find him, er, interesting.”
As Jim gulped down the dregs of his tea, he became aware of a slight commotion outside. The door was pushed open and a tall young man entered. His hair was tied back and roughly secured in a knot at the back; he was wearing tattered jeans and the sleeves of an old checked shirt were pushed up above his elbows revealing lurid tattoos on both forearms.
“You Jim?” he enquired rudely. “I’m Mac.”
“Mac?” queried Jim. “I’m expecting a French bloke.”
“Antoine – Tony – Tony Macaroni – Mac. OK with you? Now where do I start?”
“Right,” Jim answered weakly. “Let me see now. Darren,” he shouted. “Bring me the deliveries schedule. God knows where that McFarlane woman has put it.” (The McFarlane woman was on holiday – to everyone’s relief.)
‘Mac’ turned out to be a great success with the porters. He was extremely knowledgeable about the important things in life: football and beer. He played football very well and was promoted to the store’s first team for the annual needle match between Murrays and their rival store. He didn’t score the winning goal, but set it up beautifully for one of the others. The celebrations went on long into the night. He proved not to be just a man’s man either. The sight of his strapping figure pushing the large trolley of deliveries round the store led to many a frisson among the female staff around the galleries. The canteen was fizzing with chat about the new pin-up in the Porters’ Department.
Beyond his football and his magnetic attraction to women, Mac was also a useful addition to the Porters’ Department. He identified some key issues and made practical suggestions for addressing them. The unwieldy trolleys loaded up with stock from the basement store rooms were extremely heavy and awkward to manoeuvre. This was invariably a two-man job. In addition, it wasn’t always possible to steer them to the departmental stock rooms, necessitating their unloading onto the shop floor and the transferring of the boxes by hand by the shop assistants. This was untidy and inefficient. Mac sourced a supply of smaller, more easily manoeuvred trolleys that could be managed by one man and could transport goods directly to the departmental stock rooms. No mess and no extra work for shop floor staff. Everyone agreed that they were an excellent innovation. Even Mr McElvey seemed happy enough to sign off their cost.
Mac left the Porter’s Department after another few weeks following a huge departmental farewell night out involving the consumption of industrial quantities of alcohol and the singing of many sentimental songs. He agreed that he was not indeed “awa tae bide awa” and presented himself with a remarkably clear head the next day in Mrs Pegram’s office.
Where to next, she wondered. He had gone down so well in such disparate departments that it was hard to believe he was the same man. She looked at him smiling blandly at her, all traces of Mac erased.
“The main restaurant perhaps?” she suggested. “I don’t know if you’re interested in the catering side of things?”
“Ah oui, what an interesting idea,” he breathed smiling intently at her and leaning forward. She was i
rritated to find herself blushing again. She was far too old for that sort of thing she told herself angrily. “Right then. I’ll speak to the head chef and will let you know what he says. In the meantime, why not have a few days off? You’re staying with Miss Murray at Rosehill, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes. I’m being quite spoilt by Mrs Glen and the girls. They know how to look after me.”
Mrs Pegram was uncertain whether the redoubtable Mrs Glen would be likely to fall victim to his roguish charm. However, it sounded like she had. She dismissed him and resolved to discuss him with Miss Murray.
At coffee that morning the two women talked about their French intern.
“He’s done so well both in Model Gowns and with the Porters,” Mrs Pegram informed her friend. “He seems to charm everyone. How’s he doing at home? Has Mrs Glen fallen at his feet?”
“Well, no, not quite, but he is easily her favourite ever house guest.” In answer to Mrs Pegram’s enquiring expression, Miss Murray continued, “He keeps his room immaculately tidy, you’d hardly believe he slept in the bed or used the bathroom at all. He does his own washing and prefers to cook for himself. Quite remarkable in a man!” The two nodded thoughtfully and the conversation moved on.
The head chef in Murrays’ Restaurant was a Mr Pargeter. A very serious and hardworking man, he’d been employed in Murrays’ kitchens since he was first apprenticed there and had worked his way up over the years to head chef. A man of few words, most of them spoken in a vaguely menacing hiss, he knew exactly what diners expected in Murrays’ Restaurant.
In response to a restaurant critic complaining of the formulaic nature of the menu, he had snapped, “Of course it’s formulaic. I know the formula for what keeps Murrays’ diners coming back.” The management team could only concur. The Restaurant remained popular with their customers who seemed to prefer the certainty of the old favourite dishes to any new fancy menu items. When informed of Antoine’s placement in the kitchen he had shrugged. A new person was neither here nor there to Mr Pargeter. He would soon enough learn his place and the respect due to himself, Mr Pargeter, as ‘Chef’ the title awarded to the head of a kitchen.