‘Good morning, gentlemen. Can I help you?’ She turned to Jane. ‘I shall be busy looking after these gentlemen, Miss James. Perhaps you could tell Mrs Taylor and Miss Williams and Miss Stent and Mr Keating they’re wanted in the showroom?’ She made the last two up.
Jane kept her eyes on the two men and felt for the electric bell on the side of the stairs and pressed it three times. The card-players nipped swiftly up the stairs and took up their positions near the other two doors.
‘You got any intarsias, love?’ They didn’t bother with ‘good mornings’ either.
‘Yes, sir. We have some beautiful designs at the moment. What size was sir looking for?’
He looked nonplussed and opened his jacket. Bennett kept a completely straight face.
‘About a forty I should say, sir.’ She slid back the glass, pulled a single pullover from the top fixture and spread it on the counter further down while Jane smoothly came in behind her and slid the glass door back in place. Bennett shook the sweater from its folds. It was gorgeous: sooty black cashmere with exotic sprays of fuchsia, camellia and violet flowers scattered across it.
‘Would Sir like to try it on? We have a nice private fitting room downstairs, very discreet,’ said Bennett in a horribly understanding way. The man was a nice shade of camellia himself. His friend was trying not to laugh but keeping an eye on the door.
‘No. I meant that diamond pattern. You know.’
‘Ah! Sir means Argyll, I think. Not this one then?’
She and Jane went into their little dance, Bennett folding and bagging the garments while Jane worked the glass doors. Bennett moved down to the Argylls and her fingers hesitated a moment in front of the pigeonhole.
‘Same sort of colours?’
There wasn’t much left in that range. Jane had had to fill up the whole fixture with the brown and camel colourway.
‘Er. Brown?’
Bennett peered at the toffee-coloured pile in the fixture.
‘Oh dear. That’s the one colour we’re out of, sir. But we are expecting a delivery much later this year. Or early next.’
Jane opened the door and joined Bennett in a sort of pincer movement as they ushed the pair of them out of the shop under the watchful eye of the beadle.
A saleslady’s radar could recognise shoplifters immediately. She also had a sixth sense about messers. You got the same ones coming in again and again. Something about their clothes, about the angle of their feet (were they heading for the door?) told you that it wouldn’t be worth your while getting half the stock out.
Jane had spotted one of them outside looking at the window display. A painfully thin, miserable-looking woman with dyed black hair and a slightly sticky-looking beaver coat. A regular. She spent time but never money and nobody wanted to be prevented from serving a proper customer by getting bogged down with a time-waster. Jane tried to take evasive action but she was too slow off the mark. The other salesladies had begun tidying fixtures the moment she stepped through the door, leaving her to Jane. She always asked if she could take things home ‘on appro’ and always tutted when she couldn’t. She would then disappear into the fitting room and start amusing herself, putting together rather clever ensembles and walking up and down. She probably looked OK in certain lights but the crude strips and spots in the basement took no prisoners. She was even thinner than she looked – Over-zealous slimming leads to scrawniness, salt cellars, flat chests, bad temper and even (if you read your daily newspaper) suicide. Also, Jane soon realised that her trim figure was all spare parts: shoulders, bosom, even hips, were all little bits of wadding attached to her bra and corset. Tailored clothes hid all these bits and pieces but she looked very lumpy in knitwear.
Today Madam wanted to see something in vicuna, an animal so soft and fluffy and delicate that you practically had to kill it to get the silky brown wool off its back. They were running quite low on vicuna. So was Peru. Madam quite liked it but wasn’t sure about the brown. Did they have the same in a Saxe blue? Or a turquoise? Jane imagined Saxe blue and turquoise vicunas scampering across the Andes. No, Madam. Not in that style. Ignorant old bitch.
The only other customers that morning were a matching pair of Americans in his-and-hers camel overcoats, tartan trousers and cashmere scarves. Mrs Taylor, who had no conversation in real life, oozed professional charm. Not a very nice time of year for their trip, was it? London not at its best. Were they here on business? etc. All the while laying plans to sell them the entire shop, fixtures included. It was warm and slightly airless in the basement showroom and the cashmeres were cosy and soft and the pair could suddenly think of nothing nicer than a whole new wardrobe of knitwear plus the mix and match tweeds to go with them. They had already picked out over £200 worth of things when there was dangerous talk of lunch and coming back on Monday. Brigitta wasn’t going to let her commission get away that easily.
‘Miss James here can pop out and get you a nice smoked-salmon sandwich if you’re peckish. You still need to decide on a skirt length.’
‘Sure, honey. Let’s get it done today,’ said the husband, good-temperedly. ‘Just one skinny old English sandwich and then we can have a good lunch at that roast-beef place.’
Jane hurried into the coat room to put on her jacket and gloves and slip into her smart shoes. She walked the length of the arcade freezing to death but warm with pride at her reflection in the shop windows. She could sense the loafing shirt salesmen moving nearer the doors to watch her pass.
One of the regular buskers had taken the pitch at the end of the arcade. He was an old man with a tiny mandolin. He couldn’t play it but would stand there plink, plink-a-plinking away until one of the shopkeepers gave him half a crown to clear off. Jane preferred the old tapdancer with the wind-up gramophone and the suit made of Union Jacks. She’d once tried dropping a penny into the mandolin man’s case and he’d thrown it right back at her, calling her all the names. He wouldn’t take coppers: it was sixpence or nothing.
It was warm and spicy in the grocer’s. A few fussy old ladies were being served one at a time by young men in starched Holland overalls, scaling the high walls of shelves for tiny jars of orange blossom honey and stem ginger. The sandwich counter was right at the back under the skylight. A funny misshapen little man was making a right meal of a ham salad on white, tenderly buttering every slice from scratch as if the order for each sandwich came as a terrible surprise. He would then layer on the sugar-baked ham – ‘muthtard?’ – and tuck in the hospital corners of lettuce with the flat of his knife once the top slice had gone on. All the time in the world. Jane raised her head and looked about her a trifle impatiently – the way customers did – and a wide-awake young man in a morning coat and striped trousers magically materialised.
‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Madam.’ Madam. Not Dear. Not Miss, Madam. ‘Can I help you at all?’
She smiled. Charm every single person you meet. It’s more than a skill: it’s a fine art.
‘Yes you can, actually.’ Actually. ‘I’d like a smoked-salmon sandwich please.’
‘Certainly, Madam. Brown or white?’
She raised her eyebrows in slightly pained surprise. He very nearly apologised.
‘Brown?’
‘Brown.’
He may have graduated to spongebag trousers but he must have served time in overalls because he definitely knew his way round a smoked-salmon sandwich and had knocked one together – lemon and pepper included – before the old bloke next to him had finished mummifying his in greaseproof paper. And then he was out from behind the counter, ushering her down to the cashier and holding the door open. He was rather good-looking. Bit like David Niven.
‘Goodbye, Madam. See you again, I hope.’ Nice posh voice, too.
She rewarded him with another smile – never underestimate the power of your smile – then swung her brown paper carrier bag all the way back to the shop. Brigitta had moved seamlessly on to sportswear by this time. The Americans put out their cigarett
es and nibbled gratefully on their sandwich.
‘What a neat suit! Isn’t that neat, honey?’ They really did say ‘honey’, both of them. The wife turned to Brigitta for guidance. ‘Do you have those here?’
Jane felt herself shrivelling with awkwardness. That, as Mr Philip would say, was why it was so important for the staff to wear their uniforms. The salesladies got four different outfits a year (although Junior Jane only got two) to be worn to work whenever humanly possible: ‘You girls must be my Living Advertisements.’
‘Might I have a word, Miss James?’
It was Mr Philip himself.
‘Uh-oh. He’s seen the suit,’ hissed Brigitta, happily. ‘He’ll have your guts for garters.’
Mr Philip was the younger son of the man who founded the business in 1928. Mr Drayke senior now lived in the south of France on his share of the profits. Januaries might be dead but it was still a very good business, especially the mail-order department which was run by a terrifying old stick of a woman in butterfly glasses who used to tint the front of her blue-grey bouffant to tone with that day’s ensemble. She never wore green, sadly.
Mr Philip spent most of his time up in the office, checking off the huge stock book and drinking Scotch which he kept in an old cough-mixture bottle in the safe along with the takings and the luncheon vouchers. He was a difficult person to talk to. Partly because you were trying not to react to the whisky breath and partly because, perched on the top of his head, like a friendly forest creature, was a glistening, nut-brown toupee. He’d obviously got a whiff of a Big Sale and had been lurking on the basement stairs proprietorially and overheard the unwelcome compliment.
‘That is a nice suit, Miss James.’ His clever, rag-trade fingers automatically reached out to price the tweed. ‘Very nice. But it is not a Drayke’s garment, Miss James. You girls are my Living Advertisements. You are not paid to advertise’ – he ran an expert eye over the sculpted waist, the hand-covered buttons – ‘Mr Hardy Amies. You’ve got your uniform, why don’t you wear it?’
‘I’ve not been here long, Mr Philip. I’ve only got two outfits and I can’t wear the same thing every day. I washed my navy twinset last night but it’s still drying. It did say “dry away from direct heat” on the swing ticket.’ Sweaters are called sweaters for a reason. Stay fresh and never fall victim to underarm fustiness.
‘Well, well, we’ll see if we can’t find you something upstairs.’ He had a whole cupboard full of samples and oddments most of which supplied his family’s Christmas presents. ‘Come and see me on Monday and we’ll dig something out.’
‘It’s my Long Weekend.’
‘Tuesday then. I don’t ever want to hear a customer say that to you again. Nice-looking girl like you. You should be a real asset to the firm.’ He looked at her again. ‘I hope you aren’t thinking of leaving us?’
Guess who else had seen the sign in Hillson’s window?
‘I’m very happy here, Mr Philip.’
Which was no answer and he knew it.
Brigitta was now at the till with a vast pile of sweaters, swatches and order books. Jane and her suit disappeared downstairs to tidy away the stock. She didn’t mind. The basement was warm and nicely smelly with traffic wax and the faint scent of burning fluff from inside the Bakelite wall heaters. Mirrors covered every inch of wall space that wasn’t taken up by shelving. The counters were elbow-deep in cashmere. It was Brigitta’s style to pull out all the different shades; that way the voice in the customer’s ear saying ‘Why not have both?’ seemed almost reasonable when they looked at all the colours they could have had. Jane folded and bagged, folded and bagged until she had finally dug back down to naked rosewood. Ten minutes to one. Please don’t let there be a late customer.
Jane finally looked up from her last bit of folding and saw her reflection, flushed from the basement heat. She did her best to smile a warm, winning, crocodile-handbag smile.
‘The wind’ll change and you’ll stay like that.’
Bennett was like a portable Doreen, a whining voice in her ear to drag her back down to earth.
‘A young man called for you with a delivery while you were out getting that sandwich.’ She produced a large Hardy Amies bag from the stock room. ‘He said the fitter thought you might like it. No one bought it in the end. Can’t say I’m surprised. It’s a horrible colour and the zip’s broken. I had a quick look. I knew you wouldn’t mind.’
It was the violet dress and coatee.
‘He seemed very disappointed to miss you, your young man. Rotten suit he was wearing.’
The bell was being rung by the beadle and she could hear the happy sound of the doors being locked and blinds being pulled down. Jane stuffed the last pile of three-button cashmere shirts into their cubby-hole. They fitted easily now – the American couple played a lot of golf.
‘How much did they spend in the end?’
‘Two hundred and sixty quid,’ said Bennett glumly.
They both silently calculated Brigitta’s two per cent. More than a week’s wages for Jane.
Chapter 6
Just follow this simple, practical advice
and you, too, can evolve into a charming
and attractive woman. A magnet to
any single man and the natural focus
of attention at any social gathering.
It was only when she was actually walking out of the shop that it dawned on Jane that finding Miss Crocodile might not be as easy as all that. Why hadn’t she just taken the bag round to the police at Vine Street? It was too late to take it in now and, anyway, the more she thought about it, the more she worried about the price tag and that envelope full of tenners – she hadn’t dared to count it.
She walked along Piccadilly but carried on right past the side street where the oyster bar was. Instead she headed for the department store on the corner. She slipped off her coat as soon as she got inside, folding it round to the plain black silk lining: that was better. She swanned over to the perfume counter, swinging the Hardy Amies carrier with the violet dress and crocodile bag inside it. The salesgirl sprang to attention. She was thinking of changing her scent. Did Madam have anything in mind? Madam sniffed pickily at several before putting a big cold squirt of Joy on her wrist. The costliest perfume in the world. That was probably the only reason people bought it. It was a bit sickly, tell the truth.
‘I won’t buy it today, if you don’t mind. I need to get someone else’s opinion first.’ The saleslady smirked understandingly. They were used to people killing time. They got through six bottles of Joy a month: five for the browsers; one for the saleslady.
Jane faffed around playing shops and being madamed a bit more before finally putting her coat back on and heading off for Carpenter’s.
You could see into the restaurant from the street. It was nearly half past one but the place looked pretty dead with only a handful of old bachelors slurping down a few dozen oysters at the brass and mahogany counter. There was a rather lively little crowd in the bar next door but they could hardly be waiting for tables.
Jane stood by the door pretending to study the menu but looking in through the lumpy yellow glass panes. Bingo. There in the middle of that laughing group, lit by the lamps that dangled above the bar, was the girl in the photograph.
She was sitting on a high stool apparently in the middle of telling a funny story. She was wearing a shortish, short-sleeved dress in peacock-blue ribbed silk with a bubbling bib of black and blue beads. Her legs were crossed (high on the thigh, natch) and they dangled temptingly over the edge of the stool.
Jane opened the door and slipped inside. The funny story was in full swing and the girl was telling it brilliantly. She had a delicious voice – like an actress but more natural. The accent had golden touches of Army and In-ja all gingered up by a spicy vocabulary that she used almost innocently, like Brigitta swearing in a foreign language.
‘So. The chap says, “Fifty quid! That’s a hell of a lot of money. What’s it made of?
” ’ She giggled a little. ‘Now you mustn’t blame me for this. It was Dickie’s story so any complaints and you know where to go.’
She took a tiny sip of her gin and tonic, looking at them saucily over the rim of her glass, making them wait.
‘Anyway. The man trying to sell him the wallet says, “It’s made from elephant’s foreskin.” ’
She said it in a shocked stage whisper and the bar was already yelping with laughter. There were four men and two other women, older. The men wore tweed jackets or blazers, the women smart weekend clothes and just-set hair.
‘“Well, I’m sorry,” says the chap, “but fifty quid’s still a lot of money just for a wallet.” “Ah, yes,” says the other man, “but if you rub it, it turns into a suitcase.” ’
Mayhem. One of the women – black and white striped suit and hair the colour of bottled orange juice – had a laugh like an air-raid warning.
‘Trust Dickie to teach a girl a story like that.’
The girl seemed very pleased with the success of her joke and had another taste of her gin. One of the men – handsome, curly dark hair, mid thirties – moved in to offer her a cigarette from a smart silver case. She took it and leaned forward to find the flame. It was beautiful to watch her raising her eyes to his as she sucked the cigarette alight. Jane knew how to do this (she’d practised in the bedroom mirror when everyone was out) but she’d never actually dared put it to use. The girl looked so sexy doing it. It wasn’t a trick to waste on any old Tony.
Jane edged closer to the laughing group. The girl saw her first and smiled expectantly at the mousey little person in the funny grey coat but it was the dark man who spoke.
‘Hello, young lady. You looking for someone?’
It was like being on stage. They had all turned to look at her. She stammered over her lines: ‘I think, I think one of you might have lost a handbag.’ She pulled it free of the carrier. ‘I found it yesterday.’
The girl’s eyes lit up. They were bright blue. Lobelia blue.
A Vision of Loveliness Page 5