Keepsake (28 page)

Then young Mr Ficklepenny consulted his watch and announced bumptiously, ‘Come along now, ladies and gentlemen, time to go down!’

Etta finished buttoning her overall. Mr Vant wrapped his grey wrinkled mouth around his cigarette to take a
final deep inhalation. Mesmerised, Etta pictured him sucking his socks up through his legs into his chest, so strenuously did he pull on it. Her last button fastened, she looked down at herself despondently, wondering if she would be able to bear the stench of the overall and hoping she could make do with just the one by washing it overnight.

The youth clapped his hands as one would to a child. ‘You too, Miss Lanegan, let’s start as we mean to go on!’

Hating being under such rule but having no choice, Etta went down to begin instruction.

However, later in the morning, after a ten-minute break for tea, when the manager went out into town for a cup of coffee, she was to discover that there remained enough of the schoolboy in Mr Ficklepenny to provide a humorous interval, his main party-piece being to tip methylated spirits onto a counter and set it alight.

‘Ooh, he’s a card,’ sniggered Mary-Ann, hand over mouth as blue flames danced across the counter before the pyromaniac expertly smothered them with a flourish. ‘He’ll get copped one of these days.’

‘Nay, I’m too wick,’ bragged Cyril Ficklepenny, acting the showman. Withdrawing a bag from his pocket he thrust it at Etta. ‘Here, have one.’

About to delve into it, she noted with surprise, ‘It looks like India rubber.’

‘It is. He cuts them into bits and scoffs them.’ Mr Tupman wandered up to join the circle that had gathered, the more relaxed in the manager’s absence. ‘He’s flipping crackers.’

Etta watched in astonishment as a grinning Mr Ficklepenny partook of the contents of the bag, relishing the pieces of eraser as if they were sweets.

‘Here, have a proper one.’ Mary-Ann handed round a bag of toffee, Miss Sullivan and Miss Jackley from the children’s department being first to delve in.

Etta rarely ate this confection but accepted a lump just to be sociable, looking from the corner of her eye at the cashier who remained aloof in her small glass booth. ‘Miss Bunyon looks disapproving. Will she tell?’

‘No, she hates Dandy as much as we do,’ said Maude Wimp.

‘Dandy?’

‘Our esteemed manager,’ provided Tupman, toffee in cheek. ‘Short for Dandelion, you know, as in dandelion and burdock. Mindst, he’s been called all sorts. We used to call him Buttercup at one time.’

Etta laughed at the apt description, and agreed that the shape of his face with its limpid brown eyes reminded her too of a cow’s, especially as on either side of the bald pate was a little tuft of hair, the placing and arrangement of these making them appear like horns. The red-haired man grinned back at her, this and the smiles of others engen-dering a feeling of camaraderie. Perhaps things were not going to be so loathsome here after all.

‘Oh damn,’ issued Maude at the entry of a prospective customer. ‘I knew somebody’d come in the minute I’d put this in my mouth.’

‘As the actress said to the bishop,’ leered Mr Ficklepenny.

‘What do you mean?’ enquired Tupman, straight-faced.

‘You know!’ the youth grinned lasciviously.

Tupman remained mildly puzzled. ‘No, we don’t, do we, Mr Vant? Tell us.’

‘Well, it’s just – it’s just summat you say!’

‘You don’t know, sonny, do you?’ admonished the older man. ‘In that case it would be wiser not to voice such vulgarities in front of ladies.’

‘Especially as you’re meant to be in a position of authority,’ added Mr Vant, wagging a shoehorn.

Ficklepenny blushed crimson, his amusement petering out at being so humiliated. Etta had no understanding of the comment, and neither, she suspected from their blank
expressions, did the other women, but she was grateful to Mr Tupman and Mr Vant for their chivalry.

Unfortunately, her smile brought her under attack from the trainee manager. ‘Don’t just stand there, go with Miss Wimp and learn your job!’

Following Maude’s example, she discreetly spat the lump of toffee into a twist of paper and rushed to attend the customer.

For the next seven hours, except for the one allocated for lunch and a short tea-break in the afternoon, Etta was inducted into the ways of the shoe trade. She attempted to retain all that she was taught, the rules and regulations, especially the one that decreed that the customer was always right even if he or she was blatantly offensive, this latter rule being the most difficult to uphold and the new assistant very nearly finding herself sacked on her first day when a woman took exception to being told that the shoes she had selected did not flatter her and walked out.

‘But she requested my opinion!’ a tired Etta objected, upon the manager’s reprimand.

‘She expected you to tell her they looked splendid,’ scolded Mr Burdock, the fat on his double chin wobbling. ‘And so do I. Your role, Miss Lanegan, is to sell the product.’

Towards the end of a very long day when it looked as if another awkward customer might cost her her job, Etta despaired as she scanned the wall of shoe boxes for a solution, her own footwear having rubbed blisters on the two swollen lumps of hot meat on the end of her aching legs, when she felt a sweaty presence at her side.

‘Take her these.’ Mr Burdock’s pudgy hand tugged a box from the fixture. ‘They match the colour of her hat.’

‘They’re not what she asked for; she won’t like them.’

‘Miss Lanegan, have you listened to nothing?’ The fat, impatient face jutted towards hers. ‘Make her like them. That is the art of a saleswoman.’

Moving slightly away, she beheld him in protest. A dark shadow of stubble had begun to sprout on the perspiring, lardish jaw. On top of his manner she found it immensely irritating. ‘I can’t force her to buy them.’

Burdock was firm. ‘No, but with a little charm you might persuade her. And as an added incentive, this one carries a spiff.’ He pointed to a ticket on the box. ‘Every pair of old stock you move will earn you an extra sixpence in your wage packet at the end of the quarter.’

For someone on eleven shillings per week this was sufficient to make Etta put aside her principles. Perking up, she bore the outmoded shoes directly to the customer, telling her, ‘I omitted to show you these, madam. They are just in and very modern – but perhaps too modern for madam’s tastes.’

Watching her, Burdock groaned at the new assistant’s idea of charm.

But there was a certain method to Etta’s words as she added, ‘All the young ladies are wearing them.’

‘You’re not.’ With acid features, the mature-looking woman glanced down, then indicated Mary-Ann. ‘And neither is she.’

‘Only because I’m unable to afford them,’ confessed Etta sadly. ‘They are rather superior quality to the ones I buy – such a pretty colour too.’ She affected to admire the garish hue. ‘In fact, they’re an exact match for the ribbon on your hat.’

The woman sought out a mirror and her suspicious frown departed. ‘So they are.’ And, though still dubious, she tried them on and paraded before the admiring assistant. ‘Well, they were not what I came in for…but you’re right in saying they match my hat. Do they suit me, do you think?’

‘Admirably,’ confirmed Etta.

‘Mmm…’ a moment’s indecision. Then, ‘I’ll take them.’

A triumphant Etta was picking the spiff off the box
before wrapping it when she felt the manager’s hot breath in her ear. ‘Well done, Miss Lanegan – but wait, if you can persuade her to buy a handbag there’ll be another little bonus in it for you.’

Her tactics this time proved not so successful. Even so, Etta was grateful to have earned herself a precious extra sixpence, and yet more grateful upon being told that it was time to take her receipt book to the office in preparation of closing.

At long last the working day ended and she said perfunctory goodbyes to the other assistants. Whilst not as bad as she had feared upon being introduced to them this morning, none of them were of the type with whom she could strike up a close friendship – but then she was not there to make friends but to keep a roof over her children’s heads. How desperate she was to cuddle her brood after being apart from them since yesterday morning.

Alas, when she went to pick them up from their grandmother’s they were too drowsy to care, the youngest one being particularly crabby at this disruption to his life. Etta wanted to weep, and yet again cursed Martin for destroying her family.

And no sooner had she taken them home than it was morning and time to give them back. So exhausted was she that it hardly registered how oddly Aggie greeted her when she entered, and she did not notice or comment on all the scurrying and guilty looks.

Besides which, Aggie spoke first, her awkward expression being quickly replaced by a look of eagled-eyed concern as she demanded, ‘Where’s your wedding ring?’

It was Etta’s turn to shrink with guilt then. She had expected someone to comment on this last night but, probably because it was dark, no one had noticed. Defensively, she retorted, ‘I don’t even know if I am still married. Your
son hasn’t granted me the courtesy of knowing whether he’s alive.’

Uncle Mal shared an uncomfortable look with Red then shuffled out to the closet with a newspaper.

Aggie remained intent on Etta’s denuded ring finger. ‘Ye haven’t pawned it?’ she gasped.

Etta shook her head and spoke truthfully. ‘I’ve been forced into taking it off because no one would employ a married woman.’

Aggie gave a murmur of sympathy as she watched Etta kiss each of her children prior to leaving for work. ‘It must be terrible hard having to deny these little mites.’

Etta’s quick nod foretold that it was heartbreaking. ‘But I must keep up the lie or lose my job.’ Then she cocked her head. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking: why should you have to look after Martin’s children?’

‘I’ve said I don’t mind,’ Aggie told her.

‘But you shouldn’t be forced into it! And, for that matter, neither should I, when all I need do is apply to the Parish and they’d trace him for –’

‘Oh, don’t do that!’ warned her mother-in-law hastily.

‘But he should be made to attend his responsibil—’

‘No, no, ye mustn’t!’ Aggie was adamant.

Red, too, looked alarmed. ‘We’re well as we are, deary. They’ll send a constable, we can’t be having any truck with the polis.’

‘But I don’t earn enough to contribute to the children’s upkeep,’ she reasoned.

‘No need, darlin’!’ Aggie remained emphatic. ‘We’ve ample money now the girls are sending their wages home. Don’t go making the situation worse by instructing them busybodies.’

‘You’re very generous,’ concluded Etta with a look of gratitude. ‘Well, then, I’d better go. I don’t want to be late again.’ She blew a last kiss to the children and left.

Aggie sagged in relief and opined to her husband, ‘That
was a close call.’ She turned to look at Red, then, noticing he had fallen asleep, she clicked her tongue and muttered, ‘Talking to my bloody self again.’ And, now that it was safe, she gave her grandchildren a drink of milk then pulled out the letter that upon her daughter-in-law’s entry had been hastily stashed behind the clock, and continued reading it.

By the end of that first week, the sheer physical effort of having to be on her feet all day made Etta thoroughly jaded, and she remained dead to the world for most of Sunday morning, or at least until her children began to whine impatiently for breakfast. Eyes like slits, she indulged them by letting them snuggle into her bed for as long as they would remain still; then, after dinner at Aggie’s, devoted the entire afternoon to their enjoyment, prescribing a nature walk before bedtime stories at the end of an all too short day of rest.

Still, it hurt that she saw so little of them for the rest of the week. The working day, purported to be eight hours long, often extended much longer than this if custom required it, and sometimes Etta could still be there at eight or even nine at night if there was stocktaking to be done, so the little ones were invariably asleep when she got home and, not long afterwards, so was she. Even when she did have them to herself there were things to intrude. Possessed of a solitary overall, she had only Sunday on which to launder it. This meant that by the middle of the week it was far from pristine, which earned the manager’s disapproval, and so she was compelled to wash it on her Wednesday afternoon off as well – more disruption to her time with the children – and to rise half an hour earlier in order to iron the wretched thing. The only good thing she
could say about the job, other than that it would eventually bring in money, was that it had brought male admirers who, thinking this beauty unwed, were falling over themselves to assist her. It was rather touching when one’s husband obviously no longer cared.

Payday came at last, and whilst it was very welcome this buoyant feeling did not last long. Once the cash had been allocated it was back to lean pickings for another week. Always quick to damn her mother-in-law, Etta now gave praise for Aggie, without whose help her children would have starved. It was only at her in-laws’ house that she herself tasted meat nowadays, at home existing mainly on bread and condensed milk. Fortunately it was summer and savings could be made on fuel, but there was nothing to spare for clothing, however desperately she might need it.

Struggling to survive on the eight shillings that was left after the rent had been deducted, Etta inwardly raged.
Surely
she could do better for herself? As she hurried back and forth to work through town, her eyes could not resist being drawn to the window of each artistic embroidery shop. Why, the examples of needlework displayed were no better than she herself produced for fun, or had done once. No longer able to afford the goods within, lucky even to scrape together fourpence for a ball of white mending cotton, she eyed the silks wistfully. She had in fact applied to all these establishments, but there had been no vacancies. However…An idea began to form. It was futile to dream of renting premises but she could acquire a sewing machine by hire purchase and thenceforth work from home. Sparked by enthusiasm, she decided to go out in her lunch break and make enquiries at the Singer Sewing Machine Company.

But to her crushing disappointment, quite apart from the deposit, the weekly instalments would be half a crown, far more than she was able to spare. Certainly, once she was established the rewards would more than cover this amount, but how could she afford the initial outlay? She could move
in with her in-laws to save on rent – some might say it was ridiculous not to do so – but Etta was loath to relinquish what little independence she had. Besides which, life would still be a struggle. So, it appeared she was trapped in the shoe shop until the time came when she could afford to put a little money by.

Thoughts of money, or rather the lack of it, were to become all-consuming. Despite the fact that it made things worse, Etta could not resist counting the days up to the quarterly disbursement when she might reap the benefit of her sales technique.

With the latter continuing to improve, by the time the long, hot summer drew to a close she had learned every trick in the trade. These included all manner of lies to an unsuspecting patron, and where Etta might once have disdained to involve herself in such dupery she now rushed to participate if it meant affording bacon as opposed to offal. Besides, after hours of pandering to customers’ whims and being subjected to their sweaty feet in varying degrees of decomposition, she had come to view them as the enemy and therefore fair game.

Mr Burdock himself had also come to be included in this category. Whilst quite an amicable man, and obviously as admiring of her looks as his male underlings, he had been very patronising in bestowing her with his great experience and she had no qualms about joining her colleagues in mocking him. These humorous intervals had been somewhat enhanced lately by the fact that the unfortunate fellow had developed an intimate complaint. The female assistants in particular found it most entertaining to spy upon him when, imagining himself unobserved, he groped beneath his frockcoat, performing contortions in trying to reach the excruciating itch between his chubby buttocks.

He was at it again today. Behind his back, spying round a pillar, Etta and Mary-Ann clutched each other in mirth, almost hysterical with silent laughter as he strained on tiptoe
to alleviate the irritation. ‘Ooh, he’s like a ballerina!’ giggled Mary-Ann, tears in her eyes.

Etta mopped her own streaming face with a handkerchief, blurting, ‘Do you think I should fetch him the sink plunger?’ Allowed to enjoy the mischief for a while longer until another customer required serving, she broke off and wiped her face with the declaration, ‘Gosh, what fun – and payday too.’ And a quarterly payday at that. It was certainly worth the wait. Etta found upon tearing open her brown packet in the staff room at lunchtime that there was almost an additional week’s wages from all the extra pennies and shillings she had accrued.

Mary-Ann was pleased with hers too. ‘Spiffing! I can finish paying off my hat.’ Unable to afford the said item in one go she had been forking out weekly instalments. ‘What will you buy with yours, Ett?’

‘Oh, it’ll just go on bills.’

‘
Surely
you can afford a little treat?’ Mary-Ann and everyone else remained ignorant of Etta’s true circumstances. ‘Come to the De Grey Rooms with me tonight!’

Etta smiled at the dull-looking face. ‘Thank you for asking but it’s out of the question. My funds are already allocated.’

Mary-Ann shrugged her hefty shoulders. ‘What a dreary life for a young woman to have.’

‘It won’t be forever,’ announced Etta. ‘I intend putting what little I can save to good use. The moment I have a deposit I shall hire a sewing machine and be my own mistress.’ She divulged her other ambition of setting up an artistic embroidery shop.

Some were impressed, others were not, the cashier forming a smirk of derision as she gathered her belongings and headed downstairs. ‘Should be good at that with all the embroidering you’ve done so far. To hear the way you talk, you’re obviously too good to work here.’

‘Oh, I didn’t mean to insinuate that at all!’ Etta turned
apologetically to the others. ‘It’s just my little dream…’

Mary-Ann waited until the sound of the cashier’s footsteps had faded before commenting, ‘She can talk. There’s no one more stuck up than she is. Take no notice of the jealous cat, Etta, we know you’re not like that. Good luck to you, I hope you get your sewing machine. Wonder what
she’ll
come back with today. Half of Marshall and Snelgrove’s like last bonus day, no doubt.’

Etta frowned in confusion. ‘But how does she get a bonus when she doesn’t sell anything?’

‘If Dandy sells any old stock he lets her have the spiffs,’ confided her informant. ‘Miss Wimp overheard them talking. She collected almost a pound last time, didn’t she, Miss Wimp?’

Mr Tupman mocked them playfully. ‘Tittle-tattle, tittle-tattle!’

Etta flashed him a brief smile but her tone showed resentment. ‘It doesn’t seem right that we have to work so hard for our little bit extra whilst she contributes nothing.’

Mary-Ann was pragmatic. ‘Oh, it’s not just her, it’s a perk of the cashier’s job – ’cause they don’t have chance to earn it for themselves, you see. Matter of fact, I applied for the post when the last one left but I wasn’t clever enough.’

Etta announced, ‘I shall bear that in mind next time a vacancy arises. If I’m up to the task, of course,’ she added quickly.

‘If looks were the only requisite you would more than qualify, my dear,’ complimented Mr Tupman, rising. ‘Speaking for myself I hope it occurs. It’d be such a pleasant change not to suffer that haddock gob every time I visit the cash office.’

‘You’re terrible!’ accused Etta, but chuckled with the others.

‘I know, but you love me,’ grinned Tupman, who, having taken an earlier lunch, now went down to relieve the other male assistants. ‘Coming, ladies?’

‘Just got to do my hair and change my shoes,’ was Miss Wimp’s reply as he left, accompanied by Miss Jackley.

At this point Etta spotted something lying beneath the chair upon which he had just been sitting. She bent to retrieve it and was about to call after him. ‘Oh, you’ve dro –’ Then her eyes suddenly noted the amount on the wage slip and her lips parted in amazement.

‘Don’t let Mr Burdock catch you looking at that,’ warned Mary-Ann. ‘We’re not allowed to discuss how much we earn.’

‘I’m not surprised!’ Etta was indignant as she revealed Tupman’s earnings. ‘He receives over twice the amount I do!’

Mary-Ann spoke evenly. ‘Don’t forget it includes his spiff money.’

‘I’m referring to his basic wage – twenty-seven shillings!’ Etta’s temper was rising.

The other women gaped at each other. Then Miss Wimp wrinkled her bespectacled nose and offered in fairness, ‘Well, he’s a married man, he has a family to support.’

Etta was furious. ‘So do –’ my God, she had almost given herself away, ‘– lots of women too! Widows, daughters with invalid parents – why should he get twenty-seven shillings for doing the same job as us just because he’s a man? Do either of you think it fair?’

Alarmed at the outburst, Miss Wimp shoved her glasses back up her nose, leaving Mary-Ann to say thoughtfully, ‘Well, I only have myself to clothe. Me mam and dad are kind, they don’t take as much as they could. But you’ve got your mother depending on you, haven’t you, Miss Wimp?’ Her tone suggested that the other might care to object.

However, Maude paused only slightly as she combed her lank hair in the mirror. ‘It would be nice to have a little more, I agree. But that’s just the way of things.’ She gave a feeble shrug.

‘Who decreed this?’ cried Etta, infuriated as much by their acceptance as the unfairness of it all. ‘I’m beginning to revise my opinion of Mrs Pankhurst.’

‘Ooh, you’re not one of them suffragists, are you?’ breathed Mary-Ann. ‘Mr Burdock won’t have that sort of thing.’

‘I have no affiliation, but I do begin to recognise why we women are barred from politics.’ It had been bad enough under her father’s despotic rule, but not until she had been compelled to support herself financially had Etta really begun to see the need for suffrage. Robbed of any social standing, she certainly saw the wisdom behind it now. ‘Do you not think that if women had the vote they could command a better living?’

When her audience prevaricated, she returned to her main topic. ‘And what about Mr Ficklepenny?’

At this point the young man bounded in. ‘Do I feel my lugs burning?’ He made a hungry grab for his sandwich tin, flopped his buttocks onto a chair and his highly polished boots onto another.

Mary-Ann warned Etta but the latter ignored her and said stiffly, ‘We were wondering how much you are paid.’

Stunned by her forthrightness, the youngster took a quick bite before replying through a mangle of bread and cheese, ‘The going rate.’

‘Which is?’ persisted Etta.

He chewed quickly and swallowed. ‘That’s not a question to put to one’s superior! If Mr Burdock heard –’

‘I’d like to know how much
he
takes home!’ cut in Etta.

‘A lot more than any of us, I’ll be bound,’ opined Ficklepenny, incising another large crescent from his sandwich. ‘What’s started all this off anyway?’

‘Mr Tupman’s wage slip.’ Etta brandished it.

‘Eh, you shouldn’t have that – give it to me!’ He leapt up and snatched it with his free hand, though it was too late to matter, Etta being already fired up.

‘Am I to assume you receive a similar amount?’ she demanded.

Still he refused to tell, stuffing the wage slip into his pocket and sitting back to eat. ‘I might do, it’s nowt to do with you.’

‘It most certainly is!’ She turned to exhort the other women, ‘Does no one else see the injustice in this?’

‘What can we do?’ asked Mary-Ann, a hopeless sag to her fleshy lips.

‘We can petition Mr Burdock for a fairer wage!’

‘Ooh, I daren’t,’ quailed Miss Wimp. ‘I couldn’t risk the sack.’

Neither could Etta, but, ‘It wouldn’t have to be so drastic if we band together with Miss Jackley and Miss Sullivan.’

‘Not much of a union with only five people,’ observed Ficklepenny, chomping contentedly whilst sprawled across two chairs.

‘It’s all very well for you!’ scolded Etta. ‘You’ve no family to support.’

‘Neither have you,’ he countered with a laugh.

Etta wanted to smack the brash little face, but instead squealed in frustration.

‘Ladies, gentlemen, what on earth is all this squabbling?’ The manager rushed in to censure them. ‘You can be heard in the shop!’

Far from being subdued like the others, Etta came right out with her objection. ‘Mr Burdock, it has come to our attention that certain members of staff earn disproportionate amounts to others.’

Burdock’s attitude changed. He was at once suspicious, looking around at the rest, all of whom avoided his eye and pretended to busy themselves. ‘You know the policy about discussing wages.’

‘It was an accidental indiscretion,’ said Etta, not wanting to land anyone in trouble.

Ficklepenny quickly swallowed his mouthful to say, ‘She
found this, Mr Burdock.’ In the manner of the class sneak, he handed over his colleague’s wage slip.