Queen of the Mersey (25 page)

Queenie jumped back, just in time, and her heel caught the customer’s toe.

The customer screamed. The manager opened his mouth to say something, though Queenie would never know what it was, because Matilda Mackie rushed around the counter and put her arm around her shoulders.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ She turned to her husband. ‘Gordon, I don’t know what this little girl was carrying, but it sounded like a ton of bricks and it shouldn’t be allowed. Come, dear. I’ll take you to the rest room and you can have a sit down. Gordon can see to this lady.’

Gordon Mackie requested Queenie’s presence in his office first thing next morning. ‘It seems to me you’re not fit to be on Ironmongery,’ he said with his usual bluntness.

‘I’m fit enough, just not strong enough.’ Queenie said defiantly. There was no chair in front of his desk and she had to stand, as if she was about to be put on a charge and thrown into the glasshouse. She didn’t know what to do with her hands and clasped them loosely over her stomach. ‘It’s usually a man on Ironmongery, anyroad.’

‘I suppose I’ll just have to move you.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I hadn’t planned on moving staff for a while yet. Which department do you fancy?’

Queenie blinked. Was she being given a choice? ‘Anywhere would do, though I’d prefer not to stay in the basement. Mr Matthews only put new staff there and they worked their way up, as it were.’

‘Did you work your way up from the basement?’

‘Well, no,’ she conceded. ‘Mr Matthews thought I’d be ideal on Children’s Clothing.’

‘Then don’t you think it’s about time you took your turn?’

‘If you insist.’ The Wool and Fabric departments were in the basement, as well as China and Cutlery, Children’s Toys and Stationery.

A strange, almost sly smile flitted across Gordon Mackie’s red face. ‘You’re a snotty little madam, aren’t you?’

Queenie blinked again. The words weren’t only offensive, but there was something familiar about the way they were said.

‘I was expecting that something like this would happen,’ he went on. ‘That you wouldn’t be able to stick it out and’d come crawling, asking to be transferred.’

‘I haven’t come crawling.’ Queenie gaped. ‘And I haven’t asked to be transferred, either.’

‘You would’ve, eventually.’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘I like a girl with spirit.’ He winked. ‘How d’you fancy the new Bridal Room?

It’s due to open on St Valentine’s Day. You’ll be twenty-one soon, old enough to be in charge.’

‘I’d love it, but …’

‘But what?’

‘I dunno.’ It seemed too easy. There must be a catch. One minute she was on Ironmongery, next the new Bridal Room, which all the women coveted and for which Queenie assumed she would be last in line.

‘All you have to do is be nice to me.’

‘Have I been horrible?’

‘No. But I can’t recall you being nice.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Queenie felt bemused.

‘Here, let me show you.’ He got up from behind the desk and came and put his arm around her shoulders, as his wife had done the day before, except Mrs Mackie hadn’t stroked her breast with her other hand. ‘That’s what I mean by nice,’ he whispered.

She had vowed to never let anyone take advantage of her again. Queenie roughly shoved the hand away, slapped his red face, and fled.

‘And his wife’s so nice!’ she wailed that night.

‘He sounds a beast,’ said a wide-eyed Laura. ‘I wonder if she knows what he gets up to?’

‘Perhaps she knows, but doesn’t care.’

‘Perhaps he wouldn’t care if she did. Anyway, what are you going to do now?’

‘I’ve got no choice,’ Queenie said miserably. ‘I’ll have to leave.’

‘You’re right, you’ve got no choice.’

‘He’ll give me a terrible reference, I just know.’

‘Mm.’ Laura tapped her fingers thoughtfully on the arm of the chair. ‘When you go for interview, tell them to approach Mr Matthews for a reference. It’d be best to ask him first. Do you know his address?’

‘No, but I can find out.’

Ena Heron, Ladies’ Footwear, knew Mr Matthews’s address. ‘It’s The Nook, Wellington Avenue, Birkdale. We sent a card from all of us when his wife died, it must be about ten years ago now. Lord, I don’t half miss him!’ she said with feeling.

That night, Queenie wrote Mr Matthews a little note saying she was about to apply for a new job and would he mind if he was asked for a reference?

His reply came by return of post. He wasn’t surprised she was leaving. He’d heard about the incident with the fire basket – ‘I have my spies’ – and thought it disgraceful she’d been put on a counter where no selling talents were required, no awareness of the customer psychology. ‘People either want a tin bucket, or they don’t.’ He would be pleased to supply a reference, but could do even better than that.

… If you wish, I will contact my old friend, Miss Patricia James, who is Personnel Manager at Frederick & Hughes in Liverpool – known locally as Freddy’s – and recommend she give you a job. Perhaps you would let me know if this suits you. (I worked in Freddy’s for over twenty years, starting in the stock room. I was just about to be made assistant manager, when the manager’s job in Herriot’s became vacant. I’ve often felt sorry that I took it.) ‘Freddy’s!’ Laura breathed when she read the letter. ‘It’s a beautiful shop. The architecture’s Victorian, so Roddy said. We had lunch in the restaurant only a few days before he went into the Army. There was a man playing a white grand piano and you should have seen the chandeliers, three of them, like cascades of diamonds.’ She paused a moment, her face very still, remembering. ‘You were here then, Queenie. I asked Vera to look after you and Hester. The manager – no, I think he was the owner – I can’t recall his name, but he sent us a bottle of wine. He was terribly nice, very handsome. I’m sure you’d enjoy working there.’

‘Laura, what’s customer psychology?’

‘I’ve no idea. Ask Gus, he’s more likely to know than me.’

Miss Patricia James was fiftyish, beautifully slim and terribly smart. She wore a black, pin-striped costume with a frilly white blouse underneath, and a pearl necklace and earrings. An overwhelmed Queenie tried hard not to show how nervous she felt as she faced Miss James in her rather cramped little office on the sixth floor of Frederick & Hughes. Queenie had worn her best black coat for the interview, a white angora beret with gloves to match, and her highest heels. She had brushed her creamy hair till it shone and felt she looked her best.

‘You obviously made an impression on Richard Matthews,’ Miss James said. ‘He wrote, praising you to the skies. You want to leave Herriot’s, he said, and I was to snap you up before another big shop got to you first. Mind you,’ she smiled, ‘Richard always had a weakness for a pretty face, though that’s as far as it went. I understand the new manager of Herriot’s isn’t quite so restrained.’

‘How did you know?’ Queenie gasped.

‘These things get around. Did he make a pass at you?’

‘Yes,’ Queenie said indignantly.

‘Well, you weren’t the first. From what I hear, no woman under thirty is safe from Gordon Mackie’s roving hands. Now, I’m going to give you a form to fill in.

Stay where you are and I’ll leave you in peace. I have one or two things to do in the shop.’

Queenie quickly completed the form in her small, neat handwriting. She sat, twiddling her thumbs, taking in the dark green filing cabinets, the faded carpet, the Venetian blinds, through which she could see flakes of snow being blown around outside. Miss James’s camel swagger coat hung on a satin hanger behind the door, a pair of suede gloves poking out of one of the pockets, and there was a beige velvet hat with a speckled feather on top of a filing cabinet.

She quite fancied a camel coat, the belted sort, except her small, trim figure suited fitted styles best. Belts made her look all bunched up, like a Christmas cracker.

She was giggling to herself at the comparison, when the door opened and a man entered the room.

‘I was looking for Miss James,’ he said in a soft, gentle voice.

‘She’s doing something in the shop,’ Queenie informed him.

‘Excuse me, but why were you laughing?’ the man enquired courteously. He had the most beautiful eyes, large and brown, a touch sad, she thought, and wasn’t very tall, about five feet seven. Although soberly dressed, somehow he managed to look rather flashy. Perhaps it was because his black hair was a mite too long, his grey silk suit a touch too shiny, and he was showing too much white cuff.

She noticed a pin sparkling in his pale grey tie.

‘I was just thinking about something funny,’ she explained.

‘Would you care to tell me what it was?’

‘Lord, no! It was funny, but at the same time dead stupid.’

‘I might not think it stupid.’

‘Oh, all right. I was comparing meself to a Christmas cracker. Me shape, that is. There! It’s not a bit funny, is it?’

The man looked at her gravely. ‘You’re right, it’s not. Why are you here?’

‘I’ve come for an interview for a job. I’ve just filled in the form. Do you work here?’

‘Yes. Goodbye, Miss …?’ He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

‘Tate. Queenie Tate.’

‘Queenie Tate,’ the man repeated as he closed the door.

‘Did you get it?’ Laura demanded the minute Queenie came in.

‘I don’t know, Miss James is going to write to me. I think, I hope, I made a good impression, and I filled in a form and put that I understood customer psychology. Oh, and I met this smashing chap, incredibly good-looking, though awfully old, at least forty. I should have asked his name. He looked sort of foreign and reminded me of Charles Boyer.’ She’d been unable to get the man out of her mind all the way home on the tram. He’d brought with him an all-enveloping warmth that had made her feel at ease straight away. She hoped she’d meet him again when – if – she got a job at Frederick & Hughes.

‘Now we’re both waiting for letters. I filled in a form too, for the Education Training Scheme. I’m still waiting to hear if they’ll have me.’

Queenie’s letter came first. Miss James requested that she commence work a week on Monday. She gave in her notice at Herriot’s in writing, putting it on Gordon Mackie’s desk when she knew he was at lunch, feeling sorry, but at the same time excited that she was about to start work in a shop four times as big and posher than Herriot’s by a mile.

On the day of the interview, after she’d left Miss James’s office on the sixth floor, she’d taken a look around the floors below on her way down the circular marble staircase, starting with the restaurant, where she treated herself to a cup of coffee and admired the three dazzling chandeliers suspended from the ornate ceiling, the satinwood walls and the stained glass peacocks in the enormous windows. She was disappointed that no one was playing the white grand piano.

The Furniture department was on the fourth floor and she was impressed by the elegant bedroom and dining room furniture and big, cushiony three-piece suites that stretched as far as the eye could see – Herriot’s were having difficulty getting the same department fully-stocked, factories were only slowly getting back into production following the war.

A male assistant approached and regarded her hopefully. ‘Can I help you, Miss?’

He was very old with rheumy eyes.

‘Not really. I was just wondering where all this lovely furniture came from so soon after the war?’

‘Mainly South America, Miss. You’ll find some very nice jewellery on the ground floor from the same place, handbags and gloves too. Mr Theo has a cousin who owns a shipping company in Greece. It’s him who fetches the stuff. Same with carpets from India and rugs from Persia. We’re very lucky in Freddy’s, not like some shops, still waiting for the same goods to come in.’

‘Who’s Mr Theo?’

‘The owner of Freddy’s, Miss.’

‘Thank you for the information.’

‘It’s a pleasure, Miss.’ He gave her a little, old-fashioned bow.

She gave Kitchenware, Household Linens, Curtains and the small electrical section only a cursory look. The same with Gentlemen’s and Children’s Clothing on the floor below, where goods were merely more plentiful and more expensive than in Herriot’s. She went down another flight of the circular stairs to the thickly carpeted, rosily lit second floor. ‘Ladies’ Exclusive Fashions’

proclaimed the sign over the door. The air smelt sweet and flowery and a number of well-dressed women were searching through the racks of clothes, pausing occasionally in front of one of the gold-framed swing mirrors to hold one of the delectable garments against them, before deciding whether or not to try it on. A few bored-looking men occupied some of the cream upholstered chairs, waiting for their partners to make up their minds. There was a large bridal section, another devoted to evening wear, a room within a room containing furs.

The furthest wall was a series of narrow recesses, individually lit, just big enough to hold a single plaster mannequin, each wearing a spectacular outfit: a mink coat, a sable jacket over a soft brown jersey frock, a severe black cocktail frock softened by a spangled lace bolero, a slinky white evening frock with narrow shoulder straps encrusted with diamonds. Queenie paused in front of a powder blue bouclé costume, the skirt gently flared, the fitted top completely plain except for a collar faced with paler blue silk.

She desired it instantly. It would make a perfect going-away outfit for when she married Jimmy. Laura had offered to make her a wedding dress, so it wouldn’t hurt to splash out on a costume to go away in – where to, she had no idea. Jimmy wasn’t due to be demobbed until March and they hadn’t got round to discussing the honeymoon in their letters.

The clothes in the recesses didn’t show a price. Queenie knew for a fact that Jaeger costumes cost as much as thirteen guineas, more than three weeks’ wages.

But I’ll only get married once, she reasoned. Unlike a wedding dress, a costume could be worn over and over again. It would be perfect if she was invited to a christening or someone else’s wedding. She could think of a dozen reasons why she should buy the costume, and not a single one why she should not.

‘How much is the blue costume over there?’ she asked an exquisitely made-up blonde assistant who was watching her with interest.