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 skilclass="underline" 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 cigarettes 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.