Secrets in Store

‘Well, what do you want me to say?’ Lily retorted childishly, then added, ‘Oh, I know. Of course. Good luck.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jim levelly. ‘See you tonight.’

And he was gone, straightening his glasses, pulling down his cuffs, tall and lanky in his threadbare overcoat. Oh, why had it come out like that? Angry and bitter and sullen, when what she really felt was … what was it? She felt betrayed – he’d betrayed their friendship, the closeness she’d thought they had. But more than that, she felt … bereft. And in a flash, she knew she felt for him far more than she’d properly feel for a friend.

Lily blinked – hard – and looked down at her feet. She could still see Jim walking away, but this time he was wearing an Army greatcoat and he was walking away down a crowded station platform to the troop train. She blinked again. Can’t cry, won’t cry, she thought, looking even more determinedly down. But the pavement was slimed with dirt from the melted snow, and her boots, which just a short while ago she’d been so proud of, looked shabby and pathetic, and she hated, hated this war.

Lily made it to work in time – just. She’d been there for six months now, but having a job, and a job at Marlow’s at that, was still enough of a novelty for her to feel a secret thrill every morning when she walked through the door, even at the staff entrance around the back, and even on a cold, dark Monday. Every morning – until this one.

It had never before seemed like dull routine, but it did today; clocking in with the timekeeper, taking off her outdoor things and stowing them in her locker in the clatter and din of the women’s cloakroom, always especially loud at the start of the week as everyone swapped stories of their precious Sunday off. Waiting her turn for the speckled mirror to check her appearance, brushing stray hairs and lint from her skirt, and hurrying along the long corridor past the goods lift and up the back stairs with the rest of the staff …

Even stepping through the double doors on to the sales floor didn’t give her heart its usual joyful lift. The store always looked so beautiful first thing, so pristine and tidy, with the faint strafe marks on the carpet from the cleaners’ vacuums, the counters gleaming and the goods deftly displayed. Though the heating was turned to its lowest setting, some of the overhead lights had had their bulbs removed – another Government order – and the stock on the rails was thin, the first floor at Marlow’s, in comparison with the increasing drabness of everything else in life, still looked impressive, glamorous, even.

She glanced automatically across to Furniture, as she usually did. Though they walked to work together and clocked in at the same time, Jim always beat her to the sales floor, because men never had to spend so long over their appearance, did they? Lily had seen it done enough times at home – a quick duck in the front of the mirror, smooth their hair, and that was it. It was a source of much envy to Lily. Even though she’d got much better at managing them for work, her strong-minded blonde curls still required a lot of handling and were the subject of many silent prayers – and curses.

She wouldn’t be the only one who’d miss Jim when he left, Lily thought. With his absence today, it had fallen to the new junior on Furniture to try to anchor a stand-up price card on the bilious green satin waves of an eiderdown. He was not making a very good job of it. He eventually gave up and propped it drunkenly against the headboard.

That was always one of the first jobs of the day, making the stock look its best. On Childrenswear, that meant taking the dust sheets and tissue-paper covers off the more delicate baby clothes, lifting every hanger and polishing the rails beneath. She’d better get to work.

Gladys was already there, brushing the velvet-collared coats – a mere seven (seven!) coupons, plus the marked price, a pretty steep one in this case. But at least when you shopped at Marlow’s you knew you were getting quality – or the best quality that was available these days. ‘Nothing but the best’ was the store’s motto – so if you bought a big enough size for your child, a Marlow’s garment would last and last. Anything else was a ‘false economy’. That, at least, was the sales pitch Lily had heard many a time from Miss Thomas and Miss Temple. They were the department’s two salesladies – or salesgirls, as they were called – absurd when they’d both been summoned out of retirement to replace younger staff who’d volunteered or been called up.

Lily mouthed a ‘hello’ to Gladys, found a duster, and started working her way around the rails. If she concentrated really hard, perhaps she could stop thinking about Jim and how he was getting on. She knew what he’d be going through from what Sid and Reg had told her about their medicals: breathing in and out under the cold disc of the stethoscope, sticking out your tongue and saying ‘Ahhh’, being quizzed about your bowels. She wondered if Jim knew what Reg had also told her last night, that once Jim had been trained, he might be sent abroad sooner than young men had been until now. But she knew he would. Jim wasn’t daft. No wonder he’d kept his decision to himself.

As she polished, Lily could see Miss Frobisher in conversation with the new floor supervisor, Mr Simmonds. Well, he wasn’t that new – he’d been in place since the autumn. He’d been the buyer on Sportswear before. It wasn’t the biggest of departments, so he’d been something of a surprise appointment, but announcing it to her staff, Miss Frobisher had been diplomatic.

‘Mr Marlow obviously thinks he has what it takes,’ she said, but Lily had noticed that she’d raised an eyebrow – she had very expressive eyebrows – when she’d first opened the staff office memo.

Mr Simmonds hadn’t even been at Marlow’s that long. He’d been a PT instructor in the Army, which was a qualification of sorts for selling sportswear, Jim had said, and he was certainly ‘on the ball’. Apparently, he’d risen to Warrant Officer Class II but had been invalided out with a niggling shoulder injury. Tall and lean, he strode about the first floor with an athlete’s vigour and a springy step which made you think he was going to vault the counter, not point out a smear. With his quick eye and brush-cut hair, he radiated energy and vitality, and Lily and Jim had concluded that he’d been given the job to shake things up.

As Lily watched, Mr Simmonds placed one hand under Miss Frobisher’s elbow and with the other indicated the door to the stairs. That meant they were going up to the management floor – quite possibly to an audience with Mr Marlow himself.

Miss Frobisher shot a quick look at the hand beneath her elbow, then a longer one into Mr Simmonds’s face. It was not a happy look, and it didn’t make Lily any happier either. On top of the worry about Jim, did it mean Childrenswear was in for a jolly good shaking?

Chapter 5 (#u21c8cd86-824c-5fca-a4a2-cd52d07923b1)

The surface of Cedric Marlow’s mahogany desk was usually empty apart from a calendar, blotter, pen tray and telephone. The accounts and paperwork that he took daily from his ‘In’ tray were efficiently placed, annotated, directly into his ‘Out’ tray. Anything that reposed for more than half an hour in the tray marked ‘Pending’ he regarded as a grave dereliction of duty.

Today, however, something had gone very wrong. For a start, he barely bothered with the usual pleasantries – and he was normally the most courteous of men. Secondly, the desk’s surface was barely visible for paper.

‘Have you seen this?’ he demanded of Miss Frobisher.

She was barely halfway across the Turkey carpet, and Mr Simmonds was still closing the door behind them.

Mystified, she came closer as Mr Marlow pushed Saturday’s copy of the local paper, the Hinton Chronicle, across the desk. Eileen Frobisher hadn’t seen it at the weekend; she’d had better things to do, but now, as he jabbed an impatient finger, she saw what Cedric Marlow was getting at.

She sat down on the chair that Mr Simmonds had thoughtfully placed at her side and drew the newspaper towards her.

‘WOMEN WANTED!’ ran the headline – pithy and to the point for the usually long-winded Chronicle.

She read on.

An appeal has gone out for women, especially young women aged between 18 and 25, to ‘do their bit’ and join the war effort in a new munitions factory in North Staffordshire. The Ministry of Labour and National Service is seeking no less than ten thousand workers in total and it is hoped to recruit ten per cent of them from our area.

Girls and women of Hinton, what are you waiting for? The factory’s machine shop could be turning out tens of thousands of shells a day for our brave fighting men. Instead it is standing shamefully idle. Answer this call and you could be actively helping our troops and our Allies in their valiant fight for justice and freedom! Not only that but you could be enjoying excellent working and living conditions.

The factory is situated in rolling countryside, but within easy reach of major towns. The workers will be housed on-site in a veritable home from home, not in dormitories but in their own separate bedrooms, equipped with a bed with sprung mattress, wardrobe and cupboard. There is an airy dining room serving three hot meals a day. There will be recreation rooms and hairdressing and laundry facilities. In addition, boyfriends will not be discouraged …

She understood at once why Mr Marlow was so agitated, and Peter Simmonds confirmed it. He plucked some papers from the ‘Pending’ tray.

‘The Chronicle’s fevered prose has already had some success. Mr Marlow has had six letters of resignation.’

Six! Now Miss Frobisher was worried. Surely not … well, not Gladys, a home bird if ever there was one. But had Lily Collins been tempted? She’d seemed unnaturally quiet that morning … but surely Lily would have had the decency to mention it to her first – and anyway, neither Lily nor Gladys was old enough, thank goodness!

‘Two girls from Haberdashery, one from China and Glass, and three – three! – from Perfume and Cosmetics!’ Cedric Marlow expostulated.

Miss Frobisher let out a breath.

‘I see. Well, I’m sorry, Mr Marlow. That’s a blow, obviously.’

‘It is, it is,’ fretted Cedric. ‘We’ve invested time and money in training those young women. I hoped they’d be with us for the duration – or until they reached the age for conscription anyway.’

‘Of course it’s a shock, sir,’ said Peter Simmonds smoothly. ‘But let’s try to look at it another way. With stocks ever lower, profits aren’t what they were – and in the present climate, they’re not going to recover. A little – shall we call it natural wastage? – may be a good thing.’

‘But six at once! If this goes on—’

‘There may be no more to come,’ soothed Miss Frobisher. ‘I’m sure most of the girls know they’re very well off where they are.’

Cedric Marlow turned his ire on Simmonds.

‘There’s enough natural wastage, as you put it, as it is. Whatshername – Beryl Bulpitt – Miss Salter as was – she’ll be leaving soon, won’t she, to have her baby? That’s another vacancy. There’ll be more customers than staff at this rate!’

‘I’m glad you said that, sir.’ Peter Simmonds extracted a sheet from the clipboard he always carried. ‘I’ve been taking a look at staffing levels. And without going so far as to outnumber staff with customers, I think there are several departments where a little rationalisation could be called for.’

Eileen Frobisher stiffened. Now she knew why Mr Simmonds had brought her up here. He had her department in his sights.

‘Rationalisation, that’s the word that was used,’ said Miss Frobisher. She wasn’t going to say who’d used it, though anyone would know that it wasn’t a word that would fall easily from Cedric Marlow’s lips.

It was ten thirty, and, having gathered her thoughts, she’d collected her staff together to explain ‘how things stood’. Everyone looked blank.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Frobisher,’ began Miss Temple, ‘you’ll have to explain. Something to do with rationing?’

‘Not quite. Though it seems I do have to give something up – a member of staff.’

Lily’s heart gave a pancake-like flip. Oh, no – no, no, no! Hadn’t she had enough bad news that morning? Yes, profits were down, yes, times were hard, but – no, please no! She’d be the one to go; last in, first out, wasn’t that the rule?

Miss Frobisher saw the panic in her eyes and quickly spoke.

‘I’m sorry, I put that badly,’ she said. ‘To be honest, I’m still taking it in myself. The good news is that no one will be losing their job. But there will be some shifting around.’