The Bright One (34 page)

‘Please tell me which department that is,' the man said. ‘This is my first day here. I could be searching the whole store for you! And what's your name?'

‘Breda O'Connor. I'm on Fabrics. So why would you be searching for me?'

‘Because I don't want to lose you,' he said. ‘And my name's Graham Prince.'

The perfect name, Breda thought. Wasn't he exactly like Lieutenant Philip Mountbatten, who was due to marry Princess Elizabeth next month, and would perhaps be a prince one day? And was there a girl in the whole country who wasn't in love with Philip?

‘And where are
you
to be found?' she asked. She had to know, for if he didn't seek her out she would surely seek him.

‘Almost everywhere,' he said. ‘I could be in Packing and Despatch, or Menswear, or in the office or in the Food Hall.'

‘I don't understand that,' Breda said. ‘So what's your job?'

‘I don't really have one, not like you. My father sent me here to train for at least a year. I'm to go through every department in turn.'

‘Why? What for?' Breda asked.

He seemed slightly uncomfortable at her question.

‘My family has a store in London,' he said. ‘My father didn't want me to train there, which is why I'm here. He has a great respect for Miss Opal. So has everyone in the retail store trade. She's a legend.'

‘Ah!' Breda said. ‘Then in that case I have to say I think you're sitting at the wrong table.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, you'll discover that we sit according to rank. I expect you should be with the buyers, or even the top management. Certainly not with a third sales assistant.'

He smiled, showing even white teeth. ‘It's not at all like that. I shan't have much truck with top management, and I'm not to be shown any favours. Strict instructions from my Pa to Miss Opal. And she'll see they're carried out.'

‘I have to go,' Breda said, though she wanted never to have to move. ‘There'll be trouble if I'm late back. I don't suppose that will apply to you.'

‘Oh yes it will,' he contradicted her. ‘Do you always come to lunch at this time?'

‘Yes,' Breda said. ‘Except that I call it dinner.'

‘Then I'll see you tomorrow?'

‘I'll be here,' Breda said.

‘I thought you were never coming,' Doreen Wilmot said on Breda's breathless arrival in the department. ‘Good thing for you Miss Craven is late or you'd catch it.'

I wouldn't care if I did, Breda thought. She hadn't felt so happy since the minute she'd set foot in the store; or in Akersfield or anywhere else for that matter.

The accident happened in the middle of the afternoon. Miss Wilmot, serving a customer, climbed up the small stepladder to get a roll of cloth from the top shelf. There was no telling how she did it, but suddenly, with a shriek which could be heard from one end of the floor to the other, she fell off the ladder and lay on the floor behind the counter with the roll of cloth on top of her.

It was clear there was no way she could get up, and also that she was in pain. Mr Stokesly was summoned from his dinner and Miss Craven alerted the nurse from the staff sickroom.

‘In the meantime,' Miss Craven commanded, ‘do
not
move her!' She had done her first aid at the beginning of the war, and although she had never had occasion to use it and remembered little, she did recall that you practically never moved anyone. You left them where they fell, and covered them up, which she now did with a roll of best-quality heavy wool cloth, at four coupons a yard.

‘I'm quite sure it's a fracture, though whether her ankle or her leg I can't be certain,' the nurse said. ‘Either way, she'll have to go to hospital.'

Mr Stokesly telephoned for an ambulance. By the time it arrived a small crowd had gathered to watch a deathly pale Miss Wilmot being gently lifted onto a stretcher and borne away. There was an almost pleasurable air of excitement. It was not often that anything untoward happened in Opal's well-run store.

‘What in the world are we going to do?' Miss Craven demanded. ‘No Junior, no Second Sales!'

Luckily, three days after Doreen Wilmot's unfortunate accident Betty Hartley's mother called in the store to report that her daughter's tonsilitis, which had been really bad, had taken the turn and was coming along nicely and she expected to be back at work on the following Monday. ‘All being well,' she added darkly. ‘Though you don't seem to be having much luck on this department, do you? Not since Miss O'Connor joined you, though I expect that's just a coincidence.'

She was not at all sure about that. She disliked the Irish. Weren't they a bit fey, a bit psychic? The girl could well be the bringer of bad luck.

‘Come now, Mrs Hartley,' Mr Stokesly said jovially. ‘It can hardly be anyone's fault that Miss Wilmot fell off the stepladder! And your Betty must have been sickening for tonsilitis before Miss O'Connor set foot here. But I'm pleased your daughter is improving and we look forward to seeing her on Monday morning.'

‘All being well,' Mrs Hartley repeated.

It had been a hectic three days in the department since Doreen Wilmot's departure. They were now two short out of four staff, and since a particularly nasty head cold was going around the store with the rapidity of a forest fire, no substitutes could be found from other departments. Mr Stokesly could not be expected to serve behind the counter. It was not his job; he had more important things to do. Besides, he would have been stealing Miss Craven's thunder, not to mention her commission, which was more important.

‘And aren't I the one who suffers?' Breda demanded dramatically. ‘Doesn't it all fall on me?'

She was relating events to her family in Waterloo Terrace. Josephine, in particular, liked to hear every detail of Breda's days in Opal's. It was as if she experienced through her niece all the drama, and what she saw as glamour, of the store. Grandma Maguire, though she expressed indifference, never, Breda noticed, failed to listen avidly.

‘There are still all the Junior's jobs to be done,' Breda said. ‘Covers taken off in the morning, put on again at nights. Errands to run, shelves to tidy, everything to dust.'

‘Doesn't Miss Craven lend a hand?' Josephine asked.

‘Good heavens, Auntie Josie!' Breda said. ‘Miss Craven is First Sales. I don't suppose she's handled a duster since before the war!'

‘It'll do you no harm,' Grandma Maguire said.

‘Oh, I know!' Breda agreed.

‘Satan finds mischief for idle hands to do!'

‘Then he'll not find much for me,' Breda said. ‘When I'm not sweeping and dusting, I'm being temporary Second Sales. I field the customers Miss Craven is too busy to attend to.'

She didn't mind any of this. It kept her from ever being bored. The time flew by. She learned a lot about materials: how to measure them accurately, keeping an eye out for flaws and giving the customer a suitable allowance should one be found; how to roll the cloth up neatly and pin the ends so that it wouldn't disgorge itself every time it was moved from a shelf.

‘I enjoy serving the customers,' she said. ‘I like working out how much material they'll need for a dress or a skirt. They never seem to have the faintest idea.'

What she liked least was adding up the cost. She admitted to Miss Craven that arithmetic was not her strong point. ‘I don't know how you do it,' she said. ‘Three and seven-eighths yards at three and eleven a yard is beyond me.'

Miss Craven could do all these sums like lightning: any length, any price. She could also advise on how many reels of thread, how many yards of binding tape, and which zip fastener was most suitable.

‘There is a ready-reckoner under the counter,' Miss Craven said. ‘You'd better use it, though it won't look good to the customers.'

Nothing to do with Opal's store could depress Breda these days. It was a pleasure to come to work in the morning and, however tired she was, she was never in a rush to hurry home at the end of the afternoon. And what lightened all her days was the existence of Graham Prince. Since that first occasion he had eaten every single day at her table. Sometimes he was there before her, sometimes he was late in joining her, but he always appeared.

‘You had better go to dinner,' Miss Craven said now. ‘Don't be long!'

Graham was already at the table when Breda walked into the canteen. Her heart lifted at the sight of him. ‘I'm in a hurry today,' she said as she joined him. ‘I'm on a forty.'

‘A forty?'

‘Ah! Not being sales staff you wouldn't know about that, would you? I'm only allowed forty minutes instead of an hour, but I get my dinner free. It's just when we're very busy, or in an emergency. Miss Opal doesn't like staff hurrying meals. You can't get away with it just to have your dinner paid for.'

‘So what are you doing today?' she asked, attacking her macaroni cheese.

‘I'm on a very exalted job today,' Graham said. ‘I'm working on deliveries: unpacking, checking them off, delivering them to departments, taking them to the stockroom. It's heady work, I can tell you! The stuff of management. And, Miss Breda O'Connor, I shall be visiting Fabrics this afternoon. There's something your Buyer is waiting for.

‘I'll look out for you,' Breda promised.

‘You can't miss me,' he told her. ‘I'll be wearing a natty brown alpaca coat.'

Both she and Miss Craven were serving when he came. He was happy to wait, watching Breda at her work. She was conscious of being watched and, though she was glad to see him, it made her nervous. She was pleased when the sale was over and her customer departed.

‘You tie a very nifty parcel,' Graham said. ‘I suppose I shall have to learn to do that. Perhaps you could teach me.'

‘Miss Craven could teach you far better than I could,' Breda said smoothly. ‘She's an expert. I'm sure she'd be pleased to!'

He pulled a face.

Miss Craven despatched her customer and moved towards them.

‘Now, Mr Prince,' she said pleasantly, ‘what can I do for you?'

‘He wants to learn how to make up a parcel,' Breda said.

‘Oh no, not today,' Graham said hastily. ‘I'm sure you're much too busy. I've just brought a delivery.'

‘Put it behind the counter,' Miss Craven said. ‘Miss O'Connor, you can start to unpack it.'

‘Shall I give you a hand?' Graham offered.

‘No thank you. Miss O'Connor can manage quite well and it is not your job. Thank you very much, Mr Prince. Good afternoon.' Miss Craven spoke politely but firmly.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Craven. Good afternoon, Miss O'Connor,' Graham replied.

‘I can see I must have a word with you, Miss O'Connor,' Miss Craven said. ‘For your own good.'

It was Breda's experience that when someone said ‘for your own good' what followed would not be pleasant.

‘You
do
know who that young man is?' Miss Craven demanded. ‘I can't imagine you don't, since you seem to share a table every day. Oh, don't think it's gone unnoticed! And don't think it will do you any good, a third sales hobnobbing with the bosses! People don't like it.'

‘I'm not hobnobbing with him,' Breda said defensively. ‘We just sit at the same table. We're both strangers here and it's nice to have someone to talk to. Anyway, he's not one of the bosses. He's working in Deliveries at the moment, which is an even lower form of life than mine!'

‘That is as may be, for the moment. But his family is Prince, of Prince and Harper, a well-known store in London of which his father is Managing Director. Perhaps you did not know that, Miss O'Connor, but now that you do it behoves you not to get above yourself – out of your class, in fact.' Miss Craven's voice was heavy with warning.

Breda opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. The poor old thing was jealous. She could see it in the tightness of her mouth and the hardness of her eyes.

But she would not, no matter what anyone said, stop seeing Graham at dinner time, unless he made it plain he didn't want it, and he showed not the slightest sign of that. He seemed as happy in her company as she was in his. And that, at least up to now, was as far as it went, though she made no attempt to stifle the spring of hope in her heart.

In any case, other people were free to sit at the table, and often now they did.

‘It's probably because they want to get to know you,' she'd said to Graham.

‘Nonsense!' he'd contradicted. ‘All these fellows wanting to join me? It's you they're after. But don't forget I saw you first!'

Miss Craven moved away to attend to a customer. Breda busied herself cleaning the counter.

Was Miss Craven right, she wondered? Or at least partly right? Was she getting too fond of Graham? He was a bird of passage. When his year's training was up, wouldn't he go back to London and she'd never see him again? Wouldn't he forget all about her? She felt tears prick at her eyes at the very thought of it. For a moment she hated Miss Craven.

All the same, she had to be sure that she'd be able to forget him, and the way she felt now she never would, not if she lived to be a hundred, which was a long time ahead since she was just about to be eighteen. But hadn't two men already let her down? She had not had a word from Tony. Could she bear it a third time?

So when Graham, next day, asked her if she would like to go to the pictures one evening, she immediately said no. She was still not rid of the mood Miss Craven had pitched her into the previous day.