The Shop Girls of Harpers Read online

  Aunt Helen was a skilled seamstress and went out to measure and fit her ladies at their homes. She seemed to know lots of people, but Beth suspected that she was lonely, even though she gave no sign of it. Had Beth shown a talent for needlework, her aunt might have taken her on as her helper, but Beth’s stitches were not neat enough and she had tangled her thread twice when she used the machine so had been forbidden to touch it!

  As Beth passed, a youth was selling newspapers outside his employer’s shop which smelled of tobacco and, for some reason, strong peppermints. He was calling out to people as they went by, trying to make them buy.

  ‘Survey says two per cent of the nation die of cold weekly,’ the boy hollered. ‘Read all about it, come on, lady, buy me paper, do! Only a penny, ’appeny. Read about them ladies what smashed up Piccadilly…’

  He was referring to the Suffragettes who had rioted and smashed the windows of shops in the West End of London earlier that month.

  Beth fumbled in her purse for two pennies and waited for her change. She did not often indulge in the daily paper, but if her interview did not result in a situation she might have to apply for others.

  The fishmonger’s shop had the door open and smelled strongly as Beth continued on her way. In his window was a large selection of fresh fish, including plaice, cod, hake and bloaters, resting on beds of crushed ice. There were two large red lobsters on an enamel tray and Beth thought they must be very expensive. She’d never tasted lobster, though her father had taken her and her mother for a crab tea at Southampton on a day trip when she was small and he was strong, healthy and loving.

  A wave of grief went over her at the memory, because she’d loved both her father and her mother, despite her mother’s increasing selfishness as her illness gained on her and she demanded all Beth’s time and energy. Aunt Helen would have condemned her sister to the infirmary, but Beth kept her mother at home and never minded what she did. She wished with all her heart that she could have her parents back but knew that the past was gone and she must move forward.

  Beth arrived at her aunt’s small terraced house in Broughton Street, a few minutes’ walk from her bus stop at High Holborn. It looked in need of some paint on the doors and windows, but the white stone step had been scoured by Minnie, who came in for two hours three times a week to do the rough work, and the lace curtains were spotlessly clean. She thought that it was a cheerless, respectable place but could never be a home, though as Aunt Helen often reminded her, had she not taken her in, Beth might be living in one room somewhere that smelled of boiled cabbage and damp. It was smaller than the house in the East End where her father had set up his surgery, but the district was nicer.

  Taking a deep breath, Beth entered the hall, which was redolent of lavender polish, her pulse quickening as she heard that infernal treadle machine. Would Aunt Helen’s house ever feel like home to her or would she always tip toe round like a stranger?

  2

  Maggie let herself in through the back door of her home, a small end-of-terrace house in Jameson Street, not far from Cheapside. It was a narrow road with houses on either side, their paintwork peeling, a shop on the corner and children playing hopscotch on the pavements. Yet despite the dilapidated state of many of the houses, the net curtains at every window were spotless and the white doorsteps scrubbed every morning.

  She could hear no sound from the kitchen and suspected that her mother had either gone to the market or popped to the corner shop. Her heart lifted, because Muma was inclined to complain in a loud voice, mostly about how much she had to do and how hard it was to manage now that Poppa was an invalid. Maggie was always afraid that Poppa would hear and be hurt; she was his only child and knew that she meant everything to him, as he did to her and every time she saw that stricken look in his eyes, it was like a knife thrust in her heart.

  His accident, while working as a foreman at Dorkings, an importer of grain and other foodstuffs on the East India Docks, had turned him from a happy, cheerful man into an invalid overnight. A crane lifting a crate had snapped a wire and the falling object had caught Poppa a glancing blow on the back of his neck despite a warning that had saved his life. However, the injury to his spine was such that he was unlikely to work again. He’d been earning good money as a foreman and being a thrifty man had hoped to secure a good future for his girl, but the accident had robbed him of the use of his legs and her of all he’d promised her. All Maggie cared about, though, was that he should live and his pain should ease.

  Running upstairs, she went quietly into her father’s bedroom, not wanting to disturb him if he was sleeping. His head turned towards her on the pillow and he smiled.

  ‘You’re back then, love. I think your mother went shopping…’

  ‘Yes, I expect so. I told her I would go when I got back, but she says she gets the best bargains.’

  ‘She probably does,’ Poppa agreed and his hand reached for hers as she sat on the edge of his bed. He couldn’t use his legs properly, though his hands and arms were still able to move and his fingers closed lovingly over hers. ‘We have to be careful with money until my compensation comes through…’

  ‘Have they told you how much it will be?’ Maggie asked. Because it was a fault with the machinery at the docks that had caused the terrible accident, the owner had agreed to pay compensation, but her mother said it would be no more than a fraction of what he’d earned.

  Her father smiled at her lovingly. ‘Not yet, love. I may get a lump sum or it may be a few bob a week – we’ll have to see.’

  ‘I got a job at Harpers,’ Maggie said, the excitement bubbling out of her. ‘I start next week, but we have training before that; I shall get six shillings a week to start, but when I’ve finished training in three months, I’ll get twice that…’

  ‘I wanted you to stay on at school and go to college,’ her father said, frowning. ‘You could have been a teacher – or even a doctor, Maggie. The wages would be better and it is a more fulfilling life for an intelligent girl.’

  ‘I’m not clever enough to be a doctor,’ she said and squeezed his hand gently. ‘I might have been a teacher if I’d gone to college as we’d both hoped.’

  She saw the twist of pain in his face. ‘I’m so sorry, love; I’ve let you down. I know how much it meant to you.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Poppa,’ Maggie denied, even though it had been hard to let go of her dream. She bent her head to kiss his hand and hold it to her cheek. She knew that he loved her very much and returned his love wholeheartedly. ‘My wage will help a little, though I know it isn’t much – but there were so many applicants that I feared I wouldn’t get anything.’

  ‘They know a good thing when they see it!’ He smiled lovingly at her. ‘Could you get me a glass of fresh water, love? It gets warm after a while…’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Maggie said. She picked up his glass and the jug of water and took them downstairs to the kitchen. It took a couple of minutes to run the tap enough for the water to be cool and she washed both the glass and jug, placing them on the tray to take back to her father. She was about to leave when the door opened and her mother came in, a rush basket over her arm.

  Joan Gibbs was a small, thin woman with bright eyes, dark hair pulled back in a bun and a neat figure. Still attractive, she might have been pretty had she smiled more. She’d had two children, first Maggie and latterly a son who had died a few days later; the doctors had forbidden Joan to have more children and she habitually wore the face of a martyr. Until her husband’s accident, she’d had a part-time job in a local dress shop and resented having had to give up something she’d enjoyed to care for her invalid husband. Never a very caring woman, her husband’s accident seemed to have brought out the worst in her.

  ‘How did you get on?’ she demanded. ‘I hope you didn’t waste your time and my efforts to iron your best white blouse?’

  ‘I got a job,’ Maggie told her and took the tray. ‘I’ll tell you after I take this up for Poppa. It pays six
shillings a week…’

  ‘I got more than that for my part-time job…’ her mother frowned and shook her head. ‘I shall be making a pot of tea in a moment – but take the water first if you want. I’ve been up there enough times this morning…’

  Maggie went out quickly. She knew that Poppa’s accident had made life harder and did her share of the running up and down stairs. She didn’t mind what she did, but Muma thought it unseemly for a daughter to wash her father and so she was only allowed to do hands and face and fetch and carry, though she plumped pillows, read their favourite books and anything else she thought would help to ease him.

  Maggie frowned as she realised that her mother would have to do even more when she was working. Maggie would see Poppa had all he needed before she left for work in the mornings and at night, but during the day it would all fall on her mother. The six shillings she’d been promised suddenly seemed very little for the change in their circumstances. Now, she knew that Muma would sneer and say it was hardly worth Maggie’s time, but it was she who had pushed Maggie into leaving school and applying for the job; it was unlikely that she could earn more until she had some experience. In fact, she’d been surprised to be told immediately that the job was hers, when others were being told they would hear in a few days. Mr Stockbridge had been very kind to her in her interview, seeming almost paternal in his attitude and he’d told her she was just what they were looking for at Harpers.

  ‘Girls with good education and speaking voices are just what we need,’ he’d said, smiling.

  She watched her father sip his cold drink.

  ‘That’s better, love,’ her father said ‘My mouth gets so dry, but I don’t like the taste of warm water.’

  ‘Would you like me to fetch you a bottle of pale ale?’

  She saw the hesitation in his face, for he’d always enjoyed a drink when he got home from work in the evenings. ‘It’s a waste, love,’ he told her. ‘I know your mum is struggling to cope, and she liked having her own small wage to buy what she wanted. We’ll wait and see what the firm pay me before we buy luxuries…’

  Maggie nodded, understanding his reluctance. ‘Muma is making a pot of tea – would you like one?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ He nodded to her and she saw his wince of pain. ‘Will you give me a spoon of my medicine please, love?’

  ‘Is the pain very bad?’

  He grimaced and she fetched the small brown bottle from the dresser, pouring a tiny amount into a teaspoon and mixing it in a medicine glass with water. Her father took it and drank it down eagerly, then relaxed back against the pillows.

  ‘Go and talk to your mother, tell her your news,’ he said and closed his eyes.

  Tears were hovering as Maggie walked down the stairs. She knew he suffered terrible pain and the medicine gave him relief for a time. He would sleep now, so there was no point in taking up a cup of tea until he woke later. She would share the tea with her mother and tell her what had happened at the interview…

  Beth’s letter came two days later by the second post. She was baking when she heard the letter box and ran into the hall to scoop the envelope up, tearing the seal and reading eagerly. For a moment, elation filled her as she saw that she had been offered the post of second sales assistant in the women’s millinery, gloves and scarves department. She would be working under Mrs Rachel Craven, who was to be her supervisor. Her wage was fifteen shillings a week for a start and would rise to one guinea when she had been working at the firm for six months. She reread the letter with mixed feelings, because she’d hoped the wage might be more, but perhaps she was lucky to get in at all.

  Reading the second page, Beth saw that she would need to go in to begin her training the next morning. She would be required to wear black court shoes, silk stockings and either a black or grey dress. One black dress would be supplied when the shop was opened and after that she would have to buy them herself. At least she would have one free uniform, she thought. She would otherwise have worn the black dress Aunt Helen had made when her mother died. If it was suitable, she might be able to wear it as her reserve dress, though it was possible that all the assistants would be required to wear the same style. It would be expensive to buy a second uniform out of her wage. Her aunt was sure to ask for something towards her board and lodging.

  Aunt Helen accepted the letter when Beth offered it and nodded. ‘As I thought,’ she said. ‘Had you been taken on by Lady Vera, you would have had fifty-two pounds a year and your keep. Perhaps now you see why I thought the post of a companion would be much better for you?’

  ‘In six months’ time, I shall earn more.’

  ‘Yes, that is true,’ her aunt agreed. ‘I shall take seven shillings and sixpence now and ten once you’re earning more.’

  ‘Yes, Aunt,’ Beth said, feeling her excitement evaporate. It would leave her just enough to pay for the bus to work and buy her lunch, which she’d estimated at sixpence a day. Her letter had said there was a staff discount, so she might just be able to afford a cup of tea, and have her shoes repaired now and then, especially if she walked to work on fine days. It left little for extras like new clothes, even with what looked like a generous staff discount.

  ‘You have a decent black dress,’ her aunt said. ‘If that is acceptable, you will not need to buy another, but if it must be a certain style, I can probably copy it for half the price.’

  ‘Yes, I know – thank you,’ Beth said, hesitated, then, ‘I’m not ungrateful for all you’ve done for me, Aunt.’

  ‘Jessie was a fool, but I know my duty,’ Aunt Helen said, her tone a little softer. ‘My sister had hopes that you would marry well, but it did not happen.’

  ‘I could not leave her…’ Beth turned her head. She was too proud to tell her aunt that she’d once had hopes of being loved. She had lost what she thought of as the love of her life and did not expect to get another chance. Her pain had been sharp but was muted by time now, though occasionally it came back to haunt her. ‘I loved her.’

  ‘You were certainly a devoted daughter.’ Aunt Helen’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘Well, you have taken a step on the ladder, Beth. Work hard and who knows what may happen. Should you be made a supervisor or a floor walker, you would earn quite a bit more then, perhaps as much as thirty-five shillings or more.’

  ‘I intend to work hard and make something of my life,’ Beth smothered a sigh. Rebellion flared in her heart, but she fought it down. She did try to be thankful and helped her aunt by doing housework and baking, at which she was quite good. Aunt Helen thought her scones were excellent and her chocolate cake, although kept for special times, was mouth-watering. For now, she must accept what she had been given and be grateful. ‘I shall do my very best, aunt.’

  ‘Yes, I know you will.’ Aunt Helen offered a rare smile. ‘I have nearly finished my work and shall start on a new order this afternoon. Please make a pot of tea and we’ll have one of your excellent cheese scones with some soup for our lunch.’

  Beth nodded and left her aunt to finish her work. Had she had a choice, Beth would have found somewhere she could live on her own, but it might be years before she could afford it.

  Beth told herself she was luckier than many young women in her position. Had her aunt not taken her in, she might have been in a precarious position and perhaps a part of her understood her aunt’s loneliness and resentment, because she too had given up a life of her own to care for an ailing parent. She just wished her aunt would be a little more satisfied with her efforts to please.

  Sighing, Beth returned to the kitchen and finished her baking. Once she started work, she would either have to bake in the evenings or very early in the morning. Her life would be harder than it had been, but at least she would meet people at work and perhaps make friends…

  3

  Beth was early for her appointment the next morning. She found a queue of young women outside the shop, which still had blinds at all the windows. Across the road, a small crowd of bystanders had gathered to watch
, clearly keen to see what was going on. Beth spotted some cameras, which could only belong to newspaper reporters in the crowd forming. It wasn’t Harpers opening day, which was the following Tuesday, so what were they hoping for? Some gossip they could splash over the headlines or had they been asked to come?

  Only a few of the male employees had turned up yet, but as Beth saw two faces she recognised, she smiled and beckoned them to join her.

  ‘Are we queue jumping?’ Maggie asked, looking nervously at the woman standing behind Beth. ‘I thought we didn’t start until next week, but the letter said to come today, Friday…?’

  ‘It’s for training – and Beth saved our places, didn’t yer, love?’ Sally’s cheerful cockney accent raised a few eyebrows, but she ignored them and stood resolutely beside Maggie, her arm pinioning Maggie to her side. ‘I hope we all get to work in the same department…’ Beth noticed that her voice alternated between her natural cockney and the posh voice she would use for customers.

  ‘I’ve been told millinery,’ Beth offered and smiled.