Misgivings and loss

Story contd.

Mary and I considered ourselves very fortunate to have created a business which fulfilled a service to mothers, many of whom were spending over the odds on their children’s education. It gave us an absorbing interest and a healthy financial return. We both officially worked in the shop two days a week, and put in as many extra hours as our various responsibilities required. On the whole our staff were excellent and seemed to enjoy working with us.

Mary and I had very different working backgrounds. She came from a well –off family, married and settled down to be a good housewife and mother. She had lots of hobbies, learning Italian, travelling, painting and photography – and was very talented at each of them. I felt the shop was one of her many interests and not necessarily a passion as it certainly was for me. I had been reared with a strong work ethic and the nursing training had imbued strict codes of behaviour.

For example: staff were staff and though we were friendly with them and took an interest in their lives and families, with a big get together once a year, there was a limit to how familiar one could be. In nursing it was frowned upon if we were friendly with any nurse in the sets above or below us. So when Mary started going on foreign holidays with Maud, a new member of staff and the only one I didn’t take to, I was a bit concerned. Maud herself had a sort of antique shop and at one time suggested she should use a corner of our shop to display some of her items. When Mary consulted me I gave a resounding ‘Not bloody likely!’ but of course, I had no say in choosing her holiday companions.

Sometimes it seemed there was a conspiracy to make life difficult: when we changed to decimalisation every garment in the shop (thousands and thousands) had to be re-labelled and our whole pricing system re- organised. Then Edward Heath brought in a 3- day week; we weren’t allowed to use electricity and sat at the desk in the freezing cold with just a candle for comfort. We were not allowed to work more that 3 days a week in our own shop. I came close to being a red hot anarchist.

Mary’s husband had retired and - at a loose end - offered to take over doing the books for us. But for me this was a labour of love, and also it was very much a time of women’s lib so I told Mary it was very kind of him to offer, but I preferred to continue doing it myself. I perfectly understood Mary’s wish to get her husband out of her hair (we married them for better or for worse – but not for lunch) but I didn’t want him in mine. Oh dear, I couldn’t help remembering Ellie’s words when she told us about the rift she had with her partner.

‘It works very well as long as you both want the same things but when you get successful and your ideas differ – that’s when the trouble starts.’

At the end of the summer # 1 son left for University and although I was proud and happy I also felt completely bereft and every time I went into his bedroom had a little weep. # 2 son was not academically inclined but was mad keen on music - guitars in particular. He valued his independence and planned to get a job and have his own place as soon as possible. The nest was getting emptier and William and I talked once more about having separate establishments.

Back on Track

Story contd

William made a complete recovery from his heart attack, went back to work and apart from all of us taking his health more seriously life went on as before. He did all the right things as far as diet and exercise were concerned and even did a little therapeutic baking. ‘Dad’s rock cakes’ were famous. William had always been a lark –

‘I’ll bid you goodnight.’ he would say after dinner, sounding just like his mother Dodie. In contrast I was the owl so it was no hardship for me to wait up until the growing boys got in at night.

One Saturday # 1 son got in quite late and obviously upset. He and his friends had been attacked by a gang of yobs and one of the boys had his glasses smashed. Sensibly they had reported it to the police. I regretted that our sedate little town was changing, to its detriment, with the times. Much later that night, when we were all asleep there was a thundering knock at the door. It was the Police and they wanted my son to go with them to identify the culprits. My son insisted I shouldn’t accompany him. The police said he should just slip on his dressing gown and I was mortified when I noticed that after the last spurt of growth the cuffs were now round his elbows. My son and his friends were treated kindly by the police – unlike the attackers.
At the station they were being guarded by a police dog and the bullies lost their cool. They were prosecuted for stealing drink from an off- licence, so my son and friends didn’t have to go to court.

I was often out alone at night. As the shop got busier there was more book work and I quite enjoyed going to the shop and working in peace and quiet. Every article we sold had to be entered up on the client’s card and in the busy times it was impossible to do this during the day. Once a year Mary and I had to go through each client’s card and with the aid of an adding machine add up the amounts owing to customers. This was demanded by Dave our accountant and was a mammoth task. We would set aside a Sunday, take a picnic lunch and be there all day - at the end of which we would creep exhausted into the nearest pub and thank heaven it was over for another year. Our lives would have been transformed by today’s computers.

I still spent a lot of time at the theatre club and joined in with some of the back stage staff giving the club a face lift. One night I got carried away painting the ceiling and it was after mid-night when I left. Driving up the hill out of town my car ran out of petrol. I ran to the nearest telephone booth (before mobile phones) and phoned William. The phone rang and rang and rang but all three slept the sleep of the dead and were always oblivious of anything that happened once they closed their eyes. I ran down to the railway station with the idea of picking up a taxi to take me to a petrol station - I needed the car to get into the shop the next day. Alas it was too late – all the taxis had gone home. The Police Station was close by so I asked the duty sergeant if he could give me some taxi numbers. He was horrid and said they weren’t a taxi service. I couldn’t believe it. I was used to being treated as a respected member of the community. Then I remembered I was still in paint- spattered old clothes, my hair – long and blonde - was all over the place and I had smudges on my face. Also it was very late. I managed to find a number in the malodorous telephone booth and got a taxi from my village to come and pick me up. The taxi driver told me to stand in the road by the car so he could spot me easily. Whilst I was waiting for him two cars stopped with lewd suggestions which made me feel even worse.

At last he turned up and I asked him to siphon some petrol into my tank (fortunately I had plenty of cash with me) whereupon he told me his taxi ran on diesel. Seeing my despair he said there was an all night petrol station in Sevenoaks, he would drive me there, I could buy some petrol and then he would bring me back to the car.

‘It’ll be the most expensive gallon of petrol you’ve ever bought love!’ he said cheerfully.

After a long drive we reached the petrol station where a couple of cars were being filled up. There was only one attendant – an elderly man – and when I asked if he could sell me some petrol in a container he refused. Apparently the week before he had been mugged and no way was he going to look for a can. That was it! I was exhausted from hours of painting the club ceiling, running up and down to station and telephones and I had been treated like a criminal and a whore. I started to cry and everybody looked embarrassed. Eventually one of the car owners who looked like one of my Dad’s pals came over.

‘I’ve got a plastic container in my car which I keep for emergencies. You can have it if you like.’

‘Oh thank you!’ I blubbed ‘You must let me pay for it.’

‘No I don’t want your money. You’re just like my daughter – she’s always running out.’

What a gentleman. I treasured that little plastic container for years.

Back we drove to my car and the taxi-driver kindly waited until I got started and I paid him an enormous amount of money. As I expected all was quiet when I finally got home – everyone was fast asleep. When I told friends about my experience they all, without exception, said I should have phoned them – they would have come to my rescue, but it was my mess and I felt I couldn’t phone someone in the wee small hours. There are quite a few morals arising from this story but the most important one I learned was to work on the top end of the petrol tank

Maddie’s going.

Story contd

Since I left home as a young girl, Maddie and I had had a fairly volatile relationship mainly because I had developed a mind and opinions of my own. She and her husband came over each week-end and I valued her friendship so it was a blow when she told me they had decided to emigrate to the States - a much bigger step then than now.

She had my aunt, as a resident – a GI bride who lived in Rhode Island and Liam, Jamie’s brother who lived with his wife and family in NY State. Maddie asked me if I ever thought of Jamie and I said the recent experience with Gary had make me think of him and regret that we hadn’t taken our relationship further.

‘If it had been Jamie instead of Gary I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. I feel I cheated both of us. But it’s all over now. I’m a different person and I’m sure he is too.’ I assured her and stuffed any further thoughts of what might have been way out of my consciousness.

Maddie and I decided to have a few days walking together before she left and we had a really bonding time in Wales- getting to know each other as adults, although I would always be the younger sister to her – dammit! We stayed in an interesting hotel with a lake in the garden and nearly froze to death. Each night we would huddle in the bar where mine host and his attractive wife would regale us with tales which might have come straight out of ‘Under Milk Wood’. The locals would come to inspect the two English ladies and the whisky flowed freely. The bedrooms were so icy we dreaded going to bed.

It wasn’t all decadence – we climbed two mountains; one was Y Garn and the other one’s name escapes me. I do remember – when we were at the top, having a blonde moment and suggesting we went another way down, which looked rather pretty. At the bottom we realised we were miles from where we had left the car and had a long walk in pouring rain before getting a hitch. We were terrified we may have missed dinner (the food was excellent) but our worried hosts had kept it for us.

Maddie asked me if I would go up to Mum and Dad’s with her to soften the good-byes. All went well until we were on the station at Manchester and Dad was in a huff- God knows why. As it got nearer and nearer to the time when we got on the train I couldn’t stand it any longer and took Dad off.

‘Dad you’ve GOT to say good-bye properly. You may never see Maddie again.’ By this time I’d lost it and we ended up all hugging each other and smiling through our tears but all the tension had gone. I’m happy to say that the parents visited the States many, many times for the rest of their lives and Maddie came over at least once a year.

At the theatre club I decided to do Shaw’s ‘The Devil’s Disciple’ as a big public production. The character of Dick Dudgeon had always attracted me and I persuaded Alan, who was our solicitor, to play the part. He was a fine actor – more cerebral than physical; I treasure the look he gave me when I asked him to leap onto a table to hold forth. It was difficult for him but we got there in the end.

We had an old film actor in the club (he appears in the film ‘The Lady Vanishes’) and I thought he would make a great General Burgoyne but Charles wasn’t going to give in so easily. He leant over me from his great height, a lank lock of too- black hair flopping over his moustached face,

’ Who played the original part?’ he demanded. I looked up at him, blinking a little.

‘Laurence Olivier.’

‘Harrrrrumph!’

And I knew he was mine, but he was very high maintenance and I had to provide a pair of thigh high suede boots before he was happy. Those wretched boots; every time Charles was on stage they seemed to me to be the focus of attention. Actors can be difficult at times!

What I discovered was that each act is written in a different style so one could get beautiful Chekhovian movement in the first act – then it’s all war, war, war and finally funereal with the Dead March. Still it went down well and it was a learning experience.

We had a bit of bother at the shop. Someone had opened a shop run on the same lines as us in the next town. They were perfectly entitled to do this but they named it using four words only one of which was different to ours and then by only three letters. People would come in the shop and say we went to your other shop. It’s called ‘passing off ‘as if someone opened a store called Marks and Spicer. Alan, our solicitor was convinced when his partner said,

‘I see Pat’s opened another shop.’

Alan was great and sent them some strong letters and they had to change it. Cheek!

All was going well; the family were fine, the shop was booming. I was in demand a an actress and director and then I met Tim

The Glass Cage

Story contd.

There wasn’t time to mope; lots of laundry to do and all the household tasks that had been left for a week. It was lovely to see the boys and hug them. A week apart made us so much more appreciative of each other and they were quite angelic for about 24 hours.

Mary, my partner, rang – very excited; this was the first summer the shop had been open and we were very busy – we needed more part-time staff so that there would be at least two of us on duty. She had been so busy with sales that she hadn’t had time to enter them up on the client’s cards. I said I would go in to do it once the boys were in bed. We were both excited and pleased with the way the shop’s fame was spreading.

There was a letter for me the next day, but I was rushing to drive the boys to school, and then to open the shop before half past nine, so put it in my bag for later. As soon as we opened there was a stream of customers. When we first started Mary’s father had rigged a buzzer on one of the stairs to warn us when any one was coming. Now there was a constant buzz, buzz, buzz, and what with that and the old fashioned till -bell it was like an inspiration for Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells.

Mary came in briefly and I was glad of the help but soon she had to go to the bank and I was alone again. Just before lunch a Persian man (he told me he was from Persia) arrived with his two daughters who were going to be boarders at one of the local prep schools. He handed me a long list of uniform which he wanted for both girls. We always closed for lunch but I decided that, although I would lock the shop as usual, I would devote my lunch hour to trying to find everything they needed.

It wasn’t easy; he was very demanding and the girls were very shy hiding behind; the changing room curtain we had fixed in the corner – even to try on hockey boots. By the time I had found everything they needed, including lacrosse sticks, I was panting with exhaustion

I sank into the office chair to remove all the price tickets and add up the amounts. When I told him the price he made me an offer. I couldn’t believe it. I felt smoke must be coming out of my ears. I had worked my butt off during my lunch hour, persuading the girls to try everything on, grovelling on my knees amongst the hockey boots, and he had the effrontery to make me an offer…

I drew myself up to my full five feet four and a half inches and said.

‘I’m sorry sir but we do NOT barter. That is the price you must pay if you wish to take the goods.’

The thought of having to try to match the garments with the tickets if he decided to leave, gave me palpitations. Selling was only part of the job - everything sold had to be entered on the customers file so she could collect her money the next time she was in. All the articles would have come from maybe twenty different customers so you can see the problem.

Both he and the girls looked rather startled at my obvious outrage and he slowly brought out a roll of notes and paid me in full. That taught me never to remove the tickets until I was certain the customer was serious.

Whilst waiting for the boys to come out of school I remembered the letter. It was from Gary- a poem and a note with a telephone number and the message ‘Please phone.’

When I read the poem I was moved and felt my resolve weakening. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to phone – it was only polite.

His voice sounded just like him – relaxed and friendly.

‘Gary it’s Pat. Thank you for the poem – it’s lovely. How long did it take to write it?’

There was a pause and I thought we had been cut off.

‘Well it more or less wrote itself. It’s great to hear your voice Pat.’

He said he had found one of the books he had told me about – a play he thought I should do as my first; he had even designed a set for me.

When I met him it was different. He seemed to have lost the golden glow he had in the college and I felt awkward and uncomfortable. A woman I knew – she was northern like me and was used to saying what she thought – had told me I seemed to have a glass cage around me. Somehow I knew what she meant and thought that one day I should break out of it. But I knew this was not the time. I had been swept off my feet once before and it was not going to happen again. When I told Gary it couldn’t go any further he said everyone would assume it had anyway. This riled me and I said the important thing was that I knew it hadn’t.

It must have been almost a year later when I was browsing through one of my quotation books looking for something apt for a friend’s birthday and a familiar line caught my eye. It was the poem Gary had written for me but my book said it was by William Blake.

The Garden of love

I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen;

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut

And "Thou shalt not," writ over the door;

So I turned to the Garden of Love

That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tombstones where flowers should be;

And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars my joys and desires.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry – so I did both. What an ignorant fool he must have thought me. I blessed the guardian angel that had stopped me from straying. This time anyway.

"

Our Very Own Shop

Story contd.

The next day Mary and I were off down the High Street with Ellie’s advice ringing in our ears; our aim – to find premises before the day was out. The first house agent we visited was a charming elderly gentleman who looked as if he had stepped out of Dickens. He was courtly with a pink and white skin, snowy hair and a waxed moustache. He was beautifully turned out with a bow tie, waistcoat and pale grey spats* which even in the early sixties was a rare sight.

We told him what we were looking for – both of us burbling excitedly whilst he regarded us benignly. When we were done he told us to wait whilst he looked at his files and slowly retired to a back room. We looked at each other and sighed, we knew we had to be patient but there was so much to do and we doubted that dear old Spats could ever do anything quickly. Eventually he returned holding a file and looking pleased with himself.

‘Now this may be just what you two young ladies are looking for. Look out of the window. Can you see on that building over there? See the name Berkeley Cartier? That is a gentleman who was an excellent tailor until he retired and he owns the building. As you can see there is still a tailor’s shop on the ground floor, there are offices on the first floor but the second floor is vacant.’

‘Oh please can we go and see it now?’

Spats twinkled at me over his pince- nez*.

‘Well now it’s usual for us to make an appointment first but I can see you are eager to get on. If my assistant is available I will find the keys and he will take you to see the premises.’

I wanted to hug him but restrained myself and Mary and I beamed at each other.

We entered a door on the street - next to the gentlemen’s outfitters; at the top of the stairs was a cloakroom which we would share with the offices at the end of the corridor. Up another flight of stairs were a small room with a window looking out onto a back yard and a large room at the front with two windows looking out onto the High street.

It all needed a coat of paint but the space was great and we were at the smart end of town – on the High Street no less. We hugged each other with excitement.

‘We definitely want it. Can you be sure to tell the old gentleman please?’

The assistant promised he would do so and Mary and I went and had a coffee whilst we planned our next move.

‘OK now we’ve got the premises. We’ve got to have the third partner – not just for the reasons Ellie said but also to help with the rent. If the three of us put in £50 each that should tide us over until we start making money.’

‘Do you think people will be bothered to climb the stairs?’

Mary looked a bit anxious.

‘Of course they will when they see what we have got to offer. The location is excellent and these are young mothers – two flights of stairs won’t bother them in the least.’

We knew none of our friends would be suitable as the third partner as they all had young children and we wanted someone quite free to fit around our commitments.

‘We’ll have to advertise. Let’s work out now what to say and we can drop it into the Courier and it will be out on Friday.’

Mary was used to my ‘do it then it’s done’ maxim so between us we managed an ad which was clear and direct.

Whilst we were in the newspaper offices I suggested we put in a second ad advertising our new shop. It had taken us days to come up with a name that satisfied us both and the sooner we opened the sooner we could start getting financially secure.

‘But we haven’t signed the lease yet’,

‘We know we are going to and this will give us a good start.’

So the second ad announced the advent of our new shop and asked for local school uniform in excellent condition. We learnt later that a local large store were concerned about this and objected to our presence in the High Street but eventually they came round, were quite friendly and even sold us some of their old shop fittings.

Spats however, when we went in to sign the lease looked sternly at me over his pince- nez.

‘I say, you jumped the gun rather, didn’t you?’

* Spats –short gaiter covering instep and reaching a little above the ankle.

* Pince –nez - pair of eye glasses with spring to clip on nose.