The Shop Girls

On it was a typed message in capital letters.

EILEEN FROBISHER IS A SLUT AND HER SON IS A BASTARD

SHE WAS NEVER MARRIED SHE DOESN’T BELONG AT MARLOW’S

Peter felt sick, sick to his stomach. What a thing to say about anyone – and about Eileen in particular! He didn’t believe it for a moment, but who could dislike her – even hate her – so much that they’d think, let alone write, such a thing?

With the letter in his hand, he tried to think dispassionately.

Apart from the content, it was a puzzling note. It was correctly spelt – they’d even used the Marlow’s apostrophe – but there was no punctuation. Did that mean it had been written in the white heat of fury? He came back to the first question he’d asked himself. Who could hate Eileen so much as to spew out such a disgusting stream of spite?

Ever since the bomb, he and Miss Frobisher had gradually got to know each other better. At the hospital, visiting Lily and Jim, they’d shared the guilt they felt about leaving two junior members of staff in the store to finish off the Christmas preparations after hours. Logically, they both knew that no one could have predicted that some Luftwaffe pilot would randomly offload a bomb on Hinton, but it didn’t stop them feeling that way.

Over the weeks that followed, they’d occasionally coincided their morning or afternoon breaks – anything more frequent would have attracted attention and started the Marlow’s rumour mill whirling. With both of them the souls of discretion, their friendship had remained unobtrusive. Eileen was married, after all – at least that was the story.

Peter had never asked about Eileen Frobisher’s husband, and wouldn’t have dreamt of doing so, but having walked her home a few times and even once been invited in, he noted that there were no photographs of her young son’s father on display. He held to the theory which he’d long held and had shared with Jim – that Eileen and her husband were separated. That didn’t necessarily make her a free agent though, and it gave him a problem, because since the fashion show, and the vision of loveliness she’d been in the finale, he’d been forced to acknowledge that what he felt for her was far more than you’d feel for a friend. He’d fallen for her. Hard.

He rubbed his hand over his forehead. What next?

There was nothing else for it. He picked up the internal telephone and asked for Mr Marlow.

‘Oh, so you’ve had one now, have you?’

Sitting in Cedric Marlow’s rather more spacious and better-appointed office, Peter was surprised.

‘You mean you have as well, sir?’

‘Goodness me, yes.’ Cedric pushed the letter Peter had shown him back across the broad mahogany desk. ‘And all about Miss Frobisher. Not couched in quite such strong language, but I’ve been getting one or two a week for the last … what would it be … three or four weeks, I suppose.’

‘May I see them?’

‘I don’t have them. I threw them away.’

That was stupid, thought Peter, but he could hardly say so.

‘That’s a shame,’ he remarked circumspectly. ‘What did they say?’

‘Oh, I really can’t remember.’ Cedric Marlow looked up to the ceiling as if the answer might be written there. ‘“Eileen Frobisher is no better than she should be” – that was one of them, I think. And the others in much the same vein.’

‘But you chose not to do anything about them?’

‘These things are best ignored, surely?’ Cedric looked at him over his half-moon glasses. ‘It’s arrant nonsense, Miss Frobisher’s a respectable married woman.’

‘Well, yes, of course,’ said Peter quickly. This wasn’t the time or place for his own speculations about Eileen’s situation. ‘But things have moved on, haven’t they? I’ve had a letter now, and from what you say, the language has become far more offensive.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’ Mr Marlow had the grace to sound uncomfortable. ‘But these things usually sort themselves out in time. The letter-writer gets bored when there’s no reaction.’

‘But that’s not what’s happening, is it? The letters keep coming and they’re getting worse.’ There was no reply from Cedric, so he pressed on. ‘I’m not sure we can ignore it any longer, sir. It’ll have to be investigated.’

A look of panic crossed Cedric Marlow’s face.

‘You don’t mean … the police?’ he stuttered. ‘Oh, I don’t think so. We can’t have them sniffing around in the store! What would it look like?’

This was classic Cedric, or the Cedric of recent months.

Everyone knew the old man had been shattered by the bomb and the damage to his beloved store, but slowly, over the winter, he’d seemed to rally, thanks to the efforts of Robert, Jim, and Peter himself. Now he wondered. Had it all been too much? Not so long ago it would have been Cedric coming to him the moment the first letter had arrived, wanting it sorted out, and quickly. Was Cedric Marlow losing his touch? Even if he was, he was still the boss. Peter daren’t go over his head.

‘I can understand your reluctance,’ he said slowly. ‘But … well, look, sir, how about if we wait a short while and see if either of us receives any more of these … communications. And then maybe we can talk again.’

‘I suppose so. Yes, yes, very well.’

With that, Cedric seemed to regard the matter closed. For now, thought Peter, for now. He stood up and replaced his chair at the precise angle to the desk which the old man required.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘Naturally you’re concerned about the store’s reputation. We all are. But I’d like to think that extends to the reputation of its staff. That’s valuable too, don’t you think?’

It was as far as he dared to go, and Cedric’s tone told him he’d probably gone too far as it was.

‘Thank you, Mr Simmonds,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you have more pressing matters to attend to on the shop floor.’

With an inclination of his head, Peter made for the door, closing it quietly behind him.

He’d done his best. But where Eileen was concerned, his best didn’t feel nearly good enough.

Inevitably, the first person he saw when he emerged through the double doors on to the first floor was Eileen. She was walking with one of the regular customers, Mrs Jenkins, to the lift, and explaining that boys’ bathing trunks were a particular problem to get hold of.

‘Might you try knitting some yourself?’ she was asking.

Mrs Jenkins laughed.

‘Frankly, no! With my knitting they’d be round the poor boy’s ankles before he went anywhere near the water!’

‘Have you thought about joining our classes?’ Miss Frobisher persisted. ‘They’re very popular.’

Knitting and sewing classes, for free, as long as the materials were bought in the store, had been one of Jim and Peter’s initiatives to keep the customers coming, and he was pleased to hear Miss Frobisher recommending them.

He gave her a brief smile as they passed and she nodded in acknowledgement, then she was gone, in her black pencil skirt and silky blouse, her hair in its usual smooth roll. At the hospital, out of hours, she’d worn it loose on her shoulders. As they’d talked, she’d sometimes twisted a strand of it in her fingers, and he’d almost had to sit on his hands to stop himself from reaching out and touching it.

He stared after her, unable to believe what was in the letters. How had Eileen Frobisher stirred up such evil thoughts? Who could it be? Someone from her past? A spurned lover? A jealous rival? The errant husband?

Pull yourself together, he thought, as he saw Miss Wagstaff bearing down on him. Mind on the job!

‘Miss Wagstaff,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

She flourished a sheaf of paper.

‘We have a meeting,’ she said crisply. ‘About weekly targets. At your request, if you remember.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘If, that is, you’re not too distracted?’

Lily lifted her spoon. Today’s canteen pudding had been advertised as simply ‘cake’, which meant that, as usual, it would be mostly carrot. Never mind see in the dark, it was a wonder they didn’t all glow in the dark, the amount of carrots they consumed.

Over their first course, she’d told Jim about Bill’s letter, and the wedding date being set, but also Gladys’s sorrow that neither she nor Bill would have any family there.

‘So you see, Jim, we’ve got to make it up to her,’ she urged now. ‘We’ll have to be the family they haven’t got. And we’ve got to make this wedding absolutely perfect for them.’ Jim had nearly finished his pudding; hollow legs, Dora said. He scraped the last crumbs from his bowl. ‘Well?’

Jim laid down his spoon.

‘I’ll do my best, you know I will,’ he said. ‘But I can’t get involved in all this girls’ talk about – I dunno, veils and dresses and stockings and whatnot.’

‘I’m not asking you to! But she’s going to ask you to give her away, I know she is, so just, well, act delighted.’

‘I won’t have to act anything! I’m very fond of Gladys. There’s nothing I’d like more.’

‘Thank you.’ Lily beamed happily. ‘And Sid’s going to be best man as he was the one who introduced them, oh and she’s going to ask you to lend your camera to Les, so he can take the photographs. And if you happen to see any cards that’d do for the invitations … ideally with a cherub at each corner blowing a—’

Jim reached over and rapped her knuckles with his spoon.

‘Oy! Enough! What did I just say?’

Lily had the good grace to back down.

‘OK, I’ll let you off the invitations. But you’d better pace yourself, Jim. We’ve got ten weeks of this.’

Jim groaned.

‘Ten weeks! It’s not only Gladys who’ll be counting the days!’

Chapter 7

Peter Simmonds was also counting the days – until he could tackle Mr Marlow again. He didn’t have long to wait.

The following week, he received another letter. This time the postmark was clear – it had been posted locally, in Hinton, and its typed message was even more pointed.

WHY DON’T YOU WAKE UP AND LISTEN?

FROBISHER’S NOTHING BUT A—

It was the ugliest of ugly words and he could hardly bear to read it. Summoning every ounce of self-control, he folded the letter, replaced it in the envelope and locked it in his drawer. Then he strode purposefully on to the sales floor.

Enough was enough. It was time for action.

‘What do you think, Miss Frobisher?’ asked Lily. ‘It looks as though the weather’s set fair for the next few days.’

‘If we can believe it!’

Lily had suggested changing the outfits on the Childrenswear mannequins and she and her boss were debating it when Peter Simmonds approached and indicated that he’d like a word.

Miss Frobisher moved slightly towards him.

‘Very well, then, Miss Collins.’ She addressed Lily over her shoulder. ‘The boy first. Fawn drill shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. But a sleeveless pullover on top, please.’

‘Yes, Miss Frobisher.’

Lily faded away to find something suitable, and Eileen turned to Peter with a smile.

‘I was looking for you earlier about that delivery that hasn’t materialised. Any news?’

‘No, nothing,’ he said, his mouth dry. ‘And it’s not about that. I wondered … if your neighbour would babysit … could you be free this evening?’ He didn’t want to talk to her about the letters in his tiny office, and he knew her elderly neighbour often looked after her son. ‘There’s something I’d like to talk to you about and I’d rather not do it in the store.’

‘I see!’ She sounded intrigued.

No, you don’t, he thought sadly. If only he were taking her out on a date, as he’d often thought of suggesting but had never quite dared.

‘I’ll telephone at lunchtime and ask her,’ Eileen offered. ‘She’s always saying it doesn’t make any difference to her whether she sits in her flat or mine.’

‘That’s because she’s using your electricity!’

‘Now, now,’ Miss Frobisher chided, ‘she’s very good. I’d like to put John to bed myself though, so perhaps … eight o’clock?’

‘I’ll call for you.’

‘Fine. I’ll see you later.’

Smiling to herself, she watched him go. A ribbed pullover in her hand, Lily watched her watching him. Well, well, she thought. Maybe there was something between those two after all …

Eileen dressed carefully for her evening out, even though she told herself it wouldn’t be a date as such. Peter probably wanted to sound her out about some new idea that Mr Marlow was resisting – he’d done that before. Even so, he usually did so by walking her home, not by taking her out. She didn’t get out much – well, at all really, and it was nice to have an excuse.

The evening was fine and warm, as Lily had predicted, and at eight it was still light, so she picked out a dress splashed with poppies and cornflowers, with red shoes and handbag. Like everyone else, she was restricted by coupons, but she’d always loved clothes from her time in the Fashion departments at Marlow’s and then in London. Before the war, before John had been born, she’d spent every spare penny on good clothes and they were serving her well now that things were so hard to come by.

Peter was prompt – that was ex-Army for you – and she was amused to see that he’d dressed carefully too, in fawn slacks and an open-necked soft shirt. When they’d met off duty at the hospital, he’d worn his regimental blazer and tie. Recently, though, as they passed Gentlemen’s Outfitting on the way to their breaks, Eileen had taken to casually pointing out certain items with a favourable comment, and she was pleased to see he’d taken the hint.

He suggested a pub nearby and with assurances to the babysitting neighbour that they wouldn’t be late, they set off. Peter found them a table in the beer garden and went to fetch the shandy she’d asked for, and a beer for himself. They chinked glasses and made the usual disparaging comments about the weakness of the beer. Then he took a piece of paper from his pocket.

‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve received this.’

‘A letter?’

‘Poison pen.’

Eileen gasped, shocked. And she hadn’t any idea, he thought miserably, that it was about her, or that he’d today had another, even more poisonous one.

‘It’s the first one to me, but Mr Marlow’s been getting them over the past few weeks. I don’t know why he didn’t do anything about it, but I intend to. But I’ll need your help. I’m afraid you’ll have to read it.’

Baffled, never suspecting she might be the subject, Eileen took the letter and read the ugly words.

EILEEN FROBISHER IS A SLUT AND HER SON IS A BASTARD

SHE WAS NEVER MARRIED SHE DOESN’T BELONG AT MARLOW’S

She didn’t say a word but folded it and laid it down again.

‘It’s nonsense of course—’ he began, but she held up her hand, the one with the slim wedding band on her third finger.

‘It’s not nonsense, Peter,’ she said. ‘It’s all true. Except perhaps for the last bit.’

‘Eileen, please—’

‘No, no.’ She was perfectly calm. ‘Let me tell you. I’d like to.’

‘I was young,’ she began, ‘and I can’t say exactly innocent – but still young and stupid and naïve. I moved to London, to a job as a junior buyer at Marshall and Snelgrove’s. I loved it, everything about it, the work, the store, the big city, my life. I was promoted to under-buyer, then buyer. There was travel, and in those days – well, we, the buyers, had the power. We weren’t going cap in hand to manufacturers begging like we have to now. The reps used to court us, if you like. Meals out, the theatre, little gifts.’

She’d been talking directly to him, meeting his eyes. Now she looked away.

‘He was one of them. Older, charming, very experienced, very good at his job. I fell for him. I was completely captivated.’ She gave a tiny shrug, remembering. ‘Reps! I know better now. Not all of them, but for quite a few a roving brief means a roving eye … he was married, of course. Once I found out, I should have ended it. I’m not proud of myself. I should have been stronger but …’

She looked down into her glass, then up at him again.

‘I didn’t mean to get pregnant; I wasn’t trying to trap him, I swear, but when I told him about the baby – well, he’d always promised to leave his wife for me and, idiot that I was, I believed him.’ She shook her head, impatient, regretful. ‘Of course, that all changed – he got a sudden attack of conscience. It turned out he’d been married not once but twice and he already had children by both marriages. He hadn’t mentioned that, funnily enough.’ She compressed her lips: Peter could see she found it difficult to talk about, even after so many years. ‘He couldn’t break up another family, he said – very noble of him. He wanted me to get rid of the baby. I was devastated, and the next thing was, he’d left his job and disappeared – to make sure I had no way of contacting him, I suppose, or asking for money, or making trouble with his wife, or wives – not that I’d have dreamt of it. Or of getting rid of the baby. Ever.’

‘Eileen,’ Peter said again. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘It was my own fault.’

‘No, it wasn’t!’ He was surprised by how strongly he wanted to defend her. ‘He took advantage.’

‘You’re very kind. Too kind. But it takes two to tango, and all that.’

He found he couldn’t bear her taking the blame. He tried to move things on.

‘How did you manage?’

‘I managed,’ she said, ‘to hide the pregnancy for about five months, then I had to give in my notice and leave. My father was still here in Hinton, but I couldn’t go to him, I knew that. I have an aunt in Lincoln, I went there. She wasn’t exactly thrilled, but she found me a nursing home and I gave birth to John. The war was coming. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want to go back to London, there was no point, I had no one there, so I came back here. I hoped that my father would come round and offer me a home once John was actually here. He didn’t. Far from it.’ She sighed, then shrugged off the memory, saying crisply, ‘It wasn’t a good time. I rented a room, and then quite suddenly, just after the start of the war, my father died, and I took over what had been his flat.’

Peter let out a breath.

‘You’ve had a very hard time.’

‘Not at all,’ she said, refusing to accept his sympathy. ‘I’m not the first and I won’t be the last. You’ve only got to look around you at the number of war babies. I’ve been very lucky, really. I have my son, a good job and somewhere to live. Plenty of women in my position have none of that.’

Peter dipped his head: she was putting a gloss on it, of course. She must have had some very dark times.

‘Perhaps not. Even so …’ He swilled his beer around in his glass, then put it down again. ‘But there’s one thing I don’t understand. When you came back to Marlow’s, why invent a husband? Why not simply say you were a widow?’

Eileen took a sip of her drink. Her hair was loose and she hooked it behind her ear. Her earrings were like little red buttons.

‘Good question. It was stupid of me. I couldn’t be called up because of John, but I needed to earn some money – I had somewhere to live but I needed an income. I knew Marlow’s would have me back like a shot, and when I came for the interview, I was wearing the ring I’d bought myself, and it was assumed that I was married and my husband was in the Forces. And I – well, stupidly I went along with it. I knew I’d be addressed as Miss Frobisher at work anyway and Staff Office were so pressed they didn’t even ask this fictional husband’s name. Of course it would have been easier to say I’d been widowed, I made things far too complicated for myself! But it’s a bit late now.’

Things might have seemed complicated to her, but for Peter everything suddenly seemed much simpler. If she was free … but he was getting distracted. They had to get back to the letter.

‘And this?’ He touched the folded sheet.

She lifted her shoulders and the poppies and cornflowers on her bodice rose and fell.

‘Someone knows.’

‘Well, yes, except they’ve put their own despicable interpretation on it!’ Peter took a long swig of his own drink. He needed it. ‘Do you have any idea who it could be?’

He expected a ‘no’, but she surprised him.

‘Any idea? I have a very good idea.’

‘Really? There’s someone in the world who hates you that much?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘You might like to get us some more drinks. It’s another long story.’

First thing next morning, at eight o’clock sharp, Peter Simmonds was tapping on Mr Marlow’s door.

He’d slept better than he had for days, and not just because he now had a plan of action. That was satisfying enough, but he knew the most refreshing rest had come because he was flattered – honoured even – by the confidences Eileen had entrusted him with, thrilled to know she was free of any ties, and excited to think he could get to know her better … and better. If his resolve to go into battle for her had been firm before, it was steely now. He knew he’d fight to his last breath for her if Cedric Marlow tried to resist.

But when he heard Peter’s suspicions, Cedric was so stunned he simply nodded dumbly. He didn’t ask how Peter had come to the conclusion he had, and Peter didn’t name names, just in case Eileen had been wrong. He knew he needed proof.

‘I need your permission, sir, to carry out a locker check. For every member of staff, from juniors right up to management. I’m hoping to find the evidence I need to confront them.’

‘Someone in the store …’ the old man repeated. ‘You must do all you can, we have to root this out. Someone in the store … we can’t have that!’

Downstairs, not knowing what was to come, the usual clatter and chatter prevailed in the cloakrooms, and no one was chattering more than Gladys.

‘Look, Lily, look,’ she squeaked excitedly, arriving beside her friend, hat askew and gas mask case flying.

Lily calmly closed her locker door, but before she could turn her head, Gladys was thrusting something under her nose.

‘I’ve got the cards!’ she cried. ‘Look!’

‘Whoa, whoa … when did this happen?’ gasped Lily. ‘I thought we were still hunting for them!’

‘You won’t believe it,’ Gladys said. ‘Brenda from Books gave them to me. Her brother got married – oh, years ago, before the war, and she knew her sister-in-law had some left over and she was sure she’d saved them. So she asked her at the weekend and her sister-in-law found them and Brenda came round with them last night!’

‘How lucky!’ said Lily. ‘And how kind.’

‘I know,’ said Gladys. ‘And they’re going to come to the church to see us married, and all, the pair of them. What do you think?’

She beamed, a smile as wide as the sea Bill sailed on. Lily obediently studied the card: Gladys would expect no less. There were no cherubs and no trumpets – well, you couldn’t have everything – but Gladys had got her ribbons, trailed by silver bells in each corner.

‘They’re perfect,’ she began, but was cut off by the sudden appearance in the doorway of Miss Garner from the Staff Office. She clapped her hands for silence.

‘Thank you, ladies, girls, if I could have some quiet, please?’

Anyone still chattering was quickly shushed by their neighbour: Miss Garner was another of the store’s formidable females. Almost eighty pairs of eyes turned towards her expectantly.

‘We need to carry out a locker check. Can you please open your lockers and stand beside them until it’s completed. Thank you.’

Everyone turned away with a variety of grimaces, mutterings, and raised eyebrows.

Locker checks happened about once every six months, usually when there was a suspicion of staff shoplifting. Someone had once been found with an unglamorous stash of tooth powder; another time it had been a pair of suede gloves. A more lucrative haul had been several pouches of pipe tobacco.

‘I’d like to assure you,’ Miss Garner added as her minions began moving methodically along the rows, ‘that the management lockers are being checked as well.’