Christmas Stalkings (15 page)

A reference, as I understood it, to her lodger’s army rank—a curmudgeon being several stripes above a sergeant, and necessitating a snappy mustache as part of the uniform.

“Cousin Hilda,” I said, “while we’re waiting, why not tell me about your Dark Secret?”

“Is nothing sacred, Miss Elephant Ears?”

“Mother was talking to Aunt Lulu and I distinctly heard the words ‘teapot’ and ‘
Bossam’s
Departmental Store.’“

“Any day now I’ll be reading about myself in the peephole press; but I suppose it is best you hear the whole story from the horse’s mouth.”

While we talked the room had darkened, throwing into ghostly relief the lace chair backs and Cousin Hilda’s face. A chill tippy-toed down my back. Was I ready to rub shoulders with the truth? Did I want to know that my relation was the Jesse James of the China Department?

Hands clasped in her tweed lap, Cousin Hilda said—in the same voice she would have used to offer me a stick of barley sugar, “No two ways about it, what I did was criminal. A real
turnup
for the book, because beforehand I’d never done anything worse than cough in church. But there I was, Miss Hilda Finnely, hiding out in the storeroom at
Bossam’s
, on the eve of the January Sale.”

To understand, girly dear, you must know about the teapot. On Sunday afternoons, right back to the days when my brothers and I were youngsters in this house, Mother would bring out the best china. I can still see her, sitting where you are, that teapot with its pink-and-yellow roses in her hands. Then one day—as though someone had spun the stage around, the boys had left home and my parents were gone. Father had died in March and Mother early in December. That year, all of my own choosing, I spent Christmas alone—feeling sorry for myself, you understand. For the first time in years I didn’t take my nephews and nieces to see Father Christmas at
Bossam’s
. But by Boxing Day the dyed-in-the-wool spinster suspected she had cut off her nose to spite her face. Ah, if wishes were reindeer! After a good cry and ending up with a nose like Rudolph’s, I decided to jolly myself up having tea by the fire. Just like the old days. I was getting the teapot out of the cupboard when a mouse ran over my foot Usually they don’t bother me, but I was still a bit shaky—thinking that the last time I used the best china was at Mother’s funeral. My hands slipped and . . . the teapot went smashing to the floor.

I was distraught But always a silver lining. My life had purpose once more. Didn’t I owe it to Mother’s memory and future generations to make good the breakage? The next day I telephoned
Bossam’s
and was told the Meadow Rose pattern had been discontinued. A blow. But not the moment to collapse. One teapot remained among the back stock. I asked that it be held for me and promised to be in on the first bus.

“I’m ever so sorry, madam, really I am. But that particular piece of china is in a batch reserved for the January Sale. And rules is rules.”

“Surely they can be bent.”

“What if word leaked out? We’d have a riot on our hands. You know how it is with The Sale. The mob can turn very nasty.”

Regrettably true. On the one occasion when I had attended the first day of the sale, with Mrs.
McClusky
, my best bargain was escaping with my life. Those scenes shown on television—of customers camping outside the West End shops and fighting for their places in the queue with pitchforks—we have the same thing at
Bossam’s
. The merchandise may not be as ritzy. But then, the
Bossam’s
customer is not looking for an original Leonardo to hang over the radiator in the bathroom, or a sari to wear at one’s next garden party. When the bargain hunter’s blood is up— whether for mink coats or tea towels, the results are the same. Oh, that dreadful morning with Mrs.
McClusky
! Four hours of shuddering in the wind and rain, before the doors were opened by brave Bossam personnel taking their lives in their hands. Trapped in the human avalanche, half suffocated and completely blind, I was cast up in one of the aisles. Fighting my way out, I saw once respectable women
coshing
each other with handbags, or throttling people as they tried to hitchhike piggyback rides. Before I could draw breath, my coat was snatched off my back, by Mrs.
McClusky
, of all people.

“Doesn’t suit you, ducky!”

The next moment she was waving it overhead like a matador’s cape, shouting, “How much?”

The dear woman is still wearing my coat to church, but back to the matter at hand. For Mother’s teapot I would have braved worse terrors than the January stampede but, hanging up the telephone, I took a good look at myself in the hall mirror. To be first at the china counter on the fateful morning I needed to do better than be Hilda Jane. I’d have to be Tarzan. Impossible. But, strange to say, the face that looked back at me wasn’t downcast. An idea had begun to grow and was soon as securely in place as the bun on my head.

The afternoon before The Sale I packed my handbag with the essentials of an overnight stay. In went my sponge bag, my well-worn copy of
Murder at the Vicarage,
a package of tomato sandwiches, a slice of Christmas cake, a small bottle of milk, a piece of cardboard, and a roll of adhesive tape. And mustn’t forget my torch. All during the bus ride into town, I wondered whether the other passengers suspected— from the way I held my handbag—that I was up to something. Was that big woman across the aisle, in the duck-feather hat, staring? No . . . yes, there she went elbowing her companion . . . now they were both whispering. So were the people in front. And now the ones behind. I heard the words “Father Christmas” and was put in my place to realize I wasn’t the subject of all the buzzing on the bus. That distinction belonged to the stocky gentleman with the mustache, now rising to get off at my stop.

He was vaguely familiar.

“Dreadfully sorry,” I said as we collided in the aisle. His
Bossam’s
carrier bag dropped with a thump as we rocked away from each other to clutch at the seat rails. My word, if looks could kill! His whole face turned into a growl.

Behind us someone muttered. “No wonder he got the sack! Imagine him and a bunch of kiddies? Enough to put the little dears off Christmas for life.”

Silence came down like a butterfly net, trapping me inside along with the ex-Father Christmas. For a moment I didn’t realize the bus had stopped; I was thinking that I was now in no position to throw stones and that I liked the feeling. We “Black Hats” must stick together. Stepping onto the pavement, it came to me why his face was familiar. That day last year, when I left my wallet on the counter at the fishmonger’s, he had come hurrying after me . . .

His footsteps followed me now as I went in through
Bossam’s
Market Street entrance.

Now was the moment for an attack of remorse, but I am ashamed to say I didn’t feel a twinge. Familiarity cushioned me from the reality of my undertaking. The entire floor looked like a tableau from one of the display windows. The customers could have been life-size doll folk already jerkily winding down.

Directly ahead was the Cosmetics Department, where bright-haired young women presided over glass coffins filled with a treasure trove of beauty enhancers sufficient to see Cleopatra safely into the next world.

“Can I help you, madam?”

“I don’t think so, dear, unless you have any rejuvenating cream.”

“You might try Softie-Boss, our double-action moisture balm.”

“Another time. I really must get to the China Department”

“Straight ahead, madam; across from the Men’s Department. You do know our sale starts tomorrow?”

“I keep abreast of world events.”

Well done, Hilda. Cool as a cucumber.

The ex—Father Christmas headed past and I mentally wished him luck returning whatever was in his carrier bag. Probably a ho-hum present or, worse, one of the ho-ho sort ...

Perhaps not the best time to remember the year I received my fourth umbrella and how accommodating
Bossam’s
had been about an exchange. Rounding the perfume display, I reminded myself that no bridges had been burned or boats cast out to sea. I had a full half hour before closing time to change my mind.

Courage, Hilda.

There is a
cozyness
to
Bossam’s
that ridicules the melodramatic—other than at the January Sale. It is a family-owned firm, founded after the First World War and securely anchored in a tradition of affordability and personal service. The present owner, Mr. Leslie Bossam, had kept a restraining hand on progress. Nymphs and shepherds still cavort on the plastered ceilings. The original lift, with its brass gate, still cranks its way from the basement to the first floor. No tills are located on the varnished counters of the Haberdashery Department, which comprised the first store. When you make a purchase, the salesperson reaches overhead, untwists the drum of a small container attached to a trolley wire, inserts the payment, reattaches the drum and sends it zinging down the wire to the Accounts window, where some unseen person extracts the payment and sends a receipt and possible change, zinging back. A little bit of nostalgia, which appears to operate with surprising efficiency. Perhaps if I had presented my case, in person, to Mr. Bossam . . . ?

“In need of assistance, madam?” A black moth of a saleswoman came fluttering up to me as I reached the China Department.

“Thank you, I’m just looking.”

The absolute truth. I was looking to see where best to hide the next morning, so as not to be spotted by the staff before the shop doors opened, at which moment I trusted all eyes would be riveted to the in-rushing mob, permitting me to step from the shadows—in order to be first at the counter. The Ladies’ Room was handy, but fraught with risk. Ditto the Stock Room; which left the stairwell, with its landing conveniently screened by glass doors. Yes, I felt confident I could manage nicely; if I didn’t land in the soup before getting properly started.

Parading toward me was Mr. Leslie Bossam. His spectacles glinting, his smile as polished as his bald head under the white lights.

“Madam, may I be of service?”

One last chance to operate within the system. While the black moths fluttered around the carousel of Royal
Doulton
figures, I pressed my case.

“My sympathy, madam. A dreadful blow when one loses a treasured family friend. My wife and I went through much the same thing with a Willow Pattern soup tureen earlier this year. I wish I could make an exception regarding the Meadow Rose teapot, but the question then becomes, Where does one draw the line? At
Bossam’s
every customer is a valued customer.”

Standing there, wrapped in his voice, I found my- -self neither surprised nor bitterly disappointed. The game was afoot and I felt like a girl for the first time since I used to watch the other children playing hopscotch and hide-and-seek. My eyes escaped from Mr. Bossam across the aisle to Gentlemen’s Apparel, where the ex-Father Christmas hovered among sports jackets. He still had his carrier bag and it seemed to me he held it gingerly. Did it contain something fragile . . . like a teapot? The thought brought a smile to my face; but it didn’t linger.

“Rest assured, madam, we are always at your service.” Mr. Bossam interrupted himself to glance at the clock mounted above the lift. Almost five-thirty. Oh, dear! Was he about to do the chivalrous thing and escort me to the exit?

“Good heavens!”

“I beg your pardon, madam?”

“I see someone I know, over in Gentlemen’s Apparel. Excuse me, if I hurry over for a word with him.”

“Certainly, madam!” Mr. Bossam exhaled graciousness until he followed my gaze, whereupon he turned into a veritable teakettle, sputtering and steaming to the boil.

“Do my spectacles deceive me? That man . . . that-embezzler on the premises! I warned him I would have him arrested if he set one foot ...”

Mr. Bossam rushed across the aisle, leaving me feeling I had saved my own neck by handing a fellow human being over to the Gestapo. No, it didn’t help to tell myself the man was a criminal. What I was doing was certainly illegal. Slipping through the glass doors onto the stairwell, I fully expected to be stopped dead by a voice hurled hatchet-fashion,
That’s not the exit, madam.
But nothing was said; no footsteps came racing after me as I opened the door marked “Staff Only” and hurried down the flight of steps to “Storage.”

Electric light spattered a room sectioned off by racks of clothing and stacks of boxes into a maze. “Better than the one at Hampton Court,” my nephew Willie had enthused one afternoon when he ended up down here while looking for the Gentlemen’s. When I caught up with him he was exiting the staff facility. And, if memory served, the Ladies’ was right next door, to my left, on the other side of that rack of coats. No time to dawdle. As far as I could tell, I had the area to myself, but at any moment activity was bound to erupt. The staff would be working late on behalf of The Sale, and no doubt crates of merchandise would be hauled upstairs before I was able to settle down in peace with
Murder at the Vicarage.