Going shopping the Whybrow way

.........or the value of Pie.

I returned to the shop, wondering how to word my invitation to Mr Whybrow to come and inspect my new look. After his earlier ordeal under The Fashionista’s disapproval, I knew this would need to be handled with some delicacy. As it transpired, I need not have worried. He was already there in the back office, stuffing an object from the safe into his pocket.

At my cheery “Good day, sir,”  he froze in guilt as though caught in the act of doing something – well, naughty. I saw that the item that he’d been removing so secretly was half a loaf of bread.

 “I’m sorry, Miss,”  he stammered. “My shopgirl’s out at the moment. May I be of – Good Lord!”

I beamed proudly back, feigning not to have noticed his discomfiture. Yes, it’s me! I waited for him to find his senses.

“Positively regal, Miss Bluebird,”  he finally croaked. “That’s a wise choice; white goes with anything.”

“That’s what Miss Creeggan said, sir,”  I said, not wanting to take too much of the credit.

Mr Whybrow rubbed his chin, turning things over. “Standards have clearly improved since I last fitted out a shopgirl. I’ll have to give your wardrobe more attention.”

For a moment, an uneasy silence hung over the room. Tentatively, I asked, “Can I help you, sir?”

Mr Whybrow remembered the original purpose of his being in the office. “Ah, no thank you, Miss. It’s all right; just grabbing some dinner for later.”

Appalled, I gave the loaf a diplomatically-moderated frown. “I beg your pardon, sir; is that it? All of it?”

“It serves,”  he replied with an uncaring shrug. “None of my other shopgirls could cook, and –  “   As for the present one….   

He left the rest unsaid, but I heard it anyway. Yes, we both knew my reputation. I drew myself up in a posture of thinly-veiled affront.  “Sir, the workhouse were probably pennypinching by buying offal that’d been thrown out of Smithfield. Doctor Lister would have poisoned his clients if he’d bought that stuff.” A little hurt at the reminder, I briskly added, “If there’s nothing else, sir, I’ve work to do.”

Mr Whybrow appeared oblivious to the slight he had inflicted. “I hope that’ll include the laundry. I’m afraid it has  piled up a little since the last shopgirl went although obviously, there’s no point in laundering your other gown.”

He was right. I had no right to complain after what I’d just done in his cellar. “Naturally, sir. If you could just let me have what you want washed?”

While he was out collecting his laundry, I headed home and pondered things. He clearly skimped on his own well-being yet was about to go to a lot of expense on my behalf. Oh, yes. That thoughtful look of his was not hard to read. There could be no doubt; he was about to re-instate his standing with Miss Creeggan by adding to my wardrobe. I, on the other hand, had some reinstating of my own to do, and the method had already suggested itself.

Cook him dinner. A proper one. You were probably right about the workhouse buying stuff on the cheap, anyway. Glue factory rejects!

Not daring to risk Miss Creeggan’s new gown with my chores, I changed into my previous one. An old dustbin standing by, with scorch marks around its fundament, told me that this small unroofed chamber doubled as the firm’s washhouse. I could not help wondering if I’d be excused laundry if it was raining. On second thoughts – knowing Mr Whybrow, I’d be more likely to be told to leave it lying out in the rain. “It’s nature’s own laundry, Miss! Cleaner than anything from the pumps.”

Since I’d have to clear up the mess in the cellar anyway, I killed two birds with one stone by using the barrel debris as laundry fuel; at least it burned easily. As for the laundry itself - Mr Whybrow’s load was not so much copious as labour-intensive, although compared to the workhouse laundry, this lot was positively sweet.

Being well-used to laundrywork, I found time to take my idea more seriously. I owed it to him to make an effort and prepare him something special. I was unlikely to poison anyone a second time, and he certainly could have used a little mothering. It was then that a lush, rich aroma arrested my attention. A reminiscence of a happy spirit that had occasionally tantalised the workhouse yard when the wind was right; a fantastical olfactory treasure oft-aspired to but never acquired, which those who had experienced the world beyond its walls longingly identified as something called, “The Chippy.”

The aroma of frying pervaded my attention like a disease and made my stomach gurgle until, under the additional flexing from my stirring the laundry bin, it began to feel like an industrial butter churn. I realised that I was about to drop Mr Whybrow’s trousers into the fire. It was no good. I had to discover the source of this distraction.

It was not hard to find. I followed the lure of frying beef tallow to the quayside, to a small shop where a man stood behind the counter, placidly turning chips over. His shop sign identified him as one Mr McKew, purveyor of fried fish.

Mr McKew’s bill of fare wrenched at me. Cod, haddock, plaice, saveloys, all lovingly boasted on his blackboard while jars of pickled onions presided from a shelf behind him. All served up in fresh newspaper, too; none of the grubby stuff favoured by the cheaper establishments that shed newsprint over your chips, your fingers, everything. Mr McKew raised an eyebrow to me that was playful, inviting – almost seductive, since he had caught me staring with my tongue hanging out. I hastily pretended to be reading his placard, and returned him a twitch of a smile, hinting that through no fault of my own, I could not linger.

More to the point, I didn’t have a brass farthing on me. Mr Whybrow’s generosity was plentiful, but not with money. But, as I returned to my devoirs,  I made myself a silent vow that I would be back. It was purely a question of planning. And possibly a little manipulation.

Stirring the steamy laundry bin, I could barely concentrate. I began to wish the wind would change and blow the temptation in the other direction. Then Mr Whybrow put his head around the door.

“Miss Bluebird? I’ve ordered some new gowns for you, can you keep an eye out for when they arrive?”

Oh, God. He’d  been and done it!  “Certainly, sir, but you didn’t have to; I do have spares.”

Mr Whybrow shook his head. “Miss Creeggan had a point. My last shopgirl spent too long cavorting around with her companion for me to pay much attention to her wardrobe. These are the receipts; just be sure to tick ‘em off as they come, will you? Large and diverse orders can be unreliable.”

“Of course, sir – “  But he had already shoved a sheaf of papers into my hand. My first impression was that he’d certainly been busy on my account.

Then a low, deep throb entered my hearing; the tiny yard bounced the echo back and forth to amplify it into an army of Joshua’s trumpets. But it seemed muted – distant, perhaps. Whatever it was, it made my belly resonate and all thought of fish and chips left my mind. In fact I began to feel queezy.

“That’s just one of the public airships, Miss,”  Mr Whybrow patiently assured me. “They dock a couple of hundred yards to the north of here.”

I managed a sickly smile. “Thank you, sir; I was wondering.”

Mr Whybrow allowed himself a tight chuckle. “You’d better get used to them, you’ll be seeing plenty of them. In fact, you’ll see quite a few funny things flying around here. Don’t be afraid of them; if it’s not a public airship then it’s probably our Mr Constantine out on a practice flight.”

“I gather you had a good time with Miss Creeggan?”  He asked, probably trying a change of subject to put me at ease over the airship.

“I did, thank you, sir.”

“Mmmm; she’ll have shown you much that’s worth remembering. It’s all part of the job, after all.”

“Indeed, sir.”  That would have included our revolver practice, but I did not have the nerve to bring that matter up. Not having seen what he’d ordered for me.

“Well, keep an ear out for those deliveries. Give the drivers a chance, and they’ll just dump the lot on the doorstep and run.”

The airship’s octo-bass diminished as it went to terrorise eardrums in a neighbouring district. Mr Whybrow left me to resume the laundry. Gazing up at the small square of sky I could see, it only then occurred to me that Caledon had achieved powered flight and made it efficient enough for the locals to take for granted. How curious that I should only just have realised that, when the world I’d left behind was struggling to get anything off the ground that could steer its own course.

Well, Caledon could keep its airships. They were positively unnatural.

With a scornful snort, I riffled through the wadge of flimsies that Mr Whybrow had thrust upon me, and my heart stopped. It was all coming from Pochephroque  of Pond Street, no less – costumiers to the Crowned heads of three continents. And he’d ordered enough to kit out all of Caledon.

I resumed stirring the ghastly dustbin, only half aware of what I was doing. “Oh, dear Lord, sir; what have you done?”  I murmured. He must have laid out a king’s ransom.

Deciding that Mr Whybrow’s laundry might as well stew on its own without any help from me, I was having a bit of a sweepup in the yard when a call came from inside the shop. “Delivery for a Mister Whybrow?”

“Yes!”  I blared. I left the broom handle standing in the dustbin and ran through. There they were – those distinctive great boxes from Pochephroque of Pond Street – and they were mine!  It was so difficult to look brisk and businesslike as I ticked off the boxes against the receipts; I had to give the driver full marks for patience.

As soon as he’d left, I looked around to make sure I was alone, and then let loose with a riot of excited bouncing and squeaking – think of a mouse on cocaine. It was as much as I could do to keep my glee corked up as I took the boxes home, smugly displaying the Pochephroque labels to the world, and stacked them carefully on the floor. I was going to be busy later.

I was careful to lock my front door behind me when I returned to the shop, but barely had I removed key from lock when another delivery van pulled up outside the shop. Not wanting him to think the shop was empty, I put on a bit of a run. I had barely carried this delivery home when another van came -

and another –

and another.

[Editors’ note – Throughout my account, readers might recognise the wares from the pictures, but I shan’t mention the name. It was a real sale, operated by a real Second Life merchant, whose wares I’ve been proud to parade every day. But it was a long time ago now, anyway.  VB] 

I was too busy to admire the glittering constumes as the boxes disgorged them, but boy I was going to have fun later. When everything was finally unpacked, checked over for moth holes and rents, and hung up, I made a point of sending Mr Whybrow a note of thanks in the Lamson. It came as no surprise when he was with me in minutes, sweeping his eyes over the racks of gowns as though to satisfy himself as to where his money had gone.

“It looks as if you ordered everything in the shop, sir,”  I enthused.

“Actually, I did,”  he replied. “Well, if you’ve done the laundry, you’d better head back to the shop.”

And with that, he was gone, and my gratitude thus dismissed. But that was just his way; I suspect he simply did not know how to handle it when someone showed their appreciation over some personal matter.

As I headed back to the shop, my guilt returned, and I began to consider once again preparing him something special for dinner. It couldn’t have been that difficult to cook, after all; the only difference between domestic cooking and that in the workhouse, was the transposition of quality and quantity. My ponderings were interrupted as I espied a man pasting a poster up on the church wall. Some inner instinct told me that this one would be worth reading.

And it was. As soon as the bill sticker had left, I crossed over for a closer look. My blood began to simmer. Then it began to boil.

 “POCHEPHROQUE OF POND STREET - CLOSING DOWN SALE – EVERYTHING MUST GO.”  And just to rub it in, Messrs Pochephroque had splashed across the whole, in lurid scarlet, “Final Day – everything free.”

I smiled, feeling like the victim of a mild practical joke. As for my blood, that subsided to a merry bubbling of lava. “I might have guessed. You tightwad. But I still owe you, and I do have a closet fit for a countess.”  Yes, sir; I WILL make you something special. And in the greater scheme of things, I could not lose.

As to what I would make, my workhouse experience provided the answer. A pie, but how a pie should be made. I had the necessary ingredients for the crust, and although my formal career in the workhouse kitchen had been brief, I had often hung around there as a kid to keep warm in winter, to be fed odd scraps in return for helping out. The superintendent’s dinner, of course, was prepared separately and it went without saying that he was given far more adventurous fare than the stodge that the rest of us were lumbered with. So, I reckoned that I’d picked up quite a lot in those formative years.

As for a filling, that would be no problem. Some of the local worthies grew apple trees; they would not miss a couple of pounds of fruit.

It did not take long for my culinary paragon to be complete. A light dusting of sugar, and I was ready to go. Naively, I picked up the dish through my sleeves, which insulated me from the heat until I was out on the street. Then the pie bit back all at once. Ow, it’s hot!  Mother of……

As one does, I danced about waving my hands to cool them down and it was not until then that I remembered the pie.

Ah. Yes. Oops. Well, they obviously didn’t use very strong paving in Caledon.

Darting back inside for a towel, I retrieved the pie and blew off fragments of granite. It was fresh from the fire, after all; it probably just needed to stand for a little to soften it up. Resting it on the counter, I sent Mr Whybrow a note through the Lamson. “Please return to shop immediately.”  I’d kept it deliberately enigmatic, in the hope that not knowing the cause of his summons would be more likely to bring him, than offering him a false one which he might fob off or delay.

The ploy worked. Mr Whybrow strode in, darting his gaze hither and thither for the customer responsible, and found me standing proudly by the counter. But it was only the pie he had eyes for, uncertain whether to look greedy or just stick to plain puzzled.

“Miss Bluebird? What’s all this about?”

“You’re obviously not getting the time to feed yourself properly, sir, so I thought I should take care of that for you.”

That threw him. He was clearly not used to anyone going to trouble on his account. “That’s – ah – very thoughtful of you, Miss Bluebird,”  he said, eventually. “Thank you very much.”

As he left, toting my gift, he seemed to have trouble walking in a straight line. Oh, dear. That man does need looking after. But then he had told me that his previous shopgirls weren’t up to much. Yes, sir. You definitely deserve better.

Then a blast like the end of the world shook the floor under me, rattling the windows and shaking plaster dust from the ceiling. I could not imagine what had caused it, but it seemed to have come from the quayside.  I ran out to find that pretty little sedan chair, which had become my “personal facility,”  a splayed-out ruin. That pretty pink gazunder, which had cast its own cheer over one’s daily functions, was scattered in shards, while torn-up bits of “The Times” floated in the sea.  [Editor’s note:    Yes, they really DID say “The Times”  was good enough to…. well, you know.]

“What – how – “

I was at a complete loss for words. The only possible causes to run through my mind would have been hilarious had the potential for harm not been so dire. Who had been eating what, in order to do that?

But the cause stood leering back at me, defiantly obvious. In the middle of the wreckage, like an evil cuckoo who had not only taken possession of a nest but trashed it too, lurked my pie.  Mr McKew was gaping through his shop window, but understandably dared not leave his fryer untended. No doubt he, too, would be mourning the loss of a valuable public amenity.

A groan at my shoulder made me turn. Mr Whybrow had come running; he had probably detected the blast from his lofty workshop and naturally assumed that I was the cause. But I wasn’t. Not directly, anyway. He took in the ruins with a weary sigh. “I’m sorry, Miss Bluebird; I dropped your pie and it went clean through the floor. I was wondering where it landed, and – “  He scratched his head distractedly. “Well, now I know. Thank God nobody was in there.”

I got my riposte in first, before anybody could try diverting the blame to me. “Fortunate indeed, sir. But would you mind explaining what I’m supposed to use now?”

Mr Whybrow waved a clueless arm about.  “Use the yard; that’s private enough. You can even lock the door behind you.”

Indignantly, I raised my voice to a level that would have made Mr McKew jump. “Sir, it doesn’t even have a roof!”

“Well, who’s going to notice? The airships don’t even pass over here.”

Him and his damned airships!  “And what if it rains?”

“There’s an umbrella in the back office,”  Mr Whybrow mumbled.

I drew myself up and met his gaze with one that made him shrink. “All right. There’s nothing I can do about that for now.”  I shot an arm at the destroyed “facility.” “But in the meantime, you are going to eat properly. It’s this, or I feed you myself.”

Grabbing his elbow, I steered him to Mr McKew’s establishment; the gentleman inside brightened instantly at our approach, and held his chip shovel at the ready. Mr Whybrow proved easy to manoevre as I squeezed in after him and spoke before he could. “Now, I want two large cod, two large chips, a pickled onion…… no, make that two, both together, and………”

Mr Whybrow looked decidedly unhappy as I reeled off my order. As for Mr McKew, he took it all in with the patient smile of a statue. He knew he’d be seeing a lot of me.

Shopping - the CC way.

I was brought up in mid-run as though I’d run into a glass wall. The doors burst open and lightning crashed, paralysing me with shock. When my vision cleared, the doorway framed what had to be the most beautiful creature I’d ever seen, limned in indignation that clung to her like an aura. Her porcelain face radiated omniscience and fury at the ruin confronting her. If this lady wasn’t an empress, then she was at least what an empress should resemble. Mr Whybrow, I remarked, was making no sound at all; I suspected he’d been caught by surprise as I had.

The regal lady remained silently glaring, as forbidding as God on the last day of judgment as she awaited Mr W’s introduction. He dropped in a shaky bow. “Miss Bluebird, this is Miss Creeggan, otherwise known as The Fashionista. What she doesn’t know about deportment hasn’t been written.”

Deportment – I sensed that my time in Caledon was about to end, after all. “She removes immigrants?”

Under The Fashionista’s glare – which had acquired a twitch of amusement – he irritably explained, “Deportment, Miss! Behaviour! Grooming, fashion sense. Miss Creeggan is the first and last word in all. Strong men have been known to drink themselves to death after an unfavourable review from Miss Creeggan.” He drew himself up, recovering his pride. The Fashionista had obviously approved his establishment.  Then he joined her in looking me up and down. Between them, they left me feeling like a disease.

But no. The Fashionista’s countenance was condemning my deportment, but not me. For the first time, she spoke. "Whybrow, what have you been doing with the poor girl? She looks like wiggyfish dragged through the sewers and then mauled by exploding turkeys.” Her tone was low honey; a governess beckoning in a naughty schoolgirl to receive just punishment. But I was still not sure whether that privilege was reserved for Mr Whybrow, or for me.

Crisply, Mr Whybrow explained, “She was careless in the cellar, Miss. Playing about with things shopgirls should leave alone.”

Feeling bound to say something, I mumbled at the carpet something with “cattleprod”  in it.

Miss Creeggan was unimpressed by either of us. “Weapons testing on such a bright young lass?  And where have you been taking her shopping?  The Battle of Balaklava? Even your Uncle Arthur would never have been so gauche.”

“Uncle Arthur would not have had a shopgirl to blow the place up.” He made it sound like I was a bad idea about which he was having second thoughts.

“Well, you’ve got one and be glad of it.  Mister Whybrow, this simply will not do. She does have to model your wares after all.  She needs a proper hairstyling, clothing and to learn the art of cosmetics.  She's the face of the establishment.”

I felt as though I was receding into the background. The spotlight was on Mr Whybrow and while I could see him holding his own, he was squirming quite visibly. Then Miss Creeggan impaled me with those eyes that could allure or annihilate, dragging me back into the limelight again. “Yes, cosmetics, Miss Bluebird. I suspect your fair face has known nothing more gracious than chip fat.”  (I should have been so lucky!)  “I can see that a few lessons are in order. What can you learn from my own example?”

I was pinned down like a butterfly on a card. Just say anything!  “It’s absolutely immaculate, Miss,”  I hazarded. I’d learned “immaculate”  when the workhouse cook had been describing how she wanted her pots to look when I was hammering all the residual pastry crust off.

But “immaculate” had not worked. “Oh, is it. You no doubt thought you were paying me a compliment, which I’m happy to accept as such. You see my pallid complexion as being proper for a lady, who protects her skin from the sun and doesn’t tax it with vulgar manual labours?”  I nodded, hoping that I was doing the right thing. Mr Whybrow, I noticed, seemed happy to be lurking offstage during my interrogation. Why couldn’t he lurk where I could see him, so I could at least pick up a few cues?

“There are those who will tell you that my rouge is excessive for a proper woman. But then, Mr Whybrow can tell you that I’m Mainland-born. We find it expressive without detracting from that becoming aura of serenity. A lady needs both.”

Already I was more at ease with this amazing lady. Yes, she was Lordess of life and death where deportment was concerned. But she was instructing me, happy to – yes, I felt that already I’d been taken under her wing as a pupil to be cherished. I clung to her every word; I never wanted her to stop.

“I find it very becoming, Miss. Pure marble is for statues, surely?”

The Fashionista raised one lush auburn eyebrow. I’d clearly said the right thing. Behind me, Mr Whybrow swallowed with a sick gulping noise. I was on my own here. 

But Miss Creeggan dissolved the cast-iron atmosphere with a tic of her mouth. “Mr Whybrow, you won’t be needing your shopgirl for a couple of hours.”  It was a flat statement, not a request. “Go and clean yourself up, my dear. WE are going shopping. But not while you look like a Dickensian villainess’ skivvy.”

I looked to Mr Whybrow for confirmation. I didn’t want to cross this lady, but I still knew who gave the orders in this establishment. 

He had actually turned an unwholesome shade of green, but then he knew where the merchants’ accounts would be sent. “As you wish, Miss Creeggan. Uh – we’re most grateful for your time and commitment.”

I did not linger to see what happened next. Not caring about my dishevelment, I ran home and filled the tin tub from the kitchen pump. The water was fresh and cold from the mains; memories of the monthly scrub in the workhouse returned, but they did not linger. For a start, there was no attendant standing by to scrub the worst miscreants with a broom, and more to the point, I had a nice fire banked up to coddle me while I soaked.

Impish fingers of excitement tickled my bowels as I allowed myself a few moments to reflect. I hadn’t met many Caledonians, but they all seemed to be what outsiders would have termed “eccentric”  but in a flamboyant yet humane sort of way. As for Miss Creeggan, she reminded me of Mr Whybrow in many ways. Ruthless and outspoken, but fair and with a caring, generous side not far below the surface. In fact, that last, she wore like a badge of pride. 

Fortunately there was a spare gown in the same colour. A quick brush of my hair and nobody would have known that anything untoward had happened. 

I returned to the shop. There, Miss Creeggan swept an eye up and down me once in each direction, and nodded her grudging approval. “Come, my dear. Let’s be on our way.”

Mr Whybrow said nothing. He simply didn’t matter. Taking Miss Creeggan’s arm, I bounced joyfully at her side as she led the way out. I’d have followed her anywhere.

“Now,”  she pronounced with a didactic air. “We must first find you a hairdresser. If there is one word you must remember, it’s ‘Amacci.’”

Where she took me was to a place that looked to be the size of King’s Cross station, dazzlingly lit with what I presume must have been that electricity stuff. Miss Creeggan let me take it all in in my own time. As my retinas adjusted, I became aware of a host of angels floating about me – no, it was all models, each advertising one stylish coiffure, each available in a sweeping pallette of colours. 

As I adjusted to the splendour surrounding me, I remarked that the emporium seemed to stretch on forever. In the distance were hairpieces for men – both  genders, in the same establishment?  In London, that would have brought an army of self-righteous banner-toting matrons down on the owners, proclaiming that the gates of hell had opened in the West End. 

Miss Creeggan gently nudged. “Might I suggest that you first look for something you need for modelling tiaras and headpieces?”

All I could do by way of reply was to gulp. A smidgin of commonsense added its own tiny nudge. In a daze, I roamed the stands for something of a style compatible with a ballroom tiara. The choice – arrrgh!

 “Melody looks best, Miss,”  I croaked, unconvincingly.

Miss Creeggan nodded. Whether or not she agreed, she kept to herself. Despite her flamboyant style of delivery, this lady made a very good poker player. “Try it on, then.”

This I did. The great beehive settled surprisingly comfortably on my scalp. Miss Creeggan’s gimlet gaze Scrutinised it, pinning me to the spot. She had already intimated that she’d known Mr Whybrow since his arrival in Caledon; I soon relaxed. He was a man who chose his friends carefully, and I knew I could not be in safer hands. 

Miss Creeggan’s smile spread a little; she had been waiting for my nerves to subside in their own time. Then she nodded. From Miss Creeggan, that nod meant the difference between life and death to a merchant. 

 “That’s good,”  she pronounced. I was a little surprised that her pronouncement did not echo about the vast chamber. “But try some others, just to make sure. Say……… that one.”

Glad that she was relieving me of the burden of decision, I reached for another which had the same broad headband, but above it, had the tresses arranged more elaborately.  

“What do you think?”  Miss Creeggan asked.

I could see that she was testing me. “Isn’t it a little too elaborate, Miss?”

“Quite,”  she agreed in a soft snap.  “Shining in the shop is one thing, but one should not outshine the customers. They don’t like that. What about….. that one?”  Miss Creeggan indicated a style which I remembered workhouse matrons wearing; it kept their hair out of the way while they belaboured young bottoms with hair brushes.

“Could be too severe,”  I said, with carefully-tempered doubt. I didn’t want to appear too cocky.  I tried the style anyway and Miss Creeggan’s face clouded instantly.

“I think so too,”  she told me. “If you were just his housekeeper, I’d say yes. But not if you’re going to be a model for countesses and suchlike. What’s your verdict, Miss Bluebird?”

I hesitated. She was speaking with me as an equal, which was not something to be expected from a lady who could bend Mr Whybrow around her little finger. She was also indicating that if I decided to settle for something now, she would not gainsay me. But like Mr Whybrow, she expected me to speak my mind.

“I still think that Melody is best all round, Miss.”

Miss Creeggan nodded. So be it.  She placed the order and I gulped again. I was going to have much to live up to, with these people. 

But she had not finished.  “You’ll also need something to wear around the shop when you’re not actually modelling. You might be a shopgirl, but you still need to marry style with dignity. Do you have any suggestions?”

To be honest, the styles I saw were all exquisitely-crafted but most did not belong in my home environment, either in the shop or outside it. But I had noticed that while I’d been shuffling on one hairpiece after another, Miss Creeggan’s eyes had kept going back to a big central stand advertising a newer ware. Had she held any doubt over it, she wouldn’t have given it a second glance. 

I looked it over. It did have a graceful sweep to it, while keeping the bulk of the hair out of the way in an attractive braid. Trying to sound more expert than I felt, I suggested, “Gloria holds promise, Miss.”

Without waiting for a signal, I tried it on. The braiding all held the scalp down as though it had always lived there; this was a coiffure which would withstand scurrying about the shop, household chores – yes, and possibly explosions in the cellar. Miss Creeggan subjected it to her analytical gaze. 

This time I felt sure I’d picked a good’un. I was confident enough to smile naturally as Miss Creeggan pared it apart, atom by atom.  Finally she gave that all-important nod. “Eminently practical and very elegant. And definitely ‘you.’”  

It was a little unnerving that she was so sure of knowing what “me” was, but I had passed the test. I knew what to wear and when. The hair was approved and so was I. 

Miss Creeggan let her gaze run up and down me. “There remains the matter of your gown. The one you have will suffice for walking out and entertaining,”  (and what?)  “But as we both know, changing outfits takes time. You need something that’ll suit as many purposes as possible, so you don’t waste time unnecessarily. Customers don’t like to be kept waiting.”

My nerves twitched again, sensing another test. And they were right. She handed me a slim catalogue. “See what you can find in there.”

I couldn’t put what I felt in writing, but I felt my instinct taking over. I knew what I was looking for, but I wasn’t certain as to why I was looking for it. Fortunately, as I riffled through the pages, feigning expertise, I knew that what I was looking for would stand out. And it did. 

I tapped the page with my thumb. “Something like that, Miss.”  

Miss Creeggan leaned over my shoulder and nodded sagely. “Now, that’s an excellent choice. That’s how someone serving a countess face-to-face would want to look. And your colour sense does you credit.”  Not bothering to look around to see if anyone was even there, she commanded, “Have this one delivered to Sparkle of Sound, Caledon SouthEnd.  Now, my dear,” she turned back to me. “Let’s head back. If that place values its reputation, your gown will be there ready and waiting for us.”

With that, Miss Creeggan offered me her arm and led me out.

And of course my new gown was there ready and waiting. Miss Creeggan had ordained it so. It had looked impressive enough in the catalogue, but there in its box – yard upon yard of sparkling spiderweb material – Memories of itchy workhouse cloth died hard and I had to fight back a lump in my throat. I was grateful when Miss Creeggan brought me back to the present. 

“I wonder if you’d prefer to try it on in the cellar? While we’re down there, I’d be very interested to see the cause of the initial fuss.”

“Of course, Miss! That’s a good idea.” And why not? Mr Whybrow had not even been there to greet us on our return. He was probably lurking in his workshop again. Huh.

A second thought raised a little concern about exposing my new gown to all the cobwebs and dust, not to mention The Fashionista’s finery, but she was no doubt used to that sort of thing. Besides, the explosion had cleared out the cellar more thoroughly than I ever could.

I rested the box on Mr Whybrow’s workbench with the delicacy of handling an unexploded bomb. Miss Creeggan, meanwhile, made a beeline for the offending cattleprod. While I handled the filigree with fumbly fingers that thought they were essaying their first brain operation, Miss Creeggan was turning over the cattleprod with the expert appraisal of a big game hunter.

“There’s a little switch tucked away in the butt, Miss,”  I called over as I wriggled out of my gown and into the new one. 

Miss Creeggan did not look up from the cattleprod; I began to worry that she’d let it off just to see what it could do. After all, I didn’t know what was in those other barrels. “Do you know its power?”  she asked.

“Mr Whybrow said forty thousand volts, Miss.”

Hrmph from the Fashionista.  “If he’d put another zero on the end, I might just have been impressed. You can get almost that from an automobile coil. So let’s have a look at you, then.”

She held up a small hand mirror for my benefit and, wondering what an automobile coil was, I beheld myself for the first time. And time stood still. The sheer splendour of it stopped my breath. And the shoes! After the great functional clodhoppers I was used to - Was that really me? The clumsy workhouse girl? If Mr Whybrow had made me a lady, Miss Creeggan had made me a princess.

I expect she must have been used to seeing ladies looking like this, but she had that knack of making me feel special. Again, that easing smile sunbeamed on me. Hefting the cattleprod with the fluidity of a parasol, she read my remaining qualms as though from a hymn sheet.

“My dear, gowns are like firearms. They need to be treated with respect, but never be afraid of them. That’s how accidents happen.”

“You have experience with firearms, Miss?”  I asked. It did not seem proper that a lady would know about that sort of thing, but on the other hand, I should have known better than to be surprised at anything a Caledonian told me. 

A playful twitch animated Miss Creeggan’s smile. “A lady in my position attracts many enemies. Outraged merchants, apoplectic designers, and that’s without mentioning the less-principled elements of our street population. It’s an unwise lady who does not  know how to defend herself.”  Then the smile lapsed into a frown. “Do you mean to tell me that Mr Whybrow was planning to send you into the world unarmed?”

“He’d never mentioned the matter, Miss.”  Oh, God. Was I about to get him into more trouble?

“Then it’s about time he did!”  With a snort of outrage, Miss Creeggan propped up the cattleprod and fumbled in her reticule. “You can tell Mr Whybrow from me that that thing’s suitable to be left around for shopgirls to have accidents with, when he’s put a safety catch on it and not until then. In the meantime, allow me to introduce you to my little travel companion.”

She handed me something which I recognised as a revolver; the workhouse caretaker used a small one on the rats. But this was bigger and heavier – I would hesitate to call it a lady’s weapon, but as I was to learn, anything that worked was a lady’s weapon in Caledon.

Miss Creeggan ignored my almost dropping the lump of steel. “Now – the rule with revolvers is, the bigger the better. This is a standard Colt 45. You may want to see if Mr Whybrow can find you something more redoubtable.” 

I could have told her that with my dirty look, I needed no revolver, but I didn’t want to tarnish her impression of me. Meticulously, she demonstrated how to aim and fire it. 

Then it was my turn. I don’t know what it weighed, but held at the end of my arm it felt like a steel brick. Miss Creeggan lined up some old empty bottles, the loss of which I could explain as natural breakage, and looked over my shoulder, her breath tickling my bare skin as she taught me to line the blade sight up with the notch. I braced my lower half, and squeezed the trigger. The boom that blasted my hearing made me fret that Mr Whybrow would return to see what was going on, but only momentarily. Glass exploded all over the far wall with a very satisfying chorus of tinkles.

This made Miss Creeggan very proud and we exchanged triumphant beams. “There – you’re a natural!”  she proclaimed. “I have to make some calls now, my dear, but you’re to ask Mr Whybrow to get you one of these things. A Boxer .577 is a powerful noob-repellent, I’m told. Now, you take care and if he gives you any trouble at all – over anything – you’re to let me know.”

“Yes, Miss. But you seem to have him – ah – “  I was going too far. But Miss Creeggan understood.

“Under control, my dear. Be well, now. Oh, and my name is not ‘Miss.’  It’s ‘CC’ to those I favour.”

With a coquettish wink by way of a full stop, she exited, leaving me with a big visceral burst of regret at her departure. But then like Mr Whybrow, she’ll have been a busy lady. 

Invitation to the Dense.

It was a healthy sleep which I had; I awoke early but with so much having fallen into place, I faced the day refreshed and positive. So the only thing I had to be afraid of, was being afraid. Well, naturally I had to be careful not to push my luck, but these people had a sense of proportion. Unlike the workhouse, where whatever you did was wrong, they were prepared to make allowances, where necessary, and knew when to do so. I was going to love it here.

The baker had left a loaf on my doorstep, and the milkman had put a pint into a jug I remembered seeing in the back office. Mr Whybrow had certainly been thorough when he made arrangements for me to come.

I made my first, leisurely, breakfast by the fire and set off on my forty-yard commute to work, harking back to all the London shopgirls who were, effectively, workhouse inmates in all but name – long hours for tiny money with most of that going in rent for insanitary little garrets, insecurity of position, plus the eternal subservience and the risk of employers misusing them and discarding them when things went too far - yes, I could count my blessings on having come to Sparkle of Sound.

I found the shop empty. Mr Whybrow must have been in his workshop. I couldn’t help wondering what sort of place he lived in; knowing him as I did, I would not have been surprised to find him slinging a hammock in his workshop, like Mr Quilp in The Old Curiosity Shop  (Yes, our scanty workhouse library had included Dickens, although my experience had indicated that nobody in any position of authority there had ever read his works).  I knew that Mr Whybrow’s own domicile would be a niggling mystery until I actually saw it, although I knew better than to angle for an invitation. Nor would I sneak a look during any absence of his; like Bluebeard, he probably had ways of knowing that I had been there.

In the absence of anything else to do, I thought I might as well give the place a good sweeping out. So where did he keep the broom? I couldn’t see any cupboards about, and he wouldn’t leave that sort of thing standing around in view of the customers – of course. Silly me. The cellar.

I opened the door and was almost bowled over by a fug of dampness and a pallette of aromas that were at the same time tarry yet spirituous, overladen with that sharpness of freshly-cut metal.  But of the depths before me, I could see nothing. I could have been staring into the Infernal Pit, for all I knew. Something about the black chasm seemed to be inviting me to my doom.

“That’s just your imagination,”  I told myself. “Stop being silly.”  As if to confirm my resolution, my foot grated against a lantern which the thoughtful Mr Whybrow had left at the top of the stairs. Kindling a light from the stove, I descended the stairs, and stopped dead.

Cellars were supposed to contain old furniture, dusty rocking horses, and picture frames minus picture. This – I can only describe it as a one-man factory. I could name perhaps half of the machinery there, although the purposes of the rest were quite easy to fathom. I guessed that this must be where Mr Whybrow did his heavy building.The cellar was dark and dank, but anything unwholesome in the air would have been from the proximity of the sea. He actually kept this place surprisingly clean.

At the opposite end to the machinery stood some barrels, but I was more interested in a peculiar contrivance standing up in one corner. It was shaped roughly like a rifle, but there the similarity ended. It had a pistol grip and trigger, to confirm not only how it was meant to be held, but also that it probably fired something, although as to what it fired, I could not discern.  

I was given no chance to probe the peculiar device any further. I recognised Mr Whybrow’s footfall down the shop stairs, and ran back up just as he arrived on the shop floor. 

He gave me a curious frown. “What were you doing in the cellar, Miss?”

The Bluebeard analogy returned to mind, nudging my guilty nerves. But the truth was nothing to be ashamed of. “I was looking for a broom, sir.”

“Oh, that’s behind the office door. I’m not surprised you missed seeing it. Look, I need you to model something for me; you’ll need to change – including your hair. What you have can’t possibly go with emeralds. Look for something from the Regency.”

Emeralds. Regency. Right. Suspecting that he was testing my commonsense, I excused myself and nipped out to the yard to change into what I hoped would meet his requirements. The black hair felt unnatural, but it went with the merchandise and this was something I’d have to get used to. 

I returned to find him setting up a camera on a tripod. From the counter, presided a crown ablaze with diamonds, the dazzle tempered by deep aqueous emeralds like huge boiled sweets. Mr Whybrow only looked up to notice my arrival; his lack of comment on my appearance was, I guessed, as close to approval as I was likely to get.

“I need a new picture of the Marie-Louise; the one I have is out of date,”  he explained. From what he’d already told me about his models, I could guess why that was. But he mistook my momentary wonderment.  “You’ll have noticed that I stick to old-fashioned prims. No sculpts or mesh; they only bring fresh problems. Not all the customers can even see them. Neither do I use bling scripts, and any customer who insists on one is to be told to look elsewhere. Mark that, Miss.”  He held up a Finger Of Warning, and I nodded my understanding. “My wares produce a delicate natural sparkle; bling is for the Mainland. This particular item is the zenith of primwork – the real one has over 1,000 diamonds in it and mine must have close to that. It was made for Napoleon’s second wife, in 1810. There’s always someone who’d like to make a grand entrance with the Empress of France’s headpiece,” he concluded with a wink.

It was the most spectacular thing I had ever seen. I could not help gazing, mesmerised at the symphony in gemstones, but already my previous experience of his heavyweights was planting misgivings in me. “I’d have thought that anyone buying this would wear it every chance they get,” I suggested, by way of a diversion.

“It isn’t that simple.”  He shook his head. “Apart from the weight, it’s considered bad form to be seen in the same ballgown twice. Society is not as stringent with jewellery, but a lady needs a collection from which she may select something to match whatever colour her gown is.”

I dared a probe. “It must be a great satisfaction, to see your work on the dance floor.”

Mr Whybrow shook his head again, this time with a little irritation. “I did explain that I don’t socialise. I can’t afford to. The tiniest contact, in a social context, can lead to other, deeper contacts which in turn can lead to ruin. The only safe limit is zero.”  He looked at me sternly but his voice was soft, encouraging. “This will be another of your responsibilities, Miss. There are more women than men here, and it’s seen as a mark of accomplishment to enter a ball with a male on one’s arm. Should an invitation arrive in the post, I’d be grateful if you could decline it automatically on my behalf.”

A thousand unpleasant situations flew up in my mind, foremost of which was the image of Mr Whybrow working quietly while I held back society matrons, analogised as speeding locomotives. But Mr Whybrow cleared his throat and brought me back to the present business.

“Now, the Marie Louise. If you could just wear it and adopt a natural pose?” 

“Of course, sir,”  said I, hiding my unease. This had to weigh twice as much as the last monster of his that I’d tried. As I discovered when I picked it up; had I not braced myself against the sudden drag, it would have fallen from my fingers, with dire results for the workmanship. Hoping that I looked more demure and confident than I felt, I settled it on my head with Mr Whybrow looking studiously on. He appeared solely interested in how the crown looked on a real wearer; his scrutiny warned that he would not be patient were I to show any sign of stress.

The crown sank into my hair and instantly I felt an iron clamp tighten around my forehead. For an instant I thought, “This is normal, it’s only gravity,” but then the clamp tightened; slowly, inexorably. I found myself unable to move, which sent a streak of panic rocketing up my spine. Now certain that something was dangerously wrong, I tried to speak, but through no force of will could I form any words. In that way irrelevancies have of appearing in moments of danger, I harked back to the workhouse religious instruction classes, and wondered if this had been one of the obscure and ingenious tortures that had been perpetrated on Saint Someone-or-other. 

My vision contracted, blurred at the edge. Mr Whybrow began to frown with concern; I realised that he was speaking but his voice came to me from the end of a long tunnel. 

“Miss Bluebird? Are you all right?”

The wall which had formed his backdrop fell away, and the ceiling swung down to take its place, with Mr Whybrow’s face remaining fixed in my centrespot. A gentle impact shook my back, and for a moment everything went black. A small circle of vision expanded before me; the first thing I saw was Mr Whybrow wearing the crown as, presumably, the safest place to put it. He was kneeling over me; I must have fainted. Aware that I had let us both down, I tried to raise myself, but he restrained me with a gentle hand. 

“Just catch your breath for a moment. In deeply through your nose – hold it and count to three – out  slowly through your mouth – “

I complied, feeling stronger with every breath. He nodded to me to continue while he spoke.

“I’m sorry, Miss Bluebird; I’d rather hoped we’d get away with wearing that on the ground. You see – Caledon has a particular little quirk of gravity all of its own; if one is wearing too many objects, or scripts, or textures, gravity multiplies to the point where one is unable to move or speak – paralysed, as it were. In extreme cases, one can lapse into complete unconsciousness for several minutes. Don’t worry,”  he added, with a lopsided grin that was supposed to cheer me. “You’ll always come back.”  Eventually,  he silently added.

Despondently, I raised myself onto my elbows. “Does this mean I’m no use to you, then?”

“Good Lord no; it happens to all of us – it isn’t even a constant; the strongest of us can be affected sometimes. If you can stand, let’s head up to the workshop. You’ll be all right now, and the gravity’s more attenuated up there. I mean, it won’t affect you so badly,”  he added by way of clarification, making room to let me up. I noticed that he did not offer a hand.  

“Fellow called Einstein summed it all up,”  he continued, apparently unconcerned for my well-being since I could speak. “Time slows down with the increase of mass.”

For an instant, I thought he was implying that I had a big bustle, but that was just force of habit and my spark of anger died before it could ignite anything. A tingle of curiosity enchanted me at how much more fluidly I could move, four thousand metres up in his workshop. The very situation of being so high was utterly foreign to my experience; hitherto, the only ones I had known to have reached such an altitude had been mountaineers, of whom I had learned only from scanty accounts in the workhouse library encyclopedia. And those gentlemen had been too preoccupied with getting up and down to have remarked on the effects of gravity at such altitudes; it went downwards if they were careless, and made a mess – and that was all they’d needed to know.

“I presume that since you live up here, you’re acclimatised to the gravity, sir?”  I chanced, while he set his camera up. He obviously did not live in the workshop, which was too spartan for even the most hardened ascetic.

“Mm-hmm. I am rather apt to forget that not everyone is used to the experience,” he deflected, ducking under the camera hood. 

Oh, well. It had been worth a try. 

Apprehensively, I stationed myself in front of the great scarlet curtain, and tried the crown again. It pressed down on me like an anchor, but beyond having to stiffen my neck against its weight, I noticed no ill effect. Nevertheless, I remained alert for any return of the symptoms as I followed the directions of Mr Whybrow’s waving hand, and turned myself this way and that until he was satisfied.

There followed a couple of magnesium flashes that seared my retinas for a moment, but that was it. Satisfied, Mr Whybrow emerged from the camera hood. 

“Thank you, Miss Bluebird; that’ll do just fine. I should get this out on sale today. Now, why don’t you head back to the shop? I’ve a few things to do here.”

Still slightly dizzy, I assayed a curtsy. “Very good, sir.”

“Oh, and well done on your choice of gown. You couldn’t have picked a better one.”

“Thank you, sir.”  I was certain that he’d said it purely for future guidance, not as a compliment.  But he had already betrayed, just for a moment, his human side. And how many London merchants would have found their staff in coal and fodder? No, had I passed out in Bond Street or Mayfair, their sole concern would have been that their merchandise hadn’t got dented on my way down.

Returning to the shop, I changed back into my other gown. It was more comfortable than the Regency bosom-squeezer, and there was no point in manufacturing laundry. 

As Mr Whybrow was going to be busy, it seemed safe to have a closer look at that enigma in the cellar. Standing my lamp on a nearby bench, I hefted the weapon – I was certain that that was what it had to be. It was the right shape, and had a trigger and handgrip. But it was otherwise all wrong.  Instead of steel, there was copper and even I knew that copper offered absolutely no advantages in an age when steel was easily available. It was well-balanced, though, and no heavier than I suspected a conventional rifle would be. But what could this thing do, that a rifle or shotgun couldn’t? The blade sight was particularly intriguing. It was too large, and why did this one have four vanes, situated around the muzzle at right angles? Surely, only the topmost would be of any use?

Turning it over, I espied a little switch at the butt end, nestled discreetly in an angle of the stock where, I presumed, it could not be clicked accidentally. With some trepidation, I nonetheless clicked it quite deliberately. I almost dropped the bloody thing as the breech area emitted a hum, not unlike some of the organ tones I’d heard in the workhouse chapel. The barrel began to tingle with a subtle, living blue glow. 

There was only one way to lay this mystery to rest once and for all. Fire it. My commonsense told me to take it outside and let it off over the quayside, where it could expend its payload safely over the sea. But there was too great a danger of being observed and this thing, I sensed, was something Mr Whybrow would sooner keep to himself. So, I cast about the cellar for a suitable target. Something solid – ah, perfect!

At the other end of the cellar stood a number of barrels. One, standing apart from the rest, was labelled “Endorsing ink.”  It struck me as strange that Mr Whybrow would order forty-five gallons of the stuff, but it would make a superlative target. Too thick to leak out of a bullethole, and if I managed to turn the barrel around, the hole would escape immediate detection. I might, if challenged, even get away with blaming it on mice. 

Bracing the stock to my shoulder, I swung the blade sight into line with my eye and the barrel. It was indeed well-balanced; quite comfortable to hold, even. I locked my every joint solid; I had no idea how the thing would kick. Then, remembering that dear old warrant officer’s advice when correcting some of the boys’ war play, I squeezed the trigger gently but with decision.

The gun startled me more by not  kicking back, as a scintillating flash of something burst from the muzzle, heading straight for the barrel of endorsing ink. 

Then a lurid flame filled the cellar, and a mighty hand threw me back with a wash of heat as the barrel exploded. The bang was the last thing I heard for I don’t know how long; my next awareness was of lying on my back as  bits of wood fell about me with clatters I could only feel rather than hear.

The blast, in the confined cellar, had almost blown my head apart from the inside; my chest felt as though a locomotive had hit it. But I was obviously still alive. That old workhouse discipline was the first instinct to surface. I was in trouble. But the question was; how much? Drunkenly, I raised myself onto my elbows and surveyed the scene in the light of my lantern which, through fortune rather than design, had escaped the blast. 

I had obviously cost Mr Whybrow 45 gallons of something, although clearly not endorsing ink. Not black powder, either; there was no smell of sulphur in the air. The ceiling appeared undamaged, albeit scorched above the spot the barrel had stood. Bits of barrel stave lay strewn about me like confetti; I shrugged off a hoop that had played hoopla with my neck and won. 

Shakily, I clambered to my feet. The idea occurred to me – yes, I know it was silly – that I could somehow gather up all the bits of barrel and chuck them into the sea, relying on the tide to carry them out. Other than the barrel of exploding ink, the only visible signs of damage were the displacement of the other barrels, which a few minutes’ labour would rectify, plus that scorching which he might not even notice. 

Then my hopes subsided once more. He would notice the missing barrel of whatever-it-was. And for the first time, I noticed my dress. I’d learned in school of what Mount Vesuvius had done in AD 79, and I looked like one of the just-made-it survivors. Oh, my God! You won’t get away with blaming this on mice!  

And then my panic really skyrocketed. Heavy, rapid footsteps thundered across the floor above me, and down the stairs. In that moment, it would have been a mercy if I’d thrown up or fainted; at least it would have deflected the fury which, I was certain, would make Vesuvius look like a cheap squib on bonfire night. And a damp one, at that.

Mister Whybrow stood at the top of the stairs, a demon incarnate.  He looked me over cursorily before concluding that I had no injuries to excuse me his wrath. “What the bloody hell happened here?”  he blazed, his voice echoing from the walls to amplify him into an army of demons, or whatever the plural is. “And don’t tell me you were looking for a broom this time.”  

It was only then that I realised that my hearing had returned. I briefly considered dissolving into a flood of tears, as the usual female escape route from the inescapable. But I knew that this would not work with Mr Whybrow; it was more likely to make things worse. Then my commonsense took hold and I did what I’d always done in the workhouse. I told the truth, but – slanted, slightly.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I was going to sweep up down here and I noticed that – thing.”  I pointed to the mystery weapon which was lying near by, apparently undamaged. It seemed to be smirking at me.  “I just moved it a little and – “

“Uh-huh.”  While he was taking in my tale, his eyes were taking in the cellar. He spotted where all the disintegrated barrel staves had come from, and a glance at the scorch marks on the floorboards above put a final full stop to his conclusions. “And you’ve absolutely no idea what that ‘thing’  is, I suppose?”

It’s something from the Old Testament that they never teach us about.  I settled for shaking my head with a deliberate clueless look. There was nothing I could say, anyway.

He considered a moment and then softened. “I call it a cattle-prod. We’ve been getting too many of a certain type of person passing through, recently; deliberately dumping objects to turn the place into a gravity well. Quite lethal. So I prepared a little surprise of my own, should such a miscreant chance to pass this way. What you have just seen is – well, I’ve yet to find a voltmeter capable of measuring that thing’s output, but I reckon it to be about forty thousand volts of electricity, or a hundred times as much as they’ll be putting into that new City and South London Railway which you might have heard of. And you, Miss Bluebird, have just discharged that at a barrel of brandy.”

So that was what it was!  “Brandy, sir? But it said – at least, I’m sure I remember it saying – “

“I know what it said. Do you expect people to label the real contents on the outside, with bloody HM Customs and Excise sticking their snouts in left, right and centre? Use your loaf, girl.”

Glumly I looked at the ground where bits of barrel stave reminded me that there was no getting around this one.

Mr Whybrow sighed. “You weren’t to know. You’ve hardly been here five minutes; you couldn’t possibly have learned everything.”  He tossed his head at the stairs. “That’s a good dress ruined beyond all hope. You’d better go and change; you’re supposed to be modelling jewellery, not bloody Brock’s Fireworks.”

“Very good, sir.”  A curtsy would have seemed mocking in my state, so I substituted a glum bob of my head as I went to the stairs. I was half way up when he called after me.

“Oh, and Miss Bluebird? You were lucky you hadn’t aimed that thing at the wall. The bolts would have bounced about the cellar and done to you what you did to that barrel.”

He gave me a wink as he spoke. That did it. All the stress coalesced in me as if I’d fired that damned cattle thingy down my throat, and I knew that once the tears started, they would have to run their natural course. I had to get out of there before they did so.

“Thank you, sir.”  I bit my lip and scurried out, almost tripping over myself in my haste to be away from him before that big lump in my throat burst. He was perfectly entitled to send me packing, but he had risen above that and had overviewed all the facts quite dispassionately, and had even made it clear that I was not to be sacked. That stung me more deeply than if he’d given me a good honest violent dismissal, and turned me out to face a long, reflective traipse back to the workhouse.

I didn’t bother trying to maintain my dignity; in any case, it wasn’t as if it was perfectly normal for folk to walk through SouthEnd with their clothes half-incinerated off them. I just threw my remaining decorum to the four winds and ran. 

No voice called after me as I bolted for the door. I did not know whether that was good or bad. I only knew that I should, with any luck, manage to dam up my tears until in the safety of my home.

But I was not to reach the door.