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………”
No comments:
Post a Comment