I found Mr Whybrow in his back office, tinkering with something invisible on his desktop. After a brisk good morning, he launched into my first priority – clothes. Mr W showed me a wardrobe which was bigger than I imagined anybody could need. He must have misinterpreted the curiosity on my face slightly, as he chuckled. “It’s an item or two more than you’re used to, I’ll be bound.” “It’s an item or two more than anybody could possibly need,” I hazarded, hoping I didn’t sound stupid or ungrateful. But Mr Whybrow merely shook his head. “You’ll have noticed that they’re all in different colours, Miss. You’ll be modelling all manner of gemstones; one can’t wear any colour with any other. Some partnerships go together, like fish and chips. Others, like Irish stew and custard, do not. If you’re ever in any doubt what to wear to go with any particular item which a customer wants to see, don’t be afraid to ask. Might I suggest you select something you know you’ll be comfortable in, until a change is required? There’s a little place outside the back office to change in. Quite private.”
I selected a light purplish gown which reminded me of some flowers I’d seen growing during my journey; the colour was similar to Mr Whybrow’s amethysts which he seemed particularly fond of, so it seemed a politically smart choice. Scurrying through a side door, I found myself in a tiny cobbled square that looked like he’d simply forgotten to build there, but as he said, it was private. I was just glad that it didn’t look like rain. Lord knows what I’d do if I had to change in a thunderstorm.
As I wrestled my old clothes off and the gown on, I remarked that his shopgirl wardrobe all seemed to have one thing in common. Freebie Emporium, Freebie Paradise, Freebie this, Freebie that – was I to gather that if Mr Whybrow had any weaknesses, it was “caution” with money? Still, I’d spent a lifetime in workhouse garb which differed from the mailbags they sewed in colour only. So I wasn’t going to complain. The other curious thing was that I was convinced that no eye was studying me through the keyhole while I changed. Unusual, but I wasn’t going to complain about that, either.
When I returned, Mr Whybrow ran his eyes up and down me as though appraising a horse he was thinking of buying. “Mmmhm – you’ll definitely do. If I might explain, Miss Bluebird? You’ll find yourself having to model for all shapes and sizes of person, but in this world they tend to have a few details in common. I design my stuff to fit maybe ninety percent of female humanity and you, I estimate, will fit my wares perfectly without my having to stretch or shrink anything.”
I gathered, from the strictly professional timbre to his explanation, that that was as near to a compliment as I was likely to get. On the other hand, it was an improvement on the more customary, “Cworr, nice bum, girl!”
But Mr Whybrow was studying me again. I was beginning to find his scrutiny unsettling; I felt I could never be quite sure what was going on inside his head. “There’s also the matter of your coiffure, Miss.”
Oh God. This was it. End of employment. “I’m terribly sorry, sir; I’ve never made coffee before.”
Sigh from Mr Whybrow. “I mean your hair, Miss. Look at those vendors – your present style is all right for most jewellery, but for tiaras and crowns, such as you tried yesterday, you need something that’ll let it perch properly on your head. Yes,” he continued as dawn broke on my face. “That’s why it nearly fell off. You looked like you were trying to balance a book on your head. Here.” He delved under the counter and produced a box of – well, I didn’t know the proper term then, I’ll just say they were wigs. And again, all the labels had “Freebie” in their name.
And again still, Mr Whybrow misread my look. But at least he accepted it as natural, with no offence taken. “They’re quite wholesome, Miss; I’d hardly allow nit-infested hairpieces in my shop. Now, there’s one other thing – am I to gather from your fluent signature yesterday that you can read and write?”
At last! Something I DID know about! “Indeed, sir! My abilities were highly thought of.”
“Good! Allow me to present you with something which no other Victorian shopgirl has.”
He vanished into the back office to return with a peculiar metal – thing; I couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. “It’s a word processor, Miss. One wears the strap around the neck like so – braces the cushioned thing against the midparts, and types what’s required using these keys.” As he spoke, he settled it on me and I almost broke in two. Only then did I remember that even he had been labouring under its weight. As I fought for breath, and to stay upright, he explained further. “An invention of my own. The keys stamp a letter into these little tin tiles which go to be stored in the cylinders at the end. Impale the cylinder on this spindle and expel them by releasing the retaining spring, and they’ll slide out along this platen. Simply turn the lever and it rotates the platen to press them to an inked pad and print them onto a sheet of paper.”
I almost had to speak through my teeth. “Very – ingenuous, sir.” (was that the right word?) “But isn’t it a little heavy?”
“You won’t get strength AND miniaturisation, Miss. Anything I build doesn’t break down. Besides, it’s only about 120 pounds. If you can carry it, I’m sure that anyone can.”
I just love that logic whereby any machinery becomes “portable” by virtue of having a handle attached. Not really looking forward to carting the monstrosity about all day, I tried again. “But what’s the advantage of this over a pen?”
Mr Whybrow must have been expecting the question. “With practice – speed, also legibility, with the added benefit that one can print as many copies as one wants. No more writing things out in quadruplicate. It also obviates the need to disguise handwriting, should the Customs officers take too close an interest in my affairs here.”
“Customs officers, sir?”
“Mmm, they aren’t exactly welcome here. Robbing honest working men to pay for overstuffed loons to cheat at Baccarat.”
Donning my most self-righteous air, in the hope of earning his approval, I concurred. “I share your sympathy, sir. If we caught anyone cheating at that, we threw them into the manure-pile and shovelled it on top of them.”
Mr Whybrow appeared less appalled at our workhouse customs, than confused. “You played Baccarat in the workhouse?”
“Yes, sir – we caught them in the basement and raced them down drainpipes for bets.”
For a moment, he looked at me as though I’d blasphemed. But then the penny dropped. “Oh – I see. Anyway, feel free to practice on that thing. Be proud, Miss Bluebird!” he exclaimed theatrically, as though an audience were taking it all in. “You hold progress in your own two hands.”
My only thought was that if this was progress, then it was called “Curvature of the spine,” or “Surgical truss.”
Mercifully, he asked me to take it off as it was time for my next lesson in Shopgirling. The art of coffeemaking. He explained that this community contained many coffee addicts; some needed it to keep their creative muse at work, while others were simply insomniacs and needed a regulator. “Don’t worry that you’ve never made it before; we all have our own ways of making coffee, and here’s mine.”
Now, I had never actually made coffee, but I had seen it done in the workhouse kitchen, so I had an idea of the procedures involved. Thus, it came to me as a surprise when Mr Whybrow reached into his safe and produced a cylinder of what looked like solidified tar. While he laid it reverently on the desk, I glimpsed a rubber stamp in his safe with its sole facing me. “DUTY PAID.” I began to see why Mr Whybrow didn’t like customs officers. It’s an unwise official who comes between a man and his coffee.
“You’ll have noticed that I keep the stove going all day,” Mr Whybrow explained, sawing off a lump of the black stuff and hammering the chunk into an enamel mug.
“Yes, sir, to heat your soldering irons,” I told him, nodding towards the cluster of steel rods protruding from the coals.
“Correct.” With a flourish, he snatched out the largest one and plunged the yellow-glowing rod into his mug. The gelatinous black lump hissed in protest, made a show of quivering as it tried to resist the yellow heat, and finally subsided into a boiling, bubbling mass.
“Simple as that,” he concluded, thrusting the rod back into the fire. The residue clinging to the iron gave off a final defiant puff of black smoke. Then he nodded to the mug. “Give it a try.”
Trying to hide my suspicion, I took a tentative sip and damn nearly dropped the mug as two great marble-knuckled sets of fingers tried to garotte me from the inside.
Mr Whybrow merely chuckled. But not to be humiliated, I fought back the choking sensation and took a great gulp. I could always throw up later. The Jeweller widened one eye, respectfully. “That was Nelson’s secret weapon,” he murmured, conspiratorially. “A lifesaver to men on watch-and-watch, when they had eight hundred lives in their charge, and it made a good emergency sealant if the copper plates sprang a leak. The teredo worm can’t stand it. Uncle Arthur arranged our supply through Navy contacts; I’m not supposed to have the stuff.”
“Uncle Arthur, sir?” My voice had dropped an octave, I cleared my throat with a grimace.
“Mmm. He’s dead now; buried in the chapel just opposite. He set me up here. Anyway – “ Mr Whybrow shook his head as though to clear it of unpleasant reminiscences. “It’s an acquired taste. If you’d prefer tea, you can nip out for some later. Otherwise, help yourself. Now, I need to head up to the workshop. It’s good to have someone keep an eye on things so I can work uninterrupted. I suggest you try a few things on for fit; just keep an ear out for the Lamson tube. If you need me, just use the Lamson.”
And with that, he stuffed his work into his pockets, seized his mug, and vanished, leaving behind an atmosphere which suggested that the chimneys of hell were overdue a sweeping.
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