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.
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