I came to accept that the ratio of customers buying, compared to those just viewing, was equally inevitably going to be small, when one bears in mind the cost of a full parure and that its acquisition needs to be planned with the same ruthless calculation as that of buying more land. Thus, a great deal of time with the customers passed in ordinary conversation about their world and the one I’d left (I could hardly deny anyone the right to be curious about that). And from that, it follows that we all learned a lot about each other.
The daily social intercourse was also helpful in reinforcing Mr Whybrow’s instruction that socially, he preferred to be regarded as unavailable, so I helped obviate a lot of future disappointment on both sides as the community gradually came to understand Chez Whybrow better. And as for me – well, shopgirls simply don’t mix above their station, so that spared me having to explain my own unavailability. Besides, how many would have believed the truth, that I was cramming music while building my own airship?
Once he was satisfied that I was competent to handle the Dreadnought, Mr Whybrow sent me out to make deliveries. He knew I’d have initial reservations about that; in London, one wouldn’t put two-and-a-half thousand pounds worth of jewellery into the hands of a shopgirl and send her across town with it. But he let me acclimatise to the idea that in Caledon, one did not get robbed in the streets, and in my case – well, he knew that his shopgirl could look after herself.
The one drawback with the Dreadnought was that I had to stash my skirts in the sidecar and don them behind a tree on arrival at my destination; skirts and drive belts do not make a happy partnership. I never could quite get used to riding about in my underwear, although I made no more odd or indecent a sight than many I’d seen in Caledon. Or in the shop, come to that. I did take particular care to remember my dress when dismounted, though. Well, most of the time, anyway.
I was fortunate in that my first such delivery chanced to be in the western part of Central Caledon. With only a short detour, I could indulge myself with a view of Llyr, the island of my dreams. I stood, gazing longingly across the horizon at the magical island where even Mr Whybrow had laughed like Jupiter. How I hated the sea for separating me from the place I wanted to be!
I was careful not to linger too long, though. Mr Whybrow knew Caledon, and he knew how long I’d need to make my delivery, so – with a painful twist of my nerves – I tore myself away from the view and headed back to the shop.
I had just turned south in Tamrannoch, when I saw a solitary figure trudging on ahead. Oh, Lord! Of all the people!
I gave a burst of throttle, intending to rocket past him, but he must have heard the engine, for he stopped, turned around, and infuriatingly situated himself in the middle of the road where I could not pass him.
“Morning, gel,” he greeted me. I replied with my teeth knit behind my smile, hinting very strongly that I would appreciate being allowed to continue on my way.
“Any charnce of a lift? Me bike’s still up the creek from that knock it ‘ad.”
Oh, well, I suppose that was my fault. But before I could assent or gainsay, he had plonked his carcass in the sidecar, making the suspension creak, and squishing my skirts to rags.
“I’m not sure we’ll make it up the hill with both of us on board, sir,” I tried.
“You’ll make it,” he replied, unperturbed. “I’ve seen yer both aht on this thing. If it’ll carry you and ‘im, it’ll carry you and me.”
Actually he must have been three stone heavier than Mr Whybrow. But I could see that there would be no shifting him. Nice try, Shopgirl.
I resolved to go over as many bumps as the bike would stand as I pulled away with a painful juddering of clutch. Unfortunately, Postie was used to the rigours of his own conveyance, so the Dreadnought must have felt like a feather bed to his well-muscled frame. The Dreadnought itself was not so comfortable with the arrangement; even in bottom gear it laboured up the steep incline and I thought I could detect a smell of burning clutch – until I realised that burning clutches didn’t smell like that. I gave my passenger a sidelong glance. Oh, yuck! What did he smoke in his pipe?
“An’ let’s ‘ave less of the ‘sir.’ I ain’t yer employer, I’m Jasper to you. Arfter the stone. ‘ere, fancy that, then. You got a jasper in yer sidecar.” He laughed at his own wit; I pretended to be preoccupied with the slope.
“Wot’s your name then, me dear?”
“Miss Bluebird, sir,” I tartly responded. “As a shopgirl, I’m ‘Miss’ to everyone except family,” I added, to deter any protests.
“An’ I suppose you ain’t got no family,” Jasper concluded with a sober nod. “That’s ‘ow you comes to be in the work’arse in the first place. Tell yer wot, though. You got a nice pair o’ pins.”
Only then did I remember that I was still in my underthings. I’d have given anything for the road to have opened up and swallowed us both in a bottomless abyss.
“Would you mind if I saved my attention for the driving?” I retorted. “This district isn’t as straightforward as it looks.”
“Don’t I know it, girl! Bin ‘ere on me own bike more times ‘n’ you’ve ‘ad ‘ot dinners. You wanna come aht with me when me bike’s back from the menders. You’d look a treat perched on me ‘andlebars.”
!!!!
Was that a serious offer? I chanced a sidelong look; his face betrayed no hint of teasing. But he’d mistaken my shock.
“It’ll be all right, you won’t fall orf. Not with my arms arahnd yer.”
That prospect made me want to – well, project. The bridge at Downs loomed up. I could suffer an ‘accidental’ twitch of my own handlebars and precipitate us into the gorge, ending my problems forever. But no. That was being silly.
At least he shut up and let me concentrate while I navigated my off-centred load through the bridge; it was like driving with the left tyre flat. But the moment we were through –
“You wanna let me take yer dancin’,” he suggested. “There’s plenty o’ places we can go.”
“I’m sorry, my duties don’t leave me time for such frivolities,” I replied.
“You wants to learn to relax a bit, darlin’ – see a bit of the world. Maybe I oughta ‘ave a word with your employer abaht lettin’ you aht some evenin’s.”
Actually, seeing the world was exactly what I had planned for myself. But from an airship. My airship. And without fifteen stone of oaf as ballast.
“I wouldn’t recommend that, sir,” said I. “He’d be more likely to have a word with yours.”
He made a rude farting noise with his lips. “The Post Orffice ain’t interested in wot a bloke gets up to in ‘is spare time. Whoa!”
Jasper seized at the side of the wickerwork as the ground dropped away in front of us. We had come to the precipitous slope leading back into SouthEnd. I spun the throttle to its fullest, and let gravity draw us eagerly down. Yes, you’re quite right. I was hoping that he would "accidentally" be thrown out, which I would "accidentally" fail to notice. But no such luck. He hung on like a limpet, although at least the speed shut him up. I don’t mind confessing that I derived considerable encouragement from the airship which picked that moment to glide overhead.
We bottomed out with a jolt that almost dismounted me, but I kept a stranglehold on the handlebars to stop us being smeared over Mr Nouvelle’s shop frontage.
Jasper took it all in his stride with a laugh. “Cworr, you knows ‘ow to give a bloke a thrill, don’t ya?”
I pretended that the bike’s brakes were inadequate for the last corner, but Jasper’s bulk kept the third wheel glued to the ground. My side, on the other hand, decided that a four-cylinder engine was insufficient ballast and both wheels lifted, surrendering the bike to the laws of physics. Damn!
“Cworr! You just missed that sign by the railway!”
“Really?” I hadn’t noticed it. If I had, I wouldn’t have missed!
I pulled up outside the post house with a scrunch of brakes that almost sent me sailing over the handlebars. Jasper, predictably, remained set in his seat; like a stodgy pudding in a bowl, he just sloshed forwards slightly and then back into the cushions. But I was careful to get my word in first.
“I have to put the bike away now, I’m expected back in the shop.”
“Awright, darlin’, an’ I should get yer skirts back on too. Cworr, ‘e’s a lucky man to ‘ave that lot to feed ‘is eyes on.”
If Mr Whybrow had ever felt so, he’d kept it to himself. “Good bye, sir.” I encouraged with a hint of urgency. And if you call me “darling” again……….
“You takes care, ‘n’ I’ll ketch yer later.”
Not if I can help it.
I departed the very instant that he was out of the sidecar, and put the bike away. My whole body wracked with shuddering as I donned my skirts; I wanted to climb out of my own skin. That was one man who’d be as easy to shift as Indian ink from an eiderdown. Perhaps I should mention him to Mr Whybrow?
I arrived back at the shop to find Mr Whybrow dealing with whom I at first assumed to be a customer. She was dressed as everyone’s idea of an eighteenth century pirate, but we had all sorts turning up, so I thought nothing of her attire. I had not been able to pick up the subject of their discussion, but her sternly critical stance, and the level timbre of her voice, suggested that she was not there to buy jewellery. Mr Whybrow flashed a quick look around at me, almost to warn her of my arrival, which told me that something was wrong. I saw her follow his glance momentarily, but she continued speaking as though I was not there.
“You really need a new model,” she declared, importantly. “You should let me do it; I’m much prettier than she is.”
I could not believe my ears. My face fell before I could stop it; all the colour drained away like cold water. How could anyone be so insensitive?
Mr Whybrow’s expression suggested that he had already been wearying of this person, and that my arrival would at least shut her up. At her slight, a dangerous coldness lit his eyes.
He slit his lips as though carrying a knife in them, and hardly moved them as he replied. “Miss, no power on earth would persuade me to change Miss Bluebird, or any part of her in any way. Might I suggest offering your services to one of the many modelling agencies which abound on the mainland? Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve much to do.”
For a moment, she looked as though she’d recognised his disapproval, at the same time forbidding his right to the same. As for Mr Whybrow, he tensed subtly as though on the point of tossing her out by the scruff of her scrawny neck. Mercifully for us all, she also recognised his dismissal, and flounced out with a disdainful toss of her nose in the air.
I’d thought that between the workhouse, with its colourful and often transient population, and Caledon, I’d seen it all. I suppose we all do, and every so often something reminds us that we still have a lot to learn about humanity. A long stiff moment hung in the shop. It seemed to last forever, poisoning our very ability to think. Her barb stung me. Ever since coming here, my worth as a shopgirl had been respected, and my worth as a woman had been taken for granted. More than that; Mr Whybrow had gone so far as to treat me as a lady, simply a less-experienced one than most here, even if he had never treated me overtly as a woman, if you see the distinction. And now, my very womanhood had been questioned and as a consequence, I could hardly fail to question it myself. I felt the whole structure Mr Whybrow had built around me, come crashing about my ears.
He had seen that, too. For a moment I thought he was going to cross that line at last and smother me in a sprawling hug, but no. He kept the usual discreet distance and waited for our eyes to meet. His voice was menacing honey, but the menace was not for me. “Miss Bluebird, Caledon has some contemptible individuals, like anywhere else. I meant what I said. I would sooner see the whole district sink beneath the sea than lose you here. Is that understood?”
I nodded and bit my lip to nail down the rising lump in my throat. “Thank you, sir – and for saying what you did,” I mumbled.
Mr Whybrow snorted dismissively. “I told her the truth, nothing more.” Then he dared twitch the beginnings of a smile. “Come and see what I was up to before that creature interrupted me.” He led me outside, explaining, “She’s going into business on her own account. Not as a jeweller, I’d add. Blasted woman. Doesn’t even have her own shop open yet and there she is, telling me how to run mine. She doesn’t have a hope in hell. The old, old mistake of expecting to make a million in her first week. It takes time and patience. But like training shopgirls, it’s its own reward and worth waiting for.” He gave me a wink that almost broke me out in tears as Uncle Arthur’s visitation returned to mind.
We passed the post office, where Jasper stood quaffing a pint between rounds. He blew me a kiss and I wanted to strangle him. Why couldn’t he have set his eyes on that ghastly dragon who was in the shop just now?
I saw what Mr Whybrow wanted to show me the moment we rounded the corner to the dockside. Shock piled on shock would have reduced me to a gibbering pile of tears, but this latest – compressed me a little and then veered off to the side of humour, one might say. This had to be his idea of a joke.
Mr Whybrow missed the collapse of my remaining morale, and proudly extended an arm at his handiwork. “There ye go, Miss Bluebird! You wanted your facility back, and there it is.”
So it was. In all its glory. It reminded me of a platelayers’ store. To prove that it wasn’t, he swung the door open – I was surprised it didn’t fall off by itself – to reveal the inside. No porcelain pot with pretty roses, just a nasty old galvanised bucket.
Don’t all cheer at once, said his silent preening while he waited for me to find suitable laudatory words. I searched high and low, and could find none.
“Is that it?” I finally murmured, hardly aware that I was speaking.
“What do you expect? Mr Shang to cut a ribbon to declare it open, with the Sally Army band blaring patriotic marches?”
“It’s very – functional,” I told him, neutrally.
He missed the implied barb. “Indeedy. It’ll serve admirably.”
Time for a more direct approach. “As what? Sir – I wouldn’t store garden implements in there!”
“You don’t have to,” Mr Whybrow returned, unabashed. “You know what it’s for.”
I knew what it was fit for. A bonfire. “Sir, you haven’t even glazed the window.”
“You’ll need some ventilation,” he pointed out, astutely.
“In winter? It already has plenty of that!” I could just picture the wind howling and whistling through the gaps in the planking. I could see that he was not being obtuse; he was trying to tell me in his own subtle way that it might not be as luxurious as the last one, but it would have to suffice. He could also see that I was not going to be swayed. He gave a shrug.
“Well, it’s only temporary until I can put something better up. You’ll prefer it to the yard, I trow.”
I knew him better than that, particularly when it came to domestic arrangements. He was planning to leave it there until everyone had got used to it.
“I saw you return with our Postie,” he said in a casual drawl, by way of a distraction from the ruin before me. “It was very public-minded of you to help him out. Am I to understand that he’s showing an interest in you?”
Postie was studying us from the post house doorway, and it was plain to see that it was not our palatial public inconvenience that was occupying him. I gave a reflexive shudder before I could stop it, so I could hardly deny Mr Whybrow’s question.
“And what are your own feelings on the matter?” Mr Whybrow asked, neutrally.
I hoped he could see the true inner vehemence behind my cold, measured reply. “I would not wish to encourage him, sir.”
Mr Whybrow gave that nod of his. “Mmm. I did wonder. I saw that something was upsetting you, even before Miss Wotsername shot her mouth off. Well, I shan’t interfere. It’s for you to go with him or dissuade him, according to your own will.”
With that, he was gone, leaving me to scuttle back to the shop, out of Postie’s sight and feeling somewhat betrayed. All right, so Mr Whybrow considered himself as generous and enlightened, in refusing to dictate the shopgirl’s private life. But was he really prepared to risk another man sweeping me off my feet? Dammit, couldn’t he just be a little bit jealous?
In the cool of the shop, I thought again. No. Mr Whybrow knew his shopgirl. He knew that he could afford to stand back and let me take care of things, as I would not throw away a chance to live and be more of a woman than most ever had the chance to be, for any form of affair of the heart.
I stood behind the counter, presiding imperiously like a three-headed shopgirl guarding the gates to the underworld. Even without the seeds which Mr Whybrow had planted in me, and nurtured, I still had all this.
A now-familiar figure went past the windows. Oh, God. Not again.
Jasper marched in, utterly oblivious to the dismay glaring from me. “Afternoon, luv. Got yer afternoon post for ya. ‘ere, I saw ‘im showin’ yer that outside khazi ‘e’s put up. Looks right proper draughty, dunnit?”
“It will serve its purpose, sir,” I said, deliberately loudly.
“Wot’s wiv all this ‘sir’ nonsense? I already told yer – “
I tilted my head to the Lamson tube, hoping to convey the warning that Mr Whybrow would be able to overhear us up it. He wouldn’t, but Jasper was not to know that.
Jasper gave a knowing wink and said, more muted, “Ah, so that’s the lie o’ the land, is it? Well, I tell yer wot. If you wanna find somewhere private an’ ‘e don’t want you usin’ ‘is premises, try nippin’ behind the chapel like I bin doing since we lost that nice little cubicle. Maybe we could bump into each uvver there, yer know?”
I knew. And I made a note not to go near the back of the chapel if Mr Whybrow drove me there at cattleprod point. But Jasper had not finished. He rummaged in his bag and gave me a wink. “I caught Irish Meg’s fruit barrer on ‘er way to ‘er pitch; brung yer a little sumfink.”
As if he had not already made his intentions sufficiently clear, he placed two oranges and a banana onto the counter in a certain strategic arrangement.
I’d have expected this latest, coming straight after Mr Whybrow’s shock, and the pirate lady’s rudeness, to have pushed me over the edge and Jasper would have been rent limb from limb. But the suddenness of his display, like a comedian with perfect timing but a sick imagination, paralysed my will to react; a thousand demons were whirling around in my head and I did not know what to order them to do. Now, don’t tell me that throughout that long moment, he was mistaking my mortified look for one of delight! Oh, but he was. And he gave me no chance to unleash the volcanic outrage building up inside me.
“I’ll keep an eye out for yer,” he added with another wink. “Better get back to me rounds now.”
And he was gone. Thank God. Leaving me with a tangible reminder of his ambitions, which I was almost afraid to remove from the counter. I gave a long involuntary shudder. Ick!
“This is a fine pickle you’re in, my girl,” I told myself, when I could finally breathe. “If you offend him, it’ll mess up our postal deliveries, and Mr Whybrow won’t thank you for that.”
I was lucky in that my situation gave me as many excuses to avoid him as I needed. But that would not stop him trying, which would lead to more bottled-up frustration on my part until Mr Whybrow eventually discovered what was making me so unstable. It needed a simple clear-cut putoff that would not cause wider ructions. And Mr Whybrow had made it clear that he was not going to interfere. If only he himself would show some interest in me, as a rival. He’d only have to pretend. But that, I feared, was the one thing that would cost me my place. Meddling with his heart. Where was Uncle Arthur with his advice, now that I really needed it?
In the meantime, I forced the day’s tribulations into their proper place in my mind as minor irritations. It would be easy to dwell on Jasper, or that unbelievably crass woman, whoever she might have been, but I had an airship to finish. Once I could leave the shop, I returned to the cellar where I found the metal-bashing a wonderful catharsis.
My time spent on it so far had been so well-invested that one more evening might see the gondola finished. It would mean missing Prout and Czerny that night, but I was so close that it was worth persevering and wrapping the whole thing up in one great effort.
I’d found a can of metal paint which had been opened once and then ignored, as though Mr Whybrow had discovered that he’d ordered the wrong colour. But it would suit my purpose, even if it was not exactly the colour I’d have gone for, either.
As I was finally rinsing out the brush, the shop clock above me struck half past three, which meant it was actually four o’clock. I savoured a few triumphant moments, just looking at my masterpiece. At first I saw only the dents and glitches. But then I stood back and admired it as a whole, poised and waiting to be used.
I did that!
Now it needed something to make it go, particularly upwards. And I badly needed a bath!
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