MORE THAN A SHOPGIRL

OR

Be careful what you wish for. You might just get it.


[Editor’s note: I should offer my apologies for the sketchy nature of what follows, and the paucity of photographic records. For reasons beyond anyone’s control, it has not been possible to provide the usual degree of comprehensiveness, as I'm sure you will understand once you've read this through. VB]

I suppose we’ve all had those days which have started normally, with no expectations other than the usual routine, and which have suddenly turned on us by changing our lives forever. I had planned to put much more here, but the final destruction of Jasper and his evil companion, the discovery of my father and my true name, the revelation of how I came to be towing Mr Whybrow’s trousers behind the Silk Sonata, not to mention my building my own cute little submarine, will all have to remain unpenned.

This is why.

It was quite common to see Mr Whybrow dithering about with his mind elsewhere. It usually meant that a customer had put him in an awkward situation, such as a job he would sooner not have undertaken, but for one reason or another, had not dared turn down. On such occasions, he tended to imagine that I was part of the furniture; his speech would be courteous enough, but exceptionally succinct, and delivered in a vague monotone. But today was different. I sensed from the way he dipped his quill into his coffee when writing invoices, and kept walking into doors, that this problem was exceptionally intractable.

Finally, I could stand it no longer. I donned a suitably stern expression and marched into the back office, where he was slouched in his chair, focussed blankly on his toecaps. In a tone that would brook no nonsense, I asked him flatly what was wrong.

Unruffled, he looked up to the ceiling, as though reading a script from it. "You know how we all depend on a higher level of being for our very existence?"

That, I hadn’t been expecting. "You mean the Typist?"

"That’s the one. Well, you know how Caledonians have their own particular problems with local gravity, things disappearing and so forth? Well, typists have their problems, too. And ours will soon have to go."

"What do you mean,’go?’"

"I mean – " He flapped a clueless arm about. "Go. For reasons I can’t very well gainsay. Suffice it to say, the Typist has no choice in the matter," he added, acidly.

 
So that was it. I’d heard of Typists having to "go," with grim consequences for their souls in Caledon, and now it looked as though it was our turn. He turned to look at me, seriously. "So you know what that means for us, don’t you?"

Biting my lip, I nodded. It meant the end for us both. Then his eyes softened with that promise I’d come to know.

"I don’t know how long we’ve got; even the Typist doesn’t know that. But whatever you want to do with your time remaining is entirely up to you. You’re a woman of considerable independent substance, but you’ll have my fullest support if you want it."

He left a big vacant silence hanging. Mr Whybrow always kept his promises. And better still, he was always prepared to rise to them, should I call his bluff. I saw the opening I had been waiting for for some time, I only regretted that it had taken our imminent demise to provide the entrée.

I shook my head. "This is my home. I don’t want to be anywhere else. If I must suddenly cease to exist, I want to do it here, with you. If you’ll have me."

He looked at me with a frown as though I’d just broken wind. "Why on earth should I not? What a silly question. It’s just that I think there are some things I’ve no right to expect - "

I silenced him with a Look. Shopgirl Had Spoken. He looked away, wondering where to take it from here. Then I realised the turmoil that must have been racketing around in his mind and gave a delicate nudge. "What about your own plans, sir?"

"Oh, I’ll just continue as I am for as long as it’s feasible," he said, as though it didn’t really matter. "My affairs are as in order as they’ll ever be."

This was it. My opening, delivered on a silver salver. "All of them, sir?"

He raised an eyebrow. Was he genuinely clueless, or was he putting on an act?

I transfixed him Most Sternly. He must have seen what was coming; he squirmed in anticipation but knew that there was no escape. "Sir, if I am a woman of substance then it’s entirely thanks to you. But there’s one thing we both need, and I think we owe ourselves. To be honest, the only reason I’m glad of my money is that now you can be sure beyond any doubt that I’ve absolutely no need to get my claws into you for your land or prims. And while some would want you as a handle on society, I think that in that respect, you’ve already given me more than anyone has a right to expect."

Despite my resolution, which was only overdue anyway, I hesitated. In fact, he had to nudge me.

"So what are you saying?"

"I’m saying that I want to stay – as your wife."

I stood back as, predictably, Mr Whybrow doubled up, choking on his cigar. It would have been silly of me to give him a chance to recover and argue, so I didn’t. Go for broke, girl.

Reasonably, I told him, "Yes, sir, I’m asking you to marry me. Come on, now. Do you really think I haven’t seen all the turmoil and contra-indications twisting and turning in your mind like an armful of eels? Or that I can’t see what really lies inside you whenever you’ve had the chance to show me some particular kindness, or act of care?"

He caught his breath and, red in the face, looked up at me, trapped as one of said eels on a fishmonger’s counter, watching the cleaver rise to strike off its head. Softening, I laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled, being careful to keep a slight tremor of uncertainty in my voice. I knew well how he regarded prospective brides, and this was – well, not so much uncharted territory, more a coastline that might have had a few rocks and riptides missed out by the cartographer.

"I’m well aware of how you feel about relationships in general, and your reasons for doing so – which I respect entirely. I know about your previous misadventures, and how they’ve left you less well-disposed to womankind every time someone else insinuated themselves under your armour. But there’s always remained that little indestructible spark which no misadventure’s been able to extinguish. Don’t bother denying it; you might be adept at dealing with all manner of persons in the shop, but your true self’s always been writ large over your face. You might as well have been carrying them writ large on a sandwich board. But you’re not blind; you’ll have seen that I have feelings of my own, and that your past misadventures have been the only reason I’ve held back."

At the back of my mind, a great voice was warning that I’d not just overstepped the mark with my employer, I’d vaulted over it with a fourteen-foot pole. But I was committed and, hearteningly, he was hearing me out, torn between disbelief and acceptance that I was only speaking the truth. More to the point, he was hooked. I kept at arm’s length, but dropped my voice, speaking as maybe a trusted sister would.

"I know you'd never have asked me yourself; I’d still be holding back now, if you hadn’t just told me what’s in store for us both. I think you are, too. But don't you think you know me well enough by now? The facts speak for themselves. Materially, I’ve everything I could want and more, so you know I’d only marry you out of love. I also know how wary you are of any woman showing an interest in you, and I respect your reasons. But I think that in the time we’ve been together, I’ve earned your trust, and proved that all I really want to do is make you happy. You’ve given that workhouse girl fulfilment beyond belief, and she wants to give you that in return. That is what would make me happy, and it’s all I want from you. To end my days here with you, to love you the man. Not you the society figure or man of business."

Gawd, what a mouthful! Well, word by word, it all made sense to me, although it probably gushed out like a burst water main. He looked down at the rug with a glum twist to his mouth. His reply surfaced faintly, like a puddle rising in sand.

"Much of that, I should have said, myself." But he knew this was a time for plain facts, not judgment. "You’ve been the Establishment ever since you first came here. All I do is build stuff; you’re the personality that sells it. As for you the woman – " He studied me for a moment. "Valerie?"

"Yes?"

He stood. I knew that however he replied to my proposal, he would not avoid it. But I hadn’t expected what came next. He looked at me humbly, with simple, unfeigned worship. "You didn't just enter my establishment. You lit a rainbow in it."  Then a smile tried to tick upwards at the corners of his mouth. "You know - I don’t believe I’ve ever told you just how beautiful you are."

I’d done it. His final barrier was down, his real feelings were open to me, as sparkling and iridescing as an opened parure case. Before I could think of what to say next, he took me in his arms and without any hesitation, settled a kiss full on my lips, and let it linger. I let it, soaring euphorically under the melting tingle. This time there was no holding back, no furtiveness or haste or fear of being seen. As his fingers travelled up my back, I thought I heard a movement in the shop, but dismissed it. Let ‘em wait. Neither did he stir when panicked footsteps ran from the shop. This moment was ours.

I don’t know which of us pulled away first. Pure adoration shone from his face as he murmured, "We don’t know how long we have, and there’ll be arrangements to be made."

"You mean the banns?"

"We don’t worry about those here," he chuckled. I noticed that his hands were not relinquishing their grip on my waist. "And the use of the chapel, we can take as read – I own it, after all, although you really deserve a cathedral wedding – "

I’d never before contradicted him with such a happy delirium. "No, sir. The chapel will be perfect. It’s ours. But won’t we need a priest?"

"That’s one thing we will – "

A green light burst in the shop and Uncle Arthur stood there, glaring accusation. I started a little; I was used to it by now, I just hadn’t expected it to happen at this precise moment. Neither had Mr Whybrow; we were too stunned to release each other. Besides, we were beyond guilt, now. But typically, Arthur’s indignation was a mere mask for his encouragement.

"About bloody time, you two," he barked. "You’ve been dancing around each other like tea leaves circling a blocked plughole."

"Only for the best of reasons," said Mr W. "How much of all that did you hear?"

"Enough to know what’s going on." Uncle Arthur twitched a wink to me, which Mr W might have missed. Uncle Arthur’s voice snickered inside my head. Didn’t I tell you to have faith? "So you two will be coming to join me. And I suppose you’ll need a priest."

As if he hadn’t heard that!

"We’ll need something," said Mr W. He kept me in his embrace, and I relaxed into him. It felt really rather lovely, to be able to do that with pride.

"Ho hum," said Uncle Arthur, pretending very badly that he would find the job onerous. "I suppose I’m as well-qualified as any you’re likely to get."

"Are you a certified priest?" I blurted.

"Ordained, you mean?" Uncle Arthur shook his head. "This is Caledon, me dear. Anyone can be a priest as long as he knows what he’s doing."

Mr Whybrow agreed. "Uncle Arthur knows the service backwards. It’d be nice to keep it all in the family, as it were."

"Dunno about that," said Uncle Arthur. "But I do think the bride deserves someone to give her away."

The answer was so obvious. I squee’d with delight as I grabbed Mr Whybrow’s lapels. "Of course, Sir! Mr – "

"What’s this ‘Sir’ malarkey?" Mr Whybrow interrupted, laughing. "You’re marrying me, not signing an indenture."

"Oh, hush up!" Giggling, I silenced him with a finger over his lips – with Uncle Arthur’s smirking approval. "Mister McKew’ll be perfect, won’t he? Alastair?" I added, to make sure he knew his message had got across.

"Perfect." He pecked me on the tip of my nose, provoking another giggle from me. Uncle Arthur grinned and shook his head. He might have been a crusty old wotsit, but he was clearly enchanted by the affection radiating from us both.

"What about you, young feller?" Uncle Arthur asked. "Going to have a best man?"

"Mr Mckew couldn’t do that as well, could he?" Alastair wondered. "Unless you’d care to – "

"No I would not! I’m not doing two jobs. As it is, you’re getting me without surplice fees. Try again."

Alastair looked to me in bewilderment. I think the poor man was starting to realise just how much was involved in getting married, even if it was to a particularly undemanding shopgirl. I put him out of his misery. "Darling?" Oooh, it felt heady just saying that one word! "Don’t you think Mrs Boltclyster might appreciate the offer?"

"It’d be better if she gave you away." Uncle Arthur rubbed his chin. "It should really be a male, but it’s not unheard of for a woman to step in. Yes, and if Mr McKew were to be your best man - better get weaving, hadn’t you, young Alastair?"

So off we ran to deliver our respective bombshells. Mrs Boltclyster received my invitation with the explosion of squeaks and bounces which I’d expected. However, a loud Anglo-Saxon curse from further along the quayside warned me that Mr Whybrow had found Mr McKew to be out on business.

Between us, Mrs Boltclyster and I ransacked my wardrobe for a suitable bridal gown. I’d never worn a veil before, and found it strangely becoming. I saw, through the chapel windows, that Uncle Arthur and the groom were already waiting, so there was no reason to put it off. Mrs Boltclyster asked me to wait a moment while she fetched something from the post office. I wore out the pavement for five minutes waiting, and she returned reeking of humbugs and with her long-standing companion in her arms.

"Mrs Boltclyster! Why are you bringing Oscar with you?" I indicated the huge elephant gun in the crook of her elbow.

"That’s just for the seagulls, me dear. Don’t want them messing up your hair, do you?"

The seagulls? I’d already scared those off with the cattleprod, so I suspected that she was anticipating a final visit from Jasper and his ghastly accomplice. Well, I wasn’t going to argue. Even if it would give everyone the wrong idea about how far Mr W and I had taken things if they saw her with Oscar at the altar.

I marched down the aisle heading a procession of Two. Mr Whybrow was standing alone, he obviously hadn’t been able to lasso Mr McKew into being his best man. The groom turned to give me a shy glance; I wondered if he’d been expecting me to jilt him. As if. Still, I suppose most grooms worry about that at the last minute. He did not look at all surprised to see Oscar with us, although Uncle Arthur appeared to be thanking his lucky stars that he was already dead.

Yes, that was something I’d just noticed. Uncle Arthur’s green glow had vanished, and he appeared as substantial as we were. Was that a function of his priestly office, or had he worked off some karma?

I was never to find out. After a genial nod of greeting, Uncle Arthur came into his own. His clipped Sandhurst twang, subtly underlaid with that rural stretch of his vowels, rode over SouthEnd with the authority of God. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here ….."

Mrs Boltclyster sobbed her heart out, breaking off now and then to pop in a fresh humbug.

The service flowed over me like an opiate. The words themselves blurred into a general aura that elevated me, infusing me with a heady tingle. I responded automatically but with all the will within me, although the world seemed to stop when he slipped the ring onto my finger. A plain gold band, seemingly incongruous when I considered the thousand-prim builds Mr Whybrow was more used to providing, but this plain gold band was special. It would mark me out forever as His.

Suddenly, a moment of silence hung in the air. Uncle Arthur nudged, "You may now kiss the bride." Alastair needed no prompting; he had only been making sure of his cue. He held me as delicately as a paper flower and I rose readily to melt into his first kiss as his wife.

As we processed out, I realised I’d spent the service with a tiny part of my mind worrying if anything would go wrong. Would Jasper make a surprise return with a weapon of mass destruction, would Mr Gongfermer lose control over the usually placid Ploppy to decant a ton of manure over us? But something had been watching over us. The day had been golden.

Mr Whybrow had cleverly set up his glass plate camera with a bit of string for the shutter. Mrs Boltclyster looked suitably forbidding. Look after that girl or Oscar goes where the sun doesn’t shine. 

Uncle Arthur, of course, couldn’t help messing around.

"Leave me to do the developing," Arthur offered. "You’ll only make a mess of it, anyway. Go take your bride home."

"I can’t thank you enough – " Alastair began.

"Oh, just sod off, will you!" laughed his uncle.

"Go on," encouraged Mrs Boltclyster. "Before she carries you off!"

I didn’t make him carry me all the way to his cottage. Just up the last few steps before we stumbled into his single room. Both of us were emotionally blasted. He laid me down on the sofa and sat beside me, and we spent a long moment just looking into each others’ eyes. I think we were both finding it hard to accept what we’d just done. I was his wife, equal to any woman in Caledon.

This, I suppose, was what they call breaking the ice. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. One of us had to make the first move. I think he must have seen my awkwardness. With that typical simplicity, he said, quietly, "Valerie?"

"Yes, Alastair?" Gawd, that was going to take getting used to!

"I love you."

 

He spared me the need to reply by cupping my face in his hands and kissing me. This time, his fingers spent a few moments re-learning my figure before they began to search for the fastenings at the back of my gown. I knew what he was going to do, and with a delicious shiver, I relaxed and let him.

Coda

I awoke transmuted into something glorious, and relaxed where I belonged. Melting into the man who had ejected Jasper from the shop, the man who had rescued me from the freezing sea, the man who had saved me from an enormous carnivorous spider, the man who had found he could not live without me, and now held me as tenderly as a fledgling.

I thought back to the snivelling, frightened waif who had been tied to the workhouse gates. Yes, I had come a long way since then. We were both complete, as we had completed each other.

Alastair stirred with a groan of contentment and settled a bleary eye on me. "Hello, Mrs Whybrow. Sleep all right?"

"Never better," I assured him, adding a kiss by way of full stop. "You can keep Westminster Abbey. That was beyond words, dear."

"You’re beyond words," he told me, humbly. "I wish to God I’d had the sense to ask you sooner."

"Well, it’s done now. And a day together is better than a year without you. How’d you like your wife to bring you coffee in bed?"

"Mmm, you little darling. What time is it?"

Craning my neck, I squinted at the grandfather clock. "Quarter past four."

"Dunno if it’s a bit too early for coffee – "

"It’s never too early for coffee, or so you keep telling me," I teased him. "You’ll have to show me where things are, though – what’s the matter?"

Alastair had sat up, his face electrified with horror. "Good Lord, yes! There’s still one thing I haven’t shown you!"

"What? What is it?" I returned his alarm, suspecting a caged monster in a secret basement.

It certainly wasn’t that, anyway. He leapt out of bed, bubbling with schoolboy exhuberance as he wriggled his trousers on. "I’ve been promising myself this for a long time! If Madame would allow me to show her?"

My horror began to lapse into a smirk of bemusement. "Yes, dear, but what is it?"

"I should throw your gown back on; you may find it a bit nippy outside."

Out of long-standing habit, I wanted to grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall, but I forbore and did as I was told. By the time I had emerged from my voluminous folds, he was standing by the front door, poised and waiting.

"Of course." I clapped my hands with glee. "You never let me see outside. What is it, then?"

For reply, he simply unlocked the door with a heavy clank of key, and threw it open. I don’t know what I’d been was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. I almost fell over the threshold, my nerves paralysed.

OH – MY – GIDDY – AUNT!

I was looking at a small but spectacular little garden, hedged around the sides. Beyond it was the most beautiful forest I’d ever seen. Dumbly, I followed him outside.

 

"This is all yours?"

"Nope. It’s ours now," he replied.

I let him take my hand and lead me into the forest. I could certainly understand why he never shared this with anybody; "enchanted" didn’t do it justice. I was knee-deep in lavish flowers, all glowing with a colourful aura of their own. We stood beneath a huge orange tree, with his arm supporting me as I took it all in. A little way off stood a bench, mantled by a drooping tree that was weeping what appeared to be luminescent dewdrops. Further into the forest, a small waterfall tumbled merrily.

Words failed me. I had to settle for the simplest of compliments, woefully inadequate. "Didn’t – wasn’t a forest the very first thing I asked you to show me, here?"

"I do believe it was," he murmured. He was right about the night air being chill; his breath was an uplifting warmth in my ear. "Even then, I wanted to lay the world at your feet."

"I’d have settled for the kisses you laid at them just now," I said, snuggling into his side. "If we must end, I couldn’t imagine a lovelier place to end in."

"Neither could I. But with you at my side, anywhere is the right place." He looked up from me, away into the forest, as though finally satisfied that all was as it should be. "In any case, we won’t end completely. We’ll still exist in this diary of yours."

A lump rose in my throat, gripping it in a stranglehold. I could not speak, and had to content myself with a silent prayer. I didn’t want this moment to end. Ever. And he was right. It didn’t have to end.

Thank you, Typist. We’re ready now.

Go in peace.

THE END