Major Anglesey and Mrs Yardley-Peters passed through the checkout and back into the main part of the shop. At the entrance, they stopped for a moment, Mrs Yardley-Peters being evidently fussed in case she had lost her gloves; a search of her handbag, however, apparently put things right, and they proceeded under the blast of tropical wind issuing from somewhere in the ceiling and out into the street.
The store detective caught up with them at the zebra crossing, as they stood waiting for a lull in the traffic. She asked if they would please come back to the manager's office. The Major and Mrs Yardley-Peters received this request with considerable surprise but made no objection, except that the Major looked again at his watch and said he hoped it wouldn't take too long, as it was getting on for lunch-time.
Several sales assistants, watching the detective walk through the store a step or two behind Major Anglesey and Mrs Yardley-Peters, exchanged glances and grinned. One girl stuck her chest out and mimicked the store detective's slightly military gait; it was a standing joke that Madge, having made a capture, went all official. At that point, the crimplene dress and the anorak took on, if you knew what you were looking at, the authority of the uniform she would herself have much preferred and that she had so regretted when giving up the traffic-warden job. In most other respects, of course, her present position was far preferable. Her friends occasionally said that they didn't know how she could do a job like that, going on to add, uncertainly, that of course they supposed someone had to … Personally, she never found it a problem; people could be a lot more unpleasant when you handed them a parking ticket. Aggressive. Your average shop-lifter tended to crumple; she'd hardly ever – bar a gang of French schoolchildren once – had any trouble. And it was a sight warmer, on a winter afternoon, than patrolling the windy lengths of the High Street.
The manager, seated behind his desk, listened in silence to the store detective's account of the events of the last half hour. So, at first, did Mrs Yardley-Peters and Major Anglesey, until the Major began to shake his head, more in sorrow than distress, it seemed, and Mrs Yardley-Peters exclaimed, ‘Oh, gracious me, no,’ and then, ‘No, no, it wasn't like that at all, you see we …’ The store detective continued her account, as unemphasised as recitative.
The manager said to Mrs Yardley-Peters, ‘Would you open your shopping bag, please?’
At first Mrs Yardley-Peters did not appear to take this in. She was rummaging again in her handbag. After a moment she said, ‘Ah there it is.’ And then, ‘Oh no, I'd rather not, really, you see I've got it all sorted out, with the squashy things on top.’
The manager turned to Major Anglesey. ‘It would really be much better if your wife …’
The Major made a small gesture. ‘The lady,’ he said with dignity, ‘is my mistress.’
Mrs Yardley-Peters patted her hair, which was greying and set in neat ridges, a style that somehow disturbed the manager – it reminded him of something and he could not think what. ‘That's right. Until my divorce comes through, you understand. Which should be before Christmas, all being well but you know what lawyers are. They drag their feet so. Have you ever had dealings with lawyers, Mr er …?’
The manager swallowed. The store detective, who was standing beside the desk as though at attention, shifted position and drew in breath with a little hiss.
Mrs Yardley-Peters glanced round the room and located a chair. ‘I must sit down for a minute. I've got this trouble with swollen ankles, and in any case …’ – she looked down at the black pumps, frowning – ‘you know, I've a horrid feeling I should have had a half size larger. These are pinching.’
The manager said, ‘Can you show me a receipt for those shoes, madam?’
‘Receipt?’ Mrs Yardley-Peters appeared bewildered. ‘Oh, from the place where you pay … Well, no, in fact I don't remember … I expect the Major paid, did you, dear? But you know I think I'll have to change them.’ She turned to the store detective. ‘Do you do half sizes? – I didn't notice. A four-and-a-half, it would need to be.’
The manager remembered suddenly that Mrs Yardley-Peters's hairstyle reminded him of the actress who played the Duchess of Windsor in that TV series, though of course she was dark and much younger. This small satisfaction went some way to halt his mounting sense of disorientation. He said, ‘I must ask you again to open your shopping bag, madam.’
‘Oh, I say,’ said Major Anglesey.
Mrs Yardley-Peters looked at the manager in bewilderment. ‘I do think …’ she began, and then, ‘Oh well, I suppose if I'm careful.’ She lifted out the packaged jam fancies and the chicken pieces. The store detective swayed forward, peering into the bag; ‘That's the sweater, and that's her own shoes.’
‘That's right,’ said Mrs Yardley-Peters. ‘You know, I wonder if I won't put them back on.’ She was stacking things on the manager's desk.
The store detective straightened. She had gone quite red in the face. Her stomach rumbled.
The manager turned to Major Anglesey. ‘May I please see the tie that you put in your pocket.’
The Major blinked. ‘Tie? Oh, yes – rather.’ He took out the tie and laid it on the desk.
‘I'm not sure about that red, after all,’ said Mrs Yardley-Peters. The store detective's stomach rumbled again. Mrs Yardley-Peters opened her handbag. ‘I should have a magnesia tablet somewhere. Yes, here we are.’ The store detective took a step backwards, violently, and landed against the wall of the office, as though at bay. ‘No?’ said Mrs Yardley-Peters. ‘I always find they do the trick. It's getting near your lunch-time, I expect.’ She eased off the black shoes, grimacing.
The manager realised he was losing his grip; tears he could cope with, protestations of innocence, truculence. He said, ‘You understand that unless you can provide some proof that you paid for these goods I shall have to call the police?’
‘Oh, I say,’ said Major Anglesey again. Mrs Yardley-Peters, now in stockinged feet, flexed her toes; ‘Oh, my goodness, I shouldn't do that, specially since it's all a silly mistake. You get into the most frightfully deep waters once you're involved with the police. My husband and I – my ex-husband, that is, all but – had an awful business once after we were the only people who saw this road accident. Witnesses, you see. Oh no – I don't think you should involve the police, not that they can't be awfully efficient sometimes, I will say that.’
The manager lined up the papers on his desk, for something to occupy the hands, and looked steadily at Major Anglesey; it was better, he found, though better wasn't really the word under the circumstances, if he simply tried to pretend the woman wasn't there. The store detective made a strangled noise. The manager said, rather sharply, ‘Yes, all right, Mrs Hebden. Now, sir, did you pay for that tie, and did your – did the lady pay for the sweater and the shoes?’
‘Oh, I don't think so,’ said Major Anglesey. ‘No, I don't think she would have. You see, it was a question of whether she'd left her cheque book in the car or whether…’
‘I've got it, Rupert,’ said Mrs Yardley-Peters. ‘It's quite all right – it was in my bag all along, isn't that silly?’
The Major patted her shoulder. ‘But at the time there was this bother about whether it was lost or not, so if anyone paid it would have been me. No doubt about that.’
‘He didn't,’ said the store detective.
‘Really?’ said Major Anglesey. ‘Well, that's an extraordinary thing.’ He looked at the tie. ‘One wouldn't have bothered with a cheque for that, of course, it can't have cost more than a pound or two.’
‘You should have had the blue one,’ said Mrs Yardley-Peters. That's not going to be any good with your dark suit, you know.’
The manager made a convulsive movement and shot a black plastic pen container on to the floor. Major Anglesey, with cries of concern, got down and scrabbled for the pens – ‘Here we are, all intact, I think.’
‘So silly,’ said Mrs Yardley-Peters, ‘about the cheque book. Shall I pay you back while it's in my head, Rupert? I'
ll write you a cheque.’
‘Look,’ said the manager, with a sort of gasp, ‘I simply want to …’
‘Consider them a present, my dear,’ said the Major gallantly.
‘You didn't pay for them,’ said the store detective. The words came out as a hoarse cry and both the Major and Mrs Yardley-Peters turned to look at her in surprise. Mrs Yardley-Peters shook her head and frowned, evidently put out, ‘No, no, that's absurd. You've just heard the Major say they're to be counted as a present and that's sweet of you, Rupert, though I do think we ought to keep our finances separate at least for the time being. You know, I'm wondering if the shoes may not be all right once one's worn them in a bit. Do you usually reckon,’ she went on, addressing the store detective, ‘on them giving a bit as you wear them?’
‘Mrs Hebden is not a member of the sales staff,’ said the manager. ‘And in any case it is hardly a question of …’
The Major interrupted. ‘I remember now, it all comes back – that tie was one pound ninety-five. I thought at the time good grief in real money that's all of two quid and I've got ties in my cupboard I paid four-and-six for, in the old days. Two quid for a tie, I ask you! Not,’ he went on quickly, ‘that it's not good value for nowadays.’
The manager rose. His collar clung to his neck and sweat trickled down inside his shirt. He went to the window and opened it.
‘Yes, I was feeling it was a wee bit stuffy too,’ said Mrs Yardley-Peters. ‘You'd think they'd give you a bigger office, wouldn't you? But I suppose you're out and about quite a lot, looking after the shop. I always say, the thing about this sort of place is, you can see exactly what you're getting, and there's never a bit of argument about changing anything.’
Once, the manager had had to deal with an Arab lady and her three daughters, not a word of English between them, all weeping, and twenty-eight pairs of bikini briefs stuffed inside their coats. At this moment, he looked back on that occasion almost with nostalgia. He sat down again and addressed the Major. ‘Now, sir, if there is any explanation you feel you'd like to give, naturally I …’
The note of hysteria in his voice did not escape Mrs Yardley-Peters. She said kindly, ‘You know, you look to me a bit under the weather, I should think you might be coming down with something. If I were you I'd …’
The Major tapped her reprovingly. ‘Mona, I'm sure our friend here's well able to take care of himself. All he wants is to get this bit of bother sorted out so we can all be off for our dins.’
Madge Hebden, all her life, had had strong feelings about legality. She'd never, herself, stepped out of line, not once. And she believed in plain speaking. At this point she exploded.
‘It's theft, that's what it is! Honest to goodness theft. Thieves! Bit of bother, indeed! I saw them with my own eyes and in all the ten months I've been in the store I've never …’
The manager got to his feet in one violent movement. His hands, as though acting independently of the rest of him, twitched about the surface of the desk, apparently seeking a hold on something. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hebden, you've done a grand job. In this case I feel though that there may be extenuating circumstances to be taken into consideration’ – he was gabbling now, looking through and beyond rather than at Major Anglesey and Mrs Yardley-Peters – ‘and naturally one prefers rather than perpetrate possibly an injustice to exercise in some cases and I believe this to be one such discretion as is at one's disposal our policy in such instances being always to …’
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Yardley-Peters, ‘I'm afraid I'm not following this very well. Could you begin again?’
The manager wiped his forehead. He said, ‘Go away.’
‘Eh?’ said the Major.
‘Please go. Just go.’
Mrs Yardley-Peters stared at him. ‘Well, I must say. I think that's a bit abrupt. After all, you invited us in here, it wasn't us who wanted to come. Very well, then.’ She bent down and put her shoes on. The manager, leaning across the desk, pushed towards her the contents of the shopping bag. Mrs Yardley-Peters put them carefully into it, slowly, removing things once or twice to re-arrange them. As she picked up the shoes, the lambswool sweater and the tie the store detective gave a kind of croak; the manager was silent, nerves twitching all over one side of his face.
‘There,’ said Mrs Yardley-Peters. She rose. ‘Have you got the car-keys, Rupert, or have I?’ At the door she paused and looked back. ‘You know one doesn't like to interfere but I do have the most distinct impression that they overwork you people, the powers that be. You both look done in.’
Major Anglesey and Mrs Yardley-Peters walked slowly through the shop. Mid-way they paused and Major Anglesey took over the shopping bag. They stopped once to cast an eye over the shirt counter but evidently decided against any further acquisitions. At the entrance Major Anglesey held the door open for a woman with a push-chair and was then trapped for a couple of minutes by his own solicitude, as a procession of people entered from the street; at last he was able to join Mrs Yardley-Peters outside and the two of them moved away towards the multi-storey car park.
Major Anglesey drove. Mrs Yardley-Peters remarked that that poor man had seemed awfully neurotic, and the assistant rather bad-tempered. Detective, Mona, corrected the Major, they call them detective. Whatever they are, said Mrs Yardley-Peters, anyway, it's not a job I'd care for. The Major agreed. They recalled one or two previous experiences. When they reached the bungalow the Major put the car in the garage and carried the shopping bag inside. Mrs Yardley-Peters, humming to herself, removed the food items; the Major took the bag into the spare bedroom. He put the lambswool sweater, still in its plastic wrapping, into a big cupboard whose shelves were filled with many other sweaters, cardigans, shirts and pyjamas, also still in their wrappings. The tie he added to a rail already piled with ties, in a wardrobe pressed tight with suits and coats and ladies’ dresses, from which dangled price tickets and labels giving washing instructions. Mrs Yardley-Peters came in and said playfully, ‘Have I been a clever girl?’; the Major, without speaking, patted her bottom. ‘Din-dins,’ said Mrs Yardley-Peters, and the Major followed her through into the sitting-room, where the chicken pieces and the coleslaw were set out on Beatrix Potter plates. ‘My turn for Jemima Puddleduck,’ said Mrs Yardley-Peters. The Major poured light ale from a can into glasses decorated with cartoon mice; ‘Cheers.’ Mrs Yardley-Peters looked at him roguishly over the top of her glass. ‘Cheers, Rupie. We've been naughty again, haven't we!’ The Major, in reply, waggled his moustache, an accomplishment which had been one of his initial attractions.
Yellow Trains
‘I AM UNHAPPY,’ said the girl to her friend. She looked out of the window through the shimmering folds of the net curtains to the parked cars in the street; their windscreens snapped in the sunshine and a small dog rummaged in the gutter. ‘I am so unhappy,’ she repeated, and across the city the friend sighed and murmured.
‘Yesterday,’ she said, ‘I was so happy I could have cried. Listen, I rode in a train with blue seats, bright bright blue, and there was this factory chimney smoking white against the sky and the sky was grey like velvet. Do you know what I mean? And clouds like carvings. I tell you, I sat there looking and I could have cried.’
‘He isn't,’ asked the friend delicately, ‘coming?’
‘He isn't coming. There is this business with the office and his mother that he must go to on Saturday come what may and something about someone for whom he has to hold keys to a flat. He isn't coming.’
‘People,’ said the friend, after a pause, ‘get so involved.’
The girl watched the small dog nose an empty tin. She looked at the sky above the rooftops and at the thread of vapour from an aeroplane. ‘I sat in that train and I wasn't thinking of anything in particular. I wasn't thinking: tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. It was just a state of mind. And today … Listen, I'm looking at the sky now, and it's nothing. Nothing at all. And yesterday there were these clouds like sculptures. I don't understand how what you see
is a question of what you feel.’
The friend, across streets and parks and rooftops, sighed again. ‘Did he phone, or what?’
‘He phoned.’
‘Excuse me a minute,’ said the friend. ‘I've got something on the stove.’
The girl saw a pigeon with pink twiggy legs walk round and round, round and round. She saw a child go past chanting incantations. She saw an old woman put down a carrier bag and stand for a moment, hunched up.
The friend came back. ‘Sorry. I expect he just couldn't get out of it.’
‘Possibly. Probably. I made pizza. And got that beer he likes. He phoned very late last night. I feel as though I've put on pounds and pounds.’
‘Sorry?’ said the friend.
‘Weight. Yesterday I felt as though I was floating slightly. Walking along the platform at Clapham Junction. Like bubbles going up through you. And these yellow trains dashing all over the place, yellow like daffodils. I thought, I'm always going to remember feeling like this.’
‘Mmn.’
‘And the funny thing is I do now. Remember. I'm miserable, I'm pissed off, I feel as heavy as a rock. But it's all there still, underneath. The floating feeling, and the clouds, and the yellow trains. Only I can't get at it any more.’
‘Is he going to call again?’ asked the friend.
The girl twitched the curtain; the cars shimmered and flashed. ‘Actually, yesterday I wanted things just to stop there. Until I said go on. I wanted to keep it – feeling like that. I wanted to learn what it was like.’
‘Looking forward to something,’ the friend began, ‘is …’
‘I wasn't really looking forward. Don't you see? It was just being like that. Happy. Now I'm unhappy and it's nothing, it's a no-feeling. It doesn't exist.’
The friend said, ‘Mmn – I'm not so sure about that.’ After a moment she added, ‘I'm sure he'll call again.’
‘I expect he's calling now,’ said the girl. ‘I expect he's desperately trying to get through, dialling and hanging up again and asking the operator if the line's engaged talking or out of order. Dialling and dialling.’