Joanna Toye - A Store at War

‘But what did he mean?’

‘That’s what I didn’t know. But I wanted to find out. So I had to pretend I did.’

‘How?’

‘Come on, you go to the pictures, don’t you?’ grinned Jim. ‘You know the bit where our hero has a sudden thought, or realises something, or remembers. They do this knowing sort of look. So I gave him one of those.’

‘Knowing?’

Lily stopped with a forkful of stew halfway to her mouth. She’d never heard anyone talk quite like Jim. Not to her, anyway, not even Sid, who had a pretty vivid turn of phrase when he liked, the more so since he’d joined the Navy – and not in a good way, Lily’s mum often scolded. Jim’s tone was sort of casual, but confidential, and chatty. Now he tutted impatiently.

‘Like this!’

He mimed an expression somewhere between surprise and ‘Aha!’

Lily nodded uncertainly.

‘I don’t think Clark Gable’s got anything to worry about,’ she smiled. ‘And then?’

‘And then I apologised profusely. Claimed I understood. So Sir Douglas huffed and puffed, said he should think so too. We made out his account as “Account and Take”, he signed it, I put the docket in the tube, it came back receipted from the cash office, he crammed his hat on his head, and off he stomped.’

‘Leaving you with his ashtray! But if you only pretended to know … and he left without it … what are you going to do with it?’

‘Not going to do, already done,’ said Jim triumphantly. ‘Are you eating that potato?’

‘Yes!’ said Lily.

‘Just thought I’d ask. You eat a lot, don’t you, for a girl.’

‘Oh, go on, have it then.’ Lily forked the potato on to his plate. ‘It’s got an eye in it, though. Be careful.’

‘Thanks.’ Jim attacked it eagerly.

‘You eat a lot, for one that’s so skinny,’ said Lily. ‘Doesn’t your landlady feed you?’

‘Not much,’ said Jim ruefully. The potato had already disappeared.

Lily returned to the subject in hand.

‘So, the ashtray. What have you done with it?’

‘Well,’ began Jim, leaning in and dropping his voice, obviously relishing the telling. ‘I don’t know if you’ve been told, and maybe it doesn’t apply to those tiddly little baby things you sell, but with petrol restricted to essential work only, we can only deliver larger items. Sofas and chairs and tables and beds and wardrobes – if we can get them to sell in the first place – but – well, you get the idea.’

‘Definitely not ashtrays on stands.’

‘Absolutely not. Anything like that the customer has to take away. Though evidently not in Sir Douglas’s case. So here’s the good bit. He goes off, I wrap the thing up, address it to him and take it down to Despatch. The office assumed it was an add-on to some bigger item, told me it was Les Bulpitt’s round, so I went and found him.’

‘Les …?’ Lily frowned. ‘Beryl – you know, on Toys – she goes out with someone called Les who works in Despatch. Same one?’

‘Tall, a bit of a swagger and a lot of Brylcreem?’

‘That sounds like him.’

‘Interesting … Anyway, I offer up the parcel, and say the magic words. “Usual Arrangement for Sir Douglas Brimble.” At which Les does a double-take and says, “You’re in on it now, are you? I suppose Maurice filled you in …”’

‘Maurice Bishop? In on what?’

Jim had demolished his pudding (not a bad number of currants, actually) in about four mouthfuls and was now eyeing Lily’s. She curled her hand protectively round her bowl. Defeated, he took a sip of water.

‘Les was due a break, so I went and stood on the loading bay with him while he had a smoke. Did the “all boys together” act. Pretended Bishop hadn’t had the chance to explain it all to me before he left. Asked a few discreet questions. With my coat collar turned up, of course, best gumshoe style,’ he added.

Lily never knew when Jim was joking. He was very like Sid in that respect.

‘Turns out,’ Jim went on, ‘Sir Douglas and a select few of his cronies still have everything they buy delivered, large or small. There’s a salesman in the know on every department they might use – Wines and Spirits, Tobacco and Cigars, Gents’ Outfitting, Household. There’s a “consideration”, naturally, for any salesman involved for adding the stuff on the van, and any driver involved for adding the delivery on to his round when he’s next in the immediate area. In fact, it turns out that’s how Maurice Bishop is spending his annual holiday – not in Stoke-on-Trent with his aged mum but in Blackpool, if you please. It obviously all tots up.’

‘But that’s …’ Lily hadn’t yet memorised every single line of the staff manual but ‘Private arrangements with customers are strictly forbidden’ was one sentence which she very much remembered reading. ‘That’s a sacking offence!’

‘Worse than that,’ said Jim. ‘It’s illegal. How are they getting their hands on the extra petrol, for a start? Les, Maurice, all the others involved and, worse, Marlow’s itself, could be prosecuted – and found guilty!’

‘But, Jim,’ Lily was aghast, ‘if you’ve given Les the parcel, you’re involved now, you’re as bad as the others!’

‘This is the clever bit,’ explained Jim. ‘I told him to hang on to it. Told a little white lie – well, a big white whopper. Said Sir Douglas might be adding a couple more small things to his order. Les was fine about it. He wasn’t going anywhere near Sir Douglas’s today anyhow.’

‘Fine,’ said Lily. ‘But now what are you going to do about it?’

‘Good question.’

Jim returned to his pudding bowl and scraped at an all-but-transparent smear of custard.

‘You’ll have to report it, surely?’

‘I will. But …’

‘But what?’

Jim leaned forward.

‘Thing is, I need to find out a bit more. Who knows, exactly who’s involved, names, how often it happens, how long it’s been going on. That sort of stuff.’

‘Can’t you ask Les?’

‘How can I? It’s not as if I know the bloke. And as I’m supposed to be in on it, I can’t pretend I’ve no clue what’s going on. I’ve asked enough already. It’s going to look too obvious.’

‘You’re stuck then.’

‘Not entirely.’

A cunning look, much more believable than his ‘knowing’ one, crossed Jim’s face.

‘Not if you’re right and Les and Beryl are—’

Lily could see where this was heading.

‘Hang on!’

‘No, listen – it’s brilliant. You know Beryl. All you have to do is get her at tea break, or go for a drink or something after work—’

‘A drink?!’

‘Only a lemonade!’

‘But, Jim, I don’t know her! And what I do, I don’t much like. And she positively hates me!’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. How could anyone hate you?’ Jim smiled.

And instantly, still shaking her head in disbelief, Lily knew she’d do it. Quite how she was going to win Beryl’s confidence – and before Sir Douglas started wondering where his blessed ashtray was and caused a stink – was another matter.

‘I’d be so grateful. You see, Beryl, I haven’t really got a clue.’

Leaving a baffled Gladys to walk on her own, and gasping that she’d explain everything in time, Lily had managed to catch up with Beryl as they left the store. Now they were standing in the evening sun by the sandbagged Post Office on the High Street.

‘I’d be so grateful. Truly I would.’

Beryl took a step back and smiled. Though her smiles always seemed more like a sneer to Lily.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but where exactly do you expect me to start? Hair, clothes, shoes, socks – socks! – make-up – or lack of it – I mean, really!’