Barbara Todd - Miss Ranskill Comes Home

And now her great moment had come. She set foot on a stairway that led, so instinct told her, to a department where underclothes were ranged in shimmers of pink and peach and white and blue and yellow, and to another department where dresses for morning and afternoon hung shoulder to shoulder and hem to hem. Nine pounds fourteen shillings and fourpence should go far enough if she economised over shoes: a pair of cheap canvas ones would be good enough for a day or two.

A plan formed in her mind as she went slowly up the stairs, slowly because she was savouring the adventure to come. As a child she had always been reluctant to open her eyes when she was awake on Christmas morning: it had been enough to know that the stocking was there bulging in shapelessness and full (just for those moments) of magic, singing loudly as the stars of the morning and all the Herald Angels.

Yes, she had a plan – she must find a friend and tell the truth, though not all of it, because she could not speak of the Island without thinking of the Carpenter. She dreaded the question, ‘Were you all alone there?’ She must possess herself, before she could allow the life they had shared to be touched by the new life she was to live.

She shook her head and the gesture set two cockatoo-like plumes free from her turban. Once again she saw herself in a mirror at the turn of a staircase, but the horror had passed. Better to be a Cinderella and be a Cinderella properly if one was to enjoy metamorphosis thoroughly than to be a fiddle-faddler in the brown satin rags of pantomime.

Now for the Fairy Godmother. Miss Ranskill hurried up the second flight of stairs.

When she reached the top of it, a woman in a black frock made an undulating movement towards her.

‘Can I help you–’ (the word ‘Madam’ quivered her lips, thought better of it, and retired).

‘Yes, I think you can, if you will?’

For the eyes of the interrogator were kind and her mouth was finely and firmly flexed.

‘I think you can. I want everything new. I’ve been wearing these clothes for four years, and now–’

‘Yes, Madam, I know how it is. In war-time one hangs on to one’s oldest clothes, but the time comes when–’

‘Yes, I know, but it isn’t because of the war exactly. Never mind that. You’re a woman and I’m a woman. You can see the clothes I’m wearing, and my under ones are worse. I want to start underneath. I want–’

Here Miss Ranskill became aware of the comb, the scissors and tube of face-cream clutched in her right hand. Assurance left her.

‘I – I quite forgot about these being wrapped up.’

‘I know, Madam, it is awkward. Only the other day a customer bought a really lovely suede coat. In it had to go, on top of the herrings in her shopping basket, though the newspaper was sodden already. Still, I suppose we ought to be thankful to get any fish at all.’

‘Should we?’

Memories of fish invaded the shop, of fish in every stage, fish with a nauseating lining that must be removed, fish half-dried by sun and going rotten in rain, greedy fish that gulped down the hooks whittled by patient labour, birds that tasted so heartily of fish that every fish, for weeks after, tasted so of sea-bird that the palate revolted, fish in the boat – soused and sodden by the sea.

‘When one thinks of the risks–’

There was reproof in the voice and Miss Ranskill took her hint.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You were saying, Madam?’

‘I wondered if it would be possible to buy some underclothes and put them on, and then choose a frock and some stockings?’

‘Certainly. If you would care to look at the frocks and select some to try on. I can take you to the underwear department.’

‘And stockings?’

‘Stockings are on the ground floor, Madam. Would you like to buy them first?’

‘Couldn’t you possibly have a pair sent up? I don’t want to go downstairs again until I’m looking – looking different.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Madam, but we are very understaffed, you know. Besides, there are still a good many shades to choose from.’

‘It would be kind,’ pleaded Miss Ranskill. ‘I only want one fawn-coloured pair, either in a thickish silk ( not artificial), or fine lisle thread. Perhaps I’d better have lisle.’

Memory of the nine pounds, fourteen shillings and fourpence made it seem wiser not to buy silk.

‘There may be a few cotton pairs left.’

‘I only want one pair.’

‘No real silk, of course, and certainly no lisle.’

Miss Ranskill had heard the same tone of voice in her nursery days – ‘Not jam and cake, Miss Nona: the very idea!’ As she had done then, so she argued now.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, there’s a war on.’

‘A what?’

‘A war, Madam. Naturally it is difficult to get exceptional articles.’

Shocked reproof could not have been greater if Miss Ranskill had demanded the martial cloak of Sir John Moore on a charger.

Apology seemed necessary, and was made.

‘I’m sorry. I forgot.’

This time raised eyebrows and tightened lips conveyed more sorrow than anger, but more contempt than both.

‘You see, I haven’t read a newspaper for over three years.’

She had made everything worse than ever now – outcast herself completely.

‘Or listened to the wireless except just once the other day.’

‘Really, Madam. Of course, I know some people make a point of only reading escapist literature. I couldn’t bear not to get the news myself, though.’

There was no chance of making friends now: an icy politeness prevailed between them as between a tea-party hostess and the guest who has made unwise comment on some relation or friend.

Miss Ranskill was led to a counter where she chose two garments in artificial silk whose sheen seemed to fade as she looked at them. Then she asked the price of the jersey-suit she had seen in the window, heard it was too expensive, chose another in meek fawn and accepted the assistant’s choice of a paler toned sweater.

‘Utility garments, Madam, and really it is more practical to select neutral colours when one has to wear clothes for such a very long time.’

‘I shall buy the red suit tomorrow and the green one next day,’ said Miss Ranskill thoughtfully, and was quite unaware she had spoken aloud.

Raised eyebrows answered her and the arrival of a girl with stockings ended the pause that followed.

Two minutes later, Miss Ranskill, who had arranged to pay her own reluctant assistant ‘for everything at the end’, was alone in a mirrored cubicle.

Shan’t know ourselves, shall we, Miss Ranskill, when we’ve got ourselves all togged up again. I’ll buy a Sunday-go-to-meeting suit and wear it for a month of Sundays, and when I see you coming along I’ll say to myself, ‘Who’s this fine lady? I’ll bet she’s never done a stroke of work in all her born days. Why, it’s Miss Ranskill, who’d ever have thought it.’ We’ll smarten ourselves up one day, never you fear.

She had forgotten her figure was so good, forgotten the subtle curving and the flatness where flatness should be that now made cheap wool sliding over silkiness look expensive. She fitted the clothes: they were not cajoled into fitting her. The humble colour of the jersey exalted the jackdaw blue of her eyes and paid compliment to the sunbleached streaks of her hair. That was shaggy and ragged, but the comb did something to help and the vanishing cream toned down the snatches of red where the sun had caught her cheek-bones.

‘But gloves, I think, as well as the canvas shoes,’ decided Miss Ranskill as she doubled up her fingers.

She walked over to the window and looked down into the street. The people there were her own people, she could walk among them now inconspicuously: she had a place in the world again.