J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“That’s going to be a hell of a climb,” he told himself dismally. “If it was for anybody but Fiorelli, I’d take stoppo right now.”

“I understand you don’t just teach the girls how to dance,” Fiorelli commented as they made their way to the next of the classes.

“Good heavens, no,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “The B.O.G., that’s the Benkinsopian Old Girls’ Booking Agency, handles their careers after they graduate. I’ve heard it’s highly thought-of in the entertainment world.”

“It is,” Fiorelli conceded, knowing that the B.O.G. Agency not only demanded the highest salaries and best working conditions for its clients, it took a mere five instead of the traditional ten—or higher—per cent of their earnings. “They drive a hard bargain.”

“One must look after one’s girls, even after they have left one’s immediate care,” Miss Benkinsop explained. “Of course, not all our girls go in for the Arts. Some will be entering commerce, or domesticity when they leave us. Our Wise Shopping Class helps some of them to find their vocation.”

“Oh yes. Rosalie’s told me about it. Of course, when she was head girl here, she stuck to the Arts.”

“With her attributes, we considered it advisable.”

“Yes, I can see how you would,” Fiorelli grinned, reaching for the handle of the “Wise Shopping” classroom’s door. “Who runs this class for you?”

“Miss Dinks,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “The English mistress. She’s fully qualified.”

On opening the door, Fiorelli’s ears were not assailed by the gentle strains of sweet music. He might, in fact, have been excused if he had believed that in some way he had been transported through the walls of the school and into a branch of Woolworth’s, or Marks & Spencers. There were two counters, laid out with a variety of items such as might have been found in a general store. Beyond them were two equally loaded dress- and coat-racks.

At one of the counters, watched by a girl dressed in the smock of an assistant, two of the pupils—twins by their appearances—clad in mini-skirts, blouses and wet-look plastic macs, endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to shop wisely. Their efforts apparently did not meet with the English teacher’s approval.

“Gawd blimey!” declared Miss Rosie Dinks, her tones reminiscent of Bow Bells. “You ain’t half making a cock-up of that.”

Tall, buxom, Miss Dinks wore a trouser suit and had a head-scarf over her mousey brunette hair. She looked like a blousy suburban housewife in search of the best bargains, or largest offer of gift stamps, at the local supermarkets.

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Miss Dinks,” the headmistress said, walking forward to pluck the pair of stockings from the pocket into which the taller—by a fraction of an inch—of the sisters had surreptitiously slipped them. “Really, Monica, Abigail, girls from your family background should know better.”

Being mutually chubby, if pleasant-featured, the sisters lacked the qualifications necessary to become successful Folk Dancers. However, Miss Benkinsop’s words had suggested to Fiorelli that they might be going into the family’s business at the completion of their education as Wise Shoppers.

“I’m Sorry, Miss Benkinsop,” Monica said, hanging her head in shame. “We were thinking about the Main Debate.”

“And you think that is an excuse for shoddy work?” Miss Benkinsop demanded coldly. “You will both write five hundred times, ‘Inattention to detail leads to cocoa and porridge’.”

“I suppose we can’t blame them, Miss B.,” Miss Dinks put in. “With Amanda busy at the Debating Evening, I haven’t got nobody to work with, so’s I can show ’em proper.”

“I appreciate that, Miss Dinks, although it hardly excuses the disgraceful exhibition I witnessed as I came in. Perhaps I can help? I’m not in yours, or Amanda’s class—”

“None of us can come up to her class,” Miss Dinks interrupted, sounding almost reverent as she thought of the School Swot’s expertise when Wise Shopping.

“I agree, she is rather talented,” Miss Benkinsop concurred. “Perhaps we can muddle through, if we try?”

Waving aside the chastened sisters, the two teachers took their places at the counter. Miss Dinks had collected a shopping bag similar to those carried by the girls and it dangled over her left arm.

Sauntering casually along the counter without giving any hint of being aware of each other’s presence, watched eagerly by Fiorelli and the pupils, the women showed how Wise shopping should be done.

While Miss Benkinsop diverted the “assistant”, with a query about the price of a pair of gloves, something that Abigail had overlooked, Miss Dinks caused a vast quantity of merchandise to disappear into the secret compartment in the lining of her bag. When the “assistant” turned her attention to the English teacher, Miss Benkinsop swiftly purchased two bracelets, a wristwatch and four rings.

On crossing to the clothing racks, the headmistress knew that she was at a disadvantage. If she had been expecting to help with a display of Wise Shopping, she could have worn suitable attire. Being inadequately dressed, she was compelled to act as—to use the Wise Shopping sorority’s term—“smother”. To Fiorelli, who had moved closer, it seemed that the women did no more than stroll between the racks and occasionally one would hold up a dress or coat as if trying it for size. What he did not see was Miss Dinks slipping various purchases, via the elasticated waistband of her slacks, into those specialised garments known as “hoisting knickers”.

Looking puzzled. Fiorelli followed the women to a table at the side of the room. While he had known what they were doing, he was surprised by the volume of their combined purchases. Not only of small, easily-transported and -concealed items either. Grinning amiably at the man’s startled exclamations and expression, Miss Dinks produced, from her elastic-waisted and -legged “hoisting knickers”, four dresses and a fur wrap. Not one of the articles had been visible, even as unconvincing swellings as she had left the racks.

“If I hadn’t seen it,” Fiorelli breathed, “I wouldn’t have believed it could be done.”

“Well, as I told you,” Miss Benkinsop replied. “Miss Dinks is fully qualified and an expert on the subject of Wise Shopping.”

“I’ve only been nicked three times in twenty-five years,” the English teacher declared proudly. “And two of them was ’cause somebody grassed on me.”

“That’s true enough,” Miss Benkinsop conceded, then looked at the disconsolate sisters. “By the way, how is your dear mama?”

“Fine, thank you, ma’am,” Abigail replied. “She’ll be coming out next week.”

“It’d’ve been sooner, but she lost her remission for clocking a screw with a plate of blancmange,” Monica went on in aggrieved tones. “She says she wished we hadn’t moved to our new house. We’ve got a Tory M.P. there and he always wants to know all the facts before he’ll make a complaint.”

“Not like that Labour bloke at our old place,” Abigail continued. “All you had to do was tell him any old story and he’d be writing to the Home Secretary and all his mates on the tele about official brutality and what have you.”

“Quite,” Miss Benkinsop said shortly. “I must arrange for you to go up to town and meet her the day she comes home. You might take her a list of the hockey team’s dress sizes. She promised that she would donate them this term.”

“And tell her if she goes to Selfridges to keep her eyes open,” Miss Dinks warned, “They’ve got a red-haired shop-walker there now who’s red hot.”

“I’ve heard rumours to that effect,” Miss Benkinsop admitted. “Assure your mama that there’s no rush for the team’s dresses. We mustn’t have her taking risks on our account.”