The Bright One (36 page)

‘Nor me!' Breda said. ‘So are your brothers in the business?'

‘Yes, and two of my cousins. As a matter of fact . . . ' he paused.

‘Yes?'

‘Well, to tell you the truth, I didn't want to go into the business. It's not my choice.'

They had reached the edge of the high plateau, which ended in a rocky escarpment. Down in the valley, clustered along the side of the river, lay the moorland town of Hebghyll.

Graham spread his raincoat on the flat rock.

‘Let's sit down and take in the view,' he suggested. ‘According to the map, that's the River Wharfe.'

‘Tell me something else,' Breda said, sitting down. ‘If you didn't want to go into your father's business, what are you doing in Opal's? And what else would you rather have done?'

‘Don't laugh!' Graham said. ‘I wanted to be a painter. Still do, I suppose.'

‘A painter!'

‘I knew you'd laugh.'

‘I'm not laughing,' Breda said.

‘My father thought I'd gone off my rocker. He's a great one for security. He never had faith in me succeeding as an artist. All he could see was me as a failure, starving in a garret.'

‘So why are you in Opal's?' Breda repeated.

‘We reached a compromise, Father and I. I'd do my training with Opal, then I'd do a spell in the family business. After that I'd be free to make my own choice.'

‘Does Miss Opal know?'

‘No-one here knows except you,' he said.

‘But you seem to like it here – the store, I mean,' Breda said.

‘The best way to cope with something you don't like, but have to do,' Graham said, ‘is to act as though you like it!'

‘And if you act it long enough, you might actually get to like it.'

Graham stood up, held out a hand, and pulled Breda to her feet.

‘We'd better get going,' he said. ‘Hebghyll looks close enough from here, but I suspect it's a long walk. Anyway, I've talked enough about myself.'

‘I'm glad you did.' She felt she knew him so much better.

He tucked her arm through his as they walked. ‘And I've learned almost nothing about you,' he said.

‘Another time,' Breda said.

In the town they found a café which gave them a Sunday dinner at a moderate cost.

‘I would like to take you to the best hotel,' Graham said, ‘but my father keeps me on short commons. He wants me to have no more than the people I'm working alongside.'

‘I've never been to a smart hotel,' Breda said. ‘I wouldn't know what to do.'

‘Oh yes you would,' Graham said. ‘You'd know what to do wherever you landed! You could mix with anyone!'

She could always do that because she was natural, she was always herself, open and friendly.

‘Well, I like it here,' she said.

After the meal they walked down to the river, and then it was time to take the train back.

‘Have you enjoyed yourself?' Graham asked when he left her at the bottom of Waterloo Terrace.

‘Oh, Graham, every minute!' It was true.

‘And you'll come again?'

‘Whenever I'm asked.'

When she left him Breda ran up the steep slope of Waterloo Terrace as if she was floating on the air. Oh, it had been a wonderful day! How could she possibly have misjudged him, just because he didn't behave like Rory or Tony, or probably most other men. He was different.

‘No need to ask if you've had a good time,' Josephine said when Breda went in. ‘You look like a cat that's been at the cream.'

‘It's been quite wonderful.'

‘Could you come down to earth for a cup of tea?' Josephine asked.

The day of Princess Elizabeth's wedding to Lieutenant Mountbatten drew near. There was some talk, and not a few grumbles, about the fact that she had been allowed 300 coupons for her wedding outfit, but most people were so pleased to have something exciting to look forward to after the drab years of the war that they managed not to mind too much. Miss Opal, with one of her flashes of inspiration, announced that on the day, though the store would remain open for business as usual, staff would be excused from wearing their workaday clothes, or in the case of the men their dark suits, and might choose something more celebratory. Just so long, she said, as it was suitable and decent.

‘I shall wear my best grey marocain and my cameo brooch,' Miss Craven confided to Breda.

She was also the proud possessor of a short necklace of seed pearls, left to her by an aunt, but would that be too much, she wondered? But why not? It was a very special occasion.

Breda was torn with anxiety about what she would wear. She wanted to look her absolute best, not for Princess Elizabeth, though she wished her all the luck in the world, but because she wanted Graham to see her in something special.

Then Mr Stokesly and Miss Craven came back from a senior staff meeting with the news that every department was to do something special in the form of a display. A small amount of money was to be allowed to buy materials – coloured paper, balloons and the like – and an outside person of importance, perhaps even the Mayor himself, would judge the entries and present prizes.

Miss Craven was not happy. ‘I make no pretence to artistic talent,' she said with uncharacteristic modesty. ‘It is not in my line, possibly because I have never had the time. I have always left such matters of display, which are fortunately not much needed on Fabrics, to Miss Wilmot. And where is she now? Sitting with her foot in plaster, no doubt reading a novel!'

‘Would you like me to try to think of something?' Breda offered. She didn't have an idea in her head, but it might be fun to try.

Miss Craven pursed her lips, shook her head in doubt.

‘But if you'd rather do it yourself . . . '

‘I suppose you could have a go,' Miss Craven said. ‘In any case, I'm far too busy!'

Breda spent the next morning's shopping time searching around the store for ideas, and the means to carry them out. It seemed as though everyone else had the same mission. In no time at all there wasn't another scrap of red, white or blue paper to be had, and only a few balloons, mostly in the wrong colours.

It was while she was looking for suitable materials for the department that she came across the ribbon. It was stiff grosgrain, four inches wide, in a deep, sea-green colour. There were several rolls of it, part of a purchase of bankrupt stock from a wholesaler. Miss Opal often bought such things. And no sooner did Breda set eyes on it than she knew that here was what she wanted, not for the department, but for her new dress.

She knew exactly how she would do it, she could see the finished garment as if it was right there in front of her eyes. The ribbon would run vertically from shoulder to hem, each piece narrowed at the waistline and flaring out again on the skirt. The pieces would be joined by an openwork stitch in embroidery cotton – black, she thought. She would have a square neckline and full sleeves, the ribbon here going horizontally. She stood there in a daze, designing the whole thing on the spot. And the beauty of it was the ribbon needed no coupons.

‘Did you want something?' the assistant asked.

‘Is this ribbon expensive?' Breda asked.

‘No. It's dirt cheap. Our Buyer can't think how we'll get rid of it.'

‘Will you lend me a pencil and paper so that I can work something out?' Breda asked.

A few minutes later she said, ‘I would need three whole rolls. Do you think I'd get a special price for quantity?'

It came amazingly cheaply. By now she realized she had no more than five minutes left to find something for the department's display. She discovered a few flowers on millinery, reels of white thread and hanks of blue embroidery cotton on haberdashery and a packet of red paper napkins. It was a pathetic collection. She hoped that Miss Craven would allow her the use of some suitable fabrics, providing she didn't actually cut into them.

‘Is this the best you could do?' Miss Craven said. ‘I must say, it doesn't look much!'

‘Wait until it's finished,' Breda said cheerfully. ‘You'll be surprised!' So will I, she thought. She hadn't an idea in her head, except for the dress, but about that she was quite certain.

It took an age to make: the strips of ribbon shaped, and tacked flat onto newspaper before being linked by the fagotting; every stitch in the dress put in by hand. Night after night she worked at it until her eyes felt as though they would drop out. But when she stepped into it on the day of the wedding even Princess Elizabeth herself, in her white satin gown, could not have felt better turned out.

Graham, wearing grey flannels and a well-cut sports jacket in Prince-of-Wales check, was at the Fabrics counter before nine o'clock, with no excuse except to see what had kept Breda so occupied for the last ten days that she had had almost no time at all for him.

‘It's magnificent!' he cried. ‘You look wonderful!'

‘Thank you,' Breda said. ‘I'm glad you like it.'

‘Like it?' he lowered his voice. ‘I could eat you!'

Miss Craven sidled up to them. ‘Most ingenious, I must admit,' she said.

‘And you too, Miss Craven,' Graham said. ‘You look splendid. Very smart indeed!'

‘Thank you, Mr Prince!'

She had, after all, worn both the cameo brooch
and
the seed pearls. In honour of the Princess.

‘And your hair, Miss Craven,' Graham said. ‘I can see you've paid a very early visit to a good hairdresser.'

Miss Craven gave him her most brilliant smile. Though she could not condone the way he chased after Miss O'Connor, it was impossible not to like him. Breeding will out, she thought. He was clearly a cut above the usual. No doubt Miss O'Connor egged him on.

‘Not quite right!' she said archly. ‘All my own work!'

She would say nothing of the almost sleepless night she had spent, due to a head full of metal curling pins digging into her scalp. Gentlemen did not wish to know such things.

‘I mustn't stop to talk,' Breda said. ‘I have to do the display. It's all to be in place before eleven o'clock. The Mayor is judging at twelve noon.'

In spite of Miss Craven's demurs, Mr Stokesly had said Breda might use any of the fabrics on the department, so long as she did not actually take the scissors to them, so she was able to mount a reasonable display, swathing and swagging the materials around the shelves and along the front of the counter, crumpling and twisting the finer fabrics and florals into exotic-looking flowers.

‘They'll all have to be ironed out again,' Miss Craven warned.

‘I know. I'll do it,' Breda said.

The Mayor, accompanied by Miss Opal and Mr Soames, paused a long time on the department. Even so, when the results were announced, they had not won a prize, but they were highly commended.

That same afternoon Miss Opal sent for Breda. ‘I usually have a word with staff after their first six weeks in the store,' she said. ‘You are just coming up to that. How are you getting on? Do you feel settled?'

‘Yes thank you, Miss Opal,' Breda replied. ‘I like it here.'

‘And have you made friends?'

Opal knew the answer to that. She was more aware of what went on than most people gave her credit for. And, no doubt without meaning to, young Prince had given himself away when she'd had him to tea. But she couldn't totally encourage that. She had Henry Prince to answer to for his son.

‘One or two,' Breda said.

‘That's good. But if you're wise, you'll spread your friendships, for your own sake. Join one or two of our clubs. The Rambling Club, the Dramatic Society.'

‘I'll think about it,' Breda promised.

‘And now the display,' Miss Opal said. ‘Though you didn't win a prize,
I
was quite impressed. Did you have a theme behind it?'

‘Only that I wanted to show what could be done with fabrics; not just colours, but textures. Contrasts.'

‘Have you ever thought you would like to do display work?' Miss Opal asked.

‘I've never thought about it,' Breda said.

‘And your pretty dress? You didn't buy that in the store, did you?'

‘I bought the ribbon here,' Breda told her. ‘I designed and made the dress myself.'

‘It's quite clever. I wonder . . . ?' She hesitated. The girl was quite clearly talented, but there were other considerations; the department, Miss Craven, the fact that Miss O'Connor had only been with them six weeks. One step at a time.

‘I wonder,' she continued. ‘Would you lend us the dress so that we could display it in one of our windows? I'd like to show what can be done with coupon-free ribbon and a little ingenuity.'

‘Why yes, Miss Opal,' Breda said. ‘I'd be pleased to.'

‘You've been a long time,' Miss Craven said when Breda returned. ‘What was all that about?'

‘Just the interview Miss Opal says she always does when someone's been here six weeks,' Breda answered.

This was not the time to tell Miss Craven about the dress, or what Miss Opal had said about the display. Her benign mood of the morning had vanished. She was hot, flustered and bad-tempered.

‘Be sure you're here extra early in the morning to take this lot down.' Miss Craven waved a disparaging hand at the display. ‘We can't have it cluttering up the department yet another day.'

A week later, an uneventful week, an anticlimax to the excitement of the royal wedding day, Breda was on her own in the department. It was totally forbidden, but in this instance quite unavoidable. Mr Stokesly was at a buyers' meeting, Betty Hartley had been sent on an errand by Miss Craven and Miss Wilmot was still in plaster at home. Miss Craven had suddenly been seized by stomach cramps of so violent a nature that she clutched the counter, gripping it for dear life, while the colour drained from her face.