The First of July(32)

Some might prosper in all this, but I wouldn’t be one of them. It was clear that if I did not volunteer, I could not stay at Debenhams. If I joined up, I would gain five guineas and thus a bicycle I could not ride until we had sorted the war out, and Connie would, I knew for sure, never speak to me again if I went into khaki. I thought about driving an ambulance or being a stretcher-bearer, but I’d still be in khaki, against which Connie had taken her pledge; and Mr. Richmond wouldn’t see that as proper soldiering anyway, I was sure.

As we left the room, I heard Reg Singleton say, to Percy from accounts, “I’m going to ask my girl to marry me straight off. She’s nice enough and doesn’t talk too much. That way I can stay out of this fight. They don’t want married men.”

“Blimey, mate.” Percy looked genuinely shocked. “How’ll you feel come Christmas when we’ve had our fiver, seen off the Germans like heroes, and are back in our beds—and you’re stuck married for the rest of your life? Probably have her in the family way by then?” Reg winked. I never did like him.

Ladies came and went; the excitement seemed to loosen their purses. The apprentices were up and down bringing out yellow, camel, and fawn gloves and even shades we carried as a novelty for foreign ladies: green and mauve and eau-de-nil with fringes or cuffs or cut leatherwork delicate as a cobweb. But spread out on one of my oak counters (for I had made the very substance of the counter itself, although I never said as much, obviously), the rainbow fans of fingers looked very fine.

Despite everything, young gentlemen were in for boater ribbons, it being Cowes regatta week. The first two wanted the colors of the Royal Corinthian Yacht Club, and they were larking about but saying soon they would join the Navy and sail for free.

Then in came two quieter types. Gentlemen, but not the loud sort. They paused at the parasols, were charmed by young Ethel, but moved on swiftly to our matinée gloves. The more talkative of the two seemed to want them for a lady friend, and he looked very pleased indeed when I showed him pairs from our middling range, having judged that they were not young men with money to spare, but even so when he heard the price he went very quiet.

I turned to the drawer of cheaper gloves for ordinary wear. But when I pulled them out, they looked a little mean compared to the promise on display. The pigskin ones were too coarse, the fabric gloves looked limp and short in the wrist, the satin ones were really not appropriate for a young lady, and although there were lace ones, they were too white and stiff.

“I could get gloves like these in Gloucester,” said the one who had been so keen. His face was all disappointment. I didn’t like to say that some of our cheaper gloves, for lady’s maids and the like, came from not ten miles from Gloucester.

The two men left, and by now the department looked more like a market in the Orient than London’s finest store; and although a very small part of me enjoyed seeing the good cheer of everything we had to offer in bright disarray, I knew there would be trouble if every boater wasn’t lined up straight in groups of sennit braid, split braid, panama, and rustic and every glove wasn’t back in the hierarchy of glass-fronted drawers.

But as soon as I looked at the glove counter, I knew something was wrong. And two seconds later, I knew what. A pair of delicate cream opera gloves with tiny rosebuds was gone. I lifted up the other discarded gloves, but I already knew I wouldn’t find them. What better gift for a young lady than such beautiful gloves? For a second, I think I even felt pride; there were no such gloves anywhere else in London. But then I reflected that there were no such gloves here either now. The gloves, I was almost certain, were on their way to Gloucester. Of course, even in a shop like this and a department like ours, things went missing from time to time, but I had not thought these two were the thieving sort. Still, I was d*****d if I would have my best gloves taken from under my very nose and find myself in Mr. Hardy’s bad books. I would be docked pay for sure, when I had only recently been forced to give two shillings to Mr. Williams’s Christian peace. The light-fingered customers might as well have stolen my future bicycle.

Pausing only to tell the assistant to put the gloves away and not pausing long enough for her to ask me exactly what she should do, so that I would end up nearly doing it myself but slower, I left the floor. I walked in a dignified way behind Mr. Hardy, whose attention was entirely taken by his favorite customer (though he thinks it a breach of his dignity to admit this), Lady Lostwithiel. But once on the stairs I ran like the wind. I was out on Regent Street, looking up and down; it was a warm day and the street was a dangerous sea of parasols. But just across the road I thought I saw two gentlemen and on the chance they were my thieves I gave chase. Not that I ran now; I sauntered with purpose, thinking if only I had a bicycle, I could have foiled their attempts to get away. As I drew level with them, I started to cross.