Assured Attention Read online

  Assured

  Attention

  Jane Tulloch

  ©Jane Tulloch, 2017

  All rights reserved

  This Smashwords edition published 2017

  by Comely Bank Publishing

  Available in print format from good bookshops,

  ISBN 978-0-9930262-3-2

  Contents

  1. Rosehill Revels

  2. The Ladies' Man

  3. Renaissance

  4. Convenience

  5. A View From The Lodge

  6. Resilience

  7. Speculators

  8. A Fine Romance

  9. Pegram's Progress

  10. Rest and Relaxation

  11. International Rescue

  12. An Emergence

  13. Toxicity

  14. The Biter Bit

  15. Chameleon/Chimera

  16. Rosehill Revels 2

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Chapter 1

  Rosehill ‘Revels’

  Margaret Murray, woke with a start. She had slept fitfully all night, tossing and turning irritably. The harder she tried to sleep the more it had eluded her. Something was on her mind. The tendency for relatively minor concerns to take on epic proportions in the dead of night was never more obvious to her. Nevertheless, she worried. Now awake, her eyes wandered towards the windows shrouded in Murrays’ best curtain fabric and plenty of it. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to perceive if the greyness filtering through the material was indicative of good or bad weather outside. It was too difficult to tell.

  Curbing her first impulse to leap out of bed and get on with the day, she lay back and contemplated the day’s activity and its implications. As proprietor, managing director and the latest in a family line of custodians, she had no doubt that Murrays of Edinburgh was a ‘department store of distinction’. Murrays’ proud boast was that it offered its best attention to all its customers. Time had moved on since she had inherited it from her father after the death of her brother. Life and the world of retail had changed, yet the store still tried its hardest to assure of its best attention. Not only that, she was aware of the immense contribution that the staff made towards this. It was important to recognise their efforts and to thank them. Hence, she had initiated a tea party some years ago to be held annually at Rosehill, her house on the edge of town. Today was the day once again. Margaret swung her legs over the edge of the bed and made her way across the deep carpet towards the window. Behind her, a black cat yawned and stretched on the bed, vaguely resentful of its rude awakening.

  Throwing back the curtains she was unsure whether to be pleased or not. Certainly, it wasn’t raining but neither did the grey sky look very promising either. She sighed. This was a big day at Rosehill. This much-anticipated event was known, ironically, to the staff as the Rosehill Revels. It was never exactly a wild affair consisting, as it usually did, of a thoroughly good tea and a walk around the gardens. It also provided the opportunity for staff to deck themselves in their best summer outfits, butterflies emerging from their drab work clothes. Occasionally, a game of French cricket would be started by one or other of the managers, but Mr Glen, the gardener, took a very dim view indeed of any damage to his precious flower beds so any such game tended to be somewhat subdued.

  Looking down, Miss Murray could see the work going on in readiness for the great occasion. The invasion of several hundred people to the gardens necessitated a good deal of preparation. Mrs Glen, her elderly housekeeper and the wife of her gardener, had been a whirlwind of activity in the preceding week. It really was too much for her, Margaret thought, as she always did at this time. However, she was well aware that, despite her grumbling, Mrs Glen revelled in it all. She loved being indispensable and apparently doing the impossible by magicking up tea and cakes for the hungry hordes swarming all over her beloved Rosehill. She was fiercely protective of the place and a blizzard of notes forbidding entrance to various areas or indicating the presence of toilet facilities and, especially, signing the way to the exit were piled on the kitchen table before being affixed in the appropriate locations by the younger of the Joshi girls.

  Breakfast was in the kitchen today. It was a rare treat for Miss Murray who was usually served her meals in solitary splendour in the dining room due to Mrs Glen’s keen adherence to the standards previously set by Miss Murray’s mother many years before. Breakfast today, however, was a riotous affair largely managed by Mrs Joshi and her two daughters: residents and keen assistants to Mrs Glen. They lived, along with Mr Joshi, in the lodge house. Mr Joshi worked in the Persian rug department at Murrays but helped Mr Glen with the gardening.

  After the rather over-fried breakfast, Miss Murray wandered out to see what was going on in the garden. The triple garage had been cleared and bunting was being strung around its massive doors. Tea was to be served there in case of inclement weather, and little tables and chairs were being set out on the driveway and adjacent lawn. A number of the shop’s younger male staff members had been roped into ‘volunteering’ to help set things up. It was a day out of the store, reasoned most of them, and they were happy enough to comply.

  Mrs Glen, acting as commandant, was managing expertly to say just the wrong thing at the wrong moment to the wrong person. Sensing that the atmosphere was at risk of overheating, Miss Murray steered her old nanny towards the kitchen, saying that she must need that universal restorer, a ‘nice cup of tea’. Mrs Glen grudgingly complied saying that her feet would be in enough trouble as it was by standing all afternoon at the tea urn. Miss Murray made soothing noises.

  At 10.30am, Mrs Pegram, Mr McElvey and Barry Hughes arrived in Mr Philipson’s car. These members of the management team had come early to help out. It was unlikely that they would be able to do much but their offer was appreciated. Barry, Head of Security, and Mr Philipson of Customer Services, immediately sat down and enjoyed a lengthy coffee break making a start on consuming the little cakes and home-made shortbread intended for the afternoon. Mrs Glen glared at them unnoticed then turned on her heel with a snort and went back to ordering people about in the garage.

  Mrs Pegram from Personnel was a personal friend of Miss Murray and went in search of her. She wanted to check what her friend was planning to wear. Mr McElvey, the Finance Director, walked aimlessly around the garden deploring the waste of good commercial time that this afternoon’s event represented. In the car on the way over, Mrs Pegram had tried to explain the value of staff ‘feel-good’ factor to him but to no avail. He fastidiously avoided talking to anyone as he walked towards the rose garden but became uncomfortably aware of being followed. On turning, he found Bluebell, Miss Murray’s cat, studying him seriously. Looking about him to check that no one was watching, he leaned down to stroke the fluffy creature saying in an undertone, “Hello puss. Bit of an upset for you all this,” and indicated the activity going on behind them. The black cat solemnly but silently agreed with him. The two moved on.

  In a break from the usual pattern, Miss Murray had engaged a small band, “Teddy’s Tunesters,” to provide some music for the afternoon’s event. The musicians’ van drew up at the closed gate tooting its arrival. Mr Glen opened it for them. The van drove in and the band was informed that they would have to unload their equipment and take the van back outside onto the road as the driveway was being kept clear. Huffily, the band complied. Barry took over directing them confidently to the wrong location then, pretending that he’d known it all along, to the correct place with access to electric sockets for their amplifier. Mr McElvey frowned when he heard that this would be the sort of band which required amplification. Bluebell stalked away, tail twitching angrily, as the band began to tune up.

  Meanwhile, tray after tray of t
iny sandwiches, scones and miniature cakes was being carried out to the trestle tables in the garage. The urn had already been set up and the tea was now stewing away. Teacups and saucers had been set out in neat piles and jugs of orange juice stood ready for the non-tea drinkers. Miss Murray, Mrs Glen, Mrs Joshi and the girls had disappeared off to their rooms to change into their special party outfits. The men stood about awkwardly, mentally rehearsing the sorts of small talk they would be required to make with their staff members once the party started.

  At 2.00pm on the dot the big gates to Rosehill swung open to reveal a short queue of ladies who had arrived a little too early and been uncertain as to how to proceed. They walked gratefully in towards the house noting the band playing under the trees and the little tables set out conveniently near the open garage doors sheltering the food and drinks. Some hesitated at this wondering if they should bag a table early or if that might look rude. Others, the newer members of staff, looked around them with undisguised inquisitiveness. So, this was the boss’s house. Very nice too. They set off down the garden with the aim of trying to peer in the windows when no one was looking. There was something intrinsically fascinating about other people’s houses.

  One bright spark was unfortunate enough to remark to her friend from Ladies Gloves and Accessories, in the hearing of Mrs Glen, “I’m going to ask for the Ladies Room. I should be able to have a good look around once I’m inside the house.”

  The housekeeper, with pursed lips, silently pointed to a notice indicating the way to a row of temporary conveniences discreetly located behind the garage. The crushed girl walked away with her head down. Her friends giggled.

  In twos and threes, people began to drift in from the road. Soon, almost the entire staff complement had arrived and was milling about the garden. The sheer volume of chatting increased and at times almost drowned out the band. The band rose to the occasion as Teddy was keen to give value for money. He turned up the amplification which meant that the people were forced to talk even more loudly as they exchanged desultory small talk.

  “SO HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN WORKING IN LADIES SEPARATES NOW?” Miss Murray found herself bellowing manfully as she tried to keep up an encouraging conversation with one of the younger staff.

  “Six months,” the overwhelmed girl whispered in reply, “but I’m leaving next week.”

  “LOVELY. GLAD TO HEAR IT,” came the boomed response to the startled girl.

  “This is ridiculous,” thought Miss Murray and looked about her for assistance.

  Barry, ever ready to rise to the occasion, rushed to her aid.

  “ANYTHING I CAN DO?” he bawled. With an irritated wave of her hand Miss Murray indicated the band.

  “OH,” he instantly understood, or thought he did, “YOU’VE GOT A REQUEST FOR THEM? WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE? SOMETHING SUMMERY?”

  “I JUST WANT THEM TO BE QUIETER,” she shouted.

  “WHAT?”

  “I JUST WISH THEY’D SHUT UP!” she continued, unfortunately coinciding with the band coming to the end of a set. Everyone stared at Miss Murray apparently loudly telling Barry to “shut up” in the momentary silence. She and Barry exchanged confused looks then rapidly went their separate ways, Miss Murray towards the band to ask them to lower the volume, and Barry to seek solace and tea from Mrs Pegram who could be seen laughing in the background.

  By 3.30 that afternoon almost everyone had consumed a substantial amount of tea, sandwiches and cakes and were beginning to wonder what to do next. Teddy had whipped the Tunesters into a lather as they continued to belt out light classics as they called the middle of the road music they were known for. They were keen for a break and the drummer had noted ruefully that the supply of comestibles was rapidly reducing. He had been promised a good tea at this gig. To everyone’s relief, they came to the end of their latest set and announced in echoing tones that they were taking a break. Conversation now became much more relaxed, not to mention, audible.

  Most staff groups had resolutely stuck together, Ladies Separates with Ladies Separates, Shoes with Shoes etc. The Tea Room staff had hovered disapprovingly eyeing the tea service going on at the garages. “Are those scones smaller than the ones that we serve?” wondered one. Several tutted at the dripping tap on the urn, “You’d think they would have fixed that,” sniffed another. “And just look at that cloth!” Overhearing this, Mrs Joshi, abashed, removed the offending article from view and then wiped the urn’s tap as discreetly as she could.

  Mr Da Costa from Model Gowns, as expected, stood slightly aloof, uncertain how to interact with others on this intensely social occasion. Knowing how hard he found such situations, his colleague Mrs Hope gently steered him towards the tea tables. There she encouraged him to ferry trays of tea to older ladies gratefully taking the (often considerable) weight off their hardworking feet. With a clear task to do he was much happier and appreciated that there was no requirement for small talk.

  Staff from the areas of the store involved in packaging and dispatch and who usually worked in the subterranean depths of the store wandered around blinking in the unaccustomed natural daylight. The gardeners among them taking an interest in Mr Glen’s pride and joy: his herbaceous border. He policed this assiduously. At last year’s tea party, he had caught Mrs Garland taking surreptitious cuttings from his best plants.

  ‘Menswear’ staff wandered around looking very bored. They would all have preferred to be at the football or at least watching sport on television. They couldn’t even have a kick about with the porters here. However, their respective better halves had insisted: their husbands must attend.

  “A free tea at her place? It’s the least she can do!” one wife had snapped, stung at being excluded from the invitation. Due to sheer weight of numbers, only staff members were invited. Many of the wives and, especially, the mothers, would have loved a good look around Miss Murray’s home.

  Gradually, there developed a palpable feeling of the afternoon coming to an end. Barry agitatedly wondered how they usually got rid of them all. He went over to Mrs Pegram to ask. Mrs Pegram was deep in conversation with Mr Morrison from Display and Advertising. Barry narrowed his eyes, Mr Morrison was a single man in his forties – competition! He clenched his jaw as he saw her laugh heartily at something Mr Morrison said. He wasn’t to know that Mr Morrison was resolutely not a marrying man.

  At 4.30 Miss Murray caught Mr Glen’s eye and nodded. Giving a responding nod, he walked slowly over to the big gates which had been closed to provide privacy for the tea party. He opened them smoothly and clipped them back into place. Imperceptibly, and with nothing being said, people began to look at their watches and think about bus timetables. There was a concerted move to the conveniences prior to departure to, for some, longish journeys across town. A series of small contingents of the older staff members and those with better manners made their way towards Miss Murray to thank her for her hospitality. She graciously accepted their thanks and pressed them to return next year. With assurances that they would, they too, took their leave.

  By 5.00pm it was all over for another year. Already tired out, Mrs Glen proceeded to supervise the dismantling of the tea area. Unsurprisingly, most of the morning’s helpers had departed feeling that they had ‘done their bit’. The Management team itself was then pressed into service. Mr Philipson and Mr Soames exchanged grimaces as they toiled to and fro carrying piles of little chairs. Pleading a bad back, Mr McElvey, carried empty plates one, at a time, to the kitchen where Mrs Joshi and the girls were up to their elbows in suds as they washed up the mountains of teacups and saucers. Barry had decided to patrol the precinct to check that everyone had actually left and that no one was hiding in any of the out buildings with evil intent. He would have been most disconcerted to hear Mrs Pegram tell Miss Murray, “Of course Barry’s skiving again.”

  Miss Murray nodded unconcerned as she watched Teddy’s now irritable Tunesters pack up their instruments and equipment. Not a success, she thought. She wouldn’t be booking them ag
ain next year.

  Later on, in the library, sitting companionably with throbbing feet on a shared low stool, Miss Murray and Mrs Pegram considered the afternoon. They were enjoying well deserved glasses of Chablis. Mr McElvey, very much at home at Rosehill, was in charge of dispensing large glasses of whisky to the menfolk. They talked of this and that in a tired way but were all pleasantly aware that the afternoon had gone quite well. They had done their duty for another year. Nobody could say that it had been exciting but honour had been satisfied and the staff had been offered and apparently enjoyed Miss Murray’s hospitality.

  The Glens and the Joshis had been stood down for the day after their strenuous efforts. The question of dinner arose and Barry had been sent out for fish and chips all round. On his return with this large order they were all called to kitchen to consume it direct from the packaging (to Mrs Glen’s acute discomfiture). As they sat around the big scrubbed table consuming this feast, Miss Murray stood up and raised her glass somewhat unsteadily as she’d had a few too many.

  “I just want to say thank you all for all your efforts today, and every day at Murrays. And at Rosehill too of course. I don’t know how I could do without you all.” Mrs Glen sniffed, Mrs Joshi looked down modestly but the girls looked up and smiled warmly.

  Miss Murray raised her glass once more, “Here’s to next year!”

  “To Murrays and all who sail in her!” cheered Barry. The others frowned, briefly confused at this somewhat mixed metaphor, then smiled and clinked their glasses.

  “To Murrays!"

  Chapter 2

  The Ladies' Man