Her hair was dyed black and she was bending down
Created | Updated Oct 27, 2010
<ARTICLE>
<SUBJECT>Her hair was dyed black and she was bending down</SUBJECT>
I've heard it said, or seen it written somewhere, that a true Londoner never walks along Oxford Street, only ever crosses it. That's a pretty good rule for life in the capital. Difficult to obey if you work on the street itself, as I do. I say work, in the present tense. That morning, it didn't look as if it was going to be for much longer. I had had the letter, it arrived on my desk overnight, thanking me, promising me, and all but sacking me on the spot. "... present economic climate... difficult to sustain the workforce... re-assessing priorities... difficult times..." A quick survey among my colleagues elicited several identical letters, apparently all addressed to those of us who might be defined as the middle aged, middle ranking, middle managers. The young ones and those approaching or past retirement age seemed to have escaped. At odd times during the morning some of us gathered in glum groups, saying little. I wondered if my redundancy payment would be enough to pay off my credit cards. I doubted it. At lunchtime, I found a £10 note in my usually empty wallet and decided to celebrate by leaving the store to purchase a half a pound of ground coffee, some Kenya Peaberry I fancied, I was a bit bored with the Jamaican Blue Mountain. Or perhaps I’ll try that new one from Costa Rica. I crossed Oxford Street and walked, deep in thought, worried, towards the coffee supplier that I shared with Her Majesty.
Her hair was dyed black and she was bending down, adjusting her shoes. There was no way I could have recognised her. But I did. The violet sheen in the black? The shape of the head? I don't know what it was but my heart stopped. My stomach fell, a cold sweat burst on my forehead.
"Rosemary?" I gasped.
She uncurled and stared at me, stood upright. It was her. A ghost, she could only be a ghost. "No." She said, frowning. But she didn't flinch, or blink. As you might with a stranger.
"I apologise. Sorry to disturb you. I..." I didn't know what to say.
She looked directly at me, and said nothing.
Nor did I know what to do. I just mumbled "Sorry" again, and dodged round her to carry on down the street. My mouth dry, my mind confused.
Behind me, she called out. "Hey, mister!"
I turned and almost ran back to her. "My mother is Rosemary." She spoke quietly, as if she knew the whole story.
That made more sense. Yes, that could be right. "Rosemary Fellowes?" I asked. I knew the answer.
"No." She gave the wrong answer.
"Ah!" I was back in confusion. It must have showed in my face. It seemed to make her smile.
"Fellowes was her maiden name." And she smiled again as my face lit up.
I wasn't sure what to do. I looked at the coffee bar we were standing outside. "Would you.... “I tailed off. This particular American chain served such awful coffee that I couldn't, even in the direst of straits, think of entering. I started again. "Look" I said, regaining composure, "I'm just going along to my coffee merchants" God, that sounded pretentious. I mean, I admit to being a coffee snob but that was awful. I ploughed on. "They have a little tasting room downstairs. Can we chat for a few minutes?" Of course she wouldn't.
"Sure." She said, with a mischievous twinkle. So like her mother.
I guided her across the street and ushered her into the shop. The glorious smells of freshly roasted coffee being ground hit us full on. I relaxed immediately and gently ushered her down the spiral staircase to the tiny cafe which, oddly, at lunchtime in the West End of London, was empty but for us. She ordered tea. They had an extensive selection, but she chose a plain green tea. I ordered the Costa Rican coffee. We sat at a small table and I looked at her properly for the first time. She had a couple of those dreadful rings through her bottom lip, a stud in her nose, another through her left eyebrow and a whole collection in only her left ear. None of which detracted from a perfect, pretty face. No make-up, a light tan. Exactly as I remembered. I gazed. She let me. Her clothes were extraordinary. She must have had six flimsy tops on, layered, and covered with a black, uniform type jacket and a big bright red, velvety embroidered skirt. Being in the trade, I took careful note of her bag. Big, multi-panelled of leather, velvet and denim, obviously hand made and original.
"Can I ask your name?" I asked, quietly.
"Jessica Bergamot" she answered, gently amused still.
"Jessica. Yes, of course. The Allman Brothers." I didn't have to say that. Why did I say that? I knew perfectly well why. Hugh Bergamot - she must have married him! The bastard!!
"Did Mum like the Allman Brothers?" Was she playing games with me?
"No. I don't think so. I did." That was the wrong thing to say, giving the game away. I felt defensive. I hesitated. "Can I ask how old you are?"
She, of course, knew exactly what I was up to. "Did you know Mum well?"
"Yes. Yes, we had a summer together, a glorious summer, as I remember." I tried to stay casual. I do remember, I remember it so very well. I remembered it almost every day of my life, especially latterly when things were not going so well. An "If only" fantasy. I had, if truth were known, almost completely re-constructed the entire episode. Quite probably her, Rosemary's, memory, was quite different to mine. And, who, now, could tell what was the truth actually was?
"When was that, then?" She was fishing now.
"Gosh, it must be 25, 26 years ago... or more maybe" I tried to play safe.
"So, you were like girlfriend and boyfriend. I mean you were a couple, and all that." Still fishing.
"Well, yes. All that. I suppose." I felt myself reddening. Why, for heaven's sake. There was nothing to hide. Nothing I wasn't happy to remember. (By now received memory had made everything rosy)
"You didn't tell me your name. You pick me up, off the street. You talk about my mum. I don't even know your name." Her tone was flat.
I couldn't, in answer to a direct question, stay anonymous. "Philip" I said. "They call me Mr P."
"And, Mr P, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a buyer. I buy luggage." I named the department store.
"Including handbags?" That was not the response I had expected. Usually it's some quip about being on the case.
"No. No, that's different. Much more important." Why would she want to know this, I wondered.
"But the store buys some handbags. And sells them."
"Well, yes. But what's this got to do with...?" I tailed off. I didn't like the hardness in her eyes.
"Look, P, let's get to the point. I make bags." She lifted hers up to show me. "You buy bags. So, you buy my bags, lots of them. I get rich. We all live happily ever after." She just stared at me.
I started to get up from the table. "I think," I spoke quietly, trying to understand what was going on, “I think I just told you that I am not in that department. I can't help. I must go."
"Two things" she spoke quickly. "First. My mother would like to meet your wife. Second, please look inside my bag." She held up the bag towards me, holding it open. There was a gun, a real live gun - or so it appeared at the time - lying on top of some clothing in her bag.
"Good God!" I sank back in the chair. "What on earth... What is all this?"
"I'm simply trying to persuade you to buy my bags." She sounded almost chirpy. "Have I succeeded?"
"And your mother? Rosemary? Is she... what has she got to do with...?" I was completely at a loss. I stared at her. It made no sense.
"It's a question of timing." She was almost laughing at me. "I am what, 25? And you've been married for; let me think... 26 years. Do the maths. Or, rather, let's have your wife do the maths."
I stammered. "No... No... That’s not right. Your mother and I... it was finished before I... long before...”
"So you say. So you say. But mother - your precious Rosemary - and I might have a different truth. We can say what we like. I could pass for 25, don't you think? Are you going to buy my bags?"
I stared at her some more. Not really taking in the situation. In some sort of catatonic state, I got up again, put my £10 on the table, and left her, sat there, smiling quietly to herself.
A gun!! Was it really a proper working gun?
Back at my desk, I was paralysed. I must have appeared white and shocked, but no-one took any notice. I half heard that Smithson, of stationery, had been called to the MD's office and had left the store in tears. I paid more attention when Graves, the buyer for china and glassware was also called, and came back in a very few minutes shaking his head, telling us he was gone. Blomenson, the leather goods buyer was next. He never came back. I was surely bound for the chop. My phone rang. I was called. Still in a state of shock, I found my way to the office, expecting the worst of course. Could things get worse?
"Ah, P, take a seat." The MD seemed remarkably cheerful. You would think he could at least pretend to be solemn! "Now, we're doing some re-structuring, as you've probably gathered. And I'm afraid we've lost a few. Blomenson has resigned. Shame. Good chap, good chap. Actually thought he might do well. Was going to... Never mind. Anyway, cut to the chase and all that. I'd like you to take on his patch. Sort of related. Handbags and all that stuff. Every confidence in you. Sure you'll do a good job. Bit extra on the old salary, not much but every little helps etcetera. OK with you? Save getting an outsider in."
I suppose I must have said yes, or something. I really can't remember.
I took on the department. I bought the bags from Jessica. Did I have a choice? It didn't feel like it. I didn't think for a minute that they would be, but her bags were a great success. The brand, "Salamander" it's called, already have their own concession. Jessica has proved a remarkably adept business woman as well as a designer. They are in Paris, New York, Tokyo, going from strength to strength. And, because of the credit from that, and a few other good calls (made with Jessica's help), I have risen, this late in my career, to assistant head buyer, in charge of almost the whole ground floor, plus men. In just two years from very nearly 'has-been' to a corner suite on the top-floor!
I ran into Blomenson the other day. I asked him why he resigned. He just said "it was a personal thing". As lightly as I could I asked "Nobody was blackmailing you then?” His face dropped and drained of blood. He turned on his heels and walked away, saying nothing.
Mrs P thinks I go to the Birmingham store on the third Thursday of most months. I see Rosemary. It's fun. She's good fun. I buy my coffee in-store these days. It's probably safer.
<EXTRAINFO><TYPE ID="1" /></EXTRAINFO></ARTICLE>
<SUBJECT>Her hair was dyed black and she was bending down</SUBJECT>
I've heard it said, or seen it written somewhere, that a true Londoner never walks along Oxford Street, only ever crosses it. That's a pretty good rule for life in the capital. Difficult to obey if you work on the street itself, as I do. I say work, in the present tense. That morning, it didn't look as if it was going to be for much longer. I had had the letter, it arrived on my desk overnight, thanking me, promising me, and all but sacking me on the spot. "... present economic climate... difficult to sustain the workforce... re-assessing priorities... difficult times..." A quick survey among my colleagues elicited several identical letters, apparently all addressed to those of us who might be defined as the middle aged, middle ranking, middle managers. The young ones and those approaching or past retirement age seemed to have escaped. At odd times during the morning some of us gathered in glum groups, saying little. I wondered if my redundancy payment would be enough to pay off my credit cards. I doubted it. At lunchtime, I found a £10 note in my usually empty wallet and decided to celebrate by leaving the store to purchase a half a pound of ground coffee, some Kenya Peaberry I fancied, I was a bit bored with the Jamaican Blue Mountain. Or perhaps I’ll try that new one from Costa Rica. I crossed Oxford Street and walked, deep in thought, worried, towards the coffee supplier that I shared with Her Majesty.
Her hair was dyed black and she was bending down, adjusting her shoes. There was no way I could have recognised her. But I did. The violet sheen in the black? The shape of the head? I don't know what it was but my heart stopped. My stomach fell, a cold sweat burst on my forehead.
"Rosemary?" I gasped.
She uncurled and stared at me, stood upright. It was her. A ghost, she could only be a ghost. "No." She said, frowning. But she didn't flinch, or blink. As you might with a stranger.
"I apologise. Sorry to disturb you. I..." I didn't know what to say.
She looked directly at me, and said nothing.
Nor did I know what to do. I just mumbled "Sorry" again, and dodged round her to carry on down the street. My mouth dry, my mind confused.
Behind me, she called out. "Hey, mister!"
I turned and almost ran back to her. "My mother is Rosemary." She spoke quietly, as if she knew the whole story.
That made more sense. Yes, that could be right. "Rosemary Fellowes?" I asked. I knew the answer.
"No." She gave the wrong answer.
"Ah!" I was back in confusion. It must have showed in my face. It seemed to make her smile.
"Fellowes was her maiden name." And she smiled again as my face lit up.
I wasn't sure what to do. I looked at the coffee bar we were standing outside. "Would you.... “I tailed off. This particular American chain served such awful coffee that I couldn't, even in the direst of straits, think of entering. I started again. "Look" I said, regaining composure, "I'm just going along to my coffee merchants" God, that sounded pretentious. I mean, I admit to being a coffee snob but that was awful. I ploughed on. "They have a little tasting room downstairs. Can we chat for a few minutes?" Of course she wouldn't.
"Sure." She said, with a mischievous twinkle. So like her mother.
I guided her across the street and ushered her into the shop. The glorious smells of freshly roasted coffee being ground hit us full on. I relaxed immediately and gently ushered her down the spiral staircase to the tiny cafe which, oddly, at lunchtime in the West End of London, was empty but for us. She ordered tea. They had an extensive selection, but she chose a plain green tea. I ordered the Costa Rican coffee. We sat at a small table and I looked at her properly for the first time. She had a couple of those dreadful rings through her bottom lip, a stud in her nose, another through her left eyebrow and a whole collection in only her left ear. None of which detracted from a perfect, pretty face. No make-up, a light tan. Exactly as I remembered. I gazed. She let me. Her clothes were extraordinary. She must have had six flimsy tops on, layered, and covered with a black, uniform type jacket and a big bright red, velvety embroidered skirt. Being in the trade, I took careful note of her bag. Big, multi-panelled of leather, velvet and denim, obviously hand made and original.
"Can I ask your name?" I asked, quietly.
"Jessica Bergamot" she answered, gently amused still.
"Jessica. Yes, of course. The Allman Brothers." I didn't have to say that. Why did I say that? I knew perfectly well why. Hugh Bergamot - she must have married him! The bastard!!
"Did Mum like the Allman Brothers?" Was she playing games with me?
"No. I don't think so. I did." That was the wrong thing to say, giving the game away. I felt defensive. I hesitated. "Can I ask how old you are?"
She, of course, knew exactly what I was up to. "Did you know Mum well?"
"Yes. Yes, we had a summer together, a glorious summer, as I remember." I tried to stay casual. I do remember, I remember it so very well. I remembered it almost every day of my life, especially latterly when things were not going so well. An "If only" fantasy. I had, if truth were known, almost completely re-constructed the entire episode. Quite probably her, Rosemary's, memory, was quite different to mine. And, who, now, could tell what was the truth actually was?
"When was that, then?" She was fishing now.
"Gosh, it must be 25, 26 years ago... or more maybe" I tried to play safe.
"So, you were like girlfriend and boyfriend. I mean you were a couple, and all that." Still fishing.
"Well, yes. All that. I suppose." I felt myself reddening. Why, for heaven's sake. There was nothing to hide. Nothing I wasn't happy to remember. (By now received memory had made everything rosy)
"You didn't tell me your name. You pick me up, off the street. You talk about my mum. I don't even know your name." Her tone was flat.
I couldn't, in answer to a direct question, stay anonymous. "Philip" I said. "They call me Mr P."
"And, Mr P, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm a buyer. I buy luggage." I named the department store.
"Including handbags?" That was not the response I had expected. Usually it's some quip about being on the case.
"No. No, that's different. Much more important." Why would she want to know this, I wondered.
"But the store buys some handbags. And sells them."
"Well, yes. But what's this got to do with...?" I tailed off. I didn't like the hardness in her eyes.
"Look, P, let's get to the point. I make bags." She lifted hers up to show me. "You buy bags. So, you buy my bags, lots of them. I get rich. We all live happily ever after." She just stared at me.
I started to get up from the table. "I think," I spoke quietly, trying to understand what was going on, “I think I just told you that I am not in that department. I can't help. I must go."
"Two things" she spoke quickly. "First. My mother would like to meet your wife. Second, please look inside my bag." She held up the bag towards me, holding it open. There was a gun, a real live gun - or so it appeared at the time - lying on top of some clothing in her bag.
"Good God!" I sank back in the chair. "What on earth... What is all this?"
"I'm simply trying to persuade you to buy my bags." She sounded almost chirpy. "Have I succeeded?"
"And your mother? Rosemary? Is she... what has she got to do with...?" I was completely at a loss. I stared at her. It made no sense.
"It's a question of timing." She was almost laughing at me. "I am what, 25? And you've been married for; let me think... 26 years. Do the maths. Or, rather, let's have your wife do the maths."
I stammered. "No... No... That’s not right. Your mother and I... it was finished before I... long before...”
"So you say. So you say. But mother - your precious Rosemary - and I might have a different truth. We can say what we like. I could pass for 25, don't you think? Are you going to buy my bags?"
I stared at her some more. Not really taking in the situation. In some sort of catatonic state, I got up again, put my £10 on the table, and left her, sat there, smiling quietly to herself.
A gun!! Was it really a proper working gun?
Back at my desk, I was paralysed. I must have appeared white and shocked, but no-one took any notice. I half heard that Smithson, of stationery, had been called to the MD's office and had left the store in tears. I paid more attention when Graves, the buyer for china and glassware was also called, and came back in a very few minutes shaking his head, telling us he was gone. Blomenson, the leather goods buyer was next. He never came back. I was surely bound for the chop. My phone rang. I was called. Still in a state of shock, I found my way to the office, expecting the worst of course. Could things get worse?
"Ah, P, take a seat." The MD seemed remarkably cheerful. You would think he could at least pretend to be solemn! "Now, we're doing some re-structuring, as you've probably gathered. And I'm afraid we've lost a few. Blomenson has resigned. Shame. Good chap, good chap. Actually thought he might do well. Was going to... Never mind. Anyway, cut to the chase and all that. I'd like you to take on his patch. Sort of related. Handbags and all that stuff. Every confidence in you. Sure you'll do a good job. Bit extra on the old salary, not much but every little helps etcetera. OK with you? Save getting an outsider in."
I suppose I must have said yes, or something. I really can't remember.
I took on the department. I bought the bags from Jessica. Did I have a choice? It didn't feel like it. I didn't think for a minute that they would be, but her bags were a great success. The brand, "Salamander" it's called, already have their own concession. Jessica has proved a remarkably adept business woman as well as a designer. They are in Paris, New York, Tokyo, going from strength to strength. And, because of the credit from that, and a few other good calls (made with Jessica's help), I have risen, this late in my career, to assistant head buyer, in charge of almost the whole ground floor, plus men. In just two years from very nearly 'has-been' to a corner suite on the top-floor!
I ran into Blomenson the other day. I asked him why he resigned. He just said "it was a personal thing". As lightly as I could I asked "Nobody was blackmailing you then?” His face dropped and drained of blood. He turned on his heels and walked away, saying nothing.
Mrs P thinks I go to the Birmingham store on the third Thursday of most months. I see Rosemary. It's fun. She's good fun. I buy my coffee in-store these days. It's probably safer.
<EXTRAINFO><TYPE ID="1" /></EXTRAINFO></ARTICLE>
