Читать книгу Mrs Boots - Deborah Carr - Страница 7

Florence Rowe waved at Emile, the boarder from the chemist at number 29 who had raised his hat in a friendly salute. As usual at this time of day, Queen Street was bustling with shoppers and shop assistants out on their errands. She didn’t mind waiting for her good friend, Albert, to finish wrapping the packet of tea she had been sent to buy for her father’s stationer’s shop, which was situated between the chemist and the tea merchants. She loved her job in her father’s shop, on the bustling street, but it was always nice to step away for a few minutes to catch up with Albert’s news and share her own with him.

‘I had a customer in here yesterday,’ he said, tidying away the small weights he had used to calculate the correct amount of tea leaves. ‘He’s an artist from Birmingham. He came to the island last week to stay with relatives for the rest of the summer. He was telling me that it was reported in his local newspapers about a poor young woman on a roof.’

‘Sorry,’ Florence asked, confused. She was used to Albert’s catastrophising, but this story was a little odd. ‘What did you say?’

‘Someone heard screams in the middle of the night.’

‘Where, here?’

‘No, in Kidderminster.’

Florence realised she had no idea what Albert was talking about. ‘Maybe you should start again. From the beginning.’

‘The artist told me that just before he came to the island he read about a local woman, a young lady somnambulist, dressed only in her night clothes. She was still asleep when she climbed out of an upstairs window and onto the roof of her family home.’

‘How do your customers come to share such stories with you.’ She was struggling not to giggle. ‘They only come in to buy tea.’

‘Maybe they can see that I need a little drama in my life.’ A customer entered the shop just then and Albert lowered his voice and added, ‘We’ve been friends since we were children, Florence; can you remember a time when we had something worth being excited about?’

‘Apart from going to the theatre, or such like?’ she asked, not wishing him to become maudlin, which he could, if she ever let him.

‘Yes, those outings are fun, but not like the story the artist told me.’

Florence was always fascinated by Albert’s latest intrigue. Her father wouldn’t entertain the newspapers being read in their home. His only connection to them was caused by necessity when he advertised his stationer’s, W. H. Rowe. Albert was her connection to the sensational stories printed in them. He loved discovering the latest dramas occurring on the island and she loved that he took time to share them with her. She wasn’t sure though if it was the stories themselves, or his dramatised account of them.

‘Was she all right?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thankfully,’ Albert continued. ‘The girl’s father and a police constable threw a rope up to her. They managed to rescue her before she fell headlong to her death.’

Florence focused her attention on her purse so that he couldn’t see her amusement at his dramatics. ‘That’s a relief. Poor thing, waking up in such a predicament.’ She wondered how much longer he was going to spend wrapping up her tea.

‘That’s what I thought.’ He patted the neat package. ‘There you go.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, paying him and taking her tea.

‘It’s such a relief that the weather has improved, don’t you think?’

‘Yes. Father has been fretting about the stock not being delivered on time, as the ferries were cancelled due to the summer storms last week.’

Albert nodded, happy to have another drama to focus on. ‘We’ve had the same problem here,’ he said, putting her money in the till and giving her change. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Thankfully we had a delivery brought in this morning. Now everyone is panicking that the weather will change again, so they’re all rushing to stock up on their favourite tea mixture before it does.’

‘That’s one of the downsides of living on an island, my father always says.’ Florence knew the problem well. Her own mother was always concerning herself with the boats’ arrivals at the harbour. ‘Hopefully it’ll stay nice and hot for a while now. It is supposed to be summer, after all.’

She went to say something else, but, as she glanced out the window, all thoughts of what it was disappeared as she noticed one particular lady marching up the pavement on the opposite side of the street, her lady’s maid at her side laden with various bags and boxes. Florence could not help feeling sorry for the young woman scuttling along slightly behind her mistress, who was, by the determined expression on her lined face, on her way to give some poor soul a scolding.

Florence groaned.

‘Whatever is the matter?’ Albert asked. ‘Are you unwell?’

She shook her head. ‘No, look.’ She pointed out of the window. ‘She’s paused. I think she’s about to cross over to this side.’

He stepped forward, peered out at the focus of her concern and shivered theatrically. ‘I hope she doesn’t come in here. She’s a monstrous woman. She always has something, or someone, to complain about.’

Florence doubted that Mrs Wolstenholm would be buying her own tea. She probably left that job to one of her servants. Her heart dipped as she realised that the route the woman was taking was to W.H. Rowe next door.

‘Oh, no. She’s going into Father’s shop. I’d better hurry back. Thanks, Albert,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

She ran out of the shop, following the lady’s maid in through the open shop door, the jangling of the brass alerting her father and sister Amy to their arrival. She closed the door quietly behind them, Mrs Wolstenholm oblivious to Florence coming in behind her. The lady tapped her silver-topped walking stick noisily on the wooden floorboards.

Dropping the packet of tea quickly behind the counter, Florence skirted around the woman and her servant, a smile she did not feel fixed firmly on her face.

‘Mrs Wolstenholm, how delightful to see you today.’

The woman waited for Florence to come directly in front of her before looking her slowly up and down as if she had never seen a specimen quite like her before. ‘I don’t take to modern women,’ she sniffed, glancing at Florence’s bustle. ‘All those ruffles and draping material, it’s too fanciful if you ask me. I believe unmarried women should wear plainer clothing.’

Florence had not asked her. She hid her irritation, determined not to give the woman satisfaction of knowing she had annoyed her. Florence liked wearing a larger bustle, despite the discomfort it brought to her. She loved fashion and was not going to be dictated to about her clothing by anyone else, especially not this rude woman.

‘Is there anything I can help you with today, Mrs Wolstenholm?’ Florence asked, ignoring the insults being thrown at her; she knew better than to annoy her father’s best, but rudest, customer or give her any cause to be angered further.

Mrs Wolstenholm waved her gloved hand as if swatting an annoying fly. ‘Where is your father? I wish to speak with him.’

‘Are you certain I will be unable to assist you?’ Florence asked, aware that she knew all there was to know about the workings of this shop.

Mrs Wolstenholm rested both hands on the top of her walking stick and glowered at Florence. ‘I will not be served by a girl. I have asked for your father; he always serves me.’

Frustrated by the woman’s rudeness, Florence forced a smile. ‘Would you like to take a seat while I fetch him for you?’ she asked, indicating the smart cushioned chair her father had brought into the shop for his less than sturdy customers.

‘I shall not be waiting long enough to take a seat,’ she barked. ‘Hurry now, girl. I do not have time to dawdle.’

Florence heard footsteps and turned her attention to the storeroom door, relieved to see her father’s arrival. He was wearing a similar forced smile to the one she felt sure she had on her face.

‘I’m most dreadfully sorry to have kept you waiting,’ her father said, hurrying in to join them. He glanced at Florence and tilted his head briefly indicating that she take his place unpacking the latest delivery. ‘We’ve only a moment ago been delivered of an order that was delayed.’

‘Yes, yes, man,’ she snapped. ‘I am not here to discuss your business. You sent word that you had several books you believed might suit my taste.’

Florence reached the doorway at the back of the shop leading to the small room they referred to as the storeroom, although it really was not much bigger than a large cupboard. She couldn’t help feeling angry on her father’s behalf to hear the dragon of a woman address him so rudely. She turned to watch him.

‘I do.’ He hurried over to behind the counter from where Florence saw him take a bundle of five books.

He raised his right hand to catch Florence’s attention. ‘Fetch one of the new books by Mr Thomas Hardy that I asked you to put aside for Mrs Wolstenholm.’

Wanting the grumpy customer out of their shop as soon as possible, Florence hurried to do as he asked. She leant into the trunk and took out one of the immaculate copies of The Mayor of Casterbridge that she and many of their customers had been waiting weeks to read. She could not help thinking how unfair it was that someone as horrible as this woman was always first in line for everything she wanted, simply because of her wealth.

She pictured some of the young women who entered the shop, like poor Nelly Cooper, so desperate to be able to enjoy books, but having neither the time nor the money to do so. She would appreciate the book so much more and she deserved to read it more than this woman too, thought Florence, hearing Mrs Wolstenholm’s grumbling coming from the shop. She picked up one of the pristine copies and hastily took the book to the shop and placed it onto the counter.

Leaving her father to serve the woman, Florence returned to the storeroom just as her sister Amy arrived from the family’s flat above the shop. Florence was older by just one year and enjoyed working with her sister who was also a shop assistant. Many times, she had dreamt aloud to Amy about owning her own shop one day, but they both knew that it would take many years for either of them to be able to afford to do such a thing, if indeed they could ever find a way to save up enough money to do so.

‘Did I hear Mrs Wolstenholm’s dulcet moaning?’ Amy whispered.

Florence covered her mouth to stifle her giggles. ‘You did. I can’t fathom how that poor maid of hers can stand hearing her constant insults to everyone she meets.’

‘We’re very lucky to be shop assistants for someone as dear as Father.’ Amy peered around Florence at the offensive woman. ‘I overheard our parents speaking the other evening when I passed the living room. They were saying how that woman in there is only a shopkeeper’s daughter. She’s no better than we are.’

Florence widened her eyes, stunned. ‘You’d never know it to watch the way she treats people of a lower station than her own, would you?’

‘No. She’s from the same background as we are. Her father was a shopkeeper too, so you would think she wouldn’t speak down to Father like she does.’

Florence mulled over her sister’s words. Somehow it seemed even more appalling that this woman who spoke to their father so abruptly had come from a similar background. What right did that woman think she had to talk down to decent people like her father? Somehow, this woman’s rudeness seemed worse coming from someone who, Florence assumed, must have also been on the receiving end of another’s patronising behaviour. She surely must remember how it felt to have less than others and have to silently accept their ill manners simply because she was not in a position to put them in their place.

‘Do you know, Amy,’ Florence said, having to remember to keep her voice down despite her anger, ‘when I get my own shop, I’m going to remember this particular customer and how she makes me feel when she addresses our father in the way that she does. It’s shameful the way she is putting him down. How dare she?’ Florence knew full well that the woman dared because she could afford to go elsewhere to spend her money, whereas their father could not afford to lose his best client. ‘I’ll never forget where I’m from. I’ll also never speak down to people like her. Ever!’