05 Please Sir! (28 page)

‘A Busby girl?’ I said.

‘Oh, you mean that wonderful department store in Bradford,’ said Vera. ‘I used to go there with my mother, especially at Christmas.’

‘That was the best time, Miss Evans,’ said Mary, ‘and the
happiest
time of my life.’

‘Busby’s?’ said Jo. ‘What was it like?’

A faraway look came into Mary’s eyes. ‘Well, I started there in 1941 on my sixteenth birthday. I was in the hairdressing department and I earned fifteen shillings per week, plus a five shillings war bonus. Shopping was different then, Mrs Hunter,’ she said and Jo nodded. ‘The staff thought of themselves as one big family and we all took pride in customer service. The Busby family were wonderful. They really cared for all their staff and knew all our names. It was a proper
family
store. Then, after the war, my pay went up to seventeen and sixpence per week. I remember working late on a Thursday night and all my friends came in so I could practise on their hair.’

Mary had a captive audience and we all settled back to enjoy her reminiscences. Having been brought up in Leeds, I was familiar with Busby’s department store. Founded in 1908, it was a grand Victorian building that became a Bradford shopping emporium and was famous for quality merchandise at bargain prices. Opposite the old Theatre Royal Picture House, it commanded an ideal location for the shoppers of West Yorkshire and was rightly known as ‘the store with the friendly welcome’. The founder of the store was Eric Busby and, in later years, his three sons had carried on the tradition of excellent service and value for money. Mary was one of many with happy memories of this famous store.

‘I remember it well,’ said Vera. ‘It was particularly exciting at Christmas when Santa arrived in the Busby Grotto.’

‘That’s right, Miss Evans,’ said Mary. ‘My boss heard I was good at art so at Christmas I went to help out in the Display Department … which is where I met my Gerald. I had to make up buckets of glue size and whitening and then paste grey-coloured paper over wire-mesh “mountains” to make Santa’s magical kingdom.’

‘Gerald is Mary’s ‘usband,’ explained Shirley. ‘’E’s a picture-framer now in a shop in Thirkby.’

‘Yes,’ said Mary with a smile. ‘Gerald and I used to see each other in the canteen. You could get lobster patties for five old pence and green figs and cream for six old pence, a real treat. Gerald bought me a transistor radio. He paid for it with ‘saved-up’ threepenny bits … I’ve still got it now. We did our courting behind lift number six. It wasn’t the most romantic spot but, in those days, beggars couldn’t be choosers.’

Everyone laughed. It was good to hear this animated lady relive her working life. We sipped our tea and finished off the bread pudding.

‘I remember going with my mother to the sales,’ said Vera. ‘They were something to behold – queues as far as you could see, chairs outside for the elderly and the first seventy-five got a cup of tea.’

‘So were you always a hairdresser?’ asked Anne.

‘No. After that, I worked in the Lamson Room, collecting the tubes,’ said Mary.

‘Lamson?’ queried Jo.

‘Yes. When you bought something in the store, the assistant put your money into a small numbered tube and then inserted it into a pipe that ran right through the store. It was incredible how it worked and we would send it on its way back to the right department, carrying your change, with a terrific whooshing sound. It was like a miniature spaceship.’

‘I remember those,’ said Vera.

‘Altogether there was ten miles of tubing to take each transaction to the right place,’ said Mary. ‘Each department had a number – for example, Haberdashery was number six – so nothing went astray. The whole process only took two minutes to get to us and back, so, while the customer was waiting for her purchase to be neatly wrapped, there was no delay.’

‘And you always got the correct change and a receipt,’ said Vera.

‘What a good idea,’ said Sally. ‘It’s certainly got more style than all these new electronic systems.’

Jo looked puzzled but nodded anyway.

‘I agree,’ said Mary, ‘and all the Busby family made sure it worked well. They used to
walk the floors
and there was always a lovely atmosphere. Our motto was ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’ and that’s what we did. Mr Arthur and Mr Eric were always polite and friendly. Best of all was Mr Paul, who always stopped for a chat … He was a very handsome man … and then there was Mr Ernest, who gave me a lovely cosmetic tray when Gerald and I got married. You don’t get bosses like that any more.’ She looked up at me and blushed. ‘Present company excepted of course.’

Everyone smiled and gazed in admiration at this eloquent lady. However, it was obvious to us all that Mary still missed the
ker-ching
of the cash registers, the whoosh of the overhead Lamson cash carriers and the chatter of shop girls.

‘So what happened to Busby’s?’ asked Jo.

‘Sadly, it changed,’ said Mary. ‘It merged with Debenham’s in the late fifties and the name Busby disappeared. Then three years ago the whole store burnt down.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Anne.

‘It was the end of an era,’ said Vera.

‘I still miss it, but I’m trying to do something worthwhile with my life, so now, in my spare time, I paint with my water-colours,’ said Mary.

‘You’ll have to have a look at the children’s artwork for the exhibition on Saturday,’ said Sally.

‘Of course,’ said Mary.

‘And perhaps show the boys and girls how you paint in water-colours,’ I added.

‘It would be a pleasure,’ said Mary.

The bell rang for afternoon school and we all hurried off full of bread pudding and happy thoughts of shopping in the world before supermarkets.

It was before school on Friday morning when, from my office window, I saw Mary Attersthwaite walk into the middle of the village green and stare up at the school. She was carrying her artist’s materials. A large leather bag was over her shoulder and an easel was under her arm. Curious, I went out to see her.

As I approached, Mary opened up her folding canvas seat, picked up her notebook and opened it to the next clean page. With swift confident strokes of a soft B pencil she sketched the broad outline of the school and the tall horse-chestnut trees. Then she shielded her eyes from the sharp April sunshine and shaded in the patches of shadow as they would appear in morning sunlight. It was a brilliant instant drawing.

‘Good morning, Mary,’ I said: ‘a beautiful morning.’

‘Perfect for a painting, Mr Sheffield,’ she replied with a smile. ‘No wind and good light.’

I watched her as she erected her wooden easel, spending time getting the legs level on the tufted grass. On a board of thick plywood she had attached a sheet of water-colour paper, held fast with masking tape, and then she fixed it at a slight angle on the easel, tilting towards her. With a soft pencil, so as not to leave any grooves on the smooth paper, she sketched the school once again with its bell tower and sloping slate roof. I said nothing, her concentration being intense.

Finally, satisfied, she sat down, filled her water pot from her bottle of fresh water and hung it from its loop of string on a hook at the side of the easel. ‘Time to begin,’ she said.

‘Mary,’ I said, ‘perhaps, later this morning, you might allow some of the children to see how it progresses.’

‘Of course, Mr Sheffield. It would be a pleasure,’ she said.

Then, with the confidence of experience, she picked up a large soft brush, opened her tin box of paints and began with broad sweeps to create a damp wash of pale-blue sky.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to it, Mary,’ I said. ‘What a wonderful way to spend the morning,’ I added a little wistfully.

Mary paused and looked up at me reflectively. ‘I’ve walked a long road, Mr Sheffield … and it’s been a life full of light and shade.’ As she resumed her painting, a mantle of peace surrounded her.

Back in my classroom, while the majority of answers to some of the questions in our Countryside Project were well informed, Theresa Ackroyd once again provided alternative, if perfectly logical, solutions. In answer to the question ‘Why are electricity pylons dangerous?’ Theresa wrote, ‘You might walk into one.’ Likewise, to ‘What problems might hedgerow removal cause?’ her response was: ‘All the cows will escape.’ I smiled and wrote in the margin, ‘We need to discuss this, Theresa.’ It also occurred to me that, on occasions, children provide better answers than the ‘right’ ones.

Ten minutes before morning break the children in my class were surprised when I asked them to stop work. They looked up at the clock, thinking I had made a mistake, but, significantly, no one complained. I led them out of school on to the village green, where Mary glanced up from her painting and waved in acknowledgement.

By the time we gathered round her easel, I noticed the water-colour had progressed dramatically. She was clearly a quick worker. Her keen eye had identified the lightest parts of the subject and she had painted these first, gradually moving on to the detail. The children were fascinated by the techniques described by Mary. ‘Then, boys and girls,’ she said, ‘I use this square-ended brush for the gable end of the school and for the windows.’ She dabbed on a little more paint and the roof tiles and windows sprang into new form.

‘Cor, can we ‘ave a go, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Dean Kershaw.

‘Good idea, Dean,’ I said. ‘We can do some painting this afternoon.’

While the children walked back into school I stayed with Mary. Soon a group were playing ‘Kiss-Catch’ on the playground while the younger ones were enjoying a game of ‘What Time is it, Mr Wolf?’

Alice Baxter and Theresa Ackroyd were turning the ends of a large skipping rope and children were jumping in and out, singing their skipping rhyme.

Mary chuckled. ‘Some things don’t change, do they, Mr Sheffield?’ and she murmured the familiar rhyme along with the chanting children.

‘
Each, peach, pear, plum
,

I spy Tom Thumb
,

Tom Thumb in the wood
,

I spy Robin Hood
,

Robin Hood in the cellar
,

I spy Cinderella …
’

‘The happiest time of their life, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mary. I smiled and walked back into school.

* * *

On Saturday morning I set off to do some shopping in Ragley on my way to Beth’s cottage in Morton. We had decided to go into York to see the Children’s Art Exhibition and, in the meantime, Beth was doing some packing, which made me realize how close the wedding was.

I pulled up alongside the single pump on the courtyard in front of Pratt’s Garage. Victor lumbered out to meet me while rubbing his grease-blackened hands on the bib of his filthy overalls. ‘Could you fill her up, please, Victor?’ I asked. He didn’t look happy. On the other hand he never did. Through gritted teeth I asked the inevitable question, ‘And how are you, Victor?’

He sucked air through his teeth and I knew it must be bad news. ‘Well, Mr Sheffield,’ he said mournfully, ‘ah get pains in m’back when ah put mi jim-jam bottoms on at bedtime.’ He winced painfully. It was a tough life being a martyr.

‘So have you been to Dr Davenport?’

‘Yes, ah’ave, but that were no good.’

‘Why not, Victor?’ I asked.

‘Well,’e sed ah’ve got t’go to an Austria-path, but ah told’im ah’ve no wish t’go abroad an’ Yorkshire’s jus’ fine f’me.’

‘And what did Dr Davenport say to that, Victor?’ I asked.

‘’E jus’ gave me one of ‘is septic looks,’ said Victor; ‘y’know the sort.’

‘I certainly do,’ I said as he ambled off to get my change.

* * *

Ragley High Street was busy with shoppers and I pulled up outside Piercy’s the Butcher’s. When I walked in Old Tommy Piercy was serving a young man in a smart suit, who said curtly, ‘I’d like some steak.’

The ladies behind me winced visibly. He hadn’t said ‘please’ and it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

‘Rump or sirloin?’ asked Old Tommy, equally unimpressed.

‘Sirloin,’ said the young man. ‘Four slices, each one a half inch wide.’

Again there was a muttered reaction from the ladies in the queue. Old Tommy glanced up at the man, weighed up his pinstripe suit and his aloof manner and began to carve.

‘I said a
half
inch,’ repeated the man.

‘That’s what y’gettin’,’ said Old Tommy brusquely.

‘I’ll have you know that in
my
profession I work to ten thousandth of an inch,’ he said.

Old Tommy leant over the counter and waved the sharpest knife in Yorkshire under the visitor’s nose. ‘Well, young man,’ he said firmly, ‘watch ‘n’ y’ll learn summat … ‘cause ah’m
exact
.’

Following his departure, the ladies in the queue gave Old Tommy a round of applause and he bowed modestly. ‘Off-comers,’ he muttered: ‘ah’ve no time for ‘em.’ Then he turned to serve me with a smile. ‘Now then, young Mr Sheffield, what can ah do for our village ‘eadmaster?’

‘Please may I have two steaks, Mr Piercy, and perhaps you could select them for me.’

He sliced two large sirloin steaks. ‘’Alf inch each,’ he said with a chuckle.