Paper Doll (3 page)

And at least she could cook well, so she wasn’t entirely useless, Julia thought as she headed towards her bedroom. She turned on the tap in the adjoining bathroom, added some bath salts, then going back to the bedroom threw the wardrobe doors wide open.

Her glance travelled along the rack of clothing while she waited for the bath to fill. She selected a classic calf-length dress in olive green. Over it she’d wear her fawn coat with the raglan sleeves and fur collar. She’d also wear the brooch that Latham Miller had given her, a pretty twinkling star set in a crescent moon. Brown court shoes with Louis heels and pointed toes matched her handbag, and completed her outfit – even though they were crippling.

After a while, her father shouted goodbye from somewhere near the outside door to the hall.

‘I’ll see you later, darling. Don’t forget to wear your scarf,’ she called out.

An hour later she blotted her lipstick on a piece of toilet tissue, picked up her bag and went downstairs to raid her father’s safe. Taking six crisp, white, five-pound notes from the safe she folded them into her purse. It was better to take too much than too little, she thought, and if she didn’t need it all she could always put it back.

If Latham Miller was annoyed he didn’t show it. Benjamin Howard had demanded far too much for his factory. The building was in good repair and fairly central, but as a toy factory it was no longer profitable, mainly because of overstaffing. If Latham bought it as a business, he’d need to cut staffing by a third. The wily old owner knew that and had made it part of the requirement that the staff be kept on.

‘I’m a businessman not a benevolent society,’ Latham pointed out. ‘I’d be manufacturing domestic ware, and I’m negotiating for some government contracts. I’ll be installing machines if my tender is successful. Some of your workers are well past retirement age. They should be put out to grass.’

Benjamin had got on his high horse at that. ‘The staff are loyal and dedicated. The toy factory was started by my grandfather. It’s a tradition and I want it to stay that way. If I sell it, it will be as a going concern.’

More fool him, Latham thought. Nobody would buy a failing toy factory that had outlived its usefulness and had been running at a loss for the past three years. It would have to be sold in the end, and for less than Latham would pay for it now.

‘I’ve seen the books, Benjamin. If you hang on to it much longer you’ll be bankrupt, and forced to sell it below market value to cover your debts. I’m interested in buying the building so my other interests have room to expand, not in buying the toy business itself. You’ll have to negotiate. No businessman worth his salt would buy this place with so many conditions attached to it.’

‘Things will look up in the New Year, and I’ll have a new manager to run the place. Martin Lee-Trafford. Do you know him?’

‘We’ve never met.’

‘He’s sound. I was at school with his father.’

And that was the only factor Benjamin would consider; he’d put his faith in the old school tie. Latham didn’t want to wait, but he would. In the end he’d get the place for the price he was willing to pay. He’d give the old man six months to come to his senses.

As he was leaving a young man was coming in, probably Martin Lee-Trafford. He had a haunted look in his eyes that stated he’d seen too much.

Poor sod, Latham thought, and nodded to him as they passed each other.

T
he interview was over, the appointment his. Martin was surprised that he’d been offered the position, when the man he’d passed coming in looked like a manager should in a tailored grey, single-breasted suit and navy-blue tie, his coat folded over his arm. He looked sure of himself, with briefcase in hand.

For the past three years Martin had been unemployed and unemployable, living off a legacy from his father. He’d spent some of that time in a hospital, long days that he couldn’t remember, when he’d felt like a grey ghost of himself – so he’d wondered if he’d died on the front and was existing in some sort of limbo before being assessed and despatched to either heaven or hell.

He hadn’t expected to come home from France to an empty house, the windows boarded up and his father’s coffee cup with dried dregs in it still on the bedside table next to the bed where he’d died. He understood that his father’s lawyer had seen to the other things, the funeral the headstone and the estate.

He had sat in the empty cavern of the house in the dark, feeling as though he was in a tomb too. And he’d dreamed of the blood and gore, of the burned and dying flesh and pleading eyes of those he couldn’t help – and it had brought him screamingly awake and shaking, and thinking he was in hell. One night he’d got up and had begun to drag all his father’s stuff from the house into the garden, where he’d intended to set fire to it.

His neighbour had called the police, who had taken him to hospital.

‘I wanted to see what hell was like,’ was all he could say.

‘Hell . . . You’ve already been there, haven’t you?’ It had been a sympathetic psychiatrist who’d reminded him of the fact. Little by little Hugh Cahill had become his shoulder to lean on, become his friend. Little by little the man had pushed and pulled, made him keep a diary of his thoughts and dreams and encouraged him to discuss them until he was unable to stand his own self-pity and had begun to rationalize what had happened to him in his own mind. Only then was he strong enough to begin to stand on his own two feet.

‘Go home, Martin. Take your pills, find a good woman and have some children to give you purpose. Live your life for all the others who lost theirs,’ Hugh had said.

Only he hadn’t taken the pills. They’d made him feel flat and strangely muted. Like a piano that hadn’t been cleaned or issued a sound for several years, he was completely out of tune. As for women – he’d found women who could make his body function, but he discovered he was unable to participate with them on an emotional level. Perhaps it was just as well, for a man who didn’t feel anything apart from the need to satisfy his body, would probably make a lousy husband.

Work had been hard to find too. Even if someone had been willing to take him into partnership as a GP, Martin knew he wasn’t ready to return to doctoring yet, especially surgery. If he ever thought he was, he’d do a refresher course. Too many of his patients had died, and although he knew they’d been past saving, he couldn’t quite trust himself now. He gazed down at his hands and experienced a fine tremor that always came when he concentrated on them. Inwardly, he cursed them because he knew that nothing was physically wrong with him.

Martin gazed at Benjamin. He’d forgotten there were people who cared about what had happened to people like him. ‘I’m very grateful for this chance, sir. Your letter came out of the blue. I was surprised you didn’t take the candidate before me. He looked very smart and confident.’

‘He is smart and confident. That was Latham Miller and he wasn’t after a job he was after my factory. He wants to buy the building and put me out of business. There weren’t any other candidates. I wondered what had happened to you, and heard that you were in trouble. It happens that I need a manager, and I knew you’d experienced factory life. I’m sorry the pay isn’t better, but times have been hard.’ The man lumbered to his feet and patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll take you on a tour of the factory and introduce you. My daughter should be here by the time we’ve finished. She’s looking forward to meeting you.’

‘I believe I may have met your daughter when we were children . . . in Bournemouth,’ Martin said.

‘Ah yes . . . We came down from Waterloo on the train. Julia was excited at the thought of building a sandcastle. She was only five then and you were just a lad.’

Martin’s mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘I was eleven, and rather superior, I’m afraid. I put a worm down the back of your daughter’s dress and made her cry.’

The old man chuckled. ‘You gave her quite a fright and she kicked up a fuss, as I recall.’

‘And kicked me in the shin for my trouble. Perhaps I should apologize.’

‘Oh, Julia never holds a grudge. I imagine she’s forgotten about it. Besides, if she kicked you in the shin I think that would have satisfied her five-year-old sense of honour at the time.’

The factory building was three stories high. Benjamin introduced him to everyone as they went, using the familiarity of first names. The ground floor housed jigsaws and stamping machines, plus the packing benches. In the corner the manager and the clerk’s offices took up space. The only difference, the clerk’s office had a caged aperture that offered a semblance of security, for the wage packet could be pushed through a gap at the bottom and signed for.

Next to that was a small showroom that displayed the various goods for the buyers. The first floor was overflowing with bolts of cloth and stacks of cardboard. The top floor acted as a warehouse. There were stacks of boxes containing jigsaw puzzles, snakes and ladders and other games. A goods lift which was operated by a hand winch and supported by thick ropes, was lowered down through a shaft to the bottom floor.

Martin frowned. ‘You seem to have a lot of stock left for this time of year.’

‘Yes . . . Sales have slowed down considerably. I was thinking of donating some of the goods to charity.’

‘Better for the business if you try to sell them off cheaply and recoup production costs. Most toy factories have outlets in Curzon Street.’

‘We can’t afford it, since wages have gone up, and so have rents.’

‘Do you have figures from the last stocktake?’

Benjamin was puffing from his stair-climbing exertions. ‘I haven’t done one since before the war. It’s probably in the clerk’s files.’

They worked their way back down to the office, stopping to chat as he was introduced to various members of the workforce. One or two of the older workers addressed Benjamin familiarly by his first name, something Martin disapproved of, and some stood around talking.

Martin’s first instinct was strong. The factory was overstaffed and it was bleeding money. ‘I’ll need to speak to your salesmen.’

‘Salesmen?’ The man smiled. ‘Toys from the Howard factory speak for themselves. We’re renown for quality and use only the finest materials and workmanship. I don’t hire salesmen; the customers come to us. That’s why we have a showroom.’

Which was empty of possible customers – and that was another reason why they were losing money, Martin thought. This place was a challenge and it was obvious that his role to manage would be hampered by the owner’s sentiment.

‘I’d like to look over the staff files.’

‘You might as well know that I have no intention of dismissing any of them.’

‘Yes, you’ve made that quite clear, sir. I was thinking more along the lines of having a catalogue printed up and sending a couple of the younger men out with samples to hand sell the products to shops and department stores. They could sell on a commission basis, you know. The more they sell the more they will earn.’

Benjamin gazed at him for the moment, then he smiled. ‘There . . . I knew you’d come up with something. As long as they have a basic wage to rely on first.’

This was no businessman, this was a philanthropist, and Martin’s heart sank.

When his pocket watch chimed, Benjamin took it out and gazed at it. ‘Three o’clock. My daughter will be here in a moment or two. We’ll take the lift.’ He opened the concertina door to the lift and they stepped inside. Operating it by way of the ropes and pulleys they rumbled down to the ground floor and stepped out.

A woman was standing outside the door with a smile on her face. Martin was overwhelmed by an impression of elegance, beauty and an elusive fragrance. His senses sucked her in and breath left his body in a rush.

‘There you are, Daddy, you’re five minutes late,’ she exclaimed.

‘Am I dear? My watch must be slow. How was lunch?’

‘Enormous. I shall have to walk home to burn it off.’ A pair of green eyes surrounded by dark lashes flicked his way.

‘This is our new manager, dear, Dr Martin Lee-Trafford. You might just remember him from childhood . . . our holidays in Bournemouth.’

‘Yes, of course, how could I forget that when it was the first time I’d ever been to the seaside? But Lord, how you’ve changed.’

‘Have I?’

A practised smile spread across her face. ‘You were beastly the last time I saw you, and acted rather superior. You dropped a worm down my dress and I’ve been scared of worms ever since.’

He felt uncomfortable. So much for her not remembering! Julia Howard was fashionably thin and expensively dressed. Her make-up was perfection, her jewels classy. She reminded him of his mother, who’d been too shallow for words. He preferred less emaciated-looking women, and raised an eyebrow. ‘I recall that you were a spoiled little tattle-tale.’

Her eyes widened a fraction and she said lightly, but with what seemed a blatant attempt to goad him, ‘Are you suggesting my parents didn’t raise me properly?’

He remembered his manners just in time. ‘Of course I’m not. I was about to apologize for that incident.’

Too late, for the air was suddenly filled with frost. ‘Oh, you really needn’t bother, Dr Lee-Trafford. I’d quite forgotten about it until I saw you.’ She kissed her father. ‘I don’t think I’ll take tea with you, Daddy, since the pair of you will have plenty to talk about. I’ll collect my parcels from the office and be on my way. I’ve brought your favourite cake, as I promised.’

‘Thank you, dear. Excuse me a minute, I need to talk to Sam,’ Benjamin said, and he moved off, leaving Martin with room to negotiate with Julia Howard in private.

Martin put a detaining hand on her arm. ‘Sincerely, Miss Howard, I’m sorry. We got off to a bad start so don’t leave on my account, else I’ll feel guilty.’

She shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t have said you were a beast.’

‘I don’t see why not, since I’ve just proved I am still one.’

A slight grin edged across her face at his honesty. ‘Yes . . . I suppose you have, but you apologized nicely.’

‘You’ll stay then . . . please?’

‘Since you ask . . . all right, I will. When you see the amount of parcels I have you’ll be perfectly justified in your description of me as being spoiled and quite comfortable with the label you’ve hung on me.’