The scene which met the military eye of the Ruritanian Army officer, as he ushered Lady Pyrke through the doorway of Goode’s at eleven a.m. on Christmas Eve, was pandemonium, with sound effects complete. To the obbligato of a hundred intense conversations between the black-clad staff and their customers were added the shrill ringing of cash register bells, the cries of lift attendants—“Going up!”—and the unhappy shrieks of children large and small whom it had been impossible to park with neighbours: the women of Sydney, or a frightening proportion thereof, were still doing their Christmas shopping, and it could only, so the lieutenant-colonel observed to himself, get much worse as the day wore on, for after lunch the office workers let off early, as so many of them were on this day, would swell the throng. Lady Pyrke sailed sedately down the marble stairs into the mêlée as if stepping into the waters at Baden-Baden. At a time like this, thought the lieutenant-colonel, it really pays to be non compos mentis: good luck to the old girl. He watched her proceeding serenely to the handkerchief counter and turned back to face the street.
The scene on the second floor was a little quieter. Here an atmosphere merely of contained frenzy had been achieved. It was astonishing, thought Mr. Ryder, how many ladies seemed to leave it to the last minute to buy their Christmas frocks, but here they all were, going into the fitting rooms with several over their arms to try on at once, and much consequent confusion for his staff who were already hard-pressed. There was Lisa now, emerging from the fitting rooms half-smothered in assorted cocktail frocks retrieved after customers had found, or not, the one which suited them. If nothing else in their brief lives had rendered these frocks fit to be marked down, he observed, this last Christmas shopping day must: they would hereafter be good for nothing but the sales.
Even Model Gowns seemed to be doing business which verged on the vulgarity of being brisk. Mr. Ryder noted with satisfaction that Magda—the inimitable! worth every penny!—was at the moment attending—but with such calm, such inflexible tact—to no less than three different customers; and that was at least five hundred guineas’ worth of business on the hoof. If that wasn’t a lovely sight, he would eat his hat.
There was Fay Baines, taking a handful of notes from a satisfied customer, with four more waiting their turn, and Lisa again with a great armful of frocks returning to the rails; Miss Jacobs stolidly explaining matters to an echt North Shore matron wanting a size they hadn’t got in a model they had, and Patty Williams looking awfully pale and even—well, on the verge of—interesting, as she wrote out a charge form: if you want to get sick, Mrs. Williams, he thought, just wait until five-thirty p.m., there’s a dear. He smiled encouragement at them all as he proceeded on his rounds.
At lunchtime Lisa, after changing, ran out into the hot and thronging city to buy her Christmas presents. She had done the necessary research during the previous week and now she dashed along to Grahame’s and purchased a copy of The Story of British Bloodstock, extensively illustrated and bearing on its dustjacket the fine portrait of the Godolphin Arab, for her papa; in Rowe Street she bought a tiny snuff box made from a seashell for her mother. The total expenditure came to slightly more than one week’s wages. In the canteen afterwards she saw Patty Williams looking rather ill. I wonder if I should speak to her, she thought. But she didn’t; there was a forbidding expression on Patty’s face which she had never seen before; neither had anyone else.
Oh the bastard, Patty was thinking, the bastard. The selfish, selfish bugger, leaving me to cope like this; who does he think I am? It was the ancient question and it had now occurred at last to Patty. Just run off, without a word, and left me to cope: thanks. It had been only this morning when she awoke that Patty had suddenly realised that if Frank had absented himself from home he was likely to have done so no less from work, and that she had better try to make his excuses in that quarter. But what—dreadful thought—if he were absent only from home? During her lunch hour she telephoned her mother to ask her to ring Frank at work in order to discover whether or not he was there; then having waited for ten minutes she telephoned her mother once more.
“He’s not there,” Mrs. Crown informed her. “I didn’t tell them anything. I didn’t tell them who I was or anything. They just said Mr. Williams hasn’t come in today, they suppose he’s crook but he hasn’t let them know yet. They said to ring you if I wanted to know any more. Humph! You’d better phone them now, tell them he’s sick and you don’t know when he’ll be back, that’ll do for the moment.”
Once she was actually speaking to Frank’s boss—the slimy bastard—who sounded perfectly nice to Patty, a perfect gentleman—Patty discovered how easy it is once the lie is begun to make it sound exactly like the truth. She surprised herself.
“He’s not well,” she said. “I don’t think he’ll be back this week at all, really. I’d say he’ll be away until the New Year; I’m real sorry.”
“Gee, Mrs. Williams, that’s terrible,” said Frank’s boss. “You tell him to put his feet up and not come back till he’s quite fit, we’ll manage; this is a slow week here anyway. We’ll hope to see him straight after the New Year holiday; you let us know if he needs longer. I hope you have a happy Christmas anyway. Bye-bye for now.”
Thank God that was done. But the bastard: the selfish bastard. Leaving her to cope. Where was he: what was he doing? He had taken the old travelling bag and a few clothes, and all of his fortnight’s wages less the housekeeping which he had already given her on the Thursday night. He’d meant to go: he’d known what he was doing. There was no excuse. Selfish, completely selfish. Who did he think she was?