Selfridges

Sally

Saturday, October 14th, 1978

Sally is on the train going to London. She is slightly out of breath, having only just made the 7.32 semi-fast to Charing Cross by running up the stairs and getting to platform two in the nick of time. The train is not too packed and she’s managed to get a seat by the window. In her rush to get out of the house, she’s forgotten her book, so she’ll have to make do with watching the world go by. 

The world going by is not that fascinating on this misty October morning. She looks at the sad suburban gardens: a few straggly dahlias and Michaelmas daisies hanging on, but the summer blooms are withered and the trellises set up for runner beans and peas are bare, save for a few yellowing tendrils. Sally yawns as the train goes through a short tunnel. She watches her image yawning back at her. 

It’s been a long week at school. Miss Davies is relentless: having tortured her A-Level class with Shakespeare and Keats last year, she’s now got them clambering their way (pun intended) through Wuthering Heights. Sally doesn’t understand her teacher’s reverence for this novel. Not even Kate Bush can persuade her of its merits. Perhaps she is missing something? Right now, she dislikes each and every one of characters and has concluded that Nelly Dean is making up half of the anecdotes for her own amusement. And don’t get her started on the appalling treatment of puppies. Sally can imagine the essay title that Miss Davies is cooking up even now: “To what extent does Wuthering Heights have an unreliable narrator?” Sally is always irritated by “to what extent” essays. She’s always tempted to write: “About 50%” and leave it at that. She sighs. At least she has Saturdays to look forward to. 

Her Saturday job not only gives her a decent amount of pocket money, but also provides a little colour in an otherwise grey and dreary week. Living in an unremarkable suburb of London and going to an all-girls school, there is not much in the way of excitement in her day-to-day life. Some of her friends have Saturday jobs in their hometown: one at a baker’s in the High Street, another at Boots stacking shelves, and yet another at Dolcis, the shoe shop. All of these pay a reasonable rate, but Sally calculated that even after paying the £2 (off-peak) train fare, she’d still make more money working at Selfridges on Saturdays, and have way more fun into the bargain.

The train pulls into Charing Cross, and Sally follows the great unwashed into the tube station to get the Bakerloo Line to Oxford Circus. As she makes her way down to the northbound platform, she’s greeted by the familiar smell of the London Underground: a strange combination of burnt toast, grease and newspaper. Waiting for the train, Sally watches as a mouse is snuffling through the layers of detritus between the rails. Or perhaps it’s a small rat. At any rate, it disappears sharpish as the train comes on to the platform. The carriage is packed and Sally hangs on to a pole to steady herself. It’s only a couple of stops to Oxford Circus, so she can just about put up with the woman next to her, who has gone somewhat heavy with the Anais Anais this morning. 

The train rattles into Oxford Circus, and Sally joins the stream of shop workers climbing the stairs up into the morning bustle along Oxford Street. She takes her time since she has a good twenty minutes before she starts work; she pops into the Greek cafe on Duke Street for a coffee and a scone. The coffee is hot and sweet, and she dunks her scone into the froth as she walks along. She licks the last crumbs from the corner of her mouth as she goes through the staff entrance to Selfridges. She clocks in and heads towards the Ladies’ Fashion Department on the first floor. 

Sally dawdles through the cosmetics and perfume counters on route to the escalator. She passes Stan, the goods lift operator, already busy with a dolly-load of shirts destined for the Men’s department. Short and stocky, he peers over his pile of boxes through huge square-framed spectacles. He gives Sally a smile and a slight wave and hurries on. Sally likes Stan: doesn’t have much to say for himself, but he’s always polite and he’s good at his job. She pauses by the Dior counter: this might be her favourite place in the whole world, with its golden packages and exotic perfume. She lifts up a corner of the dust sheet and spritzes a touch of Miss Dior on her wrists while no-one is looking. As she walks up the escalator (the mechanism does not start until nine o’clock on the dot), the lights go on around the store, as if a play is about to begin. And, indeed it is: all of life can be found in Selfridges if you care to look. 

Up in the Ladies’ Fashion department, Sylvia, the floor manager, is already at work removing the white dust sheets from the clothes rails with a snap of her spindly wrists. Sylvia has been with Selfridges for thirty years and is the quintessential shop assistant in Sally’s imagination: thin as a rake, immaculately dressed in designer black, steel grey hair tied up in a perfect bun on the top of her head and a pair of half-moon glasses on a chain around her neck. “Ah, Sally. There you are. Be a dear and tidy up the knitwear, would you? Those cardies look like they are in a jumble sale.”  

Sally does as she is bidden, folding and smoothing the new season’s cardigans into tidy piles, ready for discerning ladies of a certain age to purchase. Alice, the senior sales assistant, admires Sally’s efforts as she breezes through towards to the cash desk:“Morning-Sally-lovely display-very-nice.” She doesn’t wait for a response as she sweeps through the racks and rails towards the sales desk. Sally likes Alice as well. Probably around the same age as Sylvia, but cut from an entirely different cloth. Her white-grey hair is always in wispy French pleat, pinned with two rhinestone-encrusted slides. Plump and rosy, she looks more like a benevolent granny than a sales assistant, albeit one who does everything at a hundred miles an hour. 

Sally looks at her watch. 8.58. In a couple of minutes the fabulous revolving front doors will open and shoppers will soon drift into the department, looking for new outfits for the Autumn season. Sylvia arrives at her shoulder. “Could you take a look at the blouses section, Sally? There are coat hangers all over the place. Dog’s breakfast. I don’t know what happened after closing yesterday, but I shall be having words with Joyce when I next see her.” Sally heads over to the blouses, feeling a little sorry for Joyce (the assistant floor manager) who is a sweet soul, but somewhat moth-headed (as Sally’s mum would say), flighty and prone to forgetting things. Like tidying up all the rails at the end of the day. Not to worry, Sally likes to keep busy, lining up the crisp white shirts and flouncy peasant-style blouses in their correct order: size 8s at the front, then 10, 12, 14, 16 and finally the 18s at the back. She’s not sure why ladies with larger bosoms have to make more of an effort to reach something in their size, but rules are rules. And Sylvia is very particular about how things are done on her floor. 

Once the blouses are organised, Sally looks around to see if there are any customers needing her attention. She spots an older woman grappling with a navy blazer: she has one arm stuck, so Sally goes to assist. “Can I help you, Madam?” she enquires. 

“Thank you…er…yes…I seem to have got myself in quite the tangle.” 

Sally dutifully unravels the customer so that she can admire the blazer in one of the many long mirrors. It fits perfectly.

“What do you think?” the woman asks, looking at herself from different angles. 

“Fits well. Looks smart. Classic blazer that never goes out of fashion. Pricey, though - but it is pure wool.”

“My thoughts entirely,” agrees the woman, wincing slightly at the price tag dangling from the sleeve. I think I will take it.” She shrugs the blazer off, and Sally walks her over to the cash desk for Alice to ring it up, pleased that she has achieved the first sale of the day. 

The department is busy all morning, and Sally finds herself rushed off her feet, helping customers with their purchases and hurrying hither and thither from the changing rooms with various items of clothing. One customer is having trouble finding an outfit for her niece’s wedding and, despite Sally’s best efforts, is no nearer getting something that is either in her price range or suitable for the occasion. Sally makes a last-ditch effort with a mulberry-coloured trouser suit. As she waits for the customer to try it on (encouraging sounds coming from the changing room), she spots a familiar face by the cashmere section. 

A smartly-dressed, but otherwise not particularly striking woman is holding up a powder-blue turtle-necked jumper. But she is not looking at the jumper: her attention is on another, younger woman, who is loitering beside a rack of skirts. Sally stops for a moment to see how this piece of drama will play out as she watches Sandra, the store detective, at work. This time, the would-be shoplifter quickly realises she has been clocked and she makes a bee-line for the stairs before swiping any merchandise. Sandra continues on with her phoney shopping. Sandra has some great stories to tell of scraps that she has got into with would-be thieves. Like the man who bit her (“Had to have a tetanus at the Middlesex Hospital”) and the woman who stuffed all manner of loot down her knickers in an attempt to make off with some of Selfridges’ best. Unfortunately (fortunately?) she left a trail all the way through the Food Hall and was caught by Security at the main doors. Sandra had a good laugh about that one. 

At lunchtime, Sally decides to forgo the staff canteen with its sad-looking salads and tasteless soup, and heads off to Marks and Spencer’s for a sandwich. Handy having Marks next door, especially since the lunch menu in Selfridges Food Hall is way outside Sally’s schoolgirl budget. And besides, you can’t beat a hearty M&S cheese and pickle sarnie. As she goes down the stairs, she passes a woman and her child coming up. The woman is patiently waiting as the child takes the stairs one by one, chatting all the time to his stuffed toy friend - a fluffy grey elephant. Sally smiles as she hears a snippet of the little boy’s conversation: “No, Nellie, we can’t have ice-cream today, Mum says its too cold….” Sweet. 

Outside, it has started to drizzle, but not quite enough to require the services of an umbrella. Besides, Marks is just a hop and a step from its more regal and upmarket neighbour. Sally grabs her sandwich and an orange juice, and walks up to Portman Square for a little peace and quiet. London is always busy with tourists, but this particular park seems off the beaten track, and there are few people around for Sally to people-watch. She finds a bench next to the bandstand and eats her lunch, denying the pigeons of their fair share. Bah! Pigeons. Nasty, frightful creatures that won’t give you a moment’s rest once they know a few crumbs from a sandwich might be in the offing. Sally blames Mary Poppins and the silly old woman feeding the birds when she had no business to. 

Sally is hardly back on the sales floor when Sylvia comes over, and takes her firmly by the elbow to the furthest corner of the department. In hushed and reverential tones, Sylvia informs her that Mr. Stevens (General Manager, Selfridge and Co.) will be taking a tour of the first floor in a few minutes and that Sally must be at her best. Sally is quite excited by this prospect: the stories about Mr. Stevens are almost mythical in nature, and she’s looking forward to catching a glimpse of the man himself.  

Sally busies herself tidying the display of cardigans once again. As she does so, she notices a pair of black button eyes looking up at her. Nellie! Poor Nellie. Unceremoniously abandoned in the Ladies’ Fashion department. She picks the toy up and pats its head. “This won’t do at all, Nellie. What are we to do?” Nellie doesn’t say much in return, but Sally takes the elephant’s forlorn expression to mean, “Please take me to Lost Property.” Sally has to think fast: Mr. Stevens could arrive at any moment, but that little boy will want his friend back and is probably quite distressed. Sally reckons that she can get to Lost Property and back in 10 minutes if she runs, so makes a quick dash for the stairs. And bumps straight into Mr. Stevens. 

For an awful moment, neither speak. Then, as Mr. Stevens glowers at her, Sally tries to explain what she is doing, waving Nellie as she babbles, realising that her story is coming out backwards. To her great relief, Mr. Stevens starts to chuckle: “Excellent, excellent. Marvellous customer service. Do carry on. Let’s hope Nellie finds her way home, eh?” Sally blushes and nods and dashes up the stairs as fast as her legs will carry her. 

At the Lost Property counter (for lost property and lost persons), Roy takes down all the details, filling out a small brown luggage tag, which he attaches securely to Nellie’s trunk. 

Description: Grey stuffed toy elephant

Found: Ladies’ Fashion, knitwear, 1.46pm

Date: Saturday, 14th October, 1978

Found by: Sally 

“Well, Nellie,” says Roy, “I’ll pop you on the shelf for now. I have a feeling you won’t be with us for very long.” 

“Thanks, Roy,” says Sally.

“Right you are.” 

Sally walks slowly down to the Ladies’ Fashion department thinking that her day has been much more eventful than she anticipated. Now, though, she’ll have to explain her run-in with Mr. Stevens to Sylvia, who, she warrants, will not be best pleased. Oh, well, at least there is a chance of a little boy being reunited with his toy elephant. 

The rest of the afternoon passes without incident: Sylvia, to Sally’s great relief, doesn’t mention the “Incident On The Stairs”, and Sally finds tasks to keep her busy until closing time. As she’s looking at her watch, wondering how long she has to go, a harried mum and beaming boy clutching a small grey elephant come up to her.

“Are you Sally?” Sally nods, smiling. 

“Thank you ever so much for finding Nellie. Poor James has been beside himself, thinking she was gone for good.”

“Oh! I’m so pleased that you found her, I…” She is interrupted by an announcement comes over the tannoy: 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, Selfridges is now closing. We thank you for shopping with us and take this opportunity to wish you a safe journey home and look forward to seeing you soon.”

“Thank you again,” says the mum, you’ve been very kind.”

“My pleasure,” replies Sally, and she means it. 

Sylvia

Sunday, October 15th, 1978

Sylvia’s alarm goes off at 7am. “Ticker” she calls it. Dreadful clock, she doesn’t know why she keeps it. She has to put it in a sock and keep it in her bedside drawer so that the relentless “tick” (no “tock”) doesn’t keep her awake. Why she hasn’t replaced Ticker with a quieter model, she doesn’t know. Heaven knows she has a decent enough Selfridges staff discount to buy herself a top-of-the-range Goblin Teasmade. Wouldn’t that be nice? 

Sylvia looks at the ceiling and wonders where the cobwebs have come from. She yawns. Another job to add to the list. She also wonders why she gets up so early on a Sunday when she could lie in. Habit, she supposes. Church doesn’t start until 9.30, so she has plenty of time to languish in bed but she just can’t do it. And besides, Sol will be wanting his morning walk before long. She looks at Ticker. “Right. This won’t get the babe a new bonnet”, she says, quoting her mother, “best get the tea on.” 

She takes her dressing gown from the back of the door, shuffles her feet into her slippers and goes down stairs. Sol raises his head from his dog basket under the stairs. “Morning Sol,” says Sylvia, and ruffles his silky ears. Sol pulls himself out of bed follows her into the kitchen. Sylvia puts the kettle on and opens a can of Pal. “Beef today, Sol. That’s your favourite!” Sol doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t have much of an appetite these days, being quite an elderly dog, but he wags his tail and takes a few bites to show willing. Sylvia looks out of the window as she waits for the kettle.

It’s a grey, foggy October morning, and she can barely see the other side of the street. “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” she thinks. Goodness, she can remember her schoolgirl Keats after all these years! The kettle boils, and Sylvia makes her tea. It’s one of her small daily rituals: a couple of spoonfuls of Fortnum and Mason’s best Breakfast Tea in a proper china teapot, and poured into a proper china cup with a proper china saucer. She takes her tea upstairs and changes quickly, since Sol needs a little stroll in the mornings to get going, as does Sylvia. She takes the lead from the hook by the front door and Sol pads after her, down the stairs and into the street. 

Sylvia lives in a four-storey block of flats close to Putney Heath. Built in the 1960s, they are not particularly beautiful to look at, but the location is perfect. She and her husband moved into their flat not long after they were built, and three years later she kicked him out. Well, not kicked him out, exactly, just showed him the door after he confessed to having an affair with a woman at his tennis club. She’d guessed as much; fortunately, they’d managed to part on civil terms. Also fortunately, her ex-husband had the decency to be generous with the terms of the divorce and she’d been able to buy him out. Not easy on her sales assistant’s salary, but she’d scrimped and scraped and made it through. Nowadays, she lives in relative comfort; the mortgage has been paid off, and her only expenses (apart from Sol’s vet bills) are on occasional weekends away and trips to the theatre or ballet. Sol plods along, his arthritic hips slowing him down; they take their usual circular route along the street and back. Sol has trouble with the stairs (no lift, sadly), so Sylvia scoops him up and carries him the rest of the way. 

Back home, Sylvia pours herself a second cup of tea, and Sol laps up some water, before returning to his dog basket. Sylvia settles herself on the sofa and spreads out the Sunday newspaper, which has been delivered whilst they were out. Still rumblings about a possible Autumn general election, car workers at still on strike and still no further news about that poor newspaper boy who was killed. Sylvia sighs, puts down her reading glasses and takes her tea upstairs. She has a quick wash and ties up her hair into her distinctive bun. She is sure she could do this blindfold, given that she has worn her hair this way for a good twenty-five years. Having “performed her ablutions” as her grandmother used to call it, she sits at her bedroom mirror and applies a her make up. A little eye shadow and mascara, a touch of blush and a smidgen of Dior lipstick (again, thank Heavens for the Selfridges discount). 

Sylvia loves her job at Selfridges. She’s worked her way up the ranks and is now the floor manager for Ladies’ Fashion. Never a dull moment - just yesterday they had a visit from the General Manager, Mr. Stevens. And there was that adorable little boy who was re-united with his lost stuffed toy. Sylvia even enjoys her daily commute into town on the Number 14 bus. Fifty minutes to read a book or just watch the world go by. Sylvia loves a good mystery: Ruth Rendell and Inspector Wexford are her favourites at the moment. Thankfully, the wonderful Miss Ford at Putney Library always sets the new ones aside for her. At the moment she is ploughing her way through The Far Pavilions, but she can’t say that she’s enjoying herself. She keeps loosing the thread of who’s who and what’s what in British India, so the pavilions are indeed far and getting farther. But, she’s not one to give up on a book once once she’s started, so she will soldier on to the end. 

Sylvia doesn’t much want to go to church today, but since she always feels better for it, she decides to make the effort. On her walk there (Holy Trinity Wandsworth, common-or-garden Church of England) it begins to rain. The clouds looked quite menacing as she left the flat, and she’s glad she brought her umbrella. As she sits in her regular pew, hooking her umbrella over the one in front, she takes a long breath. She takes in the familiar smell of old books and incense and checks the board at the front to find out which hymns will be sung this morning: numbers 143 and 238. The vicar, Reverend Williams, is not the friendliest of men (which seems odd, given his vocation), but he does know how to chose a good hymn: one that everyone knows the words to, and can sing along with gusto. Today’s choices are no disappointment: “Thine be the Glory” and “For the Beauty of the Earth.” 

Not a bad crowd in today, either, she notes. It’s been a couple of weeks since Harvest Festival, and there are still some chrysanthemums and dahlias left over to brighten up the place. The service starts, and Sylvia focuses on the liturgy, letting her mind be carried along with the readings and psalms. She prays sincerely for the Queen and government, for herself and her nation. At the end, she retrieves her umbrella, shakes hands with Reverend Williams at the door and walks home, feeling more hopeful about the world. 

As she walks through the front door, she calls a greeting to Sol and then puts the kettle on for another cup of tea. Or perhaps she will treat herself to a small glass of sherry. Too early, perhaps? Sol patters into the kitchen, wagging his tail. He sniffs his food bowl takes a couple of bites, and then retires back to his bed. “Not too dissimilar you and I, are we, Sol?” Sylvia pats his head and tucks his blanket around him. Back in the kitchen, she looks in the fridge for something for lunch. 

Like Sol, she doesn’t have much of an appetite. Growing up, Sunday lunch used to mean a roast with all the trimmings, but these days she prefers a baked potato or beans on toast. Her mother would have a fit if she knew, but since she’s been dead these twenty years, Sylvia reckons she’ll get away with it. She opts for cheese on toast: perfect comfort food for a dreary October Sunday. She spreads the newspaper out on the dining table as she eats her lunch, accompanied by Radio 3 and Sol’s light snoring. As she wipes the corners of her mouth with a napkin (Irish linen, Selfridges), her phone rings. Odd. She rarely gets calls these days. Perhaps Miss Ford has a new book for her? But the library is closed on Sunday, so it can’t be that. She picks up the phone. 

“Sylvia Markham speaking”

“Ah, Mrs. Markham. There you are. It’s Mr. Stevens here. Sorry to disturb your Sunday afternoon.”

“Oh! Mr. Stevens. How nice of you to call, I ––” 

“Yes, yes. Indeed. I have a rather urgent request, which can’t wait until tomorrow morning, I’m afraid.”

“How can I––?”

“Well, this is all very hush-hush. Mum’s the word and all that.”

“Of course.”

“Excellent, excellent. Well you see, we are having a special visitor tomorrow, coming in early for an appointment before the store opens, and I shall need you and Mrs. Clarke on hand to assist.”

“It would be my pleasure, Mr. Stevens. What time will you need me there?”

“Around 7.30am. I know that’s a very early start for you, Mrs. Markham, but I’ll be sending a car for you at 6.45 so that you don’t have to worry about public transport.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Stevens. That’s kind of you.”

“No - thank you Mrs. Markham, I know I can trust you to take very good care of our visitor.”

“And, um, may I know who our mystery customer is?”

“Yes, indeed. Didn’t I mention that? Princess Anne. Needs to find a couple of outfits for various occasions this winter, opening hospitals and visiting universities and what-not.” 

Sylvia nearly drops the phone at this point, but manages to respond without sounding as panicky as she feels.

“Oh! How wonderful. It will be my pleasure to assist as best I can.”

“Excellent, excellent. See you tomorrow, then.”

“Bright and early. Thank you for calling.”

“Not at all. Good-bye, Mrs. Markham.”

“Good-bye” 

Sylvia slumps on to the sofa, not entirely sure whether she just dreamed the last five minutes. Princess Anne. “Goodness me, Sol, who would have thought it? A royal customer in my department!” Sol puts his head up for a moment at the sound of his name, and then goes back to sleep. What to do first? So much she must prepare and very little time to do it. She must give Joyce Clarke a call. That’s the first order of business. Joyce is not only her second in command, she’s also an expert at alterations, and there may well be some needed. And then, of course, she must decide what to wear. Best make a list, once she’s called Joyce. She picks up the phone and dials the number.

“Joyce Clarke.” 

“Ah, Joyce, my dear, sorry to call you on a Sunday, but I have some news that can’t wait…” Sylvia relays her conversation with Mr. Stevens. 

“…so you see, Joyce, I’ll need you in early tomorrow, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

“Oooh, so exciting!” says Joyce, “I’ll have my pins and tape-measure at the ready.”

“Splendid. See you at 7.30am sharp.”

“Looking forward to it!”

“‘Bye, then.” 

Sylvia puts the phone down and hurries up stairs to start her preparations. She lays everything out in the spare bedroom, so that she doesn’t have to rush in the morning. The Chanel dress is a given: black wool crepe that won’t crease too much in the car. New pair of black tights and black-and-white houndstooth silk scarf. Not quite Hermès, but it will do nicely. Her shoes have recently been re-heeled (thank goodness!) and she’ll wear her gold and pearl brooch that belonged to her great-aunt. Perfect. She inspects her nails. Not too bad, but she gives them an extra file and buff, and touches up her French Manicure nail polish. She adds a clean white cotton hanky (dabbed with Chanel No. 5), and sets out her makeup in a row on her dressing table. When it is all done, checked and double-checked, she runs herself a bath.  As she relaxes in the warm, soapy water she imagines the day ahead. “Yes, indeed” she thinks to herself, “I love my job.”

Joyce

Monday, October 16th, 1978

Joyce is a bundle of nerves. She is doing her best to stay calm as she brushes her hair.  Her husband brings her a mug of coffee and a couple of slices of toast. “Here you go, you’re going to need to keep your strength up if you are going to meet a princess!”

“Thanks. I just need to get my suit on, and then I’m good to go,” she says, as she pulls back her hair with a black velvet Alice band. She adds a dab or two of Rive Gauche behind her ears and dusts a little blush to her cheekbones. “There. Now, where did I put my glasses? I had them here a moment ago…”

“In the bathroom, Joycie, where you left them!” 

“What would I do without you?” Joyce laughs, and takes her suit out of its protective cover.

She nearly fell off her chair when Sylvia told her Princess Anne was coming into the Ladies’ Fashion department at Selfridges. Even more surprised that the visit was the very next day. Joyce is not sure whether that is a good or bad thing, but on balance, it has meant that she hasn’t had time to fret about what to where or how the visit might go. Not even time to get to the hairdressers for a wash and set. She needs to get her skates on as a taxi is coming to pick her up in a few minutes. She takes a moment to drink her coffee and have a few bites of toast before heading downstairs. 

“How do I look?” she asks her husband, checking her reflection in the full-length mirror. 

“Perfect. Fit for a queen, if I say so myself. Now, have you got everything?”

“I think so…um…let me check,” Joyce digs around in her handbag: “keys…purse…handkerchief, glasses.”

“Watch?” 

“Oooh, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on!” Joyce dashes up the stairs to retrieve her watch, just as the doorbell goes. “Coming!” she calls out, and runs down the stairs and out to the waiting taxi. And then runs back to give her husband a quick kiss goodbye. “Good luck, Joycie” he calls after, chuckling to himself. 

The traffic into town is not so bad, and Joyce is grateful that her taxi driver is not one of those chatty types, so she can focus on the day ahead. She’s already got a few ideas for outfits that might interest the young princess. Although, now Anne is a mum, she may be looking for something more practical, more mumsy? Nothing worse than getting a toddler’s sticky fingers all over your best dress. Not so strange, then, that she would want some off the rack, ready-to-wear clothes this year? Well, whatever she needs, Joyce is sure that Selfridges will have it. Plus, Joyce can get the alterations done in a jiffy. Perhaps she will need some scarves and gloves as well? Silk scarves are in fashion right now and Princess Anne does like to wear headscarves - just like her mum - Joyce has the seen the photos in Woman’s Weekly at the hairdresser’s. 

Joyce picks up a few accessories from the ground floor on her way up. “Let’s see…” she says to herself, picking out some colourful silk scarves and butter-soft leather gloves to match. As she walks up the stairs to the first floor, Joyce is met by Sylvia, who has been pacing back and forth.

“Ah! Joyce, my dear, there you are. Oh! And you have collected some scarves and gloves on your way - splendid. I’ve pulled out some outfits to get us going - let me show you.” 

Sylvia leads the way over to a clothes rail next to the changing rooms. There is a wide selection: outdoor jackets and a couple of coats, several winter suits and dresses, as well as some separates that might take the Princess’ fancy. Joyce works her way through the rack, appraising each piece, trying to imagine the Princess wearing it to a public function. “Perfect,” says Joyce, “I’m sure the Princess will be thrilled.”

“Let’s hope so,” says Sylvia, straightening the collar on a jacket, “let’s hope so…” 

The lift doors open and a petite, blonde woman steps out. Behind her is Mr. Stevens, closely followed by a serious-looking bodyguard and an equally serious-looking assistant. Mr. Steven’s introduces Princess Anne to Sylvia and Joyce. They curtsy in unison, Joyce wobbling a bit, and trying not to blush. The Princess gives them a perfunctory smile.

“Are these the clothes?” The Princess points to the rack. 

“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” says Sylvia, “just a few items that might interest you. A starting place, if you will?”

“Good,” the Princess replies, and starts to flick her way through the rack. She pulls out a navy peacoat with brass buttons. “Hmm. Not bad. Thoughts, Robertson?” She holds it up for her assistant. 

“Very smart, Ma’am.” The Princess shoves it back. She pulls out a blue tweed skirt and a high-necked blouse and holds them against herself, looking at her reflection in the mirror. 

“This season’s Jaeger collection, Ma’am” says Joyce, suddenly finding her voice, “the shorter length is all the rage…” she adds, hopefully.

“I don’t need all the rage. I need working clothes,” snaps the Princess, and puts them both back. 

“How about this red tweed by Pringle, Ma’am?” suggests Sylvia, holding up a striking trouser suit, “practical and hardwearing, plus it’s a gorgeous colour.”

“Ghastly,” the Princess replies, barely glancing at the offending piece. Sylvia blanches, and puts the suit back.

“Perhaps you could show Her Royal Highness the winter coats? I believe there was a lavender one you thought might appeal?” asks Mr. Stevens, helpfully. 

“Oh, yes, here it is, Ma’am, Aquascutum, beautiful lightweight wool, warm and cosy,” says Sylvia, showing the Princess. 

“Hmmm. Possible.” She tries it on. “Robertson?” Robertson nods and makes encouraging “mmm” sounds. The princess inspects herself in the mirror. “Not bad. But completely impractical with the baby.” 

The rest of the appointment goes in a similar vein. No matter what Joyce, Sylvia and Mr. Stevens suggest, nothing is acceptable. After half an hour of the same suggest-try-dismiss routine, the Princess and her entourage leave empty-handed. Not so much as a pair of gloves. 

Joyce and Sylvia are left wondering where on earth they went wrong. Sylvia crumples onto a chair, her head in her hands, whilst Joyce starts to pick up the discarded items, returning them to their proper places, although she barely knows what she is doing. She carefully places the beautiful lavender coat back into its protective cover and hangs it up with the other new season’s coats, sad that it did not get the consideration it deserved. She gathers up blouses and skirts, carefully returning them to their rails, disappointed that none of them were of any interest. She hangs up the derided red tweed. Such a shame: fabulous colour and cut, Joyce was sure that it would appeal. The lift bell pings: Mr. Stevens has returned. Joyce can’t quite read his expression: somewhere between grim determination and barely contained fury. Sylvia struggles to her feet.

“Ah, Mrs. Markham, please don’t get up on my account”, Mr. Stevens says, patting her on her shoulder. Sylvia sits down again.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Stevens,” she begins, “I just don’t understand what happened. I can’t quite believe it. I am so…..” 

“Mrs. Markham, and you, too, Mrs. Clarke,” Mr. Stevens says, addressing Joyce, “did the very best you could. You have done Selfridges proud. You acted knowledgeably, professionally and courteously and there is absolutely no need to apologise. I shall be contacting Miss Robertson later this morning to discuss what happened here. In the meantime, I suggest you both get yourselves a nice strong cup of tea, and prepare for opening.” 

And with that, he turns tail, leaving  Joyce and Sylva looking at each other in bafflement.

“Well, I never…” says Joyce.

Sylvia struggles to articulate her response: “I don’t…I just…he thought…I should…”

“Well, we still have half an hour before opening, so let’s go and get that cuppa, shall we?” 

Sylvia nods meekly and the two women make their way to the canteen for a well-earned cup of Tetley’s.

Just before the store opens for the public, Joyce re-applies her lipstick and puts on her game face. Monday at the Ladies’ Fashion department unfolds in much the same way it always does: Joyce assisting Sylvia where she can, helping customers with alterations and, amazingly, only forgetting the location of her spectacles once (they were on her head), although she still can’t find her tape measure. 

At the end of the day, the two of them place the dust covers over the rails and racks ready for the next morning. They collect their coats and handbags from the staff cloakroom, say their goodbyes at the door and go their separate ways. Sylvia sets off for the bus stop, but Joyce decides to take the scenic route to Baker Street station. She needs the twenty minutes or so to clear her head and have a think. The day has been so busy, she hasn’t been able to process what happened in the morning. 

As she walks along, she thinks about all the lovely clothes and accessories that Sylvia had chosen, and the more she thinks about it, the more she cannot fathom what went wrong. The lavender coat was stunning on the Princess, and the red tweed (had she taken the time to try it on) would have looked a picture. No, she just can’t work out how it all fell apart. Perhaps Mr. Stevens will get some answers, but she doubts it. Miss Robertson didn’t seem the sort to divulge any royal secrets or feel the need to explain the Princess’ attitude. Joyce is still none the wiser by the time she reaches home. 

“Hello! I’m home,” Joyce calls out as she comes in the door and hangs up her coat. Her husband is watching the news on the TV, but gets up to turn it off. “Well, how did it go? I’ve been dying to know how you got on.”

“Dreadful. Complete disaster. She hated everything…even the lavender coat…” Joyce ’s voice trails off and starts to cry. 

“Oh, Joycie, I’m so sorry.” He puts his arms around her, consoling her as best he can.“Why don’t I nip down to the chippy and get us a nice bit of cod, and we’ll see if we can’t make you feel better.” He puts on his coat. “I’ll be as quick as I can. You put your feet up and I’ll be back with supper before you know it.” He gives her a hand a quick squeeze and heads out. Joyce drys her eyes and pours herself a small glass of sherry. She takes a couple of gulps and then puts out the plates and cutlery, grateful that she doesn’t have to think about cooking supper.

Over fish and chips, Joyce and her husband discuss the morning’s events.

“So, Mr. Stevens wasn’t upset with you?” 

“No - that’s the funny thing. I thought I was going to be sacked on the spot, but he was really nice about it all.”

“Sounds like he thought the Princess was bang out of order as well.”

“Yes, but why? What was the matter? Why would she be so…so…horrible to us? 

“Dunno. Didn’t you say she has a baby?”

“Yes - Peter. Not even a year old, I don’t think.”

“Well, there you go then. Perhaps she’s just worn out.”

“Even so, I just can’t imagine why she would ask for an appointment and then not buy anything. And treat us like dirt under her feet.”

“Perhaps you caught her on a bad day. Who knows? Can’t be much fun being a royal. I know you get to live in a fancy house and have people wait on you hand and foot, but it must be like living in a goldfish bowl, everyone poking their noses into your business.”

“I suppose so, but there is no need to take it out on us for Heaven’s sake.”

“True enough. I’m sorry, Joycie. But, don’t you go thinking you are no good at your job. You’re the best there is.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” 

Alice

Tuesday, October 17th, 1978

Alice is on the Number 36 bus on her way to work. It takes about an hour or so from her flat in Camberwell Grove, but she enjoys having the time to herself to catch up on some reading and watch the world go by. There’s nothing like the views of London that you get from the top of a double-decker bus. It’s a grey October morning, and the city looks grimy and down-at-heel. Always does, this time of year, thinks Alice. 

Not a lot happens in October: kids have been back at school for weeks, so Summer holidays are a distant memory and it’s a quiet season at Selfridges before the Christmas excitement begins. As a rule, Alice prefers to do life at breakneck speed, always busy. However, her journey to work is the one hour of the day when she likes to take her time. 

Alice enjoys working in the Ladies’ Fashion department at Selfridges. It’s a good team. Sylvia runs a tight ship and the other members of staff are easy enough to get along with. Plus, they have a peach of a Saturday girl. Alice likes to think of Sally as a girl after her own heart: works fast, keeps busy, looks after the customers, always goes above and beyond. 

Alice hasn’t always been a Senior Shop Assistant, although she’s always been in retail, starting with an after-school and weekend job at her parents’ newsagents. Her mum used to take her “up to Town” from time to time to visit a museum or do some shopping. Alice had absolutely loved it, and dreamed of living in her own fabulous flat in Mayfair, spending her days shopping on Bond Street and taking a stroll in Hyde Park. 

Leaving school at sixteen, she worked at her local Boots in the cosmetics department, where, truth be told, she spent most of her time trying out the lipsticks and the nail varnishes. After that, she worked in a shoe shop for ten years. She didn’t much care for the work: squirming children getting their feet fitted for Clarks or silly women trying on seven pairs of shoes and buying nothing. 

All the while, Alice lived at home with her parents. Although they appreciated the rent money and her company, they always wanted more for her. Alice will always be grateful that her parents were more forward-thinking than many of their generation: her mum had worked in a munitions factory during the war, and had never wanted her daughter to get stuck at home as an unpaid care giver to elderly parents. So, when Alice saw the ad in the local paper for shop assistants at Selfridges, her dad helped her write an application letter straight away. She’s never looked back. 

Of course, she started at the bottom of the ladder, running errands in the Haberdashery department. Boxes of scissors here, armfuls of cotton poplin and silk taffeta there. She worked in the Food Hall for a couple of years (not her favourite department at Selfridges, it has to be said, although she can effectively slice off a quarter of a pound of cheddar if called upon). She even did a stint with Roy in Lost Property. But for the past fifteen years she has been happily ensconced in Ladies’ Fashions. 

Sadly, she never did get that flat in Mayfair, but the small apartment that she rents in Camberwell suits her fine. And although Mr. Right never did turn up, (there were several Mr. Wrongs), Alice is quite content. Her parents are now long gone, but she thinks they would be happy with how things turned out. 

Alice can’t wait to hear how the appointment went with Princess Anne: Joyce called on Sunday evening to tell her about it, but didn’t call last night to fill her in on all the details. She was probably tired. Such a shame that Monday was Alice’s day off, so she didn’t have a chance to be a part of the excitement, although with Sylvia and Joyce leading the charge, she would hardly be needed. What those two don’t know about ladies’ fashion isn’t worth knowing. 

She wonders what the princess might have bought? She flicks through the pages of the latest Vogue. At 75p it’s one of Alice’s little luxuries that she allows herself from time to time. It will have to be Spam fritters rather than lamb chops for supper, but she is happy to make the sacrifice. She smiles at the “Selfridges naturally…” advertisement next to the contents page. Gorgeous Vera Reisser dress - shame it is in black-and-white, the real thing is quite lovely.  

Always a page or two of royal tittle-tattle in Vogue; this time it’s an engagement portrait for the future Duke and Duchess of Westminster. Alice frowns at the photo of the beaming couple. “Goodness me,” she thinks, “that blouse is shocking.” The high-necked, purple satin number is so severe that the poor soon-to-be-duchess’ head appears stuck to her fiancé’s shoulder. Someone should have told her. Joyce would. She might seem absent-minded and flighty to some, but she will always advise the customer honestly, especially when she knows they are about to make a fashion faux-pas. Sylvia would expect nothing less, come to think. 

Alice thumbs through the pages, coming to her favourite part: the fashion photo shoot. She laughs out loud. How appropriate: the photos show a model in cowboy boots and Spanish riding hat. She can’t help but imagine Princess Anne in some of the outfits, although those shoulder pads would probably not be Her Royal Highness’ cup of tea. 

The bus rumbles on through the morning rush-hour, and Alice hops off at Marble Arch. She marches quickstep to the staff entrance of Selfridges, using the back streets to get to the store, far from the madding crowd and tourists going at snail’s pace. She deposits her coat and handbag in her locker, and takes a moment to re-apply a dab of rouge to her cherubic cheeks and readjusts a couple of pins in her French pleat. The final touch is the addition of her trademark rhinestone clips - a present from a long-departed Mr. Wrong. Terrible table manners, but excellent taste in jewellery. “You’ll do,” she says to herself in the mirror, and makes her way up the marble staircase to the first floor. Although Alice is no spring chicken, and has got rather “broad around the beam” (as her mum would say), she can still zip up the stairs without getting out of breath. Years of practice, she thinks. Sylvia is on the floor already, removing the dust covers. 

“Morning, Sylvia!” Alice calls as she makes her way over to the cash desk, “how was yesterday?” Sylvia smiles half-heartedly in acknowledgement and continues with her task. 

Odd, thinks Alice, but, knowing Sylvia, she’ll chat when she’s ready. Joyce arrives, gives Alice a small wave, and then disappears into the alterations room. 

Curiouser and curiouser, thinks Alice. Clearly, yesterday’s appointment did not go to plan. Best not to ask and leave it to Sylvia and Joyce to tell her about it when they have a moment. 

Alice busies herself at the sales desk, checking that everything is in order. She straightens out the yellow plastic bags and smoothes the pile of tissue paper. Sylvia has already set the cash register up for the day, so all she can really do now is wait for the store to open. 

Alice’s day jogs along nicely. She has lunch with Sandra, one of the store detectives. Sandra has always got a story to tell, although she always changes the names to protect the guilty.  Sandra has heard rumours of the royal visit, but Alice has got nothing to offer. “Not a dicky-bird, Sand. Sylvia and Joyce have barely said three words to me all morning. I dread to think what happened.” 

Alice has just enough time to wolf down a bowl of soup and a cheese sandwich, before she pops to the bank for some cash before her lunch hour runs out. She nips into the Midland Bank and gets in the queue, writing her cheque for “cash” as she stands in line to save time. Being a stickler for good customer service, she is irritated by the two bank tellers who are chatting away to each other as they work. When she gets to the front of the queue, Alice hands over her cheque and asks for two five-pound notes and a ten. The teller nods briefly, and carries on his conversation with his colleague. Alice can feel her mouth twisting in frustration. 

“How would you like your cash, Miss?” Asks the young man. 

“If you had been listening to me instead of discussing last night’s football with your chum you might know already. Two fives, one ten.” 

The teller blushes, and hands over the correct cash, mumbling a “Sorry.” 

“So I should think,” says Alice, and turns on her heels. She is out of the door and half way up Oxford Street before the man can say, “Next customer.”

Back in the Ladies’ Fashion department, the afternoon plods by. Tuesday afternoons are often quiet in October, so Alice spends some time cleaning out the drawer of the cash desk. All manner of clutter has accumulated over the months: half-used biros, safety pins, a packet of Polo mints and various scraps of paper. Alice goes through the detritus, chucking most of it in the bin. Once the drawer is tidy, she takes some time to go through the coat hangers that have piled up in a large cardboard box behind the counter. She sorts them into their various categories and removes the plastic size tags. That job completed, she refills the stapler and replaces the till roll, even though the pink line has only just started to appear. 

Sylvia and Joyce have been tight-lipped all day. Sylvia gave a one line answer to her query (“Fine”) and Joyce, unusually, has spent most of the day hidden away, sorting out stock and arranging alterations. Alice decides that discretion is the better part of valour and lets the matter drop. Sylvia and Joyce will tell her all about it if, and when they want to. Alice is glad to hear the, “Selfridges is now closing…” announcement on the tannoy, and, with no customers in sight, she begins her closing routine. 

On the bus home, Alice doesn’t feel like looking through her Vogue magazine; she ponders the days’ events. She feels sorry for Sylvia and Joyce. Obviously the appointment with the Princess went horribly wrong, and they don’t want to discuss it. Such a shame. She noticed that Mr Stevens, the store manager, came down to have a brief conversation with Sylvia in the afternoon. Alice was too far away to hear what Mr Stevens was saying, but he didn’t seem to be reprimanding her - quite the opposite. Sylvia nodded and took it all in. After he left, she had a short tête-à-tête with Joyce, and then carried on as usual, just quieter and more withdrawn. 

Going over Vauxhall Bridge, Alice watches the lights of the barges making their way down to the dockyards, as they have done for centuries. Funny how kings and queens (and princesses) have come and gone, but the Thames continues on its way, unimpressed and unperturbed. Perhaps that’s a good way to respond to those people who believe themselves to be a cut above the rest of us? “Gosh, there’s a deep thought for a Tuesday evening”, thinks Alice, and opens her copy of Vogue.

Sandra

Wednesday, October 18th, 1978

Sandra is watching and waiting at the fragrance counter. There’s a young woman who has caught her eye. Shortish, late teens, strawberry blond, chiffon headscarf. She’s not your usual Selfridges customer, which is why she stands out. Plus, she is watching the staff, not the merchandise: another red flag. 

Sandra is trying on a couple of fragrances - well, not actually trying them. She has perfected the little act of (not) spraying perfume on to her wrist, smelling it, making a face and putting it back, all the while keeping her eyes on a suspect. When she first started, she would spray on several different fragrances for real, but came home “smelling like a tart’s boudoir” according to her mum. So now, she pretends. Apart from the Chanel No. 19, which she loves. The teenager she is watching thinks better of it, and continues on towards Haberdashery. Sandra makes a quick call to the control room, that has a bank of grainy TV screens relaying CCTV from around the store. “Hi, Jeff, yes look out for a girl in Haberdashery…just been watching her in Perfumes. Teenager probably, raincoat, headscarf. Can you see her?” 

“Not yet”, replies Jeff, “but I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks, Sand.”

Sandra goes back to her undercover work, continuing through the cosmetics section, working on her pretend browsing technique, always on the lookout for thieves and pickpockets. She manages to avoid young Jackie, who is spraying unsuspecting customers with a new after-shave that is on promotion. Jackie knows better than to try that with Sandra: the last time she gave Jackie a piece of her mind when she met her in the staff cloakroom. Hasn’t got the sense she was born with, that one, thinks Sandra. 

She follows an elderly couple for a few minutes until they reach the lift. She’s noticed the old woman’s handbag is open, asking for the nearest pickpocket to help themselves. She discreetly points the situation out to the lift operator who gives her a wink to let her know that he’ll have a word. Sandra finds it incredible how many people will wander around a busy department store with their money in easy reach of a pickpocket. The worst are the young tourists, who leave their valuables in their backpacks, and then wonder why their stuff has vanished into thin air. But, today is pretty quiet, although it will soon be half-term, which seems to be the cue for mums to bring their little darlings up to London to see the sights and shop on Oxford Street. 

Sandra’s been a store detective at Selfridges for a few years now and she’s a dab hand at spotting a shoplifter or pickpocket at 50 yards. Not that difficult when you know what to look for. Shoplifters at Selfridges are a constant nuisance, but Sandra and her team of co-workers do their best to keep the losses at bay. The main thing, she has learned, is to blend into the background, so that would-be thieves don’t notice her. This is fairly easily achieved since Sandra has little to distinguish her. Average height, neither thin nor stout, she has the kind of face that doesn’t stand out in the crowd, which is exactly what is needed. She does, however, dress like a Selfridges customer, with a smart raincoat, large leather bag and fashionable pumps. As a result, shoplifters pay her no heed, until, of course, she puts a firm hand on their arm and calls Security.  

Sandra moves on to the gloves and scarves, taking an interest in the new colours for Autumn. Pretty. Perhaps she will get a silk scarf for her mum for Christmas? That Selfridges discount really does come in useful. She carries on her way, scanning the customers for any outliers. 

It’s quiet today, so she is not expecting much action; thieves work best in crowds. Christmas can be a nightmare, but Selfridges brings in extra security for the couple of weeks beforehand and then again afterwards, for the Boxing Day sales. Sandra loves the store at Christmas. Selfridges seem to outdo themselves every year. She remembers coming up to town with her parents to see the Christmas windows at Selfridges when she was a kid, staring in wonder at the magical displays. Sandra wonders what the theme will be this year, although she has caught glimpse of several giant nutcrackers. Last year it was pantomimes: Cinderella, Jack and the Beanstalk, Mother Goose…marvellous. Mind you, it takes a small army of window dressers and designers the best part of a year to put it together. 

Sandra continues on towards the hosiery section. Always a favourite with opportunist  shoplifters: grab a handful of nylons and make a run for the nearest exit. So annoying. Anyway, today the coast seems clear, but Sandra notices someone lurking in a corner, behind a pillar. The big coat is the giveaway this time. Granted, its mid-October, but it’s not that cold, and that coat must be three sizes too big. Sandra fakes an interest in the sheer stockings, whilst keeping aware of the Coat Woman’s movements. Still lurking. 

Sandra moves on to the thick tights, flipping through the different sizes, paying not a jot of attention to the products but checking for movement out of the corner of her eye. She doesn’t need to wait long, as Coat Woman makes her move, snatching as many packets of tights as she can and stuffing them into her coat pockets. 

Unfortunately for her, Sandra had already guessed the Coat Woman’s exit route and blocks her way, right by the doors, so there is no question that she intended to leave without paying. She tries to dodge, but Sandra is too quick for her, and swiftly has her firmly by the arm. As discreetly as possible, she guides Coat Woman to the Security office. 

Sandra waits with the shoplifter, while Jeff (Head of Security) calls the police. Meanwhile, Coat Woman wails about how she took the tights by mistake, and that she forgot to pay.

“Heard it all before", says Sandra, “best you save your breath to cool your porridge. The police are on their way, you can tell them all about it when they get here.” Coat Woman scowls and folds her arms. “No use getting shirty with me, dearie, I saw what you did.” 

The police in question, WPC Jennings and PC Marshall, turn up faster than Sandra was expecting, since they’d been finishing up another shoplifting call at John Lewis. Jennings takes one look at Coat Woman and rolls her eyes: “You again, Mavis? What have you been up to now?” 

“Nothing”, huffs Mavis, “I was going to pay…” 

“Yeah, right,” says Jennings, opening her notebook, “Well, you're in serious trouble now, Mavis. We let you off with a warning last time, but now we’ll have to take you down to the station.” Mavis puffs out her cheeks and scowls some more. 

“We’ll take it from here, thanks, Sandra,” says Marshall, taking Mavis by the arm, “we’ll drop by later for a statement.”

“Fine by me,” says Sandra, “I’ll see you later.” Sandra picks up her bag, tightens her raincoat and heads back into the store for some more fake shopping. 

At lunchtime, Sandra meets up with her friend, Alice. Over ham sandwiches and a couple of custard tarts, they chat about their respective mornings.

“Silly woman, going around in a coat the size of a two-man tent, what did she think was going to happen?” says Sandra, “She’s in hot water now, and no mistake. All for six pairs of 20 denier.”

“Never ceases to amaze me,” says Alice, “the trouble people get themselves in for no good reason.” She considers this thought as she savours the last mouthfuls of her custard tart. 

“Anyway, I’d best get on. They’ve been having trouble in the toy department and asked me to pop up there to see if I can help. See you later.” 

Sandra places her tray in the rack and heads to the staff cloakroom for a quick touch up of her lipstick and powder before the afternoon shift. She takes a moment to look in the mirror. Not bad for forty-three, she thinks, a few grey hairs appearing, but she’s not in bad nick. She ties a headscarf round her chin and puts on some gloves. Somehow that makes her feel a bit more mumsy, more in character for the toy department. 

Weaving her way through the Sindy dolls and Lego, Sandra wonders about what she might get her niece for Christmas this year. She’ll need to call her sister-in-law since she can never remember how old Tracey is. Six? Seven? Something like that. She should really write it down. Sweet little girl: button nose and cute pigtails. Loves rabbits and anything pink. Everything is quiet, “More like a library than a toy department,” Sandra thinks to herself, although the place will be packed next week with the school holidays. She decides to go down to the second floor: lingerie and swimwear - another stop on her usual rounds.  

This time of year, there is always more lingerie than swimwear: lots of granny nighties - floral flannel affairs that Sandra would not be seen dead in. And tartan pyjamas. “Who wears tartan pyjamas?” Sandra wonders as she heads towards the bras and knickers. 

As she passes the Triumph section, the advert plays in her head: “Triumph has the bra for the way you are…” Sandra smiles to herself, and hums the catchy tune as she does a little browsing through the boxes of bras. As she does so, she notices a man hanging around the Playtex section. Not so unusual around Christmas or Valentine’s Day. Also not unexpected if he is trailing after a wife or girlfriend. He is not making eye-contact with any of the other customers or sales assistants, but that may be down to discomfort. (Precious few men who can confidently stride through a lingerie department, Sandra has noted.) Definitely something off with this one, she reckons, and moves towards the swimsuits section to get a better view. 

The man is quite tall - she can see him over the top of the racks of underwear - middle-aged, glasses, ill-fitting toupee. Nothing that remarkable about him, apart from looking shifty in the Lingerie department of Selfridges. She watches as he moves towards the nightwear, and carefully, checking to see if anyone is watching, he helps himself to several silky nighties and stuffs them in his coat. Sandra is almost impressed: the man has the skill and the nerve to carry off such a feat. But, he wasn’t banking on Sandra, who is now watching where he goes, to see if he is going to walk past the cash desk without paying. 

She follows him, curious to see which route he might take to make his getaway. Unfortunately (well, fortunately as it turns out), he does a quick shoulder check and spots Sandra. For some reason (Sandra never does find out) he decides to hang on to his ill-gotten gains, rather than dumping it there and then, and makes a run for it. He doesn’t get far. It seems that Playtex “Cross Your Heart” bras really do lift and separate: the man trips over the display, is airborne for a second or two and then parts company with his hairpiece, which misses Sandra by inches. He lands, in a tangle of bras and knickers, like something from a TV sitcom. 

Sandra can’t help herself, and dissolves into giggles. As do the two shop assistants who come running when they hear the commotion. 

“Well, sir,” says Sandra, composing herself, “you’ve got yourself in a right pickle. Best get you up and make sure you haven’t broken anything.” 

The man blinks a few times and struggles to his feet. Sandra carefully hands him his toupee, which he sets on his head. Backwards. As luck would have it, at this moment, PC Marshall and WPC Jennings step out of the lift. 

“Ah, there you are, Sandra,” says Jennings, we were just coming to find you. Looks like you might need our assistance.”

“He’s all yours,” says Sandra.

Roy

Thursday, October 19th, 1978

Roy is sorting through the pile of items from the previous day. The Lost Property (and Lost Persons) department, on the 4th floor of Selfridges, is always busy. It never fails to surprise Roy just how absent-minded folks can be. First job of the day is to catalogue any items brought up to Lost Property overnight by the cleaning staff - all manner of goodies left in the changing rooms and toilets. 

“Now, what do we have this morning?” Roy asks no-one in particular. Three umbrellas: two black, one floral. He makes a note on his clipboard. Those will go with the rest of Roy’s Umbrella Collection, which gets donated once every couple of months to charity. Next: one set of keys, with a note from the cleaning staff: Found in Ladies WC, (3rd floor). “Best write a tag for these”, thinks Roy, “looks like a set of house keys - someone will be back looking for them.” He takes a fresh brown luggage tag and writes down the details:

Description: Two Yale house keys, brown leather fob with sun design

Found: Ladies WC, 3rd Floor, Tuesday, 17th

Date: Wednesday, 18th October, 1978

Found by: Cleaning staff 

Roy places the keys in a box under the counter and moves to the next items. Roy likes to work at his own pace: “Slow and steady wins the race” is his motto. From his years at Selfridges he knows there is a story behind every piece of lost property, and he likes to do what he can to reunite the owners with their belongings. He carries on resolutely through the remaining items: one pair of sunglasses (yellow), four pairs of reading glasses (his record is 12 in one day) and a man’s watch. 

Having recorded and stowed these, his next task is to catalogue the purchases that people have left behind - some from Selfridges, others from shops on Oxford Street. He usually gets anxious phone calls about those not long after the store opens: “Did anyone hand in a John Lewis bag with a red jumper in it? I think I left it in the ladies’ loos….” Today he only has three: two Selfridges and one Debenhams, collectively housing two pairs of tights, a pair of socks, a wall clock, a bar of soap and an electric blanket. “It’s like the Generation Game,” Roy says to himself as he labels and stores the items, putting on the announcer’s voice: “And on the conveyer belt tonight we have: a men’s watch…an electric blanket…a wall clock…a bar of soap…” No cuddly toy, though. But he did have one of those on Saturday. Made his day to see that picked up by a little boy, watching his face turn from pale and frightened to a great big beaming smile. 

Roy has worked in lost property in one form or another for twenty years. He used to work for London Underground, but prefers the smaller set up at Selfridges. He’s worked his way up the ranks and is now Manager of Lost Property. And not just Lost Property: he’s responsible for Lost Persons as well, which are usually husbands who have been shopping with their wives on the ground floor and have got themselves turned around. Or kiddies who have lost their mums and dads: they’re often brought up to Roy so he can put a message out on the tannoy:

“Could the mother of Michael Gregory please come to the Lost Persons department on the 4th floor where her son is waiting for her? Thank you.”

He’s noted that husbands are very grumpy with their wives when they are finally claimed: “Where the bloody hell have you been? I’ve been stuck here for 20 minutes!” But children are always overjoyed to see their parents. And parents their children. Nothing worse than losing your kid in a big shop like Selfridges. Roy can still recall what it felt like to lose his lad on the beach at Blackpool for what seemed like an eternity. He found him after a frantic search, happily patting the donkeys and feeding them sugar lumps without a care in the world. So when he can reunite a kid with their parents he couldn’t be happier. Best feeling there is. 

After twenty years he can safely say he has seen it all. The stories he could tell - especially about the unmentionables that people leave behind and never, ever claim. Those get wrapped in newspaper and buried at the bottom of the bin, under no circumstances are they to see the light of day again. People are strange, that’s all he can say. 

Roy puts on his small transistor radio, always tuned to BBC Radio 2. That Terry Wogan is very good company, he reckons. Chirpy chappy, makes the day jog along a bit faster. The phone rings. “Selfridges Lost Property” he answers. 

“Oh, sorry to trouble you. My husband thinks he may have left his watch in the Gents yesterday - took it off to wash his hands…”

“Could you describe the watch for me, Madam?”

“It’s quite plain, really, just a regular round face and a black leather strap, but it is engraved with his initials: RJM. Does that help?”

“Do you mind holding? I think I might have that here….” He checks the back of the watch handed in overnight. “Yes, yes, I have your husband’s watch in my hand, just as you described.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, thank you so much. He will be pleased.”
“All in a day’s work, Madam. Now, do you want to come in and collect it, or would you like us to send it back to you?”  

“I’ll come and get it later today, if that’s alright?” 

“Of course, Madam. I’ll have it ready for you. Now if I could just take down your details….”

Roy goes to the back office to put on the kettle. Now that he has cleared the overnight arrivals, and found a home for at least one item, he can take a moment and make a cup of tea. Milk, two sugars, in his favourite “World’s Best Dad” mug, a Christmas present from his son. It makes him smile. He’s proud of Kevin, who is in his last year at secondary school. “Done well, that boy, though I don’t know where he gets his brains from,” he tells Stan,“must be on his Mum’s side.”  Kevin is even talking about applying for university. Well, that would be a turn up for the books. As he waits for the kettle to boil, he decides to tackle the pile of umbrellas that is taking up an inordinate amount of space in the storeroom. “Time for you lot to go,” he mutters, wrestling an armful of them, “can’t have you cluttering up the place if your owners don’t want you back. Now, don’t you go taking it personally, I’m sending you to where you can do a bit of good.” He places them in a cardboard box, seals it up with tape and writes on the top: Charity - umbrellas x 25. He’ll give the box to Stan when he next sees him. He makes a note on his clipboard to remind himself. The kettle boils, and he makes himself a nice cup of PG Tips complete with two Rich Tea biscuits (his favourite). 

The rest of the morning is taken up with the usual fare, but just before lunch he gets a call from Sylvia in Ladies’ Fashion:

“Hello Roy, Sylvia here. I have quite the situation going on. I have a mother her who is absolutely beside herself. She’s lost her little girl called Anna, and I’m wondering if you have her?”

“Sorry, no, Sylvia. But let me take some details and I’ll keep an eye out.” Poor woman, Roy thinks to himself. Only have to turn your back for a minute and they’re gone. Hopefully someone will see her wandering and bring her up to Lost Persons. 

He goes to his office and opens up his sandwiches: cheese and pickle today. Not his favourite (that would be ham and mustard) but not bad at all. He opens his newspaper to the sport section. Not that’s he’s particularly interested in the football or the racing, but the news is so grim these days what with strikes and politics he’d rather not read it. His lunch completed, Roy decides to take a short stroll; he leaves a sign saying, “Back at 1pm”, and makes a quick exit. He likes to take a walk around Manchester Square on his lunch hour, just to stretch his legs and get some air. Today the weather is not too bad: cloudy, but no rain forecast. But then, if he needed an umbrella, he’d have plenty to chose from. 

Roy is always surprised how quiet the streets are, once you get away from the hustle and bustle of Oxford Street. Just a couple of streets back and there’s hardly a soul about. Sometimes he’ll go to the Wallace Collection (marvellous museum, free admission) and pay a visit to his old friend, The Laughing Cavalier. Who isn’t actually laughing, Roy always tells people. Smiling, perhaps. At any rate, the painting is a favourite of his, and Roy likes to compare his “collection” to that of Lady Wallace’s. Today, though, he wants to get back to his office to see if Anna has turned up, so he hurries on, leaving the enigmatic soldier for another day. 

Roy takes the lift to the 4th floor; as he passes the toy department, he wonders if he shouldn’t take a quick scout, just to make sure Anna hasn’t found her way up to the doll’s houses and teddy bears. The department is not that busy, and all the children he encounters are with their mums or dads. Well, it was worth a shot. 

He goes back to Lost Property and removes the sign at the front. Whilst he was out, a package has been left for him: a yellow Selfridges bag containing a length of cotton fabric and a Butterick pattern for a flouncy skirt. He takes off his jacket, puts on the kettle, and writes out a tag for the item, placing it on the shelf behind the counter before making himself another cup of tea. 

The phone rings. “Selfridges Lost Property.” Roy picks up a pencil and his clipboard. “Two men’s dress shirts…white…and you think you lost them last Friday?’ he makes a note, “in a Selfridges bag with the receipt, right…could you spell that for me? C––h––i––s––h––o––l––m…m for mother? Got it. Mr. Chisholm…and do you have a number I can reach you on…?” 

As he notes down the number, and repeats it back to the shirtless Mr. Chisholm, he sees a large pair of brown eyes and a pink Alice band appear above the counter. “Thank you, Mr Chisholm I’ll be in touch….” He peers over the edge of the counter and sees a small girl staring back up at him. He smiles. “Now, you wouldn’t go by the name of Anna, would you?” 

Stan

Friday, October 20th, 1978

Stan is checking the goods lift. It’s his first job of the day, to make sure the lift is in tip-top working condition, clean and ready for use. He gives the hinges of the expandable gate a couple of drops of WD40, and shines up the panel with a touch of Brasso and a duster. “There, that’s better,” he surveys his work, “start as you mean to go on.”

If Stan is asked about is job he always gives the same answer: “It has its ups and downs.” Given that he is the goods lift operator, this is not surprising. He’s done the job for a good few years, and has seen several General Managers (the “Guvnors”, as he calls them) come and go. Mr. Stevens is not so bad. He lets Stan get on with his job without too much interference. His job, on paper, is relatively straightforward: making sure goods are conveyed to all the departments in a safe and timely manner. Most deliveries are run-of-the mill: boxes of merchandise to fill the racks and shelves throughout the store. The furniture department has its own storeroom on the 4th floor, so at least he does not have to manoeuvre huge pieces of furniture in and out. 

Today, he has a couple of sizeable crates for cosmetics and perfumes on the ground floor. It’s where a good portion of Selfridges profit is made, so Stan always prioritises their deliveries, much to the irritation of Sylvia in Ladies’ Fashion on the 1st. He bundles the crates into the lift, carefully closes the double gates and presses the button for “G”.  He is met by Jackie, the Senior Sales Assistant on Perfume, who guides him through to the Dior counter. Jackie opens the crate with delight, as if it is Christmas morning. Never fails to amaze Stan how twelve cartons of fancy perfume can have that kind of appeal. 

“Thanks, Stan. You’re a marvel,” says Jackie. 

“If you say so,” says Stan, and whisks his dolly back to the lift, whistling as he goes. 

He doesn’t like to hang around on the sales floor, as he might have to interact with customers. He’s happy enough having a chat with the sales staff or window dressers, but he generally likes to keep himself to himself and avoid customers at all costs. It’s not that he doesn’t like customers per se, well, they pay his wages, so he has to like them, really. No, it’s all the, “customer is always right” and bowing and scraping that goes on. Rubs him up the wrong way. Stan doesn’t think the customer is always right at all, in fact, from what he sees, customers can be very wrong. But he keeps shtum about all that, preferring his own company and getting his work done without any fuss. 

Back in the storeroom there is a new delivery from the warehouse for Ladies’ Fashion. He puts in a call to Sylvia: “Hello, Mrs. Markham, (Stan never calls Sylvia by her first name), “I have a large delivery for you….yes, woolies and coats, I think…yes, I can bring it up to you straight away…yes, I’ll be there in two shakes.” He steers the boxes into the lift and shuts the gates, pressing “1” with his elbow as he steadies his cargo. 

Although well into his fifties, Stan is as fit as a butcher’s dog. He was an amateur boxer in his youth, and still maintains his thickset stature. He might be on the short side, but he can hold his own. “Wouldn’t want to meet you in a dark alley,” Roy often jokes. Truth be told, Stan would rather avoid any physical altercations, preferring to walk away from a fight than to step in and knock seven bells out of an opponent. 

As he steps out of the lift on the first floor with Sylvia’s boxes, he’s greeted by Alice, who directs him to the store room, as if he doesn’t know the way. He says nothing, nods and smiles and drops off the goods as requested. Perhaps Alice thinks he’s forgotten, after all, he’s only made deliveries to the Ladies’ Fashion department every working day for more years than he cares to remember. Although, he reasons, Alice, who loves to be busy, is probably bored witless on a quiet Friday morning. Probably gave her something to do. “Thanks-so-much-Stan-that’s-good-of-you,” says Alice, at her breakneck speed. 

“Think nothing of it,” says Stan, wheeling his dolly back to the lift.

Back at the storeroom, he finds a note requesting a delivery to be taken to the Toy Department on the 4th. Huge boxes of Meccano and Lego sets are waiting to go up. Stan loads them on to the lift without any trouble, and trundles them over to their final destination. While his on the 4th, he drops by Roy to pick up a box. 

“Time for a cuppa?” asks Roy.

“Best be on my way.”

“Mind how you go.” 

Roy hands over the box of umbrellas destined for the charity shop. It’s one of Stan’s side projects - to keep track of the items for charity. He’s somehow become the go-to person for finding homes for stuff that would otherwise go to waste or be thrown away. Some of the out-of-date food goes to the homeless shelter in St. Martin-in-the-Field; lost property items that have not been collected for a couple of months get sent to various charity shops. Staff members also drop items into him that might find a good home - only last week Joyce passed on a couple of her husband’s old winter jackets. 

Stan tries to divvy up the goods as fairly as he can: some to Cancer Research, some to the RSPCA, some to the Salvation Army. He finds it hard to see the men sleeping rough under the arches at Embankment on his way home, wondering what might have happened to him if he hadn’t taken up boxing as a kid. Somehow the manager at the gym turned a scared and mouthy teenager into a half-decent boxer, instilling some much needed discipline and hope into his young life. Without it he wonders if he would have been able to hold down a full-time job, and might have ended up like those poor blokes he sees making homes out of cardboard and a couple of blankets, dependent on whatever charity handouts they can get to keep going. 

Stan’s next job is another delivery for the Ground Floor: several boxes of accessories - scarves, hats and gloves ready for the Winter season. As he is just about to close the doors, Sandra, knocks on the outside. 

“Any chance of a lift to the Ground, Stan? Jeff has spotted a bloke in Haberdashery acting strange. I’d best go and take a look.”

“‘Course, Sand. Hop in.”

The Ground floor is busy with customers - the Friday lunchtime rush of office workers doing some shopping on Oxford Street before returning to the suburbs for the weekend. Stan delivers the boxes and gives Sandra a half-wave as she heads towards Haberdashery. He manages to dodge Jackie, who is busy promoting a new after-shave and spraying unsuspecting gentlemen in her path. “Silly girl,” thinks Stan, reasoning that there are precious few men who would fall for that move. But, as he further reasons, customers are a strange lot, so perhaps Jackie will be in luck. 

He takes the lift back down to the storeroom, to see what’s next. Joan, one of the window dressers is grappling with a couple of mannequins. 

“Give us a hand, would you Stan? I need to get these up to Ladies’ Fashion quick smart.”

“‘Course, Joanie,” says Stan, refraining from any mannequin jokes - Joan has heard them all before, thank you very much. Between them, they manage to get the mannequins into the lift, and then out on to the shop floor, where, according to Sylvia, they will be decked out in the latest tweed and cashmere ensembles for discerning ladies of a certain age. Stan helps Joan set them down, while Sylvia directs the traffic: “Ah, a little to the right, yes….and if you can move her right arm slightly forwards…yes, and then move the other one’s leg further back…” Stan leaves them to it and returns to the sanctuary of the storeroom.

At lunchtime, Stan takes a break from the Selfridges canteen, and treat himself to a swift half and a pub lunch at the Three Tuns. This is his usual Friday routine, something to celebrate the end of the week and the start of the weekend. The landlord has poured his half of lager before he reaches the bar: “There you go, Stan, your Friday usual. What’s it to be for lunch? We’ve got a nice steak and kidney pie or do you fancy a ploughman’s?” 

“Pie and chips, thanks,” says Stan, taking a seat at the bar.

“Coming up.”

“Cheers. Your very good health,” says Stan, raising his glass to the landlord. 

Stan likes to sit at the bar. He can have a chat with the bar staff, or just watch the world go by. Both suit him fine. The homemade pie hits the spot, and Stan takes the long route back to Selfridges’ staff entrance, enjoying the quiet of the back streets. Just the afternoon to go, and then he has the weekend to relax and put his feet up. 

Back in the main storeroom, Stan makes himself a mug of coffee, and checks the list for the afternoon deliveries.  Three boxes for Ladies’ Fashion (what do they do with it all?) and half a dozen smaller ones for Cosmetics. Shouldn’t take long, but he’ll have his coffee first, since he still has a few minutes of his lunch hour left. He’s not the sort of man to watch the clock, but fair’s fair. He’s worked through his lunch hour often enough, eating a sandwich on the go, so he reckons he doesn’t owe Selfridges any time. 

Up on the first floor, he and Joyce rearrange boxes in the storage room to find some space for the new arrivals. Job done, he collects the dolly, and makes his way back to the goods lift. He hears the commotion at the cash desk before he sees it. A man and a woman giving Alice a dressing down over something, he can’t quite work out what. Poor Alice, she doesn’t deserve to be spoken to like that. 

He stops to see what will happen, curious to know if Sylvia will intervene. She does. Sylvia tries to remonstrate with the increasingly loud and increasingly irritated couple. Alice is now crying. Well, that’s no good, making a grown woman cry. Sylvia is trying her best, calm and quiet, but these two are not going to be placated - in fact the man is now waving his fist at Sylvia. 

Now, that won’t do. Not at all. Stan leaves his dolly and walks over to see if he can be of any assistance - not that Sylvia can’t hold her own, it’s just that he’s known this type before: weak, brutish men, who enjoy intimidation and pushing people around.

“Can I help, Mrs. Markham?” Stan asks. 

The man swivels, his face flushed and angry: “Who the hell do you think you are?” 

Stan ignores him. “That’s quite alright, Stan, I can manage from here, thank you,” says Sylvia, her voice wavering a bit. 

“You sure?” Says Stan, addressing Sylvia and ignoring the man, “it looks like your customer here is getting quite hot under the collar.”

At this point, everything goes in slow motion. The man, who is a good six inches taller than Stan, grabs him by his lapels and starts yelling and swearing at him. Before he knows what he’s doing, Stan lands a decent left hook on the customer’s chin. The man staggers a bit and slumps on the floor. For a couple of seconds there is silence. And then there is pandemonium, which is finally sorted out when Jeff from Security and PC Marshall arrive on the scene. 

Later on, sitting in Roy’s office, Stan tries to piece together what happened. “I just didn’t like that customer being so rude to Alice and Sylvia, and when he starting shaking his ugly fist at them…well I wasn’t having it, Roy,” he looks down at his bruised knuckles, “he won’t be doing that again in a hurry, and no mistake.” 

“I think you are right, Stan, I think you are quite right,” replies Roy, smiling at his friend.