The Way of Ordering Gets A Bit Tricky
Julia had tried to clean up the samples, but they'd just turned into warped dish clothes. With a whiff of stomach reformulated prosecco still lingering over them. On returning to Randall's to place her fabric order she came holding her singular choice. The purpled bruise one - Malevolent Punch. Intending to blank anyone who dared ask where the other samples were. When she recollected Simone's less than wholehearted endorsement, her silicon enhanced boobs shivered. No, she reproved herself, this was the fabric she wanted. The oracle, on this occasion was simply wrong. Renewing her resolve, she crossed the portal into the other worldly realm that was Randall's.
The bell tinged with its usual genteel elegance. Though as she entered. Julia was met by the strangest sensation, reminiscent of an abandoned shipwreck. Even the echoes appeared lost. She called out.
'Hello, anyone here?'
No answer. Proceeding to bang the counter bell severely, almost to breaking point. in reprimand. She detected soft rustling noises and hushed voices in the back room. A young shop assistant was then propelled forth out of the back office and store room, as though being thrown to the lions. This was a new Saturday girl, and serving the lion that was Julia Goodall-Smillie would be her initiation ritual. The haberdashery equivalent of having your head forced down a flushed loo. Poor, poor Emily Louise, serving Ms Julia on your very first day.
Julia herself was bewildered - this was a petite child, not a grown up. Where was the emaciated stuck up adult she'd spoken to before?
'Who are you? What were you doing out there, making a three course lunch? Where's the usual woman I deal with here?
'Er yes, no... em... Emily.......I was checking.... stock, em, who do you mean? I mean what was their name?
'I don"t know - expressionless pasty face,late thirty ish, fair haired, tight bob, twice your height, very very lean, like a stick. Look, is there a manager or owner I can talk to? An adult, basically.
'Until midday there is just me and Bethany. Its Ms Treadwell's day off and Mrs Randall's gone into town to pick up her son from the station?
'And Bethany is?'
'The other girl who works Saturday's. She's been here a bit longer than me. I've just started....... today'
Julia's eyebrows tensed. Her mouth crinkling with irritation. This was going to be hard. Was she up for coming back this afternoon? No, that was something she was not inclined to do. Oh fuck it, let's give the children from kindergarten a go.
'Do you think Bethany could come out too?'
Emily Louise shuffled in her court shoes quickly through to the back. Reemerging with a taller willowy girl, with the deportment of someone well trained in maintaining that floaty upright walk and poise a ballet dancer has. Creating the impression of self possession with vast amounts of confidence, largely unwarranted. Public schooled - obviously.
'You're Bethany I take it, I need you to order this fabric. Are you capable of doing that.?
Yes, What fabric would you like to order?'
'It's this one here, I've brought the sample. It has everything on the back you need to know. Here are my notes and measurements on the window size and the drop I require. Could I just leave it and when Mrs Randall returns she could phone with the estimate and likely completion date later'
'I can take your order if you don't mind waiting'
Julia, became quietly fascinated in observing Bethany slowly filling out the order form. Heavily pressing down in the clearly composed rounded printing that was her writing. It was taking far too long. But Julia was taken aback by her own level of patience. There was something mesmeric about watching the girl write with such neat precision. There ought to be an award for it. Bethany let out her held breath, a sharp exhalation signaling completion. Handing the biro written original to Julia as if it were a literary triumphe, and filed the carbons in the 'To Order' lever arche., saying:-
'Mrs Randall will be in touch should there be anything else required, about the deposit, total cost and estimated time for making them. Is that OK.?
Yes, that's fine. You know who I am, my address and contact details?'
'Oh yes, Ms Goodall-Smillie - we know'
The 'we know' came out wrapped in a little too much cockiness, so Bethany smiled, with all the beatification she could summon. Hoping this might effectively camouflage or at least soften the backlash. Luckily the customer barely noticed. She was halfway out the door.
As Julia left she caught in her peripheral, the two girls doing high fives. Conspiratorially giggling together, hiding their wired teeth behind their small doll like hands. She smirked. - Youth!
Margot returned to her shop with her nerves like tense runways, torn to absolute shreds. Picking up her son had turned into one enormous nightmare, the traffic, the difficulty parking, delayed trains, changes in platform. Compounded by her bad tempered unappreciative conceited little pig of an offspring. A chip off her former husband, he was the son. who took for granted all her good hearted motherly services. When she heard Julia Goodall-Smillie had been in, her heart sank further. Exclaiming exasperated -
'Oh, that's enough !
She grilled the two girls extensively about exactly what they'd said, done and agreed to. Luckily Bethany had had the experience and wherewithal to handle it. The curtain order was at least very legible. What a relief.
The fabric company, Retinal Hemorrhage, when she phoned to place the order, seemed frankly to be off their tits on drugs. Far too droll and lackadaisical for her liking. Interspersed with a lot of very knowing metro-sexual sniggering. Maybe it was her generation, but whenever she a spoke on the phone to such self amused London men, it was invariably hard to ascertain their gender. Even if they sounded gay, they might well be as straight as a poplar tree.
She decided to pay up front in order to obtain a speedy delivery. The fabric arriving by the end of the week. This gave plenty of time for the curtains to be made up. As she handed the job over to her seamstress Francine, she apologised for the distastefulness of the fabric's subject matter. Urging her to do the best she can, because it was for Ms Goodall-Smillie. Francine bit her bottom lip.
What Margot wanted was no cause for complaint from that quarter. A cascading litany of other words - that cow, bitch, trollop, harridan, angrily stomped across her mind without being given voice. Decorous language in front of staff was so important to maintain. Her cat, an Egyptian Maus called Ozymandias, was accustomed to absorbing all her pissy vitriol. It was, needless to say, highly strung.
Francine had made up curtain orders for Randall's for decades. They used her constantly, were decent with her, paid on time and well. Self employed, she worked entirely from her cute stone faced cottage. Investing over the years in a modern half underground sewing room built out the back. Ideal for the cutting and running up of curtain fabrics. The first thing with any new fabric was to familiarise herself with it. Check it over for printing faults, misalignments, wayward or unusual patterning. Basically areas that she'd need to avoid or work carefully around. It was hard to tell with this one. This fabric was just weird in every way possible.
The impressionistic nature of the design, meant it appeared to visually shift. Shuddering on first handling. It felt alive in her hands, with its blue bruised veining, the sulphurous yellow halos on its skin like textured surface, all very unnerving. The filigree gold lines spread out like delicate slug trails, suggesting the outlines of eyes. As she did the preliminary measuring, these appeared to be checking her out.
Trimming the fabric to size turned into major surgery. Once cut, it started to literally bleed colour onto anything it lay upon. The heavy dye load required to obtain the rich deep indigoes and purples in the fabric was unstable. It probably wasn't fixed much, or at all. The colour transferred so easily, even on light handling. Already she'd had to scrub surfaces and her hands several times. In the end. resorting to covering her table with plastic sheeting and wearing silicone gloves on her hands. Not great to do anything in, let alone sew. But she didn't want fingerprints cropping up all over the place, especially transferring onto other customers fabrics. What an expensive disaster that would be.
She phoned Mrs Randall to inform her. What should she do? Margot had the tricky task of ringing Julia to inform her. Expecting a huge eruption, she wasn't taken aback when Julia did explode, though she appeared to be not at all concerned. What she said was:-
'Fucking hell woman, once they're hanging up who the bloody well will care. Just do what I'm ruddy well paying you for. Don't come bleating to me about a minor pernickerty detai
Francine completed the job with her trademark efficiency. Continuing to take an extraordinary amount of care with the handling. Keeping the curtains wrapped in plastic at all times when not working on them. Once finished and left on the Customer Order shelf in Randall's stockroom, Margot noticed how warm the curtains felt to the touch. Even as they lay there you could see a heat haze rising off them. She'd be overjoyed the day she could hand them over to Ms J Goodall-Smillie.
These curtains had the potential to be big trouble, she just knew it.
Curtains My Dear, Curtains
EPISODE 4 - A Handsome Delivery Man Helps With The Hanging Up
Will be posted Friday 28th January 2022
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