Goodmans of Glassford Street Read online

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ she kept telling herself firmly. ‘Nothing at all.’

  2

  After unlocking the big front doors, the next thing Norman McKay did at eight o’clock sharp each morning was switch off the burglar alarm. The lights were then turned on, and then he let the cleaners in. He had been at the shop from just before eight. It was always a strange atmosphere at that early hour – empty, quiet, ghost-like. He found it depressing, especially now that he was so worried about his wife. The cleaners trooped in, then disappeared upstairs to hang up their coats and collect their buckets and mops and other equipment. The lift clanged. Then there was silence again. He was left gazing bleakly at the vast expanse of counters and glass cabinets. He turned to peer into the blackness of Glassford Street. Soon he heard the sharp tattoo of the store detective’s high heels.

  ‘Good morning, Mr McKay.’

  He looked over his spectacles at her.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Eden.’

  Miss Eden was a woman in her forties – a neat, attractive brunette when she arrived, but she could change her appearance very quickly into a shabby woman in a padded coat, headscarf and flat-heeled shoes. She disguised herself as an elderly woman by wearing spectacles and a smooth white wig pinned back in a bun. Or as a housewife clutching a purse and shopping bag. Or someone in a denim skirt and coloured shades. She could be all four on the same day. And if it rained during the day, she put on a raincoat and went out for a few minutes to get the coat wet so that she could blend in more believably with the customers. It was arranged that she came in at different hours each day but always reported to Mr McKay in his office if her arrival was later in the day.

  There was a security guard in uniform as well. He mostly just stood at the door, or hovered somewhere nearby. Miss Eden went all over the place. She saved the store a lot of money. By Scots law, two people had to stop the suspected thief, and it had to be outside the shop, so the security guard always helped Miss Eden with that.

  The staff began to arrive and Mr McKay wished them all a polite good morning. Then he greeted Mrs Goodman, who was always early, a very conscientious woman. Long may she last, he thought. He didn’t trust Douglas Benson. Jobs would be at risk, he felt sure, if Mrs Goodman gave up and Benson took over. But Mrs Goodman looked fit and well, thank goodness. She was a shapely, pretty woman with blonde hair, obviously dyed to hide her grey, but why not? His wife still struggled to look her best despite her debilitating illness. The hairdresser came to the house now to ‘touch up my roots as well as give me a nice shampoo and set’, as she always said. Dear Jenny. Always being cheerful. If only he could do more to help her.

  Determinedly he swallowed over his distress, adjusted his spectacles, and concentrated on the next arrivals. After a time, Mr and Mrs Benson entered. He gave them the usual polite good morning. Benson nodded briefly and without interest. Mrs Benson gave a shy, nervous smile before lowering her eyes and hurrying after her husband. What a frightened little mouse she was. Not a bit like her mother. Or her brother, for that matter. He’d met John Goodman a few times when he’d called to see his mother and take her out for lunch. These were on his occasional free days from his Scottish Parliament duties. He was a really cheery, sparky type and an ardent Scottish Nationalist. Not a bit snobby either. He was always ready for a chat. Usually taking the opportunity to remind everyone to vote SNP, of course. But it was usually just a brief, throwaway cheery line before he left. Nothing prolonged or heavy. Everybody liked John Goodman.

  He went round all the departments, checking that every department was adequately staffed and no one was off. Sometimes it meant drafting someone in from another department. Thankfully, he discovered everything was all right. He would have to repeat the procedure when the part-time staff came in. For the present, the staff were all accounted for and busy tidying, replenishing the fixtures, and dusting. Everything that nobody had had time to see to the previous night.

  Quite often, because he was the keyholder, he could be called out in the middle of the night. He never knew what was going to happen. It could be a broken window or a fire, perhaps. The police were always in attendance when he arrived at the shop in response to a phone call, and if it was a theft or a burglary, the police went in first. Or at least they always had a dog with them and they sent the dog in first. Not thinking, he often stepped forward to open the door with his key and go in himself. He obviously did not realise what might have happened if he’d walked in then, they told him. He didn’t mind so much getting wakened in the middle of the night, but it did upset him to have Jenny disturbed or worried. If only they could have a nurse or maid or full-time carer who would live in. Or, even better, private medical treatment. He’d heard about a new drug that, if not a cure for Jenny’s type of cancer, certainly would stop it getting any worse and eventually killing her. It had even been claimed that it was a ‘miracle drug’ and could indeed cure the illness. But the treatment was only available in a special private nursing home and the cost was horrendous. He simply could not raise that amount of money. It was a big enough worry employing a daily carer, plus a cleaner. The carer had to be with Jenny every minute of every day. The cleaner cleaned the house and did the washing and shopping. He had tried to do more of the housework and shopping himself at first, the housework in the evenings and the shopping in his lunch hour, but it was too much. Anyway, Jenny liked him to sit with her.

  ‘I don’t see you all day,’ she pleaded. ‘I need to treasure every minute of your company while I can.’

  There was an ominous ring in her voice that told him she knew she was dying and they didn’t have much time left together. He denied it, of course. Both to her and to himself. In his heart of hearts, though, he knew it was true. She was going to die – unless he could find the money to pay for this new private treatment.

  A quick glance at his watch told him it was time to go upstairs to the usual morning meeting in Mrs Goodman’s office. It had become quite a tense affair, with Mrs Goodman in charge and talking with authority to the buyers and assistant managers, while for the most part Douglas Benson either openly disagreed with her or seethed in silence. The Bensons could have shared the big office with Mrs Goodman but she insisted that they remain based in their own smaller office room next door. He suspected that she was still clinging to the memory of her husband, and a fine man he was. No doubt she couldn’t bear anyone to sit in his large, ornately carved chair. No one else attempted to. Rows of ordinary chairs were brought in and lined up. Everyone in front of Mrs Goodman, the Bensons one on each side of her.

  This morning several of the buyers were not there. They travelled around a lot. Sometimes they bought stock from warehouses in Glasgow or elsewhere in Scotland, but as often as not, they went down to Manchester or Leeds or Nottingham or London to buy from the big wholesalers and manufacturers there. Mr Webster, the buyer for toys, often went down to South Castle-on-Sea.

  It was a lengthy meeting, with Douglas Benson getting his oar in as often as he could. Norman prayed that Mrs Goodman wouldn’t forget anyone’s name. It was something anybody could do, but it was obvious Benson looked triumphant when Mrs Goodman had a wee lapse of memory. He was trying to prove she was incapable. One of the main ideas he kept arguing for at every meeting was doing away with most of the counters and having stock, especially fashion, hanging on display for customers to rifle through and examine and take into the fitting rooms to try on. Then the customers could take the goods over to one central counter where they could pay. This, he pointed out, was done in every other department store now. True, but as Mrs Goodman said, they were not just another department store. They were different. They were special. They were Goodmans of Glassford Street and people came from all over, not just the city of Glasgow but further afield, to visit and purchase goods.

  But look at the money they could save, Benson argued. Yes, indeed, Norman thought. Most of the staff would be ruthlessly cut out for a start. Mrs Goodman reminded him that they were a
ll right as they were. And there was no denying that Goodmans of Glassford Street was not only famous, it was a very profitable business.

  After the meeting, Norman went along the corridor to the staff canteen for a cup of tea, before returning downstairs. On the way down, he phoned home on his mobile to check on how Jenny was. He was in the habit of phoning several times a day to ask the carer how his wife was. Sometimes, if Jenny was well enough and was not asleep, the carer would put her on the phone and she’d be able to answer his worried queries. Mostly, however, she was so sedated with painkillers, she was unable to talk to him. Sometimes, when he was at home with her, she’d open her eyes and look lovingly, gratefully at him and she’d manage a smile.

  He couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. Distress was mounting in him so much that he could barely speak to the chargehands of certain departments he’d purposely come down to see.

  The whole day was like that, a continuous struggle to carry on normally and control his fears about losing Jenny. It was a relief when at last it was time for him to make his first journey along to the bank. Some of the takings he carried in leather packets and satchels in a case to put into the bank deposit box. Several journeys had to be made and several different routes taken, and all at different times each day. This was on the advice of the police, who said that thieves soon found out if a regular time was used and so they knew when to attack. After that the times and routes were varied.

  There was still plenty of money left in the counting house, of course, to cover the floats he took down to each department every morning to be used as change for any customers who paid cash. Nowadays, though, so much was done either by cheque or plastic card.

  He already had an overdraft at his bank. He had a good salary. Nevertheless, it was a constant struggle to cover all the expenses he had. Every night he prayed for some miracle to happen that might make it possible for him to get Jenny into the special nursing home where she would be given the drug that would save her life.

  He prayed now as he walked blindly along Glassford Street.

  3

  Abi went along to The Granary for lunch as often as she could. It was a healthfood shop with a few tables dotted around and high stools at the window shelf. She especially liked their home-made soup and macaroni cheese. But they had a variety of other healthy and tasty dishes she could choose from, as well as sandwiches and cakes. She bought vitamins there too, and calcium tablets and an iron tonic and dear knows all what, in her efforts to remain strong and healthy.

  Ian, the owner’s son, served in the shop along with two or three pretty young girls. Ian was a tall, nice-looking young man, and always smiling, friendly and helpful. He was there when she arrived and greeted her with his usual cheery smile and ‘Hello, Mrs Goodman. It’s lentil or tomato soup today, and we’ve your favourite – macaroni cheese, freshly made just before you came in.’

  She ordered the lentil and made herself comfortable at one of the small tables. She never went to the staff canteen at Goodmans in case it made the staff uncomfortable and unable to relax on their lunch break. Douglas and Minna usually went to the restaurant at the Italian Centre. More than once, she’d tried to persuade Minna to have lunch somewhere with her but Minna just became agitated and said that Douglas didn’t like going for lunch on his own. She didn’t know where all the buyers went to eat. Often she felt sorry for their wives. Buyers were away from home, travelling about on business so much. The manager – for a panicky moment she forgot his name. Then it came back to her, thankfully – Mr McKay, used the staff canteen. She was very fortunate to have such a conscientious manager. Most of the staff were good, conscientious workers. Only occasionally was it found that someone was letting the side down. If it was dishonesty, usually another member of staff would give Miss Eden a hint. Then Miss Eden would watch them and eventually catch them, and they would be dismissed. Miss Eden was exceptionally clever at her job. Once she’d even caught a former security guard committing a scam. He always came in very early, carrying a bag in which he kept his uniform. After changing into his uniform upstairs in the staff toilet, he’d put his civvy clothes into the bag and reverse the procedure every evening.

  For a while, suits had been going missing from the menswear department. It was thought that men were going into the fitting room with perhaps three suits to try on and returning two, keeping the third on under their coat and leaving the store. Perhaps they knew how to remove the security tags. This had happened on several occasions. However, Miss Eden eventually discovered that the security guard was selling suits in a pub in Queen’s Park, and so one day she searched his bag and found a suit, as well as his uniform. He had been getting out of the lift at the menswear department every morning and lifting a suit, before proceeding further up to the top floor.

  After enjoying her lunch and a chat with Ian, Abi walked back along Glassford Street to Goodmans. She glanced further along across the road at the gay bar. She’d never actually seen anyone going in or out of there and she was curious. Did gay men look different, she wondered. Could you tell right away? She knew she was a bit innocent and naïve about some things. And all right, she might be a wee bit eccentric sometimes. But that surely didn’t make her stupid or mean she was losing her marbles.

  Oh, Tom, she kept thinking.

  The shop was busy as usual when she pushed open one of the glass doors and went in. There were metal gates in front of the glass doors that Mr McKay folded back on both sides like a concertina every morning. Every evening he clanged them shut and securely locked them. Mr McKay was standing talking to a customer at Books and Stationery, no doubt recommending one of the rows of novels on display. He had to spend a lot of time in his office every day, as she had to in her office, answering the phone and making phone calls, but he still tried to keep in touch with all the departments in person.

  Today she couldn’t be bothered tackling the stairs and instead caught the lift going up. She crushed in among a crowd of customers. The crush thinned out on each floor and only a couple of people were left to emerge on the third floor. She went up to the fourth floor. The lift door pinged and the soulless voice that always made her think of Doctor Who’s Cybermen announced, ‘Fourth floor. Doors opening.’

  She looked down the rather sombre corridor, doors breaking up the brown and cream wall at regular intervals. The parquet floor, dark brown with years of polish, clicked beneath her heels with metronome regularity as she headed towards the door at the end of the corridor. She cast a brief glance at the staff canteen on one side, as she passed the various offices, her tread slowing slightly as she neared Tom’s office. The office was suspended in silence and Tom’s empty chair reawakened the panic inside her that would never go away.

  Every night she went home to his empty armchair beside the white marble fireplace, above which was the gilt-framed picture of Tom’s father, the proud founder of Goodmans. The house, like the store, had belonged to Goodman Senior and she loved it as much as Tom did. The three padded armchairs and large sofa were all covered in pretty floral prints with a cushion on each chair and three on the settee, picking out one of the colours of the print material. At the moment, the cushions were in a warm rust colour. But there was also a set of pale green cushion covers in the linen cupboard. The ceiling was high, with ornate plasterwork in a pale cream like the curtains. The carpet was in a delicate shade of fawn, with a darker fawn fireside rug. It was a large room. So were the dining room and the kitchen and the five double bedrooms upstairs. The drawing room, however, was the most splendid-looking room, in true Victorian style. After a long tiring day at the store, she returned home and sank into her usual armchair beside the fire. The fire used to be alight and glowing with logs. Now there was an electric imitation coal thing in the fireplace. It looked completely out of place framed in such marble splendour, with the brass fender across the front and tall ornamental vases on the mantelpiece above.

  Heaving herself up, she went through to the kitchen to make herself a cup of t
ea. She couldn’t be bothered cooking anything and so she just absently crunched through a bowl of cereal. The evening stretched bleakly before her. She dreaded facing one of her CSI: Miami DVDs. She decided to go and visit the children. She felt a bit guilty at turning down the chance to be with them earlier. Douglas hadn’t been pleased then. Maybe he’d be all right now.

  It was a thought to trail away back into town. Even to travel there and back by taxi seemed daunting. Was she really getting old and tired? Sometimes she was tempted to sell the house in Huntershill and buy a flat in town. Near the store perhaps? That would save so much travelling to and fro. The house in Huntershill was so isolated, surrounded by trees and a wild garden of bushes and shrubs. Huntershill, of course, was famous because Thomas Muir had once lived in the area. He had been a reformer in the eighteenth century who had been transported to Australia, captured by pirates en route and ended up fighting in the French Revolution.

  The sensible thing would be to sell up and buy a flat in the city. Moving house would be a terrible upheaval, though, and it would be such a wrench leaving this old house that had always meant home to the Goodmans.