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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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The Grand Magazine, August 1921, with "The Sham Shop"
WHEN the miracle happened to Day Henson her surprise petrified her to dumbness. She knew that miracles happened in the Bible; she believed that they were supposed to happen at Lourdes; but she was sceptical that the whole course of Nature could be reversed in London in the beginning of the 20th century.
Yet—
Wilfred Gibson had offered her a seat in his car.
Gibson was an unassuming-looking individual, who faded away when you caught him in a strong light. Had you met him in the street you would have bracketed him in the same group as the lamp-post and the pillar-box; whereas Day was young and possessed of beauty, which gained her the instant admiration of men and the dark suspicion of women. Moreover, the rain was falling so heavily that the spatter rebounded foot-high from the pavement. As final touching details, Day had thin-soled shoes and no umbrella. Yet the offer of a ride, which on the surface would seem merely a decent, charitable action, was an actual miracle to the girl by reason of this fact:—
Wilfred Gibson was one of the great ones of the earth. He controlled destinies. Like the centurion, he said, 'Do this,' and a horde of men endeavored to do it. He said, 'Go,' and a horde of women went—or, at least, started in the requisite direction. Day lived under the shadow of his uplifted thumb, owing him the debt of her existence, for she had been born about 20 years ago, and naturally had forgotten the original source.
To sum up, Gibson was the head of the great firm of Gibson & Co., wherein Day worked as a zealous and aspiring unit.
Gibson repeated his offer in his quiet, almost deprecating voice. 'Will you let me give you a lift?'
Day found her wits just before she recovered her tongue. She was a wholesome young person, but she had been reared on the moral lessons of novels and films. Gibson's behaviour represented but one aspect—overtures.
But the sight of the gorged buses reeling past decided her.
'Oh, thank you!'
She hopped into the car, trying to tread as lightly as a fairy so as to leave no damp smudge on the carpet—an ambitious essay for five feet eight.
'Where?' asked Gibson, as he followed her.
'Pimlico.' Day blushed for the whole of Pimlico. 'I'm afraid it must be dreadfully out of your way. Though, of course, it is quite near Buckingham Palace,' she added confusedly.
'I don't live there,' retorted Gibson.
The car purred onwards like a well-fed tiger. Day lay back in luxurious ease and watched the lights flash by, distorted by the steaming windows. It was like a dream, but she dreaded the shock of the awakening. So she tried to adjust the situation.
'This is exceedingly good of you. But I shouldn't have taken advantage of your—your kindness, if I hadn't forgotten my umbrella.'
'You don't forget habitually?' he asked sharply. 'If so, you ought to take a course of memory training.'
That touched Day in her sensitive spot—her business pride. 'I never forget in hours. And I don't know how to thank you—'
'It's nothing.' He cut her short. 'You should try to cultivate a sense of proportion. I would not let a dog run home in this weather. Although I plead guilty to placing dogs above most human beings.'
By that speech Gibson gained a loyal adherent and friend. For Day not only loved animals, but was able to settle down to enjoyment now that the compromising element was removed from the situation. In blissful content she waited until the Chief should again condescend to address her.
'What's your name?' he asked presently.
'Henson.'
'Never, been christened?'
'Oh! My Christian name is Ada.'
'Don't like it.'
'I'm so sorry. But I'm always called Day.'
'Ah! That's better. Makes one think of sun and glory and consummated promise. The dawn holds possibilities, but the day is achievement.'
Day's pretty mouth was wide open. She had hitherto regarded her name as conveniently short for marking on underclothes. The Chief continued his examination.
'Which department?'
'Toilet. I'm doing face treatment.'
'Aren't you very late?'
'A bit. But my head, Miss Ripon, is always much later.'
'Hm! Capable girl, very. You keep her before you.'
'Oh, thank you!' Day's face showed as though she had received a personal tribute.
'You like your work?' he asked.
'I love it. It's rather wonderful to me—a bit like a fairy-tale. A woman comes in, all yellow and lined and ragged. And you steam and massage and astringe, and she goes out all pink and plumped out. Pity it-does not last.'
'Mighty, good job it doesn't!' Gibson's voice was nearly sharp.
'Oh; dividends would drop and you would be out of a job. I like a kind heart, but it should always be yoked with common sense. And this is where I drop you.'
Day felt that he had already dropped her a million miles from the heights. But there was a wondrous glow at her heart as she knocked at the blistered front door. For upon parting the Chief had warmly shaken her damp-gloved hand. Just like a human being.
Punctuality was the rock on which the Gibson mansion in Park Lane was built. Therefore, Gibson explained to his sister the alteration in his routine which had made dinner seven minutes late. 'I went round by Pimlico to take one of the girls home.'
Miss Gibson elevated spectral eyebrows.
'An employee?'
'Yes. Day Henson. Under twenty five, I should say, About five feet eight. Technically flawless complexion. Fair hair—it's better left side than right. Grey eyes with brown flecks in the iris, giving the impression of being dark. Rather fluid brain, but seems keen on her work. Which is everything.'
'When did you find out Jill this?' gasped his sister.
'Within the first minute.' He preened himself. 'Part of my System. I intend to individualise and to know every unit I employ as a separate entity. I may control an important business which has to run like faultless machinery, but I am not actually a lever—neither is Day Henson a cog. I've decided definitely never to overlook the human standpoint.'
'That's very nice of you, Wilfred,' faltered Miss Gibson, who was a pure-minded woman, and consequently feared the worst.
Day had wonderful dreams that night. Her supper had consisted of a Welsh rarebit washed down by many cups of tea. Her imagination did the rest. All night long she was haunted by the face of the new Chief. Dark, rather moody, with a sensitive mouth. To Day's romantic fancy it was the presentment of a poet who has seen visions and dreamed dreams. That night, as usual he dreamed solely of business. After her early swim in the baths Day was inclined to regard her overnight adventure as some delirium. Yet when she arrived at the great shop and was donning her snowy overall, in preparation for the daily grind, she could not resist the temptation to preen her feathers.
'Did you get wet going home last night?' she enquired of her chief friend—Cherry Pine—a tart-tongued, sloe-eyed damsel.
'There was just a spot, I believe. Did I get wet? I mopped up the whole storm, like blotting-paper.'
'Poor you! I was rather in luck,' Day regarded the great bowls of bronze and purple tulips with a bored eye. 'The Chief took me home in his car.'
'Low company you keep. Now, the Prince of Wales wheeled me home in a wheelbarrow.'
'But honestly, Cherry! I'm not rotting.'
Cherry looked at her keenly. 'He took you home! What for?'
'Just kindness.' Day grew rather hot.
'And I'll tell you something else, which you'll find out, all of you,' for the group had been swelled by two more white-robed forms—'the new Chief's not like old Porpoise Gibson. He is a gentleman. And a lamb!'
'Stop talking, girls! Get ready for your appointments!' Miss June Ripon swept down them like an avenging goddess. She was a mature girl, with a beautiful figure, permanently-waved ashy-blonde hair, and a complexion which was a dazzling advertisement for the salon. She spoke in a deep voice, rather like that of a man or a formidable old woman.
'We are ready,' rose the aggrieved chorus.
'Then keep on getting ready! It's one maxim of business never to appear idle.' She turned to Day.
'A word with you, Henson, or rather—several. I overheard your remark about the Chief. Doubtless he would appreciate your loyalty. Let it stop there!'
'But—' Day's face was on fire. 'I—'
'You—you. Quite so. Remember that the toilet salon is but one department of the house of which the Chief is head. Remember your figure on the salary list—thirty-five shillings, and if you were worth more you'd get it.'
The recording angel passed the stupendous lie as sheer formula. 'Remember, also, that if you are pretty you could not walk up Regent-street without meeting half a dozen women prettier than yourself. That's all.'
She sailed away in response to a call from one of the telephone operators.
'Old Rip's got a special down on you,' said Cherry. 'Rotten your living in the same house!'
'We've separate rooms and she's decenter outside. Besides, she knows the business from A to Z, and can give me tips. I mean to be a hundred per cent, efficiency!'
A FEW days later the entire staff was emulating Day's standard, for the new Chief had instituted the order of the direct personal interest, and the girls' had all been granted a bonus on their appointments and sales. In spite of the stigma of her thirty-five shilling Day bad always been clever and keen. But she worked now with added concentration, for she worked especially for Gibson.
Disregarding Miss Ripon's hint, she wove her secret dreams around him. She was young, lonely and enthusiastic, and was bound to find raw material for her adoration. By reason of his exalted position Gibson appeared to her as a being both splendid and remote, who played an imaginary King Cophetua to her Beggar Maid.
She had always liked the vanity salon, and the rich luxury of deep lounges and soft carpets; lit with the subdued pinky glow of mulberry shaded lights; she revelled in the undercurrent of activity all around this lounge, where the public awaited its appointments; the constant traffic between the frosted-glass cubicles where the rites were conducted—the descent of mannequins, for finishing touches, like a flock of birds of paradise—the sales of the toilet requisites reposing under the glass-topped tables. Above all, she watched for the infrequent passage of Gibson.
The first time he had passed through the salon Day had glanced at him shyly, not expecting recognition. She had no knowledge of the System, and, consequently, could not credit her eyes when he smiled.
'Good morning, Miss Henson.' His beam was self-congratulatory, because he had memorised her. Yet it remained on his lips, fort the memory of a face radiant with youth and happiness, which imparted a vague sense of pleasure, just as he had suddenly smelt lilac; or the firm had delivered a fat dividend.
Wilfred Gibson loved two things—Socialism and his shop But I am afraid that he loved his shop the more. His monastic appearance and gentle voice masked a keen business personality. It was not long before Day sounded the side of him which was as hard as nails.
Her friend—Cherry Pine—had received dismissal. It had been a shock, as she was an artist in the permanent wave and believed herself an indispensable. She appealed loudly and tearfully for mercy, but found only justice in the guise of Miss Ripon and the manager.
Day had given profuse sympathy, which had stung Cherry to unaccustomed poesy.
'Pity without relief
Is mustard without beef.'
Day's eyes flashed. She was rather like Gibson, inasmuch as she yearned to create a new scheme of things entire.
'You're right, Cherry. And I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll appeal personally for you to the Chief. He naturally would know nothing about the dismissal of an employee. And he's really awfully decent. One wet evening he actually took me home in his car—?'
'Still riding?' groaned the ungrateful Cherry, For Day had told and re-told the story until it had passed into a legend which, nobody believed.
'Say, that car must be getting tired. Time you got out and walked a bit.'
Day's heart was doing strange things in syncopated time as she knocked at the door of the Chief's sanctum. Yet his smile was so charming as he invited her to sit down—another small-scale miracle—that she believed her cause to be already won.
'I'm come to ask you if you would be so—so frightfully kind as to cancel the dismissal of one of the assistants in the toilet salon—Cherry Pine. She—'
'What is she dismissed for?'
'For pilfering a few—'
'For stealing. Exactly. How much did she take?'
'Only five shillings' worth of stock at cost price, which she has refunded.'
'Thank you for telling me. That is quite out of order, she had ceased to be a member of the staff when she made the payment, therefore she should have paid retail price. However, as she appears to be your friend I will not take advantage of your communication. Well?'
'She is so hoping—once you know—you might give her another chance. She is very sorry and she has a mother—'
'So have I. Is it unusual? Haven't you one?' He was surprised at the sudden red which flooded her face.
'N-no.'
Gibson looked sadly at the vase of tea roses on his desk.
'The dismissal stands. I never give a second chance.'
Day got up to go, but at the door she turned impulsively.
'I would like to say—for all of us—how much we appreciate your generosity over the bonus. If it is anything at all to you, you can always count on my personal loyalty.'
Gibson's smile was radiant.
'It is everything to me to feel I have gained the goodwill of those who work for me. Good afternoon, Miss Henson. I hope you are still living up to your beautiful name? Day—isn't it? he glanced at the clock. 'And as you have, on your own initiative, taken up ten minutes of the firm's time on private business, I am afraid—in justice to the others—you must report the matter to Miss Ripon.'
Day returned on air. He had remembered her name. And he had smiled at her like an archangel.
'Oh, Cherry,' she said dreamily, 'he is just wonderful. He asked me to take a chair, and he treated me as if I was Royalty come to give a wedding order. Fancy! He remembers my name.
'Oh, yes, darling, you're dismissed. And I'm to be docked of ten minutes' pay. Oh—he really is a lamb!'
But, after all, the dismissal of Cherry made history in the House of Gibson. For the Chief, passing through to his shrine, overheard the angry scorn with which she wiped the dust of the vanity, salon from her feet.
'I'm glad to be leaving this old place, an my mother will be glad, too. Everyone knows it has a bad name!'
The remark pierced Gibson through a chink in his armor. His predecessor—Neil Gibson—had been a florid, overfed person, with red spouting lips and a hectic reputation. If he ever chanced to notice an employee she inevitably left his service—usually because she failed to see eye to eye with him. Had all the stories about him been true, he would have paid the rents of an entire Garden City. But, apart from exaggeration, he was not a pleasant character.
In addition to this stigma, Gibson had been stung by a remark made by an envious trade rival, in respect to Gibson's toilet salon, which was the most reputable of its kind.
'How's your Sham Shop, Gibson?' He had explained his playful gibe. 'If you put over genuine goods why do all your girls go about painted and powdered like little ladies from a travelling revue?'
Gibson had cogitated over the reflection. The girls in his vanity salon were all carefully selected. They were young and beautiful, expert in their work and perfectly respectable—but did not look it. Therefore, on the following Friday, when each girl received her pay-envelope, it was accompanied by the following typewritten slip:
Henceforward, no employee in the toilet salon is to use rouge, powder, or any cosmetic whatsoever, under penalty of a week's notice.
The ultimatum had something of the effect of a shell-burst. The girls hung around in groups and alternatively raged and lamented.
'I'll have to be introduced to my own face,' moaned a manicurist, Sybil White, who was delicately tinted as any Pierrette. 'But what are you pulling that long face for, Henson? This doesn't touch you'.
Day had grown quite white and was staring in front of her with eyes of positive anguish.
'Doesn't it touch me?' she said bitterly. 'Rather more than any of you can imagined. What does anyone know of the other? Of her real life, I mean?'
The curious eyes restored her self-possession.
'Of course, I'm talking through my hat. I'm—upset. But this—' she waved the shop—'this is a shameful abuse of power. What are you others going to do about it?'
'What choice have we? Just wash our faces and be simple and natural, like you.'
'You won't be like me. For I am going to put on as much paint and powder so my face will carry without cracking. And you are all going to do the same!'
'And get the bird,' grumbled Sybil White. 'A nice sensible time to choose, with all this unemployment.'
'All us?' Day grew eloquent. 'They simply could not replace all of us at a moment's notice, except with makeshifts. Aren't we all experts? Can't I make a face like cheese-cloth look sweet and twenty? Can't you—White—make a charwoman's paw look like the lily hand of a film heroine? Can't you—Millie—grow four hairs from two? Gibson's has the name. But remember! It takes years to build up a reputation and about a week to destroy it!'
She saw that they wavered and she clinched their indecision with a promise. 'I give you my word of honor that you shall not suffer. As leader, I take full responsibility. If anyone of us is sacked, it will be myself.'
'And you think yourself safe?' asked Sybil White. 'Isn't it about time for another ride?'
Day's smile betrayed her confidence.
'Just waiting for a rainy night, dear.'
'It's a rainy day that's all you'll get, I'm thinking.'
ON the following Monday morning, when Gibson was shining like
the sun in his sanctuary, one of Me satellites, a Mr. Morgan, a
distinguished individual,—who looked exactly as the great
Gibson should have looked—and didn't—broke the news
of the mutiny.
'I give you my word; they're all of them pink and white in layers, like coconut candy.'
Gibson elevated his brows.
'Sack the lot!'
He listened, however, when Mr. Morgan recapitulated most of Day's own arguments, together with a few which she had not thought of.
'Then send me the ring-leader!'
He received a nasty shock—the severity of which startled him—when the door was opened and Day confronted him, her eyes tragic above her painted cheeks.
'You!'
Had he said no more Day would have instantly capitulated. Her heart nearly cracked at the surprise, reproach and disappointment in his voice. Unfortunately, however the human nature which Gibson had extolled began to operate with a violence which defied the regulation of any machinery. He felt furious anger at her perfidy.
'Ringleader?' he snapped. Day inclined her head proudly but sadly, feeling like Browning's Patriot.
'Then take this away.' He handed her a copy of the ultimatum. 'Read it again. And let it sink in!'
This was the wrong cue, for Day had prepared a long speech which embodies every possible point of discussion.'
'We wish to protest against the infringement of our personal liberty and to ask you—'
That slip says everything I have to say on the matter. You can go!'
'Do you mean—go altogether?'
'Good lord, no.' It slipped out involuntarily. 'Go back to your work.'
'Yes, I can afford to lose no time.' Day was swift to seize her chance. 'I've never been so busy, although this is our busy season. All my old clients ask for me. They simply won't be put off. It takes years to really understand a complexion. And I've worked up my sales of late. I've introduced fresh custom to the firm.'
Gibson knew that, in reality, she was a rude little girl saying—'Wouldn't you like to dismiss me? Yah!' He immediately became a rude little boy. 'This is all to the good of your bonus. I hope you are buying War Savings Certificates as provision for your old age. You cannot count upon marriage with this shortage of men.'
Day opened the door crisply. Like every pretty girl, she was confident that marriage must be her destiny.
'Oh, men!' she slid pleasantly and vaguely. 'I don't call all those things by that name.'
And she shut the door more crisply. The vanity salon was but a few bricks in the house of Gibson, and Day merely a unit on the pay-sheet. Yet Gibson thought of her during the day about one tenth as often as she thought of him—which was all her time. The brief and undignified skirmish had established an odd intimacy as though they had known each other in nursery days, when he had kicked her shins while she had scratched his face. He simply could not understand her rebellion.
He was astonished to find how many pictures of her had been registered by his sub-conscious mind—all snapshots of a flushed and eager face which smiled welcome at his approach. Moreover, her conduct was inexplicable, since she had nothing to fear, or lose, from the embargo on powder.
'I'd have staked a thousand pounds on that girl's loyalty,' he thought bitterly.
Each succeeding day Mr. Morgan reported the spread of the mutiny to an indifferent Chief.
'Even the 'runners' have powdered their noses. Whole salon's out in red-and-white, like bunting. They look a set of brazen hussies. It's Bolshevism!'
The girls were certainly animated by the spirit of anarchy and thoroughly enjoyed the drama of the crisis. Gibson made no further sign, and they were confident that they held all the winning cards. Each day fresh roses bloomed and snows were eternal on cheek and brow. Yet they, too, were puzzled at the discrepancy between Day's impassioned leadership and her poorly-concealed depression at its success. She still flamed to defence of the chief end made his interests her dominant ambition.
The fateful Friday arrived. Pay envelopes were opened, and there arose the loud wail of the duped. Every member of the toilet staff had been given notice.
Day was at first too stunned to realise the storm of denunciation which was breaking against her like a torrent over a rock.
Presently she raised her hand for silence.
'It's all a hideous mistake, girls. It shall be put right, I am going to the Chief!'
Gibson's car was awaiting him, and he was on the point of departure when Day burst into his room. He stood, patient and immaculate—his white spats and tiny orange rosebud, his tribute to the season.
'Ah, please listen!' Day threw out her hands in appeal. 'Dismiss me if you like! I—alone—am to blame.'
'Are you dictating to Gibson's?' he asked pleasantly. 'If it makes you any easier, you are dismissed. With the rest.'
'But—I pledged my word to the others that no one should suffer!'
'Then you pledged something you could not back. Your word! Had you referred you tools to me, I could have told them of an employee who—unasked—assured me of her complete loyalty.
Day covered her face with her hands and began to sob. When she raised it, it rather resembled a futuristic idea of a Japanese sunrise.
But suddenly Gibson seemed to consider it merely pathetic.
'Just tell me why you did it,' he said in his gentlest voice.
'I must. Well, it is something like "If one tree was felled in a forest you would notice it immediately. But if someone felled all the trees it would be hidden amongst the rest."'
'I take your meaning. You have instigated this wholesale makeup in order to mask the make-up of one person in particular.'
Day began to gulp anew.
'How clever you are! Yes. Among the staff of the toilet salon is a woman who passes for a young spinster, but who is really a middle-aged widow. Her face is sallow and lined, and her hair is grey. She had a little business of her own as a beauty specialist, but illness and bad luck killed it. When she tried to get work at the only trade she knew she was turned down everywhere because of her faded looks.'
Gibson pricked up his ears.
'So she began to make up. Oh, it was pitiful! If you only knew of the daily drudgery and penance of her toilet—the cruel lacing and the long, long process of enamelling her face. It is beautifully done, but you would spot it in one minute if the rest all washed their faces. She had a splendid post here and was putting by every penny towards her age. She hoped soon to give up. But if she is dismissed now, she might never get another chance.'
'Why didn't you tell me this before?' asked Gibson.
'I dared not risk it, for it was someone else's secret. And you were so hard over Cherry Pine. You said you never gave a second chance.'
'True. You may tell me now in safety. Who is it?'
'Miss June Ripon.'
He whistled in astonishment as he thought of the mature and competent, yet youthful blonde. He remembered now that whenever he had seen her outside the shaded radius of the salon she had been invariably hatted and veiled.
'You took a big risk,' he said.
Day wiped away the last of the roseate hues of early dawn from her face and he saw how white and washed-out it had grown.
'This week has nearly killed me. I hated going against you. But I felt—it was awfully silly and conceited of me—that you somehow would not let me go.'
Dame Nature is no lady, and she has never grasped the gradations of the social scale. Gibson was a solitary Socialist who shrank from the overtures of society maidens. The only other woman he knew at all well, besides Day, was his car.
The Dame gave one mighty push—and there was Day inside the Chief's arms.
'You're right. I could never let you go!'
'But why did you sacrifice yourself for the sake of Miss Ripon?' he asked presently. 'Whenever I passed through the salon she seemed to be especially severe on you.'
'That was just part of our plan to keep our secret,' smiled Day. 'You don't know how soft and comfy and adorable she was—outside. Isn't she my own mother?'
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.