DEEP AND LASTING LOVE Complete story by Rose Boucheron Sometimes, if she closed her eyes, Miss Barraclough could imagine the store as it used to be. Pascall’s, the largest store in town, with it’s marble Edwardian façade fronting the High Street culminating in an ornate corner entrance, and continuing on up Bridge Street. Pascall’s had occupied that site since 1902 and sometimes Miss Barraclough fell she had been there that long herself. She’d joined the firm straight from school in 1939, and she was now Pascall’s oldest employee with thirty-five years service to her credit. She has always been slim, and now with her well made-up face and her hair swept up in a chignon, she wore her years well, although most of the young staff referred to her as “poor old Barry,” or “the poor old thing.” And now, so soon after the opening of the modernized store, Mr Johnatan Pascall had died so suddenly, that Miss Barraclough couldn’t quite believe it. It didn’t seem possible that such a handsome, youthful-looking man could suddenly die like that. He could have only been in his fifties, she brooded. No-one could appreciate the dept of her grief, for no-one suspected that for all those years. Mr Jonathan had been the love of her life. Not that he had ever suspected either, for any contact they’d had was on strictly business grounds. He had run the store as the founder’s only son, whilst she rose from junior assistant to chief buyer at the store, which was no mean achievement. She glanced upwards to the first floor balcony to where the ornate Victorian clock had been left as a feature in the modern building. Nowadays you approached the upper floors by means of escalators, but in the early days there had been wide, mahogany-balustraded staircases. And now, upstairs in the private office, the family were waiting for her to join them, doubtless discussing the future of the store, and whether or not one or both of Mr Jonathan’s two sons would enter the business. The tragic event had taken had by surprise, and they certainly not been prepared for Mr Jonathan’s untimely death. Miss Barraclough had been asked, whether she intended to stay with the firm, in view of the fact that it would now he run by members of the family she did not know — ones who would no doubt have new ideas. Miss Barraclough simply could not imagine a day at the store without Mr Jonathan. He had filled her life for so long, she just couldn’t imagine him not being there. She could remember as if it were yesterday, the first time she had seen him. It was back in the early days of the war, when she was nearly eighteen, and Mr Pascall Senior was running the firm. Mr Jonathan was away at Oxford, soon to he called up, so that the first time she met him was the day he brought his bride-to-be to the store. After closing time, the employees had presented him with the wedding present they had clubbed together to buy, and to this day Miss Barraclough could remember the strange way her heart had lurched and how her knees had trembled at the sight of him. She believed she had fallen in love with him in that moment. He was all she ever dreamed off in a man and he was engaged to someone else. His bride was Miss Pricilla Stewart, the daughter of a wealthy farmer – and very pretty and petite she was, too. She had held Mr Jonathan’s arm, and looked rip at him with smiling blue eyes, and he had had eyes for no-one but her. At all events, he and his bride were married, and he was sent overseas. Miss Barraclough decided to devote her life to her career at Pascall’s. But Miss Barraclough found an unexpected source of strength in her decision to make a career at Pascall’s. Although it had always enjoyed the prestige of being a high-class store, Miss Barraclough’s shrewd business sense had turned Pascal’s into an even more successful money-making machine over the years. The store today bore no resemblance to the old-fashioned emporium where she had first started in the haberdashery department. In those days one pushed open the beautiful mahogany-framed and embossed glass doors into the main body of the store, where high chairs were placed at counters behind which polite assistants waited to serve you. Miss Barraclough had started as fifth hand, and spent most of her time tidying drawers full of powder puffs, cottons, silks, buttons and hankies and so on. And woe betide the girl who was discovered to be standing still! Mr Hinds hands clasped behind his black frock coat, would snap his fingers and beckon the offending girl to keep occupied, even though she had tidied a hundred times already. From there, Miss Barraclough had moved up to gloves and handbags, and finally to the ultimate — the Gowns. Situated at the top of wide, softly-carpeted stairs, the salon was a luxury department with sun streaming in through a great glass dome. There were glass counters filled with feathers and flowers and bridal head-dresses. Miss Barraclough was promoted to fourth hand, and spent almost all her time learning how to keep the fitting-rooms dust free and how to pack exquisite dresses in tissue paper. Once Mr Hinds asked her how she liked her new position in the gowns. She replied that she found it a little dull after the more busy trade in the haberdashery. He eyed her sternly. “Miss Barraclough, any fool can sell a reel of cotton for twopence. It takes imagination and brains to - sell a fifty-guinea model gown.” That was something she was never to forget. Somehow those words fired her imagination, and from that time on she never looked hack. During those early years, she had a few boy-friends, not that there were many available in those manless days. But she never considered any of them seriously, for how could they measure up to her memory of Mr Jonathan? And then one day he came home, to his wife and baby son, and in due course, took over the store. For Miss Barraclough he was still the only man in the world. Sometimes she wondered what it was about him that she found so irresistible. He was handsome, she acknowledged, kind and considerate, full of charm — she couldn’t explain it to herself, and had to content herself with certain knowledge that any other man would be second best to her. Her mother got quite fretful at times. “I can’t think why you don’t marry, Ruth. A career is all very well, but there comes a time when it’s nice to have a man about the house.“ “I’m happy as I am, Mother,” Miss Barraclough would answer, and the old lady would have to settle for that. “I don’t like to think I might have hampered you, Ruthie,” she said once. “I’ve always wanted you to be free — I’ve never wanted to be a burden.” “You’re not a burden, Mother.” Ruth smiled reassuringly. “How could you be a burden?” “Was there never anyone, Ruth?’” her mother asked. “Any man you would have liked to marry?” “No, dear.” Ruth said, without even a blush, so secret were her thoughts. “Never a one.” The years passed, and by now Mr Jonathan had three children, two sons and a daughter who were growing fast. There were rumors that he wasn’t particularly happily married and, even discounting gossip, Mrs Jonathan would seem to be somewhat spoiled and just a little arrogant on her visit to the store. Ruth decided that unrequited love was better than no love at all, and realized, that at least in a business sense, Mr Johnatan needed her. By now they knew something of each other’s lives. He knew, for instance, that she was unmarried, that her mother had recently died and that she loved her job. She knew he was fond of his children, that he liked to paint watercolors and play golf at the weekends. And that was as far as it went. Two years ago, they had decided to modernize the store to keep up with the times. They had sat through endless meetings of staff and planners, and now after a year of rebuilding, the new-look store was finished. Wall-to-wall carpeting was laid throughout the store, rows and rows of dresses and coats hung on movable rails, circular stands of sweaters and blouses stood about like invading armies. But they all arrived too late for Mr Jonathan to enjoy, Miss Barraclough thought sadly. Only once had she been out with him alone. That was when they had gone to Harrogate to discuss the plans of the store. For some reason she couldn’t remember now, the architect was confined to his hotel for the week-end, and they had gone out to visit him, Mr Jonathan had driven her there - it was a Saturday afternoon and on the way back he stopped the car on Barnston Moor. “Isn’t this beautiful, Miss Barraclough?” he said, for the seldom, if ever, called her Ruth, although he knew, it was her name. In front of the rest of the staff it just wasn’t the thing to do. “Come,” he said. “Let’s get a breath of fresh air. “Goodness knows we deserve it after being cooped up all week.” They had walked in silence, enjoying the scented air all about them. The golden gorse bushes were in bloom, and the heather was purple at their feet. The clear blue skies were dotted with white clouds and way above them soared a lark, unseen, yet it song, poignant and sweet, made Miss Barraclough catch her breath. It was so beautiful. She couldn’t think of a thing to say, and wished the peaceful moment would last for ever. Sometimes, remembering and cherishing the memory, she wandered if she had dreamed it all. Then Mr Jonathan turned to her. “Ready?” he asked. “It’s time to go back.” She hadn’t dared to meet his eyes for fear of what he might read in her own. “Yes,” she said brightly. “That was lovely.” Wordlessly, they walked back to the car. That was eighteen months ago, and now Mr Jonathan was gone, and Mrs Jonathan, his widow and her family, were awaiting her upstairs. Was she going to leave or carry on? She didn’t know. Still numbed with shock, she made her way upstairs to the door marked “Private.” Inside was Mrs Jonathan, still pretty but plumpish. With her were two boys, Simon and young Jonathan, and her daughter, Fiona. “Hello, Miss Barraclough.” Mrs Jonathan said. “Do sit down.” “Thank you,” Miss Barraclough patted her coiffured head, and crossed her slim legs one over the other. “I hope you will be happy with all the arrangements we have worked out at such a short notice. “As I think the solicitors will have told you, Mr Masters will take over my husband’s position until Simon has trained sufficiently well to have a position on the board. I’m hoping Jonathan will follow suit, perhaps on the accounts side. Fiona, too, seems to think she might like something to do in the store. I’ve told her that I’m sure you will give her all the assistance she needs. After all, she hasn’t been used to this sort of thing.” She has doubtless thinking of the expensive school Fiona had attended, and what a waste it had all been. “I’ll be happy to do all I can,” Miss Barraclough said. And now, Miss Barraclough” Mrs Jonathan said, “I’d like to ask you to stay on and work for the firm as you have done all these years. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.” Miss Barraclough suddenly found herself feeling a little aggressive. It was all very well for her, she’d been beside him all these years. Pascall’s wouldn’t be the same without him. She could, after all, get a good job anywhere. She knew her capabilities. She felt trapped, like a bird in a cage. It was too soon, she had to have time to think – She felt four pairs of eyes on her. “Well, she hedged. “After all the rebuilding and so on, I would certainly like to take a holiday –“ “Of course,” Mrs Jonathan murmured. “Of course…” Then suddenly she exclaimed, “Oh, Fiona, darling, do go and get the picture! I’ve left it in the outer office – by the desk, dear.” Fiona uncurled her long slim legs from the leather armchair. “My husband, you know, was fond of painting watercolours,” Mrs Jonathan said. “Yes, I believe he was,” Miss Barraclough said, palelipped, wandering why the conversation had taken this turn. “And I remember him telling me once that you were fond of paintings.” “Oh, yes, yes, I am, very…” Fiona now returned carrying a small picture wrapped in brown paper. Mrs Jonathan removed the wrapping. “It seems to me you might want to have reminder of my husband. It’s a particularly nice painting, and I know he would want you to have it…” Miss Barraclough held out hands that were not quite steady and took the picture, oblivious now to all in the room. The picture was a delicate, exquisite watercolour, a moorland scene with perfect shies. A man and woman were walking across the moors, hand in hand, the springy turfs beneath their feet, the purple heather all about them. Her hair was loose and blowing in the breeze. Miss Barraclough stared unbelieving at the minute speck above them, surely, a skylark? She felt her eyes mist over, then the glow of happiness inside her and had to keep her eyes on the picture until her heart had quieted again. At length, after what seemed like minutes, she looked up. “It’s very nice, she said coolly. “I should be very pleased to have it.” “Good,” Mrs Jonathan said, matter-of-factly. “I’m so glad. So if you would let us know your plans Miss Barraclough.” “Oh, after a short holiday, I’ll be back at work as good as new,” she said, smiling. “I could never leave now. Didn’t you know, I’m part of the furniture.” She said her goodbyes as brightly as she could and left the room, holding the picture very tightly… THE END