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Authors: Eric Newby
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mid-September and the Autumn orders were in full production. It was my job to cut off the lengths of material according to the dockets which had been written by the Department Manager and by Mr Wilkins, the Traveller, who was principally interested in the Coat Department. Together with the appropriate trimmings they would be collected by the tailors when they called on Fridays to deliver work that had been given out previously and also to collect their money.
I took up the first docket from a thick sheaf. It was for a single garment – a wool georgette, edge-to-edge coat which Mr Wilkins had christened inappropriately ‘Desire’. It was a special order from a store in Leeds for a customer called Mrs Bangle. Completely untutored as I was it was obvious to me on reading the details of the order that Mrs Bangle was something extra special.
‘Hips 62”. Bust 58”. Waist 55”. Neck to Waist Back 14”. Upper Arm 19”. Leave Good Turnings,’ Mr Wilkins had written.
This seemed to make Mrs Bangle a dwarf, 1½’ thick. Even Mr Wilkins had boggled at estimating the quantity of material necessary to construct a coat for such a phenomenon. ‘Wool Georgette GB. 14XX44/7. Blush Pink.’ These were the only details he had given. Funking the calculations, he had simply inserted a question mark and a couple of plus signs in the section marked quantity. The docket was intended for a tailor called Grunbaum and was marked ‘Urgent – Wedding – Seven Days’.
I asked Miss Webb how much extra material I should allow. ‘She’s a fantastic size,’ I said. ‘How did she get like that in wartime?’
‘Bless you, Mr Eric, that’s nothing,’ said Miss Webb, ‘We have much worse than that. It’s something to do with armaments. You’d better ring up Mr Grunbaum and ask him how much he needs. It’ll be good practice.’
She gave me Mr Grunbaum’s number. I dialled it.
‘’ULLO!’ said an unhelpful voice.
‘I want Mr Grunbaum.’
‘Which Mr Grunbaum?’
Miss Webb had vanished. I asked the voice to hold on and went in search of her. Eventually I ran her to earth in the cellar where I found her wrestling with a new consignment of cloth. She said I wanted Mr Harry.
‘I should have told you,’ she said. ‘There’s Mr Sidney, Mr Joe, Mr Harry and Mr Lance – and Mrs Grunbaum. Mr Harry’s the most helpful. Mr Lance is still in the Army.’
Lucky Mr Lance I thought.
‘Mr Harry! Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ said the voice, ‘’OLD ON!’
The sounds coming over the line from Grunbaum’s were like something from the Dawn of the Industrial Revolution. There were whirring noises of machinery, a clattering of endless belts and sudden gusts of dance music that presumably were encouraging the workers to even greater efforts. After a considerable interval Mr Harry came to the telephone. I read the docket to him.
‘Listen,’ he said, not altogether ungraciously when I had finished. ‘What do you think I am? That Mrs Whatsername; she don’t need a tailor. What she needs is a operation. Listen, I’m telling you, I’m a busy man. Send her to one of those surgical shops. I can make six coats in the time I make that coat. I haven’t got the labour. What do you think you can pay me to make a coat like that? You haven’t got enough money. I’m telling you there isn’t enough money in the whole of the West End to make it worth my while.’
Happily he enlarged on this theme for some minutes. I was glad when Miss Webb emerged from the cellar. Without a wordshe took the receiver from me. Until this moment I had regarded Miss Webb, who was round and comfortable as a kindly, almost feudal figure.
‘Hallo, Harry,’ she said. ‘Yes, very well, thank you.’ Without bothering to ask how he was. ‘Your man brought in twenty-two Floras this morning. You know what you’ve done. You’ve shone the linings. I’m sending the whole lot back.’
Having put the ball, as it were, in Mr Grunbaum’s court,
I took up the first docket from a thick sheaf. It was for a single garment – a wool georgette, edge-to-edge coat which Mr Wilkins had christened inappropriately ‘Desire’. It was a special order from a store in Leeds for a customer called Mrs Bangle. Completely untutored as I was it was obvious to me on reading the details of the order that Mrs Bangle was something extra special.
‘Hips 62”. Bust 58”. Waist 55”. Neck to Waist Back 14”. Upper Arm 19”. Leave Good Turnings,’ Mr Wilkins had written.
This seemed to make Mrs Bangle a dwarf, 1½’ thick. Even Mr Wilkins had boggled at estimating the quantity of material necessary to construct a coat for such a phenomenon. ‘Wool Georgette GB. 14XX44/7. Blush Pink.’ These were the only details he had given. Funking the calculations, he had simply inserted a question mark and a couple of plus signs in the section marked quantity. The docket was intended for a tailor called Grunbaum and was marked ‘Urgent – Wedding – Seven Days’.
I asked Miss Webb how much extra material I should allow. ‘She’s a fantastic size,’ I said. ‘How did she get like that in wartime?’
‘Bless you, Mr Eric, that’s nothing,’ said Miss Webb, ‘We have much worse than that. It’s something to do with armaments. You’d better ring up Mr Grunbaum and ask him how much he needs. It’ll be good practice.’
She gave me Mr Grunbaum’s number. I dialled it.
‘’ULLO!’ said an unhelpful voice.
‘I want Mr Grunbaum.’
‘Which Mr Grunbaum?’
Miss Webb had vanished. I asked the voice to hold on and went in search of her. Eventually I ran her to earth in the cellar where I found her wrestling with a new consignment of cloth. She said I wanted Mr Harry.
‘I should have told you,’ she said. ‘There’s Mr Sidney, Mr Joe, Mr Harry and Mr Lance – and Mrs Grunbaum. Mr Harry’s the most helpful. Mr Lance is still in the Army.’
Lucky Mr Lance I thought.
‘Mr Harry! Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’ said the voice, ‘’OLD ON!’
The sounds coming over the line from Grunbaum’s were like something from the Dawn of the Industrial Revolution. There were whirring noises of machinery, a clattering of endless belts and sudden gusts of dance music that presumably were encouraging the workers to even greater efforts. After a considerable interval Mr Harry came to the telephone. I read the docket to him.
‘Listen,’ he said, not altogether ungraciously when I had finished. ‘What do you think I am? That Mrs Whatsername; she don’t need a tailor. What she needs is a operation. Listen, I’m telling you, I’m a busy man. Send her to one of those surgical shops. I can make six coats in the time I make that coat. I haven’t got the labour. What do you think you can pay me to make a coat like that? You haven’t got enough money. I’m telling you there isn’t enough money in the whole of the West End to make it worth my while.’
Happily he enlarged on this theme for some minutes. I was glad when Miss Webb emerged from the cellar. Without a wordshe took the receiver from me. Until this moment I had regarded Miss Webb, who was round and comfortable as a kindly, almost feudal figure.
‘Hallo, Harry,’ she said. ‘Yes, very well, thank you.’ Without bothering to ask how he was. ‘Your man brought in twenty-two Floras this morning. You know what you’ve done. You’ve shone the linings. I’m sending the whole lot back.’
Having put the ball, as it were, in Mr Grunbaum’s court,
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