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These old legs of mine weren’t built for speed. I was
within inches of the Ladies’ Room door, when I heard
footsteps out there ... somewhere in that acre of
storage. Footsteps that might have belonged to the
Loch Ness Monster climbing out onto land for the first
time. Furtive footsteps that fear magnified to giant
proportions.
“Anyone there?” came a booming whisper.
Huddled among the wool folds of the coat rack, I
waited.
But the voice didn’t speak again. And when my
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heart steadied, I pictured some nervous soul tiptoeing
into the bowels of the store to search through the maze
for some carton required double-quick by an irritable
section manager. Silence. Which might mean Whoever
had located what was needed and beaten a hasty
retreat? But it wouldn’t do to count my chickens.
Stepping out from the coats, my foot skidded on
something. Jolted, I looked down to see a handbag.
For a flash I thought it was mine, that I had dropped it
blindly in my panic. But, no; my black hold-all was
safely strung over my arm.
Stealthily entering the Ladies’ Room, I supposed
the bag belonged to the attendant who took care of the
lavatory. I remembered her from visits to spend a
penny; a bustling woman with snapping black eyes
who kept you waiting forever while she polished off the
toilet seat and straightened the roll of paper, then
stood over you like a hawk while you washed and dried
your hands—just daring you to drop coppers into the
dish. Even a sixpence seemed stingy as you watched
her deposit the damp towel, slow-motion, into the bin.
Fortune smiled. The Hawk wasn’t inside the
Ladies’, buffing up the brass taps; for the moment the
pink-tiled room was empty. Opening my handbag, I
withdrew the piece of cardboard and roll of adhesive
tape. Moments later one of the three lavatory stalls
read “Out Of Order.”
Installed on my porcelain throne—the door bolted
and my handbag placed on the tank, I opened my
book; but the words wouldn’t sit still on the page. With
every creak and every gurgle in the pipes I was braced
to draw my knees up so that my shoes would not show
under the gap. Every time I looked at my watch I could
have sworn the hands had gone backward. Only
six-thirty?
I had no idea how late people would stay working
before The Sale. But one thing I did know—my feet
were going to sleep. Surely it wasn’t that much of a
risk to let myself out of my cell and walk around—just
in here, in the Ladies’. After I had warmed my hands
on the radiator, I felt reckless. The sort of feeling, I
suppose, that makes you itch to stick your finger
through the bars of the lion’s cage. Hovering over to
the door, I pushed it open—just a crack.
Standing at the rack of coats was the Ladies’ Room
attendant—yes, the one I mentioned. The Hawk.
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Unable to move, even to squeeze the door shut, I saw
her button her coat and bend to pick up a handbag
and a Bossam’s carrier bag. Now she was the one who
stiffened; I could see it in the set of her broad
shoulders and the tilt of her head. I could almost hear
her thinking ... Is someone here? Someone watching?
Shrugging, she headed around a stack of boxes
taller than she.
Gone.
I was savoring the moment, when the lights went
out. The dark was blacker than the Yorkshire moors
on a moonless night. Believe me, I’m not usually a
nervous Nellie, but there are exceptions—as when the
mouse ran over my foot. Instead of celebrating the
likelihood of now having the store to myself by
breaking open my bottle of milk, I was suddenly
intensely aware of how mousy I was in relationship to
three floors of mercantile space. To my foolish fancy
every cash register, every bolt of fabric, every saucepan
in Housewares ... was aware of my unlawful presence.
All of them watching, waiting for me to make a move. I
couldn’t just stand here, I slipped out the door, then
hadn’t the courage to go any farther in the dark.
“Lord, forgive us our trespasses.”
Opening my handbag, I dug around for my torch
and felt my hand atrophy. A light beam pierced the
dark and came inchworming toward me.
I grabbed for cover among the coats in the rack,
felt it sway and braced myself as it thundered to the
floor.
“Ruddy hell.”
The light had a voice ... a man’s voice. It was
closing in on me fast. Intolerable—the thought of
facing what was to be, defenseless. Somehow I got out
my torch and pressed the button.
“On guard!” came the growly voice as the golden
blades of light began to fence; first a parry, then a
thrust until... there was Retribution—impaled on the
end of my blade.
“What brings you here, madam?”
“I got locked in at closing.”
“Herrumph! If I believe that, I’m ...”
“Father Christmas?”
“If you know what I am,” he grumped, “you can
guess why I’m here.”
He was prickly as a porcupine with that mustache,
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but my torch moved up to his eyes and they were sad.
Here was a man who had done a good deal more
wintering than summering during his life. How, I
wondered, had he escaped the clutches of Mr.
Bossam?
“So, why are you here?” My voice was the one I had
used for Mother when she was failing. It came echoing
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