CHAPTER 1

  On December 28 the banners went up at Bonnard's: SALE OF THE CENTURY Bonnard's Centenary Sale Starts January 4

  Velvet draperies had shrouded their windows since Boxing Day. Behind them, the window-dressing staff had worked furiously. Just as they disdained the brown wrapping paper with which lesser stores blocked off their windows for the occasion, so Bonnard's eschewed the racks of marked-down dresses and jumble of price-tagged goods strewn higgeldy-piggeldy across the shop-front display windows of other stores.

  Bonnards always dressed their windows as carefully for their January Sale as for any of their million-pound promotions. It was not simply a matter of pride, for the Sale would bring in several million pounds' worth of business. Bonnard's took good care that it should.

  This year —their Centenary Year —the January Sale was to be more sensational than ever, opening a celebratory year of Special Events, Grand Promotions and lesser sales, culminating in an Extravaganza next Christmas to wind up the year and send them triumphantly into their second century of retailing. They were starting as they meant to go on.

  Since the week before Christmas advertisements had been running in leading newspapers all over the world. In Paris, Berlin, Tokyo, Abu Dhabai, New York, Chicago, Dallas, Geneva, and every wealthy city whose inhabitants, if not to be lured to that precise sale, could be reckoned upon to travel at some point in the year and would remember the advertisements and visit such an enterprising store when they reached London on their tours.

  On December 29 the windows were unveiled. Mannequins in evening dress (discreetly priced at the hem) disported across a living-room as improbably elegant as a stage set when the curtain rises. (The furniture, too, was annotated by the smallest possible card at one corner, a diagonal red line through the original price and the sale price immediately below it, as a footnote.)

  The reductions were so dramatic that they needed no further emphasis.

  They were, of course, the loss-leaders, the crowd-pullers, the items that would be featured in every newspaper story about the Bonnard's Sale. The £8000 floor-length black mink, with cleverly concealed zipper to turn it into a hem-length coat and separate stole, on sale for £240; the £2000 imported Italian three-piece livingroom suite for £150; the £1800 Persian carpet going for £75 —all were displayed in the major windows flanking the main entrance as a foretaste of the delights waiting within when the Sale started.

  The queue began forming on December 30.

  Dorothy Witson arrived at 10 p.m. and was distressed to find that she was not to be the first in the queue. She'd known she should have come sooner, but the others couldn't be hurried. They'd insisted on giving her a big gala dinner on the grounds that it would be a long time before she had a hot sit-down meal again. Then there'd been the fuss over the sleeping-bag and was it really warm and comfortable enough. Then the final delay because they'd wanted to wait until the very last second before filling the hot-water bottle so that it would stay hot just that little bit longer.

  Really, you'd have thought she was going to the moon. At least.

  Now here she was, and there were people ahead of her.

  She smiled cheerfully at them, masking her disappointment. It might be all right. Time would tell.

  The others were still fussing.

  'Oh, Auntie Dorrie —' Young Sandra stared down at the pavement and along the bleak deserted street with an acute attack of guilt. 'Are you sure it's all right? You'll be comfortable enough?' She turned to her husband uncertainly. 'George—?'

  'It's getting colder.' George was no comfort. 'Weather forecast said the temperature would drop tonight. We should have brought blankets — '

  It was always the same. They wanted her to do it for them and then, at the last minute, they were afraid it was too much of an imposition. If they started on again about her age . . .

  'Suppose it rains?' Sandra scanned the cloudy sky. 'Or snows?'

  'That doesn't matter at Bonnard's, dear.' Dorrie glanced upwards complacently. The sheltering overhang protected the front pavement, there was plenty of room for people who wanted to huddle against the building. They wouldn't get wet unless there was a driving rain blown directly in upon them. But there had to be enough space for the wind to gather force before that could happen and the imposing bulk of the St Edmunds Hotel across the street provided as much protection, in its way, as the awning like projection overhead.

  'Of course not.' George was beginning to assess the situation. 'Besides, there's room for her here in the entrance. The next ones along will be round the corner on the pavement. We got here just in time.'

  It was true. A young couple who seemed to be newlyweds, or perhaps very early marrieds, were first in the queue, right up against the entrance doors which wouldn't be open to receive them for another five days.

  Behind them lurked—it was a strange word for one who was sitting peaceably in a queue, but Dorrie considered it and decided that it was not unfair; there was something about him—Behind them lurked an indeterminate man, neither young nor old, friendly nor hostile, interested nor disinterested.

  Some sort of foreigner, I'll be bound, she told herself severely.

  Did any of them look like the deluxe fridge-freezer?

  It was hard to say.

  'Do stop fussing!' She turned and surveyed George and Sandra with less fondness now. They were beginning to be in the way. She'd never find out anything with them fusspotting around.

  'Yes, perhaps you're right.' George seemed to catch her mood. It was as though she were leaving on holiday, already aboard a ship but being tethered to shore by the good wishes and anxieties of those who had come to see her off. Until they left, the adventure could not begin. 'Time we were getting home.'

  'It is getting late.' The prospect of getting rid of them restored her fondness. They were such a nice young couple. 'I'll be all right.'

  'Well . . .' Still Sandra lingered. 'If you want anything, anything at all, just ring me and I'll send one of the kids down with it.'

  'That's very nice of you, dear.' Dorrie emptied a carrier bag of a Karrimat, a pillow and two thick cushions and handed the empty bag to George, who took it absently. He was still looking around incredulously, as though unable to believe that anyone could be willing to put up with so much discomfort. But then, he was too young to remember the war and the nights of sleeping in Underground shelters. A few days outside Bonnard's was, comparatively (and like Bonnard's itself), the height of luxury.

  The others in the queue had, naturally enough, been stealing glances at the new arrivals, trying to work out how many of them were going to be permanent additions. The atmosphere eased as it became apparent that only Dorrie was going to become a resident member of the queue.

  Dorrie crossed glances with the young couple at the head of the queue. They blinked uncertainly, then almost smiled. Not exactly welcoming, but accepting her as the newest addition to their domain. Quite right and proper. There would be plenty of time to sort themselves out and establish relationships over the next few days. The Sale didn't start until January 4.

  Dorrie noted with approval that they were rather aimlessly engaged in a two-handed game of cards and that the stiff covers of board games peeped from the top of a carrier bag beside them. Monopoly, she'd be bound, and Scrabble. Very good games, and open to several players at once.

  As she'd said before, Bonnard's drew one of the best queues in town. Such nice people —and not a bit snobbish, no matter what people thought.

  'You won't catch cold,' Sandra pleaded tearfully. 'If you feel a chill coming on at all, just pack it in and come straight home. We won't mind, I promise you. Nothing matters except your health.'

  'Yes, yes, I promise.' Dorrie patted her shoulder absently. 'I'll take care.'

  'Mind that you do,' George said gruffly. 'We don't want to put your health at risk. Nothing's worth that.'

  'I'll be all right.' Dorrie was hard put to keep a note of asperity out of her voice. You'd think she'd melt in the rain, the way these two carried on. Not that any rain could reach her under Bonnard's overhanging portico.

  'Well . . .' Loath to leave, Sandra shivered involuntarily as she looked up and down the street again. It was bleak and desolate at this hour, with the darkest, coldest hours of the night yet to come. Hours when the rest of them would be in warm soft beds in the comfort of their homes. Already the pull of her own home was strong. 'If you're sure . . . absolutely sure . . .'

  'I am,' Dorrie said firmly. 'You and George get along now. It must be nearly time for the baby's feed.'

  'Yes, it is,' Sandra admitted. 'But I hate to leave you here alone . . . like this . . .'

  'I'm not alone.' Dorrie indicated the others in the queue. 'I'll be perfectly all right.'

  The foreign gentleman immediately ahead of her in the queue was glaring balefully at Sandra and George, as though they were late-night revellers shouting and slamming car doors and keeping him from his well-earned slumber. Dorrie nodded apologetically to him, but he ignored her.

  'Come on.' George took Sandra's arm, evidently realizing that they would remain there indefinitely if it were left to her. 'The baby-sitter will want to be getting home, even if you don't.'

  'Yes.' Sandra bobbed abruptly and pecked Dorrie on the cheek. 'We do appreciate this,' she said. 'Really, we do. I only wish you didn't have to stay out in the cold for so long.'

  'It's quite mild, really,' Dorrie said. 'I've been out queuing in colder weather than this.'

  'Good night — and thank you,' George said, pulling at Sandra's arm. This time they actually left.

  Dorrie watched them walk down the street and turn the corner, waving back at her just before they disappeared from sight. She breathed a sigh of relief and began settling her possessions around her, marking out her own bit of territory and making herself comfortable in it.

  She spread out the Karrimat to provide an insulated area, then unrolled the sleeping-bag on top of it, leaving the Thermos flask in the sleeping-bag beside the hotwater bottle until the last possible moment. Every additional bit of warmth would be welcome tonight.

  The others, already settled for the night, watched her warily. Plenty of time in the morning for introductions and getting to know each other but, as a matter of etiquette, there was just one small point that ought to be settled tonight so that they could all sleep more comfortably.

  'Such a nice young couple,' Dorrie said aloud, carefully not aiming her words at anyone in particular. 'I'm in the queue for them, actually. They have three small children, the youngest is only six months old, so they can't queue themselves, of course. Sandra has to take care of the children and George has to go to work—'

  The foreigner immediately in front of her had closed his eyes as she started speaking, but now he opened them and half-turned on his camp bed, no longer feigning sleep but waiting. The young couple at the front were nodding encouragingly, also waiting.

  'They have their hearts set on the big deluxe fridge-freezer,' she confided. 'George's uncle runs a pub and he's planning to take George into partnership with him. They want to bring along the fridge-freezer as a sort of contribution. Being so big, it will be just right when they expand the restaurant side of the pub, the way they plan to do.' Dorrie beamed at everyone impartially and waited herself.

  The atmosphere had lightened perceptibly.

  'We're after the living-room suite,' the girl at the head of the queue said. 'What with the mortgage payments, we'd never be able to afford it ordinarily, but I saw the advertisement in the paper and I thought, "That's it!" It's the only way we'll ever be able to get something so nice. Tim has taken the week off and we've been in the queue for twelve hours already. I was determined not to let anyone get ahead of us!'

  'You'll get it, dear,' Dorrie said confidently. 'You'll be first through the doors as soon as they open.' There was no immediate competition for either of them. Unless — ?

  The foreigner between them stirred uncomfortably as though aware of the combined force of their expectancy. Perhaps he had been able to hold out against the implied question of the couple ahead of him but, with someone immediately behind him as well, he could no longer remain silent.

  'I wait — ' he said unwillingly. 'I wait for the floor length mink coat. It is the best buy in the store.' He had grudged them the information, but it was out. He turned his head from one to the other challengingly. 'And possibly the silver fox jacket, too.'

  'My goodness,' Dorrie said. 'Your wife is a lucky girl.'

  'I am not married.'

  'Your girl-friend, then. Is it an engagement present?'

  'I am not going to marry her and not even then would I give her such an expensive present.' The man looked at Dorrie with contempt for such sentimentality. 'This is business. I shall buy the furs at this ridiculous price and then resell them for their correct value. I would be a fool not to.'

  'Oh!' Over his head, Dorrie met the eyes of the young couple. It was obvious that they shared the same opinion of their queue-mate. Nasty bit of work. 'Well, I suppose that's your privilege.'

  'That is correct.' He lay back on his camp bed, adjusted the blankets around his chin and closed his eyes with finality.

  'I'm Faye Moore.' The girl spoke to Dorrie over the recumbent form between them. 'And this is my husband, Timothy.'

  'I'm Dorothy Witson, but everyone calls me Dorrie — '

  'Just tell me — ' The foreigner had not opened his eyes, but his tone was threatening. 'Do you plan to talk all night? Have you no regard for the sleep of others?' 'Sorry, I'm sure!' Very nasty bit of work. And in a nice queue like Bonnard's.

  The young couple pantomimed their opinion and Dorrie tried not to giggle aloud. Yes, Bonnard's was an extremely nice queue. It was just too bad that, this time, there was one rotten apple in it.

  CHAPTER 2

  The St Edmund's Hotel had two choices: they could enforce the implicit understanding that only residents of the hotel and their guests were welcome to use the conveniences on the lower ground floor; or they could close their eyes to the twice-yearly genteel invasion of the Bonnard's queue from across the street. Since the first course might involve them in undignified scuffles along the corridors which would disturb the regular guests more than the thought that unauthorized persons were taking advantage of the amenities, the St Edmund's staff and management bit the bullet and tried to pretend that nothing untoward was happening on those dreaded twice-yearly occasions.

  The people from Bonnard's queue, in their turn, did their grateful best to make themselves inconspicuous among the international dignitaries, socialites and celebrities who patronized the St Edmund's. They might not have succeeded entirely, especially after the queue had been in progress for several days, but they tried. Allowances were thus made on both sides and a certain amount of goodwill invariably carried the day.

  It was one of the little touches of luxury Dorrie always appreciated about the Bonnard's queue. She lathered her hands now with the richly scented cream soap and inhaled blissfully. Civilization —this part of the city made you realize what it was all about.

  And such hot water. She rinsed her hands and then rinsed out her Thermos flask. It was too early for an attendant to be on duty, that was lucky. Dorrie took an envelope from her handbag and shook the prepared mixture of coffee granules and powdered milk into the Thermos, then refilled it with the almost-boiling water.

  There, that would do for an early breakfast. That and the cheese roll she had saved from her midnight snack. It would hold her comfortably until the shops opened and she could get a proper cooked breakfast. It didn't do to stint oneself when the weather was so cold. The little touches of luxury made all the difference.

  Like being able to use the St Edmund's. She refilled her hot-water bottle as well and squirreled it away at the bottom of her holdall along with the Thermos. What the St Edmund's didn't know wouldn't hurt it. Not that they could possibly begrudge a bit of hot water, but it was better to be on the safe side.

  She ran a comb through her hair and put on fresh lipstick. Usually, she liked to adjourn to the other room for that —the proper Powder Room, as it said on the outside door—and sit at one of the mirrored dressing-tables, but not so early. Not when the queue was still in the process of forming. That nice young couple had promised to keep her place, but she didn't trust the man immediately in front of her one iota. He'd probably think it a great joke to let someone else take her place. No, she wanted to get back quickly this morning.

  And she was right. Two new people in the queue already. That was what happened with some of them. They elected to spend one last night in the comfort of their own beds and join the queue early in the morning, thus still beating the late-birds who thought it was time enough to get in the queue after the morning rush hour was over.

  Were they together? It was hard to tell. For a moment, crossing the street, she had had that impression. Then, as she drew closer, she saw that they were occupying two places. So they were not together —or, not irrevocably.

  The girl was English, blonde and fragile; the boy had the swarthiness of the Near or Middle East. Not that that meant anything these days. He could perfectly well have been born in this country. Especially as he was smart enough to join in the queue for the January Sale and not throw his money around paying the original asking price. Was that true British thriftiness, or just the Bazaar mentality adapting itself to a nation of shopkeepers who didn't believe in haggling but nevertheless had their own methods of doing these things?

  But they had kept her place. Dorrie relaxed, realizing that she would feel much more comfortable from now on whenever she had to move from her place. The girl —and she was a nice girl, you could see that, even if the word as much as the concept was out of date and hopelessly old-fashioned these days —could be trusted. You could see that just by looking at her.

 

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