Gulliver looked up hopefully from his permanent position in front of the Aga. People getting up could sometimes presage being taken out for a walk.
“Where are we going?” asked Carole plaintively.
“Shopping.”
“Where?”
“Gallimaufry,” Jude replied.
Her neighbour’s entire body registered disapproval at the choice of destination.
? The Shooting in the Shop ?
Three
The architecture of Fethering was a living history of its development from an assemblage of fishermen’s huts to something more like a small town than the ‘village’ which description stubbornly remained in all official documentation. The returning economic confidence of the late fifties and early sixties was expressed in the High Street’s shopping parade. This terrace of buildings had resolutely resisted being rebranded as a ‘shopping centre’ or, even worse, a ‘shopping mall’. It still remained essentially as it had been built, a row of matching shop fronts, pillared by red brick and with a residential flat over each one.
When originally completed, the shops had had their names fitted into a strip above their windows, all co- ordinated in identical lettering that looked like – but probably wasn’t – brass. Continuous shifts of ownership and corporate branding meant that most of the original signs had gone. Only the Post Office retained its brass lettering, though beneath it the part that dealt with postal services was now just a tiny corner of a large convenience store.
Over other frontages were displayed the logos of the chain that ran the local bookies and of Allinstore (probably the most inefficient supermarket since records began), signs for Polly’s Cake Shop, Urquhart & Pease and another estate agent (both apparently riding out the slump in house prices), the hairdresser’s Marnie, three charity shops and a couple of other premises which seemed to change hands every six months.
Amongst these last was Gallimaufry, which had opened early in September with champagne, balloons and a lot of local press coverage. It was a shop whose contents intrigued Jude, but were dismissed by Carole (who’d never been inside the place) as ‘overpriced rubbish’.
The word ‘gallimaufry’ had culinary origins, describing a dish made of odds and ends of leftovers, but soon came to be applied to any kind of hotchpotch or mix of unlikely elements. And the word was certainly apt for the stock in the store on Fethering Parade. What appealed to Jude about the place was that she never knew what she might find there. It wasn’t a dress shop, though there might well be some Indian print shifts on display. It wasn’t a furniture shop, though it sometimes sold intricately carved stools and tables from Africa. Gallimaufry didn’t specialize in any particular lines, and yet it was the kind of Aladdin’s Cave where anything might be discovered.
The Aladdin’s Cave parallel was emphasized as they entered the shop that December morning. Stock items were draped from hooks and hangers, intertwined with strings of fairy lights. Large candles in sconces higher up the walls made the scene even more exotic (and prompted in Carole sour thoughts about health and safety risks). The effect was studiedly casual, that apparently random set-dressing which could only be achieved by meticulous preparation.
If the pot luck element in shopping at Gallimaufry, the fact that she never knew what she would find there, was what appealed to Jude, the very same quality was what had kept Carole away from the place until that Friday morning. She reckoned there was quite enough imprecision in life without going out of one’s way to discover it. Carole Seddon liked to have things cut and dried.
Of course, the success of a shop like Gallimaufry would always depend on the mind behind it. An eclectic buying policy was not necessarily good news, and the retail trade was littered with businesses that had gone belly- up because their premises were filled with stuff that nobody wanted to buy.
But the mind behind Gallimaufry appeared to be a shrewd one. A careful analysis of the requirements of Fethering consumers had been conducted and, rather than filling a single large niche, the new store had aimed for many small niches.
Though the village had its less salubrious area – rather appositely called ‘Downside’, some ill-maintained roads of former council housing to the north – Fethering was, generally speaking, quite well-heeled. The bungaloid straggle of interlocking villages between Worthing and Littlehampton, nicknamed locally the ‘Costa Geriatrica’, contained many people who had retired on good pensions (in the days when there were still good pensions to retire on). Even with a recession looming, there was plenty of spare cash in the Fethering area. The skill for a retailer was to get its owners to part with it.
And that was a skill that, gathering from the crowd when Carole and Jude entered the shop that Friday morning, the owner of Gallimaufry possessed. It was also clear, from the lavish embraces they exchanged, that Jude knew the owner of Gallimaufry very well.
Introductions were made. Carole silently disapproved of the woman’s name almost as much as she did of her shop. Lola Le Bonnier. Surely nobody was actually christened that? No amount of vindictiveness of parents could land someone with the name of Lola Le Bonnier. Maybe it was a misfortune of marriage.
And the woman was wearing a wedding ring. She was tall, slender, in her thirties with hazel eyes and chestnut hair skilfully shaped short around the nape of her neck. She was dressed rather too stylishly for Carole’s taste, but there was no denying the look was effective: an Arran cardigan with impossibly large wooden buttons over a pink silk T-shirt fringed with so much lace that it looked like lingerie, and skintight jeans disappearing into the tops of knee-high brown leather boots with implausibly high heels. Carole supposed rather sniffily that if you owned a shop which sold overpriced knick-knacks, then you had a duty to dress like an overpriced knick-knack.
“Hello,” said Lola Le Bonnier, giving a firm shake to Carole’s hand. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before, have I?”
“No,” came the reply that its speaker knew was too brusque.
“Well, browse at will.” Lola made an elaborate gesture at her stock. There was something theatrical about her voice too; it had a husky, breathy,
There was a wryness in her tone as she said this, an implication of understatement. Maybe the confidence of Gallimaufry’s champagne opening in September had been diluted by the harsh realities of the economic downturn. Perhaps, even though the shop was crowded, people were more cautious than they had been about parting with their money.
Certainly the stock was covered with labels bearing come-ons like ‘Final Reduction’ and ‘50% Off’. Carole’s interest was stirred. ‘Overpriced knick-knacks’ held more appeal for her when they ceased to be overpriced. They’d still be ‘knick-knacks’, obviously, but it might be worth her casting her eye over them.
“Oh, by the way, Lola,” said Jude suddenly, “if you and Ricky have got any time on Sunday, I’m having an open house. Starting twelve o’clock, going on till God knows when. You’d be very welcome.”
Really, Jude, thought Carole, if you go around randomly scattering invitations to every shopkeeper you happen to meet, no wonder you haven’t got a very clear estimate of how many people are going to come to your party. And I see the timing of the event has changed. ‘God knows when’ might be very different from ‘when the booze runs out’.
“Thanks,” said Lola Le Bonnier, her response as casual as the invitation itself had been. “I’ll check with Ricky. Sunday’s Varya’s day off – she’s the au pair, but Ricky’s mother will be with us by then…”
“Oh, she’s the actress, isn’t she?”
“That’s right, Jude. Flora Le Bonnier.”
“You’ve heard of her, haven’t you, Carole?”
“I don’t believe so,” came the sniffy response.
“She is – or at least was – quite a
“Very
