grinning. ‘And I’ll give you a loan of them at Christmas if you have anything special on.’
The shoe shop was packed and Heather stifled a sigh as she had to join the end of a queue of about a dozen chairs. Eventually, a sour-faced assistant came to her. Heather gave her the description of the patent shoes, and an eternity later the woman came from the back of the shop holding up the pink stilettos in one hand and the white cardboard box in the other. ‘That them?’ the woman said, with a deadpan expression, taking one of the shoes out of the box and holding it up.
‘Size four?’ Heather checked.
‘That’s whit ye said, wasn’t it?’ the assistant snapped. ‘I’m hardly goin’ to get ye a size eight, am I?’
Heather forced herself to smile ingratiatingly at the rude assistant, whilst seething inside. She handed over Kirsty’s money and then waited for the change and for the woman to wrap the shoe-box in brown paper and laboriously tie the package with string. After that, she made her way further down Main Street to the relatively cheap, but fashionable, ladies’ shop where she and Kirsty had an account. This enabled them to buy new things as they came into the shop, and pay them off on a weekly basis. This was another job that fell to Heather, as she was in the town every day for work. And she knew that if she left it to Kirsty, there would be weeks when she wouldn’t make it in to keep the account up to date.
Sometimes skirts and blouses had to be ordered in if they were very popular sizes, and Heather wanted to give herself plenty of time to make sure she had two new skirts for starting work in Glasgow. A navy and a black she had decided, as they would go with everything.
‘The new pleated ones are very popular,’ the young shop assistant told her. ‘They’re flying out of the shop as quick as we get them in.’
Heather held up a black skirt. ‘Is it wash or dry-clean?’ she checked.
The girl looked at the label. ‘Dry-clean only . . . proba bly the pleats might fall out if you tried to wash it.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘You’d get a good few wears out of them if you buy them in a dark colour.’
‘What about the pencil skirts?’ Heather said, going over to another rail. ‘Are they dry-clean, too?’
‘No, a gentle hand-wash,’ the girl read out from the label.
‘I’ll try one of each then,’ Heather said.
‘Size fourteen?’ the girl said, holding a navy skirt up.
Heather’s cheeks flamed at the shop assistant’s assumption. ‘Usually a size twelve fits . . .’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ the girl said doubtfully, standing back to appraise her customer’s figure. ‘I’d try both sizes on, for the pleats look terrible when they’re stretched too tight over your stomach or hips.’
Ten minutes later Heather came out of the shop with two size-fourteen skirts wrapped up, vowing to herself that she would definitely start eating less. She hurried back up the busy street towards Bairds’ department store, where she was meeting her friend. The tearoom on the top floor had lovely cakes and pastries and was just around the corner from the bus-stop for Rowanhill.
‘You definitely don’t look as if you’ve put any weight on to me,’ Liz said, taking a bite out of a large chocolate éclair. She swallowed it, and then scooped up a lump of cream that had fallen on the plate with her finger and popped it in her mouth. ‘Look at me, I’m like a bloomin’ rake no matter how much I eat. At least you’ve got a bust and hips, and that’s what the fellas go for.’
Heather stared down at her half-eaten lemon meringue pie. It was terrible trying to cut down, when she felt she only ate the same as Liz and Kirsty who never seemed to put an ounce on. ‘The skirt waistbands told the truth,’ she said ruefully. ‘I could hardly get the button done on the size twelve and it was all stretched across my stomach.’ Her spoon moved towards the lemon meringue
The shoe shop was packed and Heather stifled a sigh as she had to join the end of a queue of about a dozen chairs. Eventually, a sour-faced assistant came to her. Heather gave her the description of the patent shoes, and an eternity later the woman came from the back of the shop holding up the pink stilettos in one hand and the white cardboard box in the other. ‘That them?’ the woman said, with a deadpan expression, taking one of the shoes out of the box and holding it up.
‘Size four?’ Heather checked.
‘That’s whit ye said, wasn’t it?’ the assistant snapped. ‘I’m hardly goin’ to get ye a size eight, am I?’
Heather forced herself to smile ingratiatingly at the rude assistant, whilst seething inside. She handed over Kirsty’s money and then waited for the change and for the woman to wrap the shoe-box in brown paper and laboriously tie the package with string. After that, she made her way further down Main Street to the relatively cheap, but fashionable, ladies’ shop where she and Kirsty had an account. This enabled them to buy new things as they came into the shop, and pay them off on a weekly basis. This was another job that fell to Heather, as she was in the town every day for work. And she knew that if she left it to Kirsty, there would be weeks when she wouldn’t make it in to keep the account up to date.
Sometimes skirts and blouses had to be ordered in if they were very popular sizes, and Heather wanted to give herself plenty of time to make sure she had two new skirts for starting work in Glasgow. A navy and a black she had decided, as they would go with everything.
‘The new pleated ones are very popular,’ the young shop assistant told her. ‘They’re flying out of the shop as quick as we get them in.’
Heather held up a black skirt. ‘Is it wash or dry-clean?’ she checked.
The girl looked at the label. ‘Dry-clean only . . . proba bly the pleats might fall out if you tried to wash it.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘You’d get a good few wears out of them if you buy them in a dark colour.’
‘What about the pencil skirts?’ Heather said, going over to another rail. ‘Are they dry-clean, too?’
‘No, a gentle hand-wash,’ the girl read out from the label.
‘I’ll try one of each then,’ Heather said.
‘Size fourteen?’ the girl said, holding a navy skirt up.
Heather’s cheeks flamed at the shop assistant’s assumption. ‘Usually a size twelve fits . . .’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ the girl said doubtfully, standing back to appraise her customer’s figure. ‘I’d try both sizes on, for the pleats look terrible when they’re stretched too tight over your stomach or hips.’
Ten minutes later Heather came out of the shop with two size-fourteen skirts wrapped up, vowing to herself that she would definitely start eating less. She hurried back up the busy street towards Bairds’ department store, where she was meeting her friend. The tearoom on the top floor had lovely cakes and pastries and was just around the corner from the bus-stop for Rowanhill.
‘You definitely don’t look as if you’ve put any weight on to me,’ Liz said, taking a bite out of a large chocolate éclair. She swallowed it, and then scooped up a lump of cream that had fallen on the plate with her finger and popped it in her mouth. ‘Look at me, I’m like a bloomin’ rake no matter how much I eat. At least you’ve got a bust and hips, and that’s what the fellas go for.’
Heather stared down at her half-eaten lemon meringue pie. It was terrible trying to cut down, when she felt she only ate the same as Liz and Kirsty who never seemed to put an ounce on. ‘The skirt waistbands told the truth,’ she said ruefully. ‘I could hardly get the button done on the size twelve and it was all stretched across my stomach.’ Her spoon moved towards the lemon meringue
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