The Clockwork Sparrow. Katherine Woodfine
underneath an old cap. But what Billy noticed straight away was that his face was badly bruised, and that he held his arm awkwardly. The young man was injured, Billy realised, but all the same he found himself stepping back. It wasn’t that this stranger was threatening exactly, but he wasn’t afraid either: his face showed nothing but a sort of sharp-edged curiosity.
‘Who are you? What do you think you’re doing?’ Billy blustered.
The young man said nothing.
‘You’re trespassing. You’re not allowed to be here. I should get the police.’
The fellow gave him a quick, searching look. Then he spoke. ‘I’m not doing any harm,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘I’ll not take nothing. Let me be.’
‘I can’t do that!’ Billy exclaimed. He couldn’t even imagine what Uncle Sid would say if he found that Billy had let some ruffian hang about in the stables. He gathered himself, and said in a voice that was meant to be just as stern as before, except that it would wobble in a most irritating way: ‘You’re to clear off at once, hear me?’
To his annoyance, the stranger suddenly grinned at him. ‘Think you’re a toughie, don’t you, mate?’ he said. ‘Well, all right then, just for you I’ll be off – but I’ll be going in my own time. Why don’t you get back to your work like a good boy?’
Billy felt his fists clenching. Why did everyone always treat him like he was some sort of stupid, useless kid? This fellow was the worst of the lot of them, looking at him with a silly smirk on his dirty face. Well, he would show him. His fear had fled now, and he stepped forwards boldly, striking out with his fists. But all at once, and more deftly than Billy could ever have imagined, the stranger shot out one foot, and Billy found himself face down on the stable floor in a great pile of dirt.
By the time he had picked himself up again, spluttering with indignation, his jacket plastered with horse muck and straw, the strange young man had completely vanished.
Stepping on to the shop floor was like stepping inside a chocolate box. Sophie’s feet sank into the thick, soft carpet and she sucked in a deep breath of the rich, perfumed air. She had been falling in love with the store since the very first moment she saw it on the day of her interview, when it had still been noisy with the sounds of sawing and hammering, and had smelled of sawdust and paint. Even then, it had seemed more like a place from a fairy story than any dull, ordinary shop.
Now, a reverent hush hung in the air, and she found herself almost tiptoeing as she crossed the shop floor, gazing around her at the immense chandeliers, the glittering looking-glasses, the glossy walnut panelling. It smelled luscious: no sawdust now, but a glorious fragrance of cocoa and candied violets and some other spicy scent, like the cigars that Papa used to smoke after dinner. The ceiling was painted with a mural of cherubs luxuriating upon soft pink clouds, and around her were gleaming glass-topped counters, each displaying an array of beautiful objects for customers to admire, from blue glass bottles of eau-de-cologne to prettily enamelled snuff-boxes. For now, though, there were no customers; the store was deserted. She only glimpsed the occasional salesgirl, whisking to and fro like a ghost as she put the final touches to a rainbow display of soft kid gloves, or ran a feather duster carefully over a collection of dainty rouge and powder boxes.
Sophie wished she had time to linger, but she knew she ought to hurry. She made her way towards the staff staircase at the back of the shop – the grand main staircases and the lifts were, of course, to be for the customers only. But even the staff staircase had the same air of impossible luxury and she couldn’t resist dawdling to trail her fingers along the smooth, curving caramel-coloured banister.
The Millinery Department was on the third floor, next to Ladies’ Fashions. The room itself looked more like an elegant lady’s boudoir than any hat shop she had seen before. The large windows were hung with beautiful draped curtains; chairs with silk cushions were carefully positioned before oval-shaped mirrors in gilt frames; and bowls of sweet-smelling flowers stood on side tables. Mrs Milton, Head of the Millinery Department, was standing by the counter, hustling all the girls together like a distracted hen with a brood of wayward chicks.
‘Now where is Sophie? Oh, there you are. Do hurry along, dear! Minnie, keep those sticky fingers off my nice clean counter. And, Edith, take those bracelets off at once. You know as well as I do what Mr Cooper would say. Girls, really ! We have a great deal to do today.’
As Sophie joined the circle, Edith smirked and whispered something to Ellie. Sophie ignored her, turning her attention to Mrs Milton, who was still speaking: ‘This is our last day to prepare before the grand opening tomorrow. Mr Sinclair himself will be walking around before the end of the day to inspect the whole store, so everything must be quite perfect. That includes all the storerooms as well as the shop floor.’ She beamed at them all and her tone shifted slightly, ‘Now, I have some exciting news. Mr Cooper tells me I may appoint one of you as my assistant. Whoever is chosen will receive an extra five shillings a week, but will also have a great deal of extra responsibility. She will be in charge of the department when I am away, and will help to choose our stock. I shall be watching you work in the next few days once the store has opened, and then I shall make my decision, so mind you all do your best.’
A little murmur of interest ran through the group of girls. Who would be chosen? Surely not Violet or Minnie – they were only apprentices, straight out of school. Ellie was the oldest, but she was rather slow and apt to make heavy weather of any complicated tasks. No, it would have to be either Edith or Sophie – and they all knew that Sophie had been singled out and praised by Mr Cooper during the training. The younger ones gazed at her, but Edith scowled. It was clear she wasn’t about to sit by and let Her Ladyship beat her to become Mrs Milton’s assistant.
Sophie’s mind was racing. An extra five shillings a week! That might even be enough to move out of her awful lodgings and find some nicer rooms somewhere. Of course, it would never be anything like Orchard House – that had gone forever. But at least it might begin to feel something like a home.
Mrs Milton continued: ‘I will expect you all to work your very hardest today. So to begin – Ellie and Violet, all of those boxes need to be cleared away. Sophie, you may finish that display over in the window. Edith and Minnie, I want to see those display cases polished until they sparkle. I won’t have Mr Sinclair finding so much as a speck of dust in my department!’
Edith looked furious to have been given something as lowly as polishing to do when Sophie had all the fun of arranging a display. As she went to fetch dusters, she shot the other girl a poisonous glance, but Sophie ignored her, determined to focus only on her task. A tower of hat-boxes stood before her, each containing a lovely new spring hat to be removed from its delicate tissue paper wrappings, uncovering a riot of silk flowers, huge chiffon bows, frills of lace and nodding ostrich plumes. Some were topped with artificial birds or fruit, others wreathed in layers of frothy net and tulle like something that might be served up in the store’s Confectionery Department. She turned each hat to and fro in her hands, deciding how it might be best displayed, enjoying the soft brush of velvet against her skin, a satin ribbon sliding between her fingers, the crisp delicacy of a net veil.
They were strangely evocative things. A pink organza recalled a frock she had once had for dancing class; a green-striped bow reminded her of one of Miss Pennyfeather’s Sunday hats; this velvet was like the dress she had worn when she had first come to Sinclair’s. Already, it seemed like a very long time ago, although in fact it was barely two months.
At fourteen, they had said she was too old for an orphanage: she was considered no longer a child, and old enough to support herself. Instead, they had sent her to an employment agency, where two ladies had looked her up and down as she stood there, dressed like a child with a muslin pinafore over her frock, her skirts barely touching the tops of her boots.
‘She’s very small, isn’t she, Charlotte?’
‘Undersized. Not much work in her.’
‘And look at