She had been interviewed by Mr Drayke himself. Where had she worked? Who were her references? Could she speak French? Jane didn’t expect you needed to speak French to fold up sweaters and make tea and take deliveries – which was pretty much all the junior was going to be doing. He was only asking her so that he’d have a reason to turn her down if the reference was no good. When she said she was doing O level French he immediately asked if she spoke Italian. Lot of Italian customers lately. What did she know about purchase tax? Foreign customers could claim back the tax – not something that ever troubled Vanda. But she knew he wanted her really because he gave her a Pringle catalogue to take home. Saddle shoulder. Batwing sleeve. Mock turtle. Geelong lambswool. Single-ply. Two-ply. Intarsia. Argyll. A whole new dialect. He rang at home to say she could start the day after she finished school.

‘Who was that man on the phone? What did he want? Strange men on my phone.’

Auntie Doreen was not happy at the idea of a West End job. Jane fancied herself. Even the promise of forty bob a week for Jane’s keep didn’t really make up for it. Doreen couldn’t remember the last time she went to the West End. What was cashmere anyway? Goats? No thank you.

Vanda was very disappointed. Mona was retiring next year and she had hoped. Particularly after she had taken the trouble to train Jane in the business. But Edie was a sweet woman really. She gave Jane a very nice reference – ‘glowing’, Mr Philip called it – and a blouse to start work in. A rather nice striped lawn to wear with her navy gaberdine. ‘You watch out for that Mr Drayke. They can take advantage.’

The spiteful east wind flounced the length of the shopping parade and ripped easily through Jane’s cheap coat – three-quarter-length flannel grey bouclé, Magyar sleeve, cape collar and showy red buttons the size of liquorice bootlaces.