departed England. I had a letter from my mother. I didn’t expect
a letter from you, as even if you had replied post-haste, I shouldn’t imagine
it will arrive in Cape Town before mid-March, and then of course it has to find
its way out here. We are a full three days by train from the coast.
Please write to me Rose. It
would mean a great deal.
Yours, most truly,
Frank.
2.9
It all happened quite suddenly one
April afternoon in the shop. Rose had been dealing with a difficult customer.
She was a good customer, but she could be extremely demanding. Rose had shown
her the curtains they had made, as per instruction, but the customer had
declared rudely, and rather aggressively, that the material was darker than she
had chosen and that they were unacceptable. Rose was sure that there had not
been an error on her part and reached down behind the counter to look for her
samples and order book. Meanwhile, the customer became quite insistent and
demanded to see Mr Crockford.
For Rose it was the last straw. She had been feeling unwell
for six weeks. She had also received another letter from Frank, but it was
written before he had received hers. He said he was fine, camped at Modder
River and enjoying a lull in the fighting. He made light, but to Rose he was in
the thick of it, and not just there to stand reserve for the regulars. The
possibility that he might be killed in action only served to heighten her
anxiety over his safety, and her predicament, if he did not return. She was
anxious as to how he would react to her letter. She knew she might have to wait
another four weeks before she got his reply. The worry was preying on her mind.
When she straightened up, with the large heavy order book to
hand, trying at the same time to placate the most unreasonable customer she had
ever encountered, Rose started to feel hot and faint.
As Mr Crockford approached the counter to help with the
awkward customer, Rose passed out.
She regained consciousness when Mrs Robins slapped her
cheeks. Lying on her back on the floor, looking up into the questioning yet
unsympathetic face of Mrs Robins, was not the most pleasant way to return to
the world. Mrs Robins started to scold Rose almost immediately, but Mr
Crockford intervened. He summoned Sidney to help him and the two of them raised
Rose carefully to her feet and helped her to a nearby chair.
‘Daisy, go and get a glass of water. Miss Ince, are you all
right? You fainted. What’s the matter?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Crockford, I don’t know what happened. I’ve
never felt like that before.’
The irate customer meanwhile had been observing all of this.
Her anger had certainly abated and she was feeling a measure of guilt for the
way she had spoken to Rose. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you. I had no idea you were
of such a fragile disposition. Are you ill?’
Mrs Robins was watching the proceedings like a hawk. She
took a renewed interest and peered down at Rose. She also enquired if Rose knew
of any reason why she had fainted.
‘I’ve no idea,’ murmured Rose, ‘no idea at all.’ She sipped
some water. ‘I feel better now; I would like to carry on.’
Mr Crockford however, would have none of it. ‘I think you
should take the rest of the afternoon off, Miss Ince. Go and have a lie down.
I’ll ask Mrs Jones to send you up a cup of tea. Daisy, please see Miss Ince up
to her room.’
Mr Crockford ordered everyone to return to their posts. He
listened to the customer’s complaint and then consulted Rose’s order book. He
found the customer’s order and saw the swatch of material pinned to the page.
He removed the swatch and compared it against the finished curtain. There was
no doubt that they were identical. When he invited the customer to accompany
him outside to check the colour in daylight, she reluctantly admitted that the
mistake had been hers.
For Rose however, any temporary relief that she had avoided
the discovery of her pregnancy was short-lived, as Mrs Robins’
a letter from you, as even if you had replied post-haste, I shouldn’t imagine
it will arrive in Cape Town before mid-March, and then of course it has to find
its way out here. We are a full three days by train from the coast.
Please write to me Rose. It
would mean a great deal.
Yours, most truly,
Frank.
2.9
It all happened quite suddenly one
April afternoon in the shop. Rose had been dealing with a difficult customer.
She was a good customer, but she could be extremely demanding. Rose had shown
her the curtains they had made, as per instruction, but the customer had
declared rudely, and rather aggressively, that the material was darker than she
had chosen and that they were unacceptable. Rose was sure that there had not
been an error on her part and reached down behind the counter to look for her
samples and order book. Meanwhile, the customer became quite insistent and
demanded to see Mr Crockford.
For Rose it was the last straw. She had been feeling unwell
for six weeks. She had also received another letter from Frank, but it was
written before he had received hers. He said he was fine, camped at Modder
River and enjoying a lull in the fighting. He made light, but to Rose he was in
the thick of it, and not just there to stand reserve for the regulars. The
possibility that he might be killed in action only served to heighten her
anxiety over his safety, and her predicament, if he did not return. She was
anxious as to how he would react to her letter. She knew she might have to wait
another four weeks before she got his reply. The worry was preying on her mind.
When she straightened up, with the large heavy order book to
hand, trying at the same time to placate the most unreasonable customer she had
ever encountered, Rose started to feel hot and faint.
As Mr Crockford approached the counter to help with the
awkward customer, Rose passed out.
She regained consciousness when Mrs Robins slapped her
cheeks. Lying on her back on the floor, looking up into the questioning yet
unsympathetic face of Mrs Robins, was not the most pleasant way to return to
the world. Mrs Robins started to scold Rose almost immediately, but Mr
Crockford intervened. He summoned Sidney to help him and the two of them raised
Rose carefully to her feet and helped her to a nearby chair.
‘Daisy, go and get a glass of water. Miss Ince, are you all
right? You fainted. What’s the matter?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Crockford, I don’t know what happened. I’ve
never felt like that before.’
The irate customer meanwhile had been observing all of this.
Her anger had certainly abated and she was feeling a measure of guilt for the
way she had spoken to Rose. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you. I had no idea you were
of such a fragile disposition. Are you ill?’
Mrs Robins was watching the proceedings like a hawk. She
took a renewed interest and peered down at Rose. She also enquired if Rose knew
of any reason why she had fainted.
‘I’ve no idea,’ murmured Rose, ‘no idea at all.’ She sipped
some water. ‘I feel better now; I would like to carry on.’
Mr Crockford however, would have none of it. ‘I think you
should take the rest of the afternoon off, Miss Ince. Go and have a lie down.
I’ll ask Mrs Jones to send you up a cup of tea. Daisy, please see Miss Ince up
to her room.’
Mr Crockford ordered everyone to return to their posts. He
listened to the customer’s complaint and then consulted Rose’s order book. He
found the customer’s order and saw the swatch of material pinned to the page.
He removed the swatch and compared it against the finished curtain. There was
no doubt that they were identical. When he invited the customer to accompany
him outside to check the colour in daylight, she reluctantly admitted that the
mistake had been hers.
For Rose however, any temporary relief that she had avoided
the discovery of her pregnancy was short-lived, as Mrs Robins’
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