Free Tamar by Deborah Challinor Page B

walking the central commercial area, knocking on doors and asking for work. They stood for hours in long queues of unemployed women, only to be told there was none. They were both running out of money, Polly especially, and were beginning to despair. Their path each morning took them past the ever-growing slum of Chancery Street with its cramped and decaying houses with broken windows and filthy back yards, and they wondered how long it would be before they were forced to live in such poverty.
    Tamar knew that if she visited Myrna, her friend would offer to loan her money, if not make an outright gift, but she felt too embarrassed to do this; it was too close to begging, and an admission of failure. It would be even more humiliating to contact John Adams and might encourage him.
    In the last week of July, almost two months after they arrived in Auckland, Tamar and Polly were walking up a wet and windy Queen Street when they saw a man place a notice in the window of the premises of Arthur C. Ellis, Draper. They glanced at each other,then rushed through the door. Inside, the interior was tastefully appointed in polished wood with gleaming brass fittings. An extensive range of fabrics, from the practical to the opulent, was artfully displayed around the walls. At the back was a wide wooden counter with a cash register and several bolts of cloth, and behind it stood the man who placed the notice. He sported muttonchop whiskers and an impressive moustache, and was in his shirt sleeves, wearing a bow tie with a dark grey waistcoat matching his trousers.
    ‘Ladies,’ he said, leaning forward with his hands on the polished counter. ‘And what can I do for you on this not very fine day?’
    ‘You have a notice in your window, sir, advertising employment. We’d like to apply,’ said Tamar in a rush.
    ‘Yes, I do,’ the man replied genially. ‘But I only have one position. For someone who knows fabrics and has experience cutting patterns. Preferably someone with a recommendation attesting to their skills and character.’
    Polly, who did not have a reference, kept smiling but Tamar saw tears welling in her eyes. In an artificially cheerful voice Polly said, ‘Well, that lets me out, dunnit? I’ll wait outside fer yer, Tamar,’ and turned and quickly left the shop.
    ‘Oh dear,’ said the man. ‘I hate to see a pretty girl disappointed, but times are hard. So, I take it you have a recommendation?’
    Tamar nodded and silently handed him Mrs Tregowan’s reference.
    ‘I’m Arthur C. Ellis,’ said the man as he read. ‘You are Tamar Deane, I gather? And you’ve had cutting experience?’ When she said she had, Mr Ellis continued, ‘We don’t do garment cutting, but you need to know how it’s done so you can measure the correct lengths. And you also need to know about fabrics so you can advise customers on the drape and fall of curtains and the like. Do you think you can do all that, and operate the register? I see you have your letters and numbers. I need a scrupulously honest shop girl.I’ve two other assistants, a woman who does the sewing and a boy who works in the storeroom, but you’d be required to do a bit of sewing when we’re pushed. Oh, and you need to be able to lift the bolts of cloth down onto the counter for cutting.’
    ‘I’m sure I can do all that,’ Tamar replied confidently.
    ‘Your recommendation says you hail from Cornwall,’ Mr Ellis observed.
    ‘I do, sir. From just outside Truro.’
    Mr Ellis raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought so. I came out almost twenty years ago. Bodmin was my home town. It will be a treat to hear another Cornish voice in the shop. The job’s yours, Miss Deane. We’ll start with a six-week trial and if it works out you’ll be taken on as permanent staff. Does that suit?’
    Tamar smiled broadly and said yes before he could change his mind. Mr Ellis told her what her wages would be and her hours of work, and asked if she could start the following Monday. The hours