Goodmans of Glassford Street Read Free Page A

after her husband. What a frightened little mouse she was. Not a bit like her mother. Or her brother, for that matter. He’d met John Goodman a few times when he’d called to see his mother and take her out for lunch. These were on his occasional free days from his Scottish Parliament duties. He was a really cheery, sparky type and an ardent Scottish Nationalist. Not a bit snobby either. He was always ready for a chat. Usually taking the opportunity to remind everyone to vote SNP, of course. But it was usually just a brief, throwaway cheery line before he left. Nothing prolonged or heavy. Everybody liked John Goodman.
    He went round all the departments, checking that every department was adequately staffed and no one was off. Sometimes it meant drafting someone in from another department. Thankfully, he discovered everything was all right. He would have to repeat the procedure when the part-time staff came in. For the present, the staff were all accounted for and busy tidying, replenishing the fixtures, and dusting. Everything that nobody had had time to see to the previous night.
    Quite often, because he was the keyholder, he could be called out in the middle of the night. He never knew what was going to happen. It could be a broken window or a fire, perhaps. The police were always in attendance when he arrived at the shop in response to a phone call, and if it was a theft or a burglary, the police went in first. Or at least they always had a dog with them and they sent the dog in first. Not thinking, he often stepped forward to open the door with his key and go in himself. He obviously did not realise what might have happened if he’d walked in then, they told him. He didn’t mind so much getting wakened in the middle of the night, but it did upset him to have Jenny disturbed or worried. If only they could have a nurse or maid or full-time carer who would live in. Or, even better, private medical treatment. He’d heard about a new drug that, if not a cure for Jenny’s type of cancer, certainly would stop it getting any worse and eventually killing her. It had even been claimed that it was a ‘miracle drug’ and could indeed cure the illness. But the treatment was only available in a special private nursing home and the cost was horrendous. He simply could not raise that amount of money. It was a big enough worry employing a daily carer, plus a cleaner. The carer had to be with Jenny every minute of every day. The cleaner cleaned the house and did the washing and shopping. He had tried to do more of the housework and shopping himself at first, the housework in the evenings and the shopping in his lunch hour, but it was too much. Anyway, Jenny liked him to sit with her.
    ‘I don’t see you all day,’ she pleaded. ‘I need to treasure every minute of your company while I can.’
    There was an ominous ring in her voice that told him she knew she was dying and they didn’t have much time left together. He denied it, of course. Both to her and to himself. In his heart of hearts, though, he knew it was true. She was going to die – unless he could find the money to pay for this new private treatment.
    A quick glance at his watch told him it was time to go upstairs to the usual morning meeting in Mrs Goodman’s office. It had become quite a tense affair, with Mrs Goodman in charge and talking with authority to the buyers and assistant managers, while for the most part Douglas Benson either openly disagreed with her or seethed in silence. The Bensons could have shared the big office with Mrs Goodman but she insisted that they remain based in their own smaller office room next door. He suspected that she was still clinging to the memory of her husband, and a fine man he was. No doubt she couldn’t bear anyone to sit in his large, ornately carved chair. No one else attempted to. Rows of ordinary chairs were brought in and lined up. Everyone in front of Mrs Goodman, the Bensons one on each side of her.
    This morning