The Milliner - A dark Tale

This dark tale is again inspired by one of the many carte de visites in my possession. Not having ever met the beautifully attired lady in the photo I do apologise for casting aspersions on her character. But I think that look says it all!

Gladys Pugh believed a woman attired in the appropriate millinery, was a woman of breeding and class. And class you must understand, for Gladys Pugh, was everything.

A highly anticipated wedding to Arthur Pugh, one year previously, had resulted in an unsatisfactory marriage for widow Gladys Smith. They endured (for endure they did) a short and highly forgettable honeymoon at the desirable seaside resort of Llandudno, during which for Gladys the only highlight of the three days had been her two visits to Madam Genevieve, High Class Milliners, located in the highly fashionable Victoria Shopping Arcade. To ensure she could enjoy this opportunity to indulge her passion, Gladys had spent some time during their outward train journey convincing Arthur of the health benefits of a bracing walk on the Great Orme every morning, leaving her free to browse and shop as she pleased.

On their return Mr and Mrs Pugh moved into a terraced house (or villa, as Gladys preferred to refer to their home) in one of the lesser suburbs of Shrewsbury.

Now, and one long year after their marriage (and still living in one of the lesser suburbs of Shrewsbury), Arthur had not lived up to his early promise. His position as Senior Clerk in the offices of the local hosiery factory had remained just that, with no promotion and associated increase in income on the horizon. Gladys was extremely frustrated by his obvious lack of ambition and unfortunately for Arthur, wasn’t afraid to let him know how much.

On the other hand, with a wife, a good job, a house with running water and a privy, Arthur would have been more than contented with his life had said wife not been quite so, well, demanding. In his garden where he now so often took solace when not at work, he tended his productive vegetable patch with his prize marrows next to his small shed in which often times he would fill his pipe with his favourite Three Nuns Tobacco and contemplate this unexpected turn of events. This was not what married life was supposed to be nor how he had pictured wedded bliss at all. Before he usually fell asleep with his newspaper unread beside him.

To heap further misery on this unhappy household, four months ago Marjorie Pugh, Glady’s Mother-in-law, had moved in, following the untimely passing of her diminutive and hen-pecked husband. Marjorie, a well-built woman and martyr to her many and varied ailments had within a few weeks; taken over the master bedroom (which had necessitated Gladys and Arthur moving to the smaller and darker back bedroom), re-arranged the front sitting room furniture and completely revised the weekly food shopping list. Arthur, unwilling and, it has to be said, actually unable to confront his formidable Mother on any contentious issue, found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place. Gladys was obviously not happy with the new arrangements and in the privacy of their cramped bedroom, frequently shared her displeasure with her husband. The unhappy outcome: Arthur retreated to his shed, Gladys sought solace in her work and Marjorie carried on regardless, secretly taking delight in the upset she was creating between her beloved son and his not at all suitable wife. Who came second-hand at that.

Glady’s job as Manageress of Courtaulds - Milliners to the Gentry, (fittings by appointment only) for the previous six years, meant she was in sole charge of the establishment’s four sales assistants and three milliners, whom she managed like a Sergeant Major. It was because of Gladys’s diligence and hard work , that of course Courtaulds Milliners was the Milliner for anyone who was anyone in Shropshire and Gladys was proud to brag and name-drop to everyone. With its reputation of up to the minute fashion and designs it was, we have to acknowledge, the place to buy hats and the place to be seen and Gladys positively glistened in the limelight. She strutted, instructed and lorded over her staff, making their lives an utter misery, saving her best teeth-bearing smile and her most obsequious and snobbish demeaner for her clientele. Indeed, such was her haughty grandeur, Gladys’ reputation amongst the well-heeled women of Shropshire was well known.

Her clientele chose to turn a deaf ear to her high and mighty manner because their every whim was attended to, their every small demand acted upon most obsequiously and without doubt Courtauld’s sold the most fashionable hats in the County. In private these ‘fine ladies’ had their own name for Gladys; ‘Her Majesty’, and as a consequence had created a betting syndicate between themselves to add excitement to their shallow lives. Who could make the most outrageous demands of ‘Her Majesty’? Consequently, their requests became more and more extravagant as they tried to outdo each other. Then on the 28th of each month and with barely concealed contempt, they would relay events to their accomplices over afternoon tea in The Royal Tea Rooms and a vote on the best wag of the month was made.

Gladys, totally oblivious to the distain she was held in, was in her element and the only small cloud in her otherwise clear blue sky was that Courtaulds – Milliners to the Gentry, was not under her ownership…. Yet. But Gladys had a plan. Admittedly Marjorie moving in had initially put a cat amongst the pigeons, so to speak, but she reasoned to herself following this unexpected turn of events, why not kill two birds with one stone?

To take you back a while to two years earlier. The current and ageing owner of Courtaulds had taken Gladys by surprise during one of their monthly meetings in the pretty apartment above the shop and dropped the bombshell that in due course she would be selling up and moving to reside by the sea, where she felt the fresh air and care provided by a younger sister would benefit her failing health.

At which point and without so much as a second thought Gladys surprised herself and her employer by announcing she would like to buy the business and enquired as to the desired asking price? A suitable figure had been negotiated and a mutually convenient time for the transaction to go ahead had been agreed for two years hence and it wasn’t until Gladys arrived home that evening and began to reflect on her impulsive decision that she realised that her savings pot with the Shropshire Savings Bank was short of the necessary funds. A plan was required with some urgency.

Currently as I write Gladys is just £100 short of achieving her goal. About the size of a pay out from a life insurance policy in fact.

Perhaps this is the perfect time to talk of a certain death, if ever there is a good time. Specifically the untimely departure of Albert Smith, who if you remember, was Gladys’s first husband. Albert, had died tragically 18 months into their marriage, leaving Gladys with a reasonable life insurance pay out, luckily a life policy had been in place, and a Victorian Mantle Clock which she immediately sold. There being no place for sentimentality in Gladys Smith's life. Combining the two sums together Gladys squirreled the money away into a rather healthy-looking savings account with the Shropshire Savings Bank. It was such a very unusual and sad affair the locals had concurred, and the widow had borne her loss stoically in her elegant black widow’s weeds. So you may wonder, how did young Albert come to meet his maker?

His daily employment with the Royal Mail as a Postman with up to 4 deliveries a day (he cut a very fine figure in his smart uniform by the way) meant Albert was kept very busy, but this did not prevent him continuing to satisfy his passion for night fishing. It was during one of these nocturnal marathons that Arthur met his messy end. When he hadn’t returned home as usual for his bacon and egg breakfast, Gladys had raised the alarm with her neighbours and heading the search party they rushed to Albert’s preferred fishing spot on the river. His fishing bag and flask, bait and seat were on the bank but there was no sign of Albert. Everyone scoured the riverbank for any evidence of his whereabouts. A shout was heard and Arthur was found wedged tight against a tree stump protruding from the water. The local menfolk quickly formed a human chain and carefully extracted the body from its watery grave. They carried him to dry land, his rod dragging by invisible twine behind him. Turning his body and to the horror of those present, it became apparent that Arthur’s favourite night fishing hook was firmly imbedded in his right eye, upon the sight of which Gladys dutifully swooned oh-so delicately into the nearest rescuer’s arms.

What a terrible, terrible accident. But not surprising, the river had taken many before their time, it had been remarked. It was the talk of Shrewsbury. Briefly. An inquest was convened and a verdict announced; Death by Misadventure. And the town moved on.

And so did Gladys, who was now focussed entirely on the next phase of her plan, to become the proud and rightful Proprietress of Courtaulds – Milliners to the Gentry, for she truly believed she absolutely deserved it!

Enter stage right one Arthur Pugh, and back to our story. Concerned about Arthur’s penchant for smoking and falling asleep in his shed Gladys shared her worries over the fence with her neighbours. Both sides. “It will be the death of him” she had said. “I have warned him not to do it.” Her words were remembered and much repeated by her neighbours after the events of that awful night.

A mere four months before Gladys was due to take up the reigns as Proprietress of Courtauld’s, her prophecy sadly for Arthur, came true. One cold and quiet evening an explosion rocked the air of a certain lesser known suburb of Shrewsbury. A shocked Marjorie rushed out into the garden her screams heard the length of the street, such was her horror. Between shouts and sobs the neighbours quickly understood that the situation was more serious than just a fire. Arthur Pugh was still in his shed!

A human chain was quickly assembled and buckets of water passed from hand to eager hand in an attempt to douse the flames. Marjorie, by now totally distraught, had to be forcibly pulled away from the burning shed as she tried to save her beloved boy. Falling to her knees blackened and singed by the flames, her heart could no longer cope with the strain and beat for the final time as she collapsed on top of Arthur’s Prize Marrows.

It was some time before the flames were brought under control, Gladys physically supported by her neighbours, watched as the men finally removed Arthur’s charred body from his shed and laid him carefully on the lawn beside his Mother. Sobbing silently, as becoming of a lady, Gladys rushed to him and cradling his head in her lap ensured her tears ran down his blackened face for all present to bear witness. Her performance melting the most manliest of hearts.

What a tragedy. What a terrible, terrible tragedy. It was the talk of the town, briefly. A joint Inquest was convened, and the verdict announced; Deaths by Misadventure. And the town moved on. And so did Gladys.

A mere four months later and Gladys Pugh had moved from a certain lesser suburb of Shrewsbury and was fully ensconced in a very pretty apartment above a shop named Courtaulds – Milliners to the Gentry (Fittings by Appointment only). And written underneath in shiny new gold lettering;- Mrs G Pugh – Proprietress.