Rachel Lindsay - Food for Love Read online

  Rachel Lindsay - Food for Love

  Nowadays we all take supermarkets for granted — but how many of us give a thought to the small shopkeeper, gradually being forced out of business by the huge business combines? That was what happened to Amanda Stewart's father, and it was therefore only with bitterness in her heart that she had taken the job at Brand's chain of super-markets; who knew, she might get a chance of revenge!

  But something rather different happened: her new boss, Clive Brand himself, began to take such a marked interest in her that they both decided it might be more politic if she changed her job. So Amanda went to work for Brand's biggest rival, Homefare — and found herself coping with yet another problem, in the person of that mysterious, maddening man, Red Clark!

  CHAPTER ONE

  'Feeling bitter about your father's death won't help you or your mother to get over it,' Mr. Treadmarsh told Amanda Stewart. 'There's nothing worse than bitterness for making grief linger.'

  'I can't help my feelings,' Amanda said. 'When I think what Homefare did to him——— They as good as caused his death!'

  'If it hadn't been them it would have been another supermarket group,' Mr. Treadmarsh replied. 'Much as you and I may regret it, the day of the small shop is doomed.'

  'I know,' Amanda said bitterly. 'Supermarkets today and hypermarkets tomorrow. Where will it end?'

  'With the death of. the small shopkeeper.' Mr. Treadmarsh looked disconcerted as he realised what he had said. 'I'm sorry—I didn't mean——-'

  'That's all right.' Amanda swallowed painfully, the thought of her father's death still too close for her to pretend she was not shattered by it. 'He was so young to die,' she burst out. 'Only sixty. The same age as my mother, and now she has no one.'

  'She has you.'

  'That isn't the same.'

  'What are your plans?'

  'I don't know. Money will be a problem, of course.'

  'Your mother will get your father's Army pension. It won't keep her in luxury, but it should provide her with day-to-day necessities.' The elderly solicitor ruffled through the papers on his desk. 'I never understood why your father decided to go into the grocery business. I mean, it isn't the sort of thing one expected a retired Major to do. Market gardening now, but a grocery shop in a little village…'

  'It was much more than a shop, Mr. Treadmarsh. It was the hub of the village—a meeting place for everyone. You know what my father was like. Three months after he moved in he was Chairman of the Church Committee and Secretary of the Gardening Club. The village became his life. He would have done anything to preserve it. That's why he wouldn't sell out when Homefare made him their offer. He thought it was the thin end of the wedge, and that if one supermarket got in, others would follow.'

  'I remember him coming to talk to me about it,' Mr. Treadmarsh vouchsafed. 'At the time I couldn't see why any large group would want to buy a village shop. I thought a thousand residents didn't warrant a supermarket.'

  'They hadn't intended to open one at all,' Amanda explained. 'They wanted to buy Daddy out but let him remain in charge as manager. They made the same offer to several grocery shops in the district. My father was the only one who refused to sell. Then when they opened that huge hypermarket outside Brigford they closed down all the little shops they'd bought, and that forced everyone to go to the new place.'

  'So even if your father had sold out to them and remained as manager, he'd have been out of a job in a couple of years?'

  'Exactly. They paid their managers off very generously, though,' Amanda admitted, 'but my father was in a different position. He'd turned down Homefare's offer and then when he decided he'd have to sell to them, they laughed in his face.'

  'It's understandable, I suppose,' Mr. Treadmarsh murmured. 'As I remember it, when they first approached your father their offer was generous. It's a pity he turned it down.'

  'He believe the small shopkeeper should be encouraged, not destroyed.'

  'A commendable belief, but not a logical one in this j competitive age.' The solicitor peered at his papers again. 'You have a good job, I hope?'

  'For the last year, since my mother's heart attack, I helped my father to run the shop.'

  'Are you planning to keep it on?'

  'There's nothing to keep on. It's been running at a loss for months. I'm sure it's the reason my father died. When Homefare wrote and said they wouldn't buy the shop at any price, he went for a walk to think things over. He crossed the street without looking and'—she clenched her hands but forced herself to go on—'and he was killed. Perhaps he didn't want to live. Perhaps death was the best way out for him.'

  'Surely not.' Mr. Treadmarsh made no effort to hide his shock. 'Your father was still a comparatively young man, and he had his pension.'

  'He'd been borrowing against it for more than a year. We owe the bank over two thousand pounds. We'll have to sell the cottage to pay it off.'

  'And then what will you do?'

  'Find a small flat in London. I'll get a better salary working there than if I stay in the country.'

  Mr. Treadmarsh was still clucking his distress when Amanda left his office and walked down Brigford High Street. What a direct contrast these bright, brash shops were to the small village ones, where personal service took the place of fluorescent lighting and home-made delicacies took the place of streamlined efficiency and cut-price produce. But it was the lower prices that people wanted these days. If this were not the case, her father would be alive today.

  Driving home in the small car which she was not sure she could still afford to run, Amanda was far less confident of the future than she had given Mr. Treadmarsh to believe. But she did not have red hair for nothing: if there was any crying to be done she would do it alone. Indeed she dared not do it in front of her mother, whose health had failed alarmingly since her husband's death a month ago.

  Because of this Amanda forced herself to look cheerful as she parked outside the village shop and walked through it into the cosy sitting-room at the back. Beyond it lay the garden and beyond this was the village green.

  No wonder her parents had been enchanted when they had first come to Meredon Vale. Even now, seven years later, it was still picturesque and unspoiled, despite being only five miles from Bigford. She sighed; it was a pity the villagers hadn't shown her father the loyalty he had expected; had they done so, the shop could have remained a viable proposition. Not that he had ever blamed them for their behaviour; he had always insisted that his falling takings were a result of Inflation and the financial squeeze, rather than his customers deserting him in favour of lower prices and the vast selection of the Homefare hypermarket.

  'I've made you a cup of tea,' her mother said, coming from the small kitchen to greet her. 'I thought you'd need reviving after an afternoon with Mr. Treadmarsh!'

  Gratefully Amanda took the cup. There was a similarity between the two women despite their difference in age. Both were tall and slim: Mrs. Stewart to the point of thinness, but Amanda fashionably so, with long slender arms and legs, a graceful neck supporting a delicate triangle of face and a creamy skin and dark blue eyes. Her hair came as a shock, however. Instead of the glossy brown one expected from such colouring, it was a vivid red. Thick and vibrant, it seemed to have a glowing life of its own, and cascaded like a ripple of fire to her shoulders.

  'Did Mr. Treadmarsh have any suggestions to make?' Mrs. Stewart asked diffidently.

  'Only that we're doing the right thing in selling up and moving to London.'

  'I wish we'd done it a year ago. When I think how hard your father fought to stay on here——'

  'It was a losing battle,' Amanda rejoined, determined not to let her mother wallow in se
ntiment. 'You can't fight the big boys; all you can do is join 'em.'

  'You sound as if you're preparing to do so.'

  'I am.' Amanda went to stand by the window, her eyes looking out on the garden but seeing instead the grey streets of London. 'I'm a better than average secretary and I know how to run a grocery shop. It's an unusual combination that should lead to an interesting job.'

  'I think you should work in an office in the city. You're bound to meet a——'

  'Nice young man,' Amanda finished. 'No, thanks, darling. I intend to do more with my future than look after a house and children for some bowler-hatted gent! I'm going to get myself a job with Brands. They're always advertising for staff.'

  'You can't work for a supermarket!' Tears filled Mrs. Stewart's eyes. 'After the way Homefare treated your father, I'd have thought——————————————— '

  'That's exactly why I want to work for Brands,' Amanda interrupted. 'They're Homefare's biggest rivals and if I can contribute in the smallest possible way to making them even bigger, I'll be delighted.'

  Mrs. Stewart sighed. 'I wish you weren't so bitter. Forget the grocery business. You can't do anything to affect Homefare. It's like a whale, Amanda. It swallows up everything.'

  'I might be able to give it indigestion 1' Amanda said dryly. 'Stranger things have happened.'

  With Amanda, to think was to act, and within a few weeks the lease of the shop had been disposed of at a giveaway price, the overdraft at the bank had been cleared and they were installed in a small flat in Camden Town. The rooms afforded a view of rooftops and grimy houses, but the rent was reasonable and the landlord a cheerful Indian with a plump wife and baby. It was far different from the quiet rooms of their village home, but when filled with their few antique pieces of furniture it at least looked habitable.

  It was easier for Amanda to settle down than her mother, for within a week she had found herself a job at Brands, and was out of the flat for most of the day. It was only in the typing pool, but already she had worked two consecutive days for George Thomas, one of the food buyers for the group, who made it plain he would use her again when his own secretary was ill.

  'It seems such a dull job for you,' her mother commented one evening a few months later when Amanda returned home pale and tired after strap-hanging in the Tube. 'You had a good education and you're so lovely, I'm sure you could do something better.'

  'You're biased, Mother,' Amanda smiled.

  'No, I'm not. Mr. Chadwalla was very surprised when he heard you were a secretary. He was sure you were a model.'

  'I'm a model secretary.'

  'In a typing pool?'

  'Not any more. I've been promoted.'

  'That's marvellous. Why didn't you tell me?'

  'You didn't give me a chance. It only happened this afternoon. Mr. Thomas's secretary is leaving and he's asked me to take her place. It's the first step up the ladder.' Amanda clasped her mother by the waist and danced her around the room. 'Wish me luck.'

  Breathlessly Mrs. Stewart disengaged herself and sat down. 'Where's the luck in being a secretary?'

  'I don't intend to remain one for long. I'm going to become a buyer myself.'

  'Will it mean more money?'

  'It isn't the money that's important. It means I'll be in direct competition with the Homefare buyer.'

  'What good will that do? Really, Amanda, I wish you'd forget Homefare. You can't go on blaming them for your father's death. It was an accident.' Mrs. Stewart's voice was agitated and her lips had a bluish tinge that made Amanda regret she had allowed the conversation to continue.

  Hurriedly she went into the bedroom and returned with a pill. 'Put it under your tongue,' she ordered, and watched as it was done.

  Within a few moments the colour came back to Mrs. Stewart's lips and she gave an apologetic sigh. 'I'm sorry, dear, I feel better now.'

  'I'm the one who should be sorry. It was stupid of me to go on like that.'

  Mrs. Stewart made no comment and Amanda changed the conversation, chatting about clothes and a dress she had seen on her way to work. But later that evening as she lay in bed and heard her mother's shallow breathing, she knew she could never eradicate the bitterness from her mind. As long as she lived she would remember her father's needless death and, remembering it, wish to pay back those who had caused it. How much easier it would be if it were a person and not a company. Sometimes she realised the futility of pitting herself against such a giant concern, but then she remembered David and Goliath and drew comfort from the thought. There must be thousands of small businesses which Homefare had destroyed on its way to becoming the mammoth organisation it now was. If only all the people whose livelihood it had taken away could band together into a rival group. It was an exciting thought but a hopeless one, and she forced it from her mind, knowing that unless she did so she would be unable to sleep. And sleep was important to a girl who was determined to show her new boss how capable she was.

  Quickly Amanda settled into her new job, and within weeks had made herself indispensable to her employer.

  'I don't know how I ever managed without you,' Mr. Thomas said one afternoon as she crossed the carpeted floor of his office to hand him his afternoon post to sign. 'I only gave you those letters an hour ago. You must have electric fingers, let alone an electric typewriter!' He glanced quickly through the pages, penning his signature at the bottom of each one as he did so. 'If you'd like to leave early, you may. I'm planning to leave early myself.'

  'That would be nice,' Amanda smiled. 'Mrs. Grant said she'd take me to the Food Exhibition if I was free.'

  'Still keen on becoming a buyer?'

  'Yes.'

  'You have no experience.'

  'I helped my father. In the last six months I did all the ordering.'

  'For a small shop? My dear Miss Stewart, one of our buyers spends as much in a day as you did in a year!'

  'We were just as interested in getting the best possible products at the lowest price.'

  'But do you have the knowledge to recognise the best products? You wouldn't be faced with a few products to choose from; you'd have dozens.'

  Realising the futility of continuing the discussion, Amanda picked up the letters and retreated.

  'About the dance on Saturday,' Mr. Thomas called as she reached the door. 'My wife and I would be delighted to have you sit at our table.'

  'That's very kind of you,' Amanda lied. 'But I'm not sure if I'm coming.'

  'You can't miss the Staff Dance.' Mr. Thomas was shocked. 'Everyone goes. You'll have the chance of seeing Mr. Brand too. He's a charming man. You must come, Miss Stewart, I've spoken so much about you to my wife that she's looking forward to meeting you.'

  So that she can make sure I haven't got designs on her husband, Amanda thought, hiding a smile as she nodded and said that perhaps she would come to the dance after all.

  'That's settled, then,' Mr. Thomas smiled. 'I'm sure you won't regret it. You'll be the belle of the ball.'

  Mrs. Stewart seemed to think so too, though she was annoyed that Amanda had not bought herself a new dress.

  'I've better things to do with my money,' Amanda told her.

  'What could be better than buying yourself something pretty?'

  'Giving you a holiday in the sun. It will do you good to get away from London.'

  'I've no intention of taking a holiday,' Mrs. Stewart retorted. 'I feel fine.'

  Unwilling to argue, Amanda turned away. She was perturbed at her mother's growing frailty and had made up her mind that a couple of months in the sunshine of Spain or Portugal would do more for her mother than the medicine and pills she received from her doctor.

  'Amanda, you haven't heard one word I've said!'

  'Sorry,' Amanda apologised. 'What was it?'

  'Mrs. Chadwalla said she'd be delighted to lend you one of her saris. She has some beautiful ones.'

  'I wouldn't even know how to put one on,' Amanda protested. 'And I'd look silly in it.'
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  'I think you'd look lovely. They're so graceful and feminine, and you've got just the right figure.'

  With surprising speed Mrs. Stewart went to the door and, almost as if it had been prearranged, the landlady came in on a gust of curry, carrying a billowing cloud of blue and gold material over her arm. Within a moment it was draped around Amanda's slender form, deftly pleated at the waist and then tucked in, and draped across the bodice with one end of floating gossamer resting on her arm.

  Amanda stared at herself with pleasure; by no stretch of the imagination did she look Indian, but her very air of modernity and bright red head emphasised the femininity of this most graceful of all traditional dress. Expecting the ponderous folds to hide her shape, she was astonished to see it emphasised it, drawing attention to her small waist and high, firm breasts. How long and slender her arms looked too, and how graceful the line of her neck and shoulders.

  'If we draw your hair back so,' Mrs. Chadwalla hissed happily, pulling the thick red hair into a smooth coil on the nape of Amanda's neck, 'and then put on this little necklace'—a glittering affair of gilt and pearls cascaded around Amanda's throat—'you will look beautiful enough to be a Maharanee!'

  'I feel like one,' Amanda giggled, and swung round, careful not to catch her heels in the skirt. 'But I couldn't wear this, Mrs. Chadwalla, it's yours.'

  'It is yours,' the woman insisted. 'Two dozen like this He in my wardrobe, and I wear none of them. Please be so good… you will make me happy if you accept.'

  Realising it would be churlish to refuse, Amanda nodded, and the next half hour was happily spent in learning how to put the sari on for herself.

  'You will be the most beautiful girl at the dance,' the Indian woman said as she left to return to her own flat.

  'I'll certainly be the most unusual-looking,' Amanda replied. 'The only red-headed Indian at the Dorchester!'

  Three nights later Amanda bore out these words, and hovering by the ballroom door, wondered whether she wouldn't have been wiser to have worn her plain black silk. Several of the girls in the cloakroom had stared at her goggle-eyed as she had deposited her coat and disclosed her finery. But it was too late for regret, and clutching the floating end of her sari over her arm, she moved across to look at the table plans that had been set up at the entrance to the ballroom.