One bright and pleasant morning, Mrs Tilley took her shopping basket and set out for the High Street. She wore her smartest coat and hat, with matching shoes and handbag, for Mrs Tilley liked always to look her best, even - particularly - for shopgirls, and other humbler folk. She walked properly, as people should, with back straight and head held correctly aloft, down the hill to the town centre, thinking how untidy so many gardens were. Some people just did not deserve to have gardens.

A passing policeman acknowledged with the briefest nod her special smile for Upholders of Law and Order. Mrs Tilley was a great believer in these. Society would simply fall apart, if what were permissable indulgences among the better class of person should spread to their inferiors. There was no knowing where such things might end.

Various window displays claimed her attention till the chemist's was reached. Waiting for her prescription, she wondered, not for the first time, if Joyce Bagshaw, whose dispenser husband owned the shop, had been drawing conclusions from the nature of her medicines, and gossiping them round the Guild. She especially loathed Hector Bagshaw's habit of glancing at the prescription, then back at her with an unpleasant, knowing expression. To avoid him, and help pass the time, she inspected the toiletry display, and treated herself to three bars of luxury scented soap.

Approaching Wincott and James's department store, Mrs Tilley was almost knocked over by a teenage girl weaving at speed through the packed precinct, closely followed by a bulky middle-aged woman. Mrs Tilley's impatience flared. Could such people not allow themselves enough time to catch the bus without having to rush and knock rudely into decent citizens? She barged angrily into the store, and began to investigate nightdresses racked near the entrance.

Mrs Tilley was impressed by the nightdresses. Even in this world today, you could still depend on traditional family firms like Wincotts' for quality goods in sensible styles at reasonable prices. She took several garments to a mirror, holding each up in front and turning from side to side as colour was matched to complexion, and design to deportment. Then, choice made, she looked carefully around, slipped two nightdresses into her shopping basket, and hid them under a newspaper.

There was a commotion at the shop door. Mrs Tilley, and everyone else, looked. A line of people stood pressed against the outer glass panels, and beyond them a struggle seemed to be taking place. As Mrs Tilley approached, the crowd parted suddenly, and the throng of interested spectators behind surged through the door, bearing her out to the precinct. There she found herself confronting the middle-aged woman earlier seen running. She was holding by the arm, and apparently trying to drag into the store, the teenage girl whose shrieks and oaths were the source of the noise. The girl fought, bit, and kicked, but the older woman was tenacious, and was succeeding in pulling her inch by inch towards the shop doorway.

'Please clear a path,' the stout woman panted to the obstructing crowd. ‘I’m store-security.' She tugged again at the writhing, cursing girl. 'Will someone please help me apprehend this shoplifter?'

‘I ain't no shoplifter yer bleedin' old bag! ' yelled the girl, 'Yer can see I ain't carrying nothing.'

Still shrieking, she landed what plainly was not the first kick on the store detective's leg, making the older woman wince and almost release her hold. A man in the crowd moved to grab the girl's arm but, missing the twisting figure, caught and ripped her blouse instead. At once a small cascade of cosmetics fell to the ground. With a cry of triumph, but unwisely, the store detective pounced on this evidence, momentarily relaxing her grip to let the girl break free and leap into the crowd right where Mrs Tilley was standing, shoving her sideways, and knocking the newspaper from her basket.

At once a group of men set out in merry pursuit. Mrs Tilley stood winded, mortified by the indignity of the encounter. But worse was to follow. For the detective, who had not joined the chase, was staring in fury at Mrs Tilley's shopping basket. With dreadful realization, Mrs Tilley followed the woman's eyes. There, in full view and still with their store labels, lay the two nightdresses, one in patterned primrose, the other in plain cerise silk with lacy white cuffs, neck, and hem.

'O.K love,' snapped the store detective, grabbing her in an ungentle grip, ‘Let's go.'

Mrs Tilley's mouth opened, shut, and opened again. 'But,' she began, 'But..but.. but..'

'I know, love,' said the detective, 'she passed them to you. It's the oldest trick in the book. Mother-and-daughter outfit, are we? I must say, you’ve taught her to put up a good fight. I hope you're going to come quietly - I've had enough trouble for one day.'

Mrs Tilley found her voice.  'Let me go!' she ordered, in a voice meant to show affronted dignity, but which worry and embarrassment throttled to a peevish squeak. She tried to shake off the woman's hold.

'You're not going anywhere, love,' said the detective, turning nasty, 'Except to the manager's office till the police get here.'

The crowd of fascinated onlookers was now considerable. Mrs Tilley was especially mortified to notice Joyce Bagshaw gazing earnestly in her direction, and whispering to Cecily Myers JP, the former Guild president who, Mrs Tilley was sure, had vetoed her nomination as last year's chair.

The next few minutes were a nightmare Mrs Tilley was certain would haunt her to her grave. In full view of a grinning crowd - and two of her sharpest acquaintances - she was being manhandled by a vulgar, coarse store detective into some petty manager's office, like a common thief from a council estate.  At least the Rector was away at Broadstairs, but she did not doubt that Rev Mott-Smithers, or, more likely, his busybody do-gooding wife, would be briefed eagerly at the first opportunity.

The manager, a thin pinstriped man in late thirties, was waiting at a desk, on whose leather top his fingers drummed incessantly. (Nails none too clean, Mrs Tilley thought.)

'Caught this one red-handed, Mr Hargreaves,' the detective announced. 'Receiving goods passed by the girl who got away.' Proudly she held up the offending nightdresses.  'Have the police been called?'

'Thank-you Mrs Dickens, they're on their way.' Hargreaves, disconcerted by Mrs Tilley's dress and manner, motioned her to a chair.

'Proper Lady Muck, isn't she?,' Mrs Dickens observed, 'She certainly knows how to act a part.'

'Well, Madam,' said Hargreaves almost apologetically, 'A serious allegation has been made against you by my security officer here. As you perhaps know, it is this store's invariable policy to prosecute all shoplifters, or thieves as we prefer to call them, whatever the circumstances.'

The deferential manner, and outrage at the word 'thieves,' restored some of Mrs Tilley's aplomb. She spoke slowly and sonorously, like a tourist to a Spanish waiter.

'These allegations, young man, are unfounded, malicious, and false. Whilst matching those garments to find which ones best suited me, I was distracted by an affray. Though I myself never become involved in such things, others were less constrained, and thrust forth from the shop, bearing me with hem. The garments were still in my hand..'

‘They were in your bag,’ cut in Mrs Dickens shortly.

‘..They were in my hand when I was borne out of the shop in the rush.' Scornfully she pointed at the detective. ‘It appears that your... your woman here was making an unsuccessful attempt to apprehend a real culprit, only to let her escape scot-free, so rather than admit her failure, she makes impudent and preposterous allegations against me.  Besides...'

The telephone rang on Hargreaves's desk.

'Yes ....yes there is.... who?..... what?  why?  Oh very well, send them up.'

He replaced the receiver and looked around.

'A Mrs Myers and a Mrs Bagshaw are insisting on seeing me,' he announced to Mrs Dickens, 'It seems they know this suspect. One of them is a Justice of  the Peace.' He spoke this with near reverence.

Mrs Dickens gave a short bark, which might have been a laugh. 'So she's known to the bench already,' she remarked. 'Or they're her accomplices.'

Hargreaves continued to drum his fingers, Mrs Tilley adopted a stern mien and upright posture to hide her anxiety, and Mrs Dickens retired muttering to a seat by the wall, where she sat with one hand on each knee, and a sardonic expression.  By the time Mrs Tilley had decided she would rather face prison than ask or accept any favours from Cecily Myers, then changed her mind, reckoning the publicity an even worse fate, the office door opened and two fur-coated figures ushered in.

Cecily Myers, tall and commanding in (synthetic) champagne sable, and Joyce Bagshaw, squat in musquash, six-sided glasses glinting below tight mousey waves, stood before her. They greeted her with expressions of surprise and concern; sentiments Mrs Tilley felt were less than genuine.

Hargreaves, sounding ill-at-ease in such formidable company, cleared his throat. 'Er..Good-morning ladies. Many ..er..thanks for… er..volunteering me your time..' He paused. 'I .. er ..believe you may be able to .. er .. assist us in our..er.. enquiries.'

'Enquiries?  What enquiries? What is my friend doing here?' demanded Mrs Myers.

'Er .. you know this lady?,' indicating Mrs Tilley.

'Very well indeed,' said Mrs Myers, more loudly. 'Why have you brought her here? Is something the matter?'

'This lady,' said Hargreaves, 'was apprehended by my security officer on suspicion of...' He paused to consider whether the word 'larceny' might be more impressive in the circumstances - after all, Mrs Myers was a magistrate - but decided otherwise, and ended rather lamely '..on suspicion of shoplifting.'

'Suspicion my foot!' snorted Mrs Dickens from the sidelines, 'She did it! She had two new nighties in her basket, unwrapped, and un-paid-for, hidden under a paper. I saw her walk out the shop door into the street with them. She was that brazen. I'm amazed she even bothered to cover them up.'

Mrs Myers swept magisterially round. 'As a Justice of the Peace,' declaimed she, 'let me warn you; repetition of such stuff and nonsense may land you in the dock for defamation. I have known and respected this lady for many years. She and I have served on the Guild committee, the Red Cross committee, the Inner Wheel, Soroptimists.' She turned to, or rather on, Hargreaves, the ends of whose fingers were performing a toccata con brio on the desk's leather top. 'This is a confounded outrage, sir. Your chairman, whose wife is my intimate acquaintance, shall hear of this, never fear.' She advanced threateningly to his desk. 'Mrs Agnes Tilley, last year's Guild chair-elect, and an honourable woman, would NEVER stoop to shoplifting.'

So great was Mrs Tiiley's relief, she feared her composure might slip. She began to wonder if, after all, it had not been Mrs Myers who blocked her bid for the chair.

At this moment the phone rang again, this time to tell Hargreaves the police had arrived.  Almost at once the neighbourhood officer entered, with a WPC in attendance. Hargreaves greeted them with a weary smile. It was Mrs Dickens who took on herself to put them in the picture.

'Shoplifter - caught red-handed - her over there.'

‘I deny it, how dare you.' Bluster, Mrs Tilley decided, was the best line of defence. Her nostrils flared.

'She..that ... that woman let a real thief  go, and to hide her incompetence detained me instead. It's monstrous. It's disgraceful. I shall sue.'

'Can we have some facts please, ladies.' The policeman eyed Mrs Myers uneasily. In court she had several times disbelieved his evidence, so he planned to be specially careful. Meanwhile Mrs Dickens was forcefully giving her version of events, to interruptions of ‘monstrous' and ‘outrageous' from Mrs Tilley, abetted by Mrs Myers.

‘I have already explained,’ said Mrs Tilley when her turn came to speak, 'I was trying the garments at the mirror when a commotion arose outside. As the crowd pushed to see what was happening, I was thrust forth with them. I had no chance to replace the garments.'

'How then, Madam, do you explain the fact that the garments were in your basket?' the policeman asked.

'So she could sneak out without paying for them, it's obvious,' growled Mrs Dickens.

For the first time, Mrs Tilley's composure began to desert her.  'I ... I ... don't remember,' she blurted.

'But I do, officer.' Joyce Bagshaw stepped forward to make her first contribution to the affair. ‘I was standing nearby, I saw everything.' She turned to Mrs Tilley. 'You put them in your basket, dear, because there's nowhere to put them down by that mirror. It’s fixed to a pillar, there’s no shelf or anything near it. You looked round for somewhere to lay the clothes, and put them in your basket when you saw there wasn't anywhere. Surely you remember that.’

She looked at Mrs Tilley, who looked back, peering through her glasses like a puzzled owl. But she had the presence of mind to say, 'Well, I don't remember, but if you say so... I was so upset at being jostled I must have completely forgotten what I'd done.'

'Then that's settled,' boomed Mrs Myers, 'It's all a misunderstanding.' She turned to Hargreaves. 'I trust you find this witness’s testimony a satisfactory explanation of this incident.'

The policeman and Hargreaves, who looked like a mouse some kind soul had just snatched from a tormenting cat, readily agreed to proceed no further. They all rose to leave, with Mrs Dickens, the lone dissenting voice, muttering about fine clothes not making a lady, and Mrs Myers dropping menacing references to the laws of slander.

Mrs Tilley's cup of joy was full to overflowing. Her moment of peril had passed; her friends - how could she have misjudged them so? - had supported  her and suspected nothing; her good name and reputation were saved.

'I need some lunch after that,' Mrs Myers said as they walked outside. Across from the precinct, the pargeted front of the Old Fleece and Feathers beckoned hospitably. 'Let's go there,' Mrs Myers said, 'I'll pay.'

Spirits revived during the meal. Mrs Myers called first the head waiter, then the manager, to complain that her Fresh Breast of Pigeon in Blackcurrant Coulis was lukewarm, overpriced, and certainly not fresh at all, but Boiled-in-the-Bag, which was an Offence under the Trades Descriptions Act, about which she, a magistrate, was in a position to take exceedingly drastic action, and would take the utmost pleasure in doing so. Mrs Tilley recovered sufficiently to add that their waitress had seemed disrespectful, though one could of course expect nothing else nowadays, bearing in mind the girl would have attended a Comprehensive school without Discipline or Standards, and thus, (Mrs Tilley was in a generous mood after her ordeal,) a Victim of the Permissive Society, to be pitied rather than blamed. 'Our generation has betrayed the young by failing to set a proper moral example,' she thrilled, and Mrs Myers cried 'Amen' and hit the table so hard in agreement that milk splashed from the jug, and a pea leapt off Joyce Bagshaw's fork and dropped to the carpet.

Mrs Bagshaw ate her lunch quietly, and said nothing. But later, when Mrs Myers had gone to the Ladies, and Mrs Tilley thanked Joyce for what she had said, she confronted Mrs Tilley across the cups and uncleared plates.

'You did it,' she said, 'didn't you!' Mrs Tilley was taken utterly by surprise. For an instant, the world stopped still. Her mouth opened for a denial, but found its powers of speech fled.

'You see, dear,' said Joyce, 'Hector and I know what everyone's being treated for from the prescriptions they get. We've known for years you suffer from kleptomania. I did tell Cecily because of the Guild, and of course there was no way we could let you become president - we just couldn't take the risk.  I mean - the publicity - I'm sure after what nearly happened today you can see that. Your secret's safe with us, never fear.  But Hector and I would appreciate it if you returned the soap you stole from our shop this morning.'

       Copyright © James Scott 1989 and 2008

 

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