The Women in Whites

published by Writer’s Forum

I stood in front of the stark, grey building at the top of the town square and looked at the mutilated women.

From the stump of an arm, where a hand had once gestured, a quilted overnight bag dangled, tied crudely in place by a bright silk scarf. Her companion, blinded by a rain hood several sizes too big, still had both hands but lacked several fingers. Between them a headless, bra-clad torso lolled on a low glass table amongst a hoard of small trophies: a manicure set, a handbag mirror, a pair of leather gloves.

In the window on the opposite side of the glass door, the carnage was similar. Of the individuals still standing, two were completely bald and the severed neck of the third had been crowned with a large-brimmed hat in navy straw, as some final humiliation. One woman lay slumped on the ruddy lino which was strewn with crumpled knickers, novelty purses, suspender belts and bed socks.

I hurried on around the corner of Whites Department Store. The road narrowed to a single line of traffic which ran alongside the shop. Here a smaller window could barely contain an explosion of tea towels, pillow cases, bedspreads and cushions. Amongst it all, I caught a glimpse of a muscular, monkey-faced mannequin, an oven glove sliding silently over the shoulder of his tweed jacket, his full red lips leering at the appliquéd napkin and table cloth set lying innocently at his naked feet.

He reminded me of Derek, for whom I’d planned this trip to the Lake District, a weekend of wild beauty and romance. He’d said it would probably rain.

Then, just past junction 36 on the M6, the turning for Blackpool, I remembered I’d left behind the sexy underwear; those special creations of lace and satin were still laid folded in my top drawer at home. But all was not lost if I could quickly find replacements.

The town’s single shopping street had little else to offer other than charity shops and estate agents. And so I returned reluctantly to Whites and braced myself.

The interior was silent and dim, the air chilly and thick with the scent of floor polish, leather and stale sunshine. As my eyes adjusted, I saw racks of paper patterns, coloured thread and ribbon, scarves and umbrellas, shelves of handbags, a ‘Midseason Sale of Slacks’, and rail upon rail of cardigans. In far corners, silver stands bowed under a profusion of dusty hats, feathered tendrils reaching upwards for the light, and rolls of dress fabric lay waiting patiently to come back into fashion. Across the dark walls, thick socks and tights padded softy away to unseen departments beyond.

I made for the sombre hulk of the counter and stood clutching the brass rule along its outer edge and waited. I ran my fingers over the sharply notched feet and inches and waited some more. I leaned backwards and peered down the panelled passage towards the gloom of the men’s department and then up the curving staircase to the floor above. And still no one came.

I wondered what Derek was doing back at the hotel. I’d been a bit disappointed when he said he might go out for a newspaper, as if he knew already he was going to be bored. Then he’d have gone back to the bar and got chatting to some other hotel guests, no doubt working the conversation round to the best method for getting paint off ceramic tiles and hoping they’d buy him a drink.

I’d almost decided to give up, when an assistant appeared. She was carrying a severed arm, which she slung onto the counter top. It rolled towards me, coming to rest with its three remaining fingers reaching up to me.

“Can I help?” The question was a melted droplet of water from an ice-bound stream.

“Do you sell lingerie?”

There was a long silence. I began to wonder if she’d understood my question. Maybe I should have said ‘underwear’ or ‘foundation garments’ or just ‘knickers’. Then another molecule of melt water trickled out across the counter.

“Not in this department.” The temperature dropped further below freezing.

“No. I can see that.” I tried to reassure her that I was not accusing her personally of supplying pants and bras to members of the public. “But in the window … I saw underwear … on display.”

“You could try upstairs,” she said, turning away, as if she could not bear to witness such a reckless course of action. And then she was gone, no doubt to dismember some more bodies, leaving me alone with the abandoned limb in the cavernous belly of Whites.

Would Derek be on to his second free drink in the bar by now, ensconced in an armchair, holding forth about the perils of using cheap wood glue? Or would he be debating the merits of belt sanders over the circular variety?

At the top of the stairs, the wrinkled lino became subsumed under a deep pink carpet. Full-length mirrors reflected the light from tall, only slightly grubby windows, and around the room, bras, ranked in order of voluptuousness, from glistening white and utility beige to deep burgundy, gaped expectantly. French knickers lolled in wicker baskets and thongs tumbled from their half-open boxes. It was as if I’d wandered into a different shop.

There were two assistants behind the counter, both with busts so enormous that, once glimpsed, I found it difficult to look elsewhere. They were deep in conference with each other. I stood silently, next to a larger than life-size cardboard woman squeezed into a basque and suspenders, and listened.

“Bunty, all I meant was that our personal belief in free will, our inherent right to make our own choices, is so strong, because we have been able to exercise it all our lives.”

“But as I’ve said before, Joyce, for some people the idea of predestination may be just as liberating as …”

But then Joyce caught sight of me and at the same moment Bunty stopped mid-sentence.

“Can we help?”

“I don’t know.” After my recent experience, I didn’t hold out much hope. “I’m looking for some underwear. There was some in the window but …”

“Oh, we leave the window displays to Cheryl downstairs.”

“She does them every week.”

“Without fail.”

“Unfortunately.”

“But they used to be worse.”

“Much worse.”

Then Bunty spoke in a whisper. “Tragic story.”

“Unhappy in love.” Joyce whispered too.

“Picked the wrong man.”

Recalling the grim chaos of White’s window displays, I thought it must have been a terrible business, but Bunty had already resumed her normal booming tone.

“We just work up here. Lingerie is our speciality.”

“You could say we’re big in underwear.” And they laughed until their chests shook in unison and they had to dab at their eyes with matching handkerchiefs.

“Are you wanting something for yourself?” asked Bunty, after composing herself again.

“Or someone else?” put in Joyce with a sly glance at Bunty.

They were good questions. And I was just about to give my answer, when it was swept away by the realisation that Bunty and Joyce were twins, identical in every well-endowed proportion. I didn’t know how I’d failed to notice this before. It must have been the hypnotic power of their stupendous bosoms. And as I momentarily didn’t speak, they continued with their breathless patter.

“Are you looking for comfort?”

“Or style?”

“Can’t I have both?” I asked, turning from one to the other, glad to have got a word in at last.

“Rarely, my dear.”

“But sometimes we manage it.”

“Anything’s possible.” And they both laughed again, fortunately not so hard as before. Time was getting on. I needed to buy the underwear quickly and get back with it to the hotel before Derek’s bar room buddies became fed up with his view on electric screwdrivers and hammer drills.

“Now these are new in,” Bunty was saying, gliding magnificently to a display in the corner.

“And popular,” added Joyce, following behind.

“Our ladies report that they’re really very comfortable.”

Bunty held up a delicate something in black lace, whilst Joyce pointed to another in cream.

“What are they exactly?”

“Lace teddies.”

“Or bodysuits.”

“Comfort with style.”

“Elegance with support.”

“You’ve got just the figure for one,” said Bunty sweetly.

“Slender,” confirmed Joyce.

I wasn’t used to receiving compliments; I’d got out of practice somehow. It never seemed to occur to Derek and I felt rather awkward.

And then I wondered what he would make of me in a black lace teddy. He’d probably still find me less alluring than his new collapsible work bench and I’d be left standing in the hotel bedroom feeling stupid and frivolous. Derek wouldn’t be fascinated by me in sexy underwear. He’d want to know how they made the elasticated lace.

And that was the whole trouble. Derek liked things to work and I kept things that were broken - a clock that wouldn’t go, a handle-less jug the colour of the sea in summer - just because they were still beautiful. Derek had tried to mend both of them for me and was angry when he hadn’t been able to. But I hadn’t really cared.

The twins had noticed my hesitation and exchanged eloquent glances.

“And don’t think you’re pandering to male stereotypes of female desirability,” said Bunty, who I noticed always spoke first.

“It’s a celebration of your own unique beauty and it should have little or nothing to do with other people’s expectations at all,” agreed Joyce.

“Well, that’s what we think, anyway.”

“And we’ve been thinking about it for years.” And they were lost in another fit of giggles.

I left Bunty and Joyce settling down to an argument about existentialism over tea and shortbread fingers. I had two lace teddies and a pair of pink satin pyjamas, as cool and smooth as fish skin, expertly folded between layers of tissue paper. I descended quietly into the realm of the loveless Cheryl, hoping to escape from the shop without encountering her again.

Halfway down the stairs, I stopped.

Derek was standing at the counter, which was strewn with various items of rainwear. I supposed he’d come to buy me a mac; he’d said all along it would rain.

Then I saw he was cradling the severed arm of the mannequin. Cheryl was leaning so far over the counter I thought she might over-balance at any minute.

“Of course, you should never use cheap glue on something like this,” Derek was saying.

“But you could fix it for me, could you?” murmured Cheryl with rapt attention.

“Well, what I’ll need to do is …”

I crept to the bottom of the stairs and, bending low, edged past the Mid-Season Sale of Slacks and skirted the rails of cardigans and then, without looking back, I made a desperate dash for the door. I ran on past the hotel and kept on running up the hill until I reached the railway station.

This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, places, events and incidents of the work are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.