The Milliner's Secret Read Online Free PDF

silence while Miss McCullum consulted some recess of her mind. ‘You have won a place on the Derby Day outing, but are you certain you wish to take an afternoon’s holiday?’
    Cora blinked. What a stupid question.
    ‘We’ve been keeping an eye on you, Miss Lofthouse and I.’
    Miss Lofthouse was sister to the joint-chairman and a director. ‘What sort of eye?’ Cora demanded warily.
    ‘We consider you a candidate for promotion, as demonstrated by the recent discretionary pay increase we awarded you.’
    ‘Oh.’ Cora didn’t understand ‘discretionary’, but last month, four shillings extra had appeared in her pay packet. Kindly meant, no doubt, but not as welcome as the forelady might imagine. News of pay rises always leaked out and favouritism was poison in a close-knit environment. As for promotion, that meant walking up and down the aisles, checking her friends’ work, carrying the can for their mistakes as well as her own. All for a bit of extra money she’d likely never see anyway.
    Miss McCullum continued crisply, ‘I tell you in confidence, Cora, that my position in ladies’ soft felt may soon fall vacant.’ A raised eyebrow invited response, but Cora couldn’t think of one. Everyone knew that foremen and ladies had to have been millinery apprentices, schooled in the arts of blocking and fine finishing. Pettrew & Lofthouse hats adorned the heads of politicians, lords and ladies, even royalty. The directors were gentlemen, arriving for work in chauffeur-driven cars – except for Miss Lucilla Lofthouse, who came on a bicycle. But that, apparently, was because she’d been a suffragette and was still making a point. Supervisors spoke with rounded vowels and correctly applied aitches. And they dressed the part. Take Miss McCullum’s cigar-brown costume and lace collar, the spectacles suspended from a thin gold chain. Whenever she walked into the make-room, where Cora worked, everyone stopped talking.
    ‘I’ve only ever worked on ladies’ felt and woven straw,’ Cora blurted out. ‘And I never could block a hat, not one anybody would want on their head, because I’m cack-handed.’ She waved her left hand. ‘They forced me to be right-handed at school, so now I can’t do anything properly, not even peel a spud. A potato, I mean. And I’ve never touched buckram nor sisal, nor plush. I’m just a trimmer. I couldn’t be forelady.’ I’m not a lady .
    ‘Indeed, you are many years from such a position. I was about to say that Miss Lofthouse and I have considered creating a subordinate post, that of assistant forelady, and we consider you suitable for such a role. You would learn on the job.’
    What had that got to do with her going to the Derby, Cora wondered? The question must have shown because Miss McCullum said, ‘Absenting yourself in pursuit of rowdy pleasure ill befits a future supervisor. You will wish to withdraw from the party, I dare say.’
    Seriously? In talking of future promotion, the forelady was dangling a very thin jam sandwich on the end of a very long fishing rod, whereas the Derby was six days off, and the best fun Cora was likely to have all year. She wouldn’t say it to Miss McCullum, but the work here was stupefyingly boring. Always the same grosgrain ribbon to work with, always in navy, gravy or bottle green. Once in a while, a new line might demand a rosette or even a tiny feather, but Pettrew’s hats were essentially dull. Oh, yes, smart and hard-wearing, but dull. That was the point of them.
    ‘There’s a world out there, Miss McCullum, with wonderful colours in it. I want a bit of time off, so I get to see them.’
    The eyes beneath the level brows turned cool. All Cora knew of the very private Jean McCullum was that she’d followed the Lofthouse family from Scotland when they bought out the old firm of Pettrew’s. Miss McCullum shared the family’s unadorned Methodism, so would never raise her voice or resort to intemperate language, but she could convey a