Surprise Serving
by Swellison

Bodie pulled his Capri over to the kerb and parked. "Okay, you can open 'em now," he told his partner.

Ray Doyle's eyes popped open and he stared out the passenger window, gawking at a five-story edifice with GRACE BROTHERS in rod lettering over its impressive main entrance.. "A department store? You bought me a building for my birthday?" he teased, "Ey, mate, you shouldn't 'ave."

"Not the whole store," Bodie admitted, eyes downcast, "just a piece of it" - he grinned slyly - "two pieces in fact."

Doyle noticed the smirk and used his powers of deductive reasoning. "A suit? You're buying me a suit for me birthday? Bodie, that's way too ex--"

"Don't say it, Doyle! Didn't your mum ever tell you it's rude to mention the price of a gift? Besides, we've been so busy this last month, I didn't even have time to get your Christmas pressie. So this is your Christmas and birthday present combined - and I'm entitled to spend a bit more than usual."

Doyle ceased studying the mid-January day and glanced over at his partner. Bodie's last words sounded almost defensive. Remembering that his present from Bodie last year had been that ridiculous game of Pigmania, Doyle wondered what he could end up with in lieu of the suit, if he turned it down. He could insist on a less expensive gift, or he could give in gracefully, for once. "Well, what are we waiting for, then? Let's go buy a suit." He reached for the door lock.

Bodie tapped his shoulder. "Just a tick, Ray. Aren't you forgetting something?"

"No," Doyle answered, a trifle uncertain.

"You're going to purchase a suit, which means you'll be trying on different clothes."

"Oh," Doyle unzipped his brown leather jacket and pulled out his Browning. Bodie unlocked the glove compartment and Doyle deposited his gun inside. Realizing that wasn't sufficient in this case, he squirmed out of his jacket and removed his holster, placing it alongside the gun. For good measure, Doyle chucked his R/T in the glovebox, too. He wormed back into his leather jacket, while Bodie relocked the glove compartment.

Doyle's gaze travelled from the department store entrance to his partner, a devilish glint in his emerald eyes. "Didn't know you bought your suits off the rack, mate. Thought you had your own personal tailor?"

"I do," Bodie huffed. "Unfortunately, Mr Goldberg's store burned to the ground last summer - very posh it was, too. He's currently the head of Grace Brothers' men's department - prob-ably just took the position until he can finance a new shop. Shall we get on with it?" They stepped out of the car and scurried over to the store entrance, glad to get out of the shivery January day.

* * * * *

Mr. Humphries ceased his strutting and cleared his throat importantly. Or at least it would have sounded important if Captain Peacock, Grace Brother's normal floorwalker, had done the throat-clearing. Mr. Humphries only sounded like he had a bad case of the sniffles. He loftily surveyed the ladies and gentlemen's departments on the fourth floor - his domain until Captain Peacock returned from his holidays. The central area was immaculate, as were the counters and merchandise displays on both sides of the wide, tiled floor that split the departments evenly down the middle. This tidiness owed less to the diligence of the cleaning staff and more to a lack of customers. Two "just lookings", a slip, and three pairs of Y-fronts constituted the entire morning's trade - a dismal turnout by anyone's standards.

Ding. The arrival of one of the lifts cut Mr. Humphries' musings short. He watched as two men stepped out of the elevator and down the half-flight of stairs to the sales floor. He studied the potential customers as he intercepted them: two good-looking young men, the dark one wearing a navy winter suit and a parka, the other, blue jeans, boots and a brown leather bomber's jacket.

"Are you gentlemen being served?" he greeted them.

The dark-haired man answered pleasantly and Mr. Humphries was struck by his deep blue eyes.. "We're looking for a suit for the lad, here. Is Mr. Goldberg about?"

"No, I'm afraid Mr Goldberg has come down with the flu, poor man. I'll be happy to assist you, in his stead." Mr. Humphries, busily calculating his commission on a suit, missed the put-upon expression that Doyle sent towards Bodie.

"Isn't it unusual for a floorwalker to serve?" Bodie suspiciously queried.

Mr. Humphries straightened his shoulders. "I'm only a temporary floorwalker. My usual position is senior assistant in the men's department. I work directly under Mr. Goldberg, and he's been completely satisfied with my performance. Now, if you'll just step this way?" Mr. Humphries ushered the two agents over to the men's counter and a full-length mirror. As they walked, Bodie unzipped his parka, and, in a further concession to the heating, unbuttoned his double-breasted suit jacket.

Doyle removed his leather coat and instantly a tall, young sales assistant materialised at his side. "I'll take that, sir," he offered, and hung it on a convenient rack.

"The gentlemen are looking for a suit, Mr. Lucas," Mr. Humphries explained. "I think we'll start with the top. Jackets, Mr. Lucas."

"Jacket rack coming up," Mr. Lucas said and hustled off. He returned momentarily, wheeling a rack of assorted suit coats. "Jackets, Mr. Humphries - and here's your tape." He handed Mr. Humphries a measuring tape, then returned to his post behind the men's counter.

"Thank you, Mr Lucas." Mr Humphries draped the tape around his neck. "Now, sir, had you any particular style or colour in mind?"

"No," Doyle answered while Bodie took the opportunity to browse through the rack of coats. He pulled one out and held it up. "What about this? Matches your eyes." He passed the hunter's green woolen jacket over to Doyle.

Doyle slipped into the green jacket and glanced in the mirror, Mr. Humphries right behind him.. "It's a little big in the waist, sir, but it fits the shoulders beautifully." Mr. Humphries patted Doyle's back approvingly. "Sir has such nice, broad shoulders.."

"Ahem," Bodie noisily cleared his throat and Mr. Humphries took a rapid step away from Doyle.

"I think we'd better get your measurements down properly before we go any further. I'll just be a tick." Mr Humphries walked away from the pair.

Doyle glared at Bodie. "That man 'ad his 'ands all over me. I thought you said this was a nice place, mate, top of the line." Without thinking, the two agents had assumed their "unknown public situation" mode and omitted using each other's names.

"It is, sunshine," Bodie strolled over to the central display, which currently was showcasing ladies' intimate apparel. He tapped a brunette-wigged bust approvingly. "This is a fine, upstanding establishment." A lacy black bra detached itself from the bust and arced airwards. Bodie reflexively raised his left hand and caught the soaring brassiere.. Then, with the aplomb of an expert, he calmly reattached it to the display bust.. Noticing that he had attracted an audience, he threw a devastating smile and a wink at the two women behind the ladies' counter.

"Did you see that?" Miss Brahms, the young blonde assistant, asked her older superior, Mrs.. Slocombe.

"Yes. I thought we'd sent all the defective Beauty Belle bras back to the factory." Mrs. Slocombe tsked and her left hand performed a quick touch up job on her coiffure. She had dyed her hair green for the Christmas season, and it was silvering as her hair srew out, leaving it the colour of fish scales, as Mr. Lucas so delicately phrased it.

"Not the bra, Mrs. Slocombe - HIM."

"Of course I did - he's hard to miss, isn't he, dearie?" Mrs. Slocombe heaved her ample breasts in approval.

Miss Brahms watched as Bodie walked back over to the men's counter and out of earshot, then hissed, "He was carrying a gun

- I saw it!"

"Miss Brahms-"

"When he reached up and grabbed the bra, 'is coat and jacket opened up and I saw it, right under 'is arm - holster and all." Both women eyed the customers across the room.. "D'you think he's a secret agent, or something?"

"Like that Gambol, what's on the telly, d'you mean?" Mrs. Slocombe asked.

"That's GamBIT, Mrs. Slocombe."

Mrs. Slocombe shook her head. "No, he's not a secret agent - that only happens on television.. He must be a robber - or worse." She clutched Miss Brahms' hand in sudden agitation.. "I know what 'e is."

"What is he?"

"They, Miss Brahms - they came in together." Mrs. Slocombe shivered "they're IRA terrorists.."

"What? 'E didn't have an Irish accent, sounded more like he's from Liverpool."

"Of course, Miss Brahms. Haven't you heard of the Liverpool Irish? Worst kind - and look at the other one. Reddish hair, green eyes - where d'you think 'e comes from?"

Miss Brahms hazarded a guess. "Ireland?" Mrs. Slocombe nodded in agreement. "What'll we do?"

"We'll inform Mr. Humphries - after all, as acting floor- walker, he's in charge. Get out your salesbook and write him a warning," Miss Slocombe instructed. "Then I'll semaphore him to join us over here and we'll fill 'im in. Hurry, if he starts taking an inside leg, we'll never drag him away."

Miss Brahms scribbled down the situation in her salesbook, then watched as Mrs. Slocombe imperiously waved her hand at Mr Humphries.

* * * * *

Bodie returned to the men's area after his brief encounter, just as Mr. Humphries reappeared, laden with a pad for marking down measurements for a tailor-made suit. "Why don't you look at the jackets yourself, sir," Mr. Humphries addressed Doyle, "and see if anything strikes your fancy?"

Shooting a speaking glance at his partner, Doyle moved to examine the jackets on the rack.. After several minutes of scrutiny, he selected three and walked the few steps back to the full-length mirror. He then removed the green jacket that he was still wearing and idly glanced at its price tag. "One hundred and ten pounds?" Outraged, he turned to Bodie. "That's too much! You can't seriously expect me to let you pay-"

"You never like any of my pressies," Bodie pouted.

"S'not true.. I like all your presents," Doyle said.

"Oh yeah?" Bodie asked, skeptically. "When was the last time we were hunkered down on our hands and knees on your rug, dicing and yelling 's-o-o-i-e' at the top of our lungs?"

Doyle glared, speechless, at his partner and the measuring tape dropped from Mr. Humphries' hands. As he stooped to retrieve it, he saw Mrs. Slocombe gesturing frantically for him to join her and Miss Brahms at the ladies' counter. "If you gentlemen will excuse me," Mr. Humphries managed to keep his voice from squeaking, "my colleagues need my assistance. I'll return shortly." He stood up and walked quickly over to the ladies' counter.

"Goodness gracious," Mr. Humphries pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. "Now what?"

"Miss Brahms needs you to sign a charge slip in her sales-book," Miss Slocombe said, indicating the opened tablet on the counter.

"What charge? Miss Brahms hasn't had a sale all morning," Mr. Humphries said.

"'Ere," Mrs.. Slocombe handed Mr. Humphries a pen, "just sign it. And keep your voice down," she added in a low whisper, "we don't want them to hear anything."

"'Them' who?" Mr. Humphries asked, but he followed instructions and read the hastily put-together note. "Oh, them," he muttered after he read the note.

"What should we do, Mr. Humphries?" Miss Brahms fretted.

"Miss Brahms, are you certain of what you saw?"

When Miss Brahms nodded, Mr. Humphries said briskly, "Then we'll have to inform the proper authorities."

"You mean Rumbold?" Mrs. Slocombe scoffed. "He won't do anything. Weak as water, he is."

"No, Mrs. Slocombe, I mean the police, or Scotland Yard, or maybe Special Branch? You just tell whoever answers 999 what you saw, Miss Brahms."

"Why me?" Miss Brahms' voice was higher-pitched than usual. "And where do I place the call from? They'll get suspicious if I leave the floor."

"You don't have to leave the floor, Miss Brahms, just use the phone behind the ladies' counter," Mr. Humphries decided. "And you have to make the call because you saw the gun.. Don't worry about being overheard, I'll keep 'em distracted."

"Both of them, Mr. Humphries?" Miss Slocombe asked. "You're only waiting on the curly-haired one."

"Yes, but the other one is watching me like a hawk. I can feel his eyes boring into me every time I get near his mate." Mr. Humphries smiled at Miss Brahms. "Rest assured, I'll keep both of them fully occupied. Now, I suggest you make that phone call." Miss Brahms nodded assent and Mr. Humphries signed the saleslip with a flourish, then left the ladies' counter.

Mrs. Slocombe watched him leave, then turned to her assistant. "'His mate?'" She raised her eyebrows, "Surely they're not--?" She let her wrist dangle forward suggestively.

Miss Brahms nodded. "What a waste," she murmurred, then stepped over to the telephone, which was attached at shoulder level to a display cabinet. She lifted the receiver from the hook and dialed the emergency number. "Hello, I'm calling from Grace Brothers' Department Store, fourth floor. I'd like to report two suspicious men... My name? Miss Brahms, Shirley Brahms. One of them has a gun. We think they might be IRA terrorists." She listened for half a minute, then rattled off an accurate description of the two men. "Oh, and one other thing, they're a pair - y'know, a couple-like.. Yes, I know I already said there are two of 'em, that's not what I meant. They don't like girls... I was reliably informed, by one what knows... Oh, good, thank you. Goodbye."

Mrs. Slocombe was immediately by her elbow. "Well? What did they say?"

"They said they'll dispatch the proper personnel as soon as they can. I sure hope Mr. Humphries can keep them occupied 'til they get here." Miss Brahms and Mrs. Slocombe both directed their gazes towards the customers at the men's department.

* * * * *

"Now, just look at yourself in the mirror, sir," Mr. Humphries encouraged Doyle. "The charcoal gray is an excellent colour choice, can go with just about anything. Even pink, which is still quite popular among the young professionals. Of course, it needs to be altered in spots. It's a perfect fit here" - he ran his hands along the shoulders of the jacket, then traced the outside line of the garment downward to Doyle's waist "But you'll need a bit of a tuck here," he signalled Mr. Lucas to bring a piece of chalk.

Mr. Lucas instantly appeared, chalk in hand. Taking the piece, Mr. Humphries marked the jacket's waist. "Sir has such a svelte waistline, I almost think he'd disappear if turned sideways." Mr. Humphries filled his tone with admiration and felt the dark-haired man glowering at him from the other side of Doyle. Grinning with delight, he continued, "And now that we've found the jacket, we must locate the trousers to match." Stooping, he said, "If sir will just spread his legs a bit, I can take the inside leg."

Bodie almost choked at the indelicately phrased request. Doyle's eyes seared into Bodie, but he obligingly stood with his legs separated and endured Mr Humphries' tape measure.. Mr. Humphries readjusted the tape twice, muttering under his breath. He stretched the measurement-taking as long as he could, but at last was satisfied with a number.. Then he repeated the procedure to get Doyle's outside leg measurement. "Bring me a selection of trousers, Mr. Lucas - size thirty-four."

"Right away, Mr. Humphries," and Mr. Lucas dashed off, to return shortly with a rack of slacks..

Mr. Humphries regarded the clothing assortment. "Now, first we must try the matching slacks, then we'll try contrasting with black, and" - he surveyed the assortment carefully - "these, I think." He pulled a pair of boldly checked black and white trousers from the rack.

"I really don't like that last pair," Doyle objected mildly.

Bodie gleefully listened to the following discussion until he heard his R/T beep. Frowning slightly, he surreptitiously reached into his pocket and flicked it off. Then he eased past Doyle and Mr. Humphries towards the men's changing room at the back. He grabbed a few shirts from the counter in passing, and Mr. Lucas was right at his side. "May I help you, sir?"

"Just going to try these on," Bodie said and breezed into the fitting room.

"But sir, those can't possibly be your si-" he heard Mr. Lucas saying, until he firmly closed the fitting room door. Inside the tiny room, he dropped the shirts on a chair and reached for his R/T. Flipping it on, he spoke. "Three-seven to

base, over.."

"Base here, 3.7," Wilson answered. "Sorry to disturb your day off, but we've got something a bit sticky here."

"Go on."

"Two possible IRA terrorists were spotted in a store. First one is described as almost six feet tall, dark hair, blue eyes, well-built. Second man is an inch or so shorter, curly red-brown hair, green eyes, slim. The first man is armed with a gun, no information on if the second one is carrying."

Bodie's eyebrows climbed upwards as he heard the description. "Ah, which store are the suspects at?"

"The fourth floor of Grace Brothers, are you familiar with it?"

"Very, base," Bodie cleared his throat. "In fact, Doyle and I are IN Grace Brothers right now, on the fourth floor. So, you can cancel your terrorist alert, p.d.q."

"Oh, I see," even over the R/T, Bodie could hear the amusement in Wilson's voice. "Very well, we'll close this incident." A pause, then, "Er, 3.7, there was one item in the description that I didn't include." Wilson took a deep breath. "The suspects were described as gay."

"WHAT? Described as gay?! Are you say--" Bodie cut himself off and regained his well-known control.. "Who else is aware of that detail, base?"

"No one, Bodie, I'm the only one who knows about the call," Wilson answered quickly.

"Good. And it had better stay that way, Wilson, or else I'll--"

"Message understood. It'll go no further in CI5, 3.7, I swear." Base promised, then added hesitantly, "The alert came through channels, though, Bodie. Scotland Yard got the original call, then passed it to us. They were going to send a plainclothesman over as backup." The last bit was spoken in a rush.

"Oh, great," Bodie groaned, well imagining what would happen if Doyle ever found out about this. "I'll take care of the Yardman from this end, but if I ever hear--"

"Message understood, Base out," Wilson hastily cut off Bodie's threat.

"Three-seven out." Bodie glared a last time at his R/T and pocketed it. Then he picked up the shirts and walked out of the changing room.

He noticed that a stranger had joined Doyle and the two sales assistants over by the full-length mirror. Approaching them, he heard the newcomer say, "Haven't seen you in ages, Ray. What've you been up to?"

"This and that," Doyle answered vaguely, observing that Mr.Humphries and his junior seemed to be hanging on his every word.

Realising that his partner knew the Yardman, Bodie cast about frantically for the right words to cover the situation. He had to tell the Yardman that everything was a misunderstanding without letting the cat out of the bag to Doyle. Before Bodie could get a word out, the group was augmented by two more people. A thin young woman with long red hair and a scooped-neck dress walked over to the men. She was accompanied by a conservatively dressed, stout, balding man with overlarge ears. The middle-aged latecomer coughed importantly, but the young girl spoke first. "Mr. Grace wants to know what's all this folderol about IRA terrorists in the gents' department? He didn't think Mr. Humphries was that way inclined."

"Well, don't all look at me," Mr Lucas protested in the sudden silence.

"It's a slight case of mistaken identity," Bodie said, immediately attracting all eyes. "I can explain everything - but I'd prefer to do it in private."

"That seems a reasonable request, sir. If you'd care to step into my office," the man with the big ears pointed to a passageway off to the right.

"Wait a minute, Mr. Rumbold," the redhead spoke. "Shouldn't we discuss it in Mr. Grace's office? He does want to know what's going on and it will be easier to explain it in person.."

"Very well, Miss Bankwell - in Mr. Grace's office, then." Mr. Rumbold began walking across the floor, heading for the elevator. He was trailed by the entire department and the three outsiders. "Wait a minute, wait a minute," he stopped. "We can't all leave the floor at once," he admonished the staff, "Someone's got to stay and wait on the other customers.

A mixed babble of voices greeted that statement, which Bodie interrupted loudly, saying, "Excuse me, Mr. Rumbold, if I may make a suggestion?"

Mr. Rumbold shushed everyone, then said, "Please do."

"Who was the one who placed the call to the police?" Bodie asked.

"I was," Miss Brahms piped up.

"Then I suggest you accompany us as department representative," Bodie smiled at the blonde assistant..

"That sounds like a very good suggestion," Mr. Rumbold said. "Miss Brahms, come with us. The rest of you get back to your posts." The reduced group made their way to the elevator, and then were whisked up to Mr. Grace's office.

* * * * *

Forty-five minutes later, Bodie and Doyle returned to the Capri. "Look at the bright side, Doyle, it wasn't an utter disaster. After all, you finally got your pressie - and a very nice jacket, indeed." He started the car as Doyle settled into the passenger seat. "Bet you'll look a treat in it, when we pick it up after the alterations.."

"Yeah, it's a nice coat, innit? Mind you, I still think you paid too much - seventy-five quid." They had compromised on the present by dropping the trousers, so Doyle received only the jacket, not the entire suit. "Still, we went through a lot to get it, didn't we? IRA terrorists," he snorted, "How'd they come up with a daft notion like that?"

"Fraid it was my fault," Bodie admitted as he maneuvered the Capri onto the street. "Miss Brahms saw my gun when I grabbed that bra. Very observant, she is."

"Yeah, and she's not the only one," Doyle poked hls partner in the ribs. "I saw you chattin' her up in the old bloke's office. Got a date tonight, do we?"

"Yes, - only it's not with Miss Brahms. That's for Friday night." Bodie had decided the best way to the lay the staff's suspicions to rest was to lay the staff.

"Who're you taking out tonight, sunshine?" Doyle teased. "Not Mrs. Slocombe, I trust? Although she's under fifty - maybe - and breathing..."

"You berk," and Bodie returned Doyle's jab with interest. "I'm taking out Miss Bankwell, Mr. Grace's secretary."

* * * * *

Author's note: Are You Being Served is an old (1972-83) English sitcom that's currently on some PBS stations. Captain Peacock and Mr. Goldberg were omitted from the story because I didn't have enough dialogue and action for everyone. The flying brassiere scene was, er, lifted from the aired episode, "Sweet Smell of Success". I needed something to lay the foundations of the staff's terrorist suspicions - no more bra jokes, cross my heart. I like Mr. Lucas much better than Mr. Spooner, his later replacement, which is one reason the story is set in January 1979.

Originally, I wanted Bodie's pressie to be that oatmeal jacket that Doyle looks so good in, but it was from too late in the time periods of both shows. So I hauled out Professional Insight and found a suitable replacement. (The charcoal jacket is from the retirement party scene in "Servant of Two Masters".) Thank you, Sara Slinn et al. for an indispensable reference guide.

Lastly, thanks to Mysti for including this story in Hols by letting me call Doyle's birthday a holiday. If it's not, it should be.

THE END