"Well, I believe that is all for the moment," Mrs Slocombe said, and began walking away, adding over her shoulder, "Carry on, every body! You've all done very well!"
The staff did not know how to respond. They simply shuffled off to their new positions.
At the men's counter, Mr Rumbold started to hand over his coat to Captain Peacock until Mr Grainger passed over his. Captain Peacock did the same with a very smug expression on his face. Mr Rumbold sighed and went to hang both up.
Across the floor Mr Humphries was showing Mr Lucas around, explaining the stock, and forming a plan to earn them both a nice pay packet.
"I was thinking over the weekend," Mr Humphries told him, "with your wit, my knowledge, and our combined charm, we could easily rake in the commission. We could even split it fifty-fifty and still have fat wallets."
"After seeing your figures on Friday," Mr Lucas nodded, "I couldn't agree more."
"Then we're a team," Mr Humphries said, holding out his hand.
Mr Lucas hesitated, then he shrugged and grabbed his friend's hand in a firm, manly shake. When he released it he turned to pick up a bust while Mr Humphries winced and massaged his hand. A moment later a somewhat chubby woman, perhaps in her forties, came over to the ladies' counter and began browsing the new coats. Mr Humphries nudged Mr Lucas and both walked over to stand on either side of her.
"Good morning, Madam," they chorused.
The woman jumped slightly and looked back and forth between them. "Oh, you startled me!" she said.
"Devil's after you," Mr Humphries grinned.
"He always goes after the cute ones, Mr Humphries," Mr Lucas said.
"He's been chasing her for weeks, then," Mr Humphries said. "No wonder she's so thin!"
The woman clutched a handkerchief to her mouth as she giggled. The two men grinned at each other and continued to pour on the charm.
"We couldn't help noticing that you were admiring our new coats," Mr Lucas said. "Is there something in particular you're looking for?"
"Well, I was hoping you might have a nice wool coat," she said. "It's been so chilly lately!"
"That it has," Mr Lucas nodded.
"Have you considered vicuna, Madam?" Mr Humphries asked. "I only inquire because the tan colour would go so well with Madam's hair and eyes."
"Not to mention that vicuna is a softer material," Mr Lucas said, taking a vicuna jacket from the rack while Mr Humphries removed the woman's coat. "It's just as warm as wool and lasts about fifty per cent longer," he added, slipping the jacket onto her shoulders.
"This is rather nice," she said. "Do you have a mirror?"
Mr Lucas smiled and pushed the full-length floor mirror over. The woman peered at herself in the coat, then caught a glance at the price. Her jaw dropped.
"Two hundred pounds?!" she exclaimed. "My husband would kill me!"
"Ah, but just think of how much you'll save in the long run," Mr Humphries said. "A wool coat will last maybe five years at most. I've seen vicunas that were ten, twenty years old before they lost even one button."
He was brushing some lint off the left cuff when the button fell into his hand. He quickly shoved it in his pocket and pretended nothing had happened.
"Of course, if you do lose a button," Mr Lucas said, "our repair department is one of the fastest in London and you can have it sewn on within minutes for free. Just make sure you have your receipt handy when they ask for it. Feel how warm that is." He stood behind her and pressed the fabric against her. "Perfect for brisk autumn weather or winter snow!"
"Guaranteed to withstand wind chill factors up to minus twenty degrees," Mr Humphries cut in.
"Not to mention," Mr Lucas said, coming to the climax of their sales pitch, "that vicuna goes with anything in your wardrobe. No more messing about with different coats, trying on this or that while your husband frets that you're late for your sister-in-law's dinner party. No more, 'Come along, Alice! We'll be late again because of you!' or 'Keep your shirt on, Ralph! I'm not the one who agreed to go in the first place!' No, you'll be ready in no time and Ralph's only remark will be about how lovely you look."
"I'm still not really sure," the woman said, turning this way and that to admire herself in the mirror. "It's so tempting, it really is…"
Mr Humphries had an idea. He whispered to Mr Lucas, who swallowed hard and nodded.
"Well, I understand if you're unsure," he said, slipping an arm around her shoulders nonchalantly. "I mean, two hundred pounds is a lot of money." He adjusted the collar and 'accidentally' brushed her cheek, causing her to blush. "Mind you, I've seen them sell for much more at Lally and Willets."
"So you're really getting a bargain," Mr Humphries said, stroking the arm of the jacket. "This is a rare opportunity, is it not, Mr Lucas?"
"I couldn't agree more, Mr Humphries," Mr Lucas nodded solemnly. Then he looked down at their reflection in the mirror and tutted. "Dear me, look at that." He dusted some make-believe lint from the lapels, making sure to 'accidentally' run his hands over her chest. She shuddered. Then he buttoned up the jacket and gave her the best 'bedroom eyes' he could muster given the circumstances. "That's better," he whispered in a sultry voice, causing the woman to practically melt in his arms.
"I'll take it!" she gasped.
"Sale, Mr Humphries," Mr Lucas said, still using the sexy tone.
"Sale Mr Lucas," Mr Humphries said. He took the jacket from the woman and added in an undertone, "See if you can flog some knickers while I sew this button back on!"
Mr Lucas shot him a look of shock and utmost loathing, then guided the woman to the counter.
Over at the men's counter, the older assistants were not faring as well. In the short time they had been there Mr Rumbold had upset a drawer full of socks, lost his glasses, stepped on Mr Grainger's toes, and accidentally ripped a pair of Y-fronts. Now he was trying his best to remember how to take an inside leg. Mr Grainger was already getting frustrated in his attempts to guide the former manager while Captain Peacock stood for the training session.
"Try it one more time," Mr Grainger instructed him. "Hold the metal end in your thumb and forefinger, then press it to – not like that, boy!"
"I don't think I'll ever get the hang of this," Mr Rumbold whined as the tape measure slipped out of his fingers for the fifth time.
"Here, I found these while I was changing the centre display stand," Mr Humphries said, and handed a pair of glasses over to Mr Rumbold.
"Changing the centre display stand?" Mr Grainger said. "Why were you doing that?"
"Mrs Slocombe said we're going back to the every-other-week schedule," Mr Humphries explained. "So I've put your trousers and shirts on the counter for now. I'll have our bras and negligees on in no time."
"Your what?!" Mr Grainger snapped.
"Temper, temper!" Mr Humphries trilled.
"Oh shut up!" Mr Grainger snarled. "You'd lost your temper, too, if you had to work with this incompetent berk what cannot even take an inside leg!"
"Leave it to me, Mr Grainger," Mr Humphries said. He nudged Captain Peacock aside and cleared his throat as he stood in place. "It's quite simple, Mr Rumbold. Grab the metal with your hand, tell the chappy where to stand. Up the leg and to the crotch, keep your thumb right on the notch. To the ankle, here we go! Not too high and not too low. One quick tug removes the slack. Put your finger on the tack. Read the number, that's your cue! What's the line at?"
"Forty-two," Mr Rumbold said.
Mr Humphries frowned and looked at the tape in Mr Rumbold's hand. With a sigh he took it from him and turned it around before handing it back.
"One more time," he said. "Grab the metal with your hand, tell the chappy where to stand..."

Three weeks later Mrs Slocombe proudly strode into Mr Grace's office with the latest sales figures. The ladies' department was flourishing and the men's department had finally caught up recently. She handed these over to Mr Grace, who put on his sunglasses by mistake.
"I can't see a thing," he said.
"Maybe you should try these," his secretary suggested, removing his sunglasses and passing over his reading glasses.
"Much better," he said, and began reading the figures. "Oh yes…yes, very good, very good. Well, I must say I'm impressed, Mrs Slocombe. You've done extremely well!"
"Why, thank you, Mr Grace," she simpered.
"You've got one more week in this trial, though," he added. "If there are any major hiccoughs then we may have to reconsider. Keep this up, though, and you can stay where you are if you like. Same goes for Miss Brahms. Which, by the way…" He gestured for her to lean over. "Do you think you could talk her into altering that skirt of hers?"
"Of course, Mr Grace," Mrs Slocombe replied. "How much longer do you want it?"
"Longer?!" he squeaked. "I was hoping she'd get it shortened!"
Mrs Slocombe fought back the urge to roll her eyes. She forced her ingratiating smile again and said, "I'll see what I can do…"

Back on the first floor Miss Brahms was strolling up to an older male customer who had just come from the lift. She greeted him and asked him, "Are you being served, Sir?"
"Course not," the man grunted. "And I rather doubt you could help me."
Miss Brahms crossed her arms defiantly. "Try me," she said, her voice cool and steady.
The man bristled at her boldness, but said, "Very well. I have come for a pair of navy blue trousers, size thirty-four with a thirty-one-inch inside leg."
Miss Brahms nodded and walked over to a rack that was full of trousers. She quickly selected the exact ones the man had described and thrust them into his arms. He looked them over and seemed very taken aback by her confidence.
"Will there be anything else, Sir?" she said, giving him a nasty smirk.
"Er, a pair of braces?" he replied.
Miss Brahms nodded and turned to call across the counter, "Oi! Steve! Sid James 'ere wants some braces! Shift it!"
Captain Peacock became bug-eyed with fury at being addressed by his first name. Never the less, he took a set of braces from a drawer and walked over. The man (who did look an awful lot like Sid James) followed Captain Peacock back to the counter and began paying for his goods.
"Blimey," Miss Brahms sighed as she went over to the quiet-for-once ladies' counter. "I'm startin' to wonder if it's all worth the trouble."
"Whaddya mean?" Mr Lucas asked.
"My back's killin' me," she said. "My feet are throbbin', an' I've just about 'ad it with these older blokes what come in an' act like it's some sorta crime for a woman to be a floor walker."
"You have to admit," Mr Humphries said, "the idea of women in power is still very fresh. Some people just aren't going to like it no matter how well you do."
"And you and Mrs Slocombe have been doing one hell of a job," Mr Lucas said.
Miss Brahms smiled and patted his hand. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Mind you, it doesn't make up for the headaches we face every day. An' the money ain't that great, either."
"That's right, you're not getting commission any more," Mr Lucas said. "I'm curious, what do floor walkers make?"
Miss Brahms looked left and right, then whispered in his ear. He frowned and shook his head.
"That can't be right," he said. "You can't live off that kinda salary."
"How much is she making?" Mr Humphries asked, and he frowned as well when Mr Lucas whispered the amount into his ear. "Really? Just that?"
Miss Brahms nodded.
"That can't be right," Mr Humphries said. "I wonder...but they can't...they're not supposed to…"
"Spit it out, mate," Miss Brahms said.
Mr Humphries wrung his hands. "Well, I'm wondering if maybe they're holding back on you and Mrs Slocombe. You're supposed to be making the same as all the other floor walkers and managers, right? Well, what if because you're a woman they're not paying you as much as they would a man?"
Miss Brahms chewed her lip thoughtfully. "You may have a point there, Mr Humphries. But how do we find out?"
"It's simple," Mr Humphries said. "You just have to find out what the other managers are making and compare."
"Not easy," Miss Brahms said. "Those are conformational records. No one's allowed to see them."
"Confidential," Mr Humphries corrected her. "And I think I know just how to access them..."
Mr Lucas raised an eyebrow, then he realised what his friend was thinking. Miss Brahms caught on as well.
"We should probably tell Mrs Slocombe what we're up to," Miss Brahms said. "She'll wanna know what everyone else is makin' as well."
"Right, on three we go to work," Mr Humphries said. "One, two, three!"
Miss Brahms went to the centre of the floor while Mr Lucas went to take care of a customer. Mr Humphries went to the phone and dialled. He cleared his throat and waited for a reply.

Over at the men's counter the phone rang. Captain Peacock answered it in a very butch "Men's wear?"
Across the floor Mr Humphries was caught off guard by this. He gathered his wits quickly and spoke in an androgynous voice, which was surprisingly not difficult for him to pull off.
"Hello, this is Adams from Accounts," he said. "I wonder, is Miss Brahms available?"
"One moment," Captain Peacock said. "Miss Brahms? Adams from Accounts wishes to speak with you."
"Thank you, Captain Peacock," she said, taking the phone from him. "This is Miss Brahms."
"Right, you send me to Accounts," Mr Humphries said. "Then you go talk to Mrs Slocombe. I should be back in less than fifteen minutes."
"Yes, I'll send him down," Miss Brahms said, and shot a subtle wink across the floor. She hung up the phone and walked over to the ladies' counter, where Mr Humphries was pretending to do some figures on his bill pad. "Are you free, Mr Humphries?"
He looked left and right. "I'm free!" he grinned.
"You're wanted in Accounts," she said. "I believe Miss Adams has some paperwork for you."
"I'm sure she does," he said, and went to the lift.
Miss Brahms watched him go and went back to the men's counter. Captain Peacock was folding some vests by himself. She sighed and figured he would probably be the best choice for their plan.
"Captain Peacock, are you free?"
He looked up from the vests and glanced left and right. "At the moment, Miss Brahms."
"Would you mind taking over for me while I have a quick word with Mrs Slocombe?" she asked.
"I would be delighted," he replied, and stepped out from behind the counter.
Miss Brahms nodded and left for Mrs Slocombe's office, hoping that Mr Humphries was wrong about their salaries.

A few minutes later Mr Humphries reappeared on the floor looking grim. He slipped behind the ladies' counter and nudged Mr Lucas, who followed him to the cabinets. There they pretended to work on one of the sticky drawers while Mr Humphries spoke.
"Rowan showed me the payroll for all the managers," he said, "and none of the female managers are making as much as the men."
Captain Peacock saw them talking and wandered close to listen.
"They're gonna be furious!" Mr Lucas whispered. "They can't find out or they'll quit and we'll go back to our old positions."
"I know," Mr Humphries said. "That's why I asked Rowan to check into it. Meanwhile, I asked her to sort of fib a little about everyone's salaries for now. I said 'make up something, anything, just keep them happy!' and she said she'd try."
Captain Peacock heard all he needed to hear. He slipped away and went to the men's counter, where he relayed everything to Mr Rumbold and Mr Grainger.
"So if they find out they're not making as much as we did," he said, "then they're sure to want to give up their positions. Then you and I are back in, Cuthbert."
Mr Rumbold flushed at the use of his first name. "Yes, but how do we get the information?"
"I don't know," Captain Peacock said. "What do you think, Mr Grainger?"
"What do I care?" Mr Grainger replied. "I wasn't management. Deal with it yourself, boys."
Mr Rumbold watched him walk away and sighed. Then his face brightened. "I have it!"
"What?" Captain Peacock asked.
"It's simple," Mr Rumbold said. "We can request our tax information from Accounts and they'll give us copies. Then it's just a matter of 'dropping' them and letting the ladies accidentally look at them."
"Aha!" Captain Peacock said. "Well done, Cuthbert!"
Mr Rumbold smiled in spite of this act of familiarity. He picked up the phone and dialled Accounts, whereupon he asked for Adams, the payroll accountant.
Ten minutes later, Rowan Adams, the androgynous accountant friend of Mr Humphries, stepped out of the lift carrying a few folders under her arm. She saw Captain Peacock and Mr Rumbold, whereupon she stopped at their counter and began rifling through the papers. Each one was labelled with a name and she chose 'Peacock, Stephen' as well as 'Rumbold, Cuthbert'.
"Here we are," she said, and passed the folders over. "I don't know why you two need these. Tax time doesn't come up for probably another five months or so."
"I, er, lost some of my records recently when our basement flooded," Captain Peacock lied as he took his.
"I just want a second copy in case I lose the first one," Mr Rumbold fibbed.
"Fair enough," Rowan shrugged. "Well, gentlemen, if you'll excuse me I have been summoned by the Wizard herself." She saluted Captain Peacock, nodded to Mr Rumbold, clapped a hand on Mr Grainger's shoulder, and turned to wave at Mr Lucas and Mr Humphries across the floor.
"Now what?" Mr Rumbold said.
"Now we wait," Captain Peacock replied.

Mrs Slocombe was still chatting with Miss Brahms about the latest gossip concerning Mrs Axelby when there was a knock at the door. She called out 'Enter!' in her snobbiest tone and dropped it the moment Rowan came inside.
"About bloody time!" she said. "Close the door! Well, what did you find out?"
"I won't lie," Rowan said, "even though Clay asked me to." She sighed heavily. "The blokes are making more than you two."
"I knew it!" Mrs Slocombe growled. "Men! They're all the same!"
"Yeah, well, I've contacted the labour board," Rowan said, "and they've told me what steps to take to get you and all the other women in this firm the equal pay that we deserve. When I'm done here I'll go talk to Mr Grace and before the day is done you two and all the other female managers and staff should be getting the exact same pay as the blokes for doing the exact same work."
"And how much is that?" Mrs Slocombe asked.
Rowan took one of the folders and removed a slip of paper. She slid it across the desk to Mrs Slocombe and another to Miss Brahms. Both frowned when they saw it.
"That's not much different," Miss Brahms remarked.
"It's just barely more than we're getting now," Mrs Slocombe said.
"I know," Rowan said. "You could try asking for a pay rise. After all, you two have turned this department around in next to no time and you helped uncover two bits of dodgy dealings. You certainly deserve some sort of compensation for all your hard work."
"Yeah, but it won't help my aching feet," Miss Brahms said, plopping into a chair.
"Or my headaches," Mrs Slocombe sighed.
"It's up to you," Rowan said. "Personally, I'd stick with it." She looked down at her watch. "I'd best be off. Keep me updated, yeah?"
Miss Brahms and Mrs Slocombe gave a non-committal 'sure' as Rowan left the office. They then exchanged very exhausted glances. Finally Mrs Slocombe reached in her desk drawer and took out a bottle of gin. She poured a healthy measure for them both and they clinked glasses.
"To girl power," Miss Brahms said dully.
"And to reducing the power supply," Mrs Slocombe said.
They knocked back their gin.

The bell rang at five-thirty, signalling that the store was closed for the day. The few customers left filed up the stairs and disappeared behind the lift doors. Miss Brahms picked up her coat and handbag, glad to put the day behind her.
"Good night, Miss Brahms," Captain Peacock said on his way to the lifts.
He pretended to trip and the folder he carried fell from his hands, the contents spilling everywhere. Mr Rumbold started to help him until his own folder 'accidentally' fell from his own hands. Miss Brahms stooped over to help them and both men grinned with glee as she held up a few of the tax forms.
"Stupid boys," Mr Grainger grumbled as he put on his coat.
"What was that about?" Mr Humphries asked, coming over to help.
"Nothing, nothing," Mr Rumbold and Captain Peacock said.
"Here you go," Miss Brahms said, sounding very tired. She pushed the papers into their arms.
"I, er, hope you did not see any of the contents of my tax forms," Captain Peacock said.
"I think I sorta glanced at them," Miss Brahms said. "Sorry."
"Perfectly all right," Captain Peacock said. "Well, good night, Miss Brahms. See you tomorrow."
Miss Brahms sighed and waved him away. He exchanged a somewhat panicked look with Mr Rumbold as they started to ascend the stairs. They were stopped by Mrs Slocombe, however, who called everyone back down to the floor.
"Gather 'round, every body," she said, and sounded just as exhausted as Miss Brahms. "I'm afraid that even with our increased sales and two recently discovered shenanigans, Miss Brahms and I are going to be hanging up our managerial hats. As of next week, Mr Rumbold shall be returning to his position and so shall Captain Peacock."
Mr Humphries and Mr Lucas looked as if they were about to cry. Mr Rumbold and Captain Peacock tried to hide their mirth. Mr Grainger rolled his eyes and Miss Brahms looked relieved.
"I won't hide the reason, either," Mrs Slocombe said. "We realise now that you two had very important positions that held many responsibilities. Your work was hard and stressful."
The two men puffed their chests out, feeling very macho indeed.
"Can't take the heat, eh, ladies?" Captain Peacock chuckled.
"Oh, let them be, Stephen," Mr Rumbold said, although he wore a cocky grin as well. "It's not their fault they can't handle our jobs. We'll just have to return to our old positions and show them how it's done."
"It's not the jobs we can't handle," Mrs Slocombe said. "It's the money! You two hardly made anything!"
Captain Peacock and Mr Rumbold snickered to themselves. Their plan had worked after all!
"You can bloody well have your jobs back," Miss Brahms said. "They're not worth the aches and pains."
"Sounds fine with me," Mr Rumbold chortled. "Shall we resume our reigns, Stephen?"
"I suppose so, Cuthbert," Captain Peacock replied.
They began laughing again until the lift dinged. Young Mr Grace toddled out looking very pleased about something. As he came down the stairs, once again supported by his nurse and secretary, he greeted them in his usual manner.
"Good evening, every body!"
"Good evening, Mr Grace," the staff chorused.
"I've just had a chat with Adams from Accounts," he said. "It seems that we are a bit behind the times. The women managers have been paid almost half as much as the men, it would seem. Now, we can't have that in this day and age. Someone might sue for sex discrimination."
"Well, we can't have that," Mr Rumbold said. "So, what do you plan to do about it?"
"I'm going to make things right," he said. "As of next week I'm cutting the salaries of all the male managers. That way they'll be on the same level as the women from now on."
Captain Peacock and Mr Rumbold both looked as though they had been smacked in the face with a halibut. Mr Grainger, Mr Humphries, and Mr Lucas snickered from behind their hands. Miss Brahms and Mrs Slocombe simply smirked.
"Well, that's all," Mr Grace said. "Carry on, every body! You've all done very well!"
He stumbled as the staff chorused, "Thank you, Mr Grace!"
As soon as the elderly CEO was out of sight and earshot Captain Peacock rolled his eyes and put on his hat.
"I think I made more as a salesman than I will as a floor walker," he grumbled.
"I agree," Mr Rumbold muttered. "Er, I don't suppose you ladies would like to stay on as management a bit longer, er, would you?"
Miss Brahms and Mrs Slocombe chorused, "Not on your nelly!" and ascended the stairs.

Fin.

Disclaimer: Are You Being Served? belongs to the BBC, David Croft, and Jeremy Lloyd. This is just a fan-fiction written for fun. No animals were harmed in the making of this fan-fiction, but Aidan the American Bobtail was irritating. No money was or will be made from the creation of this fan-fiction. A bunch of names were ripped off, but in all honesty, does anyone care?