Chapter 5

Mr. Nash was also among those who had crawled out from the mountain of corpses during the Irish Famine thirty or forty years ago to reach London. He had seen it all, and he was blessed with an easygoing temper—which was the only reason he could share a life and weather the storm with a firecracker of a wife like Liza. Consequently, his granddaughter’s small experiment was by no means difficult for him to accept. "We'll do as you say, then." Dalie nodded and turned toward a wholesale shop specializing in soap products. The store occupied a modest structure along the main road, looking virtually identical to Dalie’s own house. A few copper plates hung beside the door, displaying the firm's name: Fisher Soapware. The front door was narrow, the windows equally tight, blocking any view of the interior. Yet the moment one stepped through the entrance, floor-to-ceiling hardwood display racks lined both sides of the room, packed tightly with soap bars of every shape and size. Some were sold loose, wrapped simply in plain white paper and tucked onto shelves. Others featured double-layered packaging—white paper inside and vibrant, labeled wrapper sleeves bound tightly into dozen-unit bundles with bleached flax twine. In the center of the counter sat an unpacked crate of soap. A middle-aged man sat behind the desk wearing a coarse tweed coat similar in shade to Mr. Nash’s, a single eyepiece clipped over one eye. He was dipping a quill in ink to record figures in a ledger, evidently acting as a dedicated accountant. He didn't even bother raising his eyelids when customers entered, offering only a offhand greeting: "Feel free to look around. The owner is upstairs—I'll call him down once you've made your selection." The room was thick with a heavy, clean scent of soap. Dalie glanced at the clerk's ledger. The entries were slapped together carelessly—a clear sign of an indifferent employee who cared little for the business. Turning her attention back to her grandfather, she began inspecting the stock along both sides of the display racks. Her family's store sold only loose soap wrapped in plain white paper. Made from a blend of cattle and sheep tallow from English farms mixed with chemical lye, these soap bars were hard and possessed strong cleansing power, making them ideal for laundry. Here, however, the shelves featured soaps made from various raw materials and manufactured by different suppliers. The most exquisitely packaged stock bore labels reading Floral Olive Oil Soap, manufactured by Lavelle & Bonger. Wrapped in white paper and set inside decorative tin boxes lined with patterned cardboard, its retail price tag read One Shilling. Stock with slightly inferior packaging was wrapped in white paper, encased in a layer of colored paper, and tied with twine. This category featured a far wider variety of raw materials—palm soap, coconut oil soap, sesame oil soap, and various scented formulations. Softer than animal-tallow soap, each manufacturer used a distinct chemical recipe, and heaps of them were stuffed into every shelf compartment. Among them, the colored wrapper of a lavender-scented coconut oil soap carried the slogans: Softening Shave, Clean & Civilized. Retail price: Four Pence. Soaps of this era were largely semi-mechanized and semi-handcrafted, suffering from inconsistent quality; mid-grade and low-grade options differed primarily in their base ingredients. After a moment's thought, Dalie gathered thirty bars of the cheapest tallow soap and carried them to the counter to check out. The accountant called upstairs for the owner, whereupon an old Jewish merchant slowly descended the staircase. Also wearing spectacles and sporting a bushy white beard, he swept a glance over the counter and declared: "Take ten more—forty bars for thirty pence." "Three farthings a piece for forty bars? Make it a bit cheaper. How about fifty bars for thirty-four pence?" Dalie spoke with lightning speed and an unwavering tone, sounding entirely familiar with production costs and treating the discount as a given. Even Mr. Nash beside her lacked such commanding presence. The old merchant hesitated. Though the manufacturing cost was low, going below three farthings per bar left him with virtually no profit margin. "That won't do. Fifty bars will cost thirty-eight pence at the very least." Dalie picked up a soap bar from the counter and gave it a squeeze. "Thirty-five is fair. Anyone can tell this stock has been sitting here for a month. You need to clear shelf space to restock from the factory." "Tell you what—I'll take sixty bars at once for forty pence." Dalie’s speech rate was something she had deliberately trained in her past life. She placed heavy emphasis on "a month" and "clear shelf space," adopting the helpful tone of someone doing him a favor. Because she spoke so rapidly, the old merchant’s mind was still tangled in the chaotic arithmetic: shifting from forty bars for thirty pence, to fifty, to sixty, where the unit price varied by mere fractions of a farthing. Dalie tapped her fingers rhythmically against the counter, exuding boundless patience. Her eyes locked directly with his, entirely unfazed and without a shred of guilt. "Sell them to me. I'll be back next week to buy just as much." The old merchant’s expression soured. His eyes darted down to the counter loaded with soap, and unwilling to waste time squabbling with her, he offered a reluctant nod. "Deal." Beside them, Mr. Nash was left utterly stunned. He scrambled to pull out a burlap sack, packing in the thirty bars from the counter while Dalie counted out another thirty from an adjacent shelf. Only then did she retrieve forty pence from her innermost, most secure pocket to settle the payment. Leaving the soap shop and walking half a street down, Dalie glanced back, letting out a soft, knowing chuckle at her own tactic before proceeding toward a shop wholesaling cleaning powders. Along the way, Mr. Nash slowly ran the numbers in his head. He recalled that the original procurement list had explicitly called for sixty bars of soap a month anyway. It took him a long moment to realize what had just happened. Dalie had noticed that the young clerk didn't care about the business, while the old merchant lacked the patience for prolonged bargaining. So she had intentionally picked up thirty bars first, steadily driving the quantity up while using fast talk to disrupt the old man's arithmetic and steer his rhythm. A wave of astonishment washed over Mr. Nash. He quickly shifted his heavy burlap sack and hurried to keep pace with Dalie. Over the next hour, they visited five or six wholesale shops along the street, placing orders for fast-selling sundries and stuffing two burlap bags to the brim with immediate stock. They passed right by tobacco and alcohol wholesalers without offering so much as a glance. Mr. Nash tied the ends of the two sacks together, slinging them over his shoulder like a double saddlebag without exerting much effort. When Dalie offered to carry one to share the burden, her grandfather waved his hands in refusal. "It's easier to carry it this way." He spent his days hauling heavy iron milk cans up and down stairwells to pour out rations for customers, so Dalie let the matter rest. She focused entirely on procuring everything on her list, spending her budget down to the last farthing. Observing her purchases, Mr. Nash noted that the working capital had been split into a roughly 4:3:3 ratio across three distinct categories, securing a week's worth of typical inventory: Daily Consumables: Operating supplies, lighting, and cleaning goods—such as soap, baking soda, candles, kerosene, matches, laundry starch, bluing powder, insecticide powder, hair oil, and tooth powder. Common Tools & Stationery: Can openers, buttons, safety pins, needles, spools of thread, notepad paper, envelopes, ink, sealing wax, candles, and quill pens. Non-Perishable Food & Condiments: Canned convenience foods, sugar, salt, butter, flour, and cheap black tea. Heavy items like flour and canned goods met the minimum order thresholds, allowing most wholesalers to offer complimentary home delivery. The household stationery was purchased from a large wholesaler named Decita, who likewise provided doorstep delivery. Carrying only the small, loose items packed inside his burlap sacks, Mr. Nash walked briskly back home alongside Dalie. Though heavy, he was grinning ear to ear. This restocking run was vastly more cost-effective than the one he had taken with Fred last time. Sure enough, when it came to haggling and doing business, the young girl was far sharper and faster—barely two hours had passed since they set foot out the door. As they neared home, the bell ringer atop the Whitechapel clock tower slowly struck ten times.