The Poka Dot Shop

by Laurel Remington

  I stare at the display wondering who would buy someone else’s used wedding dress? To me, it just seems so wrong. I mean, you don’t know anything about the bride who wore the dress before – was she happy? Sad? A good person? An axe murderess? Anything is possible. Yet Mum loves it when she gets wedding dresses to sell in the shop. People do buy them – and here’s the really scary thing: a lot of men buy them. (Mum says it’s mostly for stag dos and fancy dress parties – but it’s just so creepy.)

  The little bell on the door tinkles as I push it open. I take a deep breath of outside air – car exhaust, deep fried fish – because I don’t like the smell inside Mum’s shop. It’s a mixture of different laundry detergents, floral perfumes, the sandalwood room freshener sticks that Mum keeps by the till, and underneath it all the smell of old lady. I don’t know why the shop smells the way it does, or why it bothers me and no one else.

  There’s no one sitting on the stool behind the glass display counter where the gaudy costume jewellery is kept, and the till is sat. ‘Hello?’ I hear Mum call out from the back stockroom. The single word has a lilt to it, like I might be a ‘mad-for-vintage’ customer who will stay all afternoon, drink lemon and ginger tea, try things on in the fitting room and talk sixties fashion or something.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ I call out, hoping she won’t be too disappointed that it’s just me and not her dream customer. I sit down on the stool and look around the shop.

  Every inch of floor and wall space is crammed with stuff. There are long racks of dresses and coats on two walls and down the middle of the room; a shoe rack at the back next to the door to the stockroom is overflowing with tatty old heels and trainers. Above the racks is a row of shelving with handbags and tall boots on it. And then there’s Mum’s ‘special display stock’. One mannequin (head and torso only, no legs) is wearing a lilac and pink flower print dress, lots of pearl beads and some kind of feather thing in her hair that Mum calls a ‘fascinator’; another one is wearing a hideous gold lamé prom dress; and the worst one of all has a coconut bra, a dusty plastic flower lei and a Hawaiian grass skirt around its hips. Awful.

  The walls are painted different colours – sky blue, yellow, green, and there’s a dressing room in the back stockroom with an Indian print curtain. There’s a single light in the centre of the ceiling – a brass and crystal chandelier that is draped with old scarves and men’s ties. The shop is so cluttered and higgledy-piggledy that I feel a little dizzy just being here.

  If I were in charge, I’d get a roll of bin bags and clear everything out. Start again from scratch. But Mum would never do anything like that. She knows and loves every single piece of clothing that’s here. If any of it has a story, she knows it.

  There’s the sound of rushing footsteps from the back of the shop. ‘Hi, Andy.’ Mum comes towards me in a waft of sandalwood and rose. She’s wearing a billowy tie-dyed dress, silver Roman sandals, a necklace made from big seeds, and bangles that clink on her wrist as she sweeps me into a hug. On her, all that stuff together kind of works. Jumbled together on a rack (and on most other people), it just doesn’t.

  ‘Jolanta and I are in the back sorting through some new stock,’ she says. ‘Do you want to come and see? There’s some great stuff.’

  I loosen myself from her grip, trying not to seem like I’m pulling away.

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’ve got maths to finish up so I thought I’d go over to Stevie’s house. Is that OK? I’ll have dinner there.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Mum says. ‘OK.’ Her eyes are big and brown, just like mine. I recognize the look in them – or rather, I don’t recognize it. Lately, Mum’s happy, bubbly personality has started to seem like an act. Once, late at night, I woke up and heard a noise coming from her bedroom. It sounded like crying. I put the pillow over my head and shoved tissues in my ears. Mum never cries. Nothing ever bothers her. But something must be . . .

  I know I should ask her – try to help her out if I can. But to be honest, I just don’t really know where to start. For so many years Mum and I were really close. And then the whole school uniform thing happened, and ever since then I feel like we’ve been at opposite ends of a rope bridge over a river that keeps getting wider.

  I guess most of it is my fault. As much as I’ve tried to keep from her the fact that I don’t like the clothes from the shop, I know she suspects. She’s stopped bringing me so much stuff, and has tried to get me to come in and pick out things myself. Usually, I find an excuse not to. I also haven’t told her about the fashion police at school. I know she’d just say some kind of ‘Mum thing’, like they’re jealous of me (as if!) or that I have my ‘own style’ and shouldn’t let other people’s opinions bother me. But she’s not the one who has to deal with it.

  ‘OK then,’ I say. ‘I mean . . . I’ll see you later.’ I hover for a second, hating the fact that I’m probably disappointing her by not showing more of an interest in the shop. But in truth, I just want to be out of there.

  ‘Of course, darling. You go and have a good time with your friends.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I take a breath. ‘Um, Mum, are you OK? You look a little bit—’

  ‘Liza? Do you need help?’

  Jolanta, Mum’s assistant, comes through the curtain in the back, sewing scissors in her hand. Jolanta’s eighteen and came over from Poland a few years ago to learn English. She works three afternoons a week in the shop, and the other days she goes to fashion college. At the weekend she and her friends sell their work at a market stall. She’s really focused on becoming a clothing designer, and I hope she does – the sooner the better. For some reason, we’ve never really got on. I have this sneaking suspicion that sometimes Mum’s asked Jolanta her opinion about some of the clothes she’s brought home for me. I have this picture in my mind of Jolanta finding some of the worst old tat and sticking it in a bag and saying it would be perfect for me.

  ‘Hey, Jolanta,’ I say. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Hi, Andy,’ she says flatly. Then she turns to Mum. ‘Guess what, Liza?’ she says, much more animated. ‘There are some decent labels in that house clearance bag. I found a Phase Eight tunic and a Wallis cardigan. The tunic has a little stain, but I’m sure you can get it out with some vinegar.’

  ‘Great.’ Mum’s face lights up. ‘I’d love to see.’ She hovers for a moment like she feels obligated to stick around and chat to me. But I know she really wants to look at the stuff that Jolanta’s found.

  My cue to leave. ‘Bye, Mum,’ I say, ‘I won’t be late.’

  ‘OK, Andy . . .’ She gives me another quick hug. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Me too.’

  AT THE CHIPPIE

  Outside the shop I gasp in a breath of outside air. My heart is beating quickly, and I’m glad to be out of there. I know it’s stupid to let the state of the shop bother me so much. And Mum . . . and Jolanta . . . that smell . . . all that stuff . . .

  I walk slowly down the pavement past the old theatre. Beneath the graffiti and plywood boards I can make out the shredded edges of old posters of bands and dance acts that once performed there. I wonder why someone doesn’t just tear the theatre down and build something new. That’s what I would do if it were up to me. Tear down the whole block and start again – make it into something nice like the other end of the high street. Except, not the chippie. That could stay.

  I pass the theatre and stop outside Mr Chips. The smell of deep-fried fish and chips, salt and vinegar, is enough to get the smell of Mum’s shop out of my nose; the sizzle of oil and clanging dishes loud enough to drown out my thoughts. I go inside to buy some drinks to take to Stevie’s.

  Usually there’s a queue for fish and chips here – construction workers, families, commuters, old people – and with good reason. The fish and chips here really are to die for. There’s a board up on the wall saying that they use only sustainable fish, low-fat oil, sea salt and organic potatoes. I guess that kind of thing really does make a difference.

  Today though, the shop is empty exce
pt for a couple of sixth formers sitting at a table by the window, and two men in Royal Mail uniforms sitting nearer the counter.

  I go to the cooler and grab three cans of Diet Coke, and go up to the counter. The owner is wiping down the glass case with a cloth. His real name isn’t Mr Chips (obviously), but Mr LeBoeff. He looks like he’s a few years older than Mum, and has black hair with a sprinkling of grey at the sides. He has a nice face – friendly, but somehow I always think he looks a bit sad. It’s ironic that his name sounds almost exactly like ‘The Beef’ in French (according to Stevie), and that’s not on the menu here.

  ‘And how are you today, Andrea?’ he says, giving me a friendly smile.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ I’m in here quite often, but it still catches me off guard that anyone would call me by my real name. But maybe the French are more formal than we are. I’ve often wondered how he ended up here, running a British fish and chip joint. But even though he’s friendly and chatty whenever I come in, I’ve never got up the courage to ask him.

  He hands me the drinks in a brown paper bag. As I’m paying for them, a door bangs open at the back and Mr LeBoeff’s nephew walks in. Immediately I’m struck dumb and can’t move. He’s Just. So. Gorgeous. His dark hair falls in a curtain over the side of his face, and his eyes are greyish blue. His fingers are long like he should be playing the piano instead of frying fish. He’s a little shorter than I am, but I guess no one’s perfect.

  ‘Ah, Thomas.’ Mr LeBoeff says, smiling broadly. When he says the name with his accent it sounds cool and French like To-MAS. ‘How was school today, boy?’

  Thomas looks at me as he puts on his white apron. I lean forward like a plant growing towards the light. But I can’t tell if his gaze is friendly or not. We’ve never really spoken, other than him sometimes taking my order or asking if I want salt and vinegar. I do know that he’s a year older than me and goes to the local Catholic school. They still wear uniforms there. I’ve seen him waiting for the bus in a neat grey jumper and black trousers, and I’ve envied the girls who go to that school with him. But I’ve also seen him around in a black leather biker jacket and jeans, looking like a model or a member of a boy band. In general, he makes me feel very nervous, and I’m not sure if it’s in a good or a bad way.

  ‘It was fine,’ he says.

  Mr LeBoeff turns back to me, grinning from ear to ear. ‘Thomas wants to be an architect,’ he says proudly.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say.

  Thomas frowns like he’s embarrassed. ‘We’re almost out of potatoes. I’ll go down to the cellar for some more.’

  ‘You see – he’s too modest,’ Mr LeBoeff says.

  ‘Um, yeah.’ I take the paper bag off the counter and turn to leave.

  ‘And how is your mum?’ he says.

  I’m sure he’s just being friendly, but something in his voice makes me pause. I look at him – his brow is furled like he’s concerned.

  ‘She’s fine,’ I say. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just that she has not stopped by lately. I wondered how she’s doing.’

  ‘Fine.’ I frown as the word comes out of my mouth. ‘Just fine.’

  I go out the door, closing it hard behind me. Mum is fine. Why wouldn’t she be? And what business is it of his anyway?

  A REALLY BAD IDEA

  Iforget all about Mr LeBoeff and even his gorgeous nephew – better not to think about him ever – and spend a fun evening with Stevie and Carrie. We do our homework, watch two episodes of a new series called Galactic X; and then, while Stevie and Carrie go to the kitchen to make popcorn, I browse the latest Asos collection on Stevie’s iPad. I find the most adorable little print skirt: brown corduroy with circles sewed on to it in different pastel colours. Even on sale, it’s £19. I don’t have that kind of money.

  But as I browse the designs, feeling my usual resentment that Mum’s shop doesn’t sell anything cool or hip – unless you count things that might have been cool or hip thirty years ago – an idea strikes me. Something that’s so obvious that I feel like an idiot for never thinking of it before.

  I could get a job. I could babysit or deliver leaflets or flip burgers – anything to make a little pocket money. Except, would anyone hire a thirteen-year-old? Is it even legal?

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Carrie comes in with two bowls of popcorn. She hands me one.

  ‘Oh, nothing – you know . . . just stuff.’

  ‘I bet it’s clothes – AGAIN!’ Stevie wheels over with a bowl of popcorn in her lap.

  ‘OK,’ I confess. ‘You’re right. Isn’t this the cutest skirt ever?’ I hand her the screen.

  ‘You’d look great in that,’ Stevie says. ‘Or just about anything. I mean, you’re so tall.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But I can’t afford it.’

  Carrie looks over Stevie’s shoulder. ‘It is cute,’ she says. ‘But there must be some cute skirts in your mum’s shop too.’

  I sigh. ‘You just don’t get it.’

  ‘I think we do,’ Stevie says. She flicks a piece of popcorn at me. ‘You’re a snob. You only want to wear clothes that are brand-new.’

  ‘I am not a snob!’ I flick the piece back. ‘I just don’t like having to wear people’s stinky old castoffs all the time.’

  Carrie shrugs. ‘I think your mum’s shop is cool,’ she says. ‘It has character.’

  ‘I like that,’ Stevie says. ‘Character.’

  ‘It may have character, but it ought to have some decent stuff to sell,’ I say. I suddenly remember what Mr LeBoeff said about his nephew wanting to be an architect. ‘When I’m grown up, I’m going to have a shop too. But I’m only going to sell top-end, high-quality designer stuff.’

  ‘Maybe I can be your plus-size model,’ Carrie says. She launches a piece of popcorn at me. ‘They have them, you know.’

  ‘Since when have you been interested in fashion?’

  ‘Since always – can’t you tell?’ Carrie struts forward in her baggy flannel shirt and boy jeans. I clap in rhythm, and Stevie laughs and showers her with a handful of popcorn.

  Carrie sits down on the sofa, picking up the stray popcorn and shoving it in her mouth. ‘What about you, Einstein?’ she says to Stevie. ‘What do you want to do – discover a new elementary particle or something?’

  ‘No.’ Stevie smiles assuredly. ‘I’m going to be an astronaut – like Tim Peake. Up in space, I’d just float so I won’t need to walk.’ She shrugs. ‘And I’d have lots of time on my hands to discover a new elementary particle.’

  ‘Here’s one for you!’ I pelt her with popcorn.

  Stevie leans forward and retaliates, showering Carrie and me with popcorn, salt and kernels. There’s popcorn everywhere and we’re laughing at nothing, but it’s really funny anyway.

  There’s the sound of a car in the drive – Stevie’s mum coming home from work.

  The three of us look at each other, swallowing back a few stray smirks. Then Carrie and I get down on our hands and knees and sweep up the popcorn with our hands. When all of it is back in the bowls, I straighten up.

  ‘I don’t have a clue what I’ll end up doing when I’m older, but I’m thinking about trying to get a job now to earn some money,’ I announce.

  ‘A job?’ Stevie looks shocked. ‘What about school?’

  ‘Who’s going to hire you?’ Carrie adds.

  ‘I don’t know.’ To be honest, I was hoping they would be a little more encouraging. ‘But I’m sure I could do something. After school, and on the weekends. Like babysitting or maybe delivering leaflets.’

  ‘It’s pretty obvious what you can do, isn’t it?’ Stevie says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can work at your mum’s shop.’

  ‘The Emporium?’ My stomach clenches. ‘No, I couldn’t.’

  Carrie waves her hand in front of me like a hypnotist’s crystal. ‘Think of the skirt, think of the skirt . . .’

  ‘No skirt is THAT cute!’

  ‘Come on, Andy . . .’ Ste
vie’s voice is level. ‘You love clothes; your mum has a clothes shop. It’s a no-brainer. You can learn what it’s like to run a shop. And who knows? Maybe you’ll find some hidden gems.’

  I shudder as all the things Mum’s brought me over the years flash before my eyes. The tatty tops, the faded jeans, the second-hand underwear. I think of the fashion police at school and how much it hurt when they called me ‘Rags’, even though I knew it was just a name and wasn’t really me at all. I know my friends are trying to be helpful, and maybe I do sound like a snob. But until they’ve walked a mile in my too-big ‘pre-loved’ trainers, they’ll never really understand.

  ‘Well, give it some thought.’ Stevie gives me an encouraging smile.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say non-committally. ‘Anyway, I should probably go home. I don’t want Mum to get worried.’ I stand up and grab my rucksack.

  ‘Hey, are you OK?’ Carrie calls out.

  I don’t answer as I close the door behind me and go out into the night.

  It’s later than I thought. Outside, a sliver of moon has risen above the houses as I walk to the end of Stevie’s road and turn on to the high street. I wish I’d never mentioned the idea of getting a job – wish it hadn’t even crossed my mind. Because deep down, I know that Stevie’s right. If I really want to earn some money, then working at Mum’s shop is a no-brainer. Thomas isn’t that much older than me, and he has a job – but only at his uncle’s shop. Who else besides Mum is going to hire me? But I just hate the idea of being there surrounded by all that stuff.