The Poka Dot Shop

by Laurel Remington

  The shops are dark as I walk past. Even the chippie is shut, and that stays open until ten. The street lights seem dimmer than usual. The cold air is sharp through the holes in my jumper and I start to shiver a little.

  As I pass the old theatre next to Mum’s shop, I stop walking. Behind the boarded-up windows, yellow light is spilling out around the edges. I’m surprised that the place has electricity – no one has been inside for years that I know of. But now, someone is. From inside I hear a faint noise like music. A radio? My heart begins to speed up. Who’s inside – a homeless person? A burglar?

  I walk on past the theatre and peer inside the window of Mum’s shop. Even in the dark, the painted-on doll’s eyes of the mannequin in the wedding dress stare back at me. If she’s seen anything, she’s not saying. The whole thing gives me the creeps. I walk home quickly, glancing over my shoulder at no one and nothing.

  In the night, my dreams are scary and real. I’m walking through a beautiful clothing store, taking loads of things off the racks to try on: the corduroy skirt, a silver dress, a cute stripy top, starched new jeans . . . but as I’m walking to the fitting room, a line of mannequins with painted-on faces strut out towards me to the sound of a radio. They’re wearing old jeans, raggedy wedding dresses and a grass skirt with Minnie Mouse pants underneath. Marching towards me, not stopping, they’re going to trample me! I drop the armful of nice clothes and start to run—

  I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart racing. The room is greyish in the dawn light. Everything is familiar – the shelves of books and my old stuffed toys, clothing strewn on the floor, my brown suede beanbag chair, the pink and white striped duvet. I laugh at myself for getting worked up about a dream. But I know what I have to do, and I’m going to do it.

  As soon as I hear Mum coming out of her room, I get up and put on some of the latest clothes that Mum’s brought me: a pair of faded Fair Isle print leggings that someone donated to the shop after Christmas, and a ‘matching’ red T-shirt with DON’T WORRY, BE HAPPY printed on it along with a cheeky-faced emoji. On someone else, the T-shirt might be OK, but it’s so not me. I shove my holey jumper in my bag to put over it.

  I go into the kitchen so I can talk to Mum before she leaves to go to the shop. In between pouring some Weetabix into a bowl and buttering a piece of toast, she tells me off about coming home so late. I tell her that I’m sorry – I won’t do it again – then tell her about the new show we watched, and about what I’m doing in school. I’m waffling, I realize. I know I should just come out with it, but I can’t bring myself to say the words.

  Mum slips into her habit of talking about a new batch of clothes that came into the shop from the estate of some old lady who died. Apparently it included a bunch of clothes for a Scottie dog in six different tartan patterns. Half of me is listening and giving a few one- or two-word answers, the other half is trying to psych myself up. I can only eat a few bites of breakfast so I take my bowl to the sink and rinse it. Mum potters around getting ready to go to the shop, and I dawdle over getting my stuff ready for school. Finally, we’re both ready to leave. It’s now or never.

  I pause at the door, rucksack slung over my shoulder. I need to get this over with before I can convince myself that it’s A Really Bad Idea.

  ‘Uh, Mum,’ I say, ‘can I talk to you about something?’

  ‘Sure, Andy. What’s up?’

  ‘The thing is, Mum,’ I say, ‘I want to get a job.’

  ‘A job?’ She looks surprised. ‘Like babysitting?’

  I take a breath. ‘Actually, I thought I could work at the shop.’

  ‘The Emporium?’ She frowns.

  ‘Yeah.’ I swallow hard. ‘The Emporium.’

  ‘And you want to be paid?’

  ‘Well, yeah, that’s the point.’ I smile awkwardly. ‘I want to earn some pocket money.’ For new clothes and stuff, I don’t add.

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ Mum says hesitantly. ‘And maybe we can talk about it again when you’re a little older. But I don’t think it would work right now.’

  I lower my rucksack to the floor. I thought she’d be over the moon that I’m finally showing an interest in the shop. So why isn’t she?

  ‘I’m serious, Mum. I could do it – easy. You talk about the place all the time. You may not think I’ve listened, but I have.’

  ‘I know, Andy. It’s . . . it’s not that. I just think that right now you need to focus on school. That’s the most important thing.’ She checks her watch. ‘Now, I need to go, and so do you.’

  ‘Will you at least think about it?’

  ‘Of course.’ She exhales in relief and I know she’s lying.

  THE WHITE BAG

  Now that Mum’s said no to me working at the shop, for the first time ever, I actually want to. I must know more about the shop than anyone else except Mum, and probably Jolanta. Night after night at dinner, for years and years, she’s talked about Eliza’s Emporium. I know loads – from when the tax returns are due, to how to get water stains out of a suede coat. I even kind of like it when Mum talks about fixing up her ‘finds’, as she calls them – repairing zips, adding colourful patches or funky buttons to things that come her way. I like seeing her happy.

  And really, how bad would it be? As Stevie said, I could learn more about working in a shop even if second-hand clothes aren’t my thing. I have to keep my eye on the prize – if I make some pocket money, then I can buy myself something new. The spring sales are coming soon – I’ve only got a few weeks to save up.

  After school, I go directly to Eliza’s Emporium. I’m going to prove to Mum that I’m really keen and enthusiastic, and she should let me work there. But when I get there, Mum’s not even around. Jolanta is sitting on the high stool by the till, flipping through a tattered copy of Glamour. The bell tinkles when I open the door.

  Jolanta looks up. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she says, as I come inside. To me, that seems like a rude way to greet someone. But Mum says that if Jolanta sometimes sounds a little rude, it’s because English isn’t her first language. I wish Mum would stop apologizing for her.

  ‘Hi, Jolanta,’ I say. ‘Where’s Mum?’

  She takes in my outfit – the Fair Isle leggings and the T-shirt (I took off the holey jumper before coming here) – with a smug little smirk. ‘At the doctor’s – didn’t she tell you?’

  That’s another thing about Jolanta – she’s always pretending that Mum lets her in on major secrets that she’d never tell me because I’m a kid. I mean, obviously I know she’s older. She’s eighteen, and has a boyfriend, and is living in a foreign country. But still . . .

  I’ve really tried to like her (no, really, I have!), but I just get this feeling that she wishes that she was Mum’s daughter instead of me. The bad thing is, sometimes I think Mum wishes that too.

  ‘Yeah, she did mention it,’ I lie. Why is Mum going to the doctor? For a second I forget about Jolanta and worry about Mum. She didn’t seem sick to me – or maybe I just didn’t notice. ‘I just thought she’d be back by now.’

  ‘You can come back later.’ Jolanta flicks her hand like she’s shooing me away. ‘Or I can tell her you came by.’

  ‘Actually, I think I’ll stay.’ I give her a wicked grin. ‘I’m going to be helping out in the shop some afternoons – didn’t she tell you?’

  That gets her attention all right.

  ‘You?’ Jolanta frowns.

  ‘Yeah, me.’ I keep smiling.

  She stands up. ‘And I suppose you think I’m going to show you what to do?’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I say with a shrug. ‘If you want to get to work, I could sit there and read your magazine.’

  She grabs the magazine and shoves it underneath the counter. ‘Eliza told me to mind the till,’ she says haughtily. ‘But there’s some sorting out in the back that needs doing. I’ll show you.’

  One–nil to her, I think, as I follow her to the back. Minding the till is one thing, but sorting through old clothes gives me goosebumps. The back
room of Mum’s shop is a cross between a charity shop, a sewing workshop and a tip. There’s a little kitchen along one wall with used coffee cups and spoons on the draining board, and a few packets of biscuits that turn out to be just crumbs in a wrapper. Another part of the room is where Mum has her sewing machine and a huge ironing board with a faded rainbow cover and a pile of clothing on top. There are a couple of half-clothed dress forms near the machine, and a pile of random arms, legs and heads of unused mannequins. But well over half of the room is filled with floor-to-ceiling stacks of overflowing bin bags. Most of the bin bags come from house clearances that Mum goes to. (This usually happens when someone dies, or has to go into a home. Their relatives don’t want their old things, so Mum clears out all their clothing. It’s kind of sad, really.) There are also lots of smaller shopping bags that people leave on the doorstep, like Eliza’s is some kind of charity shop.

  Jolanta points to the ginormous pile. ‘You can learn to do the sorting,’ she says.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Make a pile of the good stuff,’ she says. ‘Anything with a good label – high-street or designer. Or anything that has nice fabric. Or is a classic style.’

  I look at her like she’s joking. When does anything like that ever come into Mum’s shop?

  ‘What about the rest of the stuff?’ I say.

  ‘Throw it in there.’ She points to a huge hospital laundry bin on wheels.

  ‘And what if I don’t know?’

  ‘Make another pile.’ With a shrug, she goes back through the curtain to the front of the shop.

  My skin feels itchy as I pick up one of the smaller bags. A cloud of dust flies up and I sneeze. I hold the bag at arm’s length and tear it open. Inside is a pile of old jeans that look like someone wore them for weeks on end without washing them. Underneath are some faded T-shirts, a couple of greyish bras and a few pairs of odd socks with holes in the toes. I don’t bother to look at the labels – or the styles or the fabrics. I toss everything in the throwaway bin.

  The next bag is even worse. It’s full of stinky old shoes – mostly high heels with the little plastic bits rubbed off the heels, and sandals that look like someone found them buried on a beach. There’s a pair of boots that are crusted with mud. Somehow, the dried mud gets all over the floor. I’m totally fed up as I throw all of the stuff in the bin.

  The next bag doesn’t even have clothes in it at all – unless you count some old rags and a dirty blue hoodie. There’s also a fossilized sandwich and some empty cans of baked beans and tuna. The bag is so smelly that I take it out the back door and leave it outside on the step. My face is hot with anger. How dare people use Mum’s shop like it’s a tip? Now that the council only collects the rubbish bins once a fortnight, who knows what might be in the bags? Somebody ought to do something – like check the bags when they come in. Keep the good stuff and make people take the rest of the stuff home to get rid of themselves. That’s what I would do if it was up to me.

  The bell on the front door tinkles. I stop sorting and listen. A woman has come in looking for a costume for a fifties dance. Jolanta directs her to a rack of dresses. Less than a minute later, the bell tinkles again. The customer has gone. I sigh. So far, working here has been pretty dire.

  I scan the bags trying to find one that might have something decent. One of them catches my eye. Unlike the others, it’s made of thick white paper with a cord handle. The logo reads: Galeries Lafayette. I pull the bag out of the pile.

  As soon as I open it, I wonder if there’s been some kind of mistake. The clothes inside are folded up neatly, each wrapped in plastic. I take out the first one – a soft blouse made of pale watery blue silk. The fabric is softer than anything I’ve ever touched before. Handling it carefully, I check the label: it’s from Yves St Laurent – which I know is a French designer!

  What on earth is it doing here?

  I hold the blouse to my nose and breathe in. I imagine where it might have come from – a Paris department store: all spotless black-and-white marble, chrome and glass, racks of beautiful clothes, shoes and handbags everywhere. Just thinking about it makes my knees feel a little weak. I refold the blouse and place it to one side. I take out the next garment from the bag. It’s a cropped wool jacket in black-and-white hounds-tooth check, with long sleeves and a wide leather belt. It looks really retro – something you could wear with jeans or a smart skirt. I go through the rest – a black beaded dress, a gold silk skirt, a tailored grey suit – all are designer, and all in perfect condition, like they’re brand-new. I can almost imagine the woman who wore these things: tall and slender, but also confident, sure of herself. Walking around Paris in a jaunty beret, maybe with a tiny dog in her handbag. What I can’t imagine is why anyone like that would leave these things at Mum’s shop.

  At the bottom of the bag there’s one thing left – I open it carefully like a chocolate wrapped in foil. It’s a dress in black silk with a white polka-dot pattern; it has a heart-shaped neckline, cap sleeves, a narrow waist and a full skirt that flares out with layers of sparkly tulle underneath. The label on the dress is Chanel. The fabric is soft and shiny when it catches the light, and the pattern is fun and flirty, and yet elegant at the same time. It might be from the fifties or it might have been made yesterday. A word I’ve read in fashion magazines pops into my head: ‘timeless’.

  I look around, almost like someone might be watching me, but of course, I’m alone. Before I can talk myself out of it, I put the dress on over my top and leggings, and do up the hidden zip at the side. It’s a perfect fit. All of a sudden, I’m a different girl – a princess, Cinderella going to the ball, a sophisticated Parisian girl – I’m someone I’ve never wanted, or imagined myself to be, but why not? I stand up a little straighter and parade the length of the room like a catwalk model. The skirt swishes and moves as I walk. There’s a mirror on the wall next to the washing machine. Yes, I’m wearing the dress over my old clothes, and my hair is a stringy mess, but I barely even notice. The dress is beautiful and classy . . . I look good.

  The front doorbell tinkles again. This time I hear Mum’s voice – she’s talking to Jolanta. I quickly pull the dress off over my head and shove it back into the bag.

  I hear Jolanta telling Mum that I’m here. ‘Is she?’ I hear her say, sounding surprised. Then there are footsteps coming towards me. All of a sudden, I realize how my heart is racing. I just can’t bear the thought of these beautiful things being jammed on a rack with all of the rest of the clothing in Mum’s shop. Without a second thought, I take the white bag and shove it back underneath the others.

  Mum comes into the stockroom, hands on hips. ‘Andy,’ she says, her lips pursed. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m sorting through stock.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Jolanta told me to.’

  ‘I thought we agreed that you’re too young to work here. You need to be focusing on school. If you study hard and do well in your GCSEs, then you might be able to go to uni some day. It’s really important.’

  ‘You said you’d think about it.’

  She sighs. I take a good look at her. Her face looks kind of pasty, and I notice that there are strands of white in her long brown hair. She walks over to one of the dress forms. There’s a shapeless lilac cardigan on it with tacky gold buttons hanging half off. I watch as she gets a pair of scissors and snips the buttons off one by one. Then she takes out a plastic tray that’s filled with all kinds of funky buttons in different colours.

  ‘The thing is,’ she says, picking up a needle and thread. ‘I can’t pay you.’

  I watch as she begins sewing different coloured buttons on to the purple cardigan – red, green, yellow, sky blue. I know it should be job done, conversation over: if Mum won’t pay me then there’s no reason to stay. I glance at the pile of bin bags where I’ve hidden my find. Now that I’m here, I feel reluctant to leave.

  Mum finishes sewing the buttons. When she�
�s finished she holds it up. ‘Good as new,’ she says breezily.

  ‘It’s nice, Mum.’ I have to admit, the quirky buttons do look a lot better than the hideous gold ones.

  ‘You can have it if you want.’ She holds it out to me. ‘Consider it payment for the work you’ve done today.’

  I shrink back. The new buttons may look good, but it’s still a shapeless lilac cardigan. ‘Um, it’s not really my style,’ I say, hoping I don’t hurt her feelings too much.

  ‘OK.’ She shrugs. ‘Well, I think it’s cute.’ She looks at the label. ‘And it came from the Edinburgh Woollen Mill.’

  Which to me explains the ugly buttons.

  She shakes it out. ‘I’ll put it on Amelie,’ she says.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She’s the mannequin by the till.’

  ‘Oh.’ I try not to dwell on the fact that Mum has names for her mannequins.

  She starts to walk off.

  ‘Maybe I could choose something else,’ I say.

  ‘What’s that?’ She stops.

  ‘As payment. I’m sure I could find something else that I like.’

  ‘Fine, Andy,’ she says.

  She goes through the curtain to dress ‘Amelie’, leaving me there. As soon as she’s gone, I dig the nice bag out of the pile. I take out all the clothing and put it into a spare bin liner – everything but the polka-dot dress. I bury the bin liner at the bottom of the stack – Mum and Jolanta can discover it on their own, like treasure buried beneath a mound of rubbish. I put the polka-dot dress back into the white bag and try to fold the bag up and put it in my rucksack. It’s too big, so I find another bin liner and put it inside. Finally, I grab a pair of nasty old jeans out of the throwaway bin.

  Mum and Jolanta are talking in quiet voices at the till as I come up to them carrying my rucksack and the bin bag. ‘I’ll take these jeans, if that’s OK?’ I hold them up. ‘And I probably ought to go home now to do my homework.’

  Jolanta looks down at the black plastic bin liner.

  ‘I’ve also got to wash my gym kit.’ I wave my hand in front of my face. ‘Phew, it stinks.’