The Poka Dot Shop

by Laurel Remington

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Stevie says. ‘It sounds like it wasn’t as bad as you thought.’

  ‘It’s not that.’ I wipe away a tear and tell them about how I looked in the receipt book and added up the numbers. How Mum’s shop is losing money and I wish there was something I could do about it.

  Stevie wheels up and puts her hand on my arm. ‘It’s OK, Andy. Look – it’s early days. You’ve got some good ideas that might really help. Like raising the prices and giving the place a good clear-out.’

  ‘But Mum won’t listen to me! She doesn’t even want me there. She wants to have long chats about vintage clothing with Jolanta and her regular customers who come in and either don’t buy anything, or else grab what they can for a fiver.’

  ‘Have you tried to talk to her?’ Stevie says.

  ‘No. But what’s the point? It’s her shop. She doesn’t see it the same way I do.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Carrie says. ‘You’ve been talking for five whole minutes without whingeing about the smell – maybe you’re getting used to the place.’

  ‘Great.’ I shake my head.

  Stevie sets the table as Carrie and I bring the pasta over. ‘So what’s up with you two?’ I say. When I first got here, they both seemed a little quiet. And even though we’d hung out earlier at school, spending time in Mum’s shop has made it feel like a lot longer.

  Stevie and Carrie exchange a look. All of a sudden, I realize that the whole conversation up until now has been about me.

  ‘What?’ I say warily.

  ‘We’ve got some news too,’ Stevie says.

  ‘OK . . .’

  ‘Actually, mine is good news,’ she says. ‘I’m going to that place in Cambridgeshire that I mentioned. They’re going to teach my legs how to walk.’

  ‘That’s so fab!’ I bend over and give her a hug. ‘Just think – you’ll be out of the chair!’

  ‘Yeah. It is.’ For some reason, Stevie doesn’t seem as excited as I’d have thought. ‘So anyway, I won’t be around after school on Fridays from now on. And we’re going for an introductory session tomorrow evening too.’

  ‘It’s really brilliant,’ I say. I go to the stove where Carrie’s serving up the meatballs. They smell delicious. I pick one up and pop it into my mouth. ‘Yum,’ I say. ‘You want one?’ I go to reach for another.

  ‘No thanks.’ Carrie shakes her head. ‘In fact, I think I’m going to have a yogurt instead of pasta.’

  ‘Yogurt?’ I say, frowning. ‘Why?’

  She stares down at the meatballs, her mouth set in a straight line. ‘My news isn’t good,’ she says. ‘Dad has signed me up for some boot camp thing at the weekend. I have to start going there every weekend and even staying over on Saturday nights.’

  ‘Boot camp?’ I say. ‘Sounds scary. What do you have to do there?’

  ‘Dieting and exercise.’ She winces.

  ‘But why? I mean, you’re fine the way you are.’

  ‘Thanks. But not everyone thinks that. Dad says it’s not about losing weight – though it is, obviously – but about being healthy and getting fit. He’s doing it with me on the Sunday. I guess he thinks we need some more bonding time and all that.’

  ‘Oh.’ I can’t work out whether it’s a good or bad thing. Carrie and her dad are on their own, like me and Mum. Her parents are divorced and her mum lives up north somewhere. ‘I guess bonding time sounds good.’

  ‘Yeah. I just wish we could bond at the cinema or at the mall. Maybe take a cookery course. You know – something fun?’

  ‘Did you tell him that?’

  ‘No – but what’s the point? He’s already signed us up.’ She shrugs her shoulders, looking glum.

  ‘Well, I guess you’ll just have to see how it goes,’ I say.

  ‘Sounds like we all need a dose of good luck,’ Stevie says.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We do.’

  We eat dinner, clear up and then do our homework. Afterwards, I ask Stevie if I can use her iPad for a minute. She wheels it over and I open up eBay. When I log into my seller dashboard, I practically fall over backwards. The polka-dot dress already has twenty-three watchers, six bids, and is at £106.60! And the auction still has two whole days to go. I feel mega amazing and mega guilty all at the same time. But one thing I’m sure about is that if it was for sale in Mum’s shop, it wouldn’t be selling for anywhere near a hundred pounds. It was wrong of me to take the dress without showing it to Mum first. But I can always give back the money to help the shop. Or some of it . . . maybe . . .

  I close down the site before my friends can ask me what I’m looking at. Then I gather my things to go home.

  Outside, the night is dark and clear. It takes me about five minutes to walk to the high street. The pub at one end is still open, and when I pass the chippie I see Mr LeBoeff inside mopping the floor. I wave to him, but his lips are puckered like he’s whistling, and he doesn’t see me. Next door is the old theatre. I pause briefly but I don’t see any lights inside or hear any music. Did I imagine it?

  I pass Mum’s shop. With the lilac cardigan sold, ‘Amelie’ is now wearing a black dress that actually looks good – I mean, it’s hard to ruin a black dress – with several long strings of pearls around the neck. I step back from the window, trying to imagine what the window might be like if all the mannequins had little black dresses on and the wedding display was taken down, when all of a sudden I see a light flickering in the back of the shop. I freeze, my heart in my throat. The light flickers again – it’s a torch. Someone is inside!

  It’s just not fair! Anger surges in my chest. Mum barely makes any money from the shop, and now someone is trying to rob her. I’m not going to let that happen! I race around the side of the shop to the alley behind. Maybe I should try to contact the police, but I don’t have a phone so I can’t call them. All I can do is try to scare off the intruder.

  The back door to the shop is wide open. My whole body is in a cold sweat as I tiptoe closer and look inside. I see the torch – its beam is propped up on Mum’s ironing board. Someone is rifling through the mountain of plastic bags. It might be a good thing if a burglar took all the stuff, but what if they’ve already taken the cash? My cheeks burn with anger. I made Mum ten pounds, and it had better not be stolen.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I call out in a loud forceful voice.

  The rustling stops. It’s like the intruder is hoping that if they keep still, I’ll just go away. But I’m not going anywhere. My hand is shaking as I reach up beside the door and flip on the light switch.

  The overhead lights flicker for a second, and then go on full force. And I’m face to face with the burglar!

  THE OLD THEATRE

  ‘Oh, it’s you!’ I blurt out at the same time he says, ‘Andrea?’

  I’m ashamed to say that a whole lot of my anger just melts away when I see those blue-grey eyes.

  ‘Thomas,’ I say, trying to pronounce it like his uncle did. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He stands up from where he’s been crouching down over the pile of bags. ‘I can explain,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, you’d better.’ I put my hands on my hips.

  He goes over to the ironing board and turns off the torch. ‘Good, now I can save the batteries.’ He gives me a broad smile.

  ‘Well?’ I say, refusing to be charmed.

  ‘For one thing, Andy, your mum shouldn’t leave a key to the shop under the mat at the back. I mean, you’re just asking for trouble.’

  ‘And I guess you found it. Even with a key it’s still breaking and entering.’

  He frowns. ‘If I was a thief, don’t you think I’d break into the betting shop or something? No offence, but I don’t think your mum has much here that I’d like to steal.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I am a little offended. ‘Then what are you doing here?’

  ‘Looking for something that belongs to me,’ he says. ‘A big white bag with a black handle. It says Galeries Lafayette on it.’

  The breath f
reezes in my lungs. ‘Why do you think it’s here?’ I say.

  ‘Because the dry-cleaner messed up. They were supposed to return it to the chippie, but instead they left it on the wrong doorstep. No one was here when I got off work, so I just thought I’d come in and have a look. Take it back before anyone noticed.’

  ‘Dry-cleaning?’ I say, unable to hide my surprise.

  His eyes narrow, and for a second I think he’s on to me. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I thought they were doing me a favour when they said they’d drop it by. But now it’s gone.’

  I rewind back to my Really Bad Decision – taking the polka-dot dress and hiding the rest of the designer stuff in the stack of bin bags. Mum hasn’t mentioned any great new stock so I’m pretty sure it must still be there. But if I tell him that or accidentally ‘find’ the bag I buried, then I’ll have to come clean about the dress too.

  ‘What was in the bag?’ I say, covering my tracks. ‘Maybe Mum’s been through it if it was here.’

  ‘It was designer clothing that belonged to my aunt. It’s very valuable. There was a wool jacket by Moschino, a Chanel dress and some other things. All designer originals.’

  ‘Your aunt?’ Feeling dizzy, I sit down on Mum’s sewing stool. What have I done?

  ‘Yeah. It was totally stupid of me to trust someone else with it. I see that now. I really don’t want my uncle to find out.’

  His uncle . . . this is getting worse and worse.

  ‘Hey, don’t worry, OK.’ I smile. ‘Maybe it will turn up. I’m helping out at the shop now, so I can have a look tomorrow after school.’ I sweep my hand around the room. ‘I mean, it might be here somewhere.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’ He starts to walk to the door. I should just let him go. It’s safest for me that way. But I’m curious about the clothing – and about him.

  ‘Do you want a Coke or something?’ I say. ‘Mum has a fridge.’ I point to the little fridge that’s under one of the work tables.

  He leans against the wall. ‘Is this how you treat all of your burglars?’

  ‘Not all of them.’ Only the really gorgeous ones. I go to the fridge and take out two Cokes. I throw one to him and he catches it. ‘Was that you in the old theatre the other night?’ I ask. ‘Did they leave a key under the mat there too?’

  He stares at me. ‘What? How did you know—?’

  ‘You just told me,’ I say triumphantly. ‘But really, I saw the light through the boards and I heard music.’

  ‘Are you often out late at night?’

  ‘I usually do my homework at a friend’s house. I walk by here on my way home.’

  ‘Well, that explains it,’ he says. ‘But I didn’t think anyone could see the light.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  He drinks his Coke down in a single swig. ‘It’s a long story,’ he says.

  I cross my arms. ‘I’ve got time.’

  ‘A picture’s worth a thousand words. You want to come and see?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ My heart speeds up at the thought of going anywhere with him.

  ‘But you need to keep it a secret, OK?’

  ‘Fine. That’s two you owe me.’ I blush, thinking of the secret I’m already keeping – from him.

  He gives me a sideways glance. ‘I guess so.’

  We throw our Coke cans in the recycling and leave Mum’s shop. He puts the key back under the mat – it is a pretty rubbish place to hide a key. Then he takes out another key and we go to the building next door.

  ‘Your mum’s shop used to be part of the theatre,’ he says, unlocking the door. ‘I think it was the old café.’

  ‘Really?’ I wonder if Mum knows.

  ‘It was split off as a separate shop sometime before my uncle bought the theatre.’ He puts the key back in his pocket.

  ‘Mr LeBoeff owns the theatre?’

  ‘Yeah. He bought it when he moved here from Paris. I was only like three or something. It was before my aunt – his wife – died. A long time ago.’

  He flicks a switch and a dim light comes on. I follow him inside the door into a corridor.

  ‘This was the stage door,’ he says, closing it behind us. ‘There are a few dressing rooms back here.’ He gestures to the closed doors that we walk past. At the end of the corridor are some steps at the side leading to the stage. I follow him through a thick velvet curtain that leads to the main theatre. He flicks another switch, and all of a sudden everything is flooded with light.

  ‘Oh!’ I stop and stare, my mouth wide open.

  I don’t know what I was expecting – some kind of pokey old cinema with moth-eaten red velvet seats, a floor sticky with chewing gum and stuck-on sweets. Instead, we’re standing in a huge room that’s completely empty and completely white – or kind of a dingy yellowish colour – except for a fancy wood floor in a zigzag pattern. The walls are plaster with garlands of flowers and fruit at the top. There are columns down the side of the room with fancy tops. A ladder has been propped up by the wall next to the stage, and underneath is a spattered plastic cloth. The room smells of fresh paint and the wall that Thomas has been painting is a bright, clean white.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ I say. ‘I had no idea this was here. I thought it was an old cinema.’

  ‘It used to be a social club and dance hall,’ Thomas says. ‘During the war, they had huge dances here for the RAF soldiers. And there’s a rumour that The Beatles played here when they were first starting out.’

  ‘The Beatles? Really?’ I wonder if Stevie knows. She loves old music like that.

  ‘Yeah.’ He walks over to one of the columns and picks at a fleck of chipped paint. ‘Then for a while there was an old lady who gave dance lessons here. When she died, the place was boarded up.’

  ‘I just can’t believe it’s here, right on the other side of the wall from Mum’s shop.’

  ‘It’s a good space,’ he says. ‘And it’ll look a lot better once I paint it. It’ll take me a couple of weeks – it’s so huge.’

  ‘And then what?’ I say. ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  Thomas shrugs. ‘I’m hoping my uncle will sell it. There’s no reason to keep it.’ His face suddenly clouds over. ‘Coming here was a mistake. I mean, my uncle used to be a chef in Paris. He had his own café and everything. And look at him now.’

  ‘A chef?’ I can’t really imagine Mr LeBoeff as anything other than the man who sells fish and chips on the high street. Though his fish and chips are pretty amazing.

  ‘I’m serious.’ Thomas seems to sense my disbelief.

  ‘Then why did he come here?’

  ‘Because of my aunt,’ he says. ‘She was a famous fashion model in Paris. She knew all the great designers – like Yves St Laurent, Gianni Versace, Oscar de la Renta. But then she got cancer. Her sister lived near here, so they moved here to be closer to family.’

  ‘Oh.’ I struggle to take this all in. Mum and Mr LeBoeff have been shop neighbours for a long time, but I didn’t know any of this. I guess I never thought to ask.

  ‘My uncle thought she was going to get better. He’s really positive like that. My aunt saw the old theatre and fell in love with it, so my uncle bought it for her. They were going to do something with it, but then she died. I guess he’s kept it all these years because he’s sentimental. But I really think he needs to move on. He’s talked before about wanting to go back to Paris. He still has friends there, and family. I know he’d be much happier.’

  ‘So you’re fixing it up to sell?’ What Thomas is saying makes sense, but for some reason I feel a little disappointed.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘When I’ve got it looking up to scratch, I’ll get an estate agent round to value it. Then I’ll tell my uncle.’

  ‘What?’ I stare at him in surprise. ‘You haven’t told him what you’re planning?’

  ‘No.’ He stares at the floor. ‘Like I said, he’s sentimental. But if I get everything arranged, then he’ll see that it’s for the best.’

  ‘OK . . . ?�
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  ‘But in the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you kept it quiet. I don’t want him to find out what I’m doing.’

  I make a motion to zip my lips. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

  ANGELS AND DEVILS

  Later on, when I finally get to bed (after another telling-off from Mum for being home so late), I can’t sleep. My mind keeps turning over and over – I just can’t believe that all this time, right next door to Mum’s shop, there’s this amazing place – the old theatre. If it belonged to me, there’s no way I would sell it. But I understand why Thomas would want to do so.

  Thomas . . . Before tonight, he’s always seemed a little scary. But now that we’ve actually talked and I’ve learned something about his family, I see that he’s fine. If only I could tell my friends – they would be so jealous. But I said I would keep it quiet, and besides, he’s probably going to hate me once he figures out that I took the polka-dot dress and hid the rest of the clothing. I should have just confessed that I found it – the dry-cleaner obviously left it on the wrong doorstep. Why didn’t I? Now I’ve taken something from not just one person but two – three, if you count the dead aunt who was a fashion model in Paris.

  I go to school early and head straight to the library. I’m going to stop the auction – it’s the right thing to do. I open the listing for the polkadot dress and practically fall over. It’s up to £325! I hover over the button that says ‘end auction’. I should give the dress back to Thomas. But then I wouldn’t be able to give any of the money back to Mum. And what about the forty-three people who have all placed bids? Surely I owe it to them to see it through? I could still give the money back to Thomas – or we could split it three ways.

  Or – I could stick to my original plan. Keep the money and buy a whole new wardrobe at my favourite shops. As long as I change my clothes at school, Mum need never know. I feel like there’s an angel and a devil perched on opposite shoulders. They’re both shouting in my ears and doing my head in.

  On my way to class, I duck into the girls’ loos and check my reflection in the mirror. I hate everything about my outfit – all of it from Mum’s shop. Baggy jeans, a tie-dye top, a navy cardigan with big pockets and a pair of ‘pre-loved’ Converse high tops. Who wore these things before me? Someone fab – or someone horrible?