The Poka Dot Shop

by Laurel Remington

  ‘How much did you get for it?’

  ‘Sorry?’ The white world fades back to reality.

  ‘The Chanel dress. How much?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I stare at the wall. ‘Four hundred and eighty-five pounds. Before eBay fees.’

  He whistles. ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  I nod, my throat too choked up to speak.

  ‘So when are you going on your shopping trip?’

  I stop painting and look at him. ‘I told you, I’m not. If you want the dress back, I’ll cancel the sale. If not, then I’ll send it off and give you the money as soon as I can access it.’

  He’s silent for a second. We both go back to our painting.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Finders keepers. You found the bag and thought someone had dropped it off at the shop. Technically, you weren’t doing anything wrong. You brought the rest of the stuff back, so you keep the money for the dress. Or give some to your mum.’

  I shake my head. ‘I couldn’t keep the money now.’

  ‘Whatever.’ He shrugs.

  We go back to painting. I think about the shopping spree that I’d planned – all the different ways I could spend the money. Money that isn’t rightfully mine. But if Thomas doesn’t want it, then that leaves giving it to Mum. Part of it would probably go on Jolanta’s wages and the rest on sewing stuff. There must be some better use of the money than that.

  I finish the wall as high as I can reach and move along, closing the gap between us. ‘Why did you send the stuff to the dry-cleaners?’ I say finally.

  He pauses the brush in mid-stroke. ‘It was stuff that had fallen off the hangers and got dusty. I thought it was nice, so I had it cleaned. It was kind of stupid really – sentimental, I guess, just like my uncle. But frankly, I can’t see the point of all my aunt’s stuff just hanging in a dark room.’ He gives me a sideways smile. ‘So maybe I’ll sell it on eBay.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I’m sure he’s joking.

  ‘No, really.’ He senses my disbelief. ‘I could put the money towards my uni fees. When the time comes.’ He turns back to the wall and continues to paint.

  ‘Do you really want to be an architect?’ I ask, remembering what his uncle said.

  ‘It seems like a long way off,’ he says. ‘But I think so. I like to draw. I like old buildings – like the ones they have in Paris. I love Paris. And I’m enjoying fixing this place up.’

  I look at him admiringly. While I’m flogging stuff on eBay to go shopping for clothes, he’s thinking about his future.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, ‘that’s pretty cool.’

  ‘What about you?’ he says.

  I think of the conversation I had with Stevie and Carrie. I wish I wanted to be something noble like a doctor or a scientist. But I don’t. ‘I’d like to run a business,’ I say. The words come out of nowhere. ‘Like Mum’s shop – only totally different.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, if I were running her shop right now, I’d make some changes. I’d start by getting rid of all the old tat – the wedding dresses and the Hawaiian outfit, the baby clothes. I’d get rid of the old jeans, and the blouses that smell like BO even when they’re washed. I’d get rid of anything satin, and anything that’s synthetic fabric. That stuff’s OK when it’s new, but it looks pretty tatty when it’s not.’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘So basically, I’d clear everything out. I’d close the shop down for a few days, and then I’d paint the place. White – like you’re doing here. And I’d get some proper fitting rooms put in. Then I’d organize the stockroom in the back – get rid of all the bin bags.’

  ‘And then what?’

  I consider this. ‘Once everything was cleared out and the shop was painted, I’d sit down and figure out what the shop ought to be,’ I say. ‘I mean, is it just for old junk, or is it for high-end designer stuff?’

  ‘What should it be?’

  ‘I don’t know. The polka-dot dress sold for over four hundred quid.’

  ‘But how many of those are you going to get?’

  ‘None.’ I blush. ‘I shouldn’t even have had that one.’

  ‘How are you going to get “good stuff” then?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ I flounder. Clearing out the shop and painting it white is one thing. Getting stuff in it that will actually sell is quite another.

  ‘Hmm.’ He rubs the end of his chin. ‘In Paris there are consignment stores called dépôts-ventes. People bring designer stuff to sell and they get a cut of the profit.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, let’s say I brought you a bag of clothes. You look through it and pick out two or three things that you want to sell in the shop. The rest is rubbish. You don’t want it and I have to take it back.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Then you write down my name on the price tag, so you know that if you sell it, it’s me who gets a cut.’

  ‘You mean like a percentage?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s your shop so you get forty per cent, but it’s my stuff so I get sixty per cent.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘You mean, it’s my shop and I’m doing the work, so I get sixty per cent. You get forty per cent. In store credit.’

  He laughs. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Andrea.’

  I smile, liking the way he sometimes uses my whole name. No one else calls me Andrea other than his uncle.

  ‘OK, so maybe it’s sixty–forty or forty–sixty,’ he says. ‘You’ll do some research and work out the details. In the end, hopefully you get some good stuff to sell. Then you need to get the buyers in.’

  ‘How do I do that? I mean, maybe there’d be a chance of getting people in if we were at the other end of the high street. But this end isn’t exactly Covent Garden. Though your uncle’s shop gets a good crowd.’

  ‘That’s because he’s good at what he does. His fish and chips are the best.’

  ‘Right. But why wouldn’t a person who’s got good stuff to sell just list it on eBay? Why bring it to a shop?’

  ‘I don’t know. For some people, it’s too much bother – photographing the thing, listing it, posting it. Sounds like a pain.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re a boy.’

  ‘You noticed, huh?’ He grins.

  ‘I noticed.’ I feel my cheeks growing warm.

  We both keep working, and pretty soon I’ve run out of paint in my tray. The open can is up near the old stage. As I walk across the vast open space, I think again about how all this is just on the other side of the wall from Mum’s shop. I know that when the theatre is fixed up, Thomas and his uncle will sell it. That’s the way it is, and how it should be. He stretches up to reach the top of the wall with his paintbrush. I watch him for a minute, admiring how confident and sure of himself he seems.

  When he’s finished the top of the wall, he climbs down the ladder. ‘We’d better both go home,’ he says. ‘School tomorrow and all.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re right.’ I put the lid on the open paint can and pound it down with my fist. I feel an ache inside that the evening is over.

  We take the brushes and rollers to the back to clean them. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the sink, I see that I’m completely covered in specks of white paint.

  ‘You look like a snow queen,’ Thomas says. He stares into the mirror. There’s a streak of paint down his nose and his clothes have paint on them, but he’s not as splattered as I am.

  ‘Cool.’ I laugh, trying hard not to blush. Seeing us there in the mirror together, I feel a little like I did when I tried on the polka-dot dress. Like I’m seeing someone I might be in a few years, but right now it’s a little scary.

  We finish washing out the brushes. ‘It was good to get some help with the painting,’ he says.

  ‘No worries. It was fun.’

  ‘If you ever do go ahead with the plans for the shop – you can count on me,’ Thomas adds. ‘For the decorating part, at least.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, taken ab
ack. I don’t have any ‘plans’ and I could never just ‘go ahead’ with anything like we’ve been talking about. Could I?

  He comes with me to the back door. ‘If you wait for a few minutes, I’ll get my things and walk you home.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ I say. ‘I’ll be OK. Really.’

  ‘But it’s after midnight.’

  I give him a cocky smile. ‘I haven’t turned into a pumpkin yet, have I?’

  ‘No.’ He laughs. ‘You haven’t.’

  He takes a step forward. Before I even know what’s happening, he leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Bye, Andy,’ he says. ‘See you soon.’

  THE BIG SHOPPING TRIP

  That night I don’t really sleep – how could I when I’ve just had my first kiss? I replay it in my mind over and over – it all happened so quickly, and I know he was just being friendly, but still, a kiss is a kiss. I’m dying to tell Stevie and Carrie. (Before the incident with the white bag, I used to tell them practically everything.) But I swore to Thomas that I’d keep the secret, and I don’t want to break a promise to him. And there’s also the matter of Mum’s shop. I can’t stop thinking about it. All that talking rubbish – brainstorming – with Thomas has sparked loads of ideas. Given a chance, I bet I could make something of it. But how am I going to get that chance?

  After school the next day, I post the polka-dot dress. I don’t even feel bad doing it – well, only a little bad – knowing that I’ve come clean with Thomas and given the rest of the clothing back to him.

  I leave the post office and walk to Eliza’s Emporium. I’m dreading seeing Mum after yesterday, but I know I have to do it. I can’t keep putting things off. I’m going to tell her everything.

  The bell tinkles as I go inside. I’m expecting to see Jolanta sitting on the stool by the till, but instead, the entire front of the shop is empty.

  ‘Hello?’ I call out. No answer. If I was a burglar, I could just grab and go with loads of stuff. But I’d have to be a pretty lame burglar to want to steal anything that I see on the cluttered racks in front of me.

  A few seconds later, Mum bustles in from the back, carrying an armful of clothing and hangers. She’s wearing a billowy jungle print dress and a chunky beaded collar at the neck. She looks like a cross between an explorer and his tent.

  ‘Hi, Andy,’ Mum says. Her smile is fragile, but I appreciate the fact that she’s trying to make it sound like everything’s normal. ‘I thought I heard the door. Sometimes it’s hard when the dryer’s on full tilt.’

  ‘Where’s Jolanta?’ I say.

  Mum sets the clothing down on top of a box marked: odds and ends£1. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Gone? Gone where?’

  ‘I mean, I let her go.’

  ‘What?’ I take a step back, stunned. ‘You sacked her? But . . . you like her. And she loves the shop. I thought she was helping you.’ Then a terrible thought strikes me. ‘You don’t think she took anything do you? That white bag? Because she didn’t.’ I take a long breath. ‘I found the bag in the back. But then someone came by and said it was a mistake that it had been left at the shop. I gave the things back.’ Tears well up in my eyes. ‘I’m really sorry, Mum. Sorry that I lied. Sorry about the things I said about the shop.’

  I wait for the guilty verdict. Will she ground me for the rest of my life? Ban me from the shop?

  Mum sighs. She picks up a denim blouse with a rose embroidered on the pocket from the stack of clothing and puts it on a hanger. ‘I knew it was too good to be true, Andy. And really, I’m the one who should be sorry. For what I’ve done to you – and Jolanta. I had to let her go because I couldn’t afford to keep her. I can’t pay someone eight pounds per hour when we barely make that all day.’ She shoves the hanger on an overflowing rack. ‘If things don’t turn around soon, I’m going to have to close the shop.’

  ‘Close the shop?’ I feel like a very large bus has flattened the air out of my lungs. Even though I’ve seen the receipt book, I didn’t realize things were that bad.

  Pursing her lips, she nods. She picks up the next item and looks around the shop, as if trying to find the perfect place to put it. ‘Yes, Andy,’ she says quietly.

  ‘But what will you do?’ I suddenly feel panicky and short of breath. As much as I have issues with Eliza’s Emporium, I’ve always thought of it as part of Mum. She’s had the shop for ever; she loves it. It used to be successful; or at least, she’s always had a lot of people coming in – even people who don’t live close by. And now that I’ve started working here, I feel part of it too. ‘What will we do?’ I say.

  A smile blooms on her face, almost like old times. Her bangles clank as she steps forward and ruffles my hair like I’m still a little girl. ‘I’m going to take you shopping, Andy,’ she says. ‘If we have to liquidate, then we’ll go to Westfield and buy you a whole new wardrobe. I’m sorry I didn’t realize before how you felt about the shop and’ – she chokes a little – ‘the clothes I brought for you. I guess vintage isn’t everybody’s thing.’

  I feel a crushing sense of guilt that I didn’t tell Mum how I felt before. Instead, I let it fester inside of me, making things bad between us. If she’d understood, then maybe things wouldn’t have got this far. I never would have taken the polka-dot dress, or hidden the other things, or lied or . . . been such a terrible daughter.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ I repeat, knowing that the words sound futile. ‘Sorry that I’m always complaining and that I never help you out. I mean, not really.’

  She looks at me, clearly surprised by what I’ve said. ‘But you do help me, Andy, don’t you see that? You’re everything to me. Without you, I’d have nothing . . .’

  I take a step forward. I want to hold her. Stroke her hair like she did for me when I was little and got upset. Tell her that everything is going to be OK, and then make that happen. But she turns away and goes back to the new stock she’s brought in. She picks up a man’s suit jacket from the stack, arranges it on a hanger and shoves it on to a rack.

  ‘Mum, are you all right?’ I half choke. ‘I don’t mean the shop or anything like that. I mean – you?’

  She shakes her head, then seems to catch herself and quickly starts to nod. ‘Of course, darling. I’m fine.’

  I think of the gap between us that’s grown over the years – mostly because of me. The rope bridge over the wide river, with dangerous waters swirling below. We’re hanging on by a thread now, and it’s not going to be fixed with an ‘of course, I’m fine.’

  ‘Mum, I’m not a little girl any more. If you’re not OK, then you should tell me. You’ve always told me that we should talk about stuff. Be friends.’

  She smiles. ‘You’re right, Andy. We should be friends. But I’m still your mum. I owe it to you to be strong. Not . . .’ She trails off, like she can’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘Are you ill, Mum?’ I say. ‘Please – you have to tell me. It’s worse not to know.’

  She sighs. ‘A little bit,’ she says. ‘But it’s nothing to worry about, really.’

  My blood freezes to ice. ‘What is it?’ I say. ‘Cancer?’ Of course it’s cancer! It’s always cancer, isn’t it? Mum’s going to die and I’ll be an orphan. All the things I’ve wanted to say to her over the years, I’ll never be able to say. She won’t be around to see me graduate from uni, or get married. She won’t be around to enjoy her grandkids or meet someone new to fall in love with herself, or grow old and enjoy a peaceful retirement. Mum’s got cancer and she’s going to die! I need to deal with it. I don’t even notice I’m crying until I let out a great loud sob that startles both of us. ‘Are you going to die?’ I whisper.

  ‘It’s not cancer,’ she says matter-of-factly. She picks up a pair of jeans from the stack and folds them up neatly. ‘And I’m not going to die.’

  ‘What?’ I can barely hear her over the ringing in my ears. Not cancer? Not going to die?

  ‘The doctor’s given me some pills to help me sleep, t
hat’s all,’ she says. ‘And to make me feel a little brighter.’ She puts the jeans on the shelf with the others.

  ‘A little brighter? What’s that supposed to mean?’ Now that I know Mum’s not dying, I suddenly feel really angry at her for giving me a scare like that. I wish she’d stop messing around with the new stock and the overflowing racks, and just talk to me.

  ‘I’ve been suffering from depression.’

  ‘Depression?’ I draw out the word, feeling confused. ‘That’s it? That’s why you went to the doctor?’

  She gives a little laugh. ‘That’s it, Andy. I guess you could say it’s about the shop, though it doesn’t always have a cause.’

  ‘But . . . I mean . . . everyone gets depressed sometimes, don’t they? Like being sad, or in a bad mood.’

  ‘This is different,’ she says.

  ‘How?’ I challenge. Mum’s always been a happy person; a person who gets on with things. I can’t believe she would let something like this cause her a problem.

  She’s silent for a moment. I watch as she takes a price tag on a flower-patterned shirt, crosses off the£4 that’s written on it and writes – Sale!£2. ‘I didn’t want to tell you this, Andy,’ she says finally, ‘but sometimes I don’t manage to get up in the mornings. You’ve already gone to school so you don’t know. The shop is failing because a lot of times we aren’t even open. Sometimes it’s really hard for me to get through the day. I try to get on with things like normal, but I can’t. Sometimes I wonder if I ought to just give up.’

  ‘Give up? What do you mean give up? You can’t just give up,’ I practically yell. ‘You’ve got the shop, and people who count on you. And . . . you’ve got me! I mean, what exactly are you saying?’

  ‘I’m just being honest.’ She turns away and crosses out another price on a tag. ‘I would never do anything to hurt you, Andy. I hope you know that.’

  ‘Well, you are hurting me. Right now!’ I kick the bottom of the rack of clothing in front of me, making the hangers rattle. A few things fall off their hangers and on to the floor. I know I’m being horribly selfish and making things worse, but I just want to take the words out of her mouth. Make them not be true.