The Poka Dot Shop

by Laurel Remington

  ‘I’m sorry for that. And everything.’ She stares at the clothing that’s fallen down, like she has no idea how it got there, or what to do about it. ‘I’m so . . .’ A tear trickles down her cheek.

  Mum’s crying. I’ve never seen her cry before. I feel sick and scared and fascinated all at the same time. I want to do something – make her stop. I should pick up the clothing, do something to help make things better. But I just stand there, unable to move.

  ‘So when you say “give up”, what exactly do you mean? Are you going to, I don’t know . . . kill yourself?’

  ‘No, I mean that’s not—’

  ‘So go on, Mum,’ I shout. ‘What are you waiting for? Do . . . whatever depressed people do. I won’t try to stop you if that’s what you want.’ With a swift motion, I sweep more hangers from the rack on to the floor.

  ‘Andy!’

  ‘Go on. Do it. See if I care.’

  I push the rack over, and run out of the shop as fast as I can.

  THE WORST DAUGHTER IN THE WORLD

  Irun – down the high street, past the theatre and the shops. My ballet flats are flip-flopping off my heels, the left one rubbing a blister, but I don’t care. My mum is depressed. She wants to give up. She wants to leave me here alone. Whatever I am; whatever I’ve done or haven’t done, it’s all wrong. I’m the worst daughter in the world – I must be.

  I keep on going until finally I reach the edge of the village where the footpath starts across National Trust land. There’s an old log just inside the stile and it’s mossy and cool underneath a canopy of trees. I collapse, panting for breath.

  The conversation I had with Mum churns in my head. She didn’t actually say she was going to kill herself – I was the one who said that. But . . . what if she does? How would she do it? I shake my head back and forth, wishing I had a remote control to turn off my mind. Mum’s depressed – and I’ve just made things a whole lot worse.

  I sit there for a while, staring at some ants marching along the log. The evening I spent painting the theatre with Thomas seems like a grainy old film of someone else’s memories. The sun gradually dips lower and lower, and the shadows are long and cold. I stand up and walk slowly back towards the village. It’s like I’m carrying a heavy invisible weight strapped to my back.

  Back on the high street, I breathe in the aroma of fish and chips. My stomach rumbles – I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime. There are a couple of men wearing work boots and hard hats in line at the chippie, and a mum pushing a pram. I crane my neck but there’s no sign of Thomas. His uncle seems to be working there all alone.

  I stand behind the men as they douse their chips with vinegar and salt and finally head out of the shop. Mr LeBoeff chats amiably with the woman with the pram. I don’t know what I’m doing there. I don’t have any money, and when I think of Mum again, my stomach feels hollow and sick.

  ‘Andrea,’ Mr LeBoeff says, sounding happy to see me. ‘It’s good to see you.’ He frowns. ‘But you look like you need some food.’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t have any money, and besides—’

  He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. ‘No matter, no matter.’ He heads to the back of the shop and comes back a minute later with a perfectly round, bright red apple. Smiling, he hands it to me. All of a sudden, it looks like the best thing in the world. I take it from him and hold it to my nose, then take a bite. The juicy tartness explodes in my mouth. It’s delicious.

  He wipes down the counter, humming tunelessly as I crunch the apple. When I finish it, he holds out his hand to take the core and throws it in a bin behind the counter.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I needed that.’

  ‘They call this comfort food.’ He gestures at the case full of fried fish and chicken goujons that are warming under the heat lamp. ‘But I think that real comfort must come from within. And that means eating good food like apples.’

  ‘Who says I need comfort?’ I challenge, narrowing my eyes.

  ‘Don’t you?’ He goes back to wiping and humming.

  I stand there, unsure what to say; wondering how he knows what he knows. Part of me wants to walk away. But now that I’m getting to know Thomas, I feel closer to his uncle too.

  ‘Thomas told me that you used to have a café,’ I say. ‘In Paris.’

  Mr LeBoeff laughs, but I see that sad look in his eyes that I’ve noticed before. ‘We never know where life will take us,’ he says. ‘All we can do is be ready to follow the path.’

  ‘He also mentioned your wife. That she . . . um . . . I’m sorry.’

  He frowns, rubbing hard at a non-existent mark on the stainless steel.

  ‘Hélène had cancer,’ he says. ‘Which ultimately took her life. But things were difficult for her even before that. We couldn’t have children of our own. And then, in the same year, Thomas’s parents died and she began to get sick.’

  ‘They died?’ The blood chills in my veins. I’ve never really talked to Thomas before the other night, and I still don’t know much about him. But I guess I’d always just assumed that he lived with his parents somewhere in the village and had a part-time job at his uncle’s shop.

  ‘What happened?’ I can’t stop myself asking.

  ‘Hélène’s brother Marc – Thomas’s father – and his wife were killed in a car accident in Paris,’ he says. His eyes turn liquid with unshed tears. ‘It was . . . terrible. You can’t even imagine.’

  ‘No. I can’t. I’m so . . .’ I trail off. ‘Sorry’ just sounds wrong.

  ‘It is not something that one can ever get over. But one must get on with life. Hélène and I took it upon ourselves to raise the boy. We came here to be near Hélène’s sister and her family.’

  ‘But what about your lives in Paris? I mean, it must have been hard giving that up.’

  ‘For her, yes. So many people loved her, and yet, I suppose, it was not enough. Hélène was like that. She had a . . . sadness inside her sometimes. A part of her that I could never reach. That year, she became unable to work. Leaving was for the best. It gave me time to focus on her, and the boy. Help them both through the difficult time.’

  I nod, not knowing what to say. He’s suffered so many tragedies, and yet he’s got on with things; managed to remain positive. Though, according to Thomas, there’s a part of him that’s still stuck in the past.

  He sighs. ‘When someone you love is suffering, being there for them is all you can do. You may feel powerless to help, but that is when they need you the most.’

  And this time when he looks at me, I get the idea that we’re no longer talking about his wife. I recall that day at the shop, when he asked after Mum. He had seemed so serious, so concerned. It dawns on me that maybe this man whom I barely know saw what I didn’t see in my own mum – didn’t, or didn’t want to.

  I cross my arms, suddenly feeling defensive. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  He goes back to wiping down the counter. ‘Your mother used to come into my shop sometimes. We would talk – after all, we are neighbours. I liked the way she used to laugh; the way she was so passionate about her business. And of course, I know that she suffered the loss of your father.’

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ I say. Mum never really talks about Dad, but I know she still misses him.

  ‘Yes, but even so.’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t pretend to know her well, but lately I have not seen her so much. And when I do, she seems changed.’ His eyes are deep and reflective as he looks up at me. ‘She no longer laughs. She no longer has that sparkle about her.’

  The laughing, the sparkle – I haven’t thought of it in those terms, but I know that he’s spot on. How could I have been so selfish not to have noticed? Not to have tried to do something?

  ‘Perhaps I should keep quiet – not tell this to you. If that is the case, Andrea, then I am sorry.’ He shakes his head. ‘But I don’t think anyone gets to the end of their life and thinks: I wish I’d done less. No, one always wishes that they had done
more. Showed more compassion and understanding. Been less afraid.’

  The more he talks, the more I feel like I’m tangled up in knots. ‘Well, it’s really none of your business, is it?’ I lash out.

  Mr LeBoeff smiles sadly. ‘No, of course not. But Andrea – please. Go and be there for her. Go and help her. You are her daughter and you are kind and loving. Together you can get through this.’

  ‘Just leave me alone, OK?’ My heart is pounding as I leave the chippie and walk slowly down the pavement until I’m out of sight.

  Then I start running as fast as I can back towards home.

  BUT SHE STILL DOESN’T GET IT . . .

  By the time I get home, my hand is shaking so hard that I can barely turn my key in the door.

  The television is on in the front room. I feel so scared – I can barely bring myself to come inside. What if Mum’s already given up? Or . . . worse . . . ?

  I lean against the door frame, my breath coming in gasps. Then I hear another sound. A rustling, and then the sound of crunching. I poke my head into the room. Mum is sitting on the sofa, eating her way through a bag of Doritos, watching a repeat episode of Holby City.

  ‘Mum?’ I say in a strangled voice. Tears begin to roll down my cheeks.

  She looks up and smiles, then does a double-take. ‘Andy? Are you OK?’

  I rub the tears away with my fist. ‘I thought you . . . I mean, I was worried that . . .’

  She mutes the television and gets up from the sofa. The next moment I’m lost in an endless hug. Her hair tickles my cheek, I breathe in a hint of sandalwood and rose, and it’s like coming home after a long, tiring journey. I don’t want my mum to give up. I don’t want her to have to close the shop. Whatever it takes, I’m going to make sure that Mum’s OK.

  ‘I shouldn’t have run out like that,’ I say, gasping out the words. ‘I should have been there for you. And I wasn’t. I’m so sorry, Mum.’

  She holds me at arm’s length and wipes the lines of tears from my cheeks. ‘Darling, Andy. Please – let’s talk about this. I thought it was best to be honest with you about how I’ve been feeling. I had no idea you were going to get so upset. You don’t have to feel guilty.’

  I let her lead me by the hand like a lost child. She sits me down on the sofa and perches on the edge of the threadbare wing chair that she found in a skip somewhere and reupholstered. She picks up the bag of crisps. ‘Dorito?’ she asks.

  ‘Thanks.’ I don’t really want one, but I take one anyway.

  Mum sits back in the chair, the wooden frame creaking with her weight. ‘Depression is an illness,’ she says. ‘It’s caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. It’s not me just making it up or feeling sorry for myself.’ Her speech sounds too polished and proper – like someone else has prepped her. ‘And it can be treated. So the doctor says anyway.’ Her smile looks brittle. ‘I’m going to be taking medication. It’s called an SSRI – a serotonin something-or-other. And I’m on a waiting list for therapy – to talk to someone.’

  I try to take in what she’s saying and feel OK about it. She’s going to be taking pills; she’s going to talk to someone; she’s going to be fine. But I feel like there’s a hole that’s opened up inside me. I wish Mum didn’t have an illness, but if she has to have one, I kind of wish it was one that seemed a little more real – more normal. Something everyone else would understand . . .

  ‘But you don’t have to go to . . . you know . . . like a mental hospital?’ I can barely get the words out.

  She laughs – something I haven’t heard in a long time. ‘No, Andy.’ She takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘I promise I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘OK, Mum.’ I squeeze her hand back and try to laugh too. But it comes out more like a sob.

  ‘I just need to start taking the pills,’ Mum explains again. ‘They take a few weeks to work – to rebalance things. And I may feel tired, or groggy, or irritable. I’m sorry if that’s the case. But the doctor says they should work. Lots of people take them for short periods, just to get things back on track.’

  ‘And what then? What about the shop?’

  Her face falls, and I realize that all the stuff about medication and therapy is an act. It’s the shop that’s the problem. And because she loves it, I don’t want her to lose it.

  ‘The doctor says that what’s happening with the shop is my “trigger”. It’s, like, the thing that caused me to start feeling low in the first place.’

  ‘Yeah, I get that.’

  ‘It’s just been so hard lately. Getting up. Going to work. Going through the motions. I’ve been feeling really drained – like everything is a struggle. But I’m going to be fine.’ She reaches over and tries to fluff my hair like I’m a baby. I lean away, then think the better of it and let her.

  ‘How do you know you’ll be OK?’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s all good and well to say that.’

  She gives a little laugh. ‘Well, I’m hoping that I’ll have more energy. Be back to my old self. Once the pills kick in, that is. Then I’ll be fine going back to the shop. I need to change the window display anyway for summer. And I was thinking that I could put an advert for the shop in the council magazine.’

  ‘I guess that might be a start,’ I say. ‘Especially the window display part. I like the black dress on, um . . . “Amelie”.’

  ‘Yes, that is stylish, isn’t it?’ She smiles. ‘I’ll change the display, and then I’ll go through all the bags in the back – put out as much stock as I can . . .’

  No. I catch myself before the word comes out. The last thing Eliza’s Emporium needs is more of the same stuff. But how can I make Mum see what I see?

  ‘Um, maybe I can help you out in the shop some more,’ I say, seizing the moment. ‘I had a few ideas myself about how to make it better. Like, maybe you need to have less stock rather than more. Just put out the good stuff? Then people can see what’s there on the racks. And also, you could raise the prices.’

  This time, it irritates me when Mum laughs. I knew she wouldn’t listen to my ideas about the shop.

  ‘Thanks, Andy. But I’ve been doing this for a long time. I think I know the best way to turn things around. And you need to focus on school. Get good marks, do well in your exams when the time comes. You’re smart, Andy. You can go to uni. You can make something of your life. Don’t end up like me.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mum. I mean, you’re so creative. And you know so much about . . . uh . . . vintage stuff. Your customers seem to love coming in and talking to you. That’s a really good thing, I think.’

  She smiles gratefully. I notice that there are wrinkly lines around her eyes that I swear weren’t there before. She does looks drained . . . worn out.

  An idea strikes me.

  ‘I think it’s great that you want to make the shop better,’ I say. ‘And I’m sure you’ve got a lot to be getting on with. But maybe before you start you should have a break. You could think through exactly what you want to do. Get some rest. Take time to get better.’

  ‘A break?’ She frowns like I’m speaking a foreign language.

  ‘You know, like a holiday.’

  ‘A holiday?’ She looks horrified. ‘But I couldn’t.’

  ‘Just think about it,’ I say, as the roots of a plan take hold in my mind.

  SELF-IMPROVEMENT

  All that weekend, I’m still worrying about Mum. I stay in, tidy my room, do the laundry, try to be a better daughter – one who would have noticed earlier how bad Mum was feeling. Until the tablets start working, I guess she’ll still be feeling bad, and who knows what might happen? By Sunday night, I’m more and more convinced that a holiday is just the thing she needs. A holiday far away from here. But how can I get her to do it?

  On Monday, I make her an extra-special breakfast of an egg and soldiers, like she used to make me when I was sick. I take it up to her room on a tray, along with a cup of strong coffee.

  She’s still in bed, looking pale and groggy. Her eyes
have red rims around them like she hasn’t slept that well. But when I enter the room, she brightens.

  ‘Andy, that’s so thoughtful of you!’

  I force myself to smile cheerfully, and set the tray down on the rumpled duvet. ‘How are you feeling, Mum?’

  ‘Fine,’ she says with a yawn. ‘Just a little tired. Maybe it’s the tablets.’ She leans over and looks at the clock, frowning. ‘You’d better hurry up or else you’ll be late for school.’

  ‘Um, yeah. I’m off now. But . . .’ I hesitate. Mum still seems so flat and lacking in energy. Now that I know the truth, it seems blindingly obvious. Mr LeBoeff noticed it, and he hardly knows her, whereas I’m her daughter. How did I miss it for all these months? ‘. . . but you’re going to be OK today?’ I say. ‘On your own?’

  Mum downs a long sip of coffee. ‘Andy, I’m fine. Really. I’m not going to do anything silly.’

  ‘OK, Mum.’ I guess I have to take her word for it. I lean over and give her a kiss. ‘Love you,’ I say.

  ‘I love you too.’ She smiles, and for a second I catch a glimpse of her the way she used to be. That makes me feel a little better. Still, as I leave the room and go off to school, the hole in my stomach is filled with worries.

  I find it hard to concentrate on learning about the Norman Conquest, adverb phrases and the anatomy of a frog. The day drags on, and my mind keeps flipping back to Mum and whether or not she’s OK. Did she get out of bed? Did she open the shop? By the afternoon, I’m itching to go and check on her. But I have one more class first – ‘Learning about the World’.

  We all shuffle into the room and take our seats. Ms Cartwright is at the front of the room with her laptop, and there are some slides up on the big screen about the similarities and differences between the Jewish, Christian and Muslim religions, and about the fighting in the Middle East. But I’m less interested in the lesson than in her outfit – today it’s a red brocade pencil skirt, a fuzzy black cardigan, black tights and toffee apple-red heels. As she paces back and forth in front of the class, I wonder if any of the things she’s wearing came from Mum’s shop.