The Poka Dot Shop

by Laurel Remington

  She ends the lecture five minutes early to give us a new assignment. ‘For the rest of this term we’re going to be focusing on self-improvement,’ she says. ‘I want each of you to come up with a project that will make something about your life better.’ She looks at each one of us in turn. When her eyes land on me, I can’t help but blush a little.

  ‘It can be anything you want – from tidying your room, to helping out more with chores around the house, to learning a new skill – anything. But you need to make a plan and follow it through.’ There’s a general whispering and rustling of papers. I hear snickering from a couple of boys at the back of the room.

  ‘I’d like you to prepare an outline of your proposal,’ Ms Cartwright says. ‘Your mark will depend on how well you articulate your goals, and how well you achieve them. I’ll go through them with you, to help you put your ideas together.’

  The bell rings and everybody scrambles out of class. I wait for everyone else to leave, and walk out slowly with Stevie and Carrie to go to our lockers.

  ‘I can’t believe that Ms Cartwright actually came up with something interesting for us to do,’ Stevie says, sounding upbeat. ‘Now I can learn to walk and get credit for it at school.’

  ‘Are you still in pain?’ When I’d rung Stevie after her first lesson, to ask how it went, she’d been so tired that she could barely talk. I’d felt really proud of her, but worried too.

  ‘My arms still hurt like anything,’ she says. ‘It was like trying to lift a corpse. I really need to pump up my biceps to get stronger.’ She flexes her skinny arm. ‘I need to wheel myself more, not use the motor. Then, once I can support myself on the treadmill, my legs can kind of walk by themselves to develop the muscles.’

  ‘Cool.’ I say. ‘How long is it going to take?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Stevie says. ‘They said six months before I take my first steps. But there are no guarantees. What about you, Carrie?’

  Carrie sighs. ‘I guess it’s a no-brainer what my special project needs to be,’ she says. ‘Get fit, lose weight, spend “quality time” with my dad. How many kilos should I write down to lose – five? Ten?’

  ‘Too bad the kilos can’t go over to me.’ Stevie wrinkles her nose. ‘I need to bulk up if I’m going to be able to walk.’

  ‘I think your project should be standing up to your dad,’ I say to Carrie. ‘Tell him you’re fine the way you are. If you need to bond, then do something fun – something you want to do.’

  Carrie rolls her eyes. ‘He thinks it is fun. When we did the 3k run yesterday, he barely even broke a sweat. I was drenched. And then we had this big bean stew for lunch – which he loved. I hate beans.’ She slumps against her locker. ‘But I guess I could do with getting a bit fitter.’ She smiles at Stevie. ‘Maybe we can do some weights together.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Stevie says. ‘What about you, Andy?’

  ‘Well . . . I’ve got an idea too. And actually, it might help both of your projects.’ I smile. ‘It’s going to take some muscle. But it will be fun too.’

  ‘Oh.’ Carrie leans forward. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m going to transform my mum’s shop.’

  I’m half expecting drum rolls to come out of nowhere, but of course, nothing happens.

  ‘Into what?’ Stevie asks.

  ‘Into a totally cool, totally retro consignment shop – like they have in Paris. A dépôt-vente.’ I try to put on the accent. ‘Selling only top-class designer stuff. Like Chanel. No more tatty old jeans and fancy dress rubbish.’

  Carrie raises an eyebrow. ‘A dépôt-what?’

  ‘Vente – I think.’

  ‘And your mum is OK with you doing it?’ Stevie asks.

  I shrug. ‘I didn’t say I’ve worked out all the details. But here’s the thing . . .’ I tell them that Mum’s been feeling bad, and that I’m really worried about her. Once I get started, I find that I can’t stop. I even tell them about the tablets, and the illness – depression.

  ‘Gosh, Andy, I had no idea,’ Carrie says.

  ‘Neither did I – I mean, not really. I guess it was easier not to notice. Apparently, the shop is her “trigger” for feeling low. So if I could turn it around, then that would help her.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ Stevie says. ‘So where do we come in?’

  That part I do know. And I tell them my plan.

  LORD SUGAR, EAT YOUR HEART OUT

  When I write everything down that evening in an outline for class, it comes to three whole pages. I make bullet points: the clear-out, getting rid of the tatty stock, painting the shop, and then the consignment idea that Thomas and I talked about. But there’s one thing on the very first page that I don’t have a clue how I’m going to do. It’s the ‘convince Mum’ bullet point. I think about all the things I could say to her: it’s a project for school, it’s Thomas’s idea, it’s Stevie and Carrie’s idea. Because if I tell her that I came up with the plan myself, I worry that she’ll just laugh at me like she did before, and start talking about GCSEs and uni. And she’ll want to control the whole thing. She’ll go with her ideas – things like adding more stock and lowering the prices. Ideas that aren’t going to turn things around.

  I know it’s her shop, and I want to make her happy, not more upset. But I’m just itching to get on with my plan – my vision – which is ‘out with the old and in with the new’ (even if the ‘new’ is still second-hand, but high-end designer stuff that sells for more money). I just know it could work, and that Mum would love it. But with her around, it seems impossible.

  I take a new sheet of paper and jot down Plan B – ‘Operation Mum Holiday’. If I could get Mum to take a break for a few days – or weeks – I could get on with making a difference. (And I really believe she’ll feel much better if she got away for a little bit and cleared her head.) I think about how Thomas is painting the theatre without his uncle knowing about it, or having his permission. He’s doing it as a labour of love, for his uncle’s own good. But Mr LeBoeff never visits the old theatre, whereas Mum is at her shop every day.

  There’s only one person I can think of who might be able to help – Aunt Linda. After dinner, when Mum’s watching TV and fixing some beading that’s come off an old prom dress, I find her number in Mum’s address book. Keeping my voice low, I call her from upstairs. It’s kind of awkward at first – she immediately suspects that I’m calling because I want something. After a minute or so of small talk, I cut to the chase. ‘Um, Aunt Linda,’ I say, ‘I wanted you to know that there are some things going on with Mum . . .’ I break off and swallow hard, trying to keep from crying. ‘And I’m not really sure what to do.’

  Pulling myself together, I tell her that Mum hasn’t been feeling well in herself, and that I’m really worried about her. I’m not surprised to discover that Mum hasn’t told her sister anything about how she’s feeling – certainly not about the depression and the tablets. Although they talk every week, I know Mum likes to give the impression that things are going well, even when they’re not. Aunt Linda immediately gets her knickers in a twist over the whole thing, and I feel little prickles of guilt that I’ve gone behind Mum’s back. It’s for her own good, I remind myself.

  ‘I’ll come right down for a visit,’ Aunt Linda says. ‘Let me just check my diary and make some arrangements.’

  ‘Actually,’ I say quickly, ‘I thought that maybe we could come up and see you. Mum hasn’t had a holiday in a long time. She’s always at the shop, she hardly ever gets out. I was thinking that a change of scene might really help her.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she mulls. ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘I know she really misses the Lakes,’ I say. ‘And you and Grandma.’ (Both true!) ‘It might be nice for her to do some hillwalking or whatever. Like when you were kids . . .’

  Mum and her sister grew up in Kendal in the Lake District. Their mum waited on tables in a tea room, and their dad hired boats out on Lake Windermere. As far as I know, she had a happy childhood. Mum moved to
London to go to fashion college, and met my dad, and Aunt Linda took over running the tea room. Now she owns it. When I was little we used to go up to the Lake District for a week every summer. I have happy memories of those times. Aunt Linda’s homemade chocolate mint cake was to die for, and I also enjoyed going around to all the twee little souvenir shops with Mum so that she could check the half-price racks for things for the shop. Just about everything she bought was some kind of fleece or tartan – skirts, scarves, socks, even gloves – but at least it was all new. I can still remember the way those shops smelled – of locally made fudge, new wool and vanilla candles. Never fuggy or old.

  I try to remember how long it’s been since we last went there. Probably three or four years at least. Mum talks to her sister regularly, and to her mum – my grandma – maybe once a month. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that a visit to the Lake District could be just what Mum needs. And it would be great for my plans.

  ‘It would be lovely to see you both,’ Aunt Linda says, bringing me out of my thoughts. ‘But don’t you have school?’

  ‘Yeah. But if Mum comes up on her own, I can easily stay with my friend Stevie down here.’

  My aunt draws a sharp breath. ‘Not a boy?’

  ‘Oh no.’ I sputter a laugh. ‘Sorry, her real name is Alice. She’s a girl, don’t worry. Or I have another friend – Carrie. We all do our homework together anyway. It would be no trouble.’

  ‘Why don’t you and your mum just come up at Easter?’ Aunt Linda sounds suspicious now.

  I hesitate, my brain twisting upside down. It was supposed to be a secret, but I’m starting to think that I need as many people on side as possible. ‘Well, Aunt Linda, actually, there’s a reason why Mum needs to come up sooner rather than later.’

  It takes me a breathless five minutes to explain my idea (emphasizing the school project angle for Ms Cartwright’s class). I need Mum out of here so that I can give the shop a makeover. ‘I’ve got a few friends that are going to help me,’ I say. ‘I’m even writing a business plan.’

  Of course, Aunt Linda immediately finds the one problem with the whole thing. ‘You’re thirteen years old,’ she says. ‘I’m sure you have lots of good ideas, but this isn’t something you can do on your own.’

  Why not? I’m about to say. But I stop myself just in time. I need to sound grown-up if I’m going to convince her.

  ‘Maybe it takes a fresh pair of eyes to really make a difference,’ I say, using one of Ms Cartwright’s favourite expressions.

  The phone clicks against Aunt Linda’s earring – she’s obviously shaking her head. ‘I admit that what you say has a lot of merit,’ she says. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve been to visit, but from what I remember, Eliza’s Emporium does need a major overhaul. Clearing it out and starting again isn’t a bad idea. But why don’t you get your mum on board to help you?’

  I give her my reasons – Mum would never accept clearing out and starting again. ‘Otherwise, she would have done it already,’ I say. I tell her about the time Mum spends altering some of the clothes – like the cardigan with the funky buttons – and then sells them for practically nothing. ‘She wants to cram in even more stock,’ I say. ‘Which isn’t the answer.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Aunt Linda says when I’ve finished. All I can do is cross my fingers and wait for her decision.

  ‘Let me talk to Eliza,’ Aunt Linda says. ‘I’ll find out if she wants to come up and if she would be happy for you to stay with a friend.’

  ‘OK – great.’

  ‘I’ll ring her tomorrow. And, Andy – don’t worry about anything. We’ll get her through this.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for your help. And, um . . . what about the shop?’

  ‘I’ll think about what you said. For now, I won’t mention it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, my chest starting to fizz. It’s not exactly a result, but I’ve done the best I can.

  IN THE DANCE HALL . . .

  The next evening, Carrie and I go over to Stevie’s to do our homework. After dinner, I tell them about the business plan I wrote, and about the call I had with Aunt Linda.

  ‘So you don’t know if she’s going to help you?’ Carrie asks.

  ‘I think she will.’ I try to sound hopeful. ‘But I’ll have to wait and see. Anyway, I should go now. I’ve still got some things I need to work out.’

  ‘OK,’ Stevie says, looking doubtful. ‘Good luck.’

  Outside, the sky looks like turquoise velvet, and a few stars are visible above the horizon. I walk along the high street towards Mum’s shop. There’s a line of customers in front of the chippie. But Thomas told me that he has Tuesday nights off. I’m hoping I know where he’ll be.

  There’s no music coming from inside the old theatre, but the door to the back alleyway is ajar. It creaks when I open it, and all of a sudden my cheek starts to tingle as I remember The Kiss. He was just being friendly, I scold myself. Still . . .

  ‘Thomas?’ I call. I walk to the end of the corridor and through the velvet curtain.

  The vast space is empty, but he’s clearly been busy. The wall we were working on together is done, and he’s also started on the far wall that goes along the street. In one corner is a whole stack of new paint cans ready and waiting.

  I walk to the centre of the space, imagining how it must have looked back in the day: the band on stage lit with coloured lights, men in uniform on leave from the war, whirling around, their sweethearts wearing dresses with full skirts – like the polka-dot dress – bright red lipstick, and Mary Jane shoes. I once saw a film called Swing Kids when I was over at Stevie’s house. Those kids were amazing dancers – doing throws and lifts and dips – the jitterbug, I think it was called. I close my eyes and spin around slowly, imagining. I can almost hear the music in my head, feel the ghosts coming out of the corners of the room after so many years of being forgotten—

  ‘Andy?’

  I let out a little squeak of surprise.

  ‘May I have this dance?’ he says with a grin. He takes my right hand in his left and puts his other hand on my waist. My heart is beating so hard that I’m sure he must be able to hear it. He slowly begins to lead me in a circle. He sweeps me around, humming softly, and then lets go of my waist and spins me under his arm. Even though I’ve never danced before, I somehow manage to find the rhythm. The ghosts are there, just beyond the circle of us, watching, urging us to keep going.

  He spins me out and I stumble over my feet. He grabs my arm and together we teeter there in mid-air until I collapse on my bottom. For a second we both look at each other, shocked. And then burst out laughing. He pulls me to my feet.

  ‘Merci, mademoiselle,’ he says with a little bow. ‘That was a, um . . . lovely . . . dance.’

  ‘I was terrible, you mean!’ I say, wiping a tear of laughter from my eye.

  ‘OK, well, maybe we ought to stick to painting,’ he says. ‘Because there’s still a whole lot to do. And the ceiling needs two coats.’

  Maybe I’ve let the ghosts down, but after laughing like that, I feel better than I have in a long time. It feels good to have a friend like Thomas who’s so . . . different from my other friends. We get out the paint and I work on the wall while Thomas climbs up to the top of the ladder and starts the ceiling. Tiny droplets of paint float down to the floor like snow.

  ‘This is gonna take for ever.’ His arm muscles flex as he holds up the two-metre roller and does another tiny swathe of ceiling. Paint dusts his face with a sheen of white.

  I paint a glistening white rectangle on the wall in front of me, enjoying making it bigger and bigger. I’m glad that the theatre is so large – so that we can keep doing this. I wish we could make the painting last for ever. As I work, I try to be brave enough to broach the thing that’s been on my mind ever since I wrote the business plan for class.

  ‘Did you tell your uncle what you’re doing to the place?’ I ask, finally. It’s as good an opening line as any.

  ‘Not yet,
’ he says. ‘I want to finish the painting before getting the estate agent in. It will look more impressive that way.’

  I pause in my painting and turn towards him. ‘I was thinking . . . I mean – have you thought about keeping the place? Doing something with it yourself?’

  ‘Me?’ He gives me a look. ‘What could I do?’

  ‘Well, I know it sounds kind of crazy, but I had this idea . . .’

  I tell him the whole thing.

  LA BELLE HÉLÈNE

  For the next five minutes, I don’t even stop to breathe. I tell him about this crazy vision I’ve come up with – of a huge designer clothing boutique in the old theatre. Eliza’s Emporium the way it could – and should – be. The more I talk, the clearer it becomes. The sparkling mirrors, the racks of beautiful clothing. Customers coming from far and wide just for a browse. Then I tell him about my school project, and how I’m hoping Aunt Linda can convince Mum to take a holiday. I tell him that Mum’s feeling bad about the shop, but that she doesn’t seem to get that her ideas aren’t enough. And every time I falter, every time I start thinking that the whole thing sounds insane, I take a breath and think about how I felt when I tried on the polka-dot dress. I try to think about what that older, more confident me – the one I could be some day – might say. And then I say it.

  ‘Wow,’ he says, when I finally stop talking. ‘That sounds like quite a project.’

  ‘I know it’s a little bit crazy. But I’d start small – redo Mum’s shop and go from there.’

  He gives me a look that might be respect – or pity; I can’t quite tell. ‘I get that,’ he says, ‘but even if you start small, you’re talking about relaunching a whole business. How are you going to get this “new stock” you’re talking about?’

  I frown, a little annoyed that he’s not more can do about the whole thing.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ve still got the eBay money from the dress.’ Your aunt’s dress, I don’t add. ‘That ought to cover the paint and stuff. And I’m going to do all the work myself.’