The Poka Dot Shop

by Laurel Remington

  Aunt Linda sighs. ‘Of course I’d love to see Eliza. It’s been so long. And Mother’s arthritis is getting worse. But I’m not going to lie to her.’

  ‘I know – and I’m not asking you to. It’s just that she won’t go unless she thinks that you need her.’

  ‘So now you’re a psychologist?’

  ‘No!’ I say. ‘I just want her to get better. And I don’t think she can do that here – where all this . . . stuff . . . is going wrong with the shop.’

  Aunt Linda is silent for a moment. I cross my fingers.

  ‘OK, I’ll do it. I will ask her to come up here.’

  Result!

  ‘Thanks, Aunt Linda,’ I say. ‘It’s the right thing.’

  ‘Hmmf.’

  ‘Bye for now. Love you.’ I hang up the phone, a big grin on my face. Part One of the plan is now one step closer.

  That night, I begin to wonder if maybe Part One of the plan is working a little too well. Mum comes into my room, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed, like she’s been crying.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I say, my heart seizing up.

  ‘Your Aunt Linda rang.’ Her mouth twitches as she tries to make herself smile. ‘My mum isn’t well – she’s frail . . . in pain. I haven’t seen my family in such a long time. It’s terrible . . .’

  ‘You should definitely go up there,’ I say.

  Maybe I sound a little too eager, because for a second Mum’s eyes narrow. Then she moves away and looks at my shelf. She picks up a trophy I won for a swimming race a long time ago and turns it over in her hands.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ she falters. She sets down the trophy and stares out the window into the darkness. Some stuff I read on the internet about depression pops into my mind:

  Difficulty in making decisions . . .

  ‘I think it would be good for you to see your mum and your sister,’ I say. ‘Get away for a little bit.’

  She sighs. ‘It’s just not a good time right now. I’m so tired. It’s such a lot of effort . . .’

  Difficulty in taking action . . .

  She walks over to my bed and sinks down on it. ‘Besides, you’ve got school.’

  ‘I’m fine staying with Stevie. It will be good.’ I take a breath. ‘Maybe we both need some time apart.’

  ‘You mean you want rid of me – your old sad-sack Mum.’

  Internal dialogue of self-blame . . .

  I grab her hand. ‘No, Mum – that’s not it at all. I just think that maybe you need a break, and I’m fine staying here because I’ve got school. I can totally focus on that. It’s a no-brainer.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  Constant second-guessing . . .

  ‘Go, Mum. See your mum and your sister. Take long walks in the hills. Breathe in the fresh air of the Lakes. Clear your head. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘But the shop . . . ?’

  Placement of obstacles . . .

  ‘It isn’t going anywhere.’

  ‘Well . . .’ She hesitates. ‘Actually, there’s something I should tell you. It may be the answer to our prayers.’ Her mouth sets in a straight line.

  ‘What?’ My stomach dips.

  ‘An estate agent called me the other day. Someone is interested in the old theatre. They want to turn it into a gym or something.’

  ‘Oh—?’

  ‘He thinks I might be able to sell up. They can use the floor space. Apparently there’s some big push to revitalize our end of the high street.’

  ‘But Mum, you can’t!’ I say.

  ‘The shop is failing, Andy.’ A tear forms in the corner of her eye.

  ‘But if it wasn’t, you’d keep it, right?’

  ‘I love my shop. You know that. It’s been everything to me – other than you, of course.’ She wipes her eye with her sleeve. ‘But I can’t pass up this opportunity. It would be wrong of me – and you deserve better. We could start again somewhere else. Some day . . .’

  ‘But this is our home. There is nowhere else. Don’t do it for me – I’m fine.’

  She throws up her hands. ‘Look, I don’t know. It will probably all come to nothing. I think you’re right, though – I do need to get away. Think things through.’

  ‘It really is the best thing,’ I say, trying to reassure her. ‘You need time. If the gym people really want it, then they’ll wait. You have to make the right decision – for . . . us.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I don’t want to make the wrong decision.’

  I edge closer and lean my head on her shoulder. ‘So when will you go?’

  ‘I’ll need to talk to Stevie’s mum. And take care of a few things at the shop. But if I can get that done, then . . . I don’t know . . . maybe on Monday?’

  ‘OK, Mum.’ I turn and put my arms around her, holding her tight. Now that she’s going – the one thing I need in order to get started with my plans – I really do feel like crying. ‘I’ll miss you lots, but take all the time you need.’

  GLAD RAGS AND BIN BAGS

  After school on Monday, I give Mum a kiss through the window of the minicab that will take her to the train station. I feel a sharp ache inside like a part of me has been torn off – Mum and I have always been together, and now she’s going away. I’m going to miss her so much. But she’ll be back, and while she’s gone I have a job to do.

  As soon as the taxi disappears around the bend at the end of the road, I go back inside the house to get the spare key. I’ve arranged to meet Stevie and Carrie after dinner at Eliza’s Emporium, and we’re going to go through everything in the shop and give it either the thumbs up, or the thumbs out. I’ve already bought two rolls of black plastic bin bags. Rubbish collection day is tomorrow, so there’s not much time.

  But I soon discover there’s a problem – no key in the drawer. ‘No!’ I yell. Who knew that Mum would suddenly go all security-conscious now that she’s going on holiday? I ransack the kitchen and Mum’s sewing room, but there’s nothing. I feel like screaming as I walk to the shop to meet my friends.

  Stevie and Carrie are waiting for me around the back.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Stevie says as soon as she sees my face.

  ‘We have a problem,’ I say. ‘No key. Either Mum’s hidden the spare one or she took it with her. I can’t find it anywhere.’

  I kick at the mat outside the door, hoping that Mum will have gone back to her old ways. But there’s no key there either. I scan the back of the shop. There are no windows other than a tiny one at the top of the door. Other than breaking through the front of the shop – obviously not an option – there’s no way in. Despair floods through me. This is my big chance. I can’t let it come to nothing.

  ‘What about your boyfriend?’ Stevie gestures down the alleyway towards the theatre, and beyond that the chippie. ‘Maybe he can pick the lock.’

  ‘Don’t call him that,’ I grumble.

  Seeing as there’s no other choice, I go off down the alley. The theatre door is closed, but the back door to the chippie is open.

  I’ve never gone down the alley as far as the chippie before. I can hear the sound of a radio; smell the fish frying in the vats. It’s also a few degrees hotter the closer I get. I go up to the door and take a quick peek inside, half hoping that Thomas isn’t there. But I see him – the back of him anyway, as he’s chopping potatoes. His dark hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a white apron. He looks kind of rough and edgy – as good as someone can working in a chip shop.

  ‘Psst, Thomas,’ I whisper loudly. He keeps chopping and doesn’t turn around.

  ‘Thomas,’ I say, louder this time.

  He gives a little start like I’ve pulled him out of his own world. He turns around. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Setting down the knife, he comes over to the door, wiping his forehead on the apron. He seems a little embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry to bother you at work.’

  He laughs. ‘Um, don’t be.’

  ‘It’s just, we’ve got a problem. Mum’s shop is locked. I think
she took the key with her.’

  ‘Did you look for another key?’

  ‘Yeah, I couldn’t find one.’

  ‘OK, did you try breaking in?’ He doesn’t miss a beat.

  ‘How? We can’t do it through the front. The window in the back door is too small.’

  ‘Thomas?’ Mr LeBoeff calls from the front counter. ‘I need those potatoes in now. And two scampis.’

  I clench my teeth. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I can see this isn’t a good time.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘But give me half an hour.’

  In fact, it’s only twenty minutes later that I slump down in the middle of the parquet floor of the theatre, guilt stinging in my chest. ‘We can’t!’ I look at Carrie and Stevie. Why don’t they see that Thomas’s ‘idea’ for getting into Mum’s shop is a complete non-starter. I never should have asked for his help.

  ‘Well . . .’ Stevie stares at the blank white wall, cocking her head. ‘I don’t see another option right this second. And if Thomas is willing . . .’

  Thomas looks more than willing. He hefts the sledgehammer over his shoulder like he’s God’s gift to construction work. Or in this case, demolition. His plan for getting into Mum’s shop is to knock down part of the wall between the theatre and Eliza’s Emporium.

  Carrie’s mouth keeps gaping open when she looks at Thomas. ‘It’s not going to bring the whole place down, is it?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘The shop used to be part of the theatre. The partition was put up later. It’s not structural.’

  ‘What’s on the other side of the wall?’ Stevie asks me.

  I picture the inside of Mum’s shop. On the long wall she has the rack of old jeans and some shelves with handbags, the wedding dresses and the torso of the mannequin wearing the coconut bra and Hawaiian skirt . . .

  ‘Actually . . .’ I say with a long sigh. ‘Go ahead.’

  Thomas gleefully hefts the hammer. Even with my hands over my ears, there’s an almighty THUD as the hammer hits the wall. Nothing happens. I don’t know if I’m disappointed, or secretly glad.

  ‘Whew, OK.’ Thomas flexes his hands.

  He raises the hammer and swings again. The wall seems to judder a little, but that’s it.

  ‘Maybe over a little more,’ Thomas puffs. ‘Got to find a weak spot.’

  ‘The wall should be weakest right in the middle,’ Stevie says. ‘If a doorway was filled in like you say, it will be stronger near the edges where the support is.’

  ‘OK, Einstein.’ Thomas grins at her. I feel a pesky little buzz of jealousy, but I ignore it. I’m glad that Thomas and my friends are getting along so well.

  He moves over another metre and swings the hammer. This time, instead of a thud, there’s a distinct CRACK!

  ‘One more and you’re there,’ Stevie says. ‘Stand back, everyone.’ She whizzes her chair backwards. Carrie and I join her near the centre of the room.

  ‘Arrraugh,’ Thomas cries. He swings. There’s another crack! Suddenly there’s dust and rubble everywhere, and a hammer-sized hole in the middle of the wall.

  ‘Stand back, Thomas,’ Stevie cries.

  Thomas ignores her and gets ready to swing the hammer again. But before he can do so, there’s another cracking sound. The bricks seem to hover, suspended in slow motion. Then, three metres of wall begin to crumble to the floor.

  ‘Yeah!’ Thomas yells. He jumps back.

  Even standing back, the dust is so thick that it covers us. Carrie begins to cough. Thomas’s black hair is covered in dust. It’s like we’ve all been in a snowstorm or a sandstorm. But we’re through. Thomas turns to me, laughing. I must look a sight. The next thing I know, we’re hugging each other.

  I’m still there when the dust begins to clear. Behind me, I hear giggling and little kissy noises. I pull away from Thomas. If my face wasn’t white with dust, it would be bright red.

  I turn back to my friends. ‘What are you looking at?’ I glare. I walk forward to where the dust has settled. In the midst of the white-painted bricks and rubble, I see a broken mannequin with a rubble-covered coconut bra and a Hawaiian grass skirt. I see a few pairs of dust-covered jeans peeking out from beneath the bricks, and at the front of the shop ‘Amelie’ standing at the window looking out, her black dress now polka-dotted with dust.

  And a slow, warm feeling begins to creep over me. I go over to my bag and take out the twenty-pack of black bin liners I bought. Thanks to the lack of a key, suddenly everything just got easier.

  NIGHT FEVER

  We’re all so dirty that it seems best just to get stuck in. The four of us get on with clearing the bricks and rubble. Carrie and I load the bricks into old paint buckets, and Stevie whizzes them in her wheelchair out the back of the theatre where Thomas helps her dump them into the big steel skip behind the chippie. But it takes a long time even to make a small dent in what we need to move. All in all, about five metres of wall ended up coming down – all of which had been filled in beneath an old arch between the theatre and the shop. Five metres of Mum’s stock on racks that are now completely buried like a junk shop in Pompeii.

  Such a shame, I think with a glow of satisfaction.

  It takes trip after trip and I start to think that we’re never going to finish moving the bricks let alone anything else. Finally, we get to the point where I start picking up the rubble-strewn clothes. I shake the dust off them and start stuffing them into the bin bags.

  ‘What if your mum wants some of them?’ Carrie says.

  ‘The whole point is that what she doesn’t see won’t hurt her,’ Stevie says.

  I pick up the mannequin with the coconut bra. She’s so old and cheesy that she doesn’t even have real fake hair – it’s painted on. Since falling down off the high shelf, she’s now missing an arm.

  ‘Au revoir.’ I shove her torso into the bag, grass skirt, plastic lei and all. The arm sticks out of the top of the bag. ‘Here.’ I pile the thing on to Stevie’s lap. ‘Give her a proper burial.’ Stevie whizzes her off in her wheelchair.

  Carrie and I shake the dust off some of the wedding dresses. ‘I just can’t believe people give away their wedding dresses,’ I say, frowning at the yellow sweat stains under the arms of one of the dresses – satin with a poufy skirt and a row of seed pearl buttons down the back. I wonder who wore it, and if she looked nice on her special day. It’s kind of sad that I’ll never know.

  ‘I guess they keep them for ever, and then die. No one wants them any more.’

  I put the dress down, shuddering. Carrie’s right. Most of the wedding dresses probably did come from the estates of people who died.

  ‘That one’s stained, but this one’s kind of nice.’ Carrie holds up a dress in ivory silk with tiny crystals sewn in a pattern of flowers and swirls on the bodice. She checks the tag. ‘Maggie Sottero,’ she says. ‘I think I’ve heard of that brand. Your mum was selling it for ten pounds.’

  I frown. Like Ms Cartwright said, maybe it’s possible that Mum’s shop does have a few hidden gems – being sold way too cheap. ‘Put it to one side,’ I say. ‘We’ll have to look at each—’

  Before I can finish the sentence, I hear a shout of laughter coming from the theatre.

  I look up and across the vast expanse of floor. Stevie’s come back in after her trip to the skip. She’s got the radio in her lap and switches it on, then holds the velvet curtain aside.

  Thomas struts in. He’s wearing the coconut bra over his T-shirt, the grass skirt over his jeans, and a pair of old jeans tied over his head like a turban. He walks forward towards us, all the way across the theatre, shaking his hips like a hula dancer. I look at Carrie; she looks at me. We both bust up laughing. He shakes his shoulders, does a little turn, then a pose.

  ‘Here, Kate Moss, try this.’ Carrie tosses him the stained wedding dress. He slips it over his head, goes over to the window where ‘Amelie’ is standing oblivious. He grabs her and whirls her around. He gives her a big kiss on her painted mouth, then trips on the he
m of the dress and they collapse to the floor on top of the rubble. I’m laughing so hard that tears come to my eyes.

  ‘Jeez, Andy, she’s a worse dancer than you are,’ Thomas says, wiping the dust off himself.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But maybe it’s your lead.’ I hold out my hand and pull him up out of the rubble.

  ‘Maybe.’ Laughing, he picks up ‘Amelie’ and puts her back in her window.

  Stevie and Carrie take up the game. Carrie tries on a puffy gold prom dress that makes her look like a Christmas bauble. Stevie finds the rack of hats and tries them on one by one – a policeman’s hat, a little round pillbox hat with a red veil, an American football helmet.

  ‘Go, Patriots.’ Thomas knocks on the helmet.

  I spy something on one of the racks – it’s totally outrageous, but I have to try it on.

  ‘No peeking,’ I say. I take it to the back and get changed. It takes a little time – the trousers are tight, even on me. When I go back out to the main part of the shop, though, it’s totally worth it.

  ‘Oh . . . my . . .’ Carrie’s mouth drops open.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Stevie giggles.

  Thomas comes up to me, the wedding dress still hanging off him. He takes my arm and positions me in front of the mirror.

  I can’t even believe that I’m wearing these clothes – an orange crushed-velvet suit from the seventies with huge bell-bottom trousers and platform shoes. My skin and hair are covered with dust – I look like some kind of creature from a scary rock video. Scary, but kind of cool too. Stevie changes the station on the radio and finds some electronic disco music. The song ends and another one comes on: ‘Night Fever’.

  ‘Come on, let’s dance!’ I grab Carrie by the hand. Laughing, she tries to spin me under her arm, and I have to duck down about a foot. Stevie rocks her wheelchair to the music and Thomas does his funny hip-shaking thing again. I’m laughing and sweating, and it’s so much fun that I wish we could be here, in this strange little world between the old theatre and the wreck of Mum’s shop, for ever.

  OUT WITH THE OLD . . .

  The song ends. Eventually we stop dancing, stop laughing, and gradually come to our senses. Mum’s shop is a wreck; there’s so much to do. I change wistfully out of the orange velvet suit, and the others take off their bits and pieces.