Without even thinking about it, I take off my shirt and put on one of her blouses, white with gold buttons and long ties to make a bow. It’s too small for me and I can’t fasten it, but I pose in it and look at myself in the cheval glass. I see an old white-haired man in a lady’s blouse, but I feel cool and elegant and it smells of her. I don’t know what the smell is, she wasn’t one for perfume, but it’s a smell I recognise as being her smell.
I feel a gust of longing for her that almost knocks me off my feet.
I console myself with the thought that I can wear my sky-blue cocktail dress now. It’s hidden at the bottom of my golf bag in a Sainsbury’s carrier. I won’t have to worry that the feathers are moulting. But the thought doesn’t bring any relief, because …
She’s going to catch me!
I know she’s not, but that’s how it feels.
I stand very still and listen.
It’s dead quiet except for the humming of the fridge.
I remember Betty saying that Stan hung around the house for three days after he died. This seems unlikely, because surely the first thing he’d have done is told Betty not to bury him and to take his ashes to the Himalayas.
Anyway, I can get no enjoyment from wearing Enid’s blouse after remembering that. I’ll try it on again in three days’ time. So I hang it back up again, put my shirt back on and once more I’m at a loose end in my empty house. I ring Betty. ‘The undertakers have been,’ I tell her.
‘Oh, Kim,’ she says. ‘Poor Enid. Poor you.’
‘Yes, well. No use brooding. I’m going to ring a chap called Cato Hamilton to clear her belongings.’
‘Kim,’ she says quickly, ‘it’s far too soon to get rid of things. George might want them. Don’t do anything you’ll regret. Just try to go on as usual for now.’
George won’t want them. He has his own things. ‘I can’t go on as usual without her.’
‘No. Of course not.’ She’s quiet for a moment.
‘Do you want anything of hers?’ I ask.
‘Kim, if you want my advice, you’ll wait a bit.’
I grunt a laugh. ‘Why? In case she comes back?’ I can hear Betty suck in through her teeth at my admittedly tasteless remark. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me,’ I say apologetically.
She breathes out a forgiving sigh. ‘Grief affects everyone differently,’ she says. ‘I expect it’s different for men. The sentiment, I mean. I didn’t feel right getting rid of Stan’s clothes. I felt it wasn’t enough that I’d lost him, I was giving away what little of him I had left. I gave his watch to my granddaughter’s boyfriend and when they broke up, I regretted it, but she was heartbroken and I didn’t like to bring it up. I know I sound rather mercenary, but I still think of tracking him down now and then, you know, to ask for it back. I wouldn’t mind paying him for it.’
I nod. ‘You should do that,’ I tell her.
‘Young people don’t wear watches anyway.’
‘Don’t they?’ I doubt this is true, but the sense of the world getting away from me comes over me strongly. I want to ask her what proof she has of this.
‘If you do use Cato Hamilton, he’s young but he’s very fair. Presentable, too. I tested him out with Stan’s Tantalus in the mahogany case that holds the three crystal decanters. Stan had it valued just before he died. He always fancied taking it to the Antiques Roadshow but he didn’t want to be made a fool of. Funny, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’
‘The way Stan was still carrying on as normal, little knowing …’ She trailed off.
It wasn’t funny at all, to my mind. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? He was taken unawares. If Stan had known he was going to die on the golf course, he wouldn’t have gone to play golf. ‘Go on about the Tantalus,’ I said.
‘He offered me a good price. I didn’t give it him, of course, but he took Stan’s safari suits and all those old books he had, and my nose has cleared up ever since; I think it was the dust, you know.’ She laughs, sounding bright and happy.
She hears her own happiness and apologises, remembering I’m now Kim, the widower.
‘If there’s anything at all you’d like of Enid’s before I call him,’ I remind her. ‘Any of her clothes or anything.’ I look around the room. ‘Ornaments.’
‘You mustn’t think like that. Your life isn’t over, Kim. It’s still your house and you still need ornaments.’
No one needs ornaments. Enid had lost her enjoyment of them, too. They were a burden, more work, but she couldn’t give them away because the cranberry glass was her mother’s, the Royal Doulton was an investment and the Portmeirion bowl looked pretty with oranges in. ‘I like pretty things, Kim,’ she used to explain, as if it were some quality peculiar to her.
And it wasn’t just the ornaments. We have more glasses than two people could ever need. I don’t know why we have so many. We’re not party folk.
And we have two dinner services, even though a one-course meal only needs one plate each. And a tea service, even though we only use mugs. Saucepans? Enough to feed an army. I’ll get rid of the lot, let someone have them who’ll use them.
‘Kim? Are you still there?’ Betty asks anxiously.
‘Yes.’
‘Of course, it’s no business of mine. You must do what’s right for you, when you’re ready.’
I’ve only got myself to think of now. It’s a bleak thought. ‘Thank you, Betty.’
LOT 7
A calf-length green and gold pleated velvet skirt, Jaeger, circa 1990, size 10, along with a white silk pussycat bow blouse with gilt buttons, blouson sleeves, size 10.
On Wednesday, it’s pouring down. I’ve dropped off the damaged clothes at Moss’s tailor’s shop and I’ve got a strong feeling that at last, things are looking up.
Back at the market, the cream canvas awnings flap wetly. David Westwood is sitting on his chair, head down, engrossed in sanding something, possibly a dovetail joint. The rain is bouncing off my umbrella and he looks up at me with a flicker of interest, thinking I’m a customer.
‘Morning,’ I say brightly over the sound of the rain, hating to disappoint.
‘Hi, Fern,’ he says with a smile. He blows the dust from the wood and smooths his hand along it.
I stand and linger a bit longer, but he’s concentrating on his work again, at home in his universe of stars.
There’s something about that kind of single-mindedness that I find really attractive in a man.
I see it in Mick when he’s working and his world, his existence, becomes all sound. But then I wonder if I’m just getting my emotions mixed up and it isn’t admiration, it’s jealousy, and because I’m attracted to him I want him to concentrate his attention on me. Mick, I mean, not David. Obviously.
I move on to my stall and poke a puddle of water out of my awning with my umbrella then stand back as it gushes along the cobbles. I wonder whether it’s even worth setting up in this weather. There’s nobody around. Our customers are all staying dry in the Horse Tunnel Market.
I sit on my suitcase and my phone rings. It’s Cato Hamilton, returning my call.
Cato’s an ambitious antiques trader in his late twenties who does house clearances. He has, in my opinion, an individual MO, because he’s got contacts in the funeral trade who leave his flyers and business cards at the deceased’s, and Cato waits for a response from the grateful executors. He’s got a 20 per cent hit rate; being a stoic he’s pleased with that. His personal style is the weekend-in-the-country look favoured by auctioneers: tweeds, soft flannel shirts and cords in autumn colours – berry red, straw yellow, purple heather, as if he’s just coming in after a tour of the estate, his fair hair very slightly windblown. He’s got a whispy fair beard that he’s convinced will fill out in time.
He sells me the clothes because he hasn’t got any interest in textiles – too specialist, he says. I keep the ones I want, give the high-street wearables to charity and take the rags for recycling.
We first met outside the Angel Comedy Club in Islington on a cold night in January, clapping our hands and stomping our feet to keep warm. This was our opening conversation:
ME: ‘Great! We’ll be first in! Yay!’ (Holds out hand.) ‘Fern Banks.’
HIM: ‘Cato Hamilton.’
ME: ‘Ha ha ha! Seriously? Cato? Your parents must really love The Pink Panther films!’
HIM [aloofly]: ‘No. They’re Stoics.’
But we had an hour to kill just queuing and in that hour we found an area of mutual interest, which he described endearingly as ‘the search for pre-owned treasure’. In his case it’s an old master and in mine, a couture ensemble with a label discreetly hidden in a seam and no sweat marks.
‘Hi, Cato,’ I say cheerfully, shouting above the patter of rain on the canvas. ‘Have you got anything for me?’
‘Can you read Arabic?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘Oh. Right, what have I got? I’ve got some men’s clothing here, if you’re interested. Safari suits. Must be, ooh, about nine or ten of them. Large. I’ve had them a while, so I can give you a good deal on the price.’
I laugh. ‘Nine or ten safari suits?’
‘He was a bit of an armchair traveller, this guy. Collected adventure books but he never left the country, his wife said.’
Making him promise to keep me in mind, I then google the local churches to find out when their sales are on. Primrose Hill, Belsize Park and Regent’s Park are areas that regularly enjoy sharing the distribution of wealth. Naomi Watts is happy to hear from me. Her church has started a weekly clothing sale on Sunday afternoons during the summer, at the same time as they serve teas in the garden. I can’t make Sundays – they’re the busiest days in Camden Lock – but it helps to be practical.
‘Come on Saturday night for sorting,’ she says, ‘and maybe you could bring your Allen keys. The clothing rails need tightening up.’
‘Will do!’
I’ve just put my phone back in my pocket when it rings. It’s Mick, who I haven’t heard from for a week. He sounds cheerful, even at this time of the morning, and we flirt a little. I love his deep, decisive voice. He’s got the kind of voice that makes everything sound like an indecent proposal.
‘Quick call. I’ve got two tickets to the Jazz Cafe in Camden Town on Friday. Are you free?’
My stomach flips and I grip the phone tightly. ‘Oh, I’m free,’ I say breathlessly.
He laughs and we agree on a time to meet, then off he goes.
Mick’s phone call restores my energy. I watch the raindrops bouncing off the cobbles and I squint at the sky. The dark clouds are fading to silver grey. I pay another visit to my neighbour. ‘Hey, David!’
He looks up at me, eyebrows raised in query, watching me loitering under my umbrella.
‘I think the rain’s easing off.’
He looks at me a little longer and when he realises that I’ve come to the end of my statement, he says, ‘Oh, good,’ and goes back to his sanding. He’s got one of those little fold-up silver mesh baskets and he drops a piece of used sandpaper in it then cuts himself a fresh piece.
I like watching him work. ‘That was Mick on the phone,’ I tell him, in case he thinks I’m staring at him because I fancy him. ‘He’s been on tour.’
‘Good,’ he says again.
‘So, where did you and Gigi meet?’
He looks up patiently. ‘In an Argentinian steakhouse.’
‘Really?’
‘She was trying to get a vegetarian option.’
‘Oh, okay. And then what?’
He puts the woods down and sits back in his chair with his hands behind his head. ‘It was love at first sight. Wham! It hit me right between the eyes.’
‘Wow. What was she wearing?’ I asked, eager to fill in the details.
He pulls a face. ‘I don’t know, something, some kind of skirt, I expect.’
It’s not the most satisfying love story I’ve ever heard. Maybe he’s not telling it right. ‘Usually, love hits people in their hearts; but you felt it between the eyes, did you?’
‘Fern, that was a joke. I don’t believe in love at first sight.’
‘Don’t you? Me neither.’
‘But I found her interesting and slightly …’ He tails off thoughtfully and shakes his head.
‘Slightly what?’ I prompt.
‘Unknowable,’ he finishes. ‘Still waters run deep.’
Gigi, in my opinion, has about the stillness of a Jacuzzi on full power, but obviously I could be wrong about this. I don’t know her that well.
‘That’s why I’m doing this,’ he says, gesturing around him. ‘I was a headhunter until I met Gigi. I’ve spent the last few years finding perfect people for perfect jobs and now it’s my turn. Thanks to Gigi, I’m following my dream.’ His face creases into a smile and his eyes meet mine. ‘It’s a good feeling.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ I say, realising I’d completely underestimated Gigi’s empathy.
There’s the splash of high heels in puddles and to my surprise, Dinah Moss is coming along the alley wearing a red raincoat, a black trilby, black stockings and red patent court shoes. (And it works.)
She sees me and waves happily. ‘Fern Banks!’ Coming under the awning with David and me, she lowers her red umbrella and flaps it wildly. ‘This weather!’
‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to thank you. You have given Moss a new interest in life.’ She looks at the stall in dismay. ‘What’s this with the boxes? Where are your clothes?’
‘Next door, but it’s too wet to open up. We haven’t seen a soul yet, apart from you.’
She tuts, disapproving of my attitude. ‘This one’s opened up,’ she says to me, jerking her thumb at David.
He grins at me smugly.
I snort. ‘Yes, but he hasn’t sold anything, has he?’
Dinah blanks me. She turns her back on me and holds out a wet hand to David. ‘Let me introduce myself. Dinah. Dinah Moss.’
‘David Westwood.’
‘Now, David, explain to me about these interesting boxes. Is it a game?’
David goes through his spiel and asks her when her birthday is. It turns out that both Dinah and Moss are air signs, both apparently capable of the power of the hurricane or the delightful caress of a summer breeze. ‘Gemini, Aquarius, you and your husband have perfect compatibility,’ he tells her.
‘It’s true! How we met was destiny, fate, true love,’ Dinah agrees passionately.
David picks up his box of drilled Perspex sheets and slots them into a box. ‘Now this is Aquarius, the water carrier. Look, you can see him bending forward with the jug in his hand—’
‘And I can see the water pouring from it!’ Dinah says excitedly.
‘That’s right! You’ve got a good eye for the heavens. And this is Gemini. See, they’re holding hands.’
‘I see it!’ Dinah says.
David says gently, ‘See these big stars in Gemini? This one’s called Castor and this one’s called Pollux. In Greek mythology, they were the sons of Leda.’
I’m staring out at the rain and only half listening as he starts telling the story of Castor and Pollux. I roll my eyes. It’s all a load of pollux, if you ask me.
For a self-confessed cynic, he’s very convincing, and his voice is gentle and almost hypnotic. As he talks about their perfect compatibility, Dinah agrees.
‘I was wearing scarlet lipstick and Moss said I was beautiful and asked me to dance. What do you say about that?’
‘I’d say he was absolutely right,’ David replies.
She swats his shoulder. ‘Oh, you! You are a charmer! I wasn’t beautiful, but he made me feel beautiful and I loved him for it then. I love him for it now,’ she said firmly, tossing her head as if he’s challenging her. She turns to look at me and says ecstatically, ‘Fern, you’ve met Moss. You know the man only, but I still see the boy. I’d do anything for him and he’d do anything for me.
He’s my sunlight, my joy! I look after him and he looks after me.’ It’s a declaration of love and in the dark shadow of David’s stall, her face is radiant with happiness.
It’s depressing, that’s what it is. My relationship with Mick seems horribly superficial in comparison.
I wonder what David’s thinking. He’s frowning, too, and he’s still holding the light box tightly. The whites of his knuckles are powdered with wood dust.
‘And now Moss has work,’ she says, winking at me and pinching my cheek. ‘Thanks to this one.’
I yelp as the blood flows into it like a blush.
‘So now, Mr Westwood, I’ll take this box as you’ve explained it so well. You have something for me to carry it in?’
David wraps it up carefully and puts it into a brown paper bag.
Once Dinah has paid, she brandishes the bag in front of my face. ‘You see? He’s open, so I bought something. That’s how it works. Maybe if you were open, I’d buy something from you, too.’ The rain is dripping from the brim of her hat and she’s very wet.
‘Where exactly are you off to in this weather?’ I ask curiously.
She looks surprised. ‘I came to see you, because you and Moss, you’re in business now.’ She pulls me towards her and says in my ear, ‘You won’t regret it. I’m telling you, my dear, it’s a good decision. I promise you, you’ll get your reward.’
And there it is again: no good deed ever goes unpunished is an obvious lie.
Dinah tucks the parcel under her arm, opens her umbrella and steps back out into the rain.
I watch her splash along the cobbles, slender legs and red shoes under the red umbrella. I’m disturbed by her promise, because the reward’s not my motivation. I don’t want her to think it is.
‘She’s a character, isn’t she?’ David says, breaking into my thoughts. ‘Is she German?’
‘I think so.’
‘How do you know her?’
I tuck my hands in my damp pockets. ‘That day you and I first met, and you grabbed my case as I dashed onto the bus, I was giving her back the money she’d just dropped.’
A Random Act of Kindness Page 9
