A Random Act of Kindness

by Sophie Jenkins

  Mercia bends over me with a glass. ‘Sit up, Kim.’

  Rocking.

  Holding my knees and rocking.

  Moaning and sighing. Ah, me.

  They help me up and I open my eyes to take the glass. The brandy is in one of the best glasses, lead crystal, which we never use.

  It’s still got the red label on.

  ‘Go on, drink it up,’ Mercia says. ‘It’ll do you good.’

  It’s like drinking hot pins. It prickles and burns my throat and my head then, suddenly, it brings calm – the storm is over.

  I’m ashamed that I asked them to marry me.

  And of the spectacle I made of myself.

  But they don’t seem to mind, not the way that Enid would mind.

  They don’t tell me to pull myself together.

  They look at me, worried and sympathetic, and go into the kitchen to fetch the tea.

  ‘It’s harder for men,’ Mercia says.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I say.

  The teaspoon rings in the mug.

  ‘We’re having a lick of brandy in it,’ Betty calls to me.

  A lick of brandy.

  We go into the sitting room and we all sit forward, leaning on our knees as if we’ve got secrets to tell.

  And I’m worried again.

  When they finish the tea with the brandy in it, they’ll go.

  I don’t want them to go. I’m crying. I’ll keep them here all night with my tears dripping in my drink.

  ‘It gets easier,’ Mercia tells me, patting my knee.

  ‘You get used to it,’ Betty agrees. ‘I miss Stan, but I talk to him a lot. You should talk to Enid, Kim.’

  I will. I’ll say to her, ‘Enid, what time will you be home? Do you want a lift?’

  ‘You can still enjoy life. Do things that you’d never do together – that helps, doesn’t it, Betty?’

  ‘Yes, that helps. Do something completely new.’

  They both lift their mugs at the same time and tip their heads back a little to finish their tea. I feel the terror rushing through my skull. They’re going to go.

  ‘Is there anything you want? Biscuits?’

  I nod.

  Mercia pulls the hood of her blue cagoule carefully over her hairstyle and ties it around her face.

  I walk them to the door.

  ‘Bye, Kim! Bye! Look after yourself!’

  I nod because I’ve got no say in the matter. What choice have I got?

  LOT 10

  Zandra Rhodes 1970s ‘Field of Lilies’ printed chiffon gown, aqua, full sleeves, deep v-neck with deep aqua ribbon sash belt.

  I’ve arranged to meet Gigi at Moss’s shop to fit the Ossie Clark dress.

  She’s late. Moss and I wait for her in awkward silence and I wonder if she’s going to turn up. Embarrassingly, seeing it through her eyes, the place is shabbier than I remember. The lonesome fur coat is still hanging on the rail.

  Finally, she strolls unhurriedly up to the door and as she comes in I see her looking around, eyebrows raised. To her credit, she makes no comment.

  Moss is wearing not just the suit, but a black tie, too, and he’s taciturn but impressive. With Gigi he’s very proper. He introduces himself and asks her, with stiff formality, to kindly put on the frock.

  Amused, Gigi flashes me a smile and goes into the dressing room. A couple of minutes later she’s out again, tugging at the front of the dress. ‘See? Way too big.’

  Moss smiles secretively. He has a row of glinting gold pins along the lapel of his jacket that he wears like medals. He starts pinching, tucking and pinning the dress with sure fingers, standing back now and then with a critical gaze.

  Gigi stands surprisingly still, for her. ‘How long is it going to take to alter?’

  ‘Give me until tomorrow,’ Moss says.

  We both look at him curiously because, like the conductor of an orchestra, he then stands back on the faded red rug to look at Gigi and – this is what brings the idea of the conductor into my mind – he begins to wave a brisk rhythm in the air as he studies the dress. It’s as if he can hear some soaring background music to accompany the image.

  I suppose that’s the moment I realise what an unusual man he is.

  ‘Turn,’ he commands her.

  Gigi does a twirl. ‘Mmm.’

  Finally, he says, ‘Now you can look.’

  Like Dinah, Gigi has style. She’s tall and slim, very pale, and her pink hair is as fine as candyfloss. Even now, barefoot and with her arms dangling loosely, she looks graceful.

  The same thought seems to occur to Moss.

  ‘You remind me a little of my bride,’ he says soberly, kneeling heavily on the carpet as he pins Gigi’s hem.

  Gigi looks across at me through her pink frizzy hair and tightens her lips to hold back a laugh. ‘Oh, Moss, I love the way you call her your bride.’

  He shrugs modestly. ‘She’s a beautiful woman,’ he says.

  ‘It must be wonderful to be loved like that. Are you loved like that, Fern?’

  ‘No.’ It comes out more forcefully than I’d intended, bearing in mind she knows I’m not loved at all, and I flush with embarrassment, even though I know she’s only said it to charm Moss.

  ‘Me neither,’ she says. ‘Moss, I hope Dinah appreciates you.’

  I look at her curiously. Me neither. That can’t be right, can it? I wonder if she’s just saying it to make me feel better, but there’s a crease between her eyebrows that’s almost a frown and I wonder if David Westwood’s not shaping up.

  Not for the first time, I wonder about their relationship. I’d never in a million years have matched these two up together and yet, it was Gigi who encouraged him to leave his job as a headhunter and follow his dream. Knowing his previous occupation puts him in a different light – like finding out your plumber used to be a professional stuntman.

  Gigi’s attention has gone back to Moss. ‘How old is your bride?’ she asks, teasing him.

  He looks up at her from under his bushy eyebrows. ‘Over twenty-one,’ he replies seriously.

  ‘I should hope so,’ Gigi responds and he laughs. ‘You’ve got a big imagination, haven’t you, Moss! That’s what makes a good husband.’

  She’s right about that. I’ve never thought about it before, but I could never date a man who has no imagination. But there again, a man can have too much imagination and that’s not helpful either, especially when he imagines you’ll enjoy a naked holiday and never be bothered about clothes again. ‘Her boyfriend’s a woodworker,’ I tell Moss. ‘He makes light boxes.’

  Gigi rolls her eyes and I wonder if she’s regretting telling him to follow his dream.

  ‘I know what he makes. With the stars,’ Moss says, pouring us coffees out of a jug. ‘My wife bought one as a gift for me. Very romantic. Romance is a good quality to bring to a marriage. How long have you two been together?’

  ‘Almost a year.’ Gigi laughs. ‘Who said it wouldn’t last, eh, Moss?’

  ‘Almost a year,’ Moss repeats in wonderment.

  ‘Dave’s a nice guy, very practical. He suits me. I mean, if I want fun I go out with my girlfriends.’ She goes inside the changing room in the corner of the shop and rattles the velvet curtain across.

  While she’s trying the dress on, Moss beckons and leans a little closer to me. ‘This is it? Just the one customer? There’s a guy who wants to sell mopeds here and he’ll take over the lease. It’s Hamed’s son.’ He jerks his thumb in the direction of the shop next door. ‘Hamed from the post office.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I don’t know Hamed from the post office, but I get the feeling that Moss is seriously thinking about it and it’s not just a line.

  I’ve come to a thick sludge of coffee at the bottom of the cup, so I put the cup down and run my tongue over my teeth to clean them.

  The velvet curtains rattle and Gigi emerges from the changing room carrying the dress. She checks her phone. ‘Got to rush,’ she says. ‘Moss, I’ll come back tomorrow afterno
on to pick it up.’ She blows me a kiss and after she’s gone, Moss drapes the dress on the counter, shaking his head ruefully.

  ‘Almost a year and she’s proud of herself,’ he says, chuckling.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nyah.’ He shrugs. ‘Mopeds and scooters,’ he says, going back to the subject. ‘They’re popular with young people now. Mostly the criminals. But still. A sale is a sale.’

  ‘I don’t know if criminals buy their mopeds,’ I say. ‘I think they steal them.’

  Moss raises his wild eyebrows. ‘Well. Don’t tell Hamed. He thinks his son’s going to make him rich.’ He turns to look at the dress and runs his hand over it so the fabric catches the light as it ripples under his fingers. ‘Where did you find this frock?’

  ‘This is from a church sale.’

  He pinches the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He straightens the skirt, smooths it tenderly; this time so subtly that I almost miss it. He says with a smile, ‘You know, someone had fun in this in the Seventies. Some girl.’

  ‘I know!’ I smile too, because I recognise the feeling of past pleasures shared and understood.

  Moss pours more coffee and leans back on the counter. He gives his a stir. ‘My bride, Dinah, you open her closets and point to something and she can relive the time like that, like reading a book.’ He clicks his fingers. ‘She’ll tell you where and when I gave it to her and exactly the emotions she felt. Ever heard of that before in your whole life?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Her life story is in those clothes. It’s a great joy for me to see her wearing them like a second skin. My joy is in her joy.’ He looks at me with pride.

  ‘They’re so wonderful,’ I agree. ‘She let me try on the Grès.’

  ‘How do you know about the Grès?’

  ‘My degree is in fashion design. It’s the most beautiful gown; the construction is out of this world, isn’t it?’

  His mood changes instantly. Moss taps his spoon sharply on the rim of the cup to get the drips off, silver ringing against china. ‘You wore her clothes? Where was this?’

  He’s so angry that I immediately back off, surprised at his sudden change of mood. ‘Just in her dressing room when I went to your house,’ I reply defensively, in case he thinks I’ve been out clubbing in Dinah’s prized dress.

  Moss looks at me narrowly as if I were blurred and he’s trying to get me into focus. He’s seeing something in me that he doesn’t much like, breathing heavily through his nose, getting his anger under control.

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. ‘I don’t know,’ he says irritably. ‘I can’t see it, you and Dinah. People should stick to friends of their own age. You have friends your own age, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, taken aback.

  ‘So does she.’

  I remember her description of her friends as old and decrepit. I don’t understand it. Moss has never been the warmest of people towards me but I haven’t done anything wrong, I don’t have to take this. ‘What’s going on, Moss? I’m confused.’

  ‘You have to ask? You’ve met her. She’s particular.’

  I feel myself tightening inside, defensive. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I mean she’s peculiar,’ he corrects himself after a moment.

  I don’t understand. ‘Dinah’s peculiar?’

  ‘A little, yes. For instance, she feels very strongly about her wardrobe. It’s very personal to her. She doesn’t like it being touched.’

  It makes no sense to me at all; it was Dinah who took me upstairs to show me her collection. It was Dinah who asked me if I wanted to try on the gown. Still, it’s not something I’m prepared to argue with him about.

  ‘Her clothes, they’re personal.’ He frowns, waves his hand at me crossly and turns away. ‘I’m old. I can’t explain it.’

  I suppose he must wonder if he can trust me. And as he bought the clothes for Dinah’s collection, he’s going to be very aware of their value – if I’d bought them, I wouldn’t necessarily want random strangers trying them on either; I get that. Still. His reaction seems a little over the top.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say and I pick up my bag. ‘Let’s leave it at that, then.’

  When I get to the door he says, ‘Wait!’

  I’ve had enough but I turn back to face him. ‘What?’

  ‘When are you going to bring me more customers?’ he asks.

  It’s not exactly an apology, but it does feel like an olive branch. ‘When will you decide about the shop?’

  ‘What’s the shop got to do with it? I can fit clothes on people anywhere, makes no difference.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  He leans against the counter for support. ‘For now, send them here, okay? As many as you can; don’t worry, I’m not afraid of working hard.’

  I nod. It strikes me for the first time that he’s a long way past retirement age. Like his wife, it’s only his energy that gives him the illusion of being younger.

  Maybe working isn’t just a hobby for him but a way to stave off loneliness. I start to wonder if it’s more than that and if he genuinely needs the money. After all, Dinah’s pretty high-maintenance. However, it’s not the kind of thing that I can ask.

  ‘Okay. I’ll do my best. Thanks for the coffee,’ I say and he nods.

  He gathers the dress up and stares at it. ‘Anytime,’ he says tiredly.

  LOT 11

  Lilac-and-black tweed suit, with co-ordinating sleeveless lilac blouse, intertwined ‘C’ buttons, size 36/10, Chanel-inspired.

  Dinah Moss turns up at the stall late morning, just as I’m hanging up a sign offering Bespoke Tailoring and Alterations.

  She sneaks up on me. ‘Hello, dahlink!’ she says in my ear, scaring me half to death and laughing cheerfully at the heart-stopping effect it has on me.

  ‘Dinah!’

  She’s wearing a lilac-and-black Chanel suit with a silky lilac shirt and she reads my sign with the studied poise of a model on a photoshoot. ‘So! Bespoke tailoring and alterations! You and Moss are a partnership now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She gives a satisfied smile. ‘And whose idea was that?’

  I laugh. ‘All yours, you’re a genius.’

  Her dark hair is tucked into a black satin turban and she looks like the kind of woman who does charity lunches; well preserved and wealthy. She has the gold chain handles of her repaired Chanel 2.55 jersey quilted bag in the crook of her arm. ‘I’ve been looking at the other stallholders. All these people trying to make a living,’ she says, marvelling. ‘And you, too, and such a tiny stall to sell from.’

  ‘Small but cheap,’ I tell her.

  ‘Ach, cheap. Fern Banks Vintage,’ she says, reading my sign. ‘It’s always good sense to put your name to a business. You have a little chair for me to sit on?’

  ‘I have a stool. Here.’

  I unfold it for her and she sits neatly then smooths her lilac-and-black skirt over her knees. ‘Tell me, what do you think about Moss? He’s a good tailor, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Yes, he’s amazing. My client’s thrilled she can have the dress fitted.’

  On the stall next to us, David Westwood can hear us talking. ‘Absolutely thrilled,’ he calls dryly.

  ‘Ah, there you are, hiding in the dark! Good morning!’ Dinah sits forward and waggles her fingers at him coquettishly. ‘Handsome,’ she says out of the corner of her mouth, loudly enough for him to hear. Hentsom.

  ‘The woman Moss is altering the dress for is his partner,’ I say, to set her straight.

  ‘Ah. Generous, too,’ she replies flirtatiously.

  I’m not sure whether Moss’s description of Dinah as peculiar was a slip of the tongue or not. She’s actually pretty normal. It’s him I’m not so sure about. I’ve met men like him before, the ones who accompany their wives or girlfriends on shopping trips, proud of imposing their taste and sense of style on others. I realise for the first time that the sa
me could apply to Mick; I’m not judging.

  It’s a sunny day and the light through the awning gives the stall a mellow glow. Above the alley I can see a strip of clear blue sky. It’s going to be a good day for shopping.

  Dinah sits forward to have another look at David and says in a stage whisper, ‘He’ll make a good husband for someone. So, what is she like, the partner?’

  ‘Tall, stylish and really friendly.’

  It’s meant to be an honest and flattering description, knowing that David can hear us talking about her, but Dinah tuts and shakes her head.

  ‘Really friendly? Oh, he has problems, that one. He looks a shy man who keeps his own counsel.’

  Luckily, David Westwood’s now talking to a customer. He doesn’t sound at all like a shy man who keeps his own counsel – he sounds, as always, completely relaxed and convincing.

  The market is starting to get busy. I wonder if I need to give Dinah a brief lesson in stallholder etiquette – like not to intimidate the customers – but she turns out to be even better than Dolly at attracting attention.

  She poses as elegantly as a mannequin on the stool in her lilac-and-black Chanel suit with her legs crossed, her elbows bent at angles, her chin held high, greeting people as they pass.

  Far from finding the attention intimidating, people seem to enjoy the personal touch and start to cluster around my stall. She doesn’t intervene while they look; she sits perfectly still, showing nothing more than the occasional alert expression of interest.

  As a result, I sell a couple of Seventies midi dresses and a brocade evening coat during lunch, and afterwards, smiling gleefully at each other in the post-lunch lull, Dinah decides to get us some sandwiches.

  I’m folding some of the garments, when I suddenly see a man whose face is vaguely familiar coming through the alley. He has white hair – newly washed and fluffed up like a halo – beige trousers, a fine cotton shirt. My stomach tightens with surprise – what do you know! It’s the man who inadvertently got me fired: Kim Aston, who I haven’t seen since Carluccio’s when he bought the blue cocktail dress from me.