After a few moments he replies:
Thanks for letting me know.
The whisky is mellow in my mouth and I can feel the beat of the drums in my bones. I put my phone back in my bag. I’m an idiot. Knowing that doesn’t stop me from hating myself. It wouldn’t have worked anyway, with David and me.
I’m never going to be real enough for him and he deserves someone genuine, not someone like me who hides behind clothes.
LOT 23
Black leather biker jacket, Topshop, 1990s, zip front, stud detail, size 12.
Next morning, on my way to the bathroom, worrying about Moss and embarrassed about David, I fall over the footstool that my mother has moved from its usual place in front of the television.
As I shower, I can see she’s slowly reclaiming the flat for herself and edging me out. Her cosmetics take up most of the bathroom shelves.
I can’t find the cereal because she’s rearranged the contents of the kitchen cupboards so that nothing is where I think it is anymore. I’m the apologetic guest who’s outstayed her welcome.
She’s right, though. It is time I moved out and stood on my own two feet. Being dependent on them is a lot more stressful than getting a regular job and it’s a high price to pay for sleeping on a sofa when I could find a flat-share.
A regular job … this is the way I look at it. I’ve given self-employment a shot, but it’s time to move forward. I come to my decision; the mature option, the only one I can make. I’m giving up the stall.
I wonder how Moss is. It’s too early to call Dinah because hopefully she’s catching up on her sleep. In an hour’s time I’ll be facing David with some kind of explanation for my wild dash into the night. So I start googling Ideal Flat-Shares, when I hear the friendly sound of Lucy walking around over my head.
Like a vengeful fury, my mother bursts in from the hall with a Super Mop and bangs furiously on the ceiling. The footsteps above us go silent and I can imagine Lucy tiptoeing around up there, wondering what exactly my mother’s on.
‘Morning,’ I say.
My mother hasn’t got time for pleasantries. ‘What kind of flooring has she got up there?’
‘Ooh, er, I’m not sure,’ I reply vaguely.
‘It’s supposed to be carpeted. Is it carpeted?’
‘Yes, carpeted,’ I lie and change the subject. ‘Are you and Dad getting a divorce?’
‘No. We like each other better at a distance, that’s all.’
Same goes, I want to say.
‘What are you doing on that phone?’ she asks sharply.
‘Looking for somewhere else to live.’
It’s the right answer. I can see her relax. Good. I want her to look at me in a new light.
‘You’ll need to have a regular income,’ she says, straightening a mirror that she’s put up in the lounge. ‘The sooner you leave that market the better, because the truth is, Fern, you never did have a head for business and you should have understood that by now. You’re useless without me. I’m going for a shower.’
While she’s in the bathroom I go into the wardrobe in my bedroom and take out my black leather biker jacket and Dr. Martens, black T-shirt, black skinny jeans. Her contempt corrodes like acid. I grab my largest sunglasses from my bedside drawer. Times like this, I need all the protection I can get.
Walking along the canal with the water winking in the sunlight, I keep thinking over all the things that have happened in the last few days, like taking the fakes to Tallulah Young’s, and wondering about all the chances I’ve squandered without achieving anything in life.
I’m anticipating with dread some kind of hideous scene with David, where he demands an explanation and tells me he was worried sick the previous night. I’m prepared to apologise in all sorts of different ways with increasing servility; I can do it until I feel as if I’m dragging myself along the ground, the lowest of the low.
So when I get to the market it’s a bit of a surprise to find him sitting in his chair in his usual place, wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, reading his astronomy book. I take my sweaty hands out of my leather jacket to face him. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello,’ he says, perfectly normally, using his finger as a bookmark. ‘Any news about Moss?’
‘No. You?’ What a stupid thing to say. Of course he hasn’t had any news, or he wouldn’t have asked me if I’d had any.
He doesn’t point this out. He says, ‘No.’ And then, after a moment, ‘Who are you today? Britney Spears?’
This is quite funny. I feel the dread lifting and I take off my sunglasses.
Across the way, the antiques dealer is opening up, and he turns and gives us a wave. I love it here, I think with a pang. I don’t want to leave.
I unfold my chair and put my sunglasses back on, propping my legs in front of me, and I stare at the shine on my boots. ‘David?’
‘Yes?’
‘My parents are worried that I’ll never amount to anything because I’m wasting my life.’
He squints at me in the sunlight. ‘Oh yeah? What did they have in mind for you?’
‘A good job, a nice marriage, children.’
He shrugs. ‘That’s probably what all parents want for their children and what most people want for themselves, eventually. I thought you were going to say they wanted you to go into politics or something completely out there.’
‘Yes, well, they’d prefer it to a market stall and second-hand clothes, that’s for sure. When it comes down to it, I know that fashion is about as trivial as it gets, but when Lucy’s flat was on fire, I risked my life to save those dresses. And when Tallulah Young told us that the suits weren’t made by Chanel, I felt physically sick. And then when I saw Dinah trying to burn that suit, so angry and inconsolable, I thought – it can’t really be that important, can it?’
One vertical crease pinches between his dark eyebrows.
Before he can say anything, I help him out. ‘You don’t have to answer that. Anyway. I’m going to look for a job as a sales assistant.’
‘What? You’re going to quit the market?’ he says, shocked.
As if I don’t feel bad enough. ‘If I give you a month’s notice, does that give you enough time to find someone else to share the space with?’
He slumps back in his seat looking baffled and shakes his head. ‘Fern, is this your mother’s idea of you getting on in life?’
‘It’s not a regular job with a regular income. She says I haven’t got a head for business.’
‘Your business is doing fine, from what I can see.’
‘But I’ve got to think of the future,’ I say lamely. When he doesn’t reply, I stand on the chair, unhook the Bespoke Tailoring and Alterations sign and roll it up. ‘I’ll be at the back of the shop; I’m going to make a start on Moss’s alterations.’
‘I didn’t know you could sew.’
‘My degree is in fashion. I had to make my own designs, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ he repeats as if he hadn’t thought about it before.
All in all, that wasn’t so bad, was it? I feel like crap, though. At the back of the shop I start sorting through the clothes on the rail. It’s like revisiting old friends; I know these clothes and I know their new owners, too. Moss has pinned some of them, so it’s obvious what needs doing. But there are also ones that only Moss knows what’s meant to be done with them. Or maybe they’ve already been done? I look through my client book, putting asterisks next to the women I need to call later to check, and then I take off my jacket and get started.
I work until late morning and when I hear voices at the front of the shop, I assume that they’re customers of David’s. But after a few minutes, to my delight, Kim appears. He’s wearing a lemon cotton skirt suit with boat shoes and he looks as refreshing as a cold drink. I switch off the sewing machine, straighten up and rub my back. He’s got two well-dressed friends with him, and he introduces them as Betty and Mercia. The three of them look wonderfully fresh and summery.
‘We’re having lunch on the My Fair Lady restaurant boat at Walker’s Quay and we thought we’d drop by to say hello,’ Kim says. ‘Any news on Moss? David tells me he’s in hospital.’
I fill him in on recent events and he’s shocked.
‘She was burning her lovely suits?’ he asks avidly, then he turns to the two women to explain. ‘Dinah’s the most stylish woman you could ever meet. Who cares if her suits aren’t really Chanel? I’d buy them.’
‘I always buy Hobbs,’ Betty says. ‘I like a print. This is Hobbs,’ she says, holding out the skirt of the dress as if she’s about to curtsy. ‘Mercia can’t wear Hobbs. You can’t wear Hobbs, can you, Mercia?’
‘I’m too short for Hobbs. They give me a hump. I need a petite in dresses. I’m short-waisted.’ Mercia catches sight of herself in the mirror in the dressing room and turns sideways on. ‘No hump, you see?’ She glances at her watch. ‘Kim, we’ve got plenty of time before embarking, so we’re going to browse,’ she says.
While she and Betty look through the rails, Kim sits on the edge of the table and asks which hospital Moss is in.
‘The Royal Free,’ I tell him.
‘Are you going to see him tonight?’
‘Yes, I’m going to call in after work.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ he says, suddenly distracted by Betty and Mercia going into the dressing room with several dresses each.
We watch the curtains bulge out occasionally as they get changed and then they push aside the curtain for the big reveal, posing with aplomb.
Betty comes out wearing a black-and-white gingham check shirtwaister. Mercia’s found an orange cheesecloth kaftan with turquoise beading at the neck that doesn’t give her a hump.
Kim claps in admiration. ‘My word! You look like models,’ he says fondly.
To my happy surprise, bearing in mind they were browsing, they buy the dresses.
I wrap up their new purchases and get out the card machine. They pay and sign the client book and off they go for lunch, with Kim gallantly carrying their bags, his lemon skirt billowing in the breeze.
I go back to my sewing and when I’ve done enough to take a break, I look for the book so as to call the owners of the unmarked dresses. Bizarrely, I can’t find it anywhere. Increasingly frustrated, I decide to stop looking. Sooner or later, it’s bound to turn up.
KIM
On the narrowboat, Mercia, Betty and I are having the Boatman’s Buffet.
‘Looks wonderful,’ Mercia says.
‘As long as the boatman doesn’t mind,’ Betty adds, laughing.
I’m looking out at the green canal banks; we’re motoring slowly past joggers and cyclists and dog walkers and tramps, and I’m thinking about Moss’s collapse. For some reason, it strongly reminds me of the game of British Bulldogs, where after each run from one end of the street to the other the players thin out until there are more bulldogs than players. We’re in our eighties and Moss is even older than us. We’re thinning out, too.
It’s not the only thing on my mind, though. David told me that Fern is giving up the stall. It bothers him and it bothers me, too. I feel a sense of responsibility for her. More than that – I feel regret for a wasted talent that’s nothing to do with her love of clothes but more about her ability to see people looking their best. Trivial is the word David said she used. Trivial! I wouldn’t call it that. But watching her working at the back of the shop, dressed all in black with those solid workmen’s boots, she looked as if she were at a funeral for her own dreams.
‘Wine! Oh yes, wine! Kim? Ship’s white, or ship’s rosé?’
We opt for the ship’s rosé and our food is wonderful, poached salmon and three salads, just the thing for a hot day, with a choice of desserts to come.
‘You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden, Kim,’ Betty says to me.
‘Betty, how would you go about convincing someone that the course of action they’re taking isn’t the right one?’
‘Who are we talking about?’
‘Fern Banks. She’s going to give up the stall to be a sales assistant.’
‘What a shame! Just when we’ve discovered her!’ Mercia says in dismay.
Betty looks thoughtful. ‘In answer to your question, Kim, I don’t think you can convince anyone to change their minds once they’ve made them up. I don’t think you’ve got a right to.’
‘That’s pretty well what David said.’
‘I do think David’s rather good-looking, didn’t you, Betty? He reminded me of Bertie. The same build. I’m talking about when he was young, of course. Did you see his light boxes?’
We’re just passing London Zoo and Mercia says she can see a giraffe. I like listening to Betty and Mercia talking. We talk a lot when we’re together. Like me, they live alone, taking full responsibility for themselves, which is no mean feat as I’ve discovered. It takes a surprising amount of discipline to live decently and eat regularly, and do the dishes, and make the bed just for oneself.
‘This salad is wonderful. I love beetroot, don’t you? I’d have liked one of the light boxes but I’m decluttering.’
‘So am I. I’m having Cato back,’ Betty says decisively. ‘I’m going to see if he’ll take the Turkish kilims that we bought from the rug shop in Kentish Town. They’re curling at the edges and I forget and trip up. It’s age, I suppose. They’re a potential deathtrap and I don’t want to be remembered as the Pensioner Killed by her Kilim. He’s a nice boy, isn’t he, Cato? And ambitious. He wants to be an auctioneer. Didn’t you find him pleasant?’ She’s directing the question at me.
‘Oh yes, very pleasant,’ I reply.
She tilts her head curiously. ‘You’re still thinking about Fern Banks, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am. I’d like to do something nice for her.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘She has some beautiful things. When we came out of the dressing room, you said we looked like models,’ Mercia remembers coyly.
I laugh. ‘It’s true! You did! You had the look!’ Then I look under her table. Her frock is tucked under her chair in the bag.
‘What are you doing down there? Top him up, Mercia,’ Betty says, ‘he’s fun when he’s tipsy.’
‘Tipsy! I’m outraged!’ I roar. She’s right, though, I am, rather.
‘We should have a demonstration outside her shop, looking our best selves, to convince her to stay,’ Mercia says.
‘With placards,’ Betty says. ‘Save Fern Banks!’
‘Exactly. Mercia, please could you pass me your carrier bag from under your chair?’
Mercia laughs. ‘Kim, you’re serious, aren’t you? Here you are!’ She passes it to me under the table. ‘Whyever do you want it?’
‘I’ve done something rather underhand,’ I admit, reaching into the bag. ‘I’m afraid I’ve gone and borrowed Fern’s client book. I want to see who’s interested in joining me in some kind of tribute to her. Where shall we start?’
LOT 24
Brown fitted jacket, viscose, with belt, narrow lapels, silk-lined, small.
When I get home from the hospital that night, my mother’s in a bad frame of mind. She’s sitting at the table with her head in her hands, her fair hair spilling dramatically over her eyes.
We quickly reach a stalemate, both waiting for the other to make the first approach.
When I don’t greet her, she looks up grudgingly.
‘Oh, there you are,’ she says, as if we’ve been playing a long-drawn-out game of hide-and-seek.
‘Good evening,’ I say patiently. ‘How’s your day been?’
She seems to be examining the question for sarcasm or other signs of subordination but she decides to treat it at face value.
‘Hideous,’ she says. ‘You’ve made me like this.’
‘How so?’
‘I had lunch with Ruth Bennett.’
Intriguing. ‘How is she?’ I ask innocently.
‘She asked after you. She wa
nted to know what you were doing. Of course, I had to tell her about the market and it makes me feel this big,’ she says, thrusting her thumb and forefinger into my face. I retreat into the armour of my leather jacket.
‘And then she asked about Jonathan. Of course, he got his side of the story in first, so there was no possible chance of her having any sympathy for me, was there? She thinks I should go home before some other woman insinuates herself into his life.’
I bite my tongue to stop myself from agreeing with Ruth. Anyone who’s seen my parents together automatically has a soft spot for my father because he does act as if he’s slightly henpecked and it makes them want to spring to his defence even if he’s in the wrong, which he quite often is. But instead of pointing out his mistakes quietly, my mother will speak to him sharply and suddenly – he’s the good guy even if the misdemeanour actually was his fault.
My mother looks at me dolefully. ‘You don’t think another woman has insinuated herself into his life already, do you?’
To be honest, I do think it’s weird that he hasn’t come looking for her.
And it’s worrying that he seems quite happy without her. Every now and then I find myself wondering what his yoga teacher looks like. That’s the first thing I would have checked out.
My mother’s still waiting for an answer and the right answer here is: of course not; why would he look elsewhere when he’s got you?
But the honest answer is: in the circumstances, maybe.
‘Have you asked him?’
‘Of course not! I’m not that needy!’
‘I bought some cold chicken and a salad for supper,’ I tell her, putting them on the worktop.
‘I’m not hungry,’ she says stiffly.
Suddenly, I’m not, either, and I put them in the fridge.
Somebody comes down the outside steps and rings the doorbell, and I hurry to answer it, glad of the diversion. It’s Cato, with a black bin liner of clothes over his shoulder – I assume they’re clothes. From his general tweediness they could just as easily be pheasants.
‘Who is it?’ my mother asks, coming to see and preparing to disapprove, probably thinking it’s Lucy from upstairs.
A Random Act of Kindness Page 27
