had accumulated there, and wiped my hand on the torn jeans I was wearing.
I pulled one of the plain shirts that hung in the wardrobe from its place on the rail. When it had first been purchased, it was brilliant white. Now it was several shades darker and reminded me of nicotine-stained ceilings from houses which were host to heavy smokers. The shirt was clearly another thing I should have binned a long time ago.
I grabbed a striped shirt. Not quite as business-like as I’d prefer, but it would serve a purpose. As I pulled it from the cupboard, I heard something rip. On investigation, I saw the shirt had caught on a long splintered piece of wood from the back-panel of the wardrobe. Along half the length of the right sleeve, there was a gaping hole. It was irreparable.
“Damn!” I said aloud. “For fuck’s sake! Give me a break!”
Almost as soon as I’d said it, the wardrobe creaked. It was as if it settled slightly following my tugging the shirt from its place in it. Just for a moment, I felt uneasy but I wasn’t sure if it was the sudden noise, my imagination or the musty atmosphere emanating from the cupboard that was making me feel that way.
I could have probably worn it, hiding it beneath my suit. But if things went well and I ended up having to take off my suit jacket, my scruffy attire would be revealed and it could create a poor impression. I couldn’t risk that.
I grabbed another hanger holding another shirt. The least suitable of the three but at least it was a shirt. As it passed into the light, I could see an issue with this one too. Holes. Lots of holes. Moth-eaten in the extreme. God knows how it was hanging together. And things were crawling over it. Minute insects, weevil-like, covered it almost entirely.
“Urgh” I uttered, disgusted by the infestation that covered it.
I gingerly held it above the bin in the corner, which was lined with a carrier-bag from a supermarket down the road. I undid the top button of the shirt and let the garment slide from the hanger into the bin. I placed the empty hanger back in the wardrobe, not realising a number of bugs were also crawling over the wooden section of it.
There was one shirt left. I cautiously and carefully pulled it from the rack. It looked okay, save for a missing button or two which I knew I could supplement from one of the other shirts. I examined it carefully. No bugs apparent. I guessed it must have been made from a different material to that which the bugs on the other shirt had found so tasty.
I pulled off my t-shirt, removed the dress-shirt from the hanger and undid the buttons before shaking it vigorously to remove any bugs that might be resident inside or upon it. I pulled it over my shoulders and almost immediately I could tell that it was too small. It was extremely tight over my upper arms and the cuffs were half-way up my forearms. There was no way it was going to fit me. I couldn’t even get the buttons that were present on the shirt to reach the button-holes as I tried to stretch the garment across my belly.
“Fuck!” I said angrily. The wardrobe seemed to shudder slightly when I spoke the profanity. Though I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t due to a passing truck which was travelling at speed down the road outside at the same time.
I would need to obtain a new shirt, having exhausted all the possibilities within the wardrobe itself.
I checked the numerous ties hanging from a rack hanger that had multiple “slots” to feed each one through so they hung loosely and kept their shape. Most were dirty or worn, but one was still in top condition and I pulled that from the miniature racking and hung it over the rail within the tallboy.
I hoped my suit would be more preserved, given it was sealed within a suit-bag. I lifted the suit-bag from the rail and hung it over the top lip of the open cupboard. I undid the zip and pulled the protective bag down and off of the enclosed suit.
The smell made me gag. I reeled back to try and get away from it. I put my hand to my mouth and nose to try and block out the foul stench. It smelt like the cleaning fluid from an old jerry lamp’s wick mixed with excrement. I pushed open a window to try and ventilate the room.
I stepped back toward the wardrobe. The suit was swaying gently in the breeze coming through the open window. I got as close as I dared and looked at it.
Covering the suit was mould. Green, brown and, in some places, pitch-black algae had grown and covered almost the entire material surface of the suit. The buttons, silver-coloured and shiny were bright within a sea of moss and the only part of the suit seemingly unaffected by the invading organisms. I grabbed the empty hanger I’d previously placed back onto the rail and used it to open the suit up to examine the interior.
Over the silky lining there were gelatinous globules, droplets of clear liquid, each about the size of a raindrop, which sparkled brightly in the sunlight which was pervading the room. They covered the entire innards of the suit, making it look like an inside-out Pearly-King or Queen’s outfit.
I brushed some of the drops with the edge of the hanger. They resisted slightly but then burst, each one yielding a small amount of sticky, glue-like substance which hung briefly before dropping onto the floor of the wardrobe where they resumed their drop-like shape. If the floor of the wardrobe had been a hard surface left out in a rain-shower, it wouldn’t have looked much different.
Something within the suit bag must have reacted with the material in the suit or maybe it had been put away damp and, left unchecked for so long, had promoted the growth of mould and the other substances that now covered it.
What an almost total disaster. I had just a few quid left and had to buy a new suit, shirt and shoes with the meagre cash I had.
At least I had a tie. I reached into the wardrobe to grab the tie but as I did so I nudged the mould-infested suit which in turn struck one of the shirts within the wardrobe. This shirt then moved about its axis on the hanger and hit the hanging tie which slivered, like a snake moving from a branch of a tree to a jungle floor, with the impact. I tried to grab it as it fell, my fingers touching the smaller end of it as it dropped to the bottom of the wardrobe, straight into the pool of sticky bubbles that had gathered there from the lining of the suit.
“Fuck!” I said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
The wardrobe groaned. It definitely seemed to groan at my outburst. I heard it but then noticed the right-hand door drifting back and forth slightly in the soft breeze which was also making the curtains to the window flap as if a maniac were waving them. As the door moved, its hinges creaked and the groaning sound could be heard again.
I sighed and shut the doors to the wardrobe.
Now it was a complete disaster.
There was nothing for it. I needed a new outfit suitable for impressing, or at least showing I had made some kind of effort, at an interview board.
Gathering the few quid I had left, along with a mountain of loose change retrieved from jars in the kitchen and from down the back of the sofa, which I bagged up into respective units of currency to make it easier to count, I left the house and made my way to the town centre, specifically to a part where I knew there were a large number of charity shops.
These had proliferated following the economic failure which forced many regular businesses into receivership once the spending boom had ended and the period of austerity had kicked in. I wasn’t the only one to be suffering hard times it seemed.
I’d always had a reluctance to buy almost anything from a charity shop. The only time I had done so was when I was having to resource props or clothing and accessories for fancy dress, for a friend’s party or a work’s do, on a budget.
The first shop I entered, which gave proceeds to an animal charity, had plenty of women’s clothes but hardly anything suitable for men to wear, especially for an interview.
The second, a cancer charity shop, had a better range but the clothes were either too small or too old-fashioned. Maybe they were a reflection of what the people donating them had suffered from. Some were downright garish and barely suitable for party wear, let alone for wearing at an event where you’re trying to secure a job!
Being relatively poor means not being able to afford the kinds of foods which are filling and also good for you. Most of my diet included bread, potatoes and rice mainly because they are cheap and last a long time. However, starchy carbohydrate-rich foods are not good for the waistline. Not that the shirt from my wardrobe which hadn’t suffered with mould, rips or other calamity inflicted by the musty atmosphere of the cupboard would have fitted anyway.
I browsed the items on the circular racking and found a shirt. A light blue, plain design which looked like it might fit. I slipped it on over my t-shirt to check it was suitable in size and was pleased it was ample. It was almost brand new in feel and appearance too, which was probably why the price seemed so high given that some supermarket ranges do basic clothing for around the same money.
The assistant, an older lady of retirement age, asked me if I needed any help. She probably feared I was going to run out of the shop wearing the shirt. I explained to her I needed a full outfit for a job interview.
“I’ve got an interview for the job of my dreams,” I told her, “Next week. But I have nothing to wear to it and little money and am rather desperate to find something suitable.”
I was
The Ghost of Clothes Page 2