‘You can leave it here if you like,’ Mum says. ‘I’ll be doing some laundry later.’
‘No, that’s OK,’ I say, feeling frazzled. ‘It . . . um, isn’t that dirty.’
Jolanta raises an eyebrow. I wonder if she’s on to me. I leave the shop carrying the bag. I’m not doing anything wrong, I say to myself.
So why do I feel so guilty?
OPERATION NEW CLOTHES
Technically, I haven’t done anything wrong. (OK – it was a little bit wrong to lie about the jeans as payment and the bin liner that didn’t have my gym clothes. But I get my comeuppance for that when Mum comes home from the shop with a whole bag of tatty old jeans like the pair I took, and I have to pretend to like them.) Mum did say I could take something from the shop as payment, so I took the polka-dot dress. I haven’t broken any laws, or disobeyed any of the Ten Commandments or anything like that. If I had to stand before St Peter at the pearly gates and explain why I took the dress, I’d be able to look him in the eye and do it, easy. I just don’t feel so keen on explaining it to Mum.
At home, I run upstairs to my room and put the white bag in my wardrobe. It stays there all evening while I do my homework and eat dinner. When Mum comes home, we sit on the sofa and watch a recording of The Great British Sewing Bee, and finally head upstairs for bed.
I wait in my room until I hear Mum’s bedroom door close and the sound of the bath running. Then I take the white bag out of my wardrobe and pull out the dress. I put it on over my T-shirt and PJ bottoms and parade up and down my room, catching a glimpse of a me I don’t recognize in the mirror on the back of the door. A me that maybe I can be some day when I’m grown up. But not yet. I take off the polka-dot dress. There’s a part of me – a big part, actually – that regrets what I’ve decided to do.
As soon as I’m sure Mum’s in the bath, I sneak downstairs with the dress to Mum’s workroom just off the kitchen. She’s got a sewing machine and a full-sized dress form at home that she uses for doing alterations. I move the form in front of the plain white wall and put the polka-dot dress on it, arranging the layers of tulle so that the skirt puffs out. Then, using an old digital camera I got for Christmas a few years ago, I snap a bunch of pictures of the dress from different angles. I take it off the mannequin and photograph the label, making sure that the ‘Chanel’ is perfectly clear.
I’m just about finished when the phone rings, making me jump half out of my skin. For a second, I worry that someone’s found me out – they’re calling to blackmail me – threatening to go to the police . . .
The message machine clicks on. It’s Aunt Linda – Mum’s sister – calling for a chat. She lives up in the Lake District where Mum’s from, and even though it’s far away, they’re still pretty close. Halfway through the message, I can hear Mum’s voice – she’s picked up from the extension in her room.
My hands are shaking as I quickly shove the dress form back in the corner, fold up the polka-dot dress and put it back in the bag. I sneak back upstairs to my room and return the bag to the wardrobe. I jump into bed and pull the duvet over my head.
Step One complete.
The next day, it’s time for Step Two. I log on to eBay from the computer in the school library. It isn’t hard to open an account under my name. When it flashes on the screen for me to confirm that I’ve read the terms and conditions and that I’m over eighteen, I take a deep breath and click ‘yes’. It’s that easy. I click on ‘sell an item’ and I’m good to go.
A screen comes up with lots of little blanks for me to fill in. The first thing is the listing description. I start with ‘Vintage Chanel black-and-white dress’ and hit enter. But that sounds so bland. I go back and change it to ‘Beautiful One-of-a-Kind Polka-Dot Dress by Chanel’ which sounds a little better. Next I fill in the other details prompted by the screen. Last of all, there’s a blank for ‘price’ – the most important thing. I have absolutely no idea what to put in. There’s a choice between an auction and a ‘Buy it Now’ – and a little bubble recommending that if you don’t know what an item is worth, do an auction. I click ‘auction’. Then I have to set a starting price. Another little bubble that says starting the auction at 99p will attract more buyers. Just to be cheeky – and because I have nothing to lose – I put in £100. An absolute fortune! Then, with a sigh, I backspace and put in 99p as the auction starting price.
When I’ve filled in all the blanks, I upload the photos I took from my camera. Finally, I press ‘list’. It takes a few seconds for the little bar to leave the screen, and for a second I wonder if the computer has somehow sussed out that I’m not only underage, but also selling something I shouldn’t be. Then the screen flashes ‘done’. I press ‘view listing’. And there it is – the polka-dot dress, up on the screen among the other dresses. I’ve done it!
I scroll down and spend some time looking at the other dresses for sale. There are so many listings, and most of them have a starting price of higher than 99p. My heart sinks – I should have aimed higher. I’m about to amend my listing when I see at the bottom of the page that the polka-dot dress has already got one bid – of 99p.
The bell rings and I shut down the computer. I walk off to class feeling a mixture of guilt, disappointment and hope. Am I on my way to a shopping spree – buying bags and bags full of lovely new clothes from all the trendy shops – or on the way to disaster? For now, at least, it’s out of my hands.
HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT
After school I go to Eliza’s Emporium like nothing’s happened. I want to convince Mum that I’m serious about having a job (and if I can find any more ‘hidden gems’ in the back, then that’s OK too). It’s pouring with rain, and for once I’m almost glad to go inside the shop, where at least it’s dry. The bell tinkles as I enter. This time Mum is there. She’s wearing a long brown dress with some kind of gold chain print on it. It might have been decent once, but now it’s bobbled and faded. It’s the kind of thing someone would donate to a charity shop – or Eliza’s Emporium. Normally Mum looks good in her vintage ‘finds’, but right now her standards seem to have slipped. I quickly scan her face to see if she looks OK. I totally forgot that she had a doctor’s appointment yesterday, and now I feel bad that I didn’t ask about it.
‘Oh hi, Andy.’ Her smile seems a little forced. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. I assumed you’d be going over to Stevie’s house.’
‘I might go later,’ I say. ‘But seeing as Jolanta’s got college today, I thought you could use a hand.’
Mum’s face clouds over. ‘It’s nice that you want to help out, Andy. But really, it’s not necessary. I’ve managed just fine for a long time.’
‘Why were you at the doctor’s yesterday?’ I blurt out. ‘You told Jolanta you were going, but not me.’
She looks surprised for a second. Then she begins to laugh. But her eyes don’t seem to get the joke. They look red-rimmed and hollow. ‘Oh, darling.’ She holds out her arms. Like a little kid, I go to her and let her enfold me in a hug. I breathe in the scent of sandalwood and rose, and feel comforted by her warmth. ‘You were worried about me, is that it?’
‘Yeah, I was.’ I rest my head against her shoulder.
‘Well, don’t worry. I’m going to be fine.’
Going to be. Not am fine. I look up at her face. Mum looks . . . old. I know I should ask her to tell me more, but honestly, I feel scared. All I want is for her to be back the way she was before.
She lets me go. Like she’s read my thoughts, she gives me a broad smile – the way she used to. ‘So it’s OK if you want to go,’ she says. ‘Or you can stay and keep me company.’
‘Um, I guess I’ll stay for a while.’ I smile back, even though I’m still worried about her. ‘I may go over to Stevie’s later to finish my homework.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Mum says. ‘Now, since you’re here, I need to do a couple of things in the back. Do you think you can watch the till?’
‘OK. Yeah,’ I say eagerly. If she’s trusting me to watch
the till, she must be coming round to my being here.
‘Just shout if you need help.’
‘I will.’ I watch as she picks up a pile of clothing and squeezes through the maze of racks. The shop is way too small for all the stuff that’s in it. If it were mine, I’d get rid of half of the clothes on the racks so that customers could actually see what’s there. Then I’d sort things by colour, or maybe just stick to a few seasonal colours. I don’t know.
Mum pauses by a rack of baby clothes and straightens a giraffe onesie that’s half off its hanger. I can see from here that it’s greyish and faded. I can’t believe anyone would buy something that someone else’s baby has pooped and vomited in. If it were up to me, I’d definitely get rid of the baby clothes. Next to the baby clothes are the tartan dog coats. Mum’s accessorized them with matching bows. Even though they’ve been washed, there are still some strands of reddish dog hair on them. Maybe it’s a good thing that customers can’t see what’s here.
I turn away and stare out the window. Rain is dripping from the awning in front of the shop. It’s ripped in a couple of places, and there’s greenish black mould growing underneath. I’d get rid of that too.
I straighten a few things next to the till – a stapler, the pile of business cards (I pick one up and look at it – I’d definitely get rid of that ‘New to U!’ logo), and I refold the carbon paper in the receipt book so that it’s ready to write up the next sale. Out of interest, I flip through the ones on top that have been folded back. A hole slowly begins to form in my stomach. Yesterday, the takings for Eliza’s Emporium amounted to £18. And in the week before, the total came to £89. Compared to some of the prices I saw on eBay for a single item, that seems like a tiny amount for a whole shop.
I close the receipt book. The shop suddenly seems very cold. No wonder Mum says she can’t pay me. She’s making practically nothing! I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but I am surprised. Mum’s had her shop for a long time. She always talks like she has loads of customers and makes, if not lots of money, at least enough to get by. I also know that there are lots of people out there who are into vintage. The shop should be making money, not losing it. No wonder she hasn’t seemed herself lately. She must be really worried. I just wish she’d told me.
The bell on the front door tinkles. An elderly woman wearing a navy raincoat and yellow welly boots comes in, dragging with her a small, muddy black-and-white dog on a leash. The dog shakes its wet fur all over the floor – and a rack of blouses. ‘Sit, Henry,’ the woman says.
‘Hello,’ I say, standing up. Surely Mum must have heard the bell. But she hasn’t come out of the stockroom and I can hear the dryer going full tilt – maybe she didn’t hear. If the woman notices that I’m only thirteen and not officially working here, she doesn’t let on.
‘How much is that cardigan in the window?’ she says.
I look at the mannequin where she’s pointing – ‘Amelie’. It’s the lilac cardigan that Mum sewed the colourful buttons on to. I check the sleeve where Mum usually puts the tags. There’s one pinned to the arm that says £3. In an instant, the truth flashes before my eyes. No wonder the shop is losing so much money!
Right then and there, I decide not to get Mum. ‘It’s thirteen pounds,’ I say, thinking quickly. ‘Would you like to try it on?’
‘Thirteen pounds?’ The woman looks horrified. ‘I’ve never paid more than a fiver for anything at this shop.’
I take the cardigan off the mannequin. ‘This cardigan is very high quality,’ I say. ‘It’s made from pure wool. And the buttons have been sewed on specially by hand. It’s a one-of-a-kind piece.’ I hold it out to her so that she can feel the material. ‘It’s soft and warm, and it will last for years.’
‘Well . . .’ She runs her fingers over the knit and checks the buttons.
‘You really have to try it on,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it will be perfect for you. I mean, you need to be wearing something warm when you’re out walking the dog. Um . . . Henry.’
The woman looks a little startled, but she removes her raincoat. I hand her the cardigan and help her into it, making sure she does up all the buttons. I’m relieved that it fits her, and even looks kind of good in an old-lady-walking-the-dog-in-the-rain kind of way.
‘The length is very flattering on you,’ I say. ‘And the colour looks good too.’
There’s a mirror by the till with some old beads and scarves draped over it. I sweep them to the side so that she can see for herself.
‘Um, it is nice . . .’ She turns and looks at herself from all angles. I can see, though, that she’s still a little hesitant.
‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘I can do a special rainy day discount just for you. Ten pounds.’
‘Ten pounds.’ She looks at the dog. ‘What do you think, Henry?’
The dog barks sharply, making me jump.
‘OK, I think I have it.’ She digs in the pocket of her coat and pulls out a roll of notes – mostly twenties. She peels off two shiny fivers and hands them to me.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Would you like to wear it or should I wrap it up?’
‘I’ll wear it.’
‘OK.’ I feel fizzy with adrenalin at having made the sale. I remove the £3 tag and toss it in the bin. Then I help her back into her raincoat.
‘Are you new here?’ the woman says. ‘You seem a little young.’
‘I’m Eliza’s daughter. I’ll be helping out—’
Just then, Mum rushes in from the back.
‘I thought I heard voices,’ she says. ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Whiting. Hello, Henry.’ She bends down to pet the wet dog.
The woman purses her lips as she looks at Mum. ‘Your daughter is quite the salesgirl, Eliza,’ she says. ‘You could learn a thing or two from her.’ She tugs Henry’s leash and pulls him back out of the shop into the rain. She gives us both a little wave as the door shuts behind them.
‘What did she mean by that?’ Mum says.
I write up the sale in the receipt book. ‘Ten pounds,’ I say. ‘Another ten and you’ll be doing better than yesterday.’
Mum puts her hands on her hips. ‘Ten pounds for that cardigan?’
‘Yeah, I gave her a discount.’ I shrug. ‘The tag said thirteen. Hope that’s OK?’
I look her in the eye, daring her to call my bluff. She opens her mouth, then closes it again.
‘Of course,’ she says, swallowing hard. ‘I don’t mind knocking off a pound or two here and there to make a sale.’
A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
After my amazing sale, I’m eager to stay and see if I can make another. But soon two more customers come in who know Mum and are clearly there to ‘talk vintage’. I try to listen in and learn something, but I feel frustrated when one of them leaves without buying anything, and the other buys a leopard-print belt for £3.99. I want to talk to Mum about the shop and the prices, and why people aren’t buying more stuff. But before I can do so, she bustles off to the back to find another belt to restock the rack. I’m on my own when the bell tinkles and the door opens again.
‘Oh!’ I put my hand to my mouth when a tall woman with reddish-brown hair walks in. She’s wearing a tight black skirt, knee-high black boots and a bright red silk blouse. ‘Ms Cartwright,’ I say. ‘It’s um . . .’
Really weird, I want to say. Ms Cartwright is a teacher at my school, and I have her for ‘Learning about the World’. She used to be Mr Cartwright, but then she went through three years of gender reassignment. At first, kids talked and laughed about it, which was really just mean and pointless. But she was totally open and upfront about it, and personally I think she’s pretty brave. Now, most people just accept it. I guess that’s what we ‘learned about the world’ from her – if something isn’t a secret, it loses its shock value. Still, I’m a little shocked to see her here. I’ve always thought she dressed quite smartly compared to the other teachers. I didn’t have her down as someone who shopped at Eliza’s Emporium.
‘. . . nice to see y
ou,’ I finish.
‘Hi, Andy.’ She smiles like she’s glad to see me, and not at all embarrassed. ‘I haven’t seen you here before.’
‘It’s my mum’s shop,’ I say. ‘I’m getting some work experience.’
‘Good for you.’ She lowers her voice conspiratorially. ‘Maybe I can get you to keep an eye out for anything new and fabulous that comes in. Give me a tip-off?’
‘Sure,’ I say, smiling back. I think immediately about the clothes in the back that I shoved underneath the other bin bags. They’re probably way too small to fit Ms Cartwright, but if Mum wasn’t here, I might show them to her.
‘Georgia.’ Mum sweeps up to us, her bracelets clanking. ‘Lovely to see you.’ She puts a hand on Ms Cartwright’s arm.
‘Yes, I was just having a nice chat with Andy,’ she says to Mum. ‘But really, I’ve come to look at the shoes—’ She breaks off and goes over to another rack. ‘This is pretty, isn’t it?’
My face goes as red as the lacy bra she’s holding up. ‘I’ll um . . . leave you to it,’ I say, though I don’t think either of them hears me. Mum seems fine, and I really do have homework to do. And, OK, I’m really not keen on being here while Ms Cartwright tries on shoes . . . or anything else.
I go over to Stevie’s house just in time for dinner. Her mum helped her and Carrie make a big pot of spaghetti with meatballs and tomato sauce for us to eat and now I can hear her talking on the phone to someone in another room. I tell them all about my new job – about how I made a sale, and about Ms Cartwright coming in to look for shoes. (I keep the part about the bra to myself. I also haven’t told them about taking the polka-dot dress and listing it on eBay.)
‘Ha!’ Stevie says. ‘I’m so not surprised that Ms Cartwright’s a regular at the Emporium.’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘I think she usually looks good.’
‘I guess she knows how to find those hidden gems,’ Carrie says.
‘Yeah, maybe. It’s just . . .’ Suddenly my eyes fill with tears.
The Poka Dot Shop Page 4