The Poka Dot Shop

by Laurel Remington

  ‘Ah.’ His blue-grey eyes twinkle. ‘You’re not, though, are you? I’m sure you’ll manage to find some help.’

  ‘Well, I might have been hoping to find a few volunteers.’ I smile.

  He’s silent again as he moves the ladder, climbs back up, and does another white strip on the ceiling with the roller. I turn back to the rectangle I’ve painted on the wall. It strikes me how lame I must sound, going on like that. Who am I to talk about visions and relaunching a business? What do I know about getting stock, or customers, or real fashion? Nothing. A week ago, all I wanted to do was get some pocket money so I could buy some new clothes. And now I’m talking about redoing Mum’s whole shop and expanding it into the theatre too. I shake my head, wishing I could erase the last five minutes of thinking aloud. As everyone keeps pointing out – I’m only thirteen.

  ‘I think Hélène would have liked you.’ His voice is so quiet that I wonder if he’s talking to himself.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘My aunt. Her name was Hélène, but in Paris she was known as “La Belle Hélène”.’ He stares down at the floor. ‘That means, “The Beautiful Hélène”.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I don’t remember her that well, but my uncle still talks about her a lot. I’ve got a pretty good idea of her in my mind. For some reason, I always picture her here.’

  ‘Your uncle bought the theatre for her, right?’

  ‘Yeah. They’d been through a hard time, but like I said, my uncle’s always really positive. They were going to make a new start. Hélène loved the theatre, so he bought it for her. He says that she had a vision for what to do with it. I think she wanted to open a design school here when she got well.’ He dips his roller back in the paint. ‘But she didn’t get well so it never happened.’

  ‘That’s so sad.’ I think about Thomas losing his parents – he hasn’t mentioned them, and he probably doesn’t remember much about them either. He must have been about the same age I was when my dad died – and I have very few memories of him. But to Mr LeBoeff, the memories must live on. It would have been nice if Hélène had been able to see out her dream before she died. But I guess that’s not how life works.

  ‘It is sad,’ Thomas says. I sense that he’s eager to change the subject. ‘But anyway,’ he adds, ‘I don’t think a design school would have worked. I mean, it must cost a fortune to set up a school. You can’t do it just like that.’

  ‘Plus there’s already a design college near here.’ I tell him about Jolanta’s college. ‘It’s a good school. Mum says the kids are talented.’ I go back to painting my rectangle. ‘But it’s expensive. Most of them have jobs in retail. I know that Jolanta and some of her friends also sell the stuff they make at a market stall.’

  ‘A market stall? That’s hardly likely to earn them much money.’

  ‘I guess everyone has to start somewhere.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He sets down his roller. For a second I think he’s going to say it’s time to call it a night. Instead, he gestures to me to follow him. ‘Let’s take a break. I want to show you something.’

  I follow him to the back of the theatre, down the corridor with the dressing rooms. He washes his hands in the basin and I do the same. Then he opens up a cupboard above the sink. There’s a key ring hanging inside the door. He takes it and leads me back out into the corridor. Opposite the bathroom, there’s a door painted in chipped black gloss secured with a heavy padlock. He finds the right key and opens the lock.

  The door squeaks when he pushes it open. He flicks on a light switch and a bank of fluorescent lighting flickers on. The whole room is filled with clothing racks and white canvas bags hanging off wooden coat hangers.

  ‘What is this stuff?’ I say. ‘The costumes?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Thomas goes over to the first rack. He unzips one of the bags and takes out what’s inside.

  I gasp. The sleeveless dress on the hanger is made from a white material so fine and transparent that it seems like spider’s webs. From the draped cowl neckline to the floaty zigzagged hem, it’s covered with a million tiny glittering crystals. Even in the bad lighting, the dress is so sparkly that it practically glows.

  ‘Amazing,’ I say.

  ‘This dress was made in the 1920s by a French designer called Madeleine Vionnet,’ Thomas says. ‘It’s almost a hundred years old, and in perfect condition.’

  ‘It should be in a museum,’ I say.

  ‘Maybe,’ he says. Already he’s zipping open the next bag. ‘This is a Valentino.’ He holds up a little black dress with a shocking white collar shaped like a folded paper fan. ‘Hélène modelled lots of his stuff.’

  The next bag has another sparkly ballgown that belongs at the BAFTAs or the Oscars. The one after that has a tailored black suit with buttons shaped like the Chanel ‘C’ logo. I’ve never seen such a treasure trove of beautiful clothing in my life.

  ‘This stuff is amazing,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah. Hélène had lots of stuff from modern designers that she worked with, but she also collected clothing from the past. One-of-a-kind vintage pieces.’

  ‘And all along it’s been hidden just behind the wall from Mum’s shop.’ I shake my head in wonder.

  Thomas laughs. ‘It is ironic, isn’t it?’

  ‘And it must be really valuable.’

  ‘You’d need every penny if you’re going to make your vision happen.’

  I frown. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was thinking that you could sell some of it on eBay, like you did with the polka-dot dress. You could take a percentage.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not being that generous. What was the split we agreed – sixty–forty?’

  I gulp. ‘Forty–sixty. But in this case, I think I could give you a special deal.’

  ‘I would hope so.’

  ‘But . . . I mean, you can’t just sell them. Can you?’

  ‘I’m not a woman, so I’m not going to be wearing them, am I?’

  ‘But your uncle – surely he must be keeping them for a reason.’

  Thomas shrugs. ‘What good are they doing him?’

  ‘Maybe nothing. But Mum has lots of clothes that have “sentimental value”. Things she can’t bear to part with because she remembers wearing them on special occasions. Like her birthday, or . . . you know . . . places she went with my dad when he was alive.’

  ‘I get that.’ He crosses his arms. ‘But we’re not talking about a couple of dresses. My aunt got tonnes of free clothing from the designers she worked with. Shoes, handbags, the lot. We could start with some of that stuff. There’s no point in keeping everything.’

  ‘But how will we know what your uncle wants to keep unless we ask him?’

  ‘Look, Andy.’ He crosses his arms. ‘If you’re not in, then that’s fine. I’ll do it myself. It’ll all have to go anyway, when the theatre’s sold. I’ll get someone in to price the whole lot – probably for a lot less than it’s worth – and they can just get rid of it.’

  He’s testing me – but I’ve no idea what’s a pass and what’s a fail. ‘Fine.’ I try to sound nonchalant. ‘If you really want to sell some of it, then I’m in. But I think you should tell your uncle.’

  ‘Did you tell your mum about the polka-dot dress?’

  ‘Well . . . no. Not yet.’

  ‘No, not yet,’ he repeats. His eyes lock with mine – a clear challenge.

  ‘But I’m going to,’ I say, refusing to flinch. ‘Eventually.’

  ‘That’s one of the things I like about you, Andy,’ Thomas says, his face breaking into a grin. ‘We think so much alike.’

  THE PLAN IN ACTION . . .

  Thomas and I may think alike, but Mum and I might as well be from different planets. All of a sudden, she seems determined to turn things around all on her own – which should be a good thing. But it so isn’t. When I get home, she’s going through a bag of clothes that even a charity shop would probably reject.
She’s putting a price tag on every faded Babygro, bobbly jumper, holey pair of jeans and pair of grass-stained trainers.

  ‘Have you spoken to Aunt Linda?’ I say, feeling desperate. ‘About maybe having a holiday? A change of scene?’

  Mum sniffs. ‘I can’t afford to take a holiday, Andy. I’ve got so much stuff to do. I’m going give the shop a good clear-out.’

  ‘So you’re going to get rid of stuff?’ I perk right up.

  She gives me an exasperated look. ‘That “stuff” is my “stock”,’ she says. ‘I’m going to get rid of it by selling it. I’m going to have a big sale. Now that it’s spring, I can move some of the racks outside.’

  ‘But what if no one wants to buy it?’ I point to the stack of baby clothes she’s put carefully to one side. ‘I mean, if you had a baby, would you want it to wear that?’

  Mum sighs and puts her head in her hands. All the brightness seems to have gone out of her. ‘Andy, you’re really not helping at all. I’m trying to be positive and find some direction. Something that will save us. And all you do is put me down.’

  ‘I’m sorry you think that, Mum!’ I am trying to be encouraging but everything seems to come out all wrong. ‘I’m glad you’re having a go at turning things around. It’s just that I’ve got some ideas that might help too. Like getting rid of the old stock that isn’t selling. And raising the prices for the best pieces and the things you’ve altered by hand – your “finds”.’ I pray that just this once she’ll see sense.

  Mum shakes her head. ‘I’m sure you have lots of good ideas, Andy. But this is business. You’re thirteen years old – focus on school, and some day, when you’re older, I’m sure you can teach me a thing or two.’

  I swallow hard. She’s not going to listen, and anything I say is bound to make things worse. But the more I hear about Mum’s plans, the more I feel I have to do something. I understand why Thomas doesn’t want to tell his uncle what he’s doing – it’s so easy for a grown-up to come in and ruin everything just because they can. But he’s getting on with his project, and I need to do whatever it takes to get on with mine.

  ‘Yeah, Mum, I understand,’ I say. ‘It’s just, when I picked up the call from Aunt Linda the other night, I got a little bit worried. It sounded, um . . . like something was wrong.’ I justify the lie by the fact that it’s for her own good.

  ‘What?’ Her face goes pale. ‘Is something wrong with Mum?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I think she just thought it might be nice if you went up there.’

  ‘God, I’m such a terrible person,’ she says. ‘I never go up there and visit my own mother – or my sister. I’m so selfish, and a failure at everything. I couldn’t stand it if something was wrong with Mum.’

  ‘Mum . . .’ I can’t stand to hear her talking like this, especially since it’s my lie that’s upset her. ‘You’re not a failure, and you’re definitely not selfish. But maybe you should go up there for a few weeks. Then you could come back and get a new start on things with the shop.’

  ‘A few weeks?’ She looks horrified.

  ‘You always said spring was the best time to visit the Lakes.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly.’ But she stares down at the muddy brown coffee in her cup like maybe, just maybe, a little seed has been planted that might begin to sprout.

  At school the next day, we each have to spend five minutes with Ms Cartwright going through our ‘Plan for Self-Improvement’. When it’s my turn, I show her what I’ve written (now expanded to five pages).

  ‘Wow, Andy,’ she says. ‘You’ve clearly given this a lot of thought. I think it’s a great idea. Your mum must be over the moon.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I glance down at my plan so I don’t have to meet her eyes. ‘Except I haven’t exactly told her the whole thing. She loves the shop the way it is. We don’t see it in the same way.’

  Ms Cartwright taps her long red nail on the page, thinking. ‘Take it from me – grown-ups don’t always have all the answers.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ I mumble.

  ‘Sometimes we have to take risks, do things that other people don’t understand, but are for the greater good. Do you understand?’

  ‘Like you did,’ I say.

  ‘Like I did. When I was your age, I wasn’t brave enough to stand up and be the person I knew I was underneath. That’s why I wanted all of you to do this project. To realize that you can be brave and take those risks.’

  ‘Right . . .’

  ‘And besides’ – she lowers her voice – ‘you know I’m one of your mum’s customers.’

  ‘Yes.’ I blush, recalling the encounter in the shop. ‘But I’m a little surprised. You always look so nice.’ Today she’s wearing a black silk blouse, a short orange velvet skirt, and black faux snakeskin high heels. It all looks really good together.

  ‘Thanks, Andy.’ She beams. ‘I appreciate you saying that. Your mum sometimes has some hidden gems in her shop, but they can be really hard to find. Hence, from a purely personal point of view, I think you’re on the right track. I’m sure that with a few tweaks, you and your mum could make the shop a success again.’

  ‘Thanks, Ms Cartwright,’ I say, getting up so that the next person can have their five minutes. ‘You’ve given me lots to think about.’

  I do think about what Ms Cartwright said about being brave and taking risks. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her at my age, knowing that she was in the wrong body, and not knowing what to do about it. My problems may pale in comparison, but they’re still important to me. So while I still feel guilty about lying to Mum, I decide that I’m going to continue with my plans. As we go home after school, I tell Stevie and Carrie about Aunt Linda, and how I’m trying to get Mum to go up north so I can get on with the clear-out and the painting at the shop.

  ‘I think you’re doing the right thing,’ Stevie says. ‘And I’m totally up for helping with the painting. I can do the lower down stuff.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘We’ll save that for you.’

  ‘Who’s we?’ Carrie says. ‘I’ve never painted anything in my life.’

  ‘So – you can start now,’ I say. ‘It’s not that hard.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well . . . I’ve had a little practice, actually.’

  I’ve been dying to tell Stevie and Carrie about the old theatre, and about Thomas. But he told me to keep it a secret so that his uncle didn’t find out. I know my friends won’t tell his uncle, so that secret’s still safe. But since talking to Ms Cartwright, I’ve had another Brilliant Idea. Something that will surprise Thomas – be a kind of ‘thank you’ for letting me sell some of Hélène’s clothing. Something that involves Stevie and Carrie. It’s funny watching their faces as I tell them exactly what I’ve been getting up to.

  ‘Jeez, Andy,’ Stevie says. ‘You mean you’ve been hanging out with that gorgeous boy from the chippie?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I don’t smile, but inside I feel a little flash of pride. ‘We’re like – friends.’

  ‘Friends?’ Carrie looks at me in amazement.

  ‘Of course . . .’ I suddenly think of the kiss on the cheek, and the dance – even if I did end up in a heap. We may just be friends, but I’ve never felt anything before like I do when I’m around Thomas.

  I guess my face gives me away. ‘No way!’ Carrie says. ‘You guys are like – going out. Is he your boyfriend?’

  ‘No,’ I say huffily. ‘I’m helping him paint the old theatre, that’s all.’

  ‘And his uncle doesn’t know what you’re doing?’ Stevie’s eyes widen.

  ‘No. And Mum doesn’t know either – about the shop. I want to keep it that way.’

  Carrie shakes her head slowly. ‘I think you’re bonkers, but I’m happy to help with the painting. It must burn some calories.’

  ‘It’s quite hard work to do it right,’ I assure her. ‘And we’ll have to clear the shop out first.’

  ‘So when do we start?’ Stevie sa
ys.

  ‘Well, there’s this little problem of getting Mum to go away for a while. But until that happens, I’m sure Thomas could use a little extra help with the theatre.’

  ‘So . . . ?’ Stevie says.

  ‘How about tonight?’

  A SECRET IS OUT

  The three of us meet up again later at Stevie’s house and do our homework. Then, instead of watching TV, we tell Stevie’s mum that we’re going over to Carrie’s house. Outside, the sky is steel grey and there’s a thin, cloying mist in the air. I hold my school bag over my head to stay dry. Stevie wheels herself along the pavement instead of using the motor, working on strengthening her arms.

  When we get to the high street and pass the chippie, I catch a glimpse of Thomas in the back. He’s wearing a white apron, and sweat is beading on his forehead as he cooks. Mr LeBoeff is serving a line of customers. I don’t wave or call out.

  ‘Come on,’ I say to Carrie. ‘The entrance is round the back.’

  I lead them round to the back alley, but when we get there I’m alarmed to see a light on at the back of Mum’s shop. I put a finger to my lips and wave Carrie past quickly. I sneak a glance through the little window in the back door. Mum is inside with piles of clothes around her, writing out more price tags. I feel a sharp pang of guilt. I should be there helping her instead of doing work for someone else. But Mum’s made it pretty clear that she doesn’t want my help with the shop, and if things are going to change for real, I have to stick to the master plan. Mum’s had plenty of chances to make the shop a success but it hasn’t happened. I remember what Ms Cartwright said. Just because Mum’s a grown-up doesn’t mean she has all the answers.

  At the back of the old theatre, I get the key from under the mat. I unlock the door – it’s just wide enough to squeeze the wheelchair through. Carrie and Stevie start talking and I have to shush them. I don’t know how thick the walls are, and I don’t want Mum to find us.

  When I lead my friends through the curtain to the theatre, both of them gasp – just like I did the first time. ‘I had no idea this was here,’ Stevie says.