The Hat Shop on the Corner

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  She had a wardrobe and a case full of clothes at home. OK, so some was rubbish and too trendy – the judges definitely didn’t go for trendy – but a few pieces were bought at considerable cost in the sales, when their original designer bank-loan prices were slashed. Claire’s eyes were well able to spot a classic bargain.

  There must be something suitable in the wardrobe of Canal Quay and it would be just a matter of dressing it up.

  While Fiona and Bridget lost themselves in Coronation Street, a repeat episode of Friends and the latest CSI, Claire calmly took out the entire contents of her wardrobe and spread it across the bed. Anything denim or corduroy immediately returned to its place on the rail. There was the retro sixties-style St Laurent she’d picked up last year in Paris. No, too different. An expensive cream and beige pinstripe suit, no. The red silk dress that she’d worn to her cousin Betsy’s wedding two years ago was too skimpy and definitely not suitable. She had got her Louise Kennedy pale blue linen suit at a bargain price because someone had smeared make-up all over the neck of the jacket. After a special-care dry cleaning it had come up perfect and was a real possibility. There remained a frilly sexy full-skirted summer dress that made her waist look tiny, a strappy pink fitted dress with a short skirt that drove men crazy and, of course, her simple black linen dress with its square neck and neat bodice and a skirt that came to just above her knees. She collapsed on the bed to consider, retrieving her notebook from the recesses of her bag.

  ‘Hey, Claire! We’re going to get a takeaway. Do you want something too?’

  Claire thought of Little China’s delicious sweet-and-sour chicken balls and their tasty chicken, spring onion and water chestnut dish. Her stomach groaned. She’d made do with only a scrambled egg on toast when she’d got in from the office.

  ‘Will I order you a curry?’ asked Fiona, stepping into the room.

  ‘I haven’t any change,’ she fibbed.

  Fiona said nothing for a minute. ‘Tell me what you want and I’ll get it, OK?’

  Claire didn’t know how it was that she had ended up with the most generous-hearted friend and flatmate in the whole of Dublin.

  ‘Listen, the minute I get some money I’ll pay you back, all right?’

  Her humour picked up and she decided once she’d eaten she’d consult the girls about her wardrobe possibilities, have a try-on and see what they thought would be best.

  ‘The black.’ It was unanimous. It looked expensive. It felt expensive and it exuded classic style. No one had ever won in plain black so she would have to dress it up. A bag, a belt, a jacket, shoes but most definitely a hat was now needed. She ranged through the possibilities – pink, pale blue, white, red and lemon. These were her likely colour options. Shoes most definitely classic black. Her much-loved Jimmy Choos were taken from their box. Tapered heel, sexy little straps and the most delicious pointed toes. No wonder she felt like Cinderella as she slipped them on to her feet. They had been a surprise present from her parents for her twenty-first and along with her gold chain and silver locket and the string of pearls she had inherited from her grandmother they were her most prized possessions. Now she just had to find the rest.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Sheila at work.

  Claire pulled herself up. She had been daydreaming of winning the first prize at Ladies’ Day at the horse show.

  ‘It must be love,’ beamed her colleague, passing her a file on a massive case involving sausages and food poisoning with a group of nuns claiming against the food company. Yuk.

  Claire blazed. Sheila was always trying to find out if she had a boyfriend or was dating someone. She had no intention of telling Sheila that men seemed to keep away from her for some bizarre reason. They might flirt with her, dance with her, even ask her back to their flats but usually that was as far as it went. There were no long intimate phone calls, or romantic gestures, or requests to see her again. It hurt like hell but she’d read in one of the magazines that it was something experienced by most models and one only had to follow the lives of supermodels like Naomi Campbell in the press to see that it was true.

  ‘Just a bit tired,’ she said. ‘Too many late nights!’

  Studying her dress and shoes, she had to decide how to accessorize them. The handbags she’d seen were an outrageous price, and as for a hat her spirits had plummeted when she’d read the price tags hidden inside their brims. She’d look for a second-hand one in one of the thrift shops, that’s what she’d do.

  Saturday morning she got up early and spent hours trailing through the market in Cow’s Lane, Temple Bar and a succession of Vincent de Paul and Oxfam shops. Claire had been about to give up when, rooting through a box of berets and tweed caps and a straw boater, she’d found it! A classic elegant black hat that was a perfect fit.

  ‘Would you like a mirror, dear?’ asked the grey-haired lady in the purple skirt and Hush Puppy shoes.

  Claire’s eyes widened as she recognized the discreet 1950s label. The hat was exactly what she had been searching for.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she murmured, ‘but I’m not sure . . . and anyway it’s a bit too pricey at thirty euro.’

  The volunteer studied the hat, considering it rather plain and old-fashioned herself. ‘I could let you have a bit of a discount,’ she offered. ‘Five euro off.’

  ‘I only have twenty,’ Claire said, holding her breath.

  ‘That’ll do.’

  Claire paid for it quickly and watched the lady wrap it in a supermarket bag, hoping she wouldn’t damage it. Everything was coming together – but she couldn’t just wear black or she’d look like she was in mourning. What would she put with it?

  She was walking back uptown when she turned into South Anne Street. She resisted the temptation to visit the deli near the corner and kept walking. It was a pity so many of the shops on the little street had closed down; the area was about to be redeveloped, she guessed. The greengrocer’s and the lovely shoe shop where she’d taken her Jimmy Choos for the delicate replacement of their tiny leather heel tips were gone.

  She slowed down, noticing the hat shop on the corner of the street. Funny, she hadn’t spotted it before. She’d have a look: you never knew, you might get an idea, she thought, gazing in the window. It had all been painted up and was now a pretty cream colour, flowerpots round the tiled porch, the window a feast of tantalizing colour. The hats were gorgeous. Bright blue, pink and mauve, creamy white in the shape of a lily. She gasped in admiration. If she had a hat like any of these she’d be bound to win. There were no price tags to be seen, just the curly signature of the designer over the shop door. The black hat in its plastic bag in her hand suddenly seemed totally dreary and drab as she stood looking at the wonderful confections displayed. She had to go inside. She just had to.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Ellie smiled; she had just spent half an hour chatting to Rory. They had returned from a night away in Galway, where they had stayed in the new fancy Philip Treacy-designed hotel. Rory had driven down and been so attentive. At lunch they’d eaten oysters out in Clarinbridge with an agent and composer friends of his and later they’d toured the city. Rory wanted to see some hot new young rock band who were playing in King’s and he had persuaded her to join him. It was the longest time they had spent together and Ellie had really enjoyed herself. He was fun to be with and Ellie guessed she would have to learn to accept that once he was around musicians he got so involved that he would always be part of a crowd.

  This weekend, she’d told him, was going to be different as she was cooking a great meal for the two of them with plenty of wine and the time to relax and be together without bands or deals or anyone else. She wanted Rory to herself.

  She watched in the mirror as the girl with the long legs picked up the delicate dragonfly-wing turquoise hat she’d finished two days ago. It was exquisite and picked up the green in her eyes and the fleck of copper in her hair.

  ‘It suits you.’ She smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the customer, givin
g a wobbly sigh. ‘But I . . . I can’t afford it.’

  Ellie frowned. She hadn’t even put a price tag on the hat yet. She was puzzled. The girl gently removed the hat and put it back on the stand.

  ‘Everything, everything here is so beautiful! Amazing! Did you design them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ellie said proudly. ‘It’s my shop.’

  She studied the girl. She was young, tall and much too thin, like those models. She had huge eyes and perfect pale skin and beautiful lips.

  ‘I’m going to the horse show next week and I need something for it.’

  Ellie stopped smiling. She had eight hats to be ready in the next few days for the horse show plus a wedding headdress and a mother of the bride. She couldn’t take anything else on, she just couldn’t.

  ‘I love all these hats, they’re beautiful, but I couldn’t afford them. I’m broke,’ confessed the young customer, who suddenly looked vulnerable and rather tearful.

  Ellie was taken aback, for the girl was immaculately groomed in an expensive pair of tan leather mules, a crisp white shirt and a beautifully cut pair of beige trousers with a leather belt that emphasized her slim figure. She was used to customers getting emotional over the purchase of a hat for a wedding or even a funeral, but breaking down without warning like this was unexpected to say the least.

  ‘I’ve got a dress and shoes but it’s not enough, not enough at all!’ wailed the girl, tears springing into her eyes.

  Ellie was surprised. This wasn’t one of those Dublin 4 types or a southsider like she appeared, for her accent had a soft Kilkenny lilt to it.

  ‘It’s just hopeless. I bought this and I thought maybe I could do something with it! Cost me twenty euros,’ she admitted, lips trembling as she pulled a hat from a plastic bag.

  Ellie studied the simple black cartwheel worked in fine mesh and crafted and balanced perfectly. Most definitely French: it shouted classic Parisian style. At least fifty years old. She wondered where the customer had bought it.

  ‘It’s a beautiful hat.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘Parfait.’

  ‘I got it in the Oxfam shop in Aungier Street. The lady wanted thirty for it but I managed to bargain her down.’

  Ellie sympathized. She remembered her own student days, fighting fiercely at market stalls and boutiques for much-desired designs. Money had never been plentiful where she was concerned.

  ‘I know it’s beautifully made,’ admitted the girl. ‘It’s just that it’s too plain for what I want it for. I need to dress it up as I’m wearing it with a very simple black dress.’

  Ellie considered the problem. ‘We could put a ribbon on it – I have a huge selection of colours – or a flower perhaps?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘No! No! That won’t do at all. I have to be noticed, stand out. That wouldn’t be suitable at all.’

  The two young women stared at each other. Ellie could read the desperation in her client’s eyes, the search for something unique and beautiful, a quest that guided her constantly every day when she sat down to work.

  ‘Could you do a drawing of the black dress you intend to wear with this hat, to give me some idea of what you want?’ she suggested.

  The dress was, as she had expected, a perfect example of simplicity with its narrow fitted bodice and fuller skirt.

  ‘Have you a belt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Perhaps something on the hat and a trim on the waistline and a bag would work well.’

  ‘Oh yes, that sounds divine, but what kind of trim and how expensive would it be?’

  Ellie considered. An idea was tingling in the back of her mind.

  ‘Please can you wait a few minutes while I look in the back of my storeroom? I might have some of the turquoise left.’

  She left the girl sitting reading a magazine while she raced through her basket. She found the organza immediately, but there was something else. There were five white daisies, her mother must have made them, beautifully stitched and glued, perfect petals ready to trim a straw sunhat, but their bright shapes against the classic black . . . Perhaps it would work.

  ‘Here we are.’ She smiled, wrapping the turquoise loosely round the black. It looked well and set off the colour in the customer’s eyes but there was definitely not enough for a belt.

  ‘It’s beautiful but . . .’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking,’ agreed Ellie. ‘Pass me the hat again.’ She very loosely laid the daisies round the crown. The white and green and hint of yellow already made a splash against the dark material.

  ‘Oh, I do like them,’ smiled the girl.

  Ellie frowned. The daisies emphasized the girl’s youth and were summery but they weren’t quite right as they gave the impression of a sunhat. ‘Excuse me a minute.’ With her scissors she separated two, three daisies and gently taking a pin off her blouse she positioned the flowers right on the brim of the hat so they came down over the girl’s face and hair and eyes. The effect was startling.

  The girl looked up . . . holding her breath as if frightened the image in the mirror would disappear.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just perfect.’

  Ellie could feel the rush of joy at seeing a creation come together.

  ‘Yes, daisies all round the brim! I will have to measure and decide how many more to make, play around with placing so they are uniformly matched and perhaps spray them with a little stiffening.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t believe it,’ laughed the girl, her eyes shining.

  ‘If you had the dress we could stitch one, maybe two, right on the cinch of your waistband and for a purse if we put a few together . . . perhaps with plain material underneath and a little strap?’

  The girl almost hugged her. ‘I can’t believe it . . . I’m going to have a wonderful outfit.’

  Ellie smiled to herself, feeling like the fairy godmother telling Cinderella that she was going to the ball.

  ‘But . . .’ the girl hesitated, ‘how much is all this going to cost?’

  Ellie totted up the materials in her head, plus there would be a few hours’ work. She would make no profit but the customer would be happy, and return again hopefully.

  ‘Fifty euro,’ she said softly.

  The girl’s smile lit up her face. She was actually quite beautiful.

  ‘I will have enough,’ she said.

  The arrangements were made and Claire Connolly filled in the order book, paying a deposit of twenty and promising to drop the dress in during Monday lunchtime.

  Ellie put the book away, delighted, for she knew she could make the hat show off Claire’s bone structure and emphasize her willowy proportions. With all the orders due around the same time she would have to work right up till the weekend, she thought as she scribbled down a long shopping list for her romantic dinner.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Dublin basked in summer sunshine for the week of the Dublin Horse Show. Gardens and flower beds and window boxes were bursting with roses and geraniums and pink fuchsia as the city enjoyed the warm temperatures. Claire, nervous with anticipation, woke early on the morning of Ladies’ Day, and after a quick cup of coffee and some toast showered and blow-dried her hair. All week she’d been preparing for the best-dressed lady competition and she’d given herself a full facial with a cleansing peel and a nourishing face mask at the weekend. Her hands and nails had been buffed and French-polished to perfection and Fiona had helped her apply a lovely light golden fake tan to her limbs and torso, which gave her a sun-kissed glow. Her hair was glossy and conditioned and as she applied her mascara and dark eyeliner she realized her eyes looked huge.

  She thought about calling in sick to Murphy and Byrne’s but just supposing she did win and her photograph was plastered all over the papers in the morning, how would she explain that to her bosses? So instead she had taken a day’s holiday and confided in Sheila what she was doing.

  ‘Oh, you’re entering the Ladies’ Day competition at the horse show, that’s wonderful!’ beamed She
ila kindly. ‘I used to love going along and seeing the style when I was younger. A beautiful girl like yourself will be totally at home there, and knock the judge sideways!’

  Claire grinned, glad of the older woman’s enthusiasm and promises to say a prayer for her and to get Derek to say one too.

  She dressed slowly, almost catching her breath with surprise when she lifted the hat out of its box and put it on her head, her eyes peeping out from under the large daisy brim. What with her little black dress and her daisy bag on her wrist, she looked just the way she’d hoped.

  ‘Wow!’ said Fiona and Bridget when they saw her. ‘You look stunning. Like a film star.’

  Claire felt a bit jittery and anxious, as if she was going to an audition. She had intended getting the bus but Fiona had insisted on driving her right to her destination.

  ‘Bridget and I are doing promotions out in Blackrock at two o’clock. The least we can do is give you a bit of support when you go in to register, though we won’t be able to stay for the judging.’

  Claire was eternally grateful to her friends for adjusting their busy schedules to suit her.

  The traffic out of town was heavy and it seemed like the world and his wife were making their way to the Royal Dublin Society’s showgrounds in Ballsbridge for the annual Dublin Horse Show. Every hotel and guesthouse and B&B in the city and suburbs would be booked out, the restaurants packed as horse lovers, show-jumping teams and visitors crowded into the city for the week.

  ‘God, it’s mad,’ declared Fiona, pulling out in front of a van driver in her bright red car. Undaunted, she managed to whiz up in the wrong lane and find a minute parking spot meant to be reserved for customers of one of the nearby restaurants.