The Hat Shop on the Corner

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  ‘I’ll be gone before the lunch-hour crowd,’ promised an unrepentant Fiona as they strolled across the Merrion Road.

  Claire stood at the entrance and decided to purchase a family ticket. ‘We’re sisters,’ she said, smiling at the disbelieving steward as he took in the blonde, brunette and redhead in front of him.

  The showgrounds were already crowded, the sign for the car park ‘Full’ as they walked across the grass. The inside halls were busy selling everything from conservatories to horse blankets, ice creams to foot baths. It never ceased to amaze Claire that such a huge range of products was to be found at the show.

  ‘Come on, this way,’ she signalled to her friends.

  Outside it was already hot. The tannoy called out, ‘A perfect round,’ as the noise of horses’ hooves and the chatter of the crowd filled the air. She had forgotten how wonderful it was, that scent of grass and hay and horses that overwhelmed the senses as soon as one stepped on to the grassy lawns and fenced areas of the Royal Dublin Society’s grounds.

  The Moët & Chandon-sponsored Ladies’ Day competition was being held under a bright blue and white awning, with everyone queuing to register their entry. Claire straightened her back and joined the rest of the women and girls in the line. Her eyes roved the crowd. She mentally said a prayer of thanks that she had worn a hat. Hats were definitely the flavour of the day . . . Some were hideous, some fun, some just simple sunhats, but there was no doubt that they added to the sense of occasion. She also breathed a sigh of relief that she had not worn pink as almost half the women present had kitted themselves out in various shades from salmon to raspberry. After the recent warm weather, the colours combined with their sunburn to give a weird strawberry-like effect. There was an older woman and her friend in expensive cream and beige suits with co-ordinating handbags, shoes and gloves, their hair immaculately done.

  ‘We enter every year,’ they laughed, ‘just so our husbands have to pay for a new outfit and the day out. Beats sitting at home and watching it on the television!’

  Claire suddenly felt guilty and pulled out her mobile to dial the number for home, hearing it ring five times before her mother answered.

  ‘Where are you, Claire?’

  ‘I’m at the RDS, Mum,’ she shouted over the noise. ‘Just thought I’d let you know!’

  It was about eight years since she’d been to the show with her parents, entering the novice riders and pony events, her hair plaited, wearing jodhpurs and riding gear. It seemed like a million years ago.

  ‘Are you in one of the events?’ her mother asked excitedly.

  ‘No, no. Well, not that sort, Mum! It’s the Ladies’ Day thing.’

  She could almost hear the harrumph of indignation from her mother’s end of the call, imagining Cora Connolly standing there in her old faded jeans and Wellington boots and a T-shirt, just in from the stables or the paddocks.

  ‘Just thought I’d let you know in case it’s on the telly.’

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ asked her mother. ‘We haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum, just been busy, that’s all. Listen, tell Dad I said hello. I’ve got to go now,’ she said, killing the signal.

  She slipped the phone back inside the daisy bag with its black handles. Ellie Matthews had done a wonderful job.

  She filled in the form, listing her occupation as model. She was hardly going to put boring old insurance clerk. Then she was given a number and approximate time to come back and meet the judges. Two o’clock – she had ages to wait. She stood around taking in the opposition. There were a whole load of debby types in flowery mini-dresses and wrapover skirts showing off cleavage and belly buttons and sexy sun-tanned legs, chatting on about villas in Tuscany and apartments in Puerto Banus. They certainly didn’t need to win the money, she thought enviously.

  A few girls she recognized from the Irish modelling circuit, eyes shaded discreetly behind dark glasses, clad in top-to-toe designer gear that they had borrowed from exclusive boutiques with the promise of mentioning the designer if they won. Then there were the amateurs. Mothers, daughters, grandmothers, wearing their very best outfit, who’d come along simply for the fun of it. Claire considered them. Some had made their own clothes; some were young designers, college students trying to get a bit of attention; others were wearing chain-store-bought outfits, trying to keep out of the way of people wearing something similar to themselves. There was a magnificent pure white linen coat and skirt worn by a tall girl with black hair cut tight into her head. It was most definitely an original, and the plump girl with the frizzy hair and hopeful look standing beside her was obviously the designer. There was a leopardskin jumpsuit worn by a blonde with tawny eyes and massive high heels, who clung on to an older man with a navy blazer and a co-ordinating leopard-print bow tie like there was no tomorrow. There were young girls in Laura Ashley dresses, all sprigged cotton and lawn with frills and bows. Their mothers looked like Stepford wives in neat linen pastel suits and highlighted trim hair, minding toddlers and buggies as they edged up the queue.

  ‘Hey, did you register yet?’ enquired Bridget.

  ‘Yes. I got my number and time,’ admitted Claire, joining her friends back out in the sunshine.

  ‘Let’s get an ice cream and chill out for a while,’ suggested Fiona.

  They found a small metal table and some chairs under a parasol. Bridget was dispatched to buy the refreshments. Fiona grinned as she caught the approving glances of members of the opposite sex who passed by their table en route to the ice cream stand.

  ‘Told you, you look stunning.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ asked Claire nervously.

  ‘You look like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, or one of those amazing French films we had to go and see when we were in college.’

  Claire squeezed her friend’s hand warmly and suddenly wished that Fiona could stay to give her moral support later when she needed it.

  ‘Lots of luck!’ they both screamed at her when they had to leave for work.

  Claire took a deep breath as they disappeared into the crowds. Suddenly she felt very alone and wished she could just run out of the place with them. Still, she hadn’t come this far to turn back now. She walked up towards the competition area. There was still ages to wait. She’d get some water and a roll, and maybe have a stroll around the place.

  With nearly an hour to kill she decided to go and watch the jumping. Pushing her way into the wooden stands, she was calmed by the cantering circles of the horses and the fluid movements of their riders as they followed the jumping course. She’d always loved horses and soon got engrossed in the battle between riders. Suddenly realizing the time, she jumped up and made a run for the ladies’ cloakroom to quickly freshen up before making her way to the Moët & Chandon stand.

  There was still a queue, so obviously everything was running late. A peroxide blonde wearing a bright red silk top, a slit skirt and high heels was ahead of her. A petite Italian-looking woman in a beautiful pale pearl-coloured Chanel suit and matching bag spoke in broken English to admire her ‘magnificent hat’. Claire watched as other women emerged from the judge’s area, hoping to glean some information about what was going on. She giggled as a hefty six-footer emerged from the doorway dressed as a nun and gave a thumbs-down to a load of his mates who were falling around the place laughing.

  ‘Must have been a bet, you think,’ joked the dainty Italian beside her.

  Claire noted a pretty blond young mother in a straw hat and a floaty pale pink dress emerge with a little girl of about five dressed in the exact match of her mother’s outfit. Even their hats were the same. The little girl, who was waving to everyone, looked so cute. Claire wouldn’t have allowed a dress near her at that age. She had spent most of her time in dirty denim shorts and a green T-shirt that her dad told her matched her eyes.

  The Italian disappeared and then, trying to control herself, Claire stepped forward. The judges asked her to turn round. The
re were two women and two men. One had his own television show, and she knew that Tara O’Neill was the chief fashion buyer for one of the bigger chain stores in Ireland. Pretend it’s a modelling job, she told herself as she walked forward.

  ‘I see you’re a model.’

  ‘Just starting.’ She smiled and told them about the advertisement she’d been in and mentioned she was signed to ‘The Agency’.

  ‘Did one of the designers lend you the clothes?’ quizzed Tara.

  ‘No,’ she replied, affronted. ‘The dress and shoes, hat and bag are all my own.’

  ‘Even the hat?’

  ‘I bought the hat – it’s French – in an Oxfam shop. Ellie Matthews, the milliner in South Anne Street, helped me to pull the outfit together by redesigning it.’

  ‘With the daisies and the bag?’ The intense man with the glasses was scribbling on the pad in front of him.

  ‘Yes, Ellie’s wonderful and so is her shop. Do you know it?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It is just such a sweet shop and she has some great ideas.’

  She could see them all writing and fell silent.

  ‘Miss Connolly, we would like to see you back here at four o’clock if possible.’

  If possible? Of course it was possible!

  Claire felt like hugging them. Being called back meant she was being shortlisted for the final ten in the Best-Dressed Ladies competition. Claire wanted to jump up and down with excitement.

  She stood around, not knowing what to do. If she walked round the busy exhibition area she risked having a kid bump into her with a big ice cream cone or a drink in its hand. Anyway she felt tired, wound up. If she went back to watch the showjumping, she reckoned she might begin to feel like a rider in a jump-off, all anxious and excited. Instead she opted for the gardening hall, with its huge floral displays and plants.

  Many of the flowers had been cut from gardens this morning. Some stood in solid well-watered pots, the air heavy with the scent of old roses and blowzy hydrangeas and sweet peas. She wandered around, admiring them and the cheerful gardeners who spent so much time and energy growing them. She explored the kitchen garden section, with its herbs and tomatoes and home-grown lettuces and cabbages and celery and courgettes, which reminded her of her mother’s endeavours back in Kilkenny.

  She found a bench alongside an elderly couple who were arguing over the merits of peas and beans. Claire closed her eyes in the warm summer sunshine.

  She almost jumped when a photographer asked if he could take her photograph.

  ‘Noel Foley,’ he introduced himself. ‘I’m with the Times.’

  She agreed, smiling as he positioned her against a tumbling display of blooms, scribbling down her name on his jotter and wishing her luck in the competition. Claire grinned to herself, suddenly feeling more relaxed and confident. Winning was the reason she had come here; now it was time to do her best.

  Back at the Ladies’ Day Stand the queue had dissolved and been replaced by a huge number of curious onlookers and two camera crews. When she arrived and gave her name she was immediately served with a glass of chilled champagne.

  She walked around, taking in the shiny first prize of a ten-thousand-euro diamond, crates of champagne, vouchers for Brown Thomas, and a load of other delicious freebies. But it was the diamond she was after. She just had to remain composed for the next twenty minutes, she reminded herself. Be professional. Stand straight. Be elegant. The tall girl in the white suit appeared. Then she spotted the small Italian woman whom she had met earlier. And of course one of the debs had the photographers in a tizzy with her floaty turquoise blue dress with its shoestring straps and a wraparound skirt that caught on the breeze. There was a woman old enough to be her grandmother in a magnificent lace top and skirt in soft mauve, wearing a muted purple hat over her grey hair. The mother and daughter in pretty pink had made it through, as had one of Ireland’s well-known models in a sailor-suit-inspired outfit in navy and white. Claire noticed the judges over in a corner talking in a huddle as she grabbed hold of another glass of champagne. The sun beat down on them and she felt hot and nervous as the time went on. Everyone suddenly came to attention when the chat show host stepped forward to make the announcement. Claire felt her mouth go dry and her legs shake as he said her name.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Claire found herself pushing through the crowds, accepting their congratulations and pats on the back as the cameras and photographers surged forward towards the winner. She didn’t know what to do or where to go as a strange mixture of disappointment and delight overwhelmed her. The onlookers were beginning to disperse as the event ended.

  Claire stood near the bandstand trying to collect herself, surveying Caviston’s busy al fresco seafood dining area and all the people thronging the Ring Bar and Bistro as she then made her way down past the Pembroke Boxes and Saddlery.

  Glancing upwards at the old Clock Tower, she headed towards the main grandstand and pavilion, where the horses waited or were warmed up in the nearby rings. The crowds were silent in the main enclosure as the jumping continued. She hadn’t the heart for another competition and quickening her pace she fled towards the stables. The smell of horse dung and straw and sweat and leather greeted her like an old friend as she walked across the cobbled yards. Some of the stalls were already empty, the young riders with their horses in horseboxes on their way home to the far-flung counties of Ireland. Others displayed fancy rosettes and ribbons tied to their gates, where the horses whinnied and neighed.

  She was drawn to this place and found herself stroking a beautiful bay mare, who stared at her quizzically and sniffed at her hat.

  She felt like a little kid again, ready to cry. It was so bloody stupid. Fiona and Bridget had both texted her for news and she was deliberately ignoring them. She should have known that the cute five-year-old in the pink dress with her blond mother would win it. They were a PR person’s dream, especially when the mother had announced she was about to open a children’s clothes shop out of town stocking her own designs.

  Claire felt like screaming. She had got second place. The runner-up, winning a voucher for five hundred euros and a crate of champagne. She should be delighted. Happy. She shouldn’t have drunk so much of that bloody free champagne. It just made her maudlin and stupid and weepy. She couldn’t go around disgracing herself. She sniffed and pulled a tissue from her bag.

  ‘Hey! You’d better watch your fancy shoes in the muck,’ warned a voice.

  She looked up. ‘Don’t worry. I’m used to horse-shit. I’ve been around horses and dung all my life,’ she muttered, wishing this do-gooder would go away and leave her alone in her misery.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  She said nothing for a moment, trying to compose herself.

  ‘I used to enter the pony classes here when I was younger,’ she sniffed.

  ‘Did you then!’ He sounded surprised.

  Claire looked up at him from under her brim of white daisies.

  ‘Ever win?’

  ‘No!’ She burst out laughing, giggling like a fool. ‘I only ever came second, runner-up. Same as today.’

  He looked at her as if she was cracked.

  ‘That’s what I got too,’ he said kindly.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Second in the jump-off.’

  ‘Then we’re a pair,’ sighed Claire.

  ‘I’m Andrew Ryan,’ he said, introducing himself.

  From under the daisy hat Claire could see he wasn’t at all like the usual wimps she met around town. He was at least four inches taller than her even in her heels. Standing there in a load of horse straw and muck in his jodhpurs and open-neck blue check shirt, with his sandy hair and blue eyes, he actually was drop dead gorgeous.

  ‘I see you already met Chloë,’ he said, patting the horse. ‘She’s a great lady. Tomorrow I’m riding her brother Dandy. He’s there across the yard if you want to see him.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she agreed, curious
.

  ‘Here, let me give you a hand,’ offered Andrew, reaching to lift her up with a whoosh over a steaming pile of horse-shit.

  The Jimmy Choos were definitely not made for slippery cobbles and she would have tripped except that he managed to steady her.

  Dandy was a gorgeous big horse with luminous dark brown eyes and he nudged against her, snuffling her bare skin in a way that made her laugh.

  ‘Back off, boy,’ warned Andrew, teasing her.

  He made her laugh too and even helped her clean her Jimmy’s before they left the stables.

  ‘Don’t want you destroying those fancy shoes of yours with all this dung.’

  Claire, in her daisy hat, couldn’t help getting a fit of the giggles at the absurdity of it all.

  ‘You’re not from the city, are you?’ he asked later as he escorted her to the bar.

  She was about to joke and deny her culchie roots, but seeing the serious look in his eye and guessing he was a nice guy she told him the truth.

  ‘No, actually I’m from Kilkenny. My folks have a farm there.’

  ‘Same neck of the woods as myself then,’ he said, passing her a glass of chilled white wine. ‘I live in Carlow.’

  She had another two drinks, Andrew confessing that daisies had always been his favourite flower while she told him about her temporary job in an insurance office and confided her hopes of being a model as they shared plates of tasty fish and chips. After three hours of talking he excused himself, saying he had to get back to the horses, Claire marking it down as one of the most unusual brush-offs she’d ever had. She’d really fancied him but he obviously wasn’t interested. Clutching her daisy bag and hat she made her way on to the Merrion Road. There was no sign of a bus and throwing caution to the winds Claire hailed a passing cab.

  ‘Congratulations. You did brilliant, Claire,’ yelled her flatmates when she got home. Fiona opened a bottle of wine as she collapsed on the couch, kicked off her shoes and replayed all that had happened.