The Hat Shop on the Corner

by Marita Conlon-McKenna

  ‘Did you notice? It’s so pathetic.’

  ‘Anne-Marie boosts his ego, gets him to join the gym, do things differently, go to new places, start over.’

  ‘He’s Max’s grandfather, for God’s sake!’

  Helen burst out laughing. ‘I don’t think that’s ever stopped anyone from making an eejit of themselves.’

  ‘Thank God I have Sally and the boys and little Max,’ sighed Constance, leaning her head back against the comfort of the plush burgundy headrest. ‘And good friends like you. I don’t know what I’d do without you all.’

  ‘Listen, Constance, promise me you’ll try not to think about them for the rest of the night,’ urged Helen.

  ‘I promise,’ she said sincerely.

  ‘Come on. The band’s playing inside, let’s dance!’

  Constance smoothed her hair and took a deep breath as she joined the rest of the wedding party.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Mo Brady loved a bit of a fight, not a physical punch-up but a good verbal argument to get the council members going. The cut and thrust of political life stirred her in a most unexpected way. When she was a child she’d loved the story of Joan of Arc, the young woman who had fought and died for the people of France. Banners flying, guns blazing, that was the way Mo always liked to do business. She wasn’t one for whispering and scurrying around corridors doing deals and reaching secret agreements behind people’s backs. No, she was upfront. She said what she meant and was often accused of wearing her heart on her sleeve. Tonight was going to be one of those nights, she could feel it in her bones.

  The City Council Chamber was packed and it looked like it was going to be a long session. On the agenda were new traffic plans for the city, the upgrading of the public buildings on Parnell Street and Bachelor’s Walk and the redevelopment of South Anne Street.

  She listened as they went through the first items, voting for the preservation of the four-storey Georgian houses on Parnell Street. Two or three of the members were vociferous in their belief that the buildings were not worth saving and should be bulldozed.

  ‘Keep the façades and knock the rest,’ suggested Councillor Billy O’Shea. ‘Brand new offices or brand new apartments – that’s what the people want.’

  ‘I totally disagree with you, Councillor.’

  Mo’s heart sank. Kathleen Taylor O’Malley had the floor, which meant they could be here for the night.

  ‘Architectural heritage must be preserved at all costs,’ she insisted, as she began to read from a long list of the period details of the properties. Coving, cornices, plasterwork, door frames, fan hall-lights, beams, ironwork balustrades, fireplaces. The list went on. Three of the men got up and left. Mo could guess they were heading for Dwyer’s pub round the corner. Mo was half tempted to join them as Kathleen got into her stride.

  ‘The tenement days in Dublin are long gone, Kathleen,’ interrupted Billy, ‘and I’ll not ask any young couple to live or work in archaic surroundings. By God, I won’t!’

  A huge row erupted in the council chamber as neither of them would budge from their stance.

  The time ticked by till they came to the order of business that interested Mo most, the plans for South Anne Street. She sat forward on her leather chair, blinking as she looked around.

  Mo had studied the plans carefully, got the environmental impact reports and examined the developers’ plans with a fine-tooth comb. As far as she could see, they were buying up every available property on the small street and hoped to acquire even more. The galleria shopping mall, with its escalators to the five floors and underground parking, which hoped to attract a major fashion store to its modern commercial development, was well advanced. However, Casey Coleman now seemed to want to develop another large retail unit on the other side of the street. She thought of the toy shop, the cheese shop, the beautiful hat shop, their painted shopfronts and style all adding to the charm of the street.

  All the information was back and she knew the city manager had enjoyed a rather heated meeting with the head of Casey Coleman Holdings and his legal representatives as he sought to discover the true extent of their property holdings on South Anne Street and their plans for these properties. She looked round, waiting to see which of her colleagues would start the ball rolling. There must be objections. Dolores Coffey was half asleep; it was long past the seventy-five-year-old councillor’s bedtime. Finbarr Flood from the Green Party was not lifting his skinny neck above the parapet. Mo straightened herself in her seat, scanning the carefully prepared papers in front of her as she stood up to speak.

  ‘I have a mandate from the small traders and business holders in this street,’ began the Lady Mayor, waving the sheets with the thousands of signatures that had been collected on Save Our Street Saturday. ‘They call themselves SOS – Save Our Street – and having talked to them and met with them and learned of their problems and the pressures they are under I have to say that this council must listen to them. They are the voice of the people, the citizens of Dublin. A street like this will disappear unless we here in the council are prepared to safeguard its survival.’

  She adjusted her glasses, realizing that she had their full attention and so far without objections.

  ‘As councillors we are not against the redevelopment of Dublin and it becoming a modern European city, but we must ensure we keep our own separate shopping identity and support these smaller indigenous businesses. These are the ones that give colour and life and a sense of place to this city of ours. We must protect and upgrade them while there is still time, before they disappear for good.’

  Richard Doyle was nodding and she knew she had his support.

  ‘We must try to retain our small individual retailers and ancillary businesses. These are what make up the heart of Dublin, the city we all love so much!’ She stopped for a minute to get her breath, have a look around.

  Gerry Simmonds and a few others were taking detailed notes.

  ‘Millions of visitors came to our city last year to enjoy this ancient Viking town that has become a modern city but with a heart. I walk these streets almost every day and this little street is in my neighbourhood. These businesses are the lifeblood of the city and we cannot afford to kill them off, close them down and replace them.

  ‘The developers have got a massive permit already and I would be most reluctant to see even one more centimetre of planning granted to them in this vicinity. This should be made clear to them. Any shops they have taken over should be expected to reopen in keeping with their original type of street frontage. Perhaps in time we should consider a grant to small traders to encourage them to upgrade and maintain shopfronts and signage, etc.’

  ‘My Lady Mayor, I must remind you of the late hour,’ interjected Des King, turning in appeal to his party members seated around him.

  ‘I agree it is late, late in the day for us to preserve our city streets, but I call for an immediate vote on this proposal,’ Mo said with a sweep of her hands. ‘It’s the least we can do to Save Our Streets.’

  There was a round of applause with a few objections. Gerry Simmonds stood up to say what high-quality developers Casey Coleman Holdings were and how their proposal would enhance the city.

  ‘That is accepted,’ she interrupted, ‘but it’s their ability to retain small local businesses that is our concern today.’

  Twenty minutes later it went to a vote. Mo was nervous as she looked round at the faces of her party rivals. She could feel her stomach churn as she tried to read their minds, hoping that her fellow councillors would support her.

  Over the past few years in politics she had learned that you can’t win every battle, can’t carry every issue, but this was one she firmly believed in.

  She held her breath, whooping with excitement when the motion was passed with a large majority. The council also decided to set up a separate group to determine the cost of introducing a grant and to study best practice in maintaining small shops and businesses. Victory was theirs. Th
e little man had won!

  ‘Good on you, Mo!’ shouted the other councillors afterwards as the Lady Mayor, exhausted from talking to two or three of the journalists present, made her way to the mayoral car. She couldn’t wait to get back home and have a cup of tea with Joe and the kids and tell them all about it.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Ellie was rapt in concentration, attaching a fine piece of netting on to an unusual hat made of two circles when she heard the shop bell ring. The circles hat was for Geraldine Callaghan, whose husband was one of the country’s well-known property investors. It was an exquisite concoction and had taken days to make as she had hand-dyed the crill fabric, the netting and the bands to get the exact shades of aquamarine and turquoise she wanted. The materials were difficult to work with but had been turned into two whorls of colour that would sit on Geraldine’s auburn hair and show off her magnificent turquoise satin suit with the faint circular pattern along the skirt’s hem and on the lining edge of the jacket. She had purchased it in Milan.

  ‘Brian will love it,’ she had crowed, the minute she tried on the hat. ‘Oh thank you, it’s so perfect.’

  ‘Just let me finish it off, Geraldine, and I will have it ready for you this afternoon,’ she’d promised, as the wealthy young woman dashed off to meet a friend for lunch.

  Ellie glanced in the mirror. It was the boy again.

  ‘Hold on, I’ll be with you in a minute!’ she called out as she put Geraldine’s hat down carefully and went to greet her youngest customer.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, lifting a plastic bag up on to the wooden counter. ‘I did what you told me and went back researching all about my grandmother and the times she lived in. Found some things that might be useful.’

  ‘Well, that’s a great help, Tommy.’

  ‘My teacher helped me do a timeline and I found old photos and things.’

  Ellie watched as he spilled out some of the bag’s contents, fazed as to what she was supposed to do with it all.

  ‘Your grandmother seems to be a very interesting woman,’ she said as she fingered the items. ‘What’s in this?’

  She lifted the lid of a faded box, which might previously have held talcum powder or sweets. Tiny blue and green-tinted feathers nestled on tissue paper.

  ‘These are feathers from her budgie, Joey. She really loved him,’ declared Tommy proudly. ‘They were hidden up in the old wardrobe but I found them.’

  ‘Interesting,’ she murmured, wondering if the child really wanted her to put them on his grandmother’s hat.

  ‘And this was her cap and apron from when she worked in Bewley’s Café.’

  The lace was faded and slightly stained but she was sure that with careful washing and a little gentle bleaching it could be restored. There were also some beads, and a printed scarf.

  ‘You’ve found a lot, Tommy,’ she praised him.

  ‘I want the hat to be right, to look right,’ he insisted.

  ‘I have to finish something for a customer this afternoon, so can you leave this lot with me? It will be a great help to look at the photos, see what kind of a person your granny is.’

  ‘Sure, and these pages are ones I printed out about her life and the family and all.’

  ‘From 1906,’ she noticed, impressed. ‘Listen, I am going to put all these items away safely in this hatbox, with a base I’ve already made. Will you call back on Saturday and I’ll have a design or two ready for you?’

  ‘Defo,’ he promised, going out of the door with a big grin on his face.

  Ellie couldn’t help herself grinning either. She’d heard that the City Council had refused Casey Coleman’s request for further developments on the street. From what she understood, they were finally recognizing the value of small shops and there was even talk of introducing a grant to encourage small businesses to stay in the city centre and upgrade their premises. She was so glad that she hadn’t let smart solicitors like Neil Harrington or property developers like Casey Coleman Holdings buy her out and close her down or drive her out of the thriving business she was developing.

  Madeleine Matthews would be proud to see the small hat shop she had opened so many years ago continuing to trade. With such an eclectic mix of customers, Ellie never knew what each day would bring. She loved it. This was her business. Her shop with her own designs! It was up to her to grow it, make of it what she wanted.

  She was enthralled by the centenarian Lillian Butler, who, judging by the photos of her as a young woman, had been blessed with a heart-shaped face and twinkling brown eyes, peeping out from under a knitted cloche hat or big wide sunhat, either gazing up at her beau, Thomas, or shyly holding his hand. In one photo she stood surrounded by her nine children on the steps of a shabby staircase, in a black hat with a huge feather on it. Could one piece of millinery possibly give any sense of a life so full and well lived? But it was what the boy wanted, and she intended doing her darned best to please him and the old lady.

  A silk lily was an obvious choice not just because of her name but to commemorate the Easter of 1916 when she had run down Sackville Street with her brothers and sisters and witnessed the start of the Rising. Perhaps the lace, a small piece from the hem of her apron, stiffened and starched, would make a ribbon or a flower. What about beans – coffee beans, polished and mounted like stamens or beads? The feathers, something to symbolize her nine children, the war years . . . It was a puzzle what she could do to tell of a rich life on the tiny canvas of a millinery piece. The boy had too much esteem for her, expected too much, yet she was determined not to let him down.

  Chapter Fifty

  Neil Harrington had walked up the street at least twice and had partaken of a creamy latte in the coffee shop before he finally found himself standing outside the gaily painted hat shop. Flowers tumbled from the pots on either side of the door, and the striped awning had been slightly opened, which added to the continental atmosphere that Ellie had managed to create.

  The window was filled with five hatstands, which displayed a variety of millinery confections. Even to his untutored eye they looked delightful, and three simple clumps of violets growing in silver pots sat tastefully between them. Without thinking he found himself pushing at the door, startled by the tinkle of the shop bell only inches above his head.

  He stood for a second waiting before she appeared.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ellie, surprised to see him. ‘It’s you.’

  For an instant he was discomforted, put off his stride.

  ‘Yes. I was passing and I said I’d call in.’

  Her dark eyes flashed at him quizzically under that thick glossy fringe. She was obviously wondering what he was there for.

  ‘I actually came in to get a hat.’

  Her lips began to lift up into a smile.

  ‘Well, it’s for my mother. She loves these kinds of things. I thought it would be nice for her to have one of yours, upcoming designer and all that.’

  He wondered for a moment where those words had come from, and why he had blurted them out, but now it was said it didn’t seem a bad idea really. Rosemary Harrington led a very busy social life, what with being on the fund-raising committee for a hospital and organizing charity balls and events for a number of societies. It had almost become a full-time occupation since his father had died and she always seemed to need outfits. Another hat wouldn’t go amiss, and besides, she had out of the blue mentioned the possibility of getting a hat from the young hatmaker on South Anne Street. He would surprise her with one.

  ‘Yes. She most definitely needs one.’

  Ellie stood across from him, near enough for him to pick up on the light floral scent that clung to her. She suddenly became businesslike.

  ‘Well, when does your mother need this hat?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘How soon? Is it a rush job?’

  ‘No! No,’ he retreated. ‘It’s not urgent, but I thought that with the good weather and garden parties and the races, and there’s a christening coming up . . .�
�

  ‘I see. Did you have anything in particular in mind?’

  He was totally flummoxed. He racked his brains trying to remember the kind of things his mother wore, but for the life of him he couldn’t. He even did a mental playback of family albums, searching frantically for an image of his mother with some kind of item on her head.

  ‘She’s mad about hats. The house is full of them.’

  ‘Maybe she has enough then,’ she suggested gently.

  ‘No. Most definitely not! She gets tired of them. Always wants something new and fresh.’

  Ellie’s eyes widened.

  ‘Neil, have you any idea what your mother would like? It would be a help.’

  ‘I’ll leave it all up to you. Your good hands and all that.’ He suddenly felt pleased with himself.

  ‘Have you looked at the ones in the window?’

  She walked past him. He could smell her shampoo as she reached for the furthest hatstand and presented him with a concoction of pink and purple. Most definitely not his mother’s style!

  ‘Or there’s this coloured band that can be very effective. It sits across the head and these tiny pieces of cream and white almost look like they are floating. It’s a wonderful style.’

  He studied the band as she passed it to him, noticing how small her fingers were, her nails unpolished and buffed.

  The two other styles were definitely more suited to a wedding.

  ‘Listen, I’ll just slip in the back. My mother had a collection of basic designs to show customers. Starting points, she used to call them. It’s good to show people if they are not sure what they want, as choosing a shape is important. The book is somewhere there. Give me a minute and I’ll find it. I’ll get my pad so we can rough out something for your mother. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  He sat on the small chair waiting for her, for once unsure what to say or do as the black cat in the window licked her paws and stared at him.