A Random Act of Kindness

by Sophie Jenkins

  He sees me and gives me a smile of recognition. ‘Ah! Fern,’ he says warmly, coming over. ‘I saw in the Camden New Journal that you had a fire trauma. I thought I’d see if I could find your stall and say hello.’

  ‘Good to see you again!’ I say, optimistically wondering if he’s looking for more clothes for Enid.

  ‘I tried to get another appointment with you at the store, but they said you’d left.’ He looks up at the dresses hanging around the stand, frowning. ‘And this is what you do now, is it? You sell these clothes here, full-time?’

  ‘Yes, this is what I do now.’ I look around, too. No more chandeliers, no soft carpeting, no champagne and tea. ‘How’s your wife?’

  ‘She died,’ he says, his face creasing as though he’s perplexed by the idea.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Yes.’ He nods as if this is something that he’s heard a lot. The dresses seem to mesmerise him, and he gazes from them to me and back to them again. He says abruptly, ‘Well, I’ll be off. I just wanted to say hello.’

  ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Aston.’

  He raises his hand in a wave and disappears into the Stables.

  A few moments later he comes back again.

  ‘You seem a very understanding person.’ He leans towards me, looks furtively around and lowers his voice. ‘I’m afraid I lied to you when I came into the store. I wasn’t looking on behalf of my wife.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say quickly, imagining some flashy ageing mistress in the background. ‘You don’t have to explain.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he says. Again, he looks over his shoulder and turns back to me. ‘I suppose you guessed that the dress was for me.’

  I look at him in surprise, wondering if I’ve heard right and then clearly remembering his nervousness, his hesitation, his growing confidence in what he was looking for. ‘I had no idea,’ I tell him truthfully.

  ‘No? I wish I’d told you at the time. I’ve been informed since that that sort of thing is quite acceptable now?’

  I can see the eagerness in him and I nod. ‘Oh, absolutely.’

  His face relaxes again. ‘You see, it was hard for me to talk about it because my wife didn’t know.’ He shakes his head violently as though he’s trying to dislodge the idea. ‘Good grief, no. I consider that was one of the strengths of our marriage, that she saved me from myself.’ He gives a small, self-deprecating smile. ‘And I’m a member of the golf club. There would be questions about which tee to drive from.’

  I laugh. When a person can make a joke, there’s always hope, in my opinion. ‘So you never told her?’

  ‘Never. Although, I got close once. That dress – she found a stray blue feather on the floor. She puzzled over it for days. I should have told her then but I couldn’t risk her disapproval, and yet … she might, like her friends, have turned out to be a woman of her time and understood it.’ He presses his lips together and tucks his hands in his jacket pocket, shoulders hunched. ‘The truth is, I don’t know what she would have thought. I never gave her the chance to tell me.’ His voice is full of regret.

  ‘You didn’t want to upset her, I suppose.’

  All this time, his faded eyes are holding mine. ‘Yes. That’s one way of looking at it. I want you to know, that dress was what kept me strong through her illness. It was better than brandy for helping me to escape for a time. It gave me the courage to keep going.’

  ‘I know what that feels like.’

  Those words make everything different between him and me. He relaxes because he sees it’s the truth, the truth that I live by. And I’ve seen something, too. I’d thought I’d lost my job over something small and frivolous, when in fact I’d been making his pain easier to bear. I feel vindicated and suddenly cheerful.

  ‘It saddens me to think I’ve wasted my life,’ he says, looking at the dresses longingly.

  Just then, I see Dinah coming back with our lunch. ‘I bought ham croissants,’ she announces imperiously and she’s suddenly distracted by the sight of Kim.

  He’s staring at her open-mouthed. For a moment she stands and stares back at him in silence, shielding her eyes from the sun with one elegant hand.

  She has much the same effect on Kim as she had on me, because he seems to be seeing some other-worldly revelation. ‘I want to look like you,’ he tells her passionately.

  Once again, Dinah surprises me. She laughs, batting away the compliment. ‘Dahlink, of course you do.’ She looks him up and down. ‘Well, you’re slim, it’s not impossible. And take it from me, a turban is utterly divine to wear. Have you ever tried a turban?’

  Speechless, he shakes his head.

  She looks into her paper bag. ‘I only bought two, so we have to share.’ She tears the croissant in half. ‘You choose. Give me your phone number and I’ll find you a turban. Schiaparelli, dahlink,’ she mouths and shares her croissant with him.

  LOT 12

  Mixed lot of three day dresses, circa 1940s, including a pink-and-orange dress with button detail and matching coat; red silk blouse with fan neckline detail; Prince of Wales check suit; bottle-green wool suit with peplum.

  It’s Wednesday. The morning light is yellow and melancholy, and the clouds are dusted with cinnamon. It’s going to be a hot day and I’m wearing the orange A-line minidress. By the time I’ve arranged my stall, my flicked-up hair is already going limp.

  David Westwood is focused on sanding down an irregularly shaped block of wood. His eyes are lowered and he’s got the thickest, darkest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a man. I wonder if they’re the reason his eyes are such a striking blue.

  Somewhere in the yard behind us a busker is playing melancholy Donovan songs on an acoustic guitar. David’s sanding to the rhythm of the music.

  A gabble of voices: a group of excitable students in bottle-green sweatshirts come down the alley led by a tour guide holding up a Union Jack flag. They file past us as if they’re keeping to a schedule.

  ‘Whatcha doin’?’ I ask David curiously, watching the fine dust dull the cobbles around our feet. Looks like a departure from the light boxes.

  ‘I’m making Gigi’s birthday present,’ he says, smoothing the wood with his hand. ‘It’s a surprise.’

  ‘My lips are sealed.’ I’m not sure what it’s meant to be. One thing I know, it’s definitely not a light box. ‘What woman wouldn’t want a rustic shelf for her birthday?’ I say cheerfully.

  He ignores my facetiousness. ‘It’s a chopping board. I’ve carved her name and date of birth on it.’

  He hands the board to me. It’s extremely heavy. But even as a total non-connoisseur of woodworking, I can see that the intricate carving has taken him a lot of time and work. I trace Gigi’s name and date of birth with my finger. ‘Wow. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘I’m going to put flowers along here,’ David says, showing me where he’s pencilled in the design. I can feel his warm breath against my cheek.

  The wood is streaked and swirled with contrasting shades of rich brown. ‘Gigi’ll love it,’ I say admiringly, trying not to sound envious.

  He looks pleased. ‘It’s maple.’

  ‘I like these markings on it.’

  ‘Those are burs. Burwood, it’s called. Don’t they look like birds’ eyes?’

  ‘Yes! Burwood,’ I repeat, so that I’ll remember it.

  ‘The burs make it brittle and harder to work with, but it’s worth it.’

  He says it with so much warmth that I smile, because everyone loves a lover and I can see that the effort of working with this brittle wood is his measure of his love.

  ‘Does a lot of chopping, does she, Gigi?’ I ask him curiously.

  ‘She will when she’s got a chopping board,’ he says. He holds it at an angle to the light and turns it over, blowing off the dust. Then he picks up a chisel. Lucky Gigi.

  I’ve been thinking about her birthday present, too. I’m going to give her the velvet opera cloak with the pink silk lining, because it’s a strikin
g garment, one that’ll make people ask her where she got it (and she can then tell them it was sourced by me).

  From Dinah, I’m learning a bit about hustling; I’ve seen the way her face will light up sometimes when a passer-by picks up a dress, even though they’re just looking at it in passing really, and it turns out that, surprise! the dress is Dinah’s absolute all-time favourite, and what good taste the passer-by has! Her approval is as sweet and warm as sunshine, and her enthusiasm and friendliness is contagious.

  Unlike me, with my paranoia about putting people off, Dinah talks to everyone, even if it’s just a good morning or good afternoon as they walk by. And they respond.

  Life is good at the moment. After the disaster of the fire, and the absence of Mick, I believe I’ve come out the other side. A combination of the sunny weather, the bespoke alterations and Dinah’s chutzpah means that sales are going well. And it’s time to restock again.

  The Tallulah Young Vintage Auction is coming up in Clerkenwell and I’ve gone through the auction catalogue online, looking for retro pieces, searching for a particular look; simple lines, Peter Pan collars, primary colours.

  The sale’s on a Monday and because Dinah’s getting to know my stock as well as I do, I’ve asked her if she wants to come with me. She’s very enthusiastic, so we make our arrangements and I wait for her at Camden Town Tube. It’s really busy and I’m looking round for her when I hear her call me.

  ‘Dahleenk! Hey! You there! Audrey!’

  I’m embracing the Hepburn look in black Capri pants, a knotted white shirt and a red Hermès neckerchief.

  Dinah has dressed up for the auction too, in heels and a little suit. She frowns at my flats. ‘What are those things on your feet?’

  ‘It’s what Audrey would have worn,’ I tell her. I’m not that impressed with her heels, either. ‘Can you walk in those? You do realise it’s fifteen minutes from the Tube, don’t you?’

  ‘Pah!’ she says dismissively. ‘Up a mountain?’

  On the journey there she asks me plenty of questions about the auction, mostly about how it works financially. She’s indignant that both buyers and sellers pay commission, and by the time we get to the auction house, she has all the attitude of a seasoned auction-goer.

  She fits in here perfectly, with her polished style and her haughty chin. I look through the racks at the lots I’m interested in, beguiled by the richness of beauty and design. I love the Sixties psychedelic tunics, synthetic black-and-white mod-look trouser suits, pop art shirts with blocks of colour, geometric patterns. I also have my eye on a group of Forties day dresses, easy to wear and sexy, and they suit all ages.

  These delight Dinah too and she gleefully tucks her arm in mine. ‘They take me back,’ she says breathlessly.

  I register for a paddle number with which to bid. At Dinah’s insistence, we sit in the front row.

  Tallulah Young, the auctioneer, comes over to say hello and I introduce her to Dinah. Tallulah’s truly passionate about clothes and since I’ve become a regular at the viewings, she’ll often point out things that she thinks I might be interested in.

  Despite Tallulah’s warm greeting, Dinah isn’t impressed with her. Once she’s out of earshot, Dinah says, ‘Look at her skin – sun damage,’ she says, leaning her head towards mine and pointing as if I don’t know who she’s talking about. ‘She looks her age. Her blonde hair is greying and her upper arms are losing tone – why’s she wearing short sleeves? Why doesn’t she try to appear younger?’

  ‘Personally, I’ve always admired women who let their hair grow grey,’ I say.

  Dinah has a different opinion. ‘You don’t see me with white hairs,’ she says disapprovingly.

  ‘That’s because you colour it,’ I point out.

  Dinah’s indignant. ‘Who says? I suppose it’s a good look if you can keep your nerve, but who would want to?’

  Dinah has the open curiosity of a child when it comes to people. She’s distracted by a woman in her seventies with an asymmetric bob, a geometric structured black-and-white jacket, white plus fours and black-and-white zigzag socks, and black brogues. ‘Stylish,’ she says.

  A couple of good-looking men come to sit a couple of seats down from us. I realise that they’re fussing over a white Yorkshire terrier and I get anxious and uneasy.

  ‘Let’s move further back,’ I suggest nervously. I won’t be able to relax while the dog is there.

  ‘Why?’ Dinah looks up from her auction catalogue and turns around to look at the room, which is filling up. ‘No,’ she says, ‘I like it here.’

  ‘Swap seats, then?’

  ‘What’s wrong with yours?’ she asks suspiciously.

  ‘The dog.’

  ‘That thing?’ She looks at it over her spectacles. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  I could tell her I’m afraid of dogs because of their unpredictability, their jumpiness, the barking that’s always loud and startling. I’m afraid of them because dog lovers always say dogs can sense fear and that makes me fearful. I’m afraid because dog lovers always tell me their dog just wants to play, even though it’s straining at the leash and making a rumbling noise in its throat. And I know about the prey reflex that means that when the fear gets too much to stand and you try to get away, dogs are hardwired to come after you. I don’t want to tell her, because she won’t understand. People don’t.

  But Dinah has a fine-tuned sensitivity to mood. She shrugs and without asking any more questions, she gets up and changes seats with me.

  The two men fuss over the white Yorkshire terrier until it farts with happiness. The fart spreads slowly and hangs in the air, taking its time to dissipate.

  ‘Disgusting!’ Dinah says loudly, fanning her catalogue furiously while I pretend not to notice. ‘That’s why you wanted to change places?’ Someone else catches her eye.

  A woman, mid-thirties, pale, wearing a trilby on the back of her head like a halo, military green jacket, jeans.

  ‘Who is that one, Fern?’

  ‘Not sure,’ I whisper in the hope that she’ll whisper, too.

  ‘Well I don’t know about the jeans,’ Dinah tutted. ‘Strictly for cowboys. But perhaps I like the effect. Oh, that dog! We should move.’ She looks around at the windows first and then at the ceiling. ‘Fans.’

  ‘Are you warm?’

  ‘For the smell.’ She sniffs the air delicately. ‘He’s done it again. These people and their dogs.’

  ‘Shh,’ I tell her, demonstrating with the universal sign of pressing my index finger against my lips.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, dahlink,’ she says, patting my knee. ‘Everyone else is thinking it, too.’

  My heart’s pounding with anticipation. I now realise it’s a bit of a responsibility, bringing her here. The fun of being in Dinah’s company is offset by her loud comments and our two different sets of needs. For me, it’s business and I hope to get some lots at a good price. At auction, fashion finds its own level, but sometimes items that don’t reach the lower estimate can be bought just under the reserve at Tallulah’s discretion, and that’s where I get lucky. Other lots might attract no interest in the beginning and I think I’ve got a chance, but once bidding starts it can lead to auction fever; a frenzy of waving paddles that means the garments far exceed the top estimate. There’s no way of knowing in advance how it’s going to go and the uncertainty is part of the excitement, but I hope I won’t leave empty-handed.

  For Dinah, it’s a fun day out. How long will she want to stay? I wonder.

  Having checked online and now in the sales room the first lot I want to bid on is number sixty-eight, which means there’s some waiting around. The auction begins. There are maybe twenty of us in the room and some phone lines set up. The screen lights up. Lot number one.

  Dinah takes a gold pen out of her handbag, crosses her legs, balances her catalogue on her knee and watches the auctioneer.

  Although I’ve spent a lot of time online picking out the dresses and ensembles that I’m
interested in, as the clothes appear on the screen, everything now seems new again and desirable.

  As each lot sells or doesn’t sell, Dinah writes the price in the margin. The well-known names go for above the asking price, but there are also some surprises. There are no bids for a little gold tweed Yves Saint Laurent suit. The lower estimate is only eighty pounds.

  ‘I wonder what’s wrong with it? I’m tempted to buy it just for the buttons,’ I whisper to Dinah.

  ‘I looked at it myself,’ Dinah says loudly. ‘It’s full of moth holes.’

  ‘Shh. Now this is ours,’ I say to her. ‘The lot with the Ossie Clarks. Everyone loves them.’

  I bid decisively, but despite stretching my limit, the first dress, a black crêpe dress with a plunging keyhole neckline, goes for four hundred and sixty pounds to a phone bidder, way above the upper estimate and well over my maximum. Overseas buyers, probably. An Ossie Clark/Celia Birtwell for Radley printed rayon dress goes for five hundred pounds. I haven’t got a hope of affording them.

  The serious bidders, it seems, are there for Chanel. ‘The fight of the Chanels,’ Tallulah Young calls it as the bids go higher and higher for a pristine purple tweed suit and a jacket with a chinchilla fur collar. Dinah can hardly contain her excitement as a lot of two suits exceeds its top estimate by nine hundred and fifty pounds.

  As the hammer goes down she sinks back in her chair, fanning herself with her catalogue.

  Disappointingly, we lose out on the op art suits and minidresses, but I don’t stay despondent for long because our next lot comes up: ‘Ten evening/afternoon dresses, mainly 1930s, including black chiffon example, the yoke and sleeves with zigzag inserts of red, a sequinned skullcap, navy blue bias-cut chiffon gown and others, busts approximately 32 to 40 inches.’

  My heart is thudding each time I raise the paddle and I’m relieved when I manage to buy them mid-estimate. I feel completely drained. Dinah’s absolutely thrilled that we’ve bought a whole bundle of clothes and she’s sitting beaming on the edge of her seat.

  Mostly, I’m grateful that I haven’t got carried away by auction fever.