A Random Act of Kindness

by Sophie Jenkins

  She sounds exasperated. ‘Of course! I know that! Can you come?’ Kenn you komm?

  ‘I’m on my way!’ I put the phone back carefully in its cradle and the silence hums around me.

  Tears of gratitude burn my eyes. ‘Thank you, Enid,’ I whisper.

  Sure enough, when I get there Fern’s little stall in the alley is surrounded by people and I have to battle my way through them to reach her. Dinah’s arguing with a woman who’s trying to buy her purple jacket. They’re pulling the jacket by the sleeves.

  The woman’s shouting crossly, ‘It was on the table!’

  Dinah’s shouting back, ‘But it’s not for sale!’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m here,’ I tell Dinah proudly, pushing through and crawling under the counter to reach her. I’ve never used those words before in my life, but while I’m down on my hands and knees I find a credit card belonging to a customer.

  Dinah clasps her hands together when I emerge waving it.

  ‘Thank God!’ Thenk Gott! she says. ‘I heff been looking for that!’

  I retrieve her jacket from the cross woman and in a moment of inspiration, I hand the woman the client book and ask her to write down her details so that Fern can find something similar for her. ‘If anyone can, Fern can,’ I tell her confidently.

  ‘When will she be back?’

  ‘Wednesday,’ Dinah says. ‘Come back then and yell at her for a change. Kim!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This skirt needs wrapping up for this lady.’ She’s now all smiles and graciousness again. ‘This kind lady. One moment, madame.’

  I pick up the long pleated skirt and as I begin to fold it, I stop and take a closer look. Something about it reminds me of Enid. I unfold it again and lay it flat on top of some other clothes. The hairs prickle at the back of my neck, and I stare at it in stunned and miraculous disbelief. Could it be? The purples, the moss greens … it’s Enid’s. I know her clothes as well as my own. It’s one of the garments that I gave to that chap, Cato.

  Well, then. I look across at the lady who’s buying it. She’s practically a girl, thirty years or so younger than me, only in her fifties, and she’s patient in the melee. I fold the skirt again and impulsively, before I put it in the bag, I raise it to my lips, shut my eyes tight and kiss it.

  Though I meant it as a goodbye kiss, the woman smiles and inclines her head, receiving the kiss along with the skirt.

  ‘You’re smiling,’ Dinah says a few moments later, hands on hips. She’s put her jacket back on. Her black satin turban is slightly askew.

  I nod. My heart is full. When I was holding the skirt, Enid’s skirt, I knew that was Enid’s sign to me. But that’s between me and Enid.

  I’m not going to tell Dinah about my desperate call, or that she was part of the answer.

  I’m not sure how she’d take it. I’m sure in her opinion she rang me of her own volition, because she needed help on the stall. She might not like to see herself as a divine emissary, sent by Enid to stop me from being alone.

  I start to chuckle at the thought. It doesn’t matter, because I know what I know.

  Dinah looks at me and starts to laugh, too. She has a high-pitched laugh, a proper tee-hee-hee, very infectious, and she doubles up over the counter. ‘That mob!’ she says gleefully between giggles, ‘I thought the stall was going to fall down, didn’t you!’

  I’m laughing with her and gradually we pull ourselves together. She dabs the tears from her eyes, turning her face up to mine. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Um, your turban’s a little jaunty,’ I advise, and she takes it off and studies it.

  ‘Here,’ she says suddenly. ‘This is for you. Remember, I promised it to you.’ She places it on my head as gently as a crown.

  LOT 15

  A belted black PVC raincoat, small, knee-length, unlabelled, circa 1980.

  I drive from the Cotswolds back to Berkhamsted. My mother’s surprised to have the car back a day earlier than she expected. She takes me into the lounge to see my father. He’s watching cricket on Sky Sports. He tears his attention away briefly from the screen to say hello.

  She shrugs and gestures to me, a gesture that says – see what I have to put up with!

  She goes into the kitchen, her kimono fluttering behind her. The sunlight’s coming through the window, illuminating a vase of red tulips.

  As she puts the coffee on, I think about the events of lunchtime and wonder what would have happened if one of their friends had actually warned David that Gigi was expecting him to go down on one knee.

  Would he have stuck to his opinion that they ‘weren’t there yet’, or would he have done it to please her, to ‘make her eyes light up’?

  ‘Wasn’t it fun?’ my mother asks doubtfully, seeing me frown and probably wondering why I’ve cut my weekend short.

  ‘Tremendous fun,’ I reply, and I describe in detail the house and the restaurant we went to for lunch, and the cake, and the photographer.

  ‘Was he from a magazine?’ she asks eagerly.

  Despite the fact he wasn’t, my mother’s happy that I’m mixing with the right sort of people. ‘Your father’s meeting new people, too,’ she adds.

  ‘Yes, well, that’s what happens when you take up a new hobby. You should find something new as well; he’s right about that.’

  ‘Why?’ she asks stubbornly, leaning elegantly against the fridge. ‘You and your father are my whole life.’

  I’m so shocked by this admission that without thinking, I say, ‘No wonder I’m such a disappointment.’ I regret it instantly, because her face hardens with disapproval and all the warmth is suddenly sucked out of the kitchen. ‘Sorry,’ I say desperately. ‘I just mean – your life is your life and you’ve got so much to give.’

  ‘I know what you mean!’ she says, her voice vibrating with emotion. ‘You make me laugh! You think you don’t need me, well, see how you get on without me – and don’t bother to come running to me when you want to borrow my car or my money.’ She walks out into the hall, slamming the door behind her, and I wince at the thud, which has effectively ended the argument. For a moment I stand there frozen, trying to rewind the conversation.

  My father comes to see what’s happened and sums it up in a second when he sees my face. ‘Said the wrong thing, did you?’ he asks gently.

  I’m pressing my lips together; I can’t even speak.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, taking my arm. ‘I’ll give you a lift to the station.’

  I get off the train at Euston and head with my bag to the market. It’s almost seven and I’m amazed to find Dinah’s still there, and Kim’s with her. They’re packing up and giggling like two conspirators. Kim’s wearing Dinah’s black turban.

  They’re happy to see me and I’m happy to see them.

  ‘Hooray! She’s come back early! You know why? She doesn’t trust us,’ Dinah says and that sets them off again.

  She’s excited to tell me about the sales they’ve made and Kim shows me the client book.

  ‘We’ve got a few extra names for you,’ he says, flicking through the pages.

  I’m thrilled and absolutely convinced that sharing a bigger unit with David is going to make a difference. The business is expanding!

  ‘So tell us, Fern! How was the party?’

  ‘Amazing!’

  ‘Gigi liked your gift?’

  ‘Yes, she loved it!’ I’m on the point of telling them about the new unit, when I think it would be better to mention it to Moss first.

  Ever sensitive to people’s thoughts, Dinah notices my hesitation and says, ‘You were going to say something?’

  ‘Yes! I’m lucky to have you as my friends. Tell you what, let’s go for a drink to Cotton’s Rhum Shack. It’s on me. You deserve it.’

  On Monday morning I’m meeting Moss at the Paradise Café to tell him about David’s idea of sharing a bigger unit. The Paradise Café is a Greek restaurant with pine wood panelling painted in dark brown gloss and streaked to look like maho
gany. The effect isn’t very convincing, but I suppose if you live with it long enough, you get to accept it. And Moss doesn’t come here for the decor; he comes here because it’s convenient, Andreas, the dark-haired, wiry owner is friendly and the coffee is good.

  Moss sits down heavily, scraping the chair legs on the floor. The lapel of his black jacket is threaded with a bright row of pins. ‘You’ve seen the shop?’ he asks me gloomily. ‘Ali’s moved some bikes in. He’s doing MOTs at the back. I’m not happy about it.’ He rubs his freckled hands together to soothe himself. ‘He says he’ll pay me for the extra days.’ Moss doesn’t look entirely happy with the coffee, either, scooping it up with his teaspoon disdainfully and letting it drip back into the cup. ‘Andreas, what is this?’

  ‘It’s the coffee you always have,’ Andreas replies. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. Taste it.’

  ‘I just did.’ Moss raises his wild, dark eyebrows and lowers them again.

  ‘Time to retire, maybe,’ Andreas says. ‘Do it while you’re still young.’

  ‘Too late, my friend. Anyway, you know how many people drop dead after they retire?’ Moss asks. ‘That’s why I’m never giving up.’

  ‘You’ll drop dead sometime, one way or the other,’ Andreas points out.

  Moss looks at me gloomily. He rubs the loose skin of his face, his eyes glossy black. ‘So, now you’ve got me here, say what you’ve got to say.’

  I fold my arms on the table and sugar grains stick to my elbows. ‘Gigi’s boyfriend has got a place in Stables Market and we can share with him if we go halves on the rent. He reckons that there’s plenty of room for you to put a worktable there and if people want alterations, you’ll be there on the spot to measure them up. What do you think?’

  His expression doesn’t alter. To be fair, he’s never been a bundle of laughs, has Moss.

  He rubs his hand over his eyes wearily. ‘Gigi’s boyfriend, the boring man?’ he asks with a frown. ‘I don’t want him bothering me all day with his talk.’

  ‘Honestly, Moss, David’s not boring, he’s practical.’ I realise I seem to have spent the last few days defending him for one reason or another. ‘I think it’ll work out really well for both of us. People can browse, there’s more room for stock and people are a lot more likely to be interested in alterations if they only have to walk to the back of the shop instead of finding their way to Morland Street.’

  Moss lowers his heavy eyelids, deep in thought. He opens them a fraction. ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘There’s no catch.’

  ‘So why haven’t you said yes?’

  ‘Actually, I have – I said yes straight away. It’s up to you whether you come in on it or not.’

  This is meant to prove that I think it’s a great idea, but Moss laughs out loud. ‘Is he good-looking, this man?’

  ‘Maybe Greek, if he’s good-looking,’ Andreas observes soberly over the counter.

  We’re interrupted by a cheerful, grey-haired elderly priest from the Orthodox Church wearing elaborate gold-embroidered-robes. He’s holding a bouquet of smouldering branches.

  ‘Blessings for prosperity?’ he asks Andreas, wafting burning leaves towards him.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Andreas tells him and opens the till.

  The priest chants and cleanses the four corners of the coffee shop with smoke.

  ‘Hey, Father, bring your prosperity this way,’ Moss says and the priest obligingly waves the branches over us. Enveloped by smoke, we listen to him going through his rituals and after the final flourish, Andreas hands him a tip. Moss and I follow suit, then we thank him and watch him leave while I try to get the ash out of my cleavage.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s doing any good. It’s got very quiet in here since the last time he came,’ Andreas says thoughtfully. ‘Still, he has to make a living.’

  ‘If I say no, then what?’ Moss asks me, taking up the conversation from where we left off.

  ‘David and I’ll go halves.’

  ‘And if I come in, we split it three ways?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ah. Now I understand.’ Moss holds out his large hand and shakes mine. ‘It’s a deal.’

  Lucy comes down to mine this evening because she’s blagged a VIP ticket to a film premiere at the British Film Institute IMAX cinema in Waterloo and wants something incredible to wear.

  ‘I’m going with a guy who works for Universal Films. I’ll give you a shout out,’ she promises. ‘We’re talking red carpet, press, crowds …’

  I’m hugely impressed. ‘Will you actually be on TV?’

  ‘Well, not officially,’ she admits. ‘I was thinking more of, you know, photobombing. One way or another, I’m getting my face out there.’

  I drag my clothing rails from the utility room and tell her about the weekend. ‘You were right about the chopping board. Gigi wasn’t impressed.’

  ‘Of course she wasn’t! Whoever thought that would be a good idea for a gift?’

  ‘David did,’ I say.

  ‘And you did, too,’ she says accusingly. ‘Honestly. You two, you’re made for each other.’

  This wonderful thought sends me into a daydream.

  ‘So, how did everything end with David and Gigi?’ she asks, pulling out a teal beaded lace dress with a flesh underskirt as iridescent as a peacock’s feathers.

  ‘See for yourself.’ I get out my phone and show her the photographs that I took.

  ‘Wow.’ Lucy scrolls through them. She taps a picture and looks at it closely. ‘Fern, he’s gorgeous!’

  I screw up my nose. ‘I know.’

  ‘He shows just the right amount of teeth when he smiles. And he’s so neat I want to ruffle him all up,’ she growls. ‘She doesn’t look too happy though, does she?’

  She gives me the phone back and while she continues to look at the dresses, I take a closer look at Gigi, who actually, now that Lucy has pointed it out, doesn’t look happy at all. ‘She’s pouting. Everyone pouts in photographs.’

  ‘Yes, they pout, but they don’t pout. She looks more moody than sultry.’

  I don’t argue with her. There might be hope for me yet.

  LOT 16

  Blush pink dress, 1920s, heavy, French guipure lace, with dropped waist, and silk-lined underskirt.

  Moving day!

  The sky is dark and heavy. Cato parks his van outside and he helps me to transfer my rails and clothes from my flat to Stables Market in the rain. When we get to Camden Lock, he stays in the van so he won’t get a ticket and I’m dragging my big, rickety case along the pavement for the last time, hopefully.

  Moss meets me at the entrance to Stables Market and he’s holding a large black umbrella over his black overcoat. His black trilby makes him look like a gangster from a Twenties film.

  I’m wearing my belted black PVC raincoat that squeaks as I walk. Moss gallantly takes my arm and holds the umbrella over me. The rain has slicked the cobbles to a high gloss.

  David’s unit is in the central yard. He’s fixing units together with an electric screwdriver, surrounded by boxes. He’s wearing white overalls – the only man I’ve ever seen looking good in them – and he’s focused and self-possessed. I feel a sudden nervous thrill at seeing him. In the same way that I can’t act naturally around my parents, I can’t act natural with a good-looking man and now I’m sharing a pitch with him. It would help if he was missing some teeth or covered in boils and deeply flawed or something. Any of those and I’d be fine.

  ‘Hi!’

  He looks up. ‘Hello, Fern!’ he says and flashes me a smile.

  I give an involuntary whimper of longing.

  Looking concerned, he asks, ‘Is your case heavy?’

  ‘Er, no, not really. The wheel’s coming off. This is Moss.’

  Moss flaps the raindrops off his black umbrella and props it up against the wall. He shakes David’s hand sombrely. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Gigi,’ he says.

  ‘All good, I hope.’

&nb
sp; ‘Not so much.’ Moss shrugs. ‘I’ll have a look around, if I may?’

  ‘Go for it,’ David says, putting his weight on the storage unit to test it.

  I follow him, my mac squeaking and rustling, to the back of the shop. The place is pretty big and there’s plenty of room.

  ‘If I put some hanging rails in here,’ Moss says, ‘that’ll give me space for my table.’

  ‘Yeah. Nice, isn’t it?’ It reminds me of my utility room at home. The exposed brick arch is industrial in a trendy way and it’s got bags of potential.

  Moss is already walking away with his hands clasped behind his back. He’s taken a desultory look at the space on offer and now he’s standing in the entrance at the front of the shop looking out at the rain, rocking gently from his toes to his heels. He looks at David curiously. ‘You seem like a nice guy. I don’t know why Gigi says you’re boring.’

  I cringe.

  David laughs. ‘Gigi thinks life should be a permanent holiday,’ he says.

  ‘Listen to me, take my advice, never let a woman get bored,’ Moss says darkly. ‘You need to keep surprising them.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Surprise is the key to a happy marriage. How else would we have kept married for almost seventy years? See this? This is my application to the Queen’s anniversary office for a card of congratulations from Her Majesty herself.’ He takes a form out of his jacket pocket and shows it to David.

  ‘I didn’t know your name was Moses,’ David says.

  ‘You come to a country, you have to fit in,’ Moss says sternly. ‘We’re British now.’

  Seventy years! Mind-boggling!

  I hurry back out in the rain to get the rails from Cato, who’s looking in the rearview mirror and tugging on his wispy blond beard to encourage new growth while keeping a lookout for traffic wardens.

  My last trip is for Dolly. I hoist her over my shoulder and Cato pulls away in the nick of time, saluting the traffic warden as he goes. In the yard I pass Moss, who tells me he’s on his way to get Hamed’s son to help him empty the shop.

  Back in the unit I start fixing the rails together with my set of Allen keys. It’s a noisy business, what with the rails and David’s drilling.