by Helen Cullen
‘Oh, gosh, no, well, I did come looking for you, but not for my own benefit, per se. You see, I have a friend who I think likes to shop here, or liked to, anyway.’
‘Marvellous. She has excellent taste, and you would like to buy her a present! Come with me.’
She stood up and rested a hand on her hip as she sashayed into the middle of the room. She pointed at a red-and-white polka-dot footstool before ducking behind the pink velvet curtain herself.
‘Wait here, I shan’t be a moment,’ she cooed over the top.
William hesitated before lowering himself on to the little seat, which brought his knees in line with his chin. His eyes wandered around the twinkling room, lingering over the cacophony of fabrics and colours. He tried to imagine Winter here, trying on exotic dresses and assessing her appearance in front of the mirrors, but couldn’t really picture her, just the shimmering daydream his mind’s eye conjured up. He certainly couldn’t imagine Clare here; there wasn’t a pair of black trousers or a two-piece suit in sight. He reprimanded himself for the unfair comparison: Clare hadn’t always been that way. Slowly, over the years, the flowery dresses and stripy jumpers had been muscled out by the uniform of work which eventually became the norm. He had to admit, though, it was exciting to think of the sort of woman who would shop here; it raised his expectations further of how glamorous Winter might be. He just couldn’t shake the image of scarlet hair tumbling down the back of her white rabbit-fur coat.
He tried to ignore the muted conversation of the ladies behind the dressing screen, but they weren’t being very discreet.
‘I’m just not sure it’s very flattering. I don’t know if I want to draw that much attention to my backside.’
‘Sweetie, it’s not the dress’s fault. That’s just your shape. Embrace it. Shake it. Love it.’
He heard a firm slap, followed by a little squeal of laughter, before the owner of the bottom appeared in front of him.
‘What do you think? Do you like it?’
He surveyed the woman wriggling in front of him and tried to work out which ‘it’ in particular he was supposed to be remarking on. Her baby-blue hair was teased into a beehive rising a foot above her pixie-like face. Little blue silk butterflies were scattered throughout, as if they had become trapped there and set up home. A pink fish dangled from a hook in each ear and dozens of strings of multicoloured glass beads encircled her throat. The dress itself appeared to be made of tinfoil on the top half, with chains of metal hoops resting on silver paper at the bottom.
‘Well? Do you like it? If you saw me in a bar, would you want to talk to me? Do you think I look ravishing? I won’t settle for anything less than ravishing. You hesitated. It’s awful. I knew it. Una, get me out of this contraption.’
Una started adjusting the dress on her shoulders.
‘Nonsense, he’s just shy. Look at him, he’s spellbound. Aren’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, quite. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it before.’
‘But, do you like it?’
‘I’m really not a very good judge of these things. I don’t really know anything about fashion or …’
His words were left suspended as she flounced back behind the screen. She wrestled out of the dress and tossed it over the top of the curtain.
‘I knew it. Una, it just won’t work. Let’s try again next week.’
Una scooped up the fallen outfit and smoothed out the panels as she nonchalantly reclaimed her seat behind the desk. William shuffled over in front of her again.
‘You just lost me a big piece of business, mister. I hope you’re planning on splurging, big time.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, I’m just not really the right person for this sort of thing. And the truth is, I’m not actually here to shop.’
She picked up a hand mirror, turned away from him and fiddled with the net at the front of her hat.
‘Well, we’re not a spectator sport. So, if you’ll excuse me …’
The pixie lady bustled past him. The jingle of the bells was violent as she slammed the door behind her.
‘Please, I just wanted to ask you about my friend.’
‘Sale first. Conversation later.’
‘But that’s exploitation. Surely, you can’t charge me for asking a few questions. I just want to see if you can help me –’
‘I think I’ll take an early lunch, so, if you’ll excuse me.’
Una reached under her desk for a gold-plated handbag with tassels around the edge and removed from it a single avocado.
‘Okay, okay, I have … let me see’ – he rustled in his blazer pockets – ‘twelve pounds and seventeen pence. What can I buy for that?’
She sighed, spun back to the counter and opened a deep drawer underneath.
‘Some fishnet tights. What size would you like, sir?’
William ran his fingers through his hair with frustration.
‘This is ridiculous; I don’t care what size. They’ll be going in the bin as soon as I leave.’
‘Oh, darling, there’s no need to be so hostile. We just want to make sure all our customers have a wonderful experience here.’
She smiled at him as she wrapped them, first in pink tissue paper, and then white, before tying the package with black silk ribbon. William was convinced she moved as slowly as possible to aggravate him and waited impatiently for her to finish before shoving the beautiful parcel into the front pocket of his satchel. She pushed her chair back and crossed her legs, revealing some elegant stockings of her own.
‘So, tell me about this friend of yours.’
‘Well, it’s a little complicated. I’m not entirely sure of her name but I believe she may be called Winter.’
‘You believe? I thought you said she was a friend. A lot of ladies love this shop; I don’t recall ever meeting anyone called Winter.’
‘She’s more of an acquaintance, of sorts, and, you see, I’m trying to find her, but I only have a few clues, like, for example, I happen to know that she loves this shop. And I think she might have bought these boots here.’
He held the Polaroid out to her; she glanced at it without taking it from him.
‘Yes, I remember those boots; they were for a child, actually. Sat here for ages before someone with small enough feet came in and wanted to buy them.’
‘Gosh, do you remember who you sold them to? Do you keep records of your sales?’
‘Oh, darling, I wasn’t even here that day. Maybe the old owner, Gloria, might know her, but she lives in Canada now. I bought the shop when she left.’
William stood in silence.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, but at least you’ve got some lovely stockings,’ she offered.
He turned to leave, but he had one more question, ‘Why is the shop called Guns of Una? It seems a strange name.’
She laughed and shook a handkerchief at him. ‘Not “guns”, you silly man,’ she cooed. ‘Gúna – gooooona – it’s the Irish for dress. Gúna of Una, and that’s me – I’m Una.’
Humiliation complete, William climbed the steps back out on to the streets of Dublin with the tinkle of bells and laughter in his wake. It was so frustrating to have such a strong lead go cold, but the palaver had not been entirely in vain. He left with a stronger sense of Winter than before; the sketch in his mind was filled in with a little more colour. The more he knew, the more enticing Winter became.
XX
Clare arrived back in London after an interminable spell at the airport waiting for the first flight to take her home. When she eventually arrived back at their flat, she was disappointed to find the hallway dark and silent when she pushed the door open. William must have waited to catch their original flight home, after all, she thought. It was crushing to see the evidence of their departure littered around the flat; was this the last remains of their final happy time together? Two unwashed teacups upside down in the sink; the shoe polish left open on the mat from William’s last-minute shining; the c
urlers she had removed scattered across her dressing table. She swiped them on to the floor in an angry blow. How had she allowed this to happen? Just when she had started to believe in their future again, everything had imploded. She couldn’t face unpacking their luggage, seeing their clothes from the wedding crinkled and used before going to bed alone. Instead, she went back downstairs to wait for him.
Clare’s hands shook as she spooned coffee granules from the canister on the windowsill and dropped them in a waiting mug. The boiling water splashed over the sides as she tried in vain to steady her hand. The more she willed herself to act normally, the more her body failed her. She placed the mug on the table, took the milk from the fridge. As she poured, a sour stench struck her. She cursed in frustration and threw the carton into the sink, watched the thick, curdled mess clog the drain for a moment before breaking apart under the force of the water from the tap she ran. She sat at the kitchen table. I’ll just rest my eyes for a second, she thought, before a heavy sleep seized her, her head lying on her forearms on the table. In her dream, the telephone rang, in the distance at first, then louder, as her consciousness rose. As her eyes blinked awake, she heard William’s voice, shot up straight and called his name. She ran into the hallway, the living room, listened for movement upstairs. ‘William?’ she called, into a vacuum. Had she dreamed it? As she walked back towards the kitchen, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders, the flashing red beacon of the answering machine caught her eye. She pressed play and William’s voice filled the hallway once more.
He sounded a million miles away: sad, lost and lonely. She rewound the tape and played it through again. And again. And again. When she could bear it no longer, she lay on the living-room sofa, listening to Morrissey on the record player. It made William feel closer. Eventually, she felt ready to formulate something of a plan. From the basket of white paper that lay beside his typewriter, she pulled a sheet and wrote him a note.
William, my love,
You don’t know how much I wanted to be here when you came home; how hard it is for me to resist trying to make you forgive me with pure strength of will. But I know that you deserve some time alone to process what’s happened, much as it terrifies me to think of what conclusions you may reach.
What I did was indefensible but, I hope that, in time, you will see that, although it was awful, it may have been understandable; something so ugly and profound it would force me to confront how I feel, about us, but also about what my life has become. I was desperate, and behaved desperately.
For what it’s worth, I want you to know that there is nothing between me and that man and, even if we don’t survive this, there will never be anything between us again. I promise you. I think we both need some time to take stock of what’s happened, but I want you to know I think we can move past this, if we both really want to.
Please don’t close a door that we can’t ever return through. Maybe things can never be the same again, but couldn’t that be a good thing?
I am going to stay with Flora – please come and find me when you’re ready.
All my love,
Your Clare
She folded the letter and left it on William’s pillow, tidied away the curlers she had swept to the floor and filled a backpack with some things she might need. Before she left the house, she paused at the front door and thought for a moment before running back upstairs to their bedroom. From under their bed, she dragged out her old portfolio and knelt before it. The dust it unsettled made her cough as she brushed it clean with a discarded nightdress that lay at the foot of the bed. Without really understanding why, she tucked it under her arm to take with her. As she propped it against the back seat of her Mini, she felt better for having it there. A little piece of her from before she lost her way.
XXI
While Clare was writing William her note, William was pounding back up Dame Lane as an onslaught of spitting rain attacked his hunched shoulders. Droplets on his glasses blurred his vision, but he was too frustrated to unclench a fist from either pocket to wipe them. Instead, he kept his head down, too stubborn to pull his hood up, and continued marching blindly, until he almost walked into a lamp post. Resting his forehead against the damp blackness of the iron, he emitted a low whine. A hand on his left shoulder blade made him start, and the force of his reaction startled the owner of the hand in turn. A young woman with a nest of messy fair hair escaping from a pea-green beret looked at him with conflicting expressions of curiosity, suspicion and concern. They began apologizing at the same time. Her accent carried the sing-song cadence of somewhere beyond the city, each sentence ending in a high note, leaving him confused as to which sentences were questions and which were statements.
‘I’m sorry – I thought maybe you’d had an accident, or hurt yourself? I can’t help myself. I’m a nurse, you see, and whenever I think someone might be in trouble, I have to ask, or else I’d be thinking about it all evening and worrying I’d read about them on the news. Everyone would say how the world had become such a terrible place that no one would stop and ask a fella if he was okay, too busy minding their own business … it would put me off my supper … Anyways, I’m just blathering on now, and I can see you’re okay, and we’re both getting soaked to the skin. You are okay … aren’t you?’
William waited a beat beyond what was comfortable before he began to speak. He had just about followed what she was saying but, now that it was his turn to speak, her jumble of words seemed to have rendered him incapable of making any sense himself.
‘Yes, I just needed a minute. Sorry, it must have looked a bit odd.’
‘Well, it’s a funny spot to stop with the heavens opening above us. As long as you’re okay?’ She tightened the belt on her navy-blue raincoat and tucked a few soaked tendrils of hair back under her beret as she skipped backwards into the flow of pedestrians.
‘You should get yourself home, have a bath. Steam the damp out of you.’
Her face broke into a lopsided grin that changed her appearance completely. Her expression became illuminated like a starlet in a silent movie with no words to tell the world what was on her mind. He waved to her as she turned away, little rivulets of water trickling down the sleeve of his coat, before darting through the traffic that had stopped at the lights. He ducked under the archway of a market arcade and shook himself like a shaggy dog. A chuckle escaped him as he remembered his glee at the sunshine state he’d awoken to that morning. Was this his punishment for tempting fate? He let his eyes wander to the source of the clatter behind him. Market traders packing away their wares from stalls that ran in two lines down the centre of the archway. Little shops on either side were growing dark as shutters were drawn, signs switched off, lights quenched and doors locked. He strolled through the detritus of the Saturday sales: war memorabilia, trophies won at long-forgotten sports days, football matches or tennis tournaments, rails of vintage dresses, floppy hats and moth-eaten fur coats, tiers of twinkling fairy lights, costume jewellery, and candles being snuffed one by one.
Should he bring something home to Marjorie? To thank her for looking out for him? Perhaps also to make up for stealing back his Winter letter and allowing her to think she lost it. He idled at a stall with racks of vinyl records and battered hardback books naked without their dust jackets and chose a slim volume for her: The Love Letters of War. Her valentine-soaked heart would revel in it. Some of the traders smiled at him hopefully as he continued on and trailed past their displays, a last-minute sale before home time would finish the morning off nicely, but he didn’t linger at any one spot for long. He could tell some people were tired and just wanted to pack up as quickly as possible, resigned to the fact that it would all have to be unpacked again the next day. An impatient teenager stuffed colourful woollen tights and patterned knee socks into black plastic bags with no care for the meticulous manner in which they had been hung and displayed that morning. A lady dressed in baker’s whites carefully flattened cream cardboard boxes. A young man, worse for wear i
n a dirty shell tracksuit and unlaced trainers, watched her out of the corner of his eye as he leaned against a closed shop front. William hesitated and pretended to browse through an album of old stamps as he surveyed the scene. What would he do if the watcher grabbed the woman’s cashbox of takings? At least he might be able to startle him before it went that far, if he timed it correctly. In what looked like a painful manoeuvre, she dragged a stuffed plastic crate from under the rose-patterned tablecloth. The young man made a start towards her and William rushed forward, too, just in time to hear him gargle at her, ‘Let me do that for you, Mrs Gallagher, you don’t want to be puttin’ your back out again.’ She smiled at him and turned to look at William, who was now standing far too close for comfort and, for the second time that day, an Irishwoman gave him a worried look and asked him if he was all right.
‘Indeed, I just wanted to catch you before you closed up.’ He smiled weakly and mumbled an ineffectual, ‘Smells delicious … mmmm.’
As the chap lifted the crate, he threw William a suspicious glance.
‘Shall I take them to the car for you, Mrs Gallagher?’
‘That would be lovely, dear. I’ve left a bag inside for the young fella, so help yourself. Take the keys and you can pop them in the boot.’
William hovered at the edge of the stall, feigning interest in a display of eccentric umbrellas in a shop window.
‘Now, what were you after yourself? I’ve only got one spelt loaf left, but there’s a dozen or so scones still up for grabs, and a couple of cream buns. The market’s closing early today so I brought less than usual with me. Fancy them doing works on a Saturday, the busiest day of the week. Thoughtless –’
‘I’ll take a cream bun, please.’
‘Right, was that it?’
‘And the spelt loaf,’ William gulped. ‘And the scones.’
‘Lovely. Fifteen pounds all in, so.’
William added the unwanted baking to the superfluous stockings in his satchel. He walked purposefully away towards the beckoning lights of the busier end of the market, wondering what he could possibly do with it all. He cursed himself for his own inability to just say no. It was nearly time for lunch. A steaming bowl of soup was just what he needed to recalibrate and make a plan for the rest of the day. He strolled up George’s Street, nodding at the closed shutters of the Long Hall pub, to which he knew he would return, and turned up side streets that led back towards Grafton Street and St Stephen’s Green. He thought of Clare remarking that Dublin was a lot like Manhattan, really; the way the city sat around the lush green park at its heart. It was ludicrous; Manhattan could carry Dublin around in its smallest pocket, but still, he understood what she meant.