I’ve never had to shop for clothes for Enid; she’s not the kind of woman who needs a second opinion. Enid’s taste in clothes is conservative but feminine. One thing we both agree on is that trousers on a woman over seventy are invariably unflattering and unnecessary – unless, of course, one is a farmer; we’re not unreasonable people.
She knows what she likes. Her clothes are well-made. They’ll ‘see her out’. I listened to her saying that phrase in dismay. I wanted to buy her something worth living for, but it’s a tall order, to buy something to raise the spirits of a woman who’s unwell.
When I arranged the appointment with Fern Banks, I began by looking at everything through Enid’s eyes, by getting into Enid’s head. I can’t say I started out with a vision of what I wanted; it just gradually formed in my mind by a process of the elimination of what wasn’t suitable. It had to be special! Exciting! Evocative of a time when life was full of expectation. Oh, that frock was elusive!
Meeting Fern Banks in Carluccio’s meant leaving Enid for a second time and telling her more lies. I said I was going to the golf club and although I don’t go there much since Stan died, Enid didn’t question it.
When Fern showed me that blue dress, I knew immediately that it was the one! I felt alive again. I was tingling with excitement that I hadn’t felt in a long time! It turned the clock back!
After I bought it, I took it home and as I went through the door, Enid was calling me.
I felt so guilty that I hid it in my golf bag.
A pale pink crêpe dress, fit-and-flare style, circa 1975, with plunging neckline and tie waist.
Taking Mick’s advice, I hire a sixteen-litre dehumidifier to dry out the flat. I mop the floors and wash the soot from the walls.
When I go to buy milk, Mr Khan, the newsagent, reassures me that it’s a well-known fact that it’s only possible for a human to detect a smell for a short amount of time before the nose gets used to it, but sadly that isn’t true at all.
I put my front door panel together using outdoor wood filler and my Monsoon loyalty card, which is perfect for smoothing. Despite my efforts, it doesn’t look exactly as good as new, but at a cursory glance it doesn’t look as if it’s been hacked in, either; and it’ll look better once it’s dry and I’ve painted it. This isn’t something I want to bother my parents with if I don’t have to. They’re sure to make a crisis out of a drama.
That’s where the good news ends.
When I pick up the clothes from the cleaners, the woman is apologetic. They’ve done their best, but now that it’s dry, the gorgeous little fuchsia pink wool suit has shrunk a few sizes. Interestingly, the lining hasn’t shrunk at all and it billows like parachute silk out of the sleeves and below the hemline. The Twenties cocktail dresses are drab and insubstantial without their sequins. Their seams have frayed and come undone. I feel a wave of panic coming over me. A few hundred pounds worth of clothes and now they’re worthless, unsaleable, and I’ve just spent a large part of my savings having them cleaned.
When I get to the market at nine o’clock on Wednesday, my suitcase is noticeably lighter. To boost my confidence, I’m wearing a black-and-white check Fifties shirtwaister with padded shoulders and a wide black patent belt. My hair has a side parting, with a heavy wave falling loose over my right eye. It’s a look I’ve taken from Lauren Bacall in the film To Have and Have Not with Humphrey Bogart, 1944; ballsy, feminine, utilitarian. My lipstick is MAC: Lady Danger; my favourite bright, true red. My outfit makes me feel able to face the day ahead.
In our shady alley, a light breeze is snapping the canvas walls, carrying with it the mellow sweetness of the breakfast waffle stand.
As I pass it, I notice that the stall next to mine is in the process of being set up for the ten o’clock opening time. It’s lined with black fabric, and wooden and Perspex boxes are stacked up neatly inside. There’s no sign of the new occupant, though.
I unpack my suitcase, store it under the counter and hang up my surviving dresses, grouping them out so they don’t look so sparse. Humming to myself, I fix my banner, Fern Banks Vintage, on the skirt of the stall.
As I’m working, someone comes up behind me.
‘Morning, neighbour!’ he says.
I turn to greet him and to my surprise, it’s David Westwood. Oh, he’s gorgeous! I’m struck dumb by his ridiculous good looks. His hair is short at the sides, longer on top, thick and wavy, springing up from his clear brow. His eyebrows are straight and stern. He’s wearing black, which makes him look edgy, and I like edginess in a man. His eyes are the deepest blue. Probably contact lenses, I tell myself.
‘Hello! What are you doing here?’ I ask, feeling flustered and breathless and entirely losing my Lauren Bacall calm.
‘I thought about what you said about through traffic,’ he replies seriously.
‘Did you? Well! Good. Welcome to the neighbourhood.’ I’m feeling uncharacteristically buoyant at having a friendly stallholder next to me. We can look out for each other, watch each other’s stalls as we’re having a quick break …
‘Have you got a minute?’ he asks.
‘Sure.’
He beckons me over to his stall. ‘Take a look at this.’
With the flick of a switch, the rows of boxes, the source of his illusions, disappear and a constellation of stars shines brightly – the stand has been transformed into the night sky and suddenly we’re staring into the universe.
‘What do you think?’
‘Wow.’
‘Yeah.’ He looks pleased and he hands me a light box to look at.
I take a neighbourly interest. It’s five-sided, wooden, with the light fitting inside.
‘See the way the sides fit together?’ he says, smoothing it with his thumb. ‘These are dovetail joints.’
‘Nice!’
‘And then …’ He slots into the front grooves two removable dark blue acrylic panels with a pattern of holes drilled through them. Switching it on, the light shines out to create two constellations side by side.
‘Neat. I suppose the idea is to sell the whole set of boxes, so that a person could have a whole night sky for themselves, is that it?’
‘No, this is just the display. They’re star signs. Like, for instance, you’re Virgo and if you happened to know a Sagittarian, I’d slot this one in. See? They make a great engagement present. I can also personalise it with lettering underneath and the date.’
‘Romantic,’ I say dryly. ‘I’m not a Virgo.’
He shrugged. ‘Yes, well, you get the idea.’
Putting my face closer to the light box, it is like looking at the night sky, if you imagine you’re looking at it through a very tiny window or maybe a skylight in an attic. Or through two windows, because what we’ve got here are two bits of the night sky that aren’t necessarily next to each other. I’m not sure how I feel about him meddling with the universe. It doesn’t seem ethical. I tuck my hands into the pockets of my dress. ‘What star sign am I?’ I ask him brightly.
He looks up, frowning. ‘What?’
‘My star sign. Have a guess,’ I encourage him. I scoop