A Vintage Affair (8 page)

‘No. Thank you, my dear. But I would be grateful if you could let yourself out.’

‘Of course. So …’ I held out my hand. ‘I’ll see you next week then, Mrs Bell.’

‘Next week,’ she echoed. She looked at me then suddenly clasped my hand in both hers. ‘I already look forward to it –
very
much.’

This morning as I drove to see my seamstress, Val, in unexpected drizzle my mind kept returning to the little blue coat. It was sky blue – the blue of freedom – yet it had been hidden away. As I crawled up Shooter’s Hill Road in nose-to-tail traffic I tried to imagine what the reason might be. Sometimes – and now I remembered my mother’s remark about sartorial archaeology – I can work out a garment’s history from the way it’s been worn. When I was at Sotheby’s, for example, someone brought me three dresses by Mary Quant. They were all in good condition, except that each had a threadbare patch on the right sleeve. The woman who’d brought them in told me that they had belonged to her aunt, a novelist, who wrote all her books in longhand. A pair of Margaret Howell linen trousers with a worn left hip had been owned by a model who’d had three babies in the space of four years. But now, as I flicked on the windscreen wipers, I could come up with no theory for Mrs Bell’s coat. Who, in 1943, had
needed it more than she did? And why had Mrs Bell never told anyone the story – not even her adored husband?

I hadn’t mentioned it to Annie when she’d arrived for work this morning. I’d simply said that I’d be buying quite a few things from Mrs Bell.

‘Is that why you’re going to your seamstress?’ she asked as she re-folded the knitwear. ‘To have some of them altered?’

‘No. I’ve got some repairs to collect. Val phoned me last night.’ I picked up my car keys. ‘She doesn’t like things hanging around once they’re done.’

Val, who’d been recommended to me by Pippa at the Moon Daisy Café, is extremely quick and very reasonable. She is also a dressmaking genius and can restore even a wrecked garment to its former glory.

By the time I parked outside her house in Granby Road at the nicer end of Kidbrooke the drizzle had become pelting rain. I peered through the misted windscreen and watched the raindrops bounce off the bonnet like ball bearings. I’d need my umbrella just to get to Val’s porch.

She opened the door – a tape measure slung round her neck – and her pointy little face folded into a smile. Then she noticed my umbrella and looked at it suspiciously. ‘You won’t put that up in here, will you?’

‘Of course not,’ I replied as I lowered it. I gave it a good shake. ‘I know you think it would be…’

‘Unlucky.’ Val shook her head. ‘It
would
be – especially as it’s black.’

‘Is that worse then?’ I stepped inside.

‘Much worse. And you won’t drop it on the floor, will you?’ she added anxiously.

‘No – but why not?’

‘Because if you drop a brolly it means there’ll be a murder in the house in the near future, and I’d rather avoid it, especially as my husband’s been driving me up the wall lately. I don’t want to…’

‘Push your luck?’ I suggested as I placed the umbrella in her stand.

‘Exactly.’ I followed her down the passage.

Val is short, sharp and thin – like a pin. She is also superstitious to the point of it being a compulsion. It isn’t just that she – by her own admission – salutes solitary magpies left, right and centre, bows to the full moon and strenuously avoids greeting black cats. She has an encyclopaedic knowledge of superstition and folklore. In the four months that I’ve known her I have discovered that it’s unlucky to eat a fish from the tail towards the head, to try and count the stars, or to wear pearls on your wedding day. It’s unlucky to drop your comb while doing your hair – it portends disappointment – or to stick knitting needles through balls of yarn.

On the other hand it’s
lucky
to find a nail, eat an apple on Christmas Eve, and to accidentally put a garment on inside out.

‘Right then,’ Val said as we went into her sewing room, every surface of which was stacked up with shoe boxes brimming with cotton reels and zips, sewing patterns, cards of ribbon, swatches of fabric and spools of bias binding. She reached under the table and produced a large carrier bag. ‘I think these have come up quite nicely,’ she said as she handed it to me.

I looked inside it. They had. A maxi-length Halston coat with a ripped hemline had been shortened to mid-calf; a fifties cocktail dress with perspiration stains had had the arms cut out so that it was now elegantly sleeveless; and an Yves St Laurent silk jacket, which had been sprayed with champagne, had been speckled with sequins to cover the stains. I’d have to point out these alterations to prospective buyers, but at least the clothes had been saved. They were much too beautiful and good just to be thrown away.

‘They’ve come up brilliantly, Val,’ I said as I reached for my bag to pay her. ‘You’re so clever.’

‘Well, my gran taught me to sew; and she always said that if there’s a fault on a garment then don’t just mend it – make a
virtue
of it. I can still hear her saying it to me now: “Make a
virtue
of it, Valerie.”
Oh
.’ She’d dropped her scissors and was staring at them with a look of insane happiness. ‘
That’s
great.’

‘What is?’

‘They’ve landed with both points sticking into the floor.’ She stooped to pick them up. ‘That’s
really
good luck,’ she explained, waving them at me. ‘It usually means that more work’s coming into the household.’

‘It is.’ I told her that I was buying a collection of clothes and that about eight of the garments would need minor repairs.

‘Bring them in,’ Val said as I handed her the money I owed her. ‘Thanking you. Ooh…’ She peered at the coat. ‘That bottom button’s a bit loose – let me do it before you go.’

Suddenly the door bell rang three times in quick succession.

‘Val?’ called a gravelly voice. ‘You there?’

‘That’s my neighbour, Maggie,’ Val explained as she threaded her needle. ‘She always rings three times to let me know it’s her. I leave the door on the latch as we’re forever popping in and out of each other’s houses. We’re in the sewing room, Mags!’

‘Thought you would be! Hiya!’ Maggie was standing in the doorway, almost filling it. She was the physical opposite of Val, being big, blonde and spready. She was wearing tight black leather trousers, gold stilettos, the sides of which struggled to contain her plump feet, and a low-cut red top which displayed a massive, if somewhat crepey, cleavage. She was also wearing tawny-toned foundation, bright blue eye-liner and false lashes. As for her age, she could have been anywhere between thirty-eight and fifty. She exuded the scent of Magie Noire mingled with cigarettes.

‘Hi, Mags,’ said Val. ‘This is Hoebe,’ she added through gritted teeth as she bit the end of the cotton. ‘Phoebe’s just opened a vintage dress shop over in Blackheath – haven’t you, Phoebe. By the way,’ she added to me, ‘I hope you put salt on the doorstep like I told you to. It helps protect against misfortune.’

I’d had so much misfortune it would have made no difference, I reflected. ‘I can’t say I did do that, no.’

Val shrugged as she put a rubber thimble on her middle finger. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ She began to re-stitch the button. ‘So how’s it going then, Mags?’

Mags sank into a chair, evidently exhausted. ‘I’ve just had
the
most difficult client. For ages he refused to get started – he just wanted to talk; then he took forever about it, and afterwards he was tricky about paying
because he wanted to pay by cheque and I said it’s cash or nothing, as I had made
quite
clear beforehand.’ She rearranged her breasts in an indignant manner. ‘When I said I’d call the Bill he produced the notes sharp enough. I couldn’t half do with a cup of something though, Val – I’m all in and it’s only half eleven.’

‘Put the kettle on then,’ said Val.

Mags disappeared into the kitchen, her nicotine rasp carrying down the passageway. ‘Then I had this other customer – he had this weird obsession with his mother – he’d even brought one of her dresses with him.
Very
demanding, he was. I did what I could for him, but he then had the cheek to say that he was “dissatisfied” with my “services”. Imagine!’

The probable nature of Maggie’s business was by now clear.

‘You poor sweetheart,’ said Val warmly as Mags reappeared with a packet of digestives. ‘Those punters of yours don’t half take it out of you.’

Mags gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘You can say that again.’ She took out a biscuit, and bit on it. ‘Then to cap it all, I had that woman at number 29 – Sheila Whatsit.’ My eyes started from my head. ‘She was a right nuisance. Wanted to get in touch with her ex-husband. He’d dropped dead on the golf course last month. She said she felt so bad about how she’d treated him when they were married that she couldn’t sleep. So I get through to him, right …’ Mags sank into the chair. ‘And I begin passing on his messages to her, but within two minutes she’s furious with him about something and starts screaming and shrieking at him like a bagful of cats –’

‘I think I heard her through the wall,’ Val said evenly as she pulled the thread taut. ‘Sounded like quite a carryon.’

‘You’re telling me,’ agreed Mags as she flicked crumbs off her lap. ‘So I said, “Look, sweetheart, you really shouldn’t
talk
to dead people like that. It’s dis respectful.”’

‘So … you’re a medium?’ I said shyly.

‘A medium?’ Maggie looked at me so seriously that I thought I’d offended her. ‘No – I’m
not
a medium,’ she said. ‘I’m a
large!
’ At that she and Val hooted with laughter. ‘Sorry,’ Maggie snorted. ‘I can never resist that one.’ She wiped away a tear with a scarlet talon. ‘But to answer your question…’ She patted her banana yellow hair. ‘I
am
a medium – or clairvoyant –
yes
.’

My pulse was racing. ‘I’ve never met a medium before.’

‘Never?’

‘No. But…’

‘
There
you are, Phoebe – all done!’ Val snipped the end of the thread, deftly wound it round the shank five or six times, and quickly folded the coat back into the bag. ‘So when do you want to bring the other things over?’

‘Well – probably a week today as I have help in the shop on Mondays and Tuesdays. Will you be here if I come at the same time?’

‘I’m always here,’ Val replied wearily. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

I looked at Maggie. ‘So … I’m … just wondering …’ I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. ‘Someone very close to me died recently. I was very fond of … this person.
I miss them …’ Maggie nodded sympathetically. ‘And … I’ve never ever done this before and in fact I’ve always been sceptical – but if I could just talk to them, if only for a few seconds, or
hear
something from them,’ I went on anxiously. ‘I’ve even looked up a few psychics in Yellow Pages – there’s this thing called “Dial-a-Medium”; and I actually selected one of them and called their number but then I couldn’t bring myself to speak because I felt so embarrassed but now that I’ve met
you
I feel I –’

‘Do you want a reading?’ Maggie interjected patiently. ‘Is that what you’re trying to tell me, sweetheart?’

I sighed with relief. ‘It is.’

She reached into her cleavage and pulled out first a packet of Silk Cut, then a little black diary. She slid the tiny pen out of its spine, licked her index finger and flicked over the pages. ‘So when shall I put you in for?’

‘Well … after I’ve dropped off the things I’m bringing Val?’

‘This time next week then?’ I nodded. ‘My terms are fifty quid cash, no refunds for a bad connection – and
no
dissing the deceased,’ Mags added as she scribbled away. ‘That’s my new rule. So …’ She tucked the diary back into her bosom then opened the pack of cigarettes. ‘That’s a private sitting at eleven a.m. next Tuesday. See you then, sweetheart,’ she said as I left.

As I drove back to Blackheath I tried to analyse my motives for going to a medium. I’d always regarded such activities with distaste. My grandparents had all died, but I’d never felt the slightest urge to try and contact
any of them on ‘the other side’. But since Emma’s death I’d increasingly been aware of the desire, somehow, to reach her. Meeting Mags had made me feel that I could at least try.

But what did I hope to get out of the experience? I wondered as I approached Montpelier Vale. A message from Emma, presumably. Saying what? That she was … okay? How
could
she be? I reflected as I pulled up outside the shop. She’s probably floating around in the ether, bitterly pondering the fact that thanks to her so-called ‘best friend’ she was now never going to get married, have children, turn forty, go to Peru like she’d always wanted to do, let alone get the OBE for services to the fashion industry as we’d often drunkenly predicted. She would now never get to enjoy the prime of her life, or the peaceful retirement that should have followed it, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. That Emma had been deprived of all this was, I reflected bleakly, thanks to me – and to Guy. If only Emma had never
met
Guy, I wished as I parked …

‘It’s been an amazing morning,’ Annie said as I pushed on the door.

‘Has it?’

‘The Pierre Balmain evening gown has sold – subject to the cheque clearing, but I doubt there’ll be a problem.’

‘Fabulous,’ I breathed. That would help the cash flow.

‘And I’ve sold two of those fifties circle skirts. Plus you know the pale pink Madame Grès – the one you don’t want?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that woman who tried it on the other day came back –’

‘
And?
’

‘Bought it.’

‘
Great
.’ I clapped my hand to my chest in relief.

Annie looked at me with puzzlement. ‘Well, yes, it means you’ve taken over £2,000 and it’s still only lunchtime.’ I couldn’t tell Annie that my reaction to the sale of the dress had nothing to do with the money. ‘The woman’s completely the wrong shape for it,’ Annie went on as I went through to the office, ‘but she said she
had
to have it. The card payment was fine, so she took it away.’

For a split second I wrestled with my conscience – the
£
500 from the sale of the gown would be so useful. But I had vowed to give the money to charity and that’s what I’d do.

Suddenly the bell over the door tinkled and in came the girl who’d tried on the turquoise cupcake dress.