A Random Act of Kindness. Sophie Jenkins

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СКАЧАТЬ a woman wearing a multicoloured floor-sweeping skirt stops to see what they’re looking at, and then another couple nudge in, and I sit and watch while David Westwood starts on his astrological patter, which involves words like ‘air signs’ and ‘moon in Taurus’.

      I hadn’t expected him to have a patter but there he is, pointing out the constellations and how these had looked to the ancients like twins, and here, the fish. And he throws in a few more facts as well about light years – and here is the large light box in which they can see the individual stars more brightly. Yes, he can pack it safely, he says, and lo! he produces some cardboard which, with an origami flourish, he makes into a box. Meanwhile, the woman in the long skirt is texting her niece to find out her fiancé’s star sign and the other couple are wanting a set for their bedroom. (Aquarius, I’m going to say, but I think I’m on the cusp …)

      I mull over what David said about the right man having a decent income, disagreeing with him in my mind. A decent income doesn’t figure in things at all. I have no idea how much Mick makes, and I’d never in a million years ask him. It’s just about the least important thing in our relationship. I like him because I get him and he gets me; generosity of spirit is vital, the same sense of fun is a must and mutual lust a priority. It’s not a lot to ask, is it? Who’d go for a man just because he has a decent income? A brief vision of Melania Trump flashes through my brain, but that’s just cynicism, because who am I to judge? For all I know she and Donald might have an amazing connection.

      I watch the people go past.

      There’s not a lot of space in this alley. It’s narrow; it acts like a funnel. But occasionally in the flow of the crowd a woman will catch my eye and in a flash I’ll know exactly how they feel inside the things they’re wearing. I know as surely as if I am them. I know when a baggy top hides a good figure and when dark colours are worn to blend in. I recognise the elasticated waist that’s snug around the belly. I understand the apologetic walk, the wistful glance, because I’ve been there myself. These are the women who I hope will linger at my stand – but, regretfully, they hardly ever do because it’s impossible to wander around and browse. You just have to stand there in full view of me and look; and I know they’re afraid the clothes won’t fit them. They don’t think my lovely dresses, even when they catch the eye, are meant for them. And worst of all, they worry that I might be pushy. We both have our roles, the seller and the buyer.

      I generally pretend I haven’t seen them, because the first thing I learnt on this market stall was not to scare people off.

      Which is why I don’t look up when a shadow falls over me and I hear a shriek. ‘Fern Banks!’

      ‘Gigi!’ I squeal back. I recognise her at once – Gigi Martin, who I was at college with until she left mid-term and got a job as a junior in a hairdressing salon in Camden.

      ‘You haven’t changed a bit!’ she says.

      I seriously hope she’s just being polite.

      ‘You neither!’ I say. In my case, I’m being truthful. She’s model-slim in a polka-dot top and green skinny jeans. She’s got a mass of frizzy pink hair.

      ‘How’s it going? Man, you’re absolutely rushed off your feet,’ she says, laughing.

      ‘I know, riiight?’ I reply ruefully.

      ‘Dave looks as if he’s doing all right, though.’ Dayve, not David. ‘So this is what you do now?’ she asks, looking up at my diminished stock. ‘Have you sold everything?’

      Looking at the stall through her eyes I feel a shiver of panic. I don’t want to think about it. When I’d been saving my clothes from the fire, I’d obviously saved the most expensive, but maybe that hadn’t been my best idea. I should have kept some of the cheaper things, the kind of thing that a person would buy on impulse, just because she liked it, without having to think about it and come back later. ‘My upstairs neighbour had a fire in her flat.’

      ‘Fern! You’re kidding!’ Gigi covers her mouth with her hand. ‘And all your clothes got burnt?’

      ‘No, they got wet. This is the stuff I rescued.’

      ‘Oh, Fern! You’re insured though, right?’ She unhooks a flowing pink fit-and-flare dress and holds it against herself, looking down. ‘What waist is this?’ she asks.

      ‘Sixty-six centimetres.’

      ‘It’s beautiful. Seventies?’

      ‘Yes, mid-Seventies, I’d say.’

      ‘Hey, Dave?’ she calls. ‘What do you think?’

      My neighbour in black emerges from his parallel universe. He grins at Gigi and glances at the dress. ‘Very nice.’

      ‘“Very nice.”’ She laughs and holds the pink dress up to look at it. ‘That’s all he ever says, Fern – very nice.’

      He looks from Gigi to me. ‘Do you two know each other?’

      ‘We were at Camden School for Girls together, briefly. You were a shy little thing, weren’t you, Fern? Always drawing stuff in this little black book of hers. He’s the same.’ She jerks her thumb at my neighbour. ‘You’re always drawing, aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Always.’

      The way Gigi is talking implies it’s some weird quirk that we share, but David doesn’t seem bothered.

      She’s still holding the pink dress.

      ‘Do you want to try it on?’ I ask hopefully. I’ve devised a way of closing the stall off with a muslin drape and crocodile clips.

      She gives David a quick look. ‘Yes, why not. But I’ll have to be quick, though; I’ve got Pilates.’

      I’m glad she’s said yes. I want to see it on her. This is one of those dresses where the genius lies in the cut of the fabric and the way it hangs. It counterbalanced the androgyny of the styles of the Sixties.

      Gigi pulls the dress on over her jeans, but it looks lovely on her with its plunging neckline and the fluid curve of the skirt. The pink is the same shade as her hair. She undoes a couple of the little covered buttons down the front to show her cleavage and she poses for us both with a hand on her hip. It was made for her.

      ‘Gigi, you look gorgeous,’ I say sincerely, my hand on my heart.

      ‘Dave? What do you think?’

      ‘You look like a stick of candyfloss.’ His face softens. ‘Yeah. Gorgeous.’

      She turns the label over to look at the price. ‘You take cards?’

      ‘I do.’

      As I reach for the machine, she touches some other dresses and looks at them briefly but puts them back. She pouts at him, ducks back under the curtain and takes the dress off. She’s satisfied.

      Once she’s paid, she bundles the dress into her bag. ‘Guys, I’ve got to go; I’ll be late for class,’ she says, kissing David enthusiastically on the mouth. ‘I’ll see you later.’

      We watch her leave – I can see her pink hair bobbing above the crowds.

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