A Vintage Affair

In memory of my father

Blackheath, 1983

‘…
seven
-teen,
eight
-een,
nine-
teen …
twenty!
Com-ing!’ I yell. ‘Ready or
not
…’ I uncover my eyes and begin the search. I start downstairs, half expecting to find Emma huddled behind the sofa in the sitting room or wrapped, like a sweet, in the crimson curtains, or crouched under the baby grand. I already think of her as my best friend although we’ve only known each other six weeks. ‘You have a new classmate,’ Miss Grey had announced on the first day of term. She’d smiled at the girl in the too-stiff blazer standing next to her. ‘Her name is Emma Kitts and her family have recently moved to London from South Africa.’ Then Miss Grey had led the newcomer to the desk next to mine. The girl was short for nine, and slightly plump with large green eyes, a scattering of freckles, and an uneven fringe above shiny brown plaits. ‘Will you look after Emma, Phoebe?’ Miss Grey had asked. I’d nodded. Emma had flashed me a grateful smile …

Now I cross the hall into the dining room and peer under the scratched mahogany table but Emma’s not there; nor is she in the kitchen with its old-fashioned dresser with its shelves of mismatched blue-and-white plates. I would have asked her mother which way she’d gone but Mrs Kitts has just ‘popped to play tennis’ leaving Emma and me on our own.

I walk into the big, cool larder and slide open a low cupboard that looks promisingly large but contains only some old Thermos flasks; then I go down the step into the utility room where the washing machine spasms in its final spin. I even lift the lid of the freezer in case Emma is lying amongst the frozen peas and ice cream. Now I return to the hall, which is oak-panelled and warm, smelling of dust and beeswax. To one side is a huge, ornately carved chair – a throne from Swaziland Emma had said – the wood so dark that it’s black. I sit on it for a moment, wondering where precisely Swaziland is, and whether it has anything to do with Switzerland. Then my eyes stray to the hats on the wall opposite; a dozen or so, each hanging from a curving brass peg. There’s an African head-dress in a pink and blue fabric and a Cossack hat that could be made of real fur; there’s a Panama, a trilby, a turban, a top hat, a riding hat, a cap, a fez, two battered boaters and an emerald green tweed hat with a pheasant feather stuck through it.

I climb the staircase with its wide, shallow treads. At the top is a square landing with four doors leading off it. Emma’s bedroom is the first on the left. I turn the handle then hover in the doorway to see if I can hear stifled giggles or tell-tale breathing: I hear nothing, but then Emma’s good at holding her breath – she can swim
a width and a half underwater. I flip back her shiny blue eiderdown, but she’s not in the bed – or under it; all I can see there is her secret box in which I know she keeps her lucky Krugerrand and her diary. I open the big white-painted corner cupboard with its safari stencils, but she’s not in there either. Perhaps she’s in the room next door. As I enter it I realise, with an uncomfortable feeling, that this is her parents’ room. I look for Emma under the wrought-iron bed and behind the dressing table, the mirror of which is cracked in one corner; then I open the wardrobe and catch a scent of orange peel and cloves which makes me think of Christmas. As I stare at Mrs Kitts’ brightly printed summer dresses, imagining them under the African sun, I suddenly realise that I am not so much seeking as snooping. I retreat, feeling a vague sense of shame. And now I want to stop playing hide and seek. I want to play rummy, or just watch TV.

‘
Bet you can’t find me, Phoebe! You’ll never, ever find
me!
’

Sighing, I cross the landing into the bathroom where I check behind the thick white plastic shower curtain and lift the lid of the laundry basket, which contains nothing but a faded-looking purple towel. Now I go to the window, and lift the semi-closed slats of the Venetian blind. As I peer down into the sun-filled garden a tiny jolt runs the length of my spine.
There’s
Emma – behind the huge plane tree at the end of the lawn. She thinks I can’t see her, but I can because she’s crouching down and one of her feet is sticking out. I dash down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the utility room, then I fling open the back door.

‘Found you!’ I shout as I run towards the tree. ‘
Found
you,’ I repeat happily, surprised by my euphoria. ‘Okay,’ I pant, ‘my turn to hide. Emma?’ I peer at her. She’s not crouching down, but lying down, on her left side, perfectly still, eyes closed. ‘Get up will you, Em?’ She doesn’t reply. And now I notice that one leg is folded beneath her at an awkward angle. With a sudden ‘thud’ in my ribcage I understand. Emma wasn’t hiding behind the tree, but
in
it. I glance up through its branches, glimpsing shreds of blue through the green. She was hiding in the tree, but then she fell.

‘Em …’ I murmur, stooping to touch her shoulder. I gently shake her but she doesn’t respond, and now I notice that her mouth is slightly agape, a thread of saliva glistening on her lower lip. ‘Emma!’ I shout. ‘Wake
up
!’ But she doesn’t. I put my hand to her ribs but can’t feel them rise and fall. ‘
Say
something,’ I murmur, my heart pounding now. ‘
Please
, Emma!’ I try to lift her up, but I can’t. I clap my hands by her ears. ‘
Emma!
’ My throat is aching and tears prick my eyes. I glance back at the house, desperate for Emma’s mother to come running over the grass, ready to make everything all right; but Mrs Kitts is still not back from her tennis, which makes me feel angry because we’re too young to have been left on our own. Resentment at Mrs Kitts gives way to terror at the thought of what she’s likely to say – that Emma’s accident was
my
fault because it was my suggestion that we play hide and seek. From inside my head I hear Miss Grey asking me to ‘look after’ Emma, then her disappointed tut-tutting.

‘Wake
up
, Em,’ I implore her. ‘
Please
.’ But she just lies there looking … crumpled, like a flung-down rag doll. I know I have to run and get help. But first I must
cover her as it’s turning chilly. I pull off my cardigan and lay it across Emma’s upper body, quickly smoothing it over her chest and tucking it under her shoulders.

‘I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry.’ I try not to cry.

Suddenly Emma sits bolt upright, grinning like a lunatic, her eyes popping with mischievous delight.

‘
Fooled
you!’ she sings, clapping her hands together then throwing back her head in glee. ‘I
really
fooled you there, didn’t I?’ she cries as she pushes herself to her feet. ‘You were worried, weren’t you, Phoebes? Admit it! You thought I was
dead
! I held my breath for
ages
,’ she gasps as she brushes down her skirt. ‘I’m
right
out of puff …’ She blows out her cheeks and her fringe lifts a little in the gust, then she smiles at me. ‘Okay, Heebee-Phoebee – your turn.’ She holds out my cardigan. ‘I’ll start counting – up to twenty-five, if you like. Here, Phoebes – take your cardi, will you.’ Emma stares at me. ‘What’s up?’

My fists are balled by my sides. My face feels hot. ‘Don’t
ever
do that again!’

Emma blinks with surprise. ‘It was only a joke.’

‘It was a
horrible
one!’ Tears start from my eyes.

‘I’m … sorry.’

‘Don’t
ever
do that again! If you do, I won’t talk to you any more – not ever!’

‘It was only a
game
,’ she protests. ‘You don’t have to be all …’ she throws up her hands, ‘silly … about it. I was only … playing.’ She shrugs. ‘But … I won’t do it again – if it upsets you. Honestly.’

I snatch my cardigan. ‘Promise.’ I glare at her. ‘You’ve got to promise.’

‘Ok-ay,’ she murmurs, then she takes a deep breath.
‘I, Emma Mandisa Kitts, promise that I won’t play that trick on you, Phoebe Jane Swift, ever again. I
promise
,’ she repeats then she makes an extravagant slashing gesture. ‘
Cross
my heart.’ Then, with this funny little smile that I have remembered all these years, she adds, ‘and hope … to …
die
!’

September is at least a good time for a new start, I reflected as I left the house early this morning. I’ve always felt a greater sense of renewal at the beginning of September than I ever have in January. Perhaps, I thought as I crossed Tranquil Vale, it’s because September so often feels fresh and clear after the dankness of August. Or perhaps, I wondered as I passed Blackheath Books, its windows emblazoned with ‘Back to School’ promotions, it’s simply the association with the new academic year.

As I walked up the hill towards the Heath, the freshly painted fascia of Village Vintage came into view and I allowed myself a brief burst of optimism. I unlocked the door, picked the mail off the mat, and began preparing the shop for its official launch.

I worked non-stop until four, selecting the clothes from the stockroom upstairs and putting them out on the rails. As I draped a 1920s tea dress over my arm I ran my hand over its heavy silk satin then fingered its
intricate beading and its perfect hand-stitching. This, I told myself, is what I love about vintage clothes. I love their beautiful fabric and their fine finish. I love knowing that so much skill and artistry have gone into their making.

I glanced at my watch. Only two hours to go until the party. I remembered that I’d forgotten to chill the champagne. As I dashed into the little kitchen and ripped open the cases I wondered how many people would come. I’d invited a hundred so I’d need at least seventy glasses at the ready. I stacked the bottles in the fridge, turned it up to ‘Frost’ then made myself a quick cup of tea. As I sipped my Earl Grey I looked around the shop, allowing myself to savour for a moment the transition from pipe dream to reality.

The interior of Village Vintage looked modern and light. I’d had the wooden floors stripped and limed, the walls painted a dove grey and hung with large silver-framed mirrors; there were glossy pot plants on chrome stands, a spangling of down-lighters on the white-painted ceiling and, next to the fitting room, a large cream-upholstered Bergère sofa. Through the windows Blackheath stretched into the far distance, the sky a giddying vault of blue patched with towering white clouds. Beyond the church, two yellow kites danced in the breeze while on the horizon the glass towers of Canary Wharf glinted and flashed in the late afternoon sunlight.

I suddenly realised that the journalist who was supposed to be interviewing me was over an hour late. I didn’t even know which paper he was from. All I could remember from yesterday’s brief phone conversation with him was that his name was Dan and that he’d said he’d
be here at 3.30. My irritation turned to panic that he might not come at all – I needed the publicity. My insides lurched at the thought of my huge loan. As I tied the price tag on an embroidered evening bag I remembered trying to convince the bank that their cash would be safe.

‘So you were at Sotheby’s?’ the lending manager had said as she went through my business plan in a small office every square inch of which, including the ceiling and even the back of the door, seemed to be covered in thick, grey baize.

‘I worked in the textiles department,’ I’d explained, ‘evaluating vintage clothes and conducting auctions.’

‘So you must know a lot about it.’

‘I do.’

She scribbled something on the form, the nib of her pen squeaking across the glossy paper. ‘But it’s not as though you’ve ever worked in retail, is it?’

‘No,’ I said, my heart sinking. ‘That’s true. But I’ve found attractive, accessible premises in a pleasant, busy area where there are no other vintage dress shops.’ I handed her the estate agent’s brochure for Montpelier Vale.

‘It’s a nice site,’ she said as she studied it. My spirits rose. ‘And being on the corner gives it good visibility.’ I imagined the windows aglow with glorious dresses. ‘But the lease is expensive.’ The woman put the brochure down on the grey tabletop and looked at me grimly. ‘What makes you think you’ll be able to generate enough sales to cover your overheads, let alone make a profit?’

‘Because …’ I suppressed a frustrated sigh. ‘I know
that the demand is there. Vintage has now become so fashionable that it’s almost mainstream. These days you can even buy vintage clothing in High Street stores like Miss Selfridge and Top Shop.’

There was silence while she scribbled again. ‘I know you can.’ She looked up again but this time she was smiling. ‘I got the most wonderful Biba fake fur in Jigsaw the other day – mint condition and original buttons.’ She pushed the form towards me then passed me her pen. ‘Could you sign at the bottom there, please?’…

Now I arranged the evening gowns on the formal-wear rail and put out the bags, belts and shoes. I positioned the gloves in their basket, the costume jewellery in its velvet trays, then, on a corner shelf, high up, I carefully placed the hat that Emma had given me for my thirtieth birthday.

I stepped back and gazed at the extraordinary sculpture of bronze straw; its crown seeming to sweep upwards into infinity.

‘I miss you, Em,’ I murmured. ‘Wherever you are now …’ I felt the familiar piercing sensation, as though there was a skewer in my heart.

There was a sharp rapping sound from behind me. On the other side of the glass door was a man of about my age, maybe a little younger. He was tall and well built with large grey eyes and a mop of dark blond curls. He reminded me of someone famous, but I couldn’t think who.

‘Dan Robinson,’ he said with a broad smile as I let him in. ‘Sorry to be a bit late.’ I resisted the urge to tell him that he was
very
late. He took a notebook out
of his battered-looking bag.’ My previous interview overran, then I got caught in traffic, but this should only take twenty minutes or so.’ He shovelled his hand into the pocket of his crumpled linen jacket and produced a pencil. ‘I just need to get down the basic facts about the business and a bit about your background.’ He glanced at the hydra of silk scarves spilling over the counter and the half-dressed mannequin. ‘But you’re obviously busy, so if you haven’t got time I’d quite –’

‘Oh, I’ve got time,’ I interrupted. ‘Really – as long as you don’t mind me working while we chat.’ I slipped a sea green chiffon cocktail dress on to its velvet hanger. ‘Which paper did you say you were from?’ Out of the corner of my eye I registered the fact that his mauve striped shirt didn’t go with the sage of his chinos.

‘It’s a new twice-weekly free-sheet called the
Black &
Green
– the
Blackheath and Greenwich Express
. The paper’s only been going a couple of months, so we’re building our circulation.’

‘I’m grateful for any coverage,’ I said as I put the dress at the front of the daywear rail.

‘The piece should go in on Friday.’ Dan glanced round the shop. ‘The interior’s nice and bright. You wouldn’t think it was old stuff that was being sold here – I mean, vintage,’ he corrected himself.

‘Thank you,’ I said wryly, though I was grateful for his observation.

As I quickly scissored the cellophane off some white agapanthus, Dan peered out of the window. ‘It’s a great location.’

I nodded. ‘I love being able to look out over the
Heath, plus the shop’s very visible from the road so I hope to get passing trade as well as dedicated vintage buyers.’

‘That’s how I found you,’ said Dan as I put the flowers in a tall glass vase. ‘I was walking past yesterday and saw you’ – he reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out a pencil sharpener – ‘were about to open, and I thought it would make a good feature for Friday’s paper.’ As he sat on the sofa I noticed that he was wearing odd socks – one green and one brown. ‘Not that fashion’s really my thing.’

‘Isn’t it?’ I said politely as he gave the pencil a few vigorous turns. ‘Don’t you use a tape-recorder?’ I couldn’t help asking.

He inspected the newly pointed tip then blew on it. ‘I prefer speed writing. Right then.’ He pocketed the sharpener. ‘Let’s start. So …’ He bounced the pencil against his lower lip. ‘What should I ask you first …?’ I tried not to show my dismay at his lack of preparation. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Are you local?’

‘Yes.’ I folded a pale blue cashmere cardigan. ‘I grew up in Eliot Hill, closer to Greenwich, but for the past five years I’ve been living in the centre of Blackheath, near the station.’ I thought of my railwayman’s cottage with its tiny front garden.

‘Station,’ Dan repeated slowly. ‘Next question…’ This interview was going to take ages – it was the last thing I needed. ‘Do you have a fashion background?’ he asked. ‘Won’t the readers want to know that?’

‘Er … possibly.’ I told him about my History of Fashion degree at St Martin’s and my career at Sotheby’s.

‘So how long were you at Sotheby’s?’

‘Twelve years.’ I folded an Yves St Laurent silk scarf and laid it in a tray. ‘In fact I’d recently been made head of the costumes and textiles department. But then … I decided to leave.’

Dan looked up. ‘Even though you’d just been promoted?’

‘Yes …’ My heart turned over. I’d said too much. ‘I’d been there almost from the day I’d graduated, you see, and I needed …’ I glanced out of the window, trying to quell the surge of emotion that was breaking over me. ‘I felt I needed …’

‘A career break?’ Dan suggested.

‘A … change. So I went on a sort of sabbatical in early March.’ I draped a string of Chanel paste pearls round the neck of a silver mannequin. ‘They said they’d keep my job open until June, but in early May I saw that the lease here had come up for sale, so I decided to take the plunge and sell vintage myself. I’d been toying with the idea for some time,’ I added.

‘Some… time,’ Dan repeated quietly. This was hardly ‘speed writing’. I stole a glance at his odd squiggles and abbreviations. ‘Next question …’ He chewed the end of his pencil. The man was useless. ‘I know: Where do you find the stock?’ He looked at me. ‘Or is that a trade secret?’

‘Not really.’ I fastened the hooks on a
café au lait-
coloured silk blouse by Georges Rech. ‘I bought quite a bit from some of the smaller auction houses outside London, as well as from specialist dealers and private individuals who I already knew through Sotheby’s. I also got things at vintage fairs, on eBay, and I made two or three trips to France.’

‘Why France?’

‘You can find lovely vintage garments in provincial markets there – like these embroidered nightdresses.’ I held one up. ‘I bought them in Avignon. They weren’t too expensive because French women are less keen on vintage than we are in this country.’

‘Vintage clothing’s become rather desirable here, hasn’t it?’

‘Very desirable.’ I quickly fanned some 1950s copies of
Vogue
on to the glass table by the sofa. ‘Women want individuality, not mass production, and that’s what vintage gives them. Wearing vintage suggests originality and flair. I mean, a woman can buy an evening dress in the High Street for
£
200,’ I went on, warming to the interview now, ‘and the next day it’s worth almost nothing. But for the same money she could have bought something made of gorgeous fabric, that no one else would have been wearing and that will, if she doesn’t wreck it, actually
increase
in value. Like this –’ I pulled out a Hardy Amies petrol blue silk taffeta dinner gown, from 1957.

‘It’s lovely,’ said Dan, looking at its halter neck, slim bodice and gored skirt. ‘You’d think it was new.’

‘Everything I sell is in perfect condition.’

‘Condition …’ he muttered as he scribbled again.

‘Every garment is washed or dry-cleaned,’ I went on as I returned the dress to the rail. ‘I have a wonderful seamstress who does the big repairs and alterations; the smaller ones I can do here myself – I have a little “den” at the back with a sewing machine.’

‘And what do the things sell for?’

‘They range from
£
15 for a hand-rolled silk scarf, to
£
75 for a cotton day dress, to
£
200–300 for an evening dress and up to
£
1,500 for a couture piece.’ I pulled out a Pierre Balmain beaded gold faille evening gown from the early 1960s, embroidered with bugle beads and silver sequins. I lifted its protective cover. ‘This is an important dress, made by a major designer at the height of his career. Or there’s this –’ I took out a pair of silk velvet palazzo pants in a psychedelic pattern of sherbety pinks and greens. ‘This outfit’s by Emilio Pucci. It’ll almost certainly be bought as an investment piece rather than to wear, because Pucci, like Ossie Clark, Biba and Jean Muir, is very collectable.’

‘Marilyn Monroe loved Pucci,’ Dan said. ‘She was buried in her favourite green silk Pucci dress.’ I nodded, not liking to admit that I hadn’t known that. ‘Those are fun.’ Dan was nodding at the wall behind me hanging on which, like paintings, were four strapless, ballerina-length evening dresses – one lemon yellow, one candy pink, one turquoise and one lime – each with a satin bodice beneath which foamed a mass of net petticoats, sparkling with crystals.

‘I’ve hung those there because I love them,’ I explained. ‘They’re fifties prom dresses, but I call them “cupcake” dresses because they’re so glamorous and frothy. Just looking at them makes me feel happy.’ Or as happy as I can be now, I thought bleakly.

Dan stood up. ‘And what’s that you’re putting out there?’

‘This is a Vivienne Westwood bustle skirt.’ I held it up for him. ‘And this –’ I pulled out a terracotta silk kaftan, ‘is by Thea Porter, and this little suede shift is by Mary Quant.’

‘What about this?’ Dan had pulled out an oyster pink satin evening dress with a cowl neckline, fine pleating at the sides, and a sweeping fishtail hem. ‘It’s wonderful – it’s like something Katharine Hepburn would have worn, or Greta Garbo – or Veronica Lake,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘in
The Glass Key
.’

‘Oh. I don’t know that film.’

‘It’s very underrated – it was written by Dashiell Hammett in 1942. Howard Hawks borrowed from it for
The Big Sleep
.’

‘Did he?’

‘But you know what …’ He held the dress against me in a way that took me aback. ‘It would suit you.’ He looked at me appraisingly. ‘You have that sort of film noir languor.’

‘Do I?’ Again, he’d taken me aback. ‘Actually … this dress
was
mine.’