Authors: Amanda Prowse
Sol nodded, yes it was amazing. He decided not to tell her that his father was not only a military man but also the owner of one of the largest shipping companies in the world.
Dot continued. ‘I like to hear the crew of the ships talking in their own language, sometimes I make out it’s me that’s abroad and not them, I know that sounds daft. I wonder what they make of the stevedores in their woolly hats who natter away in cockney banter; they must think it’s all very strange.’
‘Where would you go if you could go abroad right now?’
‘What, right this minute?’
‘Yes, right this minute, anywhere in the world.’
‘Would I be back in time for me tea, or should I pack sandwiches?’
‘You won’t be back in time for tea, but your sandwiches would probably spoil, you can eat out!’
Dot grinned and once again cupped her chin with her hand, her elbow propped on the table, and tried to imagine a world untethered by the boundaries of her immediate neighbourhood, or her family, where she could go anywhere and eat out when she got there.
‘Ooh blimey, I dunno. Paris probably; I’d like to look at all the fashion, watch the river and drink wine and sit in a cafe, I’d love that. And America, obviously. I’d love to go to Hollywood and see all the film stars and then I’d get the bus from Hollywood to New York to see the statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building, although not on a day when King Kong’s swinging around on it. I’d eat a hamburger and go to a drive-in movie and sit next to a cowboy! Yep, America – I think I’d love it!’
Sol smiled. For him the novelty of foreign travel had almost worn off, having been hauled all over the world since he was six months old.
Dot continued. ‘I may not have seen the sea, but I’ve heard it, inside a conch shell. My grandad worked in the docks all his life and he gave me one. I held it up to my ear and I could hear the sea swooshing around in there, it was brilliant! I had it for years, but me dad stubbed his toe on it once too often and it got chucked out ages ago. Funny, I haven’t thought about it till now.’
‘You know, Dot, that shell might have come from the beach where I swim. We eat conch and often the large shells end up as borders around the flower beds in our gardens.’
He glanced up at Dot’s wide-eyed expression.
‘Don’t think I fancy that much,’ she said. ‘The swimming bit sounds all right, but I’m more of a cod-and-chips girl, with plenty of salt and vinegar. Besides, I don’t think we’ve got plates big enough to hold a bloody massive conch.’
Sol smiled yet again; this girl was unlike any other he had met. He liked the way she looked at the world.
Dot had never taken a taxi up West before; she didn’t know anyone that took taxis. She felt a combination of joy, excitement and guilt – if they’d taken the bus or the Tube, they would arrive just as soundly, and the money they’d save could be used for any number of useful things.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I was thinking how different the world looks when you see it from a little higher and though the glass of a taxi window.’ This was partly true. Dot often travelled underground and if she caught the bus, the windows were more often than not a steamed-up fug of breath and cigarette smoke, meaning you caught the outline of buildings and the flicker of lights but not the detail, the context. She would often wipe the steam from the glass, but the build-up of filth on the outside of the pane still obscured the view.
‘That’s where I was born!’ Dot pointed at the greying facade of the East End Maternity Hospital as they tootled by. ‘My mum used to tell me that they’d put up a special plaque saying “Dot Simpson was born here”. I believed her for years and I used to tell all me classmates, they must of thought I was a right idiot! Can you imagine? I’m surprised I didn’t get a good thump.’
Sol pictured the streets, squares, libraries and schools that were named after his forefathers. It was his turn to feel ill at ease. ‘They’ll be the ones feeling like idiots when you are known all over for your fashion designs.’
‘Oh Gawd, you’ve got to stop with all that, it makes me feel really embarrassed.’
‘I don’t see why it should; you’ve got to chase your dreams.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. I sometimes think it’s easier to keep things simple and avoid the disappointment.’
‘That’s not true. Not trying is true defeat and you don’t strike me as a defeatist.’
Dot averted her gaze, partly because she didn’t want to explain just how hard it was for a girl like her to break out of Ropemakers Fields, and partly because she wasn’t sure exactly what defeatist meant, though she knew she didn’t like the sound of it much.
She remembered how when she was little, about seven, her dad had tucked her in one night and had told her that they were going to stay in a caravan that summer and that she would be able to paddle in the water, ride on a donkey and eat candyfloss every single day. She had waited and waited, thinking about what it would be like to dig the sand and get in the sea, and she could almost feel the sugary crunch of the pink wisps on her tongue. Then her dad lost his job, went on the sick, and summer came and went and Dot never did get to go in a caravan. She didn’t try to explain to Sol that it was sometimes better not to raise your hopes too high.
The taxi pulled up in front of the store. Sol jumped out, shivered, crossed his arms and rubbed the tops of his shoulders with his opposite palms, and reached for his wallet to pay the cabbie. Before Dot got out, the driver scooted the glass screen along and turned to face her, ensuring she could hear him loud and clear. ‘I bet you haven’t taken him home to meet yer dad, have ya, love?’ His mouth was set in an ugly sneer.
‘What?’ Dot blinked, hoping she had misheard. What did it have to do with him? But there was no time for further discussion. Sol had paid the man, and given him a generous tip, and was holding the door open for her. Her heart lurched. The ignorant pig had managed to take the edge off her lovely day.
‘Wow! I can see why you love it, very grand indeed!’ Sol shielded his eyes and stepped back on the pavement the better to admire Selfridges’ imposing facade. ‘Look at the flags on the roof, they’re amazing!’
The two laughed as they hesitated at the revolving door, unsure whether they should go in together or separately. Sol stood back and stretched out his arm; Dot swept past him and into the store, careful not to leave a fingerprint on the shiny brass door plate, knowing that they were a bugger to clean. It was a novelty for Dot to be using the main public entrance on Oxford Street and not the staff door around the side.
They lingered over the glass-topped perfume counters and brass and wooden cabinets that held everything from pomade to cologne. Slick-haired, suited gents from the City, wearing bowler hats and carrying black umbrellas, ambled along the walkways, their arms linked with corseted, lipsticked ladies, each preoccupied with the array of goodies and trinkets on display. Sol admired a hand-crafted shaving set of pure badger bristle whose sturdy ivory handles were carved in grooves to resemble colonnades; the whole thing sat in a natty walnut case whose tiny brass hinges were intriguing. He noticed Dot’s eyes widen at the price tag and placed it back on the shelf.
‘I want to see the Hadashaberry Department!’ he declared
Dot chewed her bottom lip. It was one thing to be out and about with a black man, but to parade him in front of her work colleagues was quite another.
Sol saw her flicker of uncertainty. ‘Come on! Then I can picture you on the days when you can’t come out and play.’
‘You’ll find that’s most days, unless I win the pools!’
‘I don’t know what you mean by “win the pools” – swimming pools?’
Dot laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it!’ It felt too complicated to try and explain.
Sol and Dot had to stand at the very back of the lift, to make way for a bespectacled lady in a huge fur coat and her large-hatted friend. The stench of several layers of sampled scent sprayed onto their crêpey décolletages hung above them in a toxic cloud. Sol coughed into his bunched-up fist. Dot faced the wall to stem her giggles, but the mirrored confines offered her little shelter.
The ladies bustled out at Lingerie.
‘Phwoosh! What was that? I do not want to buy any of what they were advertising. Man! They’ve burnt the back of my throat.’
The lift boy placed his gloved hands behind his liveried jacket and tried to remain indifferent; he wasn’t supposed to join in conversations. Sol caught the lad’s smile in the reflection of the shiny brass button panel and said, ‘Although I bet that’s not the worst thing you’ve smelt in here, am I right?’
The boy turned around; a cockney, like Dot. ‘You’re right, sir, sometimes I wish people
would
get in reeking of perfume!’ He waved his white gloves in front of his nose.
Dot could have kissed him; the lad’s easy acceptance of Sol washed away the memory of the misery-guts cabbie. The lift shuddered to a halt on the fourth floor.
‘This is it. We are not staying, mind. Just a quick gawp and then out, okay?’
‘Okay!’ Sol raised his hands in surrender.
‘Ah, Miss Simpson. Not expecting you in today, are we?’ It was almost as if the woman had been standing there waiting for her.
If there was one person in the whole store that Dot did not want to encounter today it was Miss Blight. She peered up at Dot through pig-like eyes framed by elaborate turquoise glasses. As usual, her generous figure was squeezed into a peplum skirt and a tight twin-set, and her fat stockinged feet were shoehorned into high heels. Dot thought it made her look like she had little trotters. She knew it was a mean thought, but it was easy to be mean about Miss Blight because she was horrible to Dot and anyone else junior to her. She worked in Personnel. Dot and Barb agreed that there was no one in the whole of Selfridges who relished administering punishments and sackings more.
‘No, not in officially today, Miss Blight, just… shopping!’
‘I see.’
Dot watched the woman size up her companion and knew that her visit would be floor-wide gossip within the hour.
‘Well, we can pick up about this tomorrow. Have a
lovely
day.’
Dot wanted to challenge her: pick up about
what
exactly? But truth be told, she was as afraid of what the topic might be as she was of Miss Blight. Sol strolled around the counters, thankfully oblivious. He looked at the tiny bone-coloured buttons, sorted according to size in a drawer of many compartments. He twanged elastic, fingered ribbon and flicked through the paper patterns that meant anyone with an average Singer in their parlour and a spool of thread could run up anything from a new oven glove to a wedding dress. He stood marvelling at the bolts of fabric that were stacked in rows according to colour along the far wall.
Dot stood behind him. ‘I stare at this every day. It reminds me of a rainbow.’
‘I can see why.’ Until she had seen a rainbow stretch out to sea as the St Lucian rain competed with the rays of the midday sun, this would be her rainbow. ‘Which colour do you like the best?’
‘Ooh, I don’t know.’ Dot ran her palm over the damask. ‘I love the dark rose.’ Then her fingers massaged the mid-blue drill. ‘But this reminds me of a clear summer sky.’
‘That’s a fine choice, almost the colour of a St Lucian sky. Let’s take some with us!’
‘What for?’ Dot was nervous; a decent amount of the fabric would cost a few days’ wages.
‘I don’t know – you’re the designer, you tell me!’
‘Oh God, don’t start with all that again, ’specially not in here!’
‘Oi, Dot!’
Barb marched over to the two of them and folded her arms across her flat chest. She stood with one hip forward, her foot pointing towards Sol in a ballet-like pose.
‘Is this him? The piano bloke, the one from the other night?’
‘Yes, Barb, it is.’ Dot sighed. ‘And he’s not deaf – are you?’
Sol shook his head. ‘No, not yet.’
Barb stared at Sol as she reached up and with one arm still anchored to her chest, teased the ends of her bunches with her fingers and checked her bobbles. Dot had described him perfectly, although she had omitted one small detail.
‘I didn’t realise he was…’
‘So tall?’ Dot offered.
‘So… exotic,’ Barb countered.
The three stood in silence for some seconds. Then Sol coughed.
‘Where d’you work then?’ Barb was fascinated.
‘I’m in the army.’
‘What army’s that then?’
‘The British army.’
‘But you ain’t British, you don’t sound British!’
Dot felt her cheeks flame; her mate was thick sometimes; in fact not just sometimes.
‘No, that’s true, but I’m from St Lucia and it’s part of the British Empire, we share the same queen.’
‘Getaway!’ Barb unfolded her arms and placed them on her hips.
Sol laughed. ‘No, it’s true and I fight for your queen and your country. Although I don’t plan on doing much fighting over the next year. I’m here as part of the attaché representing the St Lucian defence team.’ He decided not to mention that the only other representative of the St Lucian defence team was his boss and his dad, one and the same.
‘Oh I see. Blimey, Dot, he’s certainly got the gift of the gab!’
‘And once again, Barb, he can actually hear you.’
‘Barb, can you help us? We would like to take some of this material, if possible; this beautiful shade of blue—’
‘What d’you want that for?’ Barb screwed up her nose and pulled her confused face.
Sol looked at Dot, who was wide eyed; he read the almost imperceptible shake of her head. She hadn’t shared her dream with her friend.
‘Because sometimes, Barb, you just need something around you that reminds you of a clear summer sky. Don’t you think?’
Barb roared with laughter. ‘If you say so! Blimey, Dot, what is he, a bloody poet?’
‘Barb, he can
hear
you!’
‘All right! No need to shout at me!’ she mumbled as she laid the blue cotton on the cutting desk and lined up the edge with the brass ruler. ‘Where you going now?’
Dot looked at Sol, a guest in her city. ‘I think we might go for a walk in the park.’