Overcoat

It was a cashmere coat. Out of place among the duffels, parkas and cheap high-street-out-of-fashion items with broken zips and missing buttons that usually arrived in the shop. Monday mornings always brought at least four or five bin-bags. Vera had to heave them off the step onto the pavement to open the door. There would usually be a rip in every bag, courtesy of a disappointed urban fox. They would often vent this disappointment in other ways. Vera reckoned it would be worth putting a washing machine in the little kitchen at the back of the shop. Mrs Middleton didn’t. But then it wasn’t her who had to drag the bags to the laundrette. The cashmere had come out of a bag full of nothing more than rags and an old Daily Sketch. 1965. Vera had been 15 then. It was a man’s coat, velvet accents on the collar.

Ronnie had had one like it: and his brother had too.

Vera had left The Morpeth School at Easter that year. A nice little job in a hair salon. Vi, the boys mother, used to come in twice a month for a perm. Sometimes one, or both, of them would pick her up in the big black car. Vera would draw her shoulders back, but neither brother ever looked interested. Still, no-one knew much at 15 did they. Vera smiled as she looked at the coat, hanging elegantly on the wooden hanger she’d saved especially for a garment of quality. She walked over to it, ran a forefinger against the nap, lifted the material to her nose. A faint aroma, mostly mothballs… but there was something else. Old Spice? Had the boys worn that? Or had it been expensive cologne?

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Despite the lack of interest, one of them must have noticed her. It was almost lunchtime. Late December, Vera had been pretty ropey all morning: monthlies – and on her birthday. Reggie came in.

‘Vera, isn’t it?’ He’d said, he was handsome, but he didn’t smile much.

‘Y-yes,’ she’d even forgotten to straighten her back.

‘New Year’s Eve, got a boyfriend? Party, something like that?’

Vera’s stuttered ‘no’ sounded pathetic even to herself.

‘Get up west, Knightsbridge. About 10. Take a cab, they’ll sort him out at the door.’

‘B-but where?’ Vera asked.

Reggie sneered, ‘Just tell the driver, our place.’

The bell was ringing on the door, before Vera could reply.

Mrs Goldblatt, the salon’s owner had just sniffed and continued with yet another pensioner’s special, ‘shampoo and set 2/- Thursdays only’, just like it said on the card in the window.

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Vera took the coat off the hanger, walked over to the cheval mirror by the board games and paperbacks. The mirror had a price tag on it. Vera had told Mrs Middleton it was too high: twenty quid for a charity shop mirror? She was having a laugh. Holding the coat against herself, she saw in the mirror that it had been made for a man of average height. She held open the coat and recognised the label. Clothes had been very important, when she was young.

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She’d spent hours getting ready that December 31st , Cousin Rene, who’d done a bit of work up west herself, had lent her a dress. One of the other girls at the salon had done her hair, they’d sneaked back after Mrs Goldblatt had shut at lunchtime. They’d been scared to leave a mess in case Sharon had her keys taken off her.

It was 10 o’clock, Vera had come downstairs 15 minutes earlier. Dad had moved the Sketch down six inches and grunted. Mum at least had said she looked nice, although her mouth had turned down at the corners as she said it. A horn blew outside, Vera said goodbye, but no-one replied. The taxi-driver already knew where she was going, he’d been sent by Reggie in any case. A note had been shoved under the salon door a couple of days ago. She wished she had a packet of fags, but the ridiculous clutch-bag Sharon had said went with the dress barely held a compact and a lipstick. It was a long way to Knightsbridge, but the cabbie didn’t feel like talking. At least not to Vera. The cab drew up outside.

‘They said it would be sorted at the door,’ she said, hand on the cab door.

‘It’s done, luv, don’t worry.’ the driver said, he didn’t even look in the rear-view mirror.

The sign outside said Esmeralda’s Barn. A real sweetie turned back on the steps to see who was following him in.

‘How delightful! Come in with me, I’ll show you round.’ His teeth were brilliant even under
the street-lighting.

Vera stuttered, something, nothing. The man was too posh to live.

The man laughed, took her arm,

‘My friends call me Tony,’ he said, another smile as he said it.

Tony took her wrap, and handed over his own cashmere overcoat to the Cloakroom girl. They didn’t bother with anything so mundane as a ticket. They went into the club proper, Ronnie and Reggie left the short, brassy blonde with the raucous laugh to an acolyte with a ‘see you, Babs’ and hurried over hands outstretched. Tony didn’t embarrass them by shaking one first, just took each of their hands at the same time in a weird overhand grip.

‘Great to see you, S..’ Ronnie started.

‘Now,now, none of that. All friends here, it’s Tony, I told you.’

Vera felt awkward until Tony took her over to a booth. He sorted her a fag from a beautiful cigarette case and ordered ‘shampoo’. Later, she didn’t think he’d noticed. There hadn’t been any blood, that happened sometimes, some of the girls had said in school. Didn’t mean he hadn’t been her first. Tony never said anything, afterwards. He gave her the taxi-fare and a bit more, Quite a bit more, actually.

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