A Vintage Christmas (12 page)

There’s Velna from Latvia, who is obsessed with the Eurovision Song Contest. She sings constantly as she works, which drives all the other cleaners mad. She even has all the winning entries on a playlist on her iPod. It’s her dream to compete in the competition but no one has the heart to tell her she can’t actually sing.

‘Boomp bangh a BANG!’ she trills, hopping on one leg and waving as I walk past. She’s wearing a scarf over her bright red hair, her tortoiseshell spectacles, and a patchwork dress over a roll-neck jumper, which she’s teamed with Wellington boots. I join her in a little dance as I pass, laughing as she spins me around before she twirls off and I head towards the stockroom.

Then there’s Justyna, who clearly has the hots for Jan Baptysta and is thus distinctly cool around me. She must be six-foot tall, with feet and hands the size of tennis rackets. I’m pretty scared of her, actually. As a result I tend to overcompensate by being super-friendly, usually without much response.

‘HelloJustynahowareyoutoday?Areyouwellisntthesnowwonderful?’ I garble as she stares at me with an expression as icy as the pavement outside.

She nods curtly and continues mopping the floor with her back to me, her vast bottom swishing from side to side like an angry bullock’s. I hastily move on, waving up at the cleaners working on the floors above.

Just as I reach the stockroom door I turn round to take one last glimpse of the store before I burrow myself away. I immediately feel my good mood falter as I know that the cleaners’ hard work can’t polish this beautiful old jewellery box of a building back to its former glory. Nothing can hide the fact that the paint on the walls is peeling, the mahogany panels are tarnished and the intricately patterned tapestry stair runner is discoloured and torn. Seeing Hardy’s, a place I’ve loved for so many years, like this is like watching a beautiful old film star slowly fade and die.

Ever since I was a little girl Hardy’s has been like my own personal Narnia; I honestly felt that magic could happen when I stepped through its glass doors. I used to get so excited by our annual visits to London to celebrate the anniversary of the day my parents met, not just because of the actual treats themselves – trips to the theatre and ballet, dinner at nice restaurants and afternoon tea at elegant hotels – but because we’d always pay a visit to Hardy’s.

Every year on 12 December my parents and I would travel to London together and stay overnight in our Hampstead flat whilst my grandparents looked after Delilah and the boys. Even though my parents had long since left London, Dad still had the flat in town for work. I would look forward to the trip for months: some precious time alone with my parents, away from my overbearing siblings, who were all too old and therefore too cool to come along.

We would get dressed up, me in a party dress with a bow round my waist and a satin ribbon in my hair, a bright festive-coloured winter coat, white tights and patent Mary Janes. Mum would wear some glamorous dress with an elegant coat, and lashings of perfume and lipstick, and my dad always looked dapper in a smart suit, cashmere scarf and overcoat.

We would get the train from Norwich into Liverpool Street and then a black taxi to Regent Street. Full of wonderment, I’d peer out of the window as the famous London sights whipped by, dreaming of the day when I could live there myself. We always ended up standing with our arms around each other in front of Hardy’s doors, which were framed with greenery and fairy lights, the windows sparkling with Christmas delights, watching the customers weaving through into the brightly lit store as if they were explorers returning from their long travels to the place they would always call home. My mum and dad would share a lingering movie-style kiss outside the store as I looked up at them, bursting with happiness that these were my parents and that they were so in love. Then we’d walk in and I’d be swept up in the sounds of old-fashioned tills ringing, the staff beaming in Santa hats.

Unlike at snootier department stores, at Hardy’s no one minded a little girl exploring the higgledy-piggledy departments on her own whilst her parents reminisced over a champagne tea in the basement tearoom. I felt as at home as I did in our house in Norfolk. Except here I didn’t have to jostle for attention or fight to be heard. I was just welcomed with open arms by the friendly staff, taken behind counters, shown how to use the tills, dressed up in too-big-for-me hats and too-old-for-me make-up, and made to feel like I was the most special little girl in the world. The store became my own personal dressing-up box. After an hour I would emerge decked from head to toe in vintage garb, pretty mother-of-pearl brooches pinned to my coat, flamboyant scarves wrapped around my little shoulders, wearing a fur muffler and a matching hat, my face covered in iridescent shades of lipstick and blusher. Then I’d go downstairs to the basement to find my mum and dad, who would be holding hands, oblivious to everyone around them – including Lily, the glamorous old lady who ran the tearoom. But she’d always spot me hovering in the doorway and beckon me over to her, tie a little white frilly apron on me and send me over to my parents’ table with some cakes that had been especially iced with their initials beautifully woven together.

Mum would get all teary and Dad would tell me once again the story of how they met in Hardy’s, how he proposed and how he knew, as soon as he set eyes on my mother, who had been working as a hairdresser and beauty therapist on the third floor, that she was the only girl for him. Then Mum would dreamily recall how she’d been struck speechless as my dad had entered the salon, all dashing with his thick, demi-waved hair and strong Roman nose. They’d stared at each other for what felt like hours as the clients and staff all stopped and watched them both. Then my dad had walked slowly over to my mother, tilted her back in his arms and kissed her on the lips as the crowd that had gathered around them applauded ecstatically. Walter Hardy, junior, the owner of the store at that time, had even come up to the salon to see what all the fuss was about, at which point my dad had walked over to him, his arm still clasped tightly around my bewildered but utterly bewitched mother, and informed Walter that she no longer needed her job because she was going to be his wife. Walter had laughed and shaken his hand – luckily they were acquainted as Dad had been close friends with Walter’s son, Sebastian, since their school days – and Dad had then whisked Mum off into his waiting car outside and to Claridge’s, where they had had dinner and danced. They got married three months later at Chelsea Register office and Delilah arrived nine months later.

That was thirty-five years ago now. They don’t make enduring romances like that any more. And I should know; I’ve been fruitlessly searching for one for as long as I can remember.

Their love-at-first-sight story is folklore in our house – not to mention at the store. Even now the older members of staff still talk about the beautiful blonde beauty therapist who met her very own Prince Charming within these sacred walls. I’ve often quizzed my father about what it was that made him act so out of character on that day. As a successful financier he’s by nature incredibly considered and not at all spontaneous. He always gives the same reply: ‘If you see something you want, you have to go for it, Eve,’ he’ll say. ‘You won’t get anywhere in this life otherwise.’ Sometimes I wish some of his single-mindedness had rubbed off on me.

So you could say that it’s thanks to my parents’ love affair that I’ve had my own love affair with Hardy’s and ended up working here for so long. Although sometimes I can’t help but wonder what might have been. I love the place and there’s no other store I’d rather work in, but when I was a little girl imagining what I’d be one day, the answer was never a stockroom manager. I wanted to be an artist or a fashion designer or a window dresser. I spent my childhood doing endless sketches of shop displays on the notepads I carried everywhere with me. I pored over glossy coffee-table books, and trawled shops and markets for vintage clothes that looked like the ones I imagined people wearing back when fashion meant enduring style. After doing a degree at art college I even got a place on a graduate training scheme in fashion merchandising in London. I was all set to go when I met Jamie at the Norfolk hotel where I’d been working all summer. It didn’t take much on his part to convince me to stay. I was twenty-one, he was my first real boyfriend and I was in love. And I’d had my parents’ romantic meeting as my inspiration my entire life. Mum had immediately given up her career for lasting love; is it any wonder that I was so quick to do the same? It felt like my destiny. I didn’t expect or want anything more for myself.

Mum’s always said that of her children I am the one most like her. I think this means I am the one most likely to make sacrifices for love. I can’t think what else we have in common – Delilah inherited Mum’s show-stopping beauty – but Mum’s always had this romantic notion that my life will mirror hers. So when Jamie broke up with me not only was I utterly heartbroken, I felt like I’d disappointed her too. After all, we’d been together five years and she was all set for a wedding and more grandchildren. Unable to deal with her incessant but well-meant probing and mollycoddling, I realized that I needed space away from the life I’d had.

So I packed a small suitcase and went to London to stay with my sister, who was then on maternity leave. After a week of weeping and wailing on her shoulder and generally being a mess because I was twenty-six and had nothing to show for my life – no career, no boyfriend and what felt like no future – she told me firmly to get out of the house and face the world. I was shocked into action. So I had a shower, got dressed, brushed my hair and headed to Hardy’s, the only other place that had ever felt like home.

I spent the morning wandering sadly around its hallowed halls and reminiscing. It had been at least ten years since I’d last visited with my parents, having grown out of the annual visits when I hit my teens. In that time the place had lost its sparkle – just like me. It, too, felt abandoned and unloved. The store was deathly quiet, the staff all had a lethargy about them, and even though I was the only customer they completely ignored me. Which is why I was surprised when I was tapped on the shoulder by supercilious-looking lady.

‘I’m Sharon. You must be the new girl,’ she barked. I opened my mouth to protest but she bulldozed on, ‘You’re late. I thought you weren’t coming.’

‘Oh, no . . .’ I began.

But she had already turned and stalked off, snapping her fingers and saying, ‘Well, don’t dilly-dally, girl. Follow me!’

I didn’t know what else to do so I obeyed.

‘You’ll be in the stockroom,’ she said haughtily as she marched me to the darkest recess of the store, to a door tucked away far beyond the beauty department. ‘It’ll help you to get to know the extent of our range. Rupert thinks it’s the best training ground for new staff.’

‘B-but . . .’ I stammered pathetically.

‘Do you have a problem with that?’ she asked, and stared at me pointedly, her thin pencilled eyebrows almost disappearing into her harshly scraped-back hairline.

‘N-no, ma’am,’ I muttered, glancing around for an escape route but also suddenly wondering if this could be just the thing I was looking for. A job, in London, in the one place I knew better than anywhere else? It felt almost serendipitous. Delilah had already suggested that I lodge with her and Will for a while for free in exchange for looking after the kids before and after nursery, when her maternity leave was over. I’d still need a paid job, though. And where better than here at Hardy’s? It could be just the start of the career I’d always dreamed of. I was just contemplating telling the lady I wasn’t who she thought I was but I’d like the job anyway, but before I could open my mouth she’d officiously tapped a code into the security lock and ushered me through. I told myself I had no choice but to obey her, whilst fervently hoping that the real new girl I’d been mistaken for didn’t turn up.

My mouth dropped open as I looked around. It felt like being swallowed up in The Place That Time Forgot. Old stock, old paint job, old
air
, even. The woman didn’t follow me. She’d just waved me in and then disappeared back onto the bright shop floor that, in comparison with the dirty old stockroom, looked practically swanky now, telling me, as she left, to take lunch at one o’clock. I gazed back in horror at the stockroom and I remember being surprised at its size. Despite the small door I’d entered through, the space stretched back more than fifty feet, and although it wasn’t very wide, it seemed to hold more stuff than you could ever imagine, like Mary Poppins’ carpet bag.

Looking around me I decided Hardy’s probably had a few of those in stock as well. There was row upon row of full-to-bursting boxes stacked up on top of each other like Leaning Tower of Pisas. Some were overflowing so that random soaps, shoes and 1950s-style hooped petticoats littered the floor, as well as stranger items, like shooting sticks and old seamstresses’ mannequins. It felt like the walls were closing in on me. Everything was grey, for a start, and not that trendy Farrow and Ball dove grey. Prison grey.
Grey
grey. The walls, the metal shelving units, the floor, even the light. It would have felt cold were it not so musty and airless. I took a deep breath and wrinkled my nose in disgust.

As I walked down the stockroom, watching where I stepped, I found myself looking more closely at the shelves. I pulled out a packet of pre-war stockings from a battered box by my feet, complete with a seam down the back and a price marked in shillings and pence. I’d have laughed if I hadn’t been so shocked. Instead I’d held my nose and veered down the first aisle to take a close inspection. Totally unrelated items lived side by side. Hockey sticks next to hideous pastel Mother-of-the-Bride outfits; Wellington boots and trench coats next to boxes upon boxes of boulder-sized bras and petticoats that should have been displayed in a museum. There were original 1940s trilbies tucked away at the back, as well as talcum powder, flat caps and brightly coloured braces spilling out all over the floor.