Chapter 12
Annie on the doorstep:
Baggy black trousers
High heeled ankle boots
White silk blouse
Rust-red waistcoat
Grey woollen coat
Lashings of bangles and earrings
It was Annie who had come up with the idea of creating beautiful flyers to post through the letter boxes of the biggest houses in her Highgate neighbourhood to tell the owners about the fashion sale and ask for donations.
It could be a clever way to find more designer vintage stuff to boost their sale.
It had sounded clever and classy at the time – create a glossy leaflet, deliver it round the best streets, bring vintage fashion flying in.
But now, going up and down the streets in the rain, up and down pathways, lifting letter boxes, dodging the snouts of inquisitive or even growling dogs, Annie just felt like any other deliverer of leaflets.
In fact, she could see her pink, black and white flyer landing on doormats on top of the flyers for pizza deliveries, handymen and taxi services.
And what about all those doors with the strict ‘No junk mail’ notices?
They were always on the nicest houses, so if she didn’t post her flyer, she risked losing out on a valuable haul.
But if she did post it, she risked getting the fashion show and maybe even the charities into trouble.
She hedged her bets. If, by taking a quick glimpse through the window into the sitting room, she decided the house was particularly stylish and a designer-label type person might live here, then she posted the flyer, despite the junk mail warning.
But if it looked ordinary, then she skipped it.
No need to get entangled with any ordinary Mr or Mrs Angrys.
Now she was approaching that intriguing house on the corner.
The large, looming townhouse with a top attic floor.
The paint was flaking on the window frames, but the front door was painted a pretty grey-blue and was in good condition.
The front garden also looked as if it had once been well-maintained but was now overgrown.
The roses had sprouted up on long, waving stems, the hedge was overdue a cut and the flower bed had a handful of luscious dandelions growing alongside the garden plants.
She’d seen this house many times before on her walks around the neighbourhood and it always caught her eye because it was so much bigger than many houses here and so much prettier.
There were many signs that it had once been beautiful and well looked after, but it was beginning to fade.
There weren’t often many lights on and she suspected that an elderly person lived here who wasn’t up to much maintenance work and had maybe stopped caring for the beloved place as much as they once had.
This was definitely a good place to drop off a flyer she thought and lifted the letter box to push one in.
To her surprise, through the slot, she could see that someone was standing on the other side of the door.
‘Oh, hello!’ she blurted, letting the flyer fall through the opening. She could hear the rattle of the lock being opened and now here she was standing face to face with a familiar woman.
Most often with Annie, recognising someone wasn’t just about looking at their face, or their hairstyle, it was usually about the clothes.
She had an acute memory for how people dressed, especially if it was unusual or standout in some way.
Svetlana in ￡1,000 heels with those sculpted calves peeking from a swishy skirt or fitted dress – Annie would be able to spot her halfway down a street.
Ed and the saggy elbows of his favourite tweed jacket, again, Annie would recognise him from a mile away.
So, this woman, head to toe in black, but a very special kind of black, not saggy, but sculpted, with all those tucks and folds…
in a rush Annie realised two things. This was the woman she’d spotted now and then in the local high street, or in passing at the Tube station, and, the woman was wearing vintage Yohji Yamamoto.
‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked, severely enough to make Annie take a step backwards.
‘Hello – I’m so sorry if I startled you,’ Annie began.
‘I’m putting out leaflets about a charity fashion show.
We’re looking for designer clothes donations.
It’s for a wonderful cause,’ she added quickly, as she could read the ‘I don’t think so’ expression more easily than most. ‘Now, that is a beautiful tunic,’ she added with a real fan’s enthusiasm.
‘I’m going to guess it’s vintage Yamamoto.
He really is a genius. Exquisite tailoring meets exquisite fabric. Sorry, I’m being nosy.’
‘No, it’s all right,’ the stern expression softened just a little. ‘Most door-to-door salespeople aren’t able to spot a Yamamoto.’
‘Oh no… I’m not selling anything,’ Annie rushed to explain.
‘Just spreading the word about a major charity fashion show. If there’s anything you might want to donate, we have a donation address just a few streets away.
It’s all in the leaflet. You’ll get a gift aid receipt and it’s all absolutely above board.
You can even buy a ticket to the show… there are a few left. ’
‘I see, well…’ The woman cast her eye over the leaflet in her hand. ‘Nice design,’ she added. ‘My mother loved that shade of pink.’
‘Oh… have you just moved in?’ Annie asked, wanting to eke out the conversation just a little longer.
‘I live around the corner and I’ve spotted you at the Tube station a few times.
Sorry, I don’t want to sound like your stalker…
’ she added quickly. ‘I just have a habit of noticing beautiful clothes.’
She got something of a gentle smile in reply to this. ‘No,’ the woman replied, ‘not exactly. My mother lived here. Well, I did too but that was a long time ago now. She died recently.’
‘I’m very sorry.’
‘Oh… it was… well, expected is probably the wrong word. You never expect it really. She was ninety-four and in a funny way, she’d lived for so long and recovered from so many things that I thought she’d be around for many more years to come.
So, it’s fallen to me to clear the place out, which could take months, and then I’ll put it on the market. ’
‘Sounds like a big job and I’m sure it’s a difficult one too.’
‘Yes… well…’
During these few sentences, Annie had warmed hugely to the woman in the Yamamoto and would have quite liked to invite herself in and listen at much greater length about who her mother was and what Highgate was like decades ago and how was she getting on with the clearance and could Annie help at all…
but, she was aware that this woman looked quite like she’d like their conversation to wind up.
‘So… well, I’ll leave that with you,’ Annie said reluctantly. ‘Anything you’d like to donate goes to a very good cause. Lovely to meet you and… I’ll wave at you the next time we cross paths at the Tube station.’
‘Of course, thank you.’
The heavy grey-blue door closed and Annie could hear the lock turning.
She turned and began to walk down the path her thoughts about the ninety-four-year-old lady who lived here for sixty-plus years interrupted by a shrill blast from the phone in her handbag.
When she saw ‘nursery’ flash up on the screen, her heart skipped a beat.
‘Hello, it’s Annie Valentine here, is everything OK? ’ she asked in a rush.
‘It’s Max,’ the voice at the other end told her.
‘What’s happened?’ Annie asked, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand up with fright.
‘He’s just so upset. We think you’ll have to come and collect him.’