Chapter Fourteen
It’s not that Daphne can’t manage the shop on her own – she can manage almost anything on her own, she knows this about herself – more that she will miss having her Friday volunteer with her.
Zara is a sweet younger woman with two small children who lives in Manly and wanted to do some volunteer work.
Today, however, one of the kiddies is sick and Zara can’t make it.
Which means Daphne is here alone and somewhat hoping the day doesn’t get too busy.
She’s already had one lady come in bearing a large handbag and a temper, telling Daphne that she should offer better customer service when Daphne has never met her before and has no idea what she was referring to.
The woman’s behaviour was likely nothing to do with her, of course.
A person can get quite caught up thinking they’re the centre of everyone else’s universe and therefore the cause of their problems, but in Daphne’s experience that’s rarely true.
Most people’s ill humour has nothing to do with the person or people it’s directed at.
The shop has long been instructive in this regard. If a customer comes in stroppy or sullen, Daphne might be tempted to take it personally. But she can’t, because it’s not personal. What is personal is how she can take each encounter as an opportunity to brighten up the customer’s day.
They may not buy anything – it doesn’t matter.
As it’s a charity shop, Daphne worries less about selling things to customers than she did when it was a boutique – not because she doesn’t want the charity to make money, but because she doesn’t have a boutique owner breathing down her neck about sales.
Letting go of the imperative to sell frees her up to make sure the customer leaves the shop feeling better than they did when they walked in, whether it’s by offering them a smile and a hello, making a positive comment about what they’re wearing, or being genuinely interested in their day.
The encounter may be one minute or one hour in length, and Daphne thinks each of them a blessing.
She’s not a religious person – working for the charity, which is part of a church, is a result of location, not faith – but she believes there’s more to life than just the day-to-day.
How can a person look at the night sky and not think someone greater than humans is out there?
We are just these little specks here on Earth.
That belief in something more makes her life richer, she knows, but it’s not a belief she foists on anyone else.
People have to come to it in their own time and for their own reasons.
Daphne opens the shop and pops out the back to make a cuppa. It’s unusual to have a customer turn up first thing – at this time of day so many of the locals are caught up in the school or work rush – so she can be in the back room and not worry.
She has time to steep her teabag and return to the counter before Margot walks in, looking a fright. Her skin is sallow, her hair is a mess, her blouse is buttoned in the wrong order and her skirt looks to be higher on one hip.
Daphne has noticed little things before now: ragged fingernails, and of course the tooth that fell out a few weeks ago.
Daphne had sent Margot off to her own dentist, knowing he wouldn’t charge for the work as he had an unspoken policy of not charging those who couldn’t afford to pay.
He would rather, he’s told Daphne, make sure their teeth are in good repair than take their payment.
She wonders if Margot has been to see him; no doubt she’ll find out in a moment.
But the tooth and the fingernails are signs that Margot isn’t tending to herself very well.
It’s a slippery slope of neglect, and Daphne has seen it enough times to know that past a certain point its momentum is hard to stop.
Those little things aggregate and before the person realises what is happening their one bad tooth is joined by another and the ragged fingernails are now overgrown and dirty.
Soon they’re wearing clothes with dropped hems and their hair is dry and brittle.
And always, always, their eyes lack vitality, as if life is seeping out of them, either because they’ve given up on it or it has given up on them.
Margot’s eyes have been like this for too long.
Daphne has seen it but lacked the energy to do anything about it, because Hector occupies so much of her time and attention.
Now, though, she cannot ignore it. She and Margot aren’t friends but they’ve known each other for a long time and Daphne simply cannot allow this current state of affairs to persist. It’s not right.
Margot deserves the same dignity as any person and at the moment she doesn’t have it.
‘Hello, Margot,’ Daphne says cheerfully, knowing that cheer is an energy in and of itself.
‘Hello, Daphne.’ Margot smiles but it’s empty.
‘Still looking for a job? Need something for an interview?’
Margot has been saying for weeks that she’s going to job interviews but she doesn’t say where; nor does Daphne think she has any qualifications that could be useful to an employer.
For as long as Daphne has known her, Margot has been what might be called a will-o’-the-wisp.
The sort of woman who is often looked after by caring relatives who understand that she lives in the ether.
Daphne knows that Margot’s aunt, Lavinia, lives with her but fancies that Lavinia isn’t capable, physically or financially, of caring for Margot properly, otherwise the younger woman wouldn’t be in this state.
‘Oh …’ Margot smiles vaguely. ‘Yes. An interview.’
As she speaks Daphne can see the gap where her tooth was. So she hasn’t gone to the dentist – and now Daphne has the conundrum of whether or not to say anything.
Margot trails her hand over the rack of dresses arranged by colour. It’s an arrangement Daphne likes to do, but she can struggle to maintain it given she’s not in the shop every day, and some of the other volunteers have priorities that don’t include putting clothes back in a colour order.
‘Looking for something in a particular shade?’ Daphne says.
Margot hasn’t bought anything in months and, at a certain point, Daphne decided she had no disposable income but she wasn’t about to offer her money.
Clothes she can give, however, because she can pay for them later herself – and she’s already decided to give Margot whatever she chooses today.
Having a new – or second-hand-new – piece of clothing may help to disrupt the torpor of Margot’s life.
Clothes can do that. Daphne’s seen it over and over, and learnt it first from Ophelia Pankhurst, the original owner of the frock shop.
One day, after Ophelia had dismissed her most recent beau, she sat in the back room and finished a blood-red coat she’d been sewing for herself.
It was made of silk, and lined in candy-striped cotton, and Daphne thought it the most daring thing she’d ever seen, because despite covering Ophelia from neck to ankle it was fitted to her form and showed her shape, thus revealing nothing yet everything.
Its hue ensured that Ophelia would stand out wherever she was, yet no one could accuse her of dressing improperly because the cut of the coat was de rigueur for the time.
It was, in short, a manifestation of Ophelia’s self-confidence and therefore an act of rebellion in a society that taught young women that they must succumb to and obey others’ wants and desires for them.
Ophelia had no intention of succumbing to anything other than her creative expression.
‘So interesting, Daph, isn’t it,’ Ophelia had said as she twirled in front of her agog employee, flapping part of the coat’s skirt, ‘how one piece of material can turn you into a matador and a maharani at the same time.’
She had grinned then, and in her open face Daphne had perceived the strategy behind the sewing, and understood fully – for the first time – how much power a piece of clothing could wield.
That’s the sort of power she wants Margot to feel.
Power and control over one’s destiny. It can start with a piece of clothing that acts as a costume, so the person – Margot, in this case – can play the role of a confident lady in command of herself.
Over time, the role becomes life. It’s how we evolve ourselves away from difficulty, Daphne knows. She has done it herself.
‘The weather’s warming up,’ she says to Margot, ‘so we should find you something light.’
She goes over to the rack and pulls out a shirtdress made of a white cotton with thin pale-blue stripes. It comes with a belt that, when cinched, gives it a semi-professional look. When it arrived at the shop it had its tags on, so Daphne knows it’s unworn – always best for white clothes.
Margot makes a noncommittal noise, but Daphne keeps hold of the dress and pulls out another in a pale yellow.
It’s more flouncy and wouldn’t really suit Margot, but sometimes it’s good for ladies to try on options so they can compare.
This one has a small stain at the waist, which could be covered with a belt.
She goes for a third – a lime-green wrap dress that would suit Margot’s frame but probably not her skin tone.
Still, there’s a limited number of options so she’s doing her best.
‘I like this yellow one,’ Margot says, and Daphne suppresses a sigh.
‘Take them all into the changing room,’ she suggests.
Margot stays in there for about fifteen minutes and Daphne doesn’t bother her.
Women need time to adjust to new clothes, to think about whether they can take them into their lives.
Because that should be part of the consideration.
A wardrobe is an extension of self and not to be constructed flippantly.
Eventually Margot emerges in the white-and-blue shirtdress. As Daphne thought, it looks lovely on her. The right size, the right shape, the right tone for her skin.
When Margot turns toward her, Daphne sees something new: a sparkle in her eyes.
‘You were right,’ Margot says, then peers down at her feet. ‘But what shoes will I wear?’
‘Do you have a white sandal?’
Margot frowns and shakes her head.
‘Something in a neutral – tan? Beige?’
Margot’s face relaxes. ‘Tan court shoes.’
‘They’ll work.’
Margot smiles.
‘Take that dress home and see what else you have that may go with it,’ Daphne says.
‘Oh, I …’ Margot’s sparkle vanishes.
‘It’s a gift,’ Daphne says, and holds up a hand before Margot’s pride compels her to protest. ‘Come back and show me the whole outfit, with the shoes,’ she goes on. ‘That will be my payment.’
Margot’s eyes flit everywhere and her bottom lip trembles.
‘Go on, take it off so I can put it in a bag,’ Daphne says bossily, knowing Margot will respond to a firm tone.
And she does, closing the curtain on the changing room, then opening it a few minutes later and emerging patting her hair down.
‘Thank you,’ Margot says as she takes the bag.
‘Don’t forget to come back and show me.’ Daphne folds her arms across her bosom and smiles. Her bosom never used to be substantial enough to provide a ledge for her arms, but old age has its benefits, she supposes.
‘And Margot?’
‘Yes?’
Daphne smiles in a way that she hopes shows her as compassionate and non-judgemental. ‘I told the dentist you’d be coming in to see him.’
She hadn’t, actually, but it seems the kindest way to broach the subject.
‘Oh!’ Margot’s cheeks colour. ‘I …’ She purses her lips.
‘He won’t charge you,’ Daphne says. No point being coy. ‘As you’re looking for a job, I imagine your cupboard is a little bare, so to speak. He often helps people out in those circumstances.’
Now the cheeks are even redder.
‘Margot,’ Daphne says, more softly. ‘Will you do it for me?’
Margot looks confused.
‘You won’t be going for any interviews with a missing tooth – will you?’
Margot’s dropped gaze tells her the answer.
‘I just want you to have the best possible opportunities. So you can help yourself. And Lavinia.’
As Margot looks away and sniffs, Daphne hopes she hasn’t offended her. ‘We all get down on our luck, love,’ she says gently. ‘It’s no one’s fault.’
When their eyes meet, Margot’s are wet.
‘I don’t mean to upset you,’ Daphne says.
Margot nods slowly. ‘I know.’ More pursing of the lips. ‘I’ll go and make an appointment. I almost did … before.’
‘I’d like that,’ Daphne says, as if the woman needs her approval. She doesn’t, of course, but sometimes people like accountability to keep them on the straight and narrow. ‘Will you let me know when you’re going?’
The flicker in Margot’s eyes indicates that she had no intention of making the appointment and realises she’s been caught.
She clears her throat. ‘Yes,’ she says with more resolve than Daphne has heard in her voice in a long time.
‘Wonderful,’ Daphne says. ‘Now I’ll let you go. Give Lavinia my best.’
‘I will.’ Margot smiles but doesn’t show her teeth, then heads for the door.
Once she’s gone Daphne feels the need for a lie-down, but she can’t exactly do that here. So she settles for putting on the kettle for another cup of tea.