You Don't Know Me

Moody Blue

On Saturday morning, Mum drives me to Living Vintage, the shop next to her café on the market square in Caste Bigelow. I took the job there last year, partly to help pay my phone bills- an irony that isn't exactly lost on me now.

In the car, Mum can tell I'm quieter than usual. She turns to me and in the bright sunshine streaming through the windscreen, I notice strands of grey in the bottom frizz of her hair, which otherwise matches mine.

"Still no luck, then?" she asks, referring to the phone. 

The worst of her anger is over by now. I think she even feels a tiny bit sorry for me. She knows how much that phone meant to me.

"No," I say, "Not yet."

I am certainly not going to tell her about the whole 'I was hacked and now my bedroom is online, plus me in my pyjamas' thing. Mum struggles with the café. It's hard running a business in a little country these days. Two shops closed last month, and another two a month before. But Mum tries to spare me her worries. and I try to spare her mine. Besides - is it really a worry, having fifty votes in Killer Act . which is what we're up to now? If I only knew why, I think I could feel quite happy about it.

We park up behind the market square. Castle Bigelow is an old Somerset town, with a high street leading up the hill to the grand gates of Castle College at the top. Market Square is at the bottom: a collection of old Georgian buildings painted in cheerful colours, housing the café, the vintage shop, a pet shop, a book shop and two antique shops. It looks quaint and old-fashioned - like something out of an Agatha Christie mystery. All the modern chains are up the other end. 

At living vintage, Mrs Venning, the owner greets me with her usual wide-armed hug. She greets everyone this way, including visiting tourists. They usually depart with at least a costume jewelry brooch, if not a hat and a jacket. She narrows her eyes and casts a critical eye over me.

"Jeans, dull; jumper, hideous. I wish you'd let me dress you, darling."

Mrs Venning is wearing wide black wool trousers, a peacock velvet tunic and a little sequinned cocktail hat over her bright auburn hair. 

"One day, Mrs. V," I promise. When nobody I know is ever going to see me, I add silently to myself. She looks amazing, but I'd never dare go out like that in public.

"You should copy you friend, you know," she adds, "She's got a real eye."

"I know," I nod.

She means Rose. Rose has a brave, individual look that Mrs. Venning likes to go for.

"Upstairs today, if you don't mind," She adds. "Lots of new bags in. Michael's been trawling the Midlands. There will be some gems but most of it will be absolutely dire. The usual story, darling: charity shops, recycling, pearls and maybes. You are an angel." 

I climb the narrow staircase to the attic. It's one of my favourite places: whitewashed walls and sloping ceilings, plain floorboards and rails and rails of unusual clothes. They are the ones that Mrs. Venning has rescued in the past. Her husband travels around vintage markets, charity shops and recycling centres, looking for bargains. My job is to go through the three cardboard boxes lined up at the middle of the floor and sort out the very worst of the things he's picked from the very best. Some things are old, filthy, falling apart and frankly disgusting. Others are worth giving to Oxfam, but not selling here. Mrs Venning makes her money by spotting the occasional original Chanel handbag or perfect sixties shift. These are her 'pearls'. 

Normally, while I sort through the piles, I play the latest chart tunes on my headphones, but today I can't. I have lost my flippin' iPhone, with all my music on it, and Mrs Venning's portable radio is out of batteries. I end up singing 'Sunglasses' to myself, to keep myself amused.