If The Dress Fits

Chapter Five

‘May I start by expressing my sincere condolences and thanking you all for coming today. I’m Gordon Braithwaite, senior partner here at Braithwaite, Cobbs and Fisher. We’re proud to have handled all of John and Hannah Garside’s legal affairs over the years.’

Callie cast her eyes around the room. It wasn’t what she had been expecting at all. She had envisaged the boardroom of her aunt and uncle’s solicitor’s office to be lined with mahogany bookcases crammed with weighty, leather-bound, legalistic tomes and the faint smell of dusty parchment fighting for supremacy with the aroma of wax furniture polish like the venue – straight out of a Dickensian novel – that she had been forced to attend for the reading of her parents’ wills after the car crash. As she had been an only child, the contents of their last will and testament had held no surprises and she’d wondered at the time why the elderly solicitor had bothered with the charade.

Here she was, a scant fifteen years later, being invited to listen once again to the monotone drone of a probate lawyer as he read through the terms of her aunt’s will, but this time she sat, along with Seb and Dominic, in what was essentially a glass cube. The view from the window was spectacular, looking straight out onto The Stray, a large expanse of open parkland in the centre of Harrogate framed by a profusion of pink-flowering cherry trees.

Her aunt and uncle had adored the park so much they’d bought a house which overlooked it. Uncle John had often told her that in Victorian times it had been used as a racecourse, but more recently the area around The Stray had been declared one of the UK’s happiest places to live.

She dragged her attention back to the room, surprised to see that Mr Braithwaite was looking over his tortoiseshell spectacles at her with an expectant expression on his face. Seb and Dominic were smiling.

‘Erm, sorry, I was just admiring the view.’

‘Yes, Miss Henshaw, I have to agree with you, and it’s at its most beautiful this time of the year.’

She smiled back, but the silence continued.

‘What?’ she blurted out.

Seb got up and went to sit next to her. He took both her hands into his. ‘Mum has left her house here in Harrogate to me and Dom.’

Callie nodded, smiling into Seb’s kind brown eyes which reminded her so much of his mother that she had to quash the rising panic in her chest. Mr Braithwaite didn’t look like the type of lawyer who would appreciate females sobbing onto his smoked-glass conference table.

‘And she left Gingerberry Yarns to you, Cal.’

‘She… I beg your pardon?’

‘Dom and I knew she wanted you to have it. It was half your mum’s before she and your dad…well… And you did love the place, didn’t you, before you left to chase your fortune in London? You know, one of my earliest memories is of you designing and sewing your own clothes for your Sindy doll from remnants of fabric and ribbon. You even knitted jumpers for our teddy bears, remember? We’re not interested in the shop. Mum made the right decision.’

Callie knew her jaw had slackened. She flicked her eyes from Seb to Dominic and back again. The brothers nodded in unison.

‘Seb’s right, Cal. You adore that place. Whenever I go there it feels weird not to see you sitting at that huge table doing your homework. You spent every spare second there. Well, when you weren’t out gallivanting with Theo or watching his band crucify some of my favourite rock anthems,’ added Dominic.

‘Gingerberry Yarns is mine now?’

Her cousins nodded. The solicitor shuffled his papers back into the buff file in front of him, tied it with a green ribbon and rose from his chair.

‘I’ll leave you to your discussions. Please take your time and help yourself to coffee. If you need any advice about the disposal of either the property here in Harrogate or the shop on Allthorpe High Street, then my firm’s services are at your disposal.’

The door swung closed behind him.

‘But I can’t run a haberdashery shop in Yorkshire. I live in London. I have a business that devours every second of my time, perhaps even more if my prayers are answered.’

‘Mum was so excited about the wedding gown competition, you know. She told everyone who came into the shop about it.’ Seb’s eyes sparkled but he managed to hang on to his emotions. ‘Dom and I have already decided to sell Mum’s house. If you want to sell Gingerberry, you have our blessing. Lives move on, things change. We know that. Just promise to come and visit us up here in Yorkshire once in a while. We miss you.’

Callie couldn’t hold on any longer. She’d thought she had no tears left to shed yet a deluge burst from within.

‘I promise,’ she managed.

‘Oh, and before you go back down to London, why don’t you make your peace with Theo? Remember what Mum always used to say? Life’s too short to carry grudges. You know, I don’t have a single childhood memory that doesn’t feature you and Theo together in supporting roles.’

‘Seb…’

‘And perhaps, before you make any decisions, you should take a good look around the shop. Maybe take a few photos? It’ll bring back memories you thought you’d forgotten. It did for me and Dom.’

‘I will, yes. Thanks, Seb. Thanks, Dom. But, really, I can’t see any other alternative but to sell up.’

‘Whatever you decide, Cal, you have our full support.’

She would do as Seb had suggested. She’d go back to Allthorpe and spend an afternoon in the shop. It was the least she could do after such a generous gift from her Aunt Hannah. It would also be an ideal opportunity to check out the stock, to box up anything suitable for Callie-Louise.

Seb was right. She had left her life in Yorkshire behind and carved out a new one in the capital, although it was career-orientated with very little social life. She found herself yearning for the anonymity of London where the streets were filled with dull, grey office workers unconcerned about their fellow humans’ difficulties – in fact she had become one of them, a member of that overworked, harried tribe. In Allthorpe, on the other hand, everyone knew their neighbours’ business, happy or sad, and had a ready word of congratulation or solace to offer.

However, she did have a plethora of happy memories wrapped up in Gingerberry Yarns and it would be tough to leave them behind for good. Yet a stab of regret needled her conscience – there was one thing that pained her above all else.

If she did sell Gingerberry, what would happen to Delia?

Chapter Six

Callie paused in Allthorpe High Street to look up at the sign, fashioned from bronze in the shape of a ball of wool stabbed through with a pair of knitting needles. Gingerberry Yarns, it announced. She smiled despite her sadness as she recalled the day it had been delivered; first the shock, then the burst of hilarity her mum and Aunt Hannah had shared.

In a certain light, the signage looked just like a skull and crossbones. Would customers think they were pirates, Hannah had asked. Delia had been summonsed for her valued opinion, but after much deliberation over the big brown teapot, they had all declared they loved it and hung it outside the shop with tongue-in-cheek pride. It would be a talking point if nothing else. They’d christened its erection with a bottle of Prosecco rosé and a Victoria sponge cake filled with oodles of jam and cream from old Tom Wallington’s bakery on the corner.

Gingerberry Yarns had been closed for a week as a mark of respect after the passing of her aunt. Shading her eyes, she peered through the grime-coated window. The little shop still held a hint of magic for Callie – once inside the door, the visitor would be enveloped in a warm comfort blanket, safe, just for a few moments, from all the traumas life tossed in their path. She inserted the key Seb had given her and opened the door. The brass bell above her head reverberated with a jaunty chime of welcome but it jarred against Callie’s ragged nerves.

‘At last dear, it’s perishing out here. What kept you?’ Delia bustled in behind her, a rich aroma of warm baked croissants following in her wake and permeating the shop’s motionless air. ‘I’ll just butter these whilst they’re still warm. Young Tom Wallington really is proving to be a baking maestro. These croissants of his melt in your mouth. You should taste his cherry scones, Callie, but his cheese and rosemary versions are simply delicious, too. If you ask me, his talents are wasted in Allthorpe after all that training he did in Paris and at Betty’s, but, well, his father can’t…’ Delia’s prattling dropped off when she noticed Callie’s expression. ‘I’ll pop the kettle on. See you upstairs when you’re ready for a cuppa.’

Callie’s eyes followed Delia’s plump backside as she disappeared up the stairs to perform the same task she had done every morning for the last fifteen years, only this time for her best friend’s niece. She stepped further into the high-ceilinged room, memories crashing through her thoughts whilst she listened to the cheerful tinkling of cutlery and cups as Delia busied herself in the upstairs kitchen, one that was as familiar as her own.

Callie smoothed her palm over the glass-topped counter, its surface reflecting her pixie-like features and the misery swirling in the far corners of her soul. A wave of desolation rippled over her when she realised Gingerberry Yarns would never again be blessed with the smiling presence of its proprietor. The fact that the world could keep on turning despite this devastating knowledge annoyed her.

She cast her professional eye around the room. Her recent absence afforded her the opportunity to scrutinise its outmoded contents with a fresh perspective. What her eyes met instilled no creative enthusiasm. The place was old-fashioned and shabby at the edges. Why hadn’t she noticed this careworn façade before?

Puffs of dust and sadness hovered amongst the packed wicker baskets. Garlands of twisted yarn nestled in cubbyholes or behind glass doors with tiny brass knobs more befitting a gentleman’s outfitters from the fifties. The shop was well stocked but everything on the shelves depicted a bygone era when communities were tight and pockets tighter. It was a place you would find your granny holding court, not a young mothers’ chinwag or a teenagers’ coterie of gossip. But then, ‘Gran’s Woollen Emporium’ was exactly what Gingerberry Yarns was – an old people’s social club or a place for the knitting circle from the local WI to persuade their deft fingers to twirl yarn into garments for the needy.

Polished teak shelves ran round the remaining two sides of the room, stuffed with lurid, multicoloured acrylics Callie had last seen on Barbie. Where were the natural lamb’s wools, the organic silks, the fair-trade cottons? Even the Aran was synthetic.

Knitting needles had been jammed into spaghetti jars like forests of pasta. Cards of pearl buttons and other assorted fastenings dangled from racks of chipped steel. The sample garments displayed on coat hangers on old mahogany hat stands, clearly knitted by her aunt or Delia, to Callie’s trained eye resembled bed jackets for the terminally ill. There were so many trendy designs coming out of Scandinavia at the moment, inspired by the wave of crime fiction that had been serialised for television, and the art of knitting was now a celebrity-endorsed pastime. She thought of the chunky Danish sweaters Scarlet adored; hers was red and cream, a prized possession that had cost her well over four hundred pounds.

Her fertile designer’s mind drifted to the Kaffe Fassett designs, works of art every one of them, all sculpted in natural wools, if not organic or locally sourced. She remembered the ‘stitch and bitch’ sessions she had attended when a penniless student in Newcastle, where, for the price of a cup of coffee in the local Costa, she’d spent warm, aroma-filled evenings with a diverse gathering of friends, from eager teenagers to harassed new mums grabbing a couple of hours of sanity away from the baby, and even professional women escaping the testosterone-infused office for a more girly activity that would not be judged against the bottom line.

The shop sported the most magnificent glass-plate frontage with its title embossed in arched gold lettering. But the window was almost opaque with rain-streaked grime and its display of misshapen sweaters did not invite curious perusal by passing window-shoppers.

In the farthest corner of the room, behind the counter where Callie slumped, her elbow supporting her chin, Hannah and Delia had squeezed in an enormous antique mahogany table, complete with green leather inlay as wrinkled as an octogenarian’s knees; its tooled edges inlaid with gold leaf and the deep scratches testament to the passage of time. Around this monstrosity huddled a disconsolate selection of equally ancient hard-backed chairs. A couple sported chintzy cushions as a nod to the comfort of their users’ buttocks.

Clearly this was where the serious business of the day was conducted – just not the money-making kind. It seemed as though ghosts still lingered there, at the table, completing unfinished projects before they could rest in peace.

The whole store screamed warmth and comfort; a genteel, English lady’s boudoir of the 1950s. Its painted walls blistered and flaky to the touch, its flooring worn and patched. Places like Gingerberry Yarns would not have survived in the metropolises of Leeds and Manchester. They had been replaced by trendy wine bars and the ubiquitous coffee shops, estate agents and nail bars, although even these businesses were struggling now.

Callie glanced out of the front window to the row of shops across the road that mirrored theirs. Marietta’s Hairdressing Salon, its windows reflecting the golden glow of the mid-morning sun, displayed three giant black-and-white portraits of cutting-edge hair design. With the bakery producing fresh croissants, Callie wondered whether Gingerberry Yarns was the only shop on Allthorpe High Street that had not moved with the times.

As she straightened up, the realisation came to her with a jolt that slammed straight to her heart. Her aunt and Delia had run this compendium of yarns and ribbons over the years, not as a business, but as a social enterprise. A note of dread rang in the back of her mind for what she would discover in the accounts when she marketed the business. It was blatantly obvious from the noticeable voids on the shelves behind the gargantuan meeting table that very little had been spent on the shop’s maintenance. There was no point thinking about that, though, now the building and the business were going to be sold.

Delia appeared at the bottom of the stairs carrying a tray. ‘Here we are, love, one steaming cup of your favourite Earl Grey tea. Warms the cockles of your heart, it does.’

Unlikely, thought Callie. Anxiety and grief had lodged a tight knot in her chest that no amount of alcohol-free beverage could dislodge. Only in the welcoming arms of Jack and Daniel could Callie feel the suffocating weight begin to ease and that was only a temporary reprieve.

‘I’ve made a pot for when Iris and Marcia arrive. They usually pop in after collecting Iris’s pension on a Tuesday morning, after a compulsory visit to old Mr Wallington’s bakery. Oh, I shouldn’t continue calling it that now, I suppose. Did you know he’s moved into Heppleton Residential Care Home? Ah, everything is changing in Allthorpe. The passage of time favours no one, I’m afraid.’

As Delia busied herself dusting the shelves with a long feather duster, accompanied by a running commentary of complaints about how quickly the dust settles when not kept on top of, Callie swung her contemplation and analytical eye onto her aunt’s best friend of over forty years.

Her hair, the colour of Yorkshire mist, had been cut in a surprisingly modern style – spiky fringe, tufted at the back, and finished off with the suspicion of gel! In fact, Delia carried her sixty years well. In spite of her ample hips and bosom, Callie’s expert eye told her that she modelled her wardrobe on the latest trends; hand-knit apricot cashmere sweater, embellished with tiny shimmering beads around the neckline and a pair of flatteringly cut trousers. She had a suspicion – no, a certainty – that Delia had designed and hand-sewn them herself to flatter her figure perfectly. Delia had completed her day’s attire with the largest pearl earrings Callie had seen and a long silver chain from which her bejewelled glasses swung like an optical pendulum as she swished away the offending dust.

But there was a tightness at the corners of Delia’s thinning lips and pronounced creases between her eyes. With a jolt of guilt, Callie realised how anxious the older woman must be about what would become of Gingerberry Yarns and, therefore, her own future. Delia would never have admitted it to Callie, but Callie knew she had relished the role of the shop’s co-chatelaine over the years. It was what she had lived for.

‘Delia, let’s sit down.’

Callie strode over to the gigantic table and folded her six-foot frame into one of the uncomfortable chairs. Its wooden spindles dug sharply into the small of her back. Silence extended through the room. It felt weird because the whole place was usually suffused with chatter and the aroma of her aunt’s favourite coffee brewing in the corner for customers to help themselves.

Best just launch in, she thought. Natives of Yorkshire were renowned for their straight-talking. ‘Delia, Aunt Hannah left me Gingerberry Yarns in her will.’

‘Oh, that’s marvellous, my dear. Your aunt truly loved this place, you know. She spent more time here than she did over at her house in Harrogate. She adored the yarns, the cottons, the silks, the mohairs. Oh, the way she used to run her fingers through those spools of ribbons and laces. But, most of all it was the people she loved, Callie, the regulars. Her “posse”, she would call them, “Hannah’s haberdashery posse”.’

Delia stared out of the window, lost in her memories. Her trendy haircut made her look like she was wearing a pewter helmet, but her face reflected the kindness that oozed from her pores. She twisted her rings around her fingers as she reminisced. Her tear-blotched face was pale and drawn, the red spidery veins bleeding across the whites of her eyes evidence of the copious weeping the trauma of the previous eight days had caused.

‘I know mere words can’t erase your sorrow, Callie. William and I were never fortunate enough to be blessed with children of our own, nor as an only child from a single mother do I have any nephews or nieces or other relatives, but you, Seb and Dominic are as good as family to me.’ Delia drew in a deep breath as she prepared to deliver her next sentence. ‘We need to open the shop back up. It’s been closed for more than a week now and people are asking. I’m happy to stay on, but if you don’t want me to… I’ll understand.’ Her crooked fingers, gnarled by years of gripping knitting needles and the onset of arthritis, continued to twist at her wedding ring, fearful of the response.

‘Stay on?’

‘Well, just if you wanted to run it yourself, that’s all? Or, heaven forbid, sell up. It seems to be what’s happening around here in the village.’ Delia closed her eyes against the potential heartbreak of not only losing her best friend, but also her reason for getting out of bed every morning.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at the butcher’s shop across the road, its frontage clad in a cage of scaffolding. A so-called property developer is renovating the building into ‘a desirable country dwelling, boasting wood-burning stoves and a sleek, stainless-steel kitchen; a stylish weekend retreat for a rich city banker’. That’s what the sales particulars say – they’re not even attempting to market the place as a home to local residents who will become part of the community. I shudder to think what the village of Allthorpe will become if yet another shop loses the fight to stay open. And there’s no point in objecting to the planners. We tried that.’

As Callie met Delia’s eyes a barrage of guilt tumbled through her veins. In that instant her aunt’s oldest friend had understood that Callie would indeed be selling up.

‘Sorry, Callie, please don’t pay any heed to me. I’m a sentimental old woman. You have to be free to make your own decision, unburdened by any feelings of loyalty or, heaven forbid, pity. You have your own life and future to think of.’

‘Delia, I’m so sorry. I’m going back to London tonight. I need to get back to work and resume some sort of normality. I want to be at the salon just in case… well… just in case our design wins. Only the winner is going to be informed, to keep things as private as possible for Lilac, so if we don’t hear anything tomorrow it means our design hasn’t been chosen. Do you think we might have a chance, Delia? It’d be such a fabulous opportunity for everyone at Callie-Louise.’

‘I don’t know, Callie dear, but I’m sure your design was the most adorable. Your aunt was so proud of all your achievements, you know, not just these star-studded creations. Every day we’d sit at this very table and chat about you and Seb and Dominic; about your fantastic designs, about Seb and Dominic’s promotions at work, about Theo’s success with his band. It made her happy just to know you were all following your dreams – wherever their paths took you.

‘She was just so excited when we closed the shop last Friday. Lots of our customers and friends had called by during the day to wish you luck, before she… before she…’ Delia withdrew a lace-trimmed, cotton handkerchief embroidered with a large blue ‘D’ and dabbed the falling tears away from her papery cheeks.

‘I miss her so much. Every day of the last fifteen years since your Uncle John died we’ve been running Gingerberry Yarns together. Then, after my William passed away, it was just the two of us. This isn’t simply a shop to us, Callie, a means of making a living. Gingerberry Yarns is an integral part of this community. Oh, I know you youngsters think Allthorpe is a dull, parochial village, and it may be, compared to the pull of the bright lights of the metropolis, but your aunt’s shop provides an escape, offers solace from the lonely daily routine that we older people find our lives becoming when our children and spouses have moved on.’

‘I’m sorry, Delia. I can’t run Gingerberry from London, I just can’t. Even if my design doesn’t win, I have enough commissions to keep me working every hour God sends for the next two years. I don’t have a choice. Gingerberry will have to be sold.’

As she spoke those painful words the doorbell tinkled like a wedding ring on a crystal champagne flute, announcing the arrival of a customer despite the sign having been turned to ‘Closed’.

With the sun behind him it was a few moments before Callie realised who it was, but Delia knew straight away. She collected her handbag and bustled off, pausing to kiss Theo on her way out of the door.