A Vintage Christmas (4 page)

I turn and see Sam walking towards me with a slow, laboured gait. His baseball cap is pulled low over his eyes to shield them from the hot mid-afternoon sun. Coupled with his sullen

expression he looks like a moody teenager. ‘I have to go in, Sam,’ I burst out before he has a chance to speak, surprising myself with my vehemence. ‘I just have to!’

‘It’s closed, Evie’, he says dully.

I turn back and look at the shop as if something might have changed. That’s when I notice a white piece of paper, flapping on the door. ‘Wait!’ I say, ‘Sam! There’s a note on the door – and a number! It says “Call David if urgent”’.

I start rifling through my little box handbag, my hands shaking with excitement. This is the chance I need. I look up when I have my phone and start jabbing the digits in quickly. Something tells me I have to act now. I may not have an opportunity like this again. ‘It’s ringing! Sam, it’s ringing!’ I turn around to share my excitement with him. Sam sighs and reluctantly sidles over.

‘Do you really have to do this now, Evie? I mean, can’t it wait?’ He looks at me pointedly as I gaze between the little shop and him.

I look at him desperately. ‘It can’t wait Sam, it really can’t. I promise I’ll make it up to you!’

‘I’ve heard that before,’ he mutters. But he comes over anyway and I know I’ve convinced him when he slides his arm around my shoulders. I squeeze his hand in thanks and pull an anxious face, holding my breath as the phone keeps ringing. I’m just about to end the call when I hear a voice in my ear.

Chapter 3

‘Hello?’ growls a gruff, male voice. I have to stop myself from cheering, so convinced was I that no one was going to answer.

‘Er Hi, Mr-er Mr Angelo,’ I fumble for my words as Sam silently encourages me with some hand waves, feeling the familiar bubble of excitement inside me, despite the distinctly gruff tone of the shopkeeper’s opening gambit. I try to focus on the exquisite pair of handmade shoes in the window to get my mind into professional mode. ‘My name is Evie Taylor. I’ve just come across your shop and wondered if I could come in.’

‘The shop’s closed,’ comes the terse reply. ‘Has been for months.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.’ I pause and glance at Sam who raises an eyebrow and peers in the window. ‘Can I ask why?’

‘Who’s asking? You’re not from the Inland Revenue or something are you?’ he adds suspiciously.

‘No,’ I laugh, ‘Not at all. I’m just a-a... vintage enthusiast and a potential customer. Is there any way you could open the shop so I could have a look around? I’ve been looking at this beautiful pair of shoes in the window and I’m not sure I can leave without buying them.’

‘Well, they’re not for sale,’ he says briskly. ‘Now if you’ll excu...’

‘Why?’ I say quickly.

‘What?’ he barks.

‘Why aren’t they for sale?’ I persist.

Another pause accompanied by a long sigh. ‘If you must know they’re the first pair my father ever made and the last ones I have. They’re all that remains of our beloved business – a business that my father, grandfather and great grandfather ran and that my great,
great
grandfather began when he arrived in the UK from Italy.’ He pauses again. ‘My dad helped my grandfather make that particular pair when he was ten years old. My dad passed his skills on to me when I was the same age... not that it’s done me any good. Should’ve got a proper job.’

I hear his voice crack and then he clears his throat. I’m thrown back suddenly to the conversation I overheard in the stockroom the Christmas before last when Rupert Hardy faced the prospect of losing his own great grandfather’s business. It didn’t happen, thank goodness. But it was a close call. It makes me wonder how many other small businesses like
Angelo’s
will close because of the recession. ‘So, no’, he finishes firmly. ‘I’m not selling them today or any day. Thank you and goodb—’

I think it’s pure desperation on my part, empathy for him and passion for what I do that makes me blurt out my final plea. ‘Oh but please Mr Angelo, sir,
please
could you at least consider meeting me at the shop? Honestly, I’d make a very good offer – better than you can imagine – and they’d go to a wonderful home. I’ve just never seen such a beautiful design, the hand-beaded details are just beautiful, the lock-stitching divine. I’d love to meet the craftsman whose father designed and created these beautiful pieces and then passed on his incredible talent to you.’ I gaze at them again. ‘I’m guessing these were made somewhere around 1955, is that right?’

‘18th February 1955, yes’, he says in a tone far warmer than he’d spoken in before. He pauses. ‘Well, you certainly know your stuff, Miss. It doesn’t change anything you know, though—’

I hear some muffled noise down the line, but after a few seconds there is the sound of the dialling tone and I feel my heart sink down to my shoes (ironically).

He’s put the phone down.

‘No joy?’ Sam says, looking up from his phone, slipping his arm around my waist and dropping a kiss on my shoulder.

I shake my head and lean it against the shop window, pressing my face and hands against it like I’m Tiny Tim Cratchit from Dickens’
A Christmas Carol
. So close, and yet, so far.

‘Well don’t just stand there gawping at them, come in and have a closer look!’

I jolt in surprise as I see a pensive looking, dark-haired man with a neat goatee and bright blue eyes standing in the open doorway. He’s wearing the middle-aged, middle class uniform of a cardigan over a shirt with jeans. I can’t help but glance down at his feet – his brown brogues are the shiniest I have ever seen.

‘I thrust out my hand. ‘Evie,’ I say with a bright smile, ‘and this is my... partner, Sam.’

Sam steps forward and holds his hand out to shake, but David ignores him. I look back up at him and see that he has noticed where my gaze has landed.

‘My grandfather always used to say that no matter what, shoes should be worn like manners – polished to perfection.’

‘And do you agree?’ I ask with a raised eyebrow, thinking of the brisk exchange we’ve just had on the phone – and Sam’s missed handshake. He looks at me and then lets out a laugh. It is rough and sharp, like it’s been a long time since he had a reason to let out a joyful sound. It seems to even take him by surprise. ‘Do you know, Miss, I think manners are highly overrated and that you can tell more about a person by what they wear on their feet than what comes out of their mouth. Now are you coming in or not?’

I smile as I step inside the shop. ‘So what’s your verdict on me then Mr Angelo?’

‘David is fine,’ he replies briskly. He rubs his beard thoughtfully as he studies my feet appraisingly. ‘Well Miss...’

‘... Taylor,’ I say. ‘But just Evie is fine, too.’

David looks up quickly and settles his eyes on mine. ‘No one should prelude their name with “just”; it is an inconsequential, worthless excuse for a word. None of which you are, judging by your shoes. Which, by the way, tell me you are thoughtful, sincere, hardworking, creative, driven, loyal and loved.’ I see that Sam has looked up from his phone, straightened up, and has taken on a possessive stance.

‘And you can tell all that by my shoes?’ I laugh in astonishment.

He nods and grins, his frown lines disappear and he instantly loses a decade. I realise that he’s probably not that much older than Sam and I. Mid to late thirties perhaps. And despite his loquacious turn of phrase and dapper style, he’s attractive – in a very heterosexual, Mediterranean way. Maybe that’s why Sam has put away his phone and is hovering territorially. ‘They’re better than a crystal ball. See how the cut of your shoe shows your elegant instep and enhances your slim ankles?’ David says, dropping down and running his finger along the shoe. ‘That shows consideration, thought and good self-awareness. I can also see you are hardworking and driven because these are a well-kept but well-loved pair of shoes.’ He points his finger at the back of the shoe and I twist my foot so I can see it. ‘See the scuffs on the back and the worn down heel? That tells me you’re often running about, that you have chosen this low-heeled pump as much for practicality as for style. However, the colour and the detailed embellishment on the upper shows that you have a creative mind. You love details. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that I think you are a lady full of imagination and talent.’ I laugh bashfully and Sam raises an eyebrow.

‘And finally,’ David says, sitting back on his haunches and looking up at me. ‘I see loyalty, because this is the style of shoe that comes in many colours – and these gold ones are not worn down enough to have been worn every day. I’m sure you have a pair of these in a scarlet, an everyday black, and a classic French navy, as well as this more unusual gold colour.’

‘He’s spot on!’ Sam gasps, gazing at David in awe. ‘You really know your stuff, mate.’

David smiles modestly and smoothes his hair. ‘Thanks. I hope so. I come from a long lineage of stellar shoemakers who believe that it is a philosophy, a religion, a
duty
as much as a craft.’

I, meanwhile, am trying to close my mouth, but I can’t. I’m baffled, bewitched, bedazzled. And I’ve only seen one pair of shoes. My mind is whirring with possibilities for David Angelo and his shop.

David turns his back on me and starts leading us through the empty shop. There are some old shoe boxes on the floor, printed with the same logo as the shoes in the window. Shelf displays have been taken down so that the space is a mere shell. I see David Angelo glance around and then shake his head sadly. My heart bleeds for him and I want to find out more but I can’t help asking one personal question first.

‘David?’ I say shyly.

He turns around and looks at me and Sam in surprise, as if he’s forgotten we’re here. I glance at Sam, he’s busy trying to pick up a broken display, always trying to be helpful.

‘Sorry,’ I murmur shyly, ‘but you also said that I’m loved and I have to ask–’ I glance at Sam who is still keeping himself busy and so can’t hear my needy question. ‘How can you tell that by my shoes?’

David throws his head back and roars with laughter. Sam looks around in surprise. David wipes his eyes and shakes his head. ‘What do you think I am, some sort of a magician? I can’t tell that you’re loved from your
shoes
!’ he says loudly, I blush as I look at Sam, who is looking quizzically at us. ‘I can tell it just by looking at the dopey expression on both your faces!’ Sam grins and looks at the floor, as do I. ‘Plus, I know all the signs well.’ He smiles and points at his wedding ring and then ushers us further into the shop.

‘So this is it,’ he says sadly. ‘Over a hundred years of a family business reduced to this.’

‘What happened?’ I ask. ‘I mean, the problem clearly didn’t lie with your designs.’ I open up one of the shoe boxes and pull out a pair of shoes. Granite black heeled courts this time with a hint of sparkle underneath and a delicate silver butterfly sewn over the front of the shoe. ‘These are exquisite.’

He bows and smiles, but it fades quickly. ‘We were a casualty of the times – and our surroundings. My father warned me that my designs had become to decorative, too ambitious for the folk around here, but I ignored him. I thought I knew better with my degree from Central St Martins and experience working with some of the best shoe designers in the world. I became arrogant and thought I was bigger and better than the name on the shoe – and the customer who bought from us.’

David rubs his forehead and pulls his hand over his face causing his features to stretch in despair. ‘I’ve been such an idiot,’ he adds quietly. ‘Wanting to do things my way, run the business how I saw fit, support my family my way. A stupid stubborn idiot.’

‘When did business start declining?’ I ask, wanting to know more about this talented, enigmatic shoemaker and his family.

He shrugs resignedly. ‘It was steady for a long time; steady enough for my mum and dad to make a good career and retirement out of it. It was in pretty good shape when Maria and I took over the business seven years ago, after we moved down from London. Dad was still chief designer but handed over to me shortly after we had our son Gabe Jr four years ago – he’s named after my dad,’ he adds. ‘Things started well, but after following my father’s successful business plan for a while, I decided I wanted to make my mark on the business, take it into the 21st century in a way I didn’t think my dad had ever considered. You know, become more bespoke, more high-end – appeal to the kind of women who would spend more on their shoes than anything else. I thought it would be my legacy, my footprint – as it were – on the family business. But it seems the specific market I envisaged for Angelo’s shoes, isn’t in Gloucestershire, at least, not enough to sustain our outgoings. The last couple of years have been tough. We had some loyal customers, but fashion is so fast these days that people seem to think it’s better to have shoes in abundance, to go with the changing styles, rather than a few pairs of beautiful shoes that will last forever. Most people have been sucked into the quick-fix trap.’ He pauses and looks at me meaningfully. ‘Even those who appreciate beautiful design and vintage clothes,’ he adds, nodding at my outfit and then glancing down at my shoes. I blush, thinking guiltily of what he’d correctly assumed. That I’d instantly purchased these in three other colours. And I had – the exact colours he mentioned, in fact.

‘But David, I really think people are moving away from this era of disposable fashion,’ I say. ‘In my experience, people
do
buy cheaper on-trend clothes but women – and men too – want special items in their wardrobes that are of quality craftsmanship. That’s why vintage has proven to be such an enduring trend.’ I turn and look at the single pair of 1950s shoes displayed in his little Victorian window and step towards them to get an even closer look.

‘I don’t know Evie,’ David sighs. ‘I just don’t know who I’m designing for anymore. The shop has been shut while I try and work out my next move. Maria keeps telling me I need to focus on our online shop, or sell my designs to a big company that will make them cheaper and sell in bulk. But that would mean the history of Angelo’s, the handmade, artisanal heritage would be finished forever. And I just can’t let that happen. It means too much to me.’ He leads me and Sam out of the back of the shop, down some steps and into a delightful little sunlit workshop with exposed Cotswold stone walls and brushed concrete floors covered with woven tapestry rugs.