A Vintage Christmas (5 page)

‘Wow, Sam says appreciatively. ‘This is pretty amazing.’

‘Thanks,’ David replies with a small, sad smile. ‘I have to admit, I love it. Can’t imagine working anywhere else-’ he stops and closes his eyes as if to compose himself. ‘But it seems I might have to.’ Sam and I take the moment to look around. The studio has patio doors leading out to a small stone terrace, with steps leading up into a pretty, south facing courtyard garden. I walk down the left hand side of studio; the wall is lined with old shoe factory trolleys. They’re all empty. ‘From the 1930s’, David says, when he sees me looking at them. ‘Everything in here is original, bought from old factories. These trollies used to be full of beautiful soft Italian leather, suede and rainbow rolls of silk satins. I’d cut them and then mould them using these.’ He points at a set of wooden pigeon holes that stand to the right of the patio doors, all still with original handwritten labels from the tool factory they came from. Some pigeon holes have various vintage wooden shoe lasts in different sizes – others house various tools: scalpels, long handed hammers, tacks and the like. ‘I finished my last pair over a month ago,’ he says wistfully as he pulls out a beautiful pair of emerald green court shoes from a box that is sitting on the table behind him. They have a curved Victorian heel and a vintage brooch on the front. ‘But I couldn’t sell them. The few customers that came to our closing down sale said they were too expensive for something that looked like a pair of leprechaun shoes.’ A flash of annoyance passes over his face and then he sniffs. ‘An extremely elegant, fashion conscious leprechaun, with impeccable taste, obviously.’ I smile and nod.

‘David these are exquisite.’

He shrugs like he just doesn’t know anymore. ‘Dad was forever telling me to keep my designs simple and not too out there. “You’re not in London now!” he’d say.’ He exhales and I can see he’s mentally berating himself.

I continue looking around the workshop. It’s like I can imagine David working here – I can almost hear the noise of the workshop, smell the leather and visualise him and his wife, their heads bent over their work, desperately making more shoes as their money – and customers – frittered away. Just like the wife and the shoe maker in the famous Brothers Grimm fairytale. It makes me feel desperately sad – but also strangely excited.

In front of the pigeon holes is a medium sized trestle table with three steel framed, wooden backed machinists’ chairs. ‘My granddad replaced my great granddad’s benches with these in the 1930s. Granddad was not amused at the “newfangled designs!”’ David smiles sadly – as if he’s aware that every time he tells the story, it is fading into obscurity. ‘I’ve still got the other five chairs from when Dad used to have more assistants.’

‘Aren’t your shoes hand-stitched? The ones in the window had such intricate details.’ I ask, hoping he answers in the affirmative. “Hand-stitched” sounds so much better than “machine made”. But both are better than “factory made”.

He nods proudly. ‘Hand-stitched every single one – right down to the embellishments. I also do the pattern cutting, clicking, skiving, lasting – all of it by hand.’ He looks downcast for a moment. ‘It’s a dying art though. My wife has been nagging me for years to sell my designs off to someone who can run them off in a factory.’ He smiles sadly as he looks around. ‘Perhaps I should’ve listened.’

I can see there are clear areas designated around the room; his design area is to the left of the French windows, there’s a long wooden textile mill table in the centre of the room.

He walks over to it and picks up a cut-out of a pair of uppers. ‘This was what I was working on when our funds ran out,’ David says, showing me a piece of paper with a sketch of a glorious looking pair of peacock blue, satin stilettos with tiny crystals sewn over the toes. ‘There just didn’t seem any point in finishing them.’

‘But these are beautiful,’ I say. ‘I can imagine a glamorous MGM musical star from the 1950s wearing these, but they’re on-trend, too.’

‘Thanks,’ David smiles wistfully. ‘I was inspired by Doris Day’s outfit in
Love Me or Leave Me
. Helen Rose, what an amazing costume designer... Mum and Dad used to watch all the old films for inspiration – I was brought up on them.’ He gazes into the distance.

‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘no point moping about it. I’ve just got to move on.’

He continues with his tour. Under the window, to the left of the patio doors is an old drawing desk. The wall next to the desk, above the shoe trolleys, is lined with gloriously detailed pen and ink drawings, painted in glorious colours: fuschia, lime green, tangerine, and magenta. I yearn to have wallpaper in my flat of his designs, they are truly astounding.

Even without seeing them made up I can see the line, the balance and symmetry of the shoe, the silhouette is perfect.

An old wire in-tray sits on top of a filing cabinet, to one side of the desk.

‘Twenty, even fifteen years ago, this used to be stacked with orders,’ David explains with a pensive smile. ‘My dad had three assistants and someone to run the shop because he couldn’t cope with the demand. When I took over it was just me and Maria but we kept business ticking over nicely to begin with. How times change, eh?’ He laughs ruefully.

‘Where are your mum and dad now?’ I ask.

David tilts his head heavenward. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I say quickly. ‘You must miss them terribly.’

‘Not really,’ David says briskly and then catches sight of my horrified expression and laughs. ‘They’re upstairs – they’ve probably dozed off in front of the horse racing!’ He grins. ‘They’re quite a couple you know. Completely inseparable and have been for fifty years.’ He delves around his desk and pulls out an old black and white photo and hands it to me. He’s right. In the picture, a man – Gabriel Senior I presume – is standing with his arm thrown over the shoulder of a beautiful young woman. In stark contrast to him, she’s wearing a classic 1960s white crochet mini skirt and matching Peter Pan collar swing jacket. Her shoulder length hair is blow dried and sprayed in perfect place. She is looking out shyly from under her lashes, whereas Gabe is smiling roguishly, a younger, more carefree version of his own son. His teeth are gleaming white, his dark coal-like eyes confidently burning a hole through the lens. You can definitely see the Italian ancestry in them both. I glance at David who sighs and pins the photo back on the wall. ‘I thought I’d be able to look after them in their old age, it’s what they deserve, but now...’ He looks out into the garden. ‘I don’t even know how I’m going to look after my own family.’ Then he covers his eyes with his hand and I see his chin wobbling – a man truly broken by his misfortune. He composes himself and looks at me standing awkwardly, shifting on my feet, debating whether to comfort him or not.

‘I’m sorry, mate’ Sam says easily walking over to place a hand on his shoulder. ‘It must be really tough for you.’ I love how easy his genuine concern is, it puts everyone at ease, including David.

‘They’re devastated by what’s happened,’ he says sadly, ‘but they’ll never say I told you so. They’re convinced that something will happen to save the business. They keep saying we just have to wait for a little miracle.’ He snorts and for a moment, gruff David returns. ‘Some hope of that.’

‘Your designs are incredible, David,’ I say walking over to his wall display and running my fingers over them. There are styles of every description; stilettos, sandals, pumps, peep-toes, T–bars, and in every single colour tone imaginable.

‘No wedges?’ I enquire, glancing through the display.

He shakes his head. ‘Dad’s always said that the 70s was the decade shoe design forgot – and he’s right. That style should be consigned to the Shoe Room 101,’ his pause is punctuated with a sigh and he adds, ‘instead,
Angelo’s
has been.’

At that moment, I know exactly what I’m going to do.

‘David, I hope you don’t think me presumptuous but I’d like to make you an offer...’

He shakes his head. ‘It has been great meeting you, Evie, you’ve said some nice things that have really cheered me up. But I told you already, I’m not selling those shoes in the window. And I stand by what I said.’ I look at Sam who shrugs and nods his head towards the door as if suggesting we leave. But I’m not giving up that easily. No way.

‘I don’t want to buy them,’ I smile. ‘I’d like to borrow them’.

David looks at me warily and I take a deep breath before speaking again. ‘I haven’t been entirely honest with you I’m afraid. I’m not just a customer; I’m the creative director of a department store in London called Hardy’s. Do you know it?’

David’s dark eyes light up for a moment. ‘Hardy’s? Mum always bangs on about that place. Said it was the best shop in London, back in the day. The outfit she’s wearing in that picture was one she bought from there on her last secretary

salary, before she moved back to Tetbury to marry dad,’ he adds, his voice growing soft with love.

‘So you’ll let me borrow them?’ I ask hopefully.

He shakes his head decisively. ‘What’s the point?’ he says, his gruffness returning. ‘It’s not going to change anything for me or the business.’

‘That’s where I think you’re wrong,’ I smile. ‘I want to show them, and your designs, to my boss so I can place an order. I hope I’ll be able to get your business back on its feet by stocking your shoes at Hardy’s. What do you say?’ I throw my arms out excitedly and wait for his enthusiastically grateful reception.

But David just turns away. ‘Like dad always says, between saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out,’ he mutters.

‘And like Marilyn Monroe said,’ I quickly retort, ‘give a girl the right pair of shoes and she – or rather, you – can conquer the world.’

David turns and looks at me in surprise. A shadow of a smile passes over his face but it is followed by a shake of his head

‘Oh come on, David!’ I admonish desperately. ‘I thought you’d be pleased! Surely this is the turnaround you’ve been hoping for?’

‘Oh Evie, you’re really naïve aren’t you,’ David says patronisingly. I fold my arms and stick my chin out. Sam comes and puts his arm around me.

‘Hey, come on now mate,’ Sam says gently, putting his arm around me. He knows how much I hate being called naïve. ‘She’s just trying to help. She’s really passionate about her work you know.’ I squeeze Sam’s hand. I’m so grateful for his support.

David holds his hands up. ‘Fair enough, I didn’t mean to be so dismissive, but she’s not the first person to come and offer me money to sell my designs exclusively to them.’ David sticks his goateed chin out proudly. ‘I’ve had Royal wedding dress designers ask me to close the shop and go into business with them making wedding shoes you know. One came in personally, bought a pair, and told me a particular high-profile Royal loved my designs-’

‘Who?’ I ask quickly, my heart beating wildly in excitement.

‘Sworn to secrecy.’ He taps his nose proudly. ‘But I have spotted them in my shoes on several occasions. ‘Other than that I’ve also had Paris, Milan and New York designers begging me to come and work for them. And I’ve turned them all down.’

I slump down on a nearby machinist chair. ‘Why?’

He throws his arms wide. ‘Because my life, my dad’s life – and my grandfather and great-grandfather’s before us – is this business, this shop. It’s everything I have here. It’s the name, it’s my memories, and it’s my family’s history. It’s this street, it’s everything I am and I am
not
willing to sell it out to the highest bidder who will most likely compromise my family’s history, designs and my artistic integrity, just for the sake of mass production.’

I shake my head vehemently. ‘But David, I wouldn’t. Hardy’s wouldn’t-’ but he holds up his hands, shakily I notice. I am guessing this is not an easy offer to reject. But his pride is too strong.

‘Now if you don’t mind,’ he says wearily. It’s been a pleasure and all that, but I really must get back to my wife and son. They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to...’

‘Do it for them’ I say quietly, knowing that what I’m saying is a big risk. But it’s a risk I have to take to get through to him.

‘
What?
’ David turns slowly and looks at me. His mouth is pressed tightly shut, his eyes have darkened to soot black – just like in the picture he showed me of his father, and I see a spark of the arrogant, creative and assured young man I’m sure he was, before disillusionment and destruction befell him. ‘You can’t come in here and tell me–’

‘I understand you’re a proud, passionate man,’ I interrupt, ‘and I respect that completely. I also understand why you don’t want you to sell out your family business. But aren’t Maria and Gabe your family? Didn’t you just tell me it’s your job to provide for him? That you want to carry on the family legacy? What about leaving something for him? Or do you really want
Angelo’s
to fade into obscurity because of a couple of bad decisions?’ I know what I’ve said is a risk – I might have pushed him too far. But putting it all on the line is all I have left.

David stares at me but his eyes have misted over and I know I have his full attention. ‘Look,’ I say trying to keep the pleading tone from my voice. ‘I also have no intention of compromising your craftsmanship or artistic integrity. Why would I? It’s both those attributes that stopped me in my tracks when I saw your father’s shoes in the window and your designs in here.’

He grunts, which I know is his way of giving me permission to continue.

‘Once I show Mr Hardy these vintage shoes,’ I point at the window and then the wall in front of me, ‘and your new, modern-vintage designs, I’m going to propose that we pay you double your going rate for the first pair of shoes you make for us. If he’s happy with those, we’ll order more, in different styles.’ He opens his mouth to interrupt but I know what he’s going to say. ‘Mutually agreed, between the two of us, until we have a collection.’ Again, he goes to interrupt, but I’m on a

roll. I need to finish my pitch and not give him a chance to say no until he’s heard it all. ‘I have to have a say because I am more in touch with what sells in our store, but you’ll still have creative control.’ David closes his mouth and nods. ‘Once we have an entire collection of ten ladies shoes, in all sizes, we will unveil them at an exclusive event where we invite industry insiders, fashion editors and our most valued customers. But this collection of shoes will be strictly for display in the store – to try, not to buy.’ A frown crosses David’s face and I hurriedly continue my explanation. ‘You will be offering bespoke design at the event, advising the women on how to adapt each of the styles in your collection to best suit their shape, personality and needs. I think you demonstrated to me when I first came in just how brilliantly you’d do this!’ He smiles weakly. ‘I know this will create enough of a buzz for you to become our own personal bespoke shoe designer. No bulk orders, no selling out on your artistic integrity. We’d maximise the orders at a manageable monthly amount for you as well as giving them a realistic waiting time for their perfect couture shoe. Further down the line we may look into a ready-to-wear collection that would still be designed by you, but made elsewhere – in a factory, like your wife has always asked you to do. As well as Hardy’s, you could sell these in your shop, whilst you work on the bespoke shoes here in the workshop.’ I pause. ‘Come on David, you know it makes sense. Forget your pride – and think of your pension,’ I smile. ‘
Angelo’s
heart and soul will still be you. You’ll just have some help.’ I pause, cross my fingers behind my back and take a deep breath. ‘So, what do you think?’