The Hat Shop on the Corner (34 page)

‘I want the hat to be right, to look right,’ he insisted.

‘I have to finish something for a customer this afternoon, so can you leave this lot with me? It will be a great help to look at the photos, see what kind of a person your granny is.’

‘Sure, and these pages are ones I printed out about her life and the family and all.’

‘From 1906,’ she noticed, impressed. ‘Listen, I am going to put all these items away safely in this hatbox, with a base I’ve already made. Will you call back on Saturday and I’ll have a design or two ready for you?’

‘Defo,’ he promised, going out of the door with a big grin on his face.

Ellie couldn’t help herself grinning either. She’d heard that the City Council had refused Casey Coleman’s request for further developments on the street. From what she understood, they were finally recognizing the value of small shops and there was even talk of introducing a grant to encourage small businesses to stay in the city centre and upgrade their premises. She was so glad that she hadn’t let smart solicitors like Neil Harrington or property developers like Casey Coleman Holdings buy her out and close her down or drive her out of the thriving business she was developing.

Madeleine Matthews would be proud to see the small hat shop she had opened so many years ago continuing to trade. With such an eclectic mix of customers, Ellie never knew what each day would bring. She loved it. This was her business. Her shop with her own designs! It was up to her to grow it, make of it what she wanted.

She was enthralled by the centenarian Lillian Butler, who, judging by the photos of her as a young woman, had been blessed with a heart-shaped face and twinkling brown eyes, peeping out from under a knitted cloche hat or big wide sunhat, either gazing up at her beau, Thomas, or shyly holding his hand. In one photo she stood surrounded by her nine children on the steps of a shabby staircase, in a black hat with a huge feather on it. Could one piece of millinery possibly give any sense of a life so full and well lived? But it was what the boy wanted, and she intended doing her darned best to please him and the old lady.

A silk lily was an obvious choice not just because of her name but to commemorate the Easter of 1916 when she had run down Sackville Street with her brothers and sisters and witnessed the start of the Rising. Perhaps the lace, a small piece from the hem of her apron, stiffened and starched, would make a ribbon or a flower. What about beans – coffee beans, polished and mounted like stamens or beads? The feathers, something to symbolize her nine children, the war years . . . It was a puzzle what she could do to tell of a rich life on the tiny canvas of a millinery piece. The boy had too much esteem for her, expected too much, yet she was determined not to let him down.

Neil Harrington had walked up the street at least twice and had partaken of a creamy latte in the coffee shop before he finally found himself standing outside the gaily painted hat shop. Flowers tumbled from the pots on either side of the door, and the striped awning had been slightly opened, which added to the continental atmosphere that Ellie had managed to create.

The window was filled with five hatstands, which displayed a variety of millinery confections. Even to his untutored eye they looked delightful, and three simple clumps of violets growing in silver pots sat tastefully between them. Without thinking he found himself pushing at the door, startled by the tinkle of the shop bell only inches above his head.

He stood for a second waiting before she appeared.

‘Oh,’ said Ellie, surprised to see him. ‘It’s you.’

For an instant he was discomforted, put off his stride.

‘Yes. I was passing and I said I’d call in.’

Her dark eyes flashed at him quizzically under that thick glossy fringe. She was obviously wondering what he was there for.

‘I actually came in to get a hat.’

Her lips began to lift up into a smile.

‘Well, it’s for my mother. She loves these kinds of things. I thought it would be nice for her to have one of yours, upcoming designer and all that.’

He wondered for a moment where those words had come from, and why he had blurted them out, but now it was said it didn’t seem a bad idea really. Rosemary Harrington led a very busy social life, what with being on the fund-raising committee for a hospital and organizing charity balls and events for a number of societies. It had almost become a full-time occupation since his father had died and she always seemed to need outfits. Another hat wouldn’t go amiss, and besides, she had out of the blue mentioned the possibility of getting a hat from the young hatmaker on South Anne Street. He would surprise her with one.

‘Yes. She most definitely needs one.’

Ellie stood across from him, near enough for him to pick up on the light floral scent that clung to her. She suddenly became businesslike.

‘Well, when does your mother need this hat?’

‘Soon.’

‘How soon? Is it a rush job?’

‘No! No,’ he retreated. ‘It’s not urgent, but I thought that with the good weather and garden parties and the races, and there’s a christening coming up . . .’

‘I see. Did you have anything in particular in mind?’

He was totally flummoxed. He racked his brains trying to remember the kind of things his mother wore, but for the life of him he couldn’t. He even did a mental playback of family albums, searching frantically for an image of his mother with some kind of item on her head.

‘She’s mad about hats. The house is full of them.’

‘Maybe she has enough then,’ she suggested gently.

‘No. Most definitely not! She gets tired of them. Always wants something new and fresh.’

Ellie’s eyes widened.

‘Neil, have you any idea what your mother would like? It would be a help.’

‘I’ll leave it all up to you. Your good hands and all that.’ He suddenly felt pleased with himself.

‘Have you looked at the ones in the window?’

She walked past him. He could smell her shampoo as she reached for the furthest hatstand and presented him with a concoction of pink and purple. Most definitely not his mother’s style!

‘Or there’s this coloured band that can be very effective. It sits across the head and these tiny pieces of cream and white almost look like they are floating. It’s a wonderful style.’

He studied the band as she passed it to him, noticing how small her fingers were, her nails unpolished and buffed.

The two other styles were definitely more suited to a wedding.

‘Listen, I’ll just slip in the back. My mother had a collection of basic designs to show customers. Starting points, she used to call them. It’s good to show people if they are not sure what they want, as choosing a shape is important. The book is somewhere there. Give me a minute and I’ll find it. I’ll get my pad so we can rough out something for your mother. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

He sat on the small chair waiting for her, for once unsure what to say or do as the black cat in the window licked her paws and stared at him.

Ellie returned, books in hand, and pulled up a stool beside him.

‘Neil, will you have a look through this.’

He began to turn the pages.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

Her eyes widened.

‘If you mean have I had any more drunken nights where I have disgraced myself, the answer is no.’

‘I didn’t mean to be judgemental,’ he apologized. ‘I just wanted to know if you are all right.’

She blinked and turned her head and for some reason he suspected he’d upset her further.

‘Ellie?’

‘Never better actually,’ she said, dazzling him with a smile. ‘The business is doing well. People are beginning to know about the shop and I love what I do. Things are going great, and fingers crossed I’m off to France in another few weeks.’

‘France?’

‘Paris.’

He swallowed hard, trying to concentrate on the ridiculous drawings on the page. Obviously off to Paris with that boyfriend he’d seen her with. Maybe if he wasn’t such a stuffy old fool and had sent her yellow roses and romanced her, things would be different. Too late as per usual.

He stood listening to her talk for another few minutes, just to hear her voice and watch the way she scrunched her nose.

‘Neil, are you listening?’ interrupted Ellie. ‘I think it’s a really nice idea about getting your mother a hat but I do think it would be better if she came in to talk to me herself and order something she really wants. I’m not even sure of her hat size.’

‘But you’ve met her,’ he insisted. ‘Besides, I want to surprise her.’

‘She’s very stylish, in a classic kind of way,’ mused Ellie aloud. ‘Probably something very simple and elegant, maybe a black and white or black and cream or beige, a slight down-brim that’s not too wide.’

‘Perfect,’ he said, noticing the way she frowned when she was concentrating.

Fifteen minutes later, after her promise to phone him when the hat was ready, he found himself back out on the street.

He’d missed twelve messages on his mobile and was late for a client meeting. He hoped that his secretary, Jean, was looking after Jerome Casey in his absence. He’d spent the past forty minutes talking about his mother and women’s hats just so he could see Ellie, and he hadn’t even had the courage to ask her out to dinner.

             

Making the Memory Hat, as Tommy called it, was the most difficult commission she had ever undertaken. Ellie groaned with regret at her own stupidity for saying yes and encouraging Tommy Butler to believe in her. She had racked and reracked her brain for inspiration and was determined not to produce something God-awful and cluttered for this wonderful old lady.

From the photos it was clear Lillian Butler had always loved hats, spent her meagre money on one when the occasion demanded, worn them with a rare confidence, for hats had been part of her life. She had kept in style and adapted to the latest fashion and trends, even wearing a jaunty beret. Already Ellie had covered half a pad in designs but she was not happy with any of them.

‘Don’t tell me you are still at it!’ joked Fergus, who had called in to collect her.

She nodded dumbly, for she was meant to have been ready at least half an hour ago to go to the cinema with him.

‘Don’t tell me we are not going to
Les Parapluies de Cherbourg
!’

‘You go, Fergus. Honestly, I have to try and work on this.’

‘I’m not going to the Film Centre without you. What would I be doing at a foreign film if you weren’t with me?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No harm done, we’ll do it another time,’ he said, moving over towards the kettle. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘Oh, that would be sweet.’

She listened as Fergus rattled on about how wonderful and interesting Liam Flynn was compared to other guys he’d gone out with.

‘You do like him, El?’

‘Of course,’ she beamed reassuringly. Friends always needed to be told that the people they fancied were the brightest, the most beautiful and the best in the world.

‘He’s a bit wound up.’

‘Fergus, he’s a high-powered trader.’

‘I know,’ he said proudly, rooting around for something to eat. ‘Any biccies?’

‘There should be some chocolate chip and a packet of digestives in the tin.’

Later, nursing a hot milky coffee, she confessed to Fergus about the position she found herself in.

‘That Lily sounds a real Dublin character. Lived here all her life, raised a family, moved from place to place, street to street, all over the city. She’s part of the place like the Liffey, the Castle, Christ Church. A true Dub.’

‘I know, she’s had an amazing life. It’s just that I don’t know what to do to capture her spirit. It’s like I have hit a blank wall and can’t think of anything.’

‘Well, a lily or lilies sound good, nice and simple. The obvious.’

‘Yes, but that’s not what Tommy wants. He wants something more than a classic expensive-looking hat. He wants magic and blow-your-mind kind of stuff. I can’t disappoint the kid.’

‘A conundrum.’

‘To put it mildly.’ She sighed. ‘Tommy would hate a plain ivory lily, he’d expect colour and bells and whistles, though I suppose cream or ivory would give me a good canvas to work on, a perfect background.’