The Hat Shop on the Corner (8 page)

‘No problem, my dear,’ responded Mick O’Leary, who truth to tell was beginning to enjoy this new career he’d fallen into.

‘And here’s to Ellie and her beautiful new shop,’ interrupted Kim, raising her glass to toast her. ‘From tomorrow the whole of Dublin will be flocking to her to buy their hats.’

‘I do hope so,’ said Ellie as she glanced round the table, choked up by the goodness of these people whom she was lucky enough to be able to call friends and who had insisted on not charging her for all their hard work and time.

‘To the shop,’ they all chorused. ‘Ellie’s hat shop!’

Creating her first collection of hats was a daunting prospect but a trip to the millinery wholesaler’s in South William Street and a delivery of essential materials from the Milliner Warehouse in London and Beauvoir’s in Paris had ensured that she had everything she needed to begin. Despite the shop renovations and the sanding and the wiring of the new lighting, she had worked night and day to design and make hats that she hoped women would consider both irresistible and delicious.

The city was awash with cherry and apple blossom, the countryside and gardens covered with white hawthorn blooms and with every breeze the drifting petals covered the pavements and paths. She herself was nervous, adrenalin flowing as she covered reams of white paper with sketches and rough drawings of what she wanted. A Japanese print of a cherry tree on her mother’s noticeboard – thin trunk and slightly curved branches reaching skywards, its starkness softened by a spray of blossom – inspired her, made her giddy with excitement, as she too strove like the unknown Japanese artist to create simple shapes, black, white, red, jade green and a pale pink. She put each design up on the block, taking her time, as the materials stretched and developed the shapes and curves and lines she wanted. She held her breath as she took them off. Checking how each would sit on a head, she added brims to some and painstakingly worked with fine wire and silk to fashion each individual petal of blossom, perfect orbs of white and pink and black and a creamy rose to contrast with and soften the crowns and brims. Each hat was different, and the eight headpieces with their simple wraparound wire-covered shapes that clung neatly to the head, all with a bold dash of colour, had also somehow managed to retain the Japanese influence that had inspired them. Overcome with sheer joy as she finished her ‘White Blossom’ collection, knowing that each hat was as individual as she could make it, Ellie was nonetheless filled with trepidation as she put five of the pieces on hatstands in the window.

The opening of the little hat shop was a great success. The place was packed out with well-wishers, wine and champagne flowing as journalists and fashion stylists chatted and good-naturedly admired her work. Two of Ireland’s newer designers vowed to remember her when they were showing their next collection. Her ears were red with all the praise and flattery bestowed by Dominic Dunne on her work and the refreshing new look of the hat shop perched on the corner of South Anne Street.

‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said afterwards, ‘for all your kind words and for taking the time to come tonight and do the opening.’

‘Ellie, it’s a pleasure and the very least that I could do,’ he said, kissing her cheek. ‘I just wish Madeleine was here with us both to enjoy it.’

‘Maybe in some way she is,’ whispered Ellie, conscious of a reassuring sense of her mother’s presence at this time when she needed it most.

It wasn’t a large collection – but Ellie had put her own stamp on each piece. The hats were original, beautiful, each a small, delicious individual work of art. Seeing the admiring reaction of her guests and the photographers pleased her enormously.

‘Ellie, everything is gorgeous enough to tempt anyone to spend a fortune,’ declared Francesca Flaherty loyally as her husband Paddy insisted on buying his lovely wife the most expensive hat in the place, saying the glinting green silk matched her eyes.

Ellie was brimming with happiness as people admired her work and Kim made sure she mingled with everyone. Some strange temptation had made her send Neil Harrington an invitation. She wasn’t surprised he didn’t show, but had to admit to being disappointed. It was daft, for she didn’t need his approval.

The chic little shop on South Anne Street quickly attracted attention as the bright window displays of colourful hats and unusual headpieces enticed women of all ages to step inside. The ‘Blossom’ hats were greatly admired and sold quickly. Variations on them were ordered. A glowing mention in the weekend section of the
Irish Times
helped, as did the use of two of her hats in a fashion shoot for
Image
magazine.

The young milliner concentrated much of her efforts on creating just the right atmosphere, for the purchase of a hat was such a personal affair. There were mirrors and good bright light and two re-covered comfortable chairs. A large glass vase was constantly filled with fresh flowers and greenery, which added to the gaiety of the place, and outside two cream-painted stone urns of violets welcomed customers as they stepped through the door. Clutter was kept to the minimum, as it was her hats that she wanted people to notice.

Interiors were one thing but providing a unique collection of hats that appealed to a certain type of customer was essential. Ellie decided also to create a fun range of gay hats in strong colours, yellow, pink, red and orange, using tulip-print material that she had ordered in from Amsterdam, and another based on simple straws with big print bows and dancing yellow, orange and red silk flowers.

Women of all ages loved them and in no time Ellie found her order book beginning to swell.

Standing outside the doorway of number 61 and seeing her name written above it, Ellie experienced a sense of joy unlike anything she had ever known. She was proud of the shop and proud of following in her mother’s footsteps and continuing the tradition of hat-making.

‘You’ve done a great job, Ellie. You’ve transformed the place,’ said Sissy Kavanagh, who, together with her sister, Kitty, ran the small newsagent’s along the street. ‘You make the rest of us look dowdy.’

David Hannah and his wife, who ran the jeweller’s down near the corner, were also impressed.

‘You must have spent a fortune!’

‘Not as much as you’d think,’ she confided. ‘I didn’t have that type of money, just a small loan. But I decided to start afresh. Everything was cleared out and I expanded the shop’s floor space a bit and redesigned my workroom. The fancy lighting makes a difference too.’

Some of the older shopowners said nothing as they inspected the place, for all of them were nervous of the huge construction project that was due to begin in a few weeks’ time. Many feared that, like the other small businesses, they too would have to close down.

Harry Regan, who ran the shoe shop across the street, admitted he was also thinking of selling up.

‘Couldn’t you just do something similar to what I’ve done?’

‘Ellie, girl, it’s not worth it. I’m too old and none of my kids are interested in the business.’ He shook his head. ‘And don’t tell me that when that fancy shopping gallery opens across the street there won’t be an expensive shoe shop or two in there. No, it’s better to take the money and go now, while I have the chance. The shop’s been good to me.’

Ellie would be sad to see him close down, as he had been a good friend to her mother over the years.

‘Seeing your shop, though, does my heart good,’ he added, looking around him. ‘It reinvigorates the street. Makes me remember what it was like when we all first moved in. Polished brass and glass and canopies – a bit of style, that’s what the place always had.’

‘It’s such a lovely street,’ agreed Ellie, ‘I couldn’t imagine the shop anywhere else.’

             

Regularly on her way to work Ellie stopped at Molly Ryan’s flower stall on the corner of Harry Street and Grafton Street to buy fresh flowers for the shop. She’d known Molly since she was a little girl and enjoyed the chat as she considered two perfect long-stemmed cream lilies for the window.

‘Going to rain,’ remarked Molly. Plagued with rheumatism and, with the exception of a large green brolly, constantly exposed to the elements, the flower seller was always conscious of the weather. ‘Downpour, maybe.’

Ellie looked up at the darkening sky and wished that she had brought an umbrella.

‘How’s the hat business?’ she asked as Ellie paid her and she wrapped bunches of lilac in paper and lifted the lilies from their holder.

‘Getting better. I think people are beginning to get to know where I am.’

‘Remember Rome wasn’t built in a day,’ joked Molly. ‘I’m forty-five years here on this street corner and sure half of them don’t even know my name.’

Ellie didn’t envy the older woman as every morning she went to the early flower markets to buy her supplies for the day, before setting up her stall. The colours and scents of the huge array of seasonal blooms from all over the world were a major attraction in the busy shopping street and Molly was as good a businesswoman as you could meet.

‘I’d better dash,’ Ellie excused herself, keeping hold of her flowers.

She’d walked only a few yards when the heavens opened and the rain began to pour down, soaking her hair and shoes.

‘Stand in under my umbrella and I’ll walk you down the street,’ offered a familiar voice.

She glanced up from under streeling hair, wondering why Neil Harrington was being such a Galahad.

‘I’m going down this way anyway,’ he responded as if reading her mind.

She relaxed, falling into step with him, realizing that he was one of those rather old-fashioned men who were naturally polite and helpful. He’d probably been a boy scout in his time and liked helping old ladies and damsels in distress. She wondered if he considered her a damsel in distress.

‘Ellie!’ He interrupted her thoughts, the umbrella above their heads. ‘We’re here.’

He had come to a standstill outside the shop. She stood there stupidly rummaging for her keys in her handbag while trying to manage the flowers.

‘Here, let me.’

He was doing it again. Taking the flowers off her and holding the big black umbrella while she rooted! A packet of mints, a notepad, her wallet, two feathers. Phew! She had found her keys.

‘Thank you,’ she said, pushing the door open.

He kept standing there.

‘Would you like to see the shop?’ she offered, awkward. ‘It’s been all painted and done up.’

He glanced over her shoulder and around the small space.

‘I’m sorry I missed your opening.’

‘I didn’t really expect you to come,’ she blurted out without thinking.

‘I was in court all day,’ he explained. ‘We ran late.’

‘Oh.’ She didn’t know what to say. She found herself studying his watchstrap and the way dark hairs ran down lightly near his wrist.

‘You could have a cup of coffee, tea, if you’d like,’ she suggested, wondering why she was making such an eejit of herself, inviting him to sit down and lecture her on how foolish she’d been.

‘I’m sorry, I have a meeting,’ he said, stepping back towards the street. ‘And I can’t be late.’

He’d rebuffed her. He hadn’t even bothered to look at all the work she’d carried out or noticed the hats or anything.

‘You’re still annoyed with me.’

He didn’t answer for a minute.

‘Obviously I had misread the situation about this property.’

‘I just changed my mind, Neil. That’s all.’

‘A client is always free to do what they please,’ he said coldly. ‘Obviously Mr Casey was slightly put out we were unable to reach a suitable agreement, but that’s business.’

An awkward silence loomed between them as he handed her the flowers.

‘They’re lovely, aren’t they!’ she prattled on. ‘The shop needs flowers.’

‘It all looks very pretty,’ he said, before turning with his umbrella and disappearing in the rain.

Pretty! Ellie didn’t know if he was being complimentary or facetious or just polite. Why had she wanted him to say it looked great, to notice the work she’d done? He simply wasn’t interested in the shop or her. He plainly considered she’d wasted his time. Anyway she didn’t need his opinions. Guys like Neil Harrington were self-centred chauvinists who thought they were superior to everyone else and she wasn’t going to waste another second of her precious time thinking of him.