Things to Make and Mend Read Online Free PDF Page B

pet-hair de-fluffers!
    In Sally’s plastic bag are a large number of unwanted clothes. She has it with her simply because, this morning, she opened herwardrobe and decided to have a clear-out. She was in a purging mood, sifting through her ranks of swinging clothes: a collection of blues and greys. That has to go, that has to go. Her daughter has often commented upon her less successful garments (‘Mum, what is this?’ ). And so she had cast things off ruthlessly, sticking yellow Post-it notes to all the things she no longer wears:
    two linen jackets with shoulder-pads donated by Sue
    one grey tunic with a snag in the hem
    one turquoise blouse with strange épaulettes that she used to
    wear during an unfortunate, structured phase
    three pairs of stonewashed jeans
    one blue woven hat with plastic fruit attached to the brim.
    (God knows why I bought that hat: a wedding? I have no recollection of ever wearing that hat.)
    And then there was the dress, her green silk dress, with its sequins and tassles. With its sweetheart neckline. With all its haberdashery. She loved it once, that dress – it was given to her, in fact, by Rowena Cresswell – but now it was much too small for her. And much too girlish. It was already old, a hippy thing, in 1979. What was the point, Sally wondered, in hanging on to that?
    Brightness: she had this vision of brightness. Bright, good-quality clothes that would reveal a new, cheerful professionalism.
    *
    So this morning, quickly, she had stuffed all her old, half-liked or inherited clothes into the large Harrods bag (chosen for its connotations of grandeur although it actually came from Oxfam), and left the house. She had walked, in her green home-made coat and her summer-sale boots, up the street to the main road and then on to a shop called A Second Glance. A dress agency. It was the only dress agency, probably, within a twenty-mile radius of their house, located in a tiny row of boutiques and gift shops, all struggling to pretend they were not in East Grinstead at all butsomewhere fashionable, like Brighton or Chelsea.
    A small bell tinkled as she stepped inside. Playing on an overhead speaker was some indeterminate piece of classical music: something noble and slightly tragic, with a lot of violins harmonising in thirds.
    She stood on the soft carpet with the plastic bag. The interior of A Second Glance was warm and painted a sombre olive-green. There were lone twigs jutting out of vases at strategic points. A floral curtain concealed a small dressing room.
    For a moment she couldn’t locate the shop assistant, and then she spotted her, sitting on a low chair by the till, reading the Daily Telegraph. She was camouflaged, wearing olive-green: a polo-neck jumper and matching woollen skirt. Over her jumper she wore a string of large green stones. They looked like gobstoppers. Sally advanced and the woman looked up. She glanced down at Sally’s bag: a second glance? She did not say hello.
    ‘Hello,’ Sally said, the word falling out of her mouth and clanging around the shop.
    The woman lowered her newspaper, smiled and then lowered her eyelids.
    ‘I was wondering if you might be interested in looking at these,’ Sally said. Something, some restrained, stomach-plunging atmosphere about the shop, reminded her of her old school. Her politeness, her deference bounced off the walls, making her feel belligerently humble, like a knife grinder or someone going round the houses selling dusters and polish.
    The shop woman carried on smiling, her eyes still closed. Then she opened them. ‘We’re not really taking things at the moment. But I’ll have a look. Seeing as you’ve brought them.’
    ‘Right.’
    And Sally put the bag on to the floor beside the counter. She wondered if she should do some sort of sales-pitch. Was thatwhat you were supposed to do in dress agencies?
    ‘This is linen,’ she began, pulling out one of the jackets, ‘It’s …’
    ‘No,’ said the woman.
    ‘Oh,’ Sally