GARMENTS

 

 

GARMENTS

 

 

While gazing into her wardrobe she realised how many lovely garments she had, and then, how few of them she wore.

 

Some of the pieces she’d owned for over twenty years, and they would be good for another twenty. Some pieces had been her absolute favourites for a time until a small mark or a slight wearing had taken them from pride of place to a reluctant second ranking, though most were still easily good enough to wear around the house or casually, yet somehow, she never seemed to.

 

The labels alone in some pieces guaranteed their presence in the wardrobe, and the details of their acquisition and their expense was still keen in her mind. Some of the pieces she had worn in the triumphs of her life and they marked passages of time and people and places in the pictorial cascade of her memories.

 

Yet, many pieces were always just out of sight, and certainly out of the ‘power band’ in the middle of the double doors, where the most often worn and currently prized items held pride of place. Sometimes she took an older favourite out to try it on to assess its appropriateness for a particular function, before regretfully returning it to it’s out of line place.

 

Most things still fitted, though some with reluctance. She hadn’t hopscotched through the sizes, as some of her friends had, or wizened away like her mother, shorter and slighter each year. Her figure was still good, though such a remark these days usually carried the addendum, ‘for her age’.

 

But, it was certainly time to do something about all these garments that she no longer wore, she would cull ruthlessly, she determined, without remorse.

 

Where to start?

 

The idea had come to her on Wednesday when shopping with Gillian.

 

They’d finished their latte’s and were walking back to the car. They’d almost passed a small shop in the arcade called ‘After Thoughts’, which she hadn’t noticed before. Its sign announced that the shop purported to ‘bring the fashions of yesterday back to their rightful place at the forefront of fashion’. A second hand clothes shop, in other words.

 

“Oh do come in here for a few moments” Gillian had impeached, “they’ve sold some things for me recently and I’d love to see what’s come in”.

 

She was shocked. She would never have thought that Gillian would consider second hand …  well… anything, let alone clothes, yet here she was virtually pulling her in off the street to look at others cast offs.

 

She went, almost against her will, for a small curiosity had arisen, and the scent of a fresh gossip scrap dangled alluringly, she felt herself drawn toward the front door and the well-lit interior.

 

A woman lounged behind the small black counter, ‘Bernice’ apparently from Gillian’s effusive greeting. She was elegantly quaffed with a small, scarlet cloche hat. Quite an affectation, she thought, and inside! Yet, she did seem to carry it off somehow, as the hat complemented the long oval of her face and the shawled black three quarter length merino jacket ornamented by a silver pin set with a single, enormous pearl, was very becoming.

 

“Darling, do come and meet Bernice, it’s her shop and she gathers all these glorious clothes for us” drawled Gillian.

 

“Garments please, not just clothes, garments, or at least apparel, but not merely clothes” Bernice commented wryly, then, almost as an aside ” How nice to meet you, this is your first time here I believe” with a slight smile which suggested  ‘welcome to the club of those of superior taste’.

 

“Oh yes of course, garments” flapped Gillian, “do let’s look around”

 

She was still somewhat bemused. The ‘garments’ were arranged loosely on hanging racks, not packed together but with room to assess, even from a step away, the colour, style and material. Some arranged into complementary ensembles and draped on models beneath discreet lighting.

 

She was drawn, despite herself, to a cut-away hunting cloak in an autumn toning, lined in russet shot silk and trimmed with light tan leather. She knew without touching it that the heft of the material would ensure both warmth and hoped for the sense of lightness that only a truly well-tailored garment, correctly fitted could achieve.

 

She also knew that it would suit her beautifully, would fit into and finish several of her favourite outfits, that it would be expensive and that she had to have it.

 

But she turned away, acknowledging Bernice with a slight lift of her chin and following Gillian to a rack of evening wear, blouses to ball gowns, and even a turquoise jumpsuit of some modern microfibre which seemed to be both sheer to the point of invisibility yet giving the illusion of substance at strategic areas. Predictably, Gillian thought it was magnificent and swept it from the rack, clasping it to herself as she spun towards the large mirror across the room.

 

“What a shame” she sighed, “It’s a ten”, and that was something that Gillian no longer was, though once…… .

 

She turned back toward the cloak and rubbed the lapel gently between finger and thumb, assessing the weave and denier.

 

“Genti’er” said Bernice “exquisite isn’t it. It only came in yesterday. It would fit you I think….., It’s that awkward European sizing, about an eleven,…. but quite individual. One must almost fit it rather than have it fit one”

 

“Yes” she was surprised to hear herself saying, “quite lovely”.

 

Bernice glided to her and lifted the cloak deftly from the mannequin without ruffling the cream linen shirt beneath.

 

“And it’s just the right shades of autumn for you, to pick up the green of your eyes, …….and you must wear this russet colour often…. to compliment your auburn hair” treacled Bernice, indicating the linings russet tones which had a back flash of deep emerald as she played it in the light, “I don’t think it’s ever been worn”

 

She allowed herself to be draped and fed her arms into the commodious sleeves, feeling the padded shoulders nestle into her neck and arms and the rich folds gather around her to mid-thigh without bunching, while the lapels and front panels settled neatly over her bust and the seams fell straight, without gape or spread.

 

It felt divine, almost weightless and as she caught sight of herself she was certain that she must own it. Surreptitiously she looked for the price tag but could not find one. She twirled slightly and watched the cloak flare and fall effortlessly back into precise array. Her hands found the internal pockets, just at the right height to maintain the cut of the cloak whilst allowing one to keep her hands warmed, and there she found a small card.

 

Drawing the card out she read the price tag, nine hundred and seventy dollars. She was aghast, though careful not to show it. Outrageous! This was a second hand clothes shop, but there was certainly nothing ‘second hand’ about this price. And yet, she wondered what would a cloak of this quality fetch in town, if she could ever find one.

 

“It was a present from a daughter in France, which didn’t come close to fitting the mother” Bernice informed her as she continued to stare mesmerised at herself, moving this way and that in the mirror, watching the cloak subtley alter as the light moved in it. “Tragic really, ……but not for you perhaps”.

 

Gillian was delighted, and gushed happily about the true magic of the cloak and how ‘quality always shows’, and felt vindicated for bringing her somewhat snobby friend to such an establishment.

 

“Hmmm, yes” she said, and glancing at the card in her hand, ” but perhaps…..”

 

“It is an absolute one off”, Bernice flowed into the void, “You will never see another. I don’t set the prices, you know, as goods are on consignment, but there could be very little movement for such a garment”.

 

“Hmm yes” she acquiesced “I can well understand that”

 

” You could probably do what I did” said Gillian, “You could bring some of the things that you don’t wear any more and let Bernice sell them for you. That’s how I got the evening dress I wore to the reception last week, you remember”

 

She did remember. She had half wondered where Gillian had found the elegance, and the money, for the blue and violet, drop neck gown that had caught everyone’s attention last Saturday night.

 

“Bernice sold some things I never wore anymore and I actually made a profit, didn’t I”, she smiled, turning to Bernice as she did so.

 

‘Couldn’t fit into anymore’ she thought, truth be known, but the idea certainly had some appeal.

 

“Gillian is quite correct. Do you have some pieces which you no longer wear tucked away at the back of your wardrobe” Bernice asked as she held a second mirror behind her to better show the darted tailoring to the waist.

 

“Well yes, I suppose so, I’ve never really thought” she said, bemused, ” Yes, I’m sure I do”

 

“Voila, both our desires will be met. The cloak is on consignment but the owner is out of the country for two weeks, so if I sold some things for you, you would not have pay anything until she returns, and who knows, it may be paid for by the other things by then”. Bernice spoke as if the sale was a foregone conclusion

 

This sounded wonderful, for she felt ridiculously loathe to take the cloak off, it fitted like a bespoke creation, finely tailored for only her. She couldn’t believe that anyone would ever guess that she had found such a beautiful cloak in a second hand shop.

 

“Alright then, that sounds very satisfactory, would you like a deposit of some description” she offered reaching for her large leather hand bag, but Bernice waved her away,

 

“Just give me your name and number and bring some things in for me to see in the next few days and we’ll sort it out as we go”.

 

To say she was pleased would be a grave understatement. She felt thrilled to walk form the shop wearing a cloak which she knew to be worth two or three times the amount on her bank card, and which she could never have afforded.

 

Better yet, it appeared that she may have to find no money whatsoever if her old things sold well. She was immensely grateful to Gillian, for she never would have found such a place on her own, and she felt a contentment with the world that she scarcely recognised for lack of its presence in the last few years.

 

She felt beautifully elegant, aware of glances, real or imagined from other women as they passed. She was sure she caught a glimpse of interested admiration from the rather distinguished business man in the navy chalk striped suit as he had approached them, though she didn’t dare look to see if he glanced back.

 

To say Gillian was pleased with herself and pleased with her friend was patently obvious as she virtually floated to the car park, basking in reflected glory.

 

“Thank you Gillian” she said as they reached the cars, taking both Gillian’s hands in hers, “I would never have gone in there without you, and would never have found my cloak”.

 

“I know, isn’t she just marvelous. I knew you’d like the shop, not like some people. At least you’re not a snob” Gillian pulled the corners of her mouth down as she said this.

 

A faint concern tugged the corner of her mind. “What do you mean” she asked.

 

“Well, only that you have an eye for quality and aren’t constrained by ‘where’ you buy things when they’re obviously what you want”, Gillian moue’d.

 

Concern hatched the smallest of warnings, “Why thank you Gillian, do you think some people worry about such things”, knowing full well that she was indeed one such person, despite Gillian’s statement to the contrary. She had always felt, and stated widely, that the experience of purchasing an item which was exactly right, was enhanced by the service and providence of the ‘right’ establishment, and well worth paying a little extra for.

 

“Oh yes, some people can’t see the wood for the trees past their upturned noses” Gillian mixed her metaphors as she mixed drinks, with abandon. “Marie and Sara came in with me yesterday after tennis and were so rude, giggling about op shops!  I was mortified in case Bernice heard them, but she was as gracious as always. It’ll be the last favour I try to do for them, that’s for sure, and it’s not as if they couldn’t use some new things, Sara especially, she’s been trotting out that tired old Versace for years now, drop waisted, hmmph, that’s her not the dress!”.

 

Gillian was clearly still cut at the dismissive behavior of their friends, despite her latest success, and the alarm bells began to ring in earnest.

 

“When you came yesterday, did you notice my cloak” she asked with a feigned casualness that she suddenly didn’t feel.

 

“Pardon, oh your cloak,……. No, I don’t think so, but I wasn’t really paying attention, they were being so awful and I was so embarrassed”.  Gillian was clearly still involved with the trauma of yesterday, so she decided to leave the topic alone.

 

Later, in her bedroom she swirled the cloak before the big walnut mounted mirror and was again delighted with every aspect of it. Every aspect that is, but one. What if the cloak had been there the day before and Marie and Sara had seen it. They would surely recognise such a distinctive garment and would realize where it had come from. If only Gillian had paid attention instead of getting all huffy and offended.

 

Being labeled as a wearer of second hand goods may be alright for Gillian but was far from being alright for her. There were standards after all and she was seen as a ,… well, …a leader of the group, the arbiter of the disputes and the benchmark of behaviour. It would not do to have it known that she shopped ‘second hand’. Perhaps she should just take the cloak back, ……… but she couldn’t.

 

“What shall I do” she asked herself, still in front of the mirror, still wearing the cloak. ”Well” she decided, “sort those clothes out”!

 

Several things came to mind immediately. There were two pairs of St. Laurent’s jeans, one carmine and the other a peacock blue. Both bought too tight before a summer several years ago when she anticipated losing a little weight – but hadn’t. And there was the Sirocco leather jacket, cut to a bolero waist and with fringed sleeves and capped shoulders, a gift, and worn only for the provender, though for a regrettably short period. She pulled all three items from the far left of the wardrobe and laid them out across the bed. She had a stab of regret about the jeans, “If only…” she thought and reached to the button of her trousers, before realizing again that she was still wearing the cloak, and the jeans would clash, and they’d never fitted her so why should they now.

 

With a sigh she turned back to the job at hand. She quickly found a gold silk shirt that she’d never managed to accessorize, and a light green cashmere cardigan with small covered buttons and loop button holes, which made her skin tone look anaemic at best. She considered, but returned her formal hacking jacket, despite knowing she’d never ride again, she couldn’t bear to part with it, or from its memories of summers past.

 

She stopped at the Ruby red evening gown which she’d never worn. It was without doubt the finest item in her wardrobe. This gown was tailored in Italy from finest french silks, interwoven with gold threads and tiny ruby beadings. It glowed as she opened its traveling cover and removed it from the wardrobe. The light caught the ruby beads and flashed as it swept around her.

 

It was her ‘Going Away’ dress. She hadn’t worn it that night twenty one years ago as a surfeit of champagne had left her and her new husband, Geoffrey, beyond any capability of going away anywhere. They’d stayed at the reception till overly late and then been helped to the bridal suite, both too overcome for any but the most obligatory of kisses before the deepest of induced, exhausted sleeps.

 

It hadn’t seemed appropriate the next morning, and his wedding gift to her, the matching ruby banquette cut necklace and drop ear rings were definitely passé at nine o’clock.

 

She draped the gown over the armchair beside the bed and opened the small top drawer of the compendium. The black velvet case sat as it had for all those years, scarcely opened.

 

She had only ever worn the earrings as the necklace, stepped down through several strands of jewels to the large central ruby which rested onto her scooped breasts cleavage, filling the gowns décolletage very, very dramatically.

 

There hadn’t been many chances to wear the gown, or the necklace after they were married. Geoffrey, who’d seemed so glamorous to a young secretary at Foreign Affairs had, in fact, been rather ordinary. Tall and already turning silver at his temples, he’d quite swept her off her feet with stories of the strange and bizarre ways of the East.  He had recently returned from Borneo, where he’d had the required six month tour of overseas duty. It was on this tour that he had made the contacts that later supplied him the rubies, but it was to be his only overseas posting.

 

He had entered the Department later in his career, after the army, and his skills were more with codes and accounting than with entertaining and decision making. He had chosen the quieter path within the department and had risen, incrementally to be head of his section before his familial weakness had shown itself with an early coronary at just fifty six, a little over a year ago. Somehow ruby red silk dresses with matching ruby necklaces hadn’t fitted their particular chic within the round of Wellington parties and functions.

 

It wasn’t until later, after his death, when finances had been pressing that she took the necklace and ear rings to be valued, and learnt the truth. They weren’t, in fact ruby’s but very good fakes, paste if you like, pretty, but with little inherent value.

 

She was sure, almost, and preferred to believe, that Geoffrey had not known and had been gullibly used by his so called ‘friendly contacts’. It had surprised her though, at the time, why he hadn’t wanted them specified for the insurance, but she’d thought little of it, he handled all that sort of thing.

 

“Why not” she thought, “I’ll certainly never wear them now, but surely someone would, and it would be just the thing in Bernice’s shop”.

 

Pleased with herself she folded the clothes into a suitcase and decided she may as well take them now as later. As she was leaving she once again realized she was still wearing the cloak.

 

“Would it be passé to wear the cloak back to see Bernice” she wondered, yet somehow the act of  taking the clothes to Bernice made the cloak seem even more hers, bought and paid for if you like.

 

She was relieved to find the shop empty when she arrived, she did not need witnesses to this transaction. Bernice welcomed her warmly and complimented her on her splendid cloak, at which they both laughed.

 

“What fineries do you have for me” Bernice cooed, “I can’t wait to see, it’s almost like Christmas, I never know what will come out of the cases people bring me.””

 

She rested the case onto a low table and took out the gown, still wrapped in its traveling cover and hung it over the back of a tall carver’s chair. Bernice saw the jeans underneath and exclaimed on the peacock blue, enhanced by the contrast of the carmine pair beneath them,

 

“Lovely” she said, “what size are they, ten’s, excellent… and St. Laurent, they won’t be here long, in fact, I think I know just who will buy them, I’ll ring her in a moment”. As the other pieces came out one by one, they held them up and modeled them for each other and discussed the merit of each until, “…and what do you have hidden undercover?” Bernice asked, looking toward the gown bag hanging on the chair.

 

“Oh yes, that’s my ‘going away’ dress that I never quite managed to wear” she said, and went on to tell the story of the ‘going away’ dress that never got away, as she opened the brass zip cover and swirled the gown out an around.

 

Bernice’s hand went to her mouth and she sat back onto her chair in admiration, “Oh it’s exquisite”, she gasped, “Beautiful, is it French?”.

 

“No Italian, but it is French silk” she turned to the mirror, once again admiring the colour against her skin and the elegance of the cut.

 

“Ooh, let me feel it”, Bernice could hardly contain herself, taking the gown from her and holding it up to her overly ample bosom.

 

“Oh, if only….”. Bernice traced the beading with her finger tips and pressed the lacework flat against herself, moving the gown this way and that before the mirror.

 

“And you’ve never worn it?” she said, incredulity apparent in her tone, “Why ever have you never worn it?”.

 

It did seem a crushing pity now, looking at it with refreshed eyes, but it had never been the right time, and now, she knew, there would never be a right time.

 

“Oh, and there’s these as well, they go with it”, she said, taking the black velvet box from her case and placing it on the glass counter.

 

Intrigued, Bernice lay the gown across the counter and, with a questioning glance opened the box. She seemed momentarily overcome, “Are these real?” she asked.

 

“Well, for many years I thought they were, but unfortunately, they’re not. Still, they are quite lovely and they set the gown off rather well”

 

“Superbly I should say, and what a marvelous suite they make. Complete, and fit for a queen!” Bernice was back before the mirror with gown held up in one hand and the necklace in the other,

 

“Exquisite” she breathed again.

 

“Do you think you’ll be able to sell it” she asked, “What do you think it’s worth?”.

 

“Oh my word yes, this gown won’t even have to go onto a hanger, any one of ten of my clients have standing orders for items of this quality and would buy it on my recommendation alone, sight unseen. Now we have to work out the price, how much would you like for it?”, Bernice was coming back to business now, the enchantment under control.

 

“Well I had hoped to cover the cost of the cloak …..”

 

“Yes, yes, it will do that handsomely, but how much more is the question.

 

“This is rounding out to be a very satisfying day” she thought, “Why didn’t I do this years ago, Thank you Gillian!”.

 

“I think you may have a better understanding of what people pay for things these days, why don’t you tell me?”.

 

“Alright then, I think we should start the ball rolling at around the two and a half thousand mark, and if I show it to several people at once, it may well do better than that. How would that be, there is still the matter of my commission remember, twenty percent of sale price, is that alright?”.

 

The twenty percent was a blow but it was the other eighty percent that made her eyes widen with pleasure, “Absolutely,….unquestionably”, she managed, “Really?”.

 

“Oh yes, and there are these other things as well, not in the same league but I’ll take them all and they’ll all go very quickly” Bernice seemed very pleased. “Do you know” she said, “I think that’s the best group of garments I’ve ever been presented with, the gown is just wonderful”.

 

They talked a little longer but she was keen to leave and find somewhere quiet where she could hug herself, and pinch herself, and hug herself again to make sure it was all real. She gathered her cloak around her, collected her now empty suitcase and left the shop with her chest out and her head high. What a great day.

 

Gillian rang later to ask if she was going to the Kudos Gallery opening later in the evening. The artist featured was Cherie’s son. Cherie was an old friend from university days who’d nabbed a somewhat unbecoming medical student very early on. The medical student had gone on to become a highly successful surgeon and Cherie had invested acutely in the property market, arriving just before the boom. One mark of their success was the dissident son who could afford to wile away his hours with very average, moderately angry paintings and still get a showing at a top gallery.

 

Really, she didn’t feel that she wanted to waste the evening being polite and social but she could see no way around it. She would be conspicuous by her absence and leave herself vulnerable to similar non-attendances by Cherie and her coterie in the future.

 

Then she remembered her cloak.

 

“Yes”, she said to Gillian, “Shall I meet you there or would you like me to collect you”.