Ah now, this was more like it, Constance thought, greedily eyeing the dress Isabel was holding up.
‘Do you like the colour and the pattern? It’s what’s called a batik print, and it’s all the go. I think you’d look lovely in pink. A little cardigan over the top and you could wear leggings under it. It’d be just perfect for now and when the weather gets warmer.’
Isabel’s enthusiasm amused Constance as did the word batik, the young always thought they’d invented everything. She’d lived through the ‘70s for heaven’s sake and had worn more batik prints than Isabel had probably had hot dinners. Still, she was trying so hard to muster enthusiasm in her that the least she could do was oblige.
She’d mustered plenty in the young sales girl who didn’t look old enough to have left school in Constance’s opinion. She was busy disentangling a chunky beaded necklace off the stand by the counter. The beads, Constance saw as she carried them over were of a polished rosy hue, and the girl looked pleased with herself as she held them up against the dress. ‘I thought they’d work. It goes a treat with that dress, doesn’t it? Go on try it on; I’ll keep an eye on your chair for you.’ The girl whose name badge said Tara, had already kicked the brake off as though well used to dealing with parked wheelchairs and began pushing it towards the back of the shop.
With nothing else for it, Constance linked arms with Isabel, and they followed Tara’s lead to the fitting room. Isabel hesitated, and Constance huffed, ‘You’ll need to help me, Isabel.’ She turned toward young Tara, ‘I’m eighty-nine, you know.’ There was no room for embarrassment when you got to her age, Constance thought, as Isabel squeezed into the cubicle alongside her. Jill regularly had to help her do up her bra on those days when her fingers wouldn’t quite work properly.
‘Well, you don’t look it.’ Tara gushed holding the curtain so as Isabel and Constance could squeeze into the cubicle.
Constance fiddled with her blouse and let Isabel help her shrug out of it, leaving her skirt on before sliding the floaty tunic styled dress over her head. It felt comfortable, fitting nicely across her bust, and draping loosely over what once upon a time had been her waist but what was now most definitely her middle. She liked the sleeves too, elbow length, and the hemline stretched to below her knees. No woman should wear a mini dress past forty in her opinion, and there was nothing at all titillating about the knees of a woman who was flirting with ninety decades.
Isabel opened the door and stepped out of the cubicle allowing them both room to breathe. She gave Constance the once over, her expression that of the self-satisfied. ‘I knew that was the right dress, I knew it. Constance, you look fabulous! Come and have a look in the big mirror out here.’
Constance wasn’t sure she wanted to look. Would she see a batik print beach ball and one with a slow puncture at that gazing out at her from the mirror? Nevertheless, she bravely took Isabel’s outstretched hand and allowed her to position her in front of the mirror. She blinked at the reflection staring back at her. Gone was the little old lady she barely recognised and wholeheartedly disliked and in her place was Constance Downer. She’d forgotten the power colour had to perk her up and the bright pink background of the dress had just given her an instant lift. Her new shoes, the white ones with the pink bow would go perfectly too, she thought before Tara appeared and draped the beads around her neck.
She hadn’t had this much fuss since the day her mind had wandered off, and she’d failed to stop when the lights went red on the East Hill Road into Ryde. Her beloved Morris Minor went up the back of the post van, and that had been that. It was all the excuse the powers that be needed to slap her in the face with her septuagenarian digits and revoke her license. This was, of course, a much nicer sort of fuss, and although she’d never admitted it, she was enjoying being centre of attention.
‘Oh that’s lovely on you,’ Tara declared, standing back to admire her handy work. ‘Almost perfect but just give me a minute—’ she disappeared into the shop and began rifling through a pile of folded knitwear on a stand in the middle of the shop.
A twinkling later, she was back with a few items draped over her arms. ‘Here,’ she said, handing a white cardigan to Constance, ‘with this you can wear the dress now and when it gets warmer. Oh, and I found the same size dress in this gorgeous yellow here.’ She held it aloft for them both to yay or nay with her spare hand. ‘You look like you’d suit yellow to me. What do you think?’
‘Your blue shoes would go lovely with it, Constance,’ Isabel interjected before Constance could say a word. ‘Do you happen to have leggings?’ she carried on.
‘I’ve got them right here.’ Tara looked pleased with herself as she hung the yellow dress on the handle of the fitting room door. She produced a pair of white leggings hidden beneath the cardigan draped over her arm.
‘Right well, I think we’re sorted don’t you, Constance?’
Constance was too overwhelmed by it all to do anything but
