Twelve Neat Stitches

Agnes called while I was explaining to a man that our cooling cloths were not a substitute for a refrigerator.

“But it's only fish,” he said.

“That makes me more concerned.”

He bought replacement buttons instead, apparently deciding to solve a different part of his life. I turned the sign to BACK IN TEN MINUTES and answered the phone.

Behind Agnes's voice, I heard wind and a rope striking something hollow. She had gone sailing with two friends she knew from the harbour. She said sailing was essentially fixing things while the floor moved, which explained its attraction without making it sound enjoyable.

“Tell me where the coat is.”

I told her.

“Is the cupboard warm?”

“No.”

“Any other charged material touching it?”

“No. I moved the stock.”

“Vents clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Don't remove your stitches. Not until we've looked at what they've tightened.”

I had been waiting for permission to do precisely that.

“Wouldn't undoing them—”

“It might loosen the outer seam. It won't necessarily open the return you pulled shut inside. Which direction is the dispersal cloth facing?”

I checked. Rough side towards the lining. She exhaled, not quite a sigh.

“Right. Leave it. Recall anything charged that's got wet. Tell customers it's precautionary. No new captures today.”

“You don't have to come back.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I can keep checking it.”

“I believe you. I also know what may be in that coat. Those are different things.”

My throat tightened. I looked at my reflection in the dark portion of the front window and disliked how young I looked when there was nobody else beside me.

“I'm sorry.”

“I know.”

“I only wanted to fix the lining.”

“I know that too. June, listen. You made a mistake, and calling me was the right thing. Both can be true. I don't need you to turn into a disaster so the first part looks serious enough.”

I nodded, though she couldn't see me.

She would get the morning train. There was no sensible way off the boat faster than the harbour they were already approaching. I was to close early, keep the shop cool and tell Mum I wasn't staying in the flat that night.

Before hanging up, Agnes asked whether I had eaten.

“A biscuit.”

“That is something you've consumed. I asked whether you've eaten.”

I said I would find a sandwich.

Bex arrived with coffee and a paper bag just as I reopened. She had cut her hair to her jaw the previous week and now touched it every time she said something definite, as though the haircut had introduced a new department of management.

“I bring carbohydrates,” she announced. “Also a small request.”

“You always put the carbohydrates first.”

“I'm not an amateur.”

We ate behind the counter. Bex had been my best friend since we were eight and she had informed our teacher that I hadn't stolen the class scissors because I owned much better ones. It was not a defence the school had appreciated, but I had.

Her performance group needed help with a backdrop for the Summer's End Fair. One corner had torn during rehearsal, and the cloth sagged in a way that made a painted skyline look recently flooded.

“I can fix the corner,” I said. “And put a proper channel along the top. Maybe repaint that bit by the tower.”

“I was asking about the corner.”

“I know. It's no trouble.”

She looked around the damp shop.

“Everything here seems to be going smoothly.”

I told her about the coat. She listened, looked at the return cupboard and moved her coffee away from it.

“Does it do lightning?”

“Not so far.”

“That's not a comforting tense.”

I showed her the letter I had been carrying in my bag since Monday. It had arrived addressed to me, not Agnes, not the shop, not Miss Halden as somebody's useful niece. Bell Lane School of Design had invited me to an interview in Beckford, three weeks from Thursday. They wanted three completed pieces and one work in progress, with notes showing how I developed an idea.

Bex read it once, then again more slowly.

“June.”

“I know.”

“June.”

“You've said my name twice. Are you checking it?”

She put the letter down and hugged me hard enough to press the edge of my name badge into my chest.

“This is brilliant.”

“It's an interview.”

“Yes. That's the stage before the next stage. They don't usually skip straight to giving you the building.”

I had applied after midnight in April, when wanting something had seemed temporarily less embarrassing. The application included photographs of a folding mending kit and a storage sleeve I had made for people who struggled with tiny fastenings. Agnes knew I had sent it. I hadn't told her the reply had arrived.

“What will you take?” Bex asked.

“Probably those. Maybe the display frame, if I make it.”

“Then make it.”

She said this as though the space between an idea and an object were a pavement one could simply cross.

A thin layer of fog slid from beneath the counter.

We both watched it collect around our shoes.

“Is that part of the advertised service?” Bex asked.

“No.”

“Good. I was going to say your customer information is terrible.”

She picked up the coffee, I fetched the dry return cloths, and my promising future disappeared temporarily behind a till full of fog.