Sweet Charity

Sweet Charity
    Lola Quinlan leaned over the counter and took the bundle of second-hand clothes from the grey-haired woman. ‘Margaret, you are not just one of my dearest friends but one
of my best suppliers. Thank you so much.’
    ‘They’re seriously back-of-the-wardrobe outfits, Lola. Nothing too flash at all, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Someone will love them, I’m sure. I’m delighted you came in. I’ve put aside a new outfit just for you.’
    ‘Oh, Lola, no. I can’t buy anything else. I’ve just done a big clear-out at home.’
    ‘But you can’t leave a charity shop empty-handed. Or charities shop, as I should call it. Do you know, last year alone we helped fund a new playground, bought the equivalent of two
tyres for a runabout bus for the old ones in the nursing home and sent two poor families away on breaks. All from a small shop filled with second-hand clothes and bric-a-brac. Imagine. So
it’s not so much about buying a new outfit, Margaret, as being a part of the community.’
    Margaret shook her head, laughing. ‘You just won’t take no for an answer, will you?’
    ‘Not if I can help it,’ Lola said, smiling. ‘Now, let me fetch this suit for you. You always look so stylish in darker colours and I think this one will be right up your
street.’
    Margaret waited while Lola went through the floral curtain into the stockroom. Her friend really did have a good eye for other people’s style. It was just her own clothing that would
nearly take the eye out of you. Tartan with paisley prints. Culottes with vests. Sometimes as many as six strands of beads. Last year she’d taken to wearing flowers pinned to her outfits,
often with a matching one in her hair. It was her Rio look, she’d told Margaret.
    Lola emerged carrying a beautifully made tailored jacket with a matching mid-length skirt. ‘What do you think, Margaret? I thought of you as soon as I saw it.’
    ‘That’s because it’s my suit. I donated it to you last week. Don’t you remember?’
    ‘Oh, so you did. Well, I think you acted too soon. You’ll get a few more wears out of it yet. I’ll pop it in a bag for you, will I?’
    Two schoolgirls came into the shop just as Margaret left. She’d not only taken the suit back home but also paid ten dollars for it.
    ‘Hello, girls. Can I help you?’ Lola’s Irish accent rang clear across the room.
    ‘No, we’re right, thanks.’
    ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’
    The taller one spoke. ‘Um, actually, we’re having a fancy dress theme for the end-of-school-year disco and we’re looking for something.’
    ‘Oh, that would be the bad taste party, would it?’
    They looked relieved. ‘You know about it?’
    Lola stepped out from behind the counter, turning slowly so they could see the paisley kaftan she was wearing. ‘I’ve had three offers for this dress already. Imagine. Wouldn’t
you think they’d have more sympathy for an elderly lady like myself, getting dressed in the morning, eyesight fading . . .’ She stopped and looked at the shorter of the two girls.
‘Emily, hello there. I didn’t recognise you in your school uniform.’
    The girl was now bright red. ‘Hello, Lola.’
    ‘Will we be seeing you again this weekend? I heard from my son that you did a marvellous job waitressing at the wedding last week.’ Lola and her family owned and ran a motel with
function rooms just north of the town. ‘It’s certainly not the easiest of jobs for a first-timer either, but I know he was very pleased indeed with you.’
    Emily nodded enthusiastically. ‘I really enjoyed it. Mr Quinlan asked me to come and work this Saturday night too. And maybe Sunday lunchtime if you get enough bookings.’
    ‘Isn’t that terrific! I’ll pop over to the dining room and say hello. Now, don’t be shy. Have a good poke around. I’m unpacking new things all the time too, so if
you don’t find anything here today, be sure to come back tomorrow.’
    Fifteen minutes later, Lola was alone in the shop again. Two schoolboys had come in after Emily and her friend had left. The boys had rustled half-heartedly through the rack of CDs and old
records before wandering out again, all without any eye contact with her. She was used to that. It didn’t bother her. Teenage boys were much more fun to watch than talk to, she had
discovered. They gave away so much, for all their strut and confidence and swagger. Bags of nerves and hormones.
    She had learned more about people by