Breaking The Rules

For Kerry, the only way to move on from her mother’s death is to be a little rebellious…

The man in the grey wool coat drops two overstuffed carrier bags beside the door to the charity shop without acknowledging Kerry as she rummages in her bag for the keys. He runs off, jumping into his car and pulling out into the traffic with a screech of tyres.

Honestly, people can be so rude. Kerry rolls her eyes and carries the bags into the back for sorting on Monday when the full-time staff come in.

Out of curiosity, she pulls out a jacket. She holds it up, checking the label. It’s expensive, from a shop she can’t afford, and it also happens to be her size. It has a soft heather-green velvet collar and leather buttons. She slips it on and studies her reflection in the full-length mirror. It could have been made for her.

At five-thirty, Kerry switches the Open sign to Closed, locks the door and nips into the back room. Burning with curiosity, she rifles through the two bags, fingering silk and cashmere, leather and linen. Whoever these belonged to had a taste for elegance and the money to indulge it.

Kerry has thirty pounds in her purse. She puts it in the till and takes the new donations home. She knows such behaviour is frowned upon, but she can’t resist. She’s always been scrupulously honest, but it’s only a little transgression, and no one need know.

Kerry began volunteering after her mother died, wanting to support the hospice that helped make her passing so gentle. During the week she works in a bank, a job she’s held for eight years. Six years too long in her mother’s opinion.

“If you don’t ask, you don’t get,” she used to say. “You should be the manager by now, love. Be brave.”

But she never had been brave, and now her mum has gone. Of course it’s a relief that she’s at peace, but Kerry misses her badly. They had been so close that moving on feels impossible.

And if she lacked confidence before, it’s even worse now. Mary, her friend at work, keeps urging her to take a leap, but she’s just not the sort of person who

pushes for the things she wants.

That evening she empties the bags and tries on one garment after another. The silk skims her flesh, the cashmere is as soft as clouds. The colours suit her too – the deep bluey-pinks and cool summer reds bringing out the subtle roses in her complexion. A blue sequined evening dress enhances the colour of her eyes.

She laughs at herself and takes it off. When on earth would she wear it? She would feel a fool.

On Sunday Kerry gives herself a stern talking-to, picks out a pair of smart dark jeans and a snugly-fitting fine cashmere sweater and goes to the department store, just to see what it feels like.

The clothes she’s wearing were a safe choice, but she’s conscious of a lift in her spirits that transfers to the way she holds herself. For the first time in her life she feels visible. The shop assistants treat her with deference even though all she buys that day are tights. Going out and about

The SILK skims her FLESH and the CASHMERE is as soft as CLOUDS

on Sundays in her second-hand finery becomes a guilty pleasure.

A few weeks later Kerry begins to feel as though she’s being watched. At work, she tells Mary about it, laughing it off.

“It really is just a feeling. Perhaps I’ve got too much time on my hands.” Mary looks at her with concern. “You’re missing your mum,” she says. “It’s understandable. If you took on a new challenge at work, it might help.”

A new challenge? She couldn’t see that happening any time soon.

Kerry walks down the high street towards the department store. She’s wearing a camel-hair coat, belted at the waist, and feels like a movie star. Until she hears it. The sound of

footsteps that seem to echo her own.

She stops in front of a gallery window and pretends to study the paintings – oils of cows in a meadow. The footsteps stop. She spins round in time to see a figure dart down a side street, but whoever it was has vanished by the time Kerry turns the corner.

It’s spooky,” she tells Mary. “I’m beginning to think I may have a stalker.” “Have you actually seen anyone?” “I’m not sure. I think I may have.”

“It’s probably just your imagination, Kerry. You’re not really the type who gets stalked, are you?” Kerry bristles. “What type do you have to be?” “I didn’t mean it like that,” Mary says hastily. “Don’t take it the wrong way. It’s just that you’re a gentle, quiet-looking person, and your clothes don’t exactly scream look at me!”

Flushing, Kerry glances down at her cheap blue cotton shirt. Quiet-looking! She’d show Mary.

The next morning, she chooses a slim black pencil skirt, a cream silk shirt and the jacket with the velvet collar. She blow-dries her hair and applies make-up, then grimaces at her reflection. She may have exchanged drabness for a touch of glamour, but she’s still the same Kerry underneath.

She ticks herself off. She is a woman with options. Maybe she’ll have a chat to her manager today, about her prospects with the firm. She pushes her shoulders back and lifts her chin. Maybe she will.

“Oh my,” Mary says. “You look amazing. What’ve you done to yourself?”

Kerry flushes. “Just bought some new clothes… from a charity shop.”

“You are clever! You must take me with you next time. Listen, I’ve heard there’s a job going in management. Why don’t you apply? It sounds absolutely perfect for you.” “I’ll think about it,” Kerry demurs. Mary shakes her head. “I’m not having that, Kerry. I’ve printed out the application form. You’re not leaving this office until you’ve filled it in and taken it upstairs.”

The train pulls into the station, and Kerry gets off, pulling the camel-hair coat around her. She walks through the barriers and pops into the mini-mart to buy a salmon fillet and new potatoes.

As she’s checking the best-before dates, a woman walks in. The hairs on the back of her neck rise. Is this her stalker? She doesn’t appear to be buying anything, just studying labels while adding nothing to her basket. Or could it be that young man in the hoodie, who glanced her way?

Uneasy, Kerry pays and leaves. It’s dark and she walks briskly, growing more nervous once she’s turned into the maze of less well-lit residential streets. She’s certain now that she’s being followed.

She lets herself in and slams the door, bolting it before she pulls off her boots. In the front room she draws the curtains, then peeks out. The street is still. At least, it was. A shadow moves, and someone hurries away.

Kerry arranges the food in the fridge and looks round the kitchen. Her mother has been dead for six months, the funeral and wake long over, but the house still smells of the perfume she loved, the garden still awaits her tender care.

Kerry knows she should make a decision about it but she’s still taking

her meals at the kitchen table where they used to sit, still watching her mother’s favourite shows, curled up on the sofa.

Her gaze rests on the figurine on the mantelpiece, the only thing her mother left of value – a seventeenth century shepherdess with an apron filled with tiny rose buds and a lamb beside her neatly booted feet. Her father had bought it at auction and given it to her mother as a wedding present. Secretly, Kerry doesn’t like it, but she would never sell it.

She sighs. She doesn’t need Mary to tell her she’s going nowhere. She knows it only too well. Perhaps her stalker is the prod she needs. She shudders.

In bed, in the room she had as a child and teenager, Kerry is so scared that she can’t sleep. She touches the rolling pin she’s propped against the bedside table.

It’s gone midnight before she nods off, but by then she’s made a decision. She’s going to the police. In the morning, she calls Mary to explain and gains herself a couple of hours.

“Oh and by the way,” Mary says. “I’m so glad you applied for the new post. You’ve got an interview on Friday afternoon. Good luck.”

It’s still early and the High Street is quiet, many of the shops not yet open. Kerry walks along, catching glimpses of herself in the windows. She’s dressed to impress and looks more confident than she feels. Is she doing the right thing? There isn’t much to tell, after all; just a feeling; some footsteps; a possible sighting.

Whoever is shadowing her is back. She can feel it. After last night, she no longer thinks her mind is playing tricks; this is real. She walks faster, then stops to study the photos in an estate agent’s window.

She sees the reflection of a woman, standing a few yards away, and her heart crashes against her ribcage. You read such frightening stories about stalkers.

The police station isn’t far, but she takes a deep breath before turning and striding towards the woman, who looks like a rabbit caught in headlights.

Kerry is surprised at herself. She avoids confrontation. Perhaps it’s the coat.

“Why are you following me?” she demands. The woman stiffens. “I’m not.” “Yes, you are. And you’ve been doing it for weeks. Tell me why, or I’m going to the police.”

To her surprise the woman’s eyes well with tears. She pushes past Kerry and hurries away, her arms hugged around her body.

“Stop!” Kerry calls, running after her. “Please. I need to talk to you. Do you know me?”

The woman stops, looking Kerry up and down, her mouth trembling. “No. But that coat… those clothes…” She shakes her head and walks on, but Kerry blocks her path. “What? I paid. I didn’t steal them.” She feels a stab of guilt. She shouldn’t have taken those donations before anyone else had a chance to look at them.

“He should never… I told him I wanted to keep them. I’m not ready.”

Kerry remembers the man running up to the shop, dropping the bags. It had been curiously furtive; the action of someone who knew they were doing something underhand.

“They belonged to my daughter. She died five years ago.” The woman dabs her eyes. “He said I have to move on. But he didn’t ask. He just bagged everything up while I was out and took it away.

“I went to the charity shop on the Monday morning, but they hadn’t seen any of it. They said he might have left it before the shop opened and it got stolen. But then I saw you in the department store.” She looks at Kerry accusingly. “Why do you have my daughter’s things?”

Kerry blushes. “I volunteer there. I was opening up when he dropped them off. It was all so beautiful, and in my size. I paid for them – not much, I’m afraid.”

She thinks about what the clothes have done for her confidence and strokes the lamb’s wool with regret. “I’ll give it all back. I’m sorry.” The woman softens. “And I’m sorry I scared you.” “What was your daughter’s name?” Kerry asks. “Sophie. She was thirtyeight. She had cancer.” Her voice breaks. “I miss her so. My husband… I know it’s unbearable for him too, but it feels like he’s driven a knife through my heart.” Kerry steers her into a café and buys tea and buns. “My name is Kerry. Your daughter has changed my life. I’m so glad to have this chance to thank you and explain.” The woman, who introduces herself as Alice, listens and before long is giving Kerry interview advice. They talk for an hour but it feels like half that time. Alice has been a successful businesswoman and regales Kerry with her disasters and successes. “You must keep the clothes,” she says. “If they’ve made such a difference, I want you to have them. Sophie would too.” When Kerry walks towards the station to go to work, there’s a lift in her step, but at the entrance she hesitates. She turns and heads home. She goes straight to the lounge, takes tissue from her mum’s gift-wrapping drawer and smooths it flat. Her hands are shaking.

The shepherdess stands in pride of place in the charity shop window. Someone will pay a good price for her, and the money will go to the hospice. It feels right, and although Kerry suffers a pang for her mother’s sake, she’s glad. Perhaps her small misdemeanour wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

“But he DIDN’T ASK. He just BAGGED everything up WHILE I was OUT”