Dora joined me for coffee this morning.
Back in the 1960s, half a century ago, Dora had the shop next door on this small lane, laundry and dry cleaning.
She told me of a young man coming to pick up a dry cleaned suit, but without his ticket.
It was a nice suit.
Turned out the fellow had lent his Sunday best to a mate, so a wedding could be attended. The mate had done the right thing, kept the suit in one piece, dropped it in for dry cleaning first thing Monday morning on his way to work, but he’d never picked it up again.
It was a very nice suit.
Dora wanted to hand over the coat hanger with pressed jacket and trousers on it to the young man at the counter, but she had to be reassured it was his, why couldn’t he just ask his friend for the ticket?
That suit was so nice that it had led to the mate meeting a sweet bridesmaid. The sweet bridesmaid had neglected to inform him she was married to a local gangster. The apartment where the ticket was sitting in a fruit bowl on the kitchen bench was a crime scene, the resident had been stabbed to death by an unknown intruder.
The young man only owned one suit, he had to attend a funeral that weekend, just the same Dora felt uncomfortable with him walking away with the compromised ensemble. She asked him to think about it overnight, to come back the next day if he still wanted it back.
A year later Dora donated a very nice suit to a church jumble sale.
She said, “clothes make the man”, finished her coffee, wandered off down Llankelly Place, peering into her old shop on her way, but not before apologising for boring me with her old stories.
Dora is a great artist.
Parkstreet
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