The Apartment Store #9

Chapter 5, Part 1; in which Lydia discovers something unexpected about Mr Krebs

The Apartment Store is the story of Lydia, a little girl who lives in a ramshackle attic apartment, in a ramshackle apartment building, down the ramshackle end of town. All Lydia wants is a proper Christmas, but it doesn't seem likely until a new tenant arrives in their building and changes Christmas for everyone in it.

The Apartment Store is a book length Christmas story of twelve chapters, split into twenty four episodes for Advent.

Ivy was in the Olympic when they got back downstairs, talking to Door.

“You’re not the only ones having an eventful day,” said Door, when he saw them, “Ivy’s been fired.”

“I was late,” she said, “I didn’t even realise I was late. Apparently I’m always late, and I didn’t even realise that either, to be honest. I told them that I’d been waitressing in Paris and that was why but I don’t think they believed me, actually I don’t think they really understood what I was talking about, and I’m not sure I did either. So anyway, they fired me.”

“Oh no, Ivy, that’s our fault,” said Lydia, “I’m so sorry.”

“Ah, I was pretty terrible at it, really, even when I wasn’t pretending to be terrible at it like this morning, I mean I didn’t even have to pretend that hard and I was pretty terrible, wasn’t I? I think they’d been thinking about it for a while, I mean it sounded like he had his whole speech all prepared and everything. I’ll just have to find another job, I guess.”

“Well, maybe we can think of something,” said Artie, “What do you think, Mr M?”

“Hang on,” said Door, “In the shop? I mean, I’m sure Ivy could do the job, but someone’s already doing it. Me, to be precise.”

“We are expanding the store,” said Mr M, grandly.

“Expanding?” said her father, “Where? I thought we were already as big as a town or whatever it was. It certainly feels like it sometimes, squeezing down into that storeroom.”

“Upstairs,” said Mr M, “In the apartment, we are going to make a Christmas, what is the word? Grotty?”

“Sounds about right,” said Door.

“Grotto,” said Lydia, getting cross, “He meant grotto.”

“More of a department,” said Artie, “A special Christmas department.”

“We’re a department store now?” Door looked at them quizzically, “And Ivy is going to be Santa Claus? And is our new neighbour going to be an elf?”

“Mr Krampus will help me, I hope, to start the new department,” Mr M savoured the word like it was a treasure.

“Well, look, I wasn’t expecting anything, Mr M,” said Artie, “But I’d love to, of course. I’d love to, isn’t this just the most beautiful moment? I’d forgotten this, this moment when things are starting, when an idea is just emerging from its chrysalis, so to speak, stretching it’s wings, trying them out, revealing it’s true glory. How could I not love to?”

“You certainly land on your feet, don’t you?” said Door.

“Why do you have to be so mean?” said Lydia, suddenly, “Just cause you’ve never done anything but sit there reading magazines and thinking you’re being funny! We’ve had a proper idea and it’s properly exciting and all you can do is be mean. Just because you don’t ever think of anything doesn’t mean other people can’t. Other people want to make things and do things and not just sit around. You’re so irritating!”

“Lydia!” said Ivy.

“Hey now,” said Artie, “That’s uncalled for, Lydia. To be honest, that’s pretty mean itself. And all that I said earlier, about the Olympic and the people who come here, all that goes double for your father. None of that could happen without him. Who stocks the shelves? Who makes the sandwiches and makes the change? Who makes this work? And without him here, welcoming people, talking to them, making them laugh, what kind of place do you think this would be? Would this be so large without him? Nothing works without people like your father. Your idea won’t work without him.”

Door was looking at Lydia with a steady gaze. She avoided his eye.

“I’m so glad I have a use,” he said.

“So am I,” said Mr M, who looked uncomfortable, “You work very well here, Door.”

“Thank you,” said Door.

“But we expand and get bigger,” said Mr M, trying to get the conversation back on to happier territory, “And that means we need more people.”

“That could mean you, Ivy,” said Artie, “What do you say?”

“What I say,” said Ivy, “Is that if you think I’m pretty terrible as a waitress, you should see me work in a shop, I mean, I’m awful, just awful. I worked in a dress shop once because I thought: I’m studying fashion, you know, I should understand the experience, you know, the sharp end, the buying and selling, and I was purely awful. The dresses were horrid, all horrid fabrics and cut so badly and the poor women, they looked so… so sad, you know? A dress is supposed to make you look good, to make you look you, like the best you, to make the you you are inside, outside, if you see what I mean, and they just looked so sad and wrong and I’m afraid I told them so. I mean, when I thought to, when I was paying attention. The rest of the time I kept getting distracted, kept thinking of way to improve things, but they didn’t want to know. They didn’t want new ideas and they didn’t like me telling people the truth. They fired me too.

“Ten days,” she added, triumphantly, like that was a measure of success.

“This won’t be a dress shop, Ivy,” said Artie, patiently.

“No, I know, but what I think is,” said Ivy, remembering what it was that she thought, “That ought to be what I do, oughtn’t it? I mean that’s what I’m studying and that’s what I love, you know, looking at someone and seeing how you could make them just shine, you know, just glow, and I think that’s what I should do. I mean, Mr M is making his apartment into a shop, and what I think is, why stop there? Why just Mr M? I mean that’s what I do, in my apartment. I’ve got a cutting board and a mannequin and a machine and fabric, so much beautiful fabric. So what I think is, why not a fashion department too? So that’s what I think. That and you should be nicer to your dad, Lydia.”

“A fashion department,” said Artie, “There’s an idea. A fashion apartment, in fact.”

“An apartment store!” said Lydia.

“Ha! An apartment store,” said Artie, “An apartment store. Now, that’s a thought no one has ever had before. I like that.”

The bell rang and the door to the store opened. It was George Joseph Sweet. He was wearing baggy shorts out of which his wiry legs stuck like baguettes out of a shopping bag. He had evidently been running as his flannel top was soaked with sweat and he was mopping his forehead with a towel.

When he saw them all gathered around the till, he stopped and looked as if he was about to run straight back out of the door again, but Lydia’s father stopped him.

“George Joseph! How was the park? Need a drink?”

“Uh… yes, yes, just water please, hi everyone,” he looked round nervously at them and swallowed, “Hi, Ivy.”

“Hi, George Joseph,” said Ivy, “Hope I didn’t disturb you went I got back last night.”

“Oh, I went straight back to sleep,” he gulped, “I mean, no, not at all.”

“George Joseph, just the man we need, allow me,” said Artie, passing him a bottle of water from the fridge by the door.

“You… need me?” George Joseph sounded suspicious, “What for?”

“We need your help,” said Artie, “Did my ears deceive me this morning or did you mention this morning that you are an accountant?”

“They didn’t, I mean, you did,” said George Joseph, “I mean I’m an accountant, yes.”

“George Joseph does our books,” aid Mr M, “He is very reliable and honest and useful.”

“I’ll say he is,” said Artie, “A man who brews coffee like that is not a man to cook the books. To tend them, yes, cook them, no.”

“I am pleased to say,” said George Joseph, “That I have never been party to any impropriety.”

“Financially speaking,” said Ivy.

“Financially speaking, um, yes,” agreed George Joseph.

“Then yours is exactly the help we need,” said Artie, “We have a plan, Mr M has a plan.”

“I am expanding the Olympic,” said Mr M, “Upstairs. We get bigger, we get more business; we get more business, you get more business.”

“Well, yes, I suppose,” said George Joseph, “You’re expanding upstairs? Into your apartment?”

“So am I,” said Ivy, “Right next door to you, George Joseph, I’m going to open a fashion department. Apartment. Whatever we’re calling it, and I’ll need your help, too - we all will - I’m hopeless with figures. Not people’s figures, I mean, not bodies, bodies I am absolutely fine with. I know what I’m doing with bodies, making clothes for them , you see, but numbers, that kind of figure, not so much. I do absolutely need the help of someone like you. Of you, in fact. It’ll be right next door.”

“Well, of course, I mean that’s what I do,” said George Joseph, “But I’m not sure I understand. A fashion apartment?”

“An apartment store,” said Artie, “That’s what we’re calling it. It was Lydia’s idea and it’s a terrific one. I’ve spent all day meeting extraordinary people in this building and I think anything we do together will be extraordinary, too. I’m so glad you want to join us, George Joseph.”

“So am I,” said Ivy, “Aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, thank you, thank you for asking me, I guess,” said George Joseph, “But what does Mr Krebs think?”

“Now, there’s a question,” said Door, "What does Mr Krebs think?"

“What’s it got to do with him?” snapped Lydia.

“Mr Krebs is the building supervisor, Lydia,” said her father, “I don’t know whether there are rules about running a business from your apartment, but if there aren’t, Mr Krebs will write some new ones, I’m sure.”

“It’s a good point, Door, a good point,” said Artie, “We should talk to him before we get too carried away.”

“Do we have to?” Lydia was hoping that she wouldn’t have to, at least. She was more than a little scared of Mr Krebs, who always seemed to be the person who disapproved of what you were doing or had banned whatever it was that you had done and who generally seemed to be in charge of stopping anything interesting or fun breaking out.

“We should talk to Mr Krebs, to be sure,” said Mr M, “I would prefer it, Door is right.”

“It’s always best to get everyone on your side to start with,” said Artie, “So they can’t throw a spanner in the works later on.”

“And Mr Krebs has a whole basement full of spanners,” said Door.

There was a moment, at the bottom of the basement steps, when it seemed that none of them, not Artie, Mr M, Ivy or certainly not Lydia, wanted to knock, but finally Artie could stand it no longer.

Mr Krebs opened the door warily and scowled out at them. He was wearing the same worn and stained overalls that he always wore but they were now covered by a light dusting of sawdust that had settled on his shoulders like snow and edged all the seams with a bright golden trim.

“Whaddya want?”

“Who is it?” shouted a voice from the apartment behind him. Lydia, who had never dared come to Mr Krebs’ own front door, had forgotten that his mother lived with him. According to her father, Mrs Krebs was ill and couldn’t walk well and consequently never left the basement.

“The new guy,” shouted back Krebs, “And a couple of the others. And the little girl.”

“What do they want?” said the voice.

“That’s what I’m asking them,” said Krebs, “I’m asking them that.”

“Then what do they want?” insisted Mrs Krebs.

“Stop asking and I’ll ask them,” said Krebs and he turned back to the deputation at his door, “Whaddya want?”

“We’d like a quick word, if we could,” said Artie, “We want your opinion on something.”

“They’re selling something,” shouted Krebs over his shoulder.

“What is it?” said the voice, “Is it anything we want?”

“It’s us that want something,” called Artie into the apartment, “We want your opinion on something.”

“I’ll give you an opinion,” said Mr Krebs, menacingly.

“Then come in!” called Mrs Krebs, “Show them in, Stanislaus, show them in.”

Mr Krebs glared at them.

“Just five minutes,” said Artie, “Stan, I swear.”

“Mr Krebs to you,” said Mr Krebs, “You better come in then.”

Lydia tucked herself in behind Artie as they filed into the dimly lit basement, trying to find safety between him and Mr M. She peered into the shadows, expecting the worst: piles of yellowing newspapers, perhaps, half-eaten tins of food covered in cockroaches, empty beercans and spider’s webs, damp corners and too many cats.

Instead she found herself standing in a neat and cosy little living room. There was a dainty little sofa and a coffee table with a neat stack of magazines on it and a small pot of flowers. There were pictures on the wall, mostly photographs of a small, serious looking boy who, she realised with a shock, was probably Mr Krebs himself. And in the corner was a high backed armchair in which sat a tiny old woman, propped up amongst cushions, a reading light on beside and an electric fire burning in the grate.

“Well, now, who do we have here?” Lydia could see immediately that she was Mr Krebs’ mother, but there was a fierce glint in her eye that he didn’t have, something shrewd and interested, “It’s a long time since we had visitors, isn’t it Stanislaus? Have a seat.”

No one made a move to sit down.

“Otto Krampus, madam,” Artie made a little bow and presented his hand to shake, “I moved in this morning. Up at the other end of the house, right up in the attic.”

“I know, Stanislaus told me all about it, an interesting turn of events, I think,” she looked at Artie quizzically, then, “Mr M, I know of course.”

“I’m Ivy,” said Ivy who couldn’t help herself giving a little curtsey, “Ivy Wong, I live on the third floor, directly under Artie, that’s Mr Krampus, you see, he said to call him Artie. It’s kind of nickname I suppose.”

“He didn’t say that to me,” said Mrs Krebs, shooting Artie a glare, “And you must be Lydia. I have heard a lot about you, Lydia. Stanislaus tells me everything.”

Lydia felt all the blood drain from her face. She looked down at her shoes.

“But now you were going to tell me something, Mr Krampus,” she turned back to Artie.

“Please, call me Artie,” said Artie, “You see, Mrs Krebs, Mr Krebs, the four of us, well more if you include the rest of the M family and Lydia’s father, we have been talking and we have an idea that we would like your opinion of.”

“Are you sure?” asked Mrs Krebs, “You might not like it.”

“You strike me, if you don’t mind me saying so, as a woman of perspicacity and insight, Mrs Krebs, and I suspect that your opinion would…” Artie stopped and cocked his head on one side, looking at Mrs Krebs, “A woman of perspicacity and insight. I’ve said those words before. At a retirement presentation. In the sales department. Twenty years ago, perhaps. Twenty five, even. I’ll remember the name, I never forget the name, not once. Regina. Regina Novak. You used to work at Krampus.”

“Under my maiden name,” said Mrs Krebs, smiling a sly smile, “I did wonder if you would get it.”

“I never forget a name and I never forget an employee,” said Artie, “Faces I’m not so hot at, otherwise I would have recognised you immediately, as you haven’t changed an iota.”

“And neither have you, I see,” said Mrs Krebs, still smiling.

“Only in address, I’m afraid,” said Artie, smiling now too, “Still Otto Krampus through and through, still selling dreams.”

“Is that what you’ve come to sell now?” asked Mrs Krebs.

“A dream? Of course, what else is there to sell?” said Artie, “I’m serious, though: what was it Oscar Wilde said? All of us are in gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars? Now this building is far from being a gutter, far from it, Mr Krebs, well maintained, warm, comfortable for the money, but I think we can all agree, there are no stars under this roof. But why should we give up on that glitter, on that glory, why shouldn’t we want to shine ourselves?

“We might not see them yet, but there could be stars shining in this building. Look at Ivy - she has talent, she has ambition and not just for herself, she sees how her talent can help other people, how something that seems so ephemeral and trivial as fashion can shape someone’s self, how they see the world and their place in it. What does Ivy need to shine? A place to work, to see her customers, to sell them their dreams?

“This building could be full of stars, every apartment shining; and not just with talent - take the Olympic, if Mr M could expand, use the spare room he has to increase custom, more people through the door means more money coming into the business, into the building.”

“You’re saying that you people want to turn your apartments into shops,” said Mrs Krebs.

“Think of them as departments, like a department store,” said Artie, “An apartment store.”

“Selling things to customers for money,” said Mrs Krebs.

“For an increase in the rent,” said Artie.

“A small increase,” said Mr M.

“A large increase,” said Mr Krebs.

“A percentage,” said Mrs Krebs.

“A small percentage,” said Artie.

“Stanislaus,” said Mrs Krebs, “Makes furniture.”

“Mother,” said Mr Krebs.

“Do you, Mr Krebs?” said Artie, “What do you make?”

“It’s a hobby,” said Mr Krebs.

“He made everything in this room,“ said Mrs Krebs, “He made that coffee table there.”

“Did you now?” Artie bent to look at it, “Is all that top marquetry?”

“Six different kinds of wood,” said Mr Krebs, joining him to look at it.

“The leg is lathe turned,” said Artie, “And the claw feet?”

“Carved them myself,” said Mr Krebs, “First few tries were terrible, looked like my feet. Got the hang of it though.”

Lydia had never heard Mr Krebs speak a sentence that long before.

“What are you working on now?” asked Artie.

“Cocktail cabinet,” said Mr Krebs. Ivy snorted, stifling a laugh and he shot her an offended glance.

“I’m sorry,” said Ivy, “I didn’t mean it, I just never imagined you drinking cocktails, Mr Krebs, and it seemed so strange and I’m a little bit nervous to be honest so I couldn’t help myself, I’m sorry. I do like cocktails though.”

“So do I,” said Mrs Krebs, “Which is why my boy is making it for me.”

“It’s tricky,” said Mr Krebs, gesturing with his short, thick fingers, “Going to be in a curve, see, fit into a corner, want to do the body in two colours, light and dark, like a drum, but sliding, see?”

“I get you,” said Artie, “So you can open it - have you considered a tambour door, so that it just slides round?”

“A tambour?” Mr Krebs frowned, “Like slats, you mean? Yeah, that could work, that could work…”

“Could you work to order, Mr Krebs?” said Artie, “Could you take customers?”

“For the right price he could,” said Mrs Krebs.

“A furniture department,” said Artie and winked at Lydia.

“Now, wait,” said Mr Krebs, “Just wait. Customers.”

“Customers?” asked Artie.

“Down here, fine. The Olympic, that’s fine, but Ivy,” Mr Krebs pointed a finger at her, “She lives on the third. That’s people on the stair. Up past the old ladies,” he added with a significant look at his mother, “Got to think of all the tenants.”

“This is true,” said his mother, “We do have to think of all the tenants.”

“You are a credit to your position and the seriousness with which you take it,” said Artie to Mr Krebs, “You’re quite right, of course, there’s the Misses Pleasaunce on second and John and Fairuza, too. But if we can persuade them to agree, then you agree too? Do we have a deal?”

“For a percentage,” said Mrs Krebs, with a twinkle in her eye, “For a percentage.”