If anyone had the fancy to suddenly pop into Hatâll Do It that day, the famous hattery (at least, among the circle of Jeffersonâs close friends) belonging to infamous and well renowned mad man, Jefferson Madigan, it would take a while before that particular person should be greeted. Perhaps theyâd come with the intention of buying a hat. After all, that was the purpose of the little shop, although Jefferson had been known to sell other bits and bobs lying about for whatever price suddenly came to mind. Or maybe just to say hello to the hatter, who always had a crooked smile and the offer of a cup of tea for anyone who darkened his doorway - although one couldnât always be certain to be given a cup of good old English tea, or even a cup at all. But alas, that day his aforementioned crooked smile wouldnât be the first thing you saw. You would, however, be greeted to a cacophony of bangs and clatters as the Englishman rifled madly through the back room.
âWhere are you, you little bleeder?â he grumbled.
And if that person were, perhaps, to continue on. Maybe out of curiosity - or even nosiness - to attempt to discover the source of the banging, theyâd be led to the back room. The set up of which was not exactly ideal. It instead appeared to be one of the queerest little set ups one could have going. Delightfully cluttered, a long table that almost touched either end of the room dominated the small space, but Jefferson would be damned if there was room, or occasion, to sit at it. Piled atop the once-white tablecloth were boxes of stock unaccounted for, fabrics of plush red and olive green spilling forth from their boxes, trailing onto the floor and often tripping the man up. An abandoned meal of jam and bread had been left, half eaten, and Jefferson couldnât attest as to how long it had been so.Â
If your eye wandered to the far wall, youâd see a progression of shelves, uselessly hammered up and half-hanging off the wall. The obvious handiwork of a man whoâd not been made for DIY, but whose talents lied in sewing and teaching. There was an odd assortment of things on there, broken tea-cups, old sewing machines, stuffed rabbits, papers flying off the shelves and lying crumpled on the floor, to be later stepped on by Jefferson himself.
At that particular moment, Jefferson was stuck in a small crawl space underneath the shelf, uselessly rifling about with his bum stuck in the air. Sighing, Jefferson stilled.
âYou know, I canât even remember what I was looking for.â he announced to the room, before giving a shrug of his shoulders, and wriggling outward.Â
Doing a little hop and skip toward the front of his shop, Jefferson absent-mindedly brushed dust and cobwebs from the pale pink cardigan heâd picked out that morning. Embroidered with a pattern of two large, proud flamingos on either breast pocket, well, heâd hate to see them get dirty.
 Lifting his eyes, he suddenly noticed he was not alone. Instead, standing in the middle of his shop, occupying quite a lot of space for such a small girl, was little Ailene Way from next door. He smiled toothily at her as she spun on the spot, greeting him in a silly accent he couldnât place. Not like her own, of course, which seemed to add extra vowels to just about every other word.
âHullo, Ailene!â he repeated after her. âI like your hat, although, your hair wants cutting.â
He moved to sit behind the counter, suddenly disappearing behind a collection of hats. His hands scrambled for the lever on the chair, and rather comically, he came popping up to greet Ailene a second time.
âYou shouldnât have brought it all this way.â he stated, as though sheâd come a great long way. The Way family had taken up residence next door for as long as Jeffersonâs memory could stretch back, which, to be fair, wasnât that far. They were amicable neighbours, because whilst Jefferson didnât play loud music nor cause disruptions, he was ever so slightly odd, and not Ailene, nor her parents, seemed to have a problem with that. So, far all intents and purposes, he rather liked them.
âHm?â he questioned, as Aileneâs physiognomy contorted to that of a particularly dedicated puppy dog, her peaked nose sniffing close to his face.Â
âOh!â he stated, upon realising, âThatâs what I was looking for!â
Pinching his fingers together, he began to timidly lift an array of things from off the counter, looking under mountains of paper and various hats, until he found the pumpkin pie hiding underneath a hat, which past Jefferson had obviously been using as some sort of tea cosy. Pie⊠cosy? Smiling up at Ailene, he presented the pie to her excitedly, bundling it into her arms.
âYou must be part bloodhound, dear Ailene.â he teased, going on to ask, âWould you like a bit?â
Immediately, Jefferson sat up in his chair, searching underneath the piles for a plate and knife that should consequently follow. He stole peeks at Ailene as he did so, throwing a little smile her way as and when he could.
âAggie brought it home, she knows how I like the pies⊠have you ever had one? You must have⊠you should most definitely⊠oh, I should have asked, tea?â
Ailene propped her hands on her hips and struck a proud-looking pose when Jefferson noted that she was wearing one of his hats. At the comment about her hair, she simply shrugged and nodded along with a look of discontent on her face. Jeffersonâs bluntness was well-meaning and not something for her to feel insulted by. The man in front of her and had never had an intentionally bad word to say to her before, and itâs not like he was wrong. She caught a lock of her hair between her first and middle finger like she was about to snip away at it like a hairdresser, only to scrutinise it with a wrinkled nose instead.
âI have so many split ends, but Iâm trying not to pick at them,â she told Jefferson. So she wouldnât have to think about the mess of her hair, she pulled the already too-big hat down so it slid right across her face, the brim resting against her chin.
âDâyou know thereâs a stick of gum in here?â she asked, her fingers sliding up the hat and scrabbling at the lining where, sure enough, a foil-wrapped stick of bubblegum resided. She brought it out and blindly held it in offering for Jefferson to take before giggling at his words about the letter. He was such an oddity, so Mr Madigan was. He knew fine well that sheâd only wandered in from next door, but she supposed that his incessant and curious need to say something wonderfully random (and sometimes completely bonkers) had won out instead.
âIâll send you my taxi fare then,â she teased, deciding to humour him rather than question him.
She pushed the hat back up her face when she realised that there was, in fact, a pie to be found. She wished her nose could sniff out something a little bit more useful instead, like money or a way to get nasty, old men in charge of her parentâs rent to stay away from her. But it wasnât as if she was going to say ânoâ to free pumpkin pie, especially when it smelled as good as this one did, so she fixed Jefferson with a look.
âUm⊠do flowers sing and are clouds made of candyfloss?â she asked. It was a stupidly silly notion but, hey, in Jeffersonâs world, those things may very well exist. Hoisting herself up onto the table heâd propped the pie on, she rubbed her hands together, her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth in anticipation.
âI havenât had pie in ages. But I hear you get the best from the diner on Main Street. Is that where Aggie got this one?â Ailene asked, feigning ignorance. She didnât keep tabs on Jeffersonâs whereabouts like some fangirl who was crazily obsessed with his hat-making skills, but the gossip blog had made it no secret that he was a pretty heavy presence in Potts n Pans. Unable to stop herself, she tacked on at the end, âI hear the piemaker there is a total babe.â
As he offered her tea, she mimed holding a saucer and lifting a teacup, taking great care to lift up her pinky finger.
âWe are British, arenât we, Mr Madigan?â she smiled.
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