Page 14 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue
‘That Mrs Marshall, she will not take to having a black girl measuring her up, touching her, even touching her dresses. How are we going to deal with that? I’d say you’re going to have to keep me in the studio, not out front with your customers.’
I liked that she was saying ‘we’, as if I’d already employed her.
‘Am I being a bit too plain-speaking for you?’ she asked. ‘’Cos tells me you prefer someone who says it like it is.’
To that I could only laugh. ‘You be as plain-speaking as you like… and so will I. But would you be happy to hide away, like the help in the kitchen?’
‘Well, let me see. Either I stay working at the haberdasher’s, selling cheap fabric to the women in Harlem, which is all very well, but here I’d get to do this.’ She held out the embroidery she was working on. ‘Something most people can’t do. I’d get to do this all day long, make beautiful things: beautiful dresses made with beautiful fabrics. I’d get to make something the rest of the world gets to see, not some something that’s only seen in church on Sundays.
‘We’ve been hiding out like the help in the kitchen for years. If I have to do it for a bit longer, to do the thing I love to do, then I’m okay with that. For the moment, anyway.’
I was appalled by this. ‘Don’t you want to show them your work? Let them know what you can do?’
There was a flicker of withering pity in her eyes as I said this, but quickly she softened, and simply said, ‘One day.’
‘Tell me about Audrey.’
As I said this, she huffed. ‘Hasn’t told you all this? What do you two talk about every Sunday afternoon?’
I stared at her. ‘Well, architecture, art, design… those kinds of things.’
‘Very highbrow, I must say.’ Her voice was full of sarcasm, but she was smiling as she spoke. ‘Perhaps you two don’t talk, maybe you’re getting up to other stuff…’
Just as I was starting to protest, she laughed, a deep, throaty cackle.
‘I’m jesting you.’ She ran her hand across her cheek. ‘My baby sister works in the store just down the road from our apartment. But, that Audrey, she sure as hell does not take after her name; she’s not noble and she’s not strong; she’s a lazy, good-for-nothin’ girl.’ I sensed she’d said this many times before. ‘She thinks the sun comes up just to hear herself crow, doing nothing to help our cause. Every day I think she’ll lose her job ’cos she just does the bare minimum. It drives me crazy.’
But she said all this with a smile on her face. I frowned at her, narrowing my eyes in an unsaid question.
‘She’s my sister so I can’t always be mad at her.’
‘And ?’ I asked tentatively.
A large intake of breath. ‘I tell you, he’s sweet on you. But I guess you know that already. What I want to know is, are you sweet on him? ’Cos you’ve got to know there’s going to be a whole lot of trouble with a white girl seeing a black man. There’s not going to be many people happy with that.’
Before I could say anything, she interrupted me. ‘What you need to understand about is he dreams big, but he treads too carefully, he’s too willing to accept life as it is. He’s the first to stand back and keep quiet when people treat him badly ’cos of the colour of his skin. Sometimes I think he’s just too afraid to fight.
‘Don’t get me wrong, there are times I don’t blame him, we’ve seen some bad things. But when something’s handed to you on a plate…’ Here she put her sewing down and whistled through her teeth, shaking her head. The skin under one eye started twitching and I wondered if she was replaying a common argument she’d had with .
Eventually she continued. ‘Take that Mr Tandy he works for. There’s a man who’s had to fight for everything. Did you know he was one of the first black men to graduate in architecture at Columbia? That man, God bless him, he’s offered to sponsor if he applied. He’s got the talent, now he’s got the means, he just needs to…’ Her voice trailed off before she turned to me. ‘He’s scared to walk through an open door in case they slam it in his face.’
‘And you?’ I asked, wanting to lighten the darkening mood.
‘What about me?’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Don’t you think I haven’t noticed you changing the subject,’ she teased before sighing and picking her sewing back up. ‘Truth is I haven’t let myself look too far ahead. But I know what I don’t want – still living in some basement apartment in ten years’ time, living with my sister and brother, still worrying about money. I don’t want no more debts to pay off, no more making do.’
There was a hard conviction in her voice, in the way she clenched her jaw – something I recognised, something I could sympathise with.
Within twenty-four hours we’d finished the three dresses and the jacket, tidied the studio, arranged the furniture and hung the curtains in the salon.
Oti and I made a complementary team. I dealt with the customers, designed the outfits, looked after the books, and made sure people heard about Maisie McIntyre’s creations. Oti kept the studio, dealt with our suppliers, and, using her contacts from the haberdasher’s, she found better fabric manufacturers and importers, and we both did the dressmaking. Her strength was in the finishing. I could give her a gown to embellish, and it would be returned almost as a different dress, something on a higher level. It didn’t matter whether it was embroidery, beading, smocking, adding a trim of silver braid or creating a corsage of silk rose heads, Oti had learned how to bring a little bit of herself into these startling trimmings. Her work was confident, almost defiant, like its maker.
And, at last, I could begin to design, making the kind of gowns that I had been dreaming of. Finally, I had time to study the designs emerging from Paris, time to think up my own ideas, not just making copies of those Parisien dresses, time to persuade the Fifth Avenue ladies that my sketches weren’t too radical and that the continuing hike in hemlines wasn’t too racy. Although most of my customers were still friends of Mrs Marshall, I was beginning to get the occasional mention in the social pages and was starting to see a trickle of new customers coming in, with no affiliation to my patron.
Eighteen months after my arrival in New York I was living my life as that girl in Edinburgh had imagined it: I had a business that was beginning to make money; I had a new friend in Oti, and with her ability to sew, to talk straight and stop me from being too impulsive she reminded me a little of Rosa; I was happy; and I was too busy to consider whether I was falling in love with .
Mrs Marshall sat down on the new sofa, having changed back into her day dress.
‘My mother-in-law will be just tickled pink to see my three new gowns. There isn’t one of your designs that she’s disapproved of. And, Miss McIntyre,’ she said in a tone of mock deferential approval, ‘I can’t believe you’ve managed to persuade her out of her corsets. I could have sworn she’d go to her grave in one of those hideous things. You know, I actually believe she’s a nicer person without them; it’s a wonder what a bit of oxygen does to a person’s temper.’
Now that Julia Marshall dressed in clothes that complemented her shape and colouring, she appeared more self-assured, even seemed a little taller than her diminutive five foot. But the severe bouffant hairstyle remained, I hadn’t been able to change her mind on that front.
‘It’s my helmet, darling, my protection from the big, bad world out there. I’ve stopped being invisible now that you’ve taken away my beige dresses. It’s a wonder what a big hairstyle can do to keep away those vultures looking for a rich patron for their charity or, can you believe it, for their family.’
‘I heard you’ve been accepted into the Colony Club,’ I said, lightly.
As I spoke her eyes widened and her face changed from that of a slightly bored young woman to one of an over-excited child.
‘Oh, honey,’ she exclaimed, touching my arm.’ You cannot believe the thrill of saying to Rex, “I won’t be joining you for dinner tonight, darling, I’ll be dining at my club.” Who’d have thought I’d ever be able to say that?
‘Did you know they also have lectures in the club every Tuesday evening, on literature, politics, art, and music? I don’t believe I’ve ever had so much to think about. Mind you, I’ll give the politics a miss, a bit too dreary for me – I’m terrified I might fall asleep – and what would that do for my reputation?’ She gave one of her too-loud laughs, her hand over her mouth.
‘I heard they have a running track. Is it really suspended from the ceiling?’ I asked.
In 1912 women rarely exercised. It was seen as unladylike, dangerous even. Perhaps a genteel game of tennis was acceptable, or a stroll in the countryside, but not a vigorous run, a run where you’d break a sweat, where your heart rate would treble, where your calves might be seen. No, polite society didn’t like the sight of an energetic woman – maybe one of those varsity girls, all gung-ho and jolly-hockey-sticks, but not a woman of influence, not a well-bred woman of the Four Hundred. The Colony Club on Madison Avenue was breaking all these rules, a women-only private club with high dues and an intimidating list of members such as Daisy Harriman, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney and Anne Morgan.
‘I had a go on it yesterday.’ She was almost breathless as she spoke, her cheeks reddening, her pupils dilating. ‘What an adventure! And there’s a gymnasium too.’ But then her face fell, a little pout appearing. ‘There was just one thing that ruined it a bit. The running wasn’t nearly as fun as I remember. Exercising in a long skirt, even if it does have those drawstring ribbons that pull up the hem slightly, is so clumsy. I felt like I was running in my bedclothes.’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about that. Since you can now be away from the prying eyes of disapproving gentlemen, I thought that perhaps you might want to consider wearing something that wasn’t a skirt, that would give you some free movement, not be so restricting or hot.’
Mrs Marshall stared at me. ‘Whatever made you think of that? You’re here to make silk dresses, not gym slips for refined women. You really should think about your place, you know. If this got out, they’ll have you making undergarments if you’re not careful. Don’t worry about me, stick to the couture, darling, not sports outfits.’ Her voice was a little vinegary.
I stood up. ‘Let me get it for you. Then see what you think.’
I left the salon and walked into the studio, making sure I shut the door behind me.
‘Have you got the gym suit for Mrs Marshall?’ I asked. ‘I need to give it to her now whilst she’s in a good mood.’
‘Oh, that thing,’ Oti muttered, contempt in her voice. ‘I don’t understand why you even made that garment, encouraging that woman to run around like some child at school, showing so much flesh.’
‘When did you get so prudish?’ I asked, amused by her disapproval. ‘Anyhow, she won’t be seen in this, she’ll be hidden away in that club where only women can see her.’
Oti handed me two folded garments. ‘No, it just isn’t right. A woman of her position.’
‘One day, there’ll be women playing basketball in outfits shorter than this, I guarantee you.’
Oti snorted. ‘Now you’re just playing with me.’
I left her with a smile on my face and brought the gym suit to Mrs Marshall.
‘This is what I made you.’ I held up a black cotton and linen one-piece sleeveless gym suit. ‘It’s a bit like those bloomer suits girls wear at college, but I’ve made it from lighter material, to let the air in. I’ve also made you a cotton sweater to wear underneath if you’d like to cover up a bit more. All the other gym suits I could find were all made from wool and must get very hot. Would you like to try it on?’
For once, Julia Marshall was speechless. To fill in the awkward silence I continued, ‘You’ll find you can move your arms more freely, and without petticoats you’ll feel less restricted. Perhaps running could be more… fun in this.’
She stood up silently, intrigue written all over her, and came to inspect the costume. She rubbed the material between her fingers, she held it up against her, even put it up to her nose and smelled it. But all too quickly the interest fell away, replaced by a look of resignation.
‘What would Rex say? Even worse, what would my mother-in-law say?’
My mouth twitched. ‘Are they members of the Colony Club?’
‘Oh, honey, don’t be silly. Men can’t join, and Rex’s mother wouldn’t be seen dead in there, she thinks it’s full of deviants like that Bessie Marbury. I don’t dare tell her I’m a member.’
‘Well, then, what are you worrying about?’