Page 15 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

She looked down at the gym suit, held it back up against her, considered the cotton undershirt. A little shiver of exhilaration seemed to run over her. ‘All right. But here’s what we’ll do. I’ll show this to the board at the Colony Club and suggest that they ask you to make enough of these suits so that each member can buy one. That way I won’t be the odd one out and you get a large amount of business. Does that work?’

Now I was living two parallel lives: increasingly busy dressmaker to the rich, white women of New York; Sunday afternoon almost sweetheart, to my black, architecturally minded admirer.

To manage this I had to dress the part: simple but stylish when in my studio, never wishing to outshine my customers; subdued and unobtrusive whenever I was out with , not wishing to draw attention to either of us. I was weaving my own blanket of mixed yarn, thinking I could combine every new strand I spun. But not every length of yarn I spun was as strong. Of course, at least one was going to break under the strain.

Somehow five months flew by. The Colony Club order nearly broke us, virtually every member required at least one gym suit, but it paid for completing the fitting out of the studio and a pay rise for Oti. And then we were back into summer dressmaking – lace and chiffon, day dresses, tea dresses, evening dresses, the two of us spending every hour struggling to fulfil our customers’ requests, badly in need of more seamstresses and hand embroiderers. But I was ignoring the problem, using the excuse that I was too busy to find any new staff.

‘When the summer rush is over, I promise I’ll spend some time looking for the right people to come and work for us,’ I kept assuring Oti. She was beginning to get that haggard, no sleep look from being in early, staying late and taking embroidery home. She was just as dedicated to the work as I was, revelling in the freedom to do what she was good at. But Sundays, our only full day off, were important to both of us: Oti needed her time at home, her Sunday worship, her time to make sure Audrey was kept in line, I needed my few hours with .

was the very definition of conservative, a man of convention – always dressed as if he was going to work or off to tea with an ancient aunt, always walking on the roadside of the pavement, going ahead to open doors, paying for every cup of tea or meal we ate together, and, in public, he never touched me. When we were out, we’d walk slightly away from each other, we’d look at different pictures in the galleries of the Metropolitan Museum, we’d sit a yard apart on the benches of Central Park. We learned the tea rooms that accepted a mixed-race couple – even in a city that had no law against miscegenation there were very few places that welcomed us.

But our relationship couldn’t continue on tea and talk. I wanted more. Those few snatched hours on a Sunday were no longer enough. I wanted to be able to touch him, feel the warmth of his skin, the thrill of his breath on me. I wanted him to kiss my hand just as he’d done nearly ten months ago. Why had he not done that again?

One Sunday in early April, we were out on our usual afternoon walk, playing the tour guide. We’d been to see the Clark Mansion on Fifth and 77th, an enormous house in the style of a French chateau, a rich man’s folly that made me laugh out loud and then we were walking back downtown and found ourselves outside the St Regis Hotel.

‘Do you think that one day we’ll be able to walk in there, arm in arm, without hotel management taking notice?’ I asked.

My question seemed unanswerable. I had no doubt that, one day, I’d be accepted through those doors, but I was uncertain that the two of us could ever stroll in without being hastily evicted.

‘Could we go back now? My hands are freezing.’ I’d forgotten my gloves and, despite the brisk walk warming me up, my fingers had turned white at the tips.

And then, just as if we were standing in an empty field, with no one to notice us except the field mice, he picked up both my hands, the touch making me feel as if I’d been hit by a jolt of lightning. He balled my hands together and covered them with his own warm, soft hands, just as my mother had when I was a child, and then brought them up to his mouth and began to blow gently, through the gap between his thumbs.

This small act of kindness made me ache, made me close my eyes, made my middle burn with a long held-back desire, a lightning bolt of sexual charge, ten months in the making. Something loosened in me.

I leaned forward and whispered into his ear, ‘Let’s go back to my studio.’

The wisp of his breath on my cheek heightened that sense of intoxication; I caught the smell of him, always so clean and well-scrubbed.

‘I have a better idea,’ he said, pulling back to look at me. ‘My place is closer. Why don’t you come and see my workshop? I’ve been talking about my furniture for so long, it’s time I showed you.’

I could hardly hear him for the slamming of my heart in my chest, the persistent background noises of the city pushed aside. But I was certain of what he’d said and before he could change his mind, I replied, ‘I’d like that.’

, Oti and Audrey lived in the basement of a rowhouse on West 58th Street and Amsterdam Avenue. As it was a Sunday, despite the cold, people were out on the street: children were playing on the stoop, mothers in their church clothes, the men’s ties loosened, waistcoats unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. waved me towards the steps down to the apartment, all eyes watching us.

‘Seems like you’re a Sunday afternoon marvel. I’m afraid you’ll be the subject of a lot of gossip for the next few days,’ he said, winking at the child hanging over the stoop banister whilst he opened the door.

Inside was a small, four-roomed apartment that smelled of furniture polish and scrubbed floors. It was neat but sparse.

‘Audrey and Oti are out visiting this afternoon. I was hoping they’d be back by now, then I could tell those busybody women upstairs that you were visiting for them. Seems like I just turned you into a hussy. But don’t you worry, I’ll get Oti to set them straight. Come on this way.’ We walked through the sitting area, into the galley kitchen and out into a tiny backyard.

The yard was mostly taken up by a lean-to, leaving only a bit of space for some scrubby grass and an old wooden chair. ‘Gets about two hours of sun on a good day. Audrey loves to sit out and catch those sun rays.’ He opened the door of the lean-to.

‘Welcome to the workshop of the soon-to-be renowned carpenter Mr Jackson.’ He ushered me in with a flourish.

Inside was cramped but meticulously tidy – a heavy wooden bench sat against the wall of the house, every inch of the wall covered in carpenter’s tools: two different-sized saws, two hammers, three chisels, a long wooden ruler hanging beside its shorter companion, a hand plane and a set of wooden callipers. On the bench were old food tins filled with nails and screws, clips and drill pieces, a few paintbrushes and cloths. All the tools were well worn but spotlessly clean, everything was hanging neatly or sat on the bench in sharp, military fashion, no sawdust, no wood curls on the floor.

‘This here is my thread drawer. Being here calms me, makes me feel safe. This is where I can forget about everyone else, about those fools that stared at you on the street and get on with the fine business of creating something.’ He looked just how I would feel when I was with my threads, lighter, as if anything was possible.

Running my hand along the workbench with its snicks and cuts I could imagine him in a larger studio, one where he could afford all the tools he required, using the finest of woods, working for the best of society.

On the bench was a wooden stool. I ran my hand over the top, savouring the warmth of the smooth wood, the slight curve in the seat, appreciating the pattern of the grain.

‘I’ve just about finished this. Only need to varnish it. Had to borrow a wood-turning tool, don’t have one of those myself. Took me a while to learn how it works. Had to borrow it off the shop down the road; luckily he’s sweet on Oti and was happy to lend it if it meant he could come by and pick it up, hoping to get a glimpse of my big sister.’ He rubbed his hand over the barrel of one of the legs, talking too fast, his face becoming a little shiny.

‘I’ve got a present for you,’ I interrupted, wanting to again feel the wisp of his breath on my cheek.

He stopped, confused. ‘Say what? A present? Why would you get me a present? It’s not my birthday.’

‘I can get you a present if I want to,’ I said playfully, opening my bag and pulling out a folded piece of material. ‘I made you a shirt.’

Holding it up against his chest I said, ‘It’s made to measure, I had Oti measure you.’

‘Oh, now, that’s no fair. She said she was making me a new jacket, which now I come to think of it, I haven’t seen any evidence of. You and she are as sly as each other.’

‘Come on. Off with your jacket, off with the shirt. I want to see that it fits.’

‘Why, Miss McIntyre. I do declare,’ he said in a high, coy voice. ‘You are being mighty forward today.’ He backed away a little, onto the side of the workbench.

Having none of it, I approached him and went to pull his jacket off. He flinched.

I stepped back. ‘Why are you so hesitant with me? I know you want to be with me, I know you don’t want to spend your life walking two steps behind me. Don’t you want to touch me? Don’t you want to hold my hand? Don’t you want me dressing you in your new handmade shirt when nobody’s looking?’

He sagged as if I’d just punched him in the stomach. ‘I do. I truly do, but I’m scared. I’m scared what those people out on our street will say about us, I’m scared that someone will punish me?—’

‘Punish you?’ I interrupted. ‘Perhaps I’m na?ve, but there’s no law against us being together.’

‘That may be true but, I’m sorry to say this, you are being mighty na?ve.’ He let out a great sigh.

‘You see…’ – he played with the button on his jacket – ‘my friend Jacob, he and I grew up together, he did just what you and I are doing. He walked out with the kindest, sweetest white girl. One day, they were walking down the street and she’d got upset about him being late. She raised her voice, and suddenly, from nowhere, they were surrounded by three white men. They said they were sure Jacob was hitting on Sarah, that she was frightened. So, they went on into him.’ He bit his lip and looked up at me. There were tears in his eyes. ‘They beat him until he couldn’t move no more. Died two days later. Didn’t matter what Sarah said to the cops. There was no telling them that Jacob was anything other than a rapist. Those three men were seen as heroes. Darn near broke her.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘Maybe I’m just worried that’s going to happen to us.’ His voice was a whisper.

‘So, you don’t want to see me anymore? Is that what you’re saying?’ It felt as if the walls in the workshop had just fallen away and a cold wind was now whipping across my face.

‘I don’t know what I’m saying,’ he croaked, before clearing his throat. ‘I just wish it wasn’t so.’

All I wanted to do was take him in my arms and erase those memories. I’d become so used to hanging back when I was with , but now there was no one watching, no one to disapprove. With my heart thudding in my ears, I began to unbutton his shirt, slid my hand under the material and pushed it off his shoulder, pushing the other until the shirt fell off his back. There was a shock of electricity and we both jumped. With a nervous giggle I tried to keep my breathing under control, picked up the new shirt, keeping my eyes on ’s and pulled an arm on, going around his back and pulling on the other arm, then drew the front of the shirt together so that the placket met the buttons and began to do them up, but caught my hand. We held each other’s gaze, the rest of the world suspended, the only sound the rustle of his new shirt against his skin.

‘You sure about this?’ he whispered, bringing himself closer to me, that fresh smell so intoxicating to me.

I couldn’t concentrate on my work, despite deadlines that we had to meet: dresses required for upcoming soirees, parties, and theatre openings.

‘You’ve got ants in your pants, girl,’ Oti commented. ‘What’s up with you? I’ve never seen you so distracted. Don’t tell me has finally made a move on you?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘That boy, he’s got the slick moves of a snail.’

I laughed. ‘Well, maybe I made a move on him,’ I said, coyly. ‘I made him that shirt and I had to make sure it fitted properly.’

‘Oh, I see how it is.’ She grinned. ‘Thank the Lord! I thought you’d be doing nothing but talk for the rest of your lives.’ But a cloud crossed her face. She looked down at her left hand, rubbed a sore spot on the heel of her thumb.

‘You know I’m a plain speaker, so I’m just going to say what’s on my mind.’ She let out a heavy sigh. ‘That boy always takes the path of least resistance. He’s used to doing as he’s told, without much thinking. Most people tell us not to do things: don’t mix with white people, don’t walk through the same door, can’t eat in the same restaurant, don’t breathe the same air. And here you are suggesting the very thing we’re told we shouldn’t do. Now don’t think I’m against what you’re after. I’m not, I see how happy you make each other, but…’ She stopped and sighed, now looking at me directly.

‘You and do things too differently,’ she said carefully. ‘Where you push straight through those brick walls, he finds ways around them, keeping his head down, staying safe. Did he tell you what happened to his friend Jacob?’ She held my gaze.

I nodded, putting my sewing down.

‘Well now you know why he is like he is.’ She’d softened her voice, looking down at her own sewing, inspecting her work before she put it down again abruptly.

‘And what were you doing trying to take his shirt off?’ Her eyes were wide, irritation in her voice. ‘What were you thinking? You don’t want anything interrupting that great Maisie McIntyre ambition of yours. No coffee-coloured baby to get in the way of your plans.’

In my family, this kind of candid conversation would never have happened, or if it had it would have been excruciating, stomach-twistingly embarrassing. Maw would have gone red in the face, harrumphed and quickly found an important chore that could no longer be put off, Netta would have shooed the children out of the room, Duncan would have picked up the newspaper to hide behind. But here, Oti’s dark eyes were now full of concern, she was leaning forward, looking for my reaction, wanting to help.

‘I know that brother of mine, not considering the consequences. He’s more worried about what people think of him, not what’s going on in his heart.

‘I know you’re both capable of making your own choices, but I’m just pointing out that he’ll need keeping on the road you want to travel – I don’t believe that boy has ever made up his own mind.’ Here she rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘What I’m wondering is, how much Maisie McIntyre wants to be with someone who doesn’t have the same mind as you, who flinches from any kind of conflict. Where’s that going to leave you when he’s still working as a clerk and you’re dressing the First Lady?’

The following Sunday, instead of dressing in my usual neutral outfit, ready to blend into the New York crowds, I wore a new dress I’d made for myself, dark bronze with a midnight-blue underskirt and lace trimming.

When appeared at his usual time, he bowed, he gave me his elbow and then he flashed me that irresistible Jackson smile. ‘Miss McIntyre. Would you accompany me to the park? I wondered if you’d like to walk down the Mall today, it’s such a beautiful day – a day to be seen.’

I blinked. He picked my hand up and kissed it. All that confusion erased with one kiss, that one tiny movement. Arm in arm we walked down the stairs.

We walked all the way from MacDougal Street to Central Park, side by side, not seeing anyone around us. And we talked, finally being open about our misunderstandings, about what we wanted to do and how we’d go about it, about how we could possibly make our lives work. I clung to his arm, cherishing the warmth of his body, the harmony I felt when our shoulders touched, the way he blinked at me when he was nervous. Arriving in Central Park, I felt lighter than I had for months, I could feel that optimism that I’d had when I first arrived in Manhattan. The sun was out, a welcome interlude after days of rain. Walking down the Mall we began to notice our surroundings, the crowds beside us, the bright orange and red of the autumnal leaves, the children weaving in and out of the obstacle course of women’s skirts, the smell of pipe smoke cutting through the cold afternoon air. The sun was beginning to go down, it was cooling off and we should have been thinking of turning around to go back to my studio, but we were still talking, still cocooned in our personal bubble, taut and ready to burst. It was then that I noticed Mrs Marshall walking towards us on the arm of her rarely seen husband. Rex Marshall spent many weeks away, usually on business in the South. His family wealth had been accumulated through the railroads, a wealth that only seemed to increase, however hard his wife tried to spend it. Julia Marshall was making the most of the unusual opportunity to promenade with her husband, stopping to chat with those they passed, waving at others further away. She wore a burnt-orange military-style winter coat that I had made, with matching fur hat, cuffs and muff. They made a striking couple: well dressed, happy and with an air of rich contentment.

I was just about to approach her when she noticed me. Unlike when she had recognised others she knew, this time she just blinked, her face became pale and a look of discomfort crossed her face, as if she had indigestion. And then she turned her face towards her husband and carried on walking past us, with no acknowledgement, no nod of the head, not even half a smile.

‘What is it?’ asked.

I had turned to watch the Marshalls walk on behind us. The colour had risen in my face and I felt the prick of humiliation.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I thought I recognised someone, but it was a mistake.’

The next day Mrs Marshall had an appointment where I was to show her some new designs for her summer wardrobe: three evening gowns, three day dresses and a travelling suit. I had laid out my drawings, along with snippets of my chosen fabrics, samples of embroidery and other suggested embellishments such as flowers and covered buttons to be sewn onto a sash. A tray with tea and cake was waiting. Normally she looked forward to these sessions, where she could be herself, instead of the person her mother-in-law thought she should be. She’d be chatty, gossipy, take time over the details of her new outfits and discuss what event each one was needed for, she’d always be appreciative of the designs, always happy that they were just that little bit different. But this time she was unusually fussy, finding problems where there were none and becoming even more irate when I tried to correct her.

‘No, these just won’t do,’ she finally said, pulling away from me, where we’d been huddled over the drawings. ‘I don’t know what’s got into you, Miss McIntyre. These outfits are just plain old boring. These are the kind of dresses I might have worn before I met you, when my mother-in-law was in charge of my dressing. Since when did you start using brown fabric in your repertoire? When did a simple design of beige polka-dots on a white chiffon become something you’d recommend? What has become of you?’

I felt as if I’d been kicked. Her words couldn’t have hit me harder if they’d tried. When had I ever designed anything that could be considered boring? Unwittingly, she was simply echoing what Oti had told me the day before. These two women knew my work the best, these two were most familiar with my love of bright colour and the interesting little details. I knew that they weren’t wrong.

I sat up straight. ‘Why don’t I take these away and, if you can come back next week at the same time, I’ll show you something else I’ve been working on. Something much more striking. I was just concerned that you would find it too outlandish, that you’d stand out a bit too much. I was worried that your mother-in-law might not take to my new ideas.’ Here I was ad-libbing. I had no new designs in my back pocket, I had nothing else to fall back on.

‘Miss McIntyre. Since when did you care what my mother-in-law thought?’ There was a tart mocking tone to her voice that grated with me.

She stood up. ‘I know exactly what your trouble is, Miss McIntyre. You’re seeing that man, that…’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. And then her whole demeanour changed, she became serious, her voice turned to a growl, her eyes to steel, her mouth rigid.

‘Being seen with… someone like that’ – Mrs Marshall’s voice dropped to a hiss – ‘will destroy everything you’ve built. My friends won’t have their dresses made by a woman who…’ She had her hands clasped in front of her, her knuckles white, the skin so taut on her bony hands they seemed claw-like, ready to pounce. ‘I’ll be forced to take my business away and when others find out why, they will most certainly follow.’

Slowly I put my hands on my lap, fingers splayed out on my skirt, forcing myself to stay silent, pushing the anger down.

‘Do you hear me?’ Her voice was sharp now, her colour rising.

The air in the room was thick with her words. I thought of Oti in the next room, who had made so many of Mrs Marshall’s dresses, whose clever, quirky ideas had made them so much better, whose fierce pride and professionalism had produced works of art. I thought of and the way he used his workshop to calm him from the kind of words I was listening to.

‘Do you understand what that would mean? Your business would be in ruins. There would be no more recommendations. I know my influence and just one word would take away the regard that some hold you in.’ She bent down, putting her face right in front of mine, her words making her seem ugly. But as she stared directly into my eyes, she softened, her voice lowering. ‘Now, I have no wish to lose you. You have made me into a woman of note.’ She couldn’t keep my gaze, turning away as if the truth was too difficult to meet face on. ‘Your ideas and your understanding of what suits me, what makes me stand out have made people take me seriously. You have given me a confidence I didn’t think I possessed. Even my mother-in-law treats me with more respect. I’m no longer the silly little wife of a rich man. Did I tell you I’ve been asked to chair a fundraising committee? I’m no more sensible than I was two years ago, but somehow, because I care about how I look, people care about what I say.’

She sighed. ‘But I can’t be connected with you in any way if you continue to see that man. I will no longer be credible.’ She picked a piece of fluff off her coat. ‘I’m sorry but that’s just the way it is.’

She fussed with the buttons on her coat, put on her gloves, checked her hat in the mirror.

‘I’ll come back next week, when you’ve had time to come up with some new designs and to make some…’ She winced. ‘When you’ve made some changes in your life.’

‘I obviously have some thinking to do,’ I said, haltingly, trying to fill the space, furious at my deference.

She turned and stared at me. ‘There’s nothing to think about. You leave him. I’ll continue my business with you, keep recommending you to the likes of the Vanderbilts etc. Your business flourishes and I keep my illustrious dressmaker. Simple.’

She turned to leave and then halted suddenly. When she turned there was a large smile on her face. ‘I have the perfect solution. Of course, why didn’t I think of it until now?

‘You need someone to take you in hand, help you get your priorities sorted. And…’ Here she gave me a sly smile. ‘I know exactly the right man for you. He’ll bring you back to your senses.’ She clapped her hands in glee, like a little girl who’s just been promised ice cream, before hurriedly leaving the room.

She called from outside the door. ‘You’ll find my matchmaking skills are amongst the finest in this grand city.’ And as she began to make her way down the stairs she said in a fatuous singsong voice, ‘You know I’m never wrong.’

Holding in my temper, I shut the door as quietly as I could and leaned back against it. Which was I most angry about? The fact that Julia Marshall had noticed my waning ability to design or that she had ordered me to get rid of . As I stood behind the door, I couldn’t tell, both issues so intertwined. had begun to take over my every thought. Had my work, the very thing that I loved to do, become secondary? Had my ability to understand the colour, shape and line of a dress, the drape of a fabric, the finer detail of a piece of embroidery, been muted by my desire for ? Did I believe that Mrs Marshall had been able to see what I hadn’t?

No. I clenched my fists and balled them into my eye sockets, suppressing a roar of rage. Nobody was going to own me, nobody was going to tell me how to live my life.