Page 17 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue
1912
There was no one I could tell about what Mrs Marshall had said. Certainly not Oti, definitely not Joseph – I knew how he would react. I simply gritted my teeth and ignored her.
‘You’re looking all grouchy – a great big frown on your face and tight lips. Joseph been mean to you?’ Oti asked.
‘No,’ I growled.
‘See, there you go. I just asked a question. What’s up with you anyhow?’
We were going through fabric samples, deciding on what was needed for the next season – a difficult task, having to anticipate future tastes well in advance. I was feeling lacklustre, with little energy for anything but antipathy towards Mrs Marshall. What had happened to the Maisie who had left Joseph’s house floating on a cloud? Where was the Maisie that day she’d found her studio?
Considering how to respond to Oti, my eye was caught by a pale-yellow silk chiffon.
‘I’d like to get some of this,’ I said.
Oti frowned. ‘We’re looking at autumn and winter fabrics, not floaty summer fabrics. What are you thinking?’ She kept her voice even but I could see she was irritated by my lack of focus.
‘I’d like to experiment on something. I just need a few metres, plus I’d like some of that bright-yellow satin.’
Her mouth twitched. ‘You’re the boss.’
When those fabrics were delivered I rushed back to my room at the boarding house, leaving work a couple of hours early. I’d had an idea for a dress and spent the next few evenings obsessively working late into the night.
I had replaced the small table in the window with something much larger, too large for the room, but a good size for laying out fabric, perfect for cutting out a pattern, ideal for keeping a delicate fabric away from wooden floorboards with splinters and nails. I began with the bright-yellow satin, making a full-length sleeveless sheath under-dress, slightly fitted to my shape. The smooth coolness of the shiny fabric is so difficult to hold, requiring patience and concentration to ensure seams don’t slip, to guarantee the shape stays true. When using the sewing machine, I had to run it slowly, careful that the seams didn’t pucker.
With the chiffon dress, the delicate fabric needed equally careful handling. I wore cotton gloves to ensure nothing caught at the sheer material, a sharp needle was needed to make sure the edges didn’t fray. The rhythm of the hand-stitching had me in a trance as my mind wandered as to what this dress was for. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure. I only knew it was a dress for Joseph and me, something I would only wear for the two of us. But it wasn’t a Sunday afternoon dress, it was surely for something more elegant, something more celebratory; maybe our first tea at the St Regis, I thought rather grandly. The later I worked into the night, the more I became frustrated, tutting at my work, dissatisfied with what I was producing – something bland, nothing Maisie McIntyre would wear. Was I trying to be someone else?
I put the finished dress on my tailor’s dummy and placed it in the centre of the room. I walked around the dress, trying to work out what I had made it for. As I circled it I found myself envisaging myself and Joseph, arm in arm, laughter and smiles, on the steps of a church. This made me stop. No. I couldn’t think that. Not yet.
But once the thought was there, it wouldn’t go away, it needled its way into every thought, took away my sleep, nudged at me on my walk to work. When I returned that evening, the dress was still there, still waiting to be identified. I circled it again talking to it, asking it what it wanted, what it needed.
Finally, the simplicity of it hit me. All it needed was a bit of Maisie McIntyre. It needed colour, it needed embellishments, it needed character. Quickly I rummaged through my bag of scrap fabric and found the perfect foil. A burnt-orange slubbed silk, just enough to make a splash. I took the yellow chiffon belt with its irregular pleats and invisible fastening and turned it over. Yes, I had enough of the orange to create a hidden reverse. Then I looked at the sleeves. Plain chiffon sleeves, just hemmed simply at the cuff. I huffed at my lack of vision and scrambled around my bag for any of the leftover yellow satin. Pulling it out of the bag I could see there was enough to create two deep cuffs, pointing on the top of the hand, which could be folded back if required.
I smiled. This was more like it – this was making me feel lighter, more like me. Mrs Marshall was wrong. Loving Joseph didn’t make me lose my ability to design. It was just that I needed to admit to myself that I had dared to love him.
I could imagine Oti rolling her eyes at me, laughing at my inability to read my own feelings. Yes! I took out my sketchbook and begin to draw, my heart skipping several beats. I rummaged through my drawers for some metallic thread, found a packet of seed beads, discovered a few crystal beads of the right size. I looked at the yellow sheath under-dress and almost laughed. Yes, of course, I knew what this dress needed.
The following week, I was again up late, finishing the hem of the outer dress. My eyes were tired, the lighting not as good as I would have liked it to be, but I felt that there was a time limit on this dress and that it needed to be finished shortly, ready for the right time, ready, perhaps, for some spontaneity. There was a sharp knock on my door and my landlady, Mrs Majewski, let herself in.
‘You have a visitor. A male visitor.’ She sniffed with disapproval. ‘There’ll be no men in this boarding house, especially men of his sort.’ She sniffed again, narrowing her eyes.
‘What sort?’ I asked. But as I said this I realised, from her look of outrage, that she could only have been talking about Joseph.
She shuffled her feet, unable to meet my eye. ‘I suggest you go down and see him. I don’t want him in my house.’
Hurriedly, I put my sewing down and followed my landlady downstairs. She opened the front door to reveal Joseph, hands in pockets, feet kicking the pavement, eyes to the street.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.
‘I needed to see you.’
‘Why? What’s happened? Is Oti all right? Audrey?’
Mrs Majewski frowned at me. ‘You know this man?’
I grabbed Joseph’s elbow and led him down the steps, onto the street and walked a few yards away from prying ears.
‘Joseph, what is it?’ I was beginning to get scared, worried that something terrible had happened to Oti.
He pulled his arm away from mine and stepped back, sighing, shaking his head, his mouth in a downturn, his eyes shining. ‘We have to stop. We can’t do this anymore.’ He was looking at my shoulder, then at my hands, finally at his feet as he put his hands back in his pockets and lowered his head.
‘I don’t understand. What did I do?’ Panic was rising. That self-satisfied feeling of achievement, that smug way I’d been seeing the world over the last few days, the way I’d felt that I’d sorted everything out between us, that we were going to be fine, that we were going to get married, to have children, that we were invincible, that we could face anything together… I began to feel nauseous because it was gone, I couldn’t even reach for it. Remarkably, it already seemed out of sight.
‘You didn’t do anything.’ He let out a long, controlled breath, then looked up at the night sky, as if for help. ‘I don’t want to see you anymore.’
‘No. That can’t be true. I know it’s not true.’ Alarms were screaming in my head. ‘What happened to make you say that? You were happy when I saw you three days ago, you wanted to be with me. You said so.’
‘I’m scared.’ He looked down again, his shoulders sagging. ‘I don’t have the energy.’ Now he looked back up at me. ‘It would be easier for both of us if we didn’t do this.’
‘No, Joseph, it would be easier if we faced it… them… all those people who disapprove of us. It would be easier if we did that together.’ I grabbed both of his hands and held them in mine. ‘We can do this. I love you and I need you.’
There it was. I’d said it out loud. I’d always thought I hadn’t needed love. I was Maisie McIntyre who only wanted to work, who wanted to be better than all the rest at design, who wanted to be a couturier, someone who was talked about for her creations, not for her love affairs.
Joseph gave me that nervous blink: one, two, three, four.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It can’t be. I watch you when you’re with me and then Oti tells what you’re like when you’re at work. You’re two different people. When you’re with me you’re restrained, you’re muted, you’re pale.’ He said the word ‘pale’ as if it was a bad infection. ‘You aren’t you when you’re with me. I hold you back.’
This felt like a hard slap to the face. ‘No, that’s not true.’ But as I said this I recalled the words of Mrs Marshall and I felt an unexpected tendril of humiliation creep up my back.
‘Yes, it is true, Maisie, and I don’t want to put you in that position. I want you to be that world-famous designer, a couturier of note. You won’t be able to do that with me by your side.’
‘No,’ I repeated automatically. But I couldn’t say any more because mortification was worming its way into me, intermingled with an unanticipated sense of relief, telling me that his words were entirely true.
He brought my hands up to his lips and kissed them. ‘I have to go.’ He breathed in the smell of my skin. ‘We shouldn’t see each other again.’ He closed his eyes as he took another deep breath.
‘Is this man bothering you?’ came a harsh voice beside me that made me jump. I turned to see a large gentleman in a top hat and holding a cane as if ready to beat Joseph.
‘No, sir. He is a friend.’
Immediately Joseph dropped my hands, stepped back onto the road and gave a small bow, before turning on his heel and walking away.
‘Miss. Are you all right?’ That harsh voice had softened.
‘Perfectly,’ I retorted absently, watching Joseph disappear into the night. I should have run after him, but instead I turned back to my boarding house and, ignoring the stranger’s enquiries, I walked up the steps, through the door and up to my room.
Shutting my door, leaning on the doorknob I was confronted with the yellow dress. My heart sank. Why hadn’t I been able to see it? That dress was a perfect representation of what Joseph had been trying to tell me. If I had been making myself a wedding dress wouldn’t I have made the most sumptuous, intricately embroidered, colourful dress I could imagine? Wouldn’t I have made a dress that epitomised me and everything I stood for?
With leaden limbs I slowly and carefully picked up the dress from the table, folded it with tissue, taking care to use extra layers around the embroidery on the cuffs and belt. Finally, I put it in a cardboard box, fastened it with ribbon and placed the box underneath my bed.
My life now seemed to be lived in a dense fog. There was a muted silence, a heaviness in my limbs that made simple tasks difficult; threading a needle became impossible, I made mistakes when cutting fabric, I spilled tea on a toile. Nighttime became my enemy as I inevitably ended up re-living those precious moments I’d had with Joseph, that jolt of electricity when we touched, the butterfly flutter of his eyelashes as I’d run my fingers over them when he blinked nervously, overlaid with images of my bland designs, and Mrs Marshall and the taut skin on her bony hands. Those images became pin-sharp in the dark, like the moving pictures in the cinema, only in vibrant colour.
Walking became my only liberation. I began pounding the streets of Manhattan at all hours, often with my head down just watching myself put one foot in front of the other, the rhythm numbing my chaotic mind, a mind that didn’t know whether it was devastated or relieved, shattered or comforted, a mind that wouldn’t sit still.
Ten days after Joseph had left, I was pacing my boarding room. I’d stayed in bed as long as I could, trying to rest, but nothing would let me sleep. I’d dressed absently in a plain green dress and my flat boots, ready to walk, to exhaust myself so that I might be allowed to sleep later that night.
It was a fine May Saturday, but as I was leaving I grabbed the shawl Rosa had made for me, thinking it might be cold later, and by the time I’d made it outside, the late afternoon shadows were slanting across the streets. With resignation I began my usual walk, head down, one step in front of the other, but I kept bumping into people.
‘Sorry,’ I gasped, before another bump. ‘Sorry.’ I whirled around and noticed that I was surrounded by women all moving in the same direction, all wearing white, many adorned with flashes of yellow, purple and green on their hats or draped as sashes.
I stood, open-mouthed, turning to watch the river of women of all ages, sizes, even skin colour, the tide only going in one direction – Washington Square. I closed my eyes as shame began to creep up on me, so bad that my whole face flushed.
I had forgotten. The suffrage parade. I was supposed to meet on West 9th Street with all the garment workers as well as friends and family of those that had died in the factory fire. My stomach dropped away.
‘Come on, love,’ came a voice as I was jostled forward. ‘No good hanging around here, you’ll just get marched into line. Might as well join in.’ The woman laughed at me as she walked on.
Jolted into action, I picked up my skirts and ran the three blocks to West 9th Street. Halfway down the street, as arranged, stood some of my old Triangle Factory friends as well as Nonna Bassino.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said, breathlessly, as I slid into line, taking the arm of Nonna Bassino.
‘Maisie,’ she said, patting my hand. ‘I knew you’d make it.’ She gave me a sad smile as she ran her hand over Rosa’s shawl. She looked so frail I wondered if she would be able to walk the block, let alone all the way to Carnegie Hall.
‘Not to worry,’ she said as if she’d read my mind. ‘If I get tired, I stop. But I think Rosa will be with us, she’ll keep me going.’ She patted my hand again. ‘But your arm is good.’
Soft, warm little fingers took hold of my other hand. I looked down. Annina. I hadn’t seen her since the mass funeral for all those who’d died in the fire over a year ago.
She had changed dramatically. Now five years old, she’d shot up in height, her grey-green eyes seemed to have intensified. Her dirty blonde hair was tied back neatly in a long plait, tied at the end with a lavender ribbon, her white tunic dress had been neatly pressed and I could tell that the hand sewing was of a high standard. She gave me a shy smile, just like Rosa’s when she got embarrassed over any praise of her knitting. That smile cut a tiny path into my sore heart.
For the first time in days I felt an easing in my chest, a softening of my rib cage. I squeezed Annina’s hand. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage. It’s the least we can do for your mamma.’
At that a cry went up and a loud whistle. Ahead of us a black and white banner was raised.
We Want the Vote for Protection .
I pulled myself upright, proud of Rosa’s shawl, even though I wasn’t wearing the obligatory white, relieved that I had accidently made it to the parade, thinking that perhaps my sub-conscious had pierced my wallowing self-absorption and let me pick up Rosa’s shawl and pointed my feet in the right direction.
We made it to Carnegie Hall, propelled by the claps and shouts from the crowds of women lining the streets and hanging out of the building windows, by the pennants and banners and flags and ribbons and handkerchiefs that waved us on for the two hours we walked, by the cheers and laughter, by the tears, the grand old ladies in their carriages, by the babies in their perambulators, by the songs we sang. I was driven forward by Annina’s warm hand in mine and her wonder at the spectacle we were part of, by the weight of Nonna on my right arm, by her tears as she began to understand how many people had turned out to support the rights of women, of people like her, of women like Rosa.
By the time we had dispersed at Carnegie Hall, kissed our tears away, given Annina a hug, and squeezed Nonna’s frail hands, I was a different person. My introspection had been checked. During that afternoon, where I’d witnessed the daring dedication of so many women, I’d put my fears and heartbreak, relief and shame, away in a box, just like I had with the yellow dress. When I walked away, I could again look around, see what was in front of me, see the stars in the sky. With a lighter step and a strength I’d almost forgotten I had, I took the trolleybus home. That night I slept an uninterrupted, dreamless sleep.
Back at work on Monday, re-invigorated by that long overdue sleep, ready to tackle the backlog of work, Oti was surprised to find me at my desk.
‘You’ve got some colour back in your cheeks. Looks like you made the most of your weekend.’ She spoke warily, looking at me as if she was trying to find the real me.
‘I did,’ I declared. ‘I went to the suffrage parade. It was extraordinary.’
‘You did?’ She put her hands on her hips, smiling. ‘You didn’t come find me,’ she admonished. ‘I was looking out for you the whole time.’
I laughed. ‘There were ten thousand people there. I’d have been difficult to find. Truth is, I had completely forgotten about it. It was just luck that I turned up in time. I got swept up in the whole thing. It was…’ Inexplicably I began to cry.
‘Oh Lord. What’s going on with you, girl? Can’t cry about Joseph, but you can cry about a bunch of women marching and singing.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You’re a hot mess if ever I saw one. But that’s okay, because’ – she did a drum roll on the desk with her fingers – ‘I made you something.’ Standing up and walking over to the cupboard where we kept rolls of fabric, she opened the door and pulled out a dress on a hanger.
‘I made you a dress,’ she declared as she laid it out on the table.
Slowly, I stood up from my desk and went over to look at it. A day dress made from a vibrant print of many bold and coloured flowers, with a white frilled collar and matching cuffs. Although the skirt narrowed at the hem like those hated hobble skirts, she had introduced a split at the centre of the hem, about ten inches long, making walking easier. I rubbed the fabric between my fingers, a soft brushed cotton, perfect for spring-time but also with a comforting warmth. The pattern made it noteworthy, the cut ensured it was stylish, but the fabric would make it feel soothing and homely: just what my tired body needed.
Nobody had made me any clothing since Rosa had given me her shawl. This kindness that I didn’t deserve, Oti’s thoughtfulness whilst I had been so self-centred, made something break inside me and those tears now flowed, a dam burst.
‘Come on, none of that,’ Oti said, catching my arm. But that contact, that sympathy made it even worse. Nobody had touched me since Joseph.
‘You’re an idiot, you know that?’ She squeezed my arm as the tears ran down my cheeks.
I nodded, sniffing, looking for my handkerchief.
‘Good, we should all know when we’ve been idiots. So, it’s time to get that dress on, let me sort out that red and blotchy face and I need you to go out and look for some of that Maisie McIntyre inspiration.’
In my new dress, designed and made by Oti, I walked fifty blocks uptown, virtually the same route I’d made on the parade two days previously. As I remembered the solidarity, the cheers and the support, my back became straighter, my steps lighter, and I started to feel the fresh air, see the blue sky, the newly laid pavement, Bryant Park, Fifth Avenue, until I found myself in front of the entrance to the St Regis Hotel, the place where Joseph and I had once stood, wondering whether we’d ever be able to visit together. Watching the doormen with their black armbands on, still mourning the loss of Mr Astor on the Titanic , something flipped inside me, a page turned, a decision was made, and a door finally shut. Gathering my courage, touching the necklace made from the shard of tortoiseshell, I walked up the steps, into the dining room and asked for tea for one. There was no hesitation from the ma?tre d’, no raised eyebrow or concern for my appearance. A wearied heaviness lifted, letting me breathe a little easier as I held my head a little higher. The pleasure at walking through the tables in the tearoom, the soft swish of my new dress, the click of bone china teacups on their saucers, the hum of conversation, the ease with which I slipped into my seat at a corner table, the effortless manner in which I ordered a pot of tea and a slice of cake.