Page 27 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

1917

‘He’s gone and signed up,’ Oti said one morning as we drank our coffee before the start of work, looking down at her hands splayed out on her lap, her eyes blinking furiously.

I didn’t need to be told who she was talking about. Joseph. The man I once loved, who I’d tried to keep out of my mind. For six years Oti had kept any conversation of him away from me and my memories of him were becoming hazy, only to be brought into focus every time she gave me one of those Jackson smiles that transported me back to our Sunday afternoon outings.

In April 1917 the United States declared war on Germany. Less than one hundred thousand men had signed up, meaning millions had been drafted.

‘Why?’ I asked, a numbness creeping over me. At least up until now I knew he was safe, still living with both of his sisters, still working as an architect’s apprentice, still woodworking in his spare time. But Joseph was no fighter. What was he doing willingly signing up? was against his principles. He’d never even thrown a punch – how was he going to shoot a man? It felt as if there was concrete in my stomach.

‘He’s just another of those idiotic boys out there.’ She gestured towards the windows facing the road. ‘All of them thinking they owe this country something. What loyalty does my brother owe this country that rarely gives him a moment’s thought?’ There was real anger in her voice, her mouth tight, her eyes on the windows.

‘He’s joined the 396th Infantry regiment of the 93rd Division. He leaves tomorrow.’ She looked right at me, desperation in her eyes. ‘He’s a peace-loving man, never harmed an insect in his life – always steps over them or picks up those great big spiders and puts them out in the yard, only for them to come marching right back in again.’ She pressed her lips together as she began massaging the muscle between her thumb and forefinger.

‘Have you tried to talk him out of it?’

She gave a snort. ‘My brother, never one to rock the boat, suddenly decides to stand up for himself and become all brave and stubborn.’ She looked up at me. ‘What are Audrey and I going to do without him? How am I going to get rid of those spiders? We’ll be overrun.’

‘A wide-mouthed cup and a piece of card. Then you can take it down the road and release it onto the street or outside someone else’s house. It works every time.’ I leaned in towards Oti. ‘You’ll work it out. If Joseph can get all big and brave, then so can you.’ I grabbed her hand and squeezed it, too hard, not believing my own words. ‘We’re all going to have to get big and brave.’

Slowly everyone sent a loved one off to France, life was about waiting and hoping: waiting for a letter, hoping for the best, terrified of the worst. But we decided on a rule – no talk of war during our day at work. This gave us the opportunity to lose ourselves in the colour, in the rhythm of couture, from the sketches to the finished item. The feel of the fabric soothed us, the beat of the sewing machine, the quiet of the hand-stitching, the concentration required kept us all in check, allowed us to forget the terrible business of war for a few hours a day.

But at the end of the day we’d gather, bring out our letters and our news. Flavia would often bring one of her cakes; it was her way of smoothing out the creases of war.

‘I brought my favourite today, sbrisolona . I’m sorry, Maisie,’ she said as she handed plates out, ‘I know it’s too crumbly for the studio, but I couldn’t help myself. You see we got word that my brother’s been injured in Belgium. We don’t think it’s too bad, they aren’t talking about sending him home, but my parents are tearing their hair out. You see we’ve still not heard from Lorenzo, my other brother, for weeks – it’s too much for them. I spent all night baking.’

Flavia would never say if she was upset, or sad or worried. We knew when she was struggling because she would bake. Baking calmed her, feeding her friends and family gave her the ability to deal with her own traumas after the factory fire. Eating her delicious creations, sitting round in a circle, also gave the rest of us a way of coping with the increasing bad news.

Oti seemed more reluctant to give us news of Joseph, although she knew this was part of the deal – share and share alike – so she’d keep it short and to the point, always precis his letters, never read them.

‘He’s still not been deployed, although there’s talk of France in the next few weeks. But he’s bored, doesn’t find training in the freezing cold much fun, thinks the food is terrible, can’t get to grips with the weapons.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I could have told him that and saved him the trouble of all those regrets he’s having. I think he’d just like to come home to his own bed and some good down-home cooking.’

On November 6th 1917 the men of New York state granted the women the power of the vote. I wanted to yell and shout, jump up and down, I wanted to go and see Mrs Chapman Catt address the women of New York, to celebrate in their success. I wanted to wear my suffrage button like every other white woman in the state, but I didn’t feel that I could, not if Oti, Rebecca and Simone couldn’t. It didn’t feel like the victory that it should have.

As our designs became more serious, as suits and day-dresses became more muted, our early evening sessions with tea and cake became darker with Joseph finally deployed to France, Anna retreating into her silence again as news of her little brother’s death arrived, and Flavia producing more and more cake, her older brother now missing presumed dead. The laughter that had once been such a part of our day was now absent.

And then Joseph wasn’t safe.

I knew something was up when Oti hadn’t arrived at work. She was always the first one in after me, we always went for our coffee before the others arrived. The telephone rang.

‘He’s been badly injured. I would have come into work but I can’t leave Audrey, she’s too upset.’

‘Where are you?’ I knew she didn’t have a telephone.

‘I’m at the neighbours’, they let half the street use their phone in emergencies. Listen, I can’t talk for long, I can’t leave Audrey just now, but I’ll be back to work as soon as I can. Could you send Mrs Aston’s embroidery over? I can get that done whilst I deal with Audrey.’ She sighed. ‘That girl. We don’t even know how bad it is and she’s gone into some sort of hysteria.’

‘Don’t worry about the work, we can get…’

‘No! I need to be doing something. I can’t sit around all day doing nothing. Get it sent over straight away and hopefully I’ll be in tomorrow. We can’t sit at home waiting for more bad news.’

I put the telephone receiver down and began looking for the work Oti needed. As I folded up the fabric, slipped in the pattern, used the brown paper and string to package it up, I felt as if I was moving in a strange fog. All the background noises had receded, but the crackle of the paper, the snip of the scissors as I cut the string, seemed heightened, seemed to bore into me. I had pushed all thoughts of Joseph away as much as I could, doing as he’d asked, cocooning us both from the what-if s and the what-could-have-been s. But Oti’s telephone call had brought him back into focus: his very particular hand movement when he’d point out some little detail on one of the buildings we’d visited, the way his left eyebrow would twitch when he was amused, his low chuckle that was so infectious.

His injuries were so severe he didn’t arrive back in America for six weeks. Whilst we waited for news we insulated ourselves, our everyday use of fabric and threads creating a cushion for the fall that we knew was to come. Oti worked longer hours, ate less and less of the cake Flavia put in front of her, her cheekbones became more pronounced, she pulled her bun tighter and tighter, as if she wanted to pull away any unnecessary thoughts.

‘Oti, you need to go home,’ I said the evening before Joseph was due home. ‘You need some sleep.’

She looked at me as if I was far off in the distance. ‘They say his right side is shattered, that he has trouble breathing ’cos of the gas, I’ve been told he has constant nightmares. I’m scared about what we’re going to find when we get to the hospital tomorrow.’ She brought her focus back onto me, her pupils darkening.

‘Maisie. You’ll help me out with this, won’t you? What with Audrey being about as worthless as gum on a boot heel just now, I don’t think I can do this without you.’

Twice a week Oti made the long bus journey up to the Columbia Hospital in Williamsbridge to visit, often returning without him having spoken a word. Twice a week I did the same. For six months we took it in turns, the journey exhausting, but the strain of watching him refuse to talk to either of us, anger raging in his eyes as we all learned that he would probably never walk again, became a different kind of exhausting, making each of us feel as if we’d been cutting logs all day. Often Oti would take her finishing work to the hospital, working on it as she sat silently with her brother. Somehow her embroidery became all the more intricate, more detailed and of a higher level of quality than I had been able to imagine. It was as if it was a release from the trauma she was watching, a way of blocking out the worry, using beauty to counteract the ugly truth.

I learned to lock away my own emotion, this wasn’t my trauma. My job was to be there for Oti, to cover her work when she had to leave and pick up the pieces of Audrey, when I sent her home to make sure she got some sleep, when I ate the cornbread that Joseph had refused.

I tried to break through the wall of Joseph’s fury, at first bringing him news of what was going on in Manhattan, telling him of the latest buildings going up, such as the Racquet working as our Premier and seeing to the needs of Joseph gave her little time to concentrate on such detail. We had yet to find someone who was as talented as her, the intricacy of her work having always been a level above anyone else we used.

One day, coming into work a little brighter than usual, her dress just that bit sharper, her eyes less weary, she said, ‘I think I’ve found someone who will be able to do some of the most difficult embroidery for you.’ She was a little breathless. ‘Eveline Patience, she lives near me. I’ve brought some of her work for you to see.’

She picked up a bag from her table and pulled out some pieces of embroidery to show me. Laying them on the table I leaned over to take a close look. The first was an appliquéd flower, where the textures went well beyond the traditional usage of thread. Beads, ribbons, card and even raffia had been used, with clever contrasting stitches outlining the flower, the mixture of stitching styles and textures making it almost pop out of the fabric. It was innovative, surprising and, in places, humorous. Then there was a piece of black organza embellished with mother-of-pearl petals held in place by metallic outline stitching, coloured brilliants sitting in the centre of the flowers. This was embroidery like I’d never seen.

‘I’d like to meet this friend of yours.’

‘I’m afraid she won’t leave her home.’ Oti sighed. ‘She doesn’t take visitors. But she’ll take in work. If you give her a commission, I can take it to her. I know it will be returned better than you’d expect it.’

I frowned. ‘Why won’t she leave home?’ I wasn’t sure I wanted to work with anyone who wouldn’t even meet me.

‘She doesn’t like big spaces. She gets frightened. She doesn’t like crowds of people, they scare her. She’s better in her own home.’ Oti picked up one of the pieces of work and inspected it carefully. ‘She’s better than me. She’s faster than me too.’

‘Where did she learn to sew like this?’ I asked, curious that someone apparently so confined could produce work that seemed so worldly.

‘She told me that she used to work for a dressmaker before she became ill and that they aren’t happy about her always working at home.’

I was sceptical. Would someone who only ever stayed at home lose their touch, wouldn’t you need the influence of the outside world to improve your work?

‘Let me take her Mrs Bailey Parson’s coat. She will be able to complete the appliqué quicker than I can. It’ll be better too.’

Harriet Bailey Parsons, the woman who had been Oti’s first appointment as Premier, had continued to be one of our best customers. A successful writer and poet, she led a wealthy but rather bohemian lifestyle, which required many colourful outfits, most of which were becoming more and more intricate as the decade went on. She loved being seen in heavily embroidered dresses, jackets and coats and her latest commission was no different. We were running late with it and I needed to have it ready in five days’ time. Sending it out to an untried worker was too much of a risk. I’d rather have done it myself.

‘If she can’t do it, I’ll have completed it by the time it’s needed,’ Oti said, seeing exactly what was running through my mind. ‘I can brief her; I know what’s required. Let me take it today.’

I put my hand on her arm. ‘Are you sure this isn’t just you in need of more money to help with Joseph, you doing this at home? If that’s the case you know I’ll pay you more, I need you here.’

‘No.’ She pulled her arm away, her voice gruff. ‘You’ll just have to trust me on this.’

My frown deepened, confused by her behaviour. ‘Oti?—’

‘Just let me do this,’ she interrupted. Her voice was strained as she gave me a flat grimace before walking to the back of the studio, carefully folding up the pieces of fabric for the coat, putting it in a Maison McIntyre box, tying it with string and wordlessly leaving the studio.

All my bewilderment was forgotten when the coat was returned. The finishing was exquisite. But it hadn’t only been finished exactly as I’d expected, there was a little bit of character in there. The colour of the fabric and the shape of the coat was enhanced by the finishing, the stitching immaculate, the texturing more superior than I’d expected. Eveline had even added in a couple of tiny, covered buttons within the embroidery giving it added depth and completing it as if it was a piece of artwork.

Despite the strange request that we never meet, Eveline Patience was employed as an outworker and began to produce some of the most extraordinary work that I’d ever seen. True to my word, I didn’t insist on meeting her, she was adamant about that. But she, like Oti, never missed a deadline, never misunderstood a brief, always interpreted it with a little Eveline ‘twist’, perhaps adding in a tiny little embroidered mouse on an appliquéd collar, allowing a squirrel to hide amongst the leaves embroidered on an overskirt, include tiny beads that looked like bees visiting handmade flowers that sat on a sleeve. Her work nearly always surprised me, repeatedly made me smile and ensured my customers were increasingly happy with their commissions. They loved the added character that was introduced to their gowns, making them feel even more special than they did when wearing a Maison McIntyre dress.

But as we settled into the 1920s, Oti had another bombshell to deal with. Audrey became a single mother.

‘Three people to look after,’ she said over our morning coffee. ‘Just when we were getting into a good routine, when Joseph was sorting himself out, just when I thought I could breathe.’

‘I can help,’ I said. ‘I’ll come over one evening a week, as well as my usual Sunday morning with Joseph, once Audrey’s had the baby and settled back home.’

Oti sat back in her chair, threw her head back and roared with laughter. ‘I don’t think so,’ she eventually said, catching her breath. ‘You have not one idea what to do with children. Look at you when you used to take Annina Bassino out for the day. You just wanted to dress her up like a doll and have her sitting there looking beautiful.’ She let out another roar of laughter. ‘Oh dear Lord, no. You’d dress up Audrey’s baby and it would be sick everywhere, I know it. I can see you now, holding that baby away from you.’ She held her hand out in front of her, her thumb and forefinger together as if holding an imaginary dirty dishcloth, her face scrunched up as if there was a bad smell. ‘No, I don’t need your help, thank you kindly. I know you mean well, but you’d just cause more chaos than there already is.’ She wiped her face and with wide eyes she said, ‘Would you just promise me you won’t be having babies any time soon. We’ve all got enough to contend with.’

‘Well, I’m so glad I can oblige you, Oti Jackson,’ I said, relief running through me. ‘There’ll be no wee bairns coming from me.’ I crossed my legs firmly. ‘No chance.’

But I didn’t want to ignore Audrey, and a few days after Laura Jackson was born, I arrived at their apartment with several Macy’s bags, full of baby clothes and toys.

It was five thirty on a Wednesday evening, Oti was still at work and I thought that Joseph and Audrey could probably do with a surprise, could do with someone to take their minds off the new chaos in their lives. I’d pictured myself whisking the crying baby off Audrey’s shoulder, somehow managing to calm Laura, making coffee for both her and Joseph, bringing some temporary order to their evening. Instead, the door was opened by a man I didn’t know with a haunted look and a thimble on his right forefinger.

‘Is Audrey in?’ I asked, peering behind him.

‘No, but Joseph’s here. You want to come in?’

Tentatively I walked into the main room of the apartment, recently made bigger with unnecessary walls knocked down and doors widened so Joseph could use his wheelchair more easily.

The everyday refectory table was laid out with a wide swathe of a pink fabric on one side with thread, ribbons and beads laid out in neat lines on the other. I recognised this as part of the skirt of a dress we had designed. Joseph and another man looked up, Joseph working on a metallic thread pattern on the sleeves of a black dress for Mrs Bailey Parsons.

‘Get out,’ he snapped. ‘You can’t be here.’ He turned his wheelchair so that he could make his way towards me, around the table. ‘Get!’ He waved his good arm at the door.

‘But…’ I was completely disorientated. ‘I came to see Audrey, to see the baby…’ I said, weakly holding up my Macy’s bags.

‘I’ll see you out.’ Oti’s voice came from behind me. She took me by the shoulders and turned me around. ‘Come on, outside.’ And herded me out the front door.

‘What was that?’ I choked.

‘Just what your eyes saw. Three men doing the job you’re so satisfied with.’ She crossed her arms, still in her coat, bag on one arm.

‘But, what do you mean? What are they doing with Eveline Patience’s work?’ And just as I’d said the words I understood. ‘It’s Joseph.’ I put my hand to my mouth. ‘It’s Joseph,’ I repeated. ‘But the other two, who are they?’

‘Both veterans, both injured, both in a mess, just like Joseph. Don’t you dare go taking that work away from them; that work has saved them, given them something to live for, something meaningful to do, no longer having to stare at the walls of their apartment, no longer having to feel sorry for themselves.’

I gawped at her, still confused by what I’d seen. ‘But how…?’ I stumbled. ‘How did this happen?’

Oti ran her hand over her forehead, sighing. ‘Joseph’s right arm wasn’t working so well and the physiotherapist suggested he try some needlepoint. As you can imagine he wasn’t too keen on doing such a “female pastime” as he put it, so I asked him if he’d help me out with some simple embroidery. I lied and said the man who owned the embroidery company we used was too busy, I told him I’m brought some work home. Of course, it wasn’t anything we were working on, I just made it all up. But, God darn it, he was good. It didn’t take long before he was able to concentrate, he stopped fidgeting, then one day he slept through the night without a nightmare for the first time since he came home.’ A smile spread across her face as she spoke and she looked towards their window, seeing the men sitting at the table. ‘He picked it all up right away, got better than me in a short few months. So, I started bringing home real Maison McIntyre work and he just ran with it. Makes me sick to be honest, how someone who’s never picked up a needle in his life can get so damned good at something so difficult so quickly.’

‘And the others?’

‘Veterans. In the same position as Joseph. Couldn’t concentrate, needed some work to do that wasn’t physical. They both suffered from the gas. They can’t move around too quickly, so sitting doing this kind of work really helps. We’ve been training them up. They’ve only started working on the real designs in the last few weeks.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You listen to me.’ Her hands were on her hips, she was leaning towards me, those eyes ready to pierce me with their fury. ‘If you’d known you’d have been full of pity, treated Joseph all sorry-like.’ She changed her voice to a stage whisper. ‘He did this without you, without your help and do you know the difference that made? He’s got his self-esteem back. I can see little bits of the old Joseph now. He works on his own terms, produces beautiful embroidery, trains up men to do the same. Those sweet boys in there, who have had their whole lives ruined, who’ve been shattered and let down by this great country, have found something to keep them alive. Do you have any idea of the ugliness they’ve seen? Do you understand how the beauty that we ask them to produce has turned their otherwise valueless days into something worth living for, something to look forward to? That work that you and I give them has turned them back into men.’ She was breathing heavily, almost out of breath after her diatribe. ‘Now you best get on out of here, before I beat your sorry white ass.’ As she said this last line, she began to laugh, first a small chuckle, her shoulders shaking as if she was absorbing the movement of a subway train, but these delicate shakes quickly turned into full body-wracking howls that then developed into great tears and loud, sloppy sobs.

Alarmed, I quickly took her in my arms and gave her a hug, a full enveloping hug but the harder I hugged her the louder became the wails. The two of us stood there, in the middle of the street, soaking up that human contact, the warmth, our muscles relaxing with the sad relief.

Eventually she pulled back, sniffed, wiped her face, shrugged off her sobs and wiped her face again, sighing.

‘Would you look at me? Howling like some hysterical old spinster.’

‘Look. I don’t care who does the work, just as long as it gets done. And now I know that it’s being done by someone I love, by friends of someone I love, then I’m happy.’

Oti wiped her face again. ‘You still love him?’

I couldn’t hold Oti’s gaze and looked down at my hands. ‘Of course I do,’ I whispered, biting my lip, willing my emotions to stay hidden away. I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders and looked up, a breezy smile on my face. ‘But, don’t worry, I won’t be taking him off your hands anytime soon.’ My voice was now airy and casual. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.’

She blinked but said nothing, just nodded as I turned to leave.

Every few months I took myself to have dinner with the Bassino family. My attempts to keep up with them became increasingly difficult, our differences in circumstances becoming greater every time we met.

‘I do like your suit,’ said Annina, with envy in her voice as she fingered the wool fabric of my jacket. ‘I would like to wear something like this.’ She kept her voice low with her back to her father as we were doing the washing up.

‘I’ve told you that I’ll make you a suit,’ I said. ‘I used to make you dresses when you were younger. I don’t understand why your father won’t let me do that any longer.’

She sighed. ‘He says we’re intruding on your time, Anyway, he says I’d look out of place in one of your suits. Where would I wear it?’ She stacked the plates and put them on the shelf under the sink. ‘He has a point.’

In 1922 Annina was fifteen and her brother eighteen. Roberto was now earning, working in construction as an ironworker. Dinner with the Bassinos, without Rosa and now without Nonna, who had died the year previously, was a stilted affair. Annina was the reluctant cook, the unwilling housekeeper, her ideas about her future in stark contrast to her father’s.

‘Why can’t I come and work for you?’ she asked, a question she raised every time I came for dinner.

‘You know why. You’re only fifteen. You should still be in school. I won’t take anyone on who isn’t seventeen, and even then, you need to have some experience.’

‘I can sew. I bet I can sew better than some of the girls you’ve taken on. Anyway, I’ve got experience. I’ve started working in one of the garment factories.’

Flashbacks of those terrible thuds on the ground outside the factory, the thick, acrid smell of burning flesh, the pavements awash with blood. My first reaction was to grab hold of the scrap of tortoiseshell comb I had on my necklace, a necklace I still wore most days.

‘Annina, it’s illegal. You shouldn’t be working there,’ I gasped before turning to Matteo. ‘You can’t let Annina work in one of those factories – not after Rosa…’ I couldn’t finish my sentence.

‘We need the money,’ he replied gruffly. Matteo’s job as a janitor produced a consistent but flat wage. Despite the money that Roberto was now bringing in, I suspected that he had loan sharks that needed paying off.

‘Matteo,’ I sighed. ‘You know I’m happy to chip in. Please, let Annina stay at school.’

‘No!’ he almost shouted. ‘Is blood money.’

Matteo, once the kind and loving father, was now unpredictable and irrational. Some days he was welcoming and cheery, happy to talk of Rosa, other days he was furious, then remorseful, teary and pathetic. Without Rosa and Nonna to ground him he was unable to make any decisions, to move on or let his family live again. He simply wanted Annina to stay as a little girl.

I was reluctant to cause any greater rift in the family, knowing what I was already responsible for. I felt helpless and the only way I could support them, I thought, was to keep in touch, make sure Annina was safe.