Page 31 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

1932

‘Oh, good Lord. How do you not know that you’re pregnant?’ Oti asked incredulously, her hands on her hips as she stared at me with wide, unbelieving eyes.

This question caught me completely unawares. All I wanted to do was laugh off such a ludicrous suggestion. I sighed because it explained why I had been nauseous and constantly sick over the last three weeks, it explained why strong smells brought on the nausea, why I could no longer drink my beloved coffee, and it explained the sore nipples. Why hadn’t the obvious answer occurred to me before now?

Over the weeks since Tori’s death I had started to find it difficult to be in my house – everything reminded me of him. I could no longer sit down or take a bath or sleep in my bed without remembering the way his hand would stroke my arm as we sat on the sofa together, or his sleeping breath would brush my back at night or how he’d close his eyes as he relaxed in the bath, his toes wiggling gently by my sides. No corner of the house was immune to these memories, every piece of furniture, ornament or piece of fabric making me recall some comment he made, funny, flippant, or serious, all of them crystal clear in my head and refusing to leave.

My office had become my home and I was spending as many hours there as I could, shutting away the newspapers, any talk of the Mafia, any thoughts of Tori Smyth. By pushing away all that ugliness, all that grief, I could become the Maisie I had almost forgotten, the one that loved beauty, colour and simply making dresses, I could almost pretend I was that young Maisie, twenty years ago in her first studio with nothing but good things to look forward to. Here I could almost be normal. Except I kept on being sick.

Oti had popped into my office to try and persuade me to come out for lunch. She was in and out of my office more than usual, checking up on me, making sure I was not sliding into some sort of depression – she’d found a new fabric that she thought I might be interested in, wanted to ask if I’d seen the pictures of the Chanel diamond jewellery show.

‘Why do you think I’m pregnant?’ I asked, stupidly.

‘You can’t stand coffee no more. You keep being sick. You just look different.’ She gave me her do you think I was born yesterday? look. ‘When did you last have your period?’

I had no idea. It wasn’t something I kept close track of. ‘No, Oti, this can’t be. I’m getting too old to have children, I’m forty-three, women don’t have children at my age.’

‘Oh, so you’re more stupid than I thought you were,’ Oti replied. ‘Please tell me you were being careful. Surely you weren’t trying to trap the senator by getting pregnant. That doesn’t sound like the Maisie I know.’

‘No! Of course I wasn’t trying to trap him. We’ve been having an affair for eight years, if I’d have wanted his child I’d have done it a long time ago. Do you think I want a baby at forty-three?’ But as I spoke, the hysteria was beginning to show in the rising pitch of my voice, the reality starting to dawn on me. ‘But…’ I sighed, ‘…I thought it was the shock. You know, when traumatic things happen to you, parts of your body try to protect you from that trauma. I just thought… I just thought… that’s what was happening…’ I held my head in my hands. ‘That’s what I’ve been telling myself these past few days.’

Of course, she was correct. It all suddenly made sense. The only thing, outside of my working life, that made any sense.

Oddly, as I sat there staring into a future I couldn’t comprehend, I realised that for the first time since Tori’s death the nausea had gone and I wanted a drink. But it was nine thirty in the morning, and even Oti would have raised an eyebrow if I’d made myself a whiskey sour just then.

‘I don’t want a child,’ I said, bluntly. ‘I was not put on this earth to bring up another human being, I’m too selfish.’

Oti rolled her eyes. ‘Maybe you’re selfish, but too selfish to bring up a child?’ She leaned forward on my desk. ‘You can’t be thinking that you want to get rid of that poor, innocent child. Not its fault who his or her mother is. This is the child of the man you’ve been in love with for years.’

I tried to interrupt her, tried to protest, but she continued.

‘That child is a part of him, you’d have a small version of him to look after, a bit of him in your life every single day.’

Could I love a child that looked like him, that might have his blue-grey eyes, his infectious smile, his sandy hair and big hands?

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘There are too many reasons not to become a mother: I want to design for the theatre, for Hollywood, perhaps expand my business overseas. What about London, Paris, perhaps even Rome? Having a child would ruin those ambitions; it would just get in the way.’

Oti seemed to rise up as I said these words, anger flashing in her eyes. ‘Don’t you say another word. You’ll regret it, I know you will. You act too quickly, too impulsively. That Senator Torridon Smyth, does he have any other children?’

‘No,’ I said, looking down at the floor.

‘You look at me, Maisie McIntyre,’ Oti ordered. ‘You look at me good and proper.’ I looked up, at her blazing eyes, her voice heavy with warning.

‘This is his child. No one else has that, not even his wife. This child will be yours. Before you only got to enjoy him every few weeks, now you’ve been given the opportunity enjoy a part of him every day for the rest of your life.’

As soon as I had made the decision that I would become a mother, I found myself wanting to see my own family. In the twenty-two years that I had been in New York I had yet to hear from my sister. At the beginning I had written brief letters, sending presents for her and her girls. I’d describe New York, my boarding house and grey landlady, the wonders of Central Park, the shops on Fifth Avenue, but I only told her briefly how my work was going. I’d pictured her rolling her eyes if I’d have described my studio and Oti and the women who I employed, if I’d described the kinds of dresses we were making. She would never have believed a word of it; I could hear her saying how letters were for telling lies. During the Great War I’d sent money but because I’d heard nothing I began to think she’d moved, perhaps to somewhere better. In 1929 I’d even gone as far as booking a passage home, thinking it was time to confront our silence, but then the Crash had occurred and I felt I couldn’t leave Oti and the others – my New York family. Suddenly it seemed less important to run away to a sister who hadn’t bothered to contact me in over twenty years, than it did to ensure the business survived, to be certain that the more than one hundred women I now employed were safe, that we could look after them. But now, all I wanted was to talk to my sister, , my big sister who might even be a grandmother, I wanted to tell her what I had achieved, of the women I dressed and, of course, I wanted to tell her about the baby.

It took me five months to summon up the courage to contact my sister, eventually writing to Richmond Place, half expecting no response, surprised and relieved when I received a reply one month later.

Maisie,

I will come to New York, but I can’t afford the fare. If you send me the ticket, I’ll come. It will help Ava. One less mouth to feed and more space for the bairns.

I could do with a change of scene. Duncan died a month ago. I don’t want to be in that tenement any longer than I have to.

Unmistakenly my sister: blunt and to the point. I smiled. I’d loved my sister who was candid and outspoken. I hankered after that curt sisterly love. I suddenly found myself yearning for those days when we’d run through the streets of Edinburgh, delivering my mother’s dress commissions, when we’d sit in the Meadows, when I’d mimic our customers with their stuck-up Morningside accents, rolling in the grass, laughing until her sides hurt. In those days we were almost the same: thinking alike, laughing and moaning at the same things; we wanted a better, brighter life.

How do you greet a sister you haven’t seen for more than twenty-two years? My sister who, undoubtedly, had led a harder life than me, who’d probably spent her days with raw hands in cold laundry water whilst my soft hands gathered and draped delicate and silky fabrics. My sister who never knew about the money our mother had saved for us. My sister who hadn’t grabbed, or been able to grab, the opportunities that may have come her way.

As I stood on the quay waiting for her to walk down the gangway, I wondered how she was feeling. Was she excited by the future or was she frightened by the tall, overbearing buildings, unlike anything ever seen in Edinburgh? Could she see the opportunity or was she overawed by the unknown? For a moment I was back on the ship’s deck all those years ago, with my heart in my ears, my stomach doing somersaults with the fear of discovery, of being sent home, a known fraud.

What would her reaction be when she saw me? Shame at having let her sister pay for her passage, or delight at seeing me. Just as then, my stomach was doing acrobatics as I searched for her, nervous at our reunion, scared that there’d be no love left, worried that she’d be someone different.

Standing on the quayside I suddenly felt conspicuous in my showy fur coat, hat and patent leather high heels, eight months pregnant and fully made up, red lipstick and long eyelashes. There was with her crumpled coat, her ashen-red hair spilling out from under her creased, grey felt hat, holding a faded carpet bag.

We both smiled warily, neither of us able to find words that adequately described how we felt. I swallowed down the mix of emotions: shock at her appearance, her apparent lack of care at the way she looked, the fact that she seemed twenty years older than me, but all I wanted was a rush of sisterly love, a desire to grab her and hug her, feel that filial closeness again. Instead I felt strangely detached, a forlorn pity for this frumpy, middle-aged woman who stood, rather pathetically, in front of me. And relief, enormous relief, that I had left that life when I did.

Eventually we hugged, a slightly awkward embrace. When you’re eight months pregnant it’s hard to give a proper hug to someone five inches shorter than you. She smelled of biscuits, a smell from home, a smell I’d have recognised anywhere and despite the relief I was feeling, the recognition of that smell brought tears to my eyes, tears of homesickness, for our dead mother, for the kitchen we used to spend so much time in, for the way Maw had once patted my hand, whispering ‘Ma Maisie’. All these emotions were in danger of overpowering me.

Holding on to her longer than necessary, I discreetly wiped my eyes.

‘Look at you, all big and grown up,’ she said, pulling herself away. ‘All dressed up as if you’re going tae the races.’ Her bluey-green eyes twinkled with amusement, but her face was drawn, no hint of make-up, her skin shiny and sweaty, the whites of her eyes more yellow than white.

‘Well, I thought I could take you out for lunch, celebrate your arrival in style,’ I said, forcing myself to sound cheerful and excited.

‘Ach, no.’ She sighed. ‘I’m beat. What I’d really like is a big cuppa tea and piece a cake, sit down on a comfy chair and put ma feet up. I’m knackered.’

‘How can you be so tired?’ I asked, thinking only of the whiskey sour I’d been hoping for before ordering our lunch. ‘You’ve been on a boat for twelve days with nothing else to do but put your feet up. Aren’t you desperate to get out? Can’t I take you to my favourite restaurant and show you my New York?’

She gave me that twitchy smile of annoyance.

‘It’s exhausting trying to fit in where you don’t belong. What were you thinking of, sending me a first-class ticket? I didnae have the right clothes, didnae have the right words. They only realised that I was someone tae reckon with once I’d told them you were my sister. But even then they looked at me strangely, as if they thought the sister of Maisie McIntyre should be dressed better, should look after herself better. I ended up sitting on the deck or in my cabin knitting baby clothes for Carla. You know she’s expecting again.’

I pushed down any ungracious thoughts and smiled, putting my arm through hers and leading her to my car.

‘Well, I’ll show you New York tomorrow, when you’re rested. I’m sure my cook can rustle up some cake when we get back. I’ve just moved into a new apartment and your bedroom is all ready for you.’

She stopped suddenly and unwrapped my arm. ‘Your cook?’ And then she looked towards the front seat of the car. ‘Your chauffeur?’ she said in a high Edinburgh society voice, a sneer creeping in. She stepped back to inspect me.

‘Who is this person who’s pickin’ me up in her posh car, with her fur coat and high heels, who has a cook? You dinnae even sound like a Scot. Did you hide your accent, embarrassed by where you came from? Do you have a maid tae help dress you? Perhaps a secretary tae write yer letters for you?’ Her voice was harsh, her accent broad. ‘You better not have gone all high ’n’ mighty on me. Are you still capable of rolling your sleeves up and doing your own washing?’

Too easily I quipped back, ‘I havenae done ma own washing for the last ten years.’ And regretted it as soon as the words left my mouth.

turned to look at the ship. ‘Maebe I should just get back on there right now. You’re not the sister I once knew. She’d never have thought about embarrassing me with a fur coat and a chauffeur.’

I flushed at my thoughtlessness. I walked around to face my sister and took her by the shoulders.

‘Please stay,’ I said, doing my best to give her one of my old sisterly smiles. ‘You’re right. Working in the circles that I do, it’s easy to forget where I once came from. My days are filled with ladies who have never done the washing, never cooked an egg, wouldn’t know where to buy the milk from, couldn’t even begin to understand how to darn a sock. I spend most of my time pretending, flattering them with expensive silks and satins, feathers and brilliants, veils and trains. My hands have gone soft, my pillows are made from down and I buy a newspaper every day.’

She scoffed, turning her gaze wistfully back to the ship.

‘But I haven’t forgotten that my big sister looked after me, that she let me help Maw out with the sewing, let me make clothes for Ava and Carla. Because you did that, I was able to come here and start my own business, become a dressmaker, become a couturier.’

‘A what?’

‘A couturier. It’s just a posh name for a dressmaker,’ I explained hurriedly.

She wrinkled her nose at me, but hesitated. Before she could make up her mind, I took her arm and turned her towards the car. ‘Come on, let’s go home for that cup of tea and cake.’

‘Aye, that’s best, before you start talking about “circles” and “couturiers” again.’

That evening and the next morning exhausted me by rejecting all the food I offered, except cake, every drink except tea. She found fault with the way I’d furnished my apartment, the way her bed was made, the way the windows had been cleaned, the towels folded. Eventually, over breakfast, as she refused the toast and marmalade on offer, I lost my temper.

‘What do you want?’ I almost shouted.

Just as loudly she quipped back, ‘What’s wrong with a bowl of porridge?’

‘I haven’t touched porridge since the day I left my boarding house, it was grey and tasted of dishwater. I won’t have it in my home.’

And finally, smiled. ‘Didn’t Maw call you Fussy Maisie? You’d not eat sommit you didn’t like even if you were hungry. Glad to see you haven’t changed that much.’

At last, I’d found the sister whose company I craved.

‘I tell you what. Why don’t we walk over to the grocery store on our way to the garment factory? We can get you something you’d like; I’ll even get some porridge. Then we can make a stop at Macy’s on the way. You’re going to need some new clothes. You’ll be surprised how cold it is here in late March and that coat you were wearing yesterday won’t be warm enough, or that hat.’ This wasn’t necessarily true, but I wanted to make sure she had some clothes that meant she wouldn’t stand out so much, where perhaps she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable when surrounded by cashmeres, tweeds and beautifully draped jersey.