Page 33 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

She looked so tired, this young woman, with sallow skin, lank hair and the cuffs of her white shirtwaist frayed and greying. Up until that moment, I had never thought that I had a maternal bone in my body, or had any kind of protective, parental instinct, but just then, all I wanted to do was take her in my arms and give her a big, motherly hug. Maybe it was because I was heavily pregnant, maybe it was because she was the daughter of my dead best friend.

I suppressed the urge, knowing how awkward it would be, how embarrassment would fill the room. Instead, I smiled at her, my best, most patient smile and explained. ‘Every single person who works for me needs to be interested in the work that they do, needs to understand exactly what the customer wants, exactly why they’re doing it. If they’re just there for the money, for the food at lunchtime, for the free work suit, then I don’t want them. They need to love the work that they do.’

Annina frowned and for the first time that evening seemed to soften. ‘I want to have a job that I love,’ she said quietly.

‘Food’s ready,’ Francesca announced and plonked a large pan on the table. There was a scurrying as the children brought plates and cutlery, glasses and a jug full of water.

For the next hour I was able to indulge in home-cooked food just like Rosa’s, I could sit quietly and watch my sister relax and enjoy the family atmosphere that had been missing during those awkward dinners after the fire: the chatter of the children, Roberto gently teasing his father, the feeling of satisfaction after a well-loved meal, and finally, at Matteo’s opening up and his ceremonial bringing out of the limoncello. I again saw my sister as I remembered her: without anger, bitterness or rancour, a tenderness in her face, her eyes twinkling. She had once again become the girl I’d shared a bed with, nursed our mother with, shared our teenage hopes together with.

‘Can I show you something?’ Annina asked once we’d cleared the table and helped with the washing and drying up. She disappeared into the tiny bedroom and returned with a folded piece of knitting. She opened it out and spread it on the now cleared table. It was a shawl, similar to those that Rosa used to make.

‘I’ve been teaching myself to knit the same way she did, copying Mamma. Now I’ve started to make my own designs. This is one of my own.’

I fingered the shawl, very similar to Rosa’s, the quality of the knitting not as good, the designs not as refined as her mother’s. However, they were still different from anything that could be seen in the shops or in the fashion houses.

‘Do you have any others you can show me?’ I asked.

She brought out three more. ‘This is all I have. I sell everything I make. But I don’t have much time to make them, what with the job at the factory.’ She pulled a dejected face.

I looked at all the shawls carefully, inspecting each design, noting the colours and patterns. ‘These have real promise.’

She looked at me pleadingly. ‘Please can I come and work for you.’

I glanced at Matteo. Annina turned to her father.

‘Please, Papà. Please let me go and work for Maisie. I’m old enough to make my own decisions now and this is what I want to do.’

There was silence around the table then Matteo suddenly started talking very fast in Italian, he and Annina having a disagreement, their voices getting louder as and I watched with a complete lack of comprehension.

Eventually Matteo turned to me, his face a conflict of emotions. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s best she stays where she is. It’s better money than most of the factories. We need that money.’

‘Annina can come and work for me,’ I said quietly. I wouldn’t normally have gone against Matteo, but I could no longer stand the thought of Annina in one of those dangerous garment factories.

‘But…’ he tried to interject, but went over to him and sat beside him.

‘She’ll be well looked after. I went tae see her studio today and everybody who works there is given good wages, they get fed at lunchtime and they’re careful about where all the fabric is stored, and where all the fire exits are. Those girls that work in her studio are looked after better’n any I’ve seen before. They get uniforms, they get breaks. If you ask me they get mollycoddled, but I expect that’s what you’d like tae see.’ She took his arm, as if they were about to go out for a walk together. ‘I think that your Annina’s maw would be proud tae have her working with our Maisie. I think you might be too.’ She searched his face for some chink in his armour and as soon as she saw his eyes soften, she said, ‘Aye, you should be proud of your girl, she’s got some fight in her. You know, I’d like tae to work in her studio, but if it came tae it, I think Annina would be more suited.’

caught my eye and held my gaze.

‘Can I, Papà?’ Annina asked. ‘Please?’

Matteo stared at his daughter, a tear slowly falling down his left cheek. He nodded. ‘ Sì. ’

Annina shrieked and hugged her father tight. ‘ Grazie mille, grazie mille. ’

As I watched them I realised how exhausted I was. I needed to leave. I hugged Matteo and Roberto. I took Annina’s hands and looked her straight in the eye.

‘You come and work for me, but I won’t be able to be your friend. It won’t be like working with the girls in the factory. I’ll need your total commitment and loyalty. You understand?’ I didn’t want to see the haughty Annina we’d met at the beginning of the evening, I wanted to see Rosa’s daughter, who would work hard and understand colour and the principles of design.

‘Come on, . We need to go.’

We climbed into a cab and as soon as the door was shut she said, ‘It’s no wonder you don’t have any friends. That family, who had their world devastated by the loss of their mother, the woman who looked after you when you first arrived here, who fed you and mothered you, the family that just welcomed you when they hardly have anything, and you treated their daughter as if she was just another job applicant. You should have taken her on years ago.’

‘But I didn’t want to go against her father,’ I pleaded.

‘Oh dinnae give me that. You just didnae want tae get involved. If he was so worried about the safety at your studio you could have taken him there yourself and shown him around. You could have persuaded him, I didnae think there was a person on this earth you couldn’t persuade.’ She tsked. ‘You just didnae try. You didnae bother.’

She huffed at me, glaring, breathing hard. ‘Not one single friend, I’d be certain of that.’ She sighed and, with her bag held tightly to her chest, she turned her head to look out onto the street. ‘Just work and ambition. That’s all you’ve ever had. Nothing has changed. Nothing at all. And what about Aileen? You did the same to her. She’s family, for goodness’ sake!’

I wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her, tell her she had no idea what she was talking about, did she have a clue about how guilty I felt about Rosa, about leaving in Edinburgh, about…? But I was suddenly overwhelmed by a pain in my lower back followed by the sensation of wetness in my underskirts.

As soon as I was able to catch my breath I said, ‘, I think the baby is coming.’

The day Jessica was born should have been joyous, heartwarming and a blessed relief from the discomforts of pregnancy. But she took three days to arrive, eventually being hauled out by an indifferent doctor, she and I both exhausted, Jessica too weary to feed, me too shattered to care. At least a nurse would take her away and let me sleep whilst I was still in the hospital. At least, with the presence of those slightly disapproving nurses I could pretend at playing mother, I could hand her back when the sound of her angry mewling became too much.

During my pregnancy, in those rare moments of quiet, when I’d let myself think about life with a child, I’d found myself daydreaming that Tori’s offspring would receive the world with open arms, just as Tori had, that she’d greet her mother with her father’s subsuming smile that had been the undoing of me. But she was born with a frown on her face and screamed for what seemed like months. I’d feed her, wind her, change her, but still she’d scream. I’d pick her up, walk around the apartment, sing a song, dance, make faces. I’d put her in the pram and walk miles through the city. Rarely did she stop her continual yammering, incessant shrieking that only got louder as she got older.

If I wanted something, I’d set my mind as to how to achieve it. If I wanted to work with a particular woman, I would woo them with my skill and lure them with my designs.

But I didn’t know how to make my daughter love me, nor did I know how to love her back. I could dress her and make everyone’s heads turn. But she wanted love, not beautiful clothes. Every day I’d wake up determined to try again, determined to be a better mother, but, against all my wishes, I couldn’t help but find motherhood agonisingly boring. The daily grind of feeding, washing, clothing, feeding, washing, clothing was monotonous, was grey and dull. There was nothing fun about motherhood, I found very little colour in it.

I’d wondered if the love I’d had for Tori could be rekindled by his daughter, if I would revel in the time I was able to spend with her, look into those eyes that were Tori’s, see some hint of him in her smile. But I could see nothing of the man I had loved, not in those early days, in those days which are supposed to be the most important. All I could see was a red, scrunched-up face, the soaking nappy, the kicking legs. She couldn’t possibly be Torridon Smyth’s child. Surely she would have had his calm temperament, his openness, his love of a hot bath. No, she was angry, she shut me out, beat me with her tiny fists and hated being bathed.

The only person who was able to give her any consolation was : the natural mother with infinite patience; , the warm and cosy mother-figure, who smelled of warm milk and scones and who could envelop my child in her expansive bosom, giving her the comfort that I was incapable of. I should have been jealous of her as she consoled Jessica, changed her, played with her and took over the feeding after I gave up, failing with both breast and bottle. I should have been upset when took Jessica out for walks in Central Park and came back glowing with what seemed like a real parental love and pride. But I was secretly relieved, oh so thankful that someone was able to keep Jessica amused when I couldn’t, delighted that I didn’t have to deal with the day-to-day monotony of child rearing, so pleased to be able to wear a dress that didn’t get ruined by baby sick.

If I’d been a mother in the Lower East Side, I’d have been surrounded by a myriad of other mothers in the same position as me, who understood the loneliness of motherhood. I’d have been part of a community who looked after each other. If Rosa had been my neighbour I’d have visited her for company, for advice, for five minutes’ sleep; she’d have teased me for my lack of resilience whilst feeding me good food to nourish my soul, she’d have told me how difficult Annina was as a baby, how Roberto was so sweet but never slept, she’d have made me feel better about finding motherhood so difficult. The only community I had was at Maison McIntyre and I was convinced that it was no place for a child. Of course, if I’d have allowed it, even considered it, those women would have jumped at the chance of mothering my child, they would have gladly welcomed her into our assortment of brilliant seamstresses, they would have loved her in the way I found so difficult. But I wouldn’t even contemplate it. No baby should be seen anywhere near those precious fabrics, tiny brilliants and sharp needles. My customers didn’t want to walk into the haven that was Maison McIntyre to be confronted by the cry of a baby in the background. Couturiers demand perfection and children do not engender the type of excellence and commitment to work that we require, causing havoc in a world that compels us to be neat, tidy and immaculate in everything that we do.

Six weeks after Jessica’s early arrival announced, ‘I need tae go home. I’ve done my job, helped you with the first few weeks, let you heal after that long labour, but now it’s time for you tae spend time with her. You’re her maw after all.’ She tickled Jessica under the chin, gave a little giggle and blew on her naked tummy.

‘No, . I need you here, please, can you stay?’ Trying to keep any hint of panic out of my voice.

‘I need tae get back to Ava and Carla and help with their bairns. I was hoping you could book me on a ship in the next week or so. Can you do that?’

‘No.’ I went right up to her and took both the tops of her arms, almost shaking her. ‘I can’t do this without you. Look, I’ll pay you and then, well… when Jessica’s a bit older, when she’s more manageable, then you can go home. But not now. Can’t you see I have work to do, important work and I can’t have her screaming at me all day long, I have to concentrate, I have to come up with the next collection over the next three weeks. This is a crucial time for me, I…’

Carefully took my hands off her arms and then took my hands in her own. ‘My baby sister,’ she said patiently, as if I was a small child, looking at me directly. ‘I will not be your nanny, I will not work for you paid or unpaid, I will not let you ignore your daughter, you need tae be the woman that you say you are and take on the job of being a mother. Those women can live without a new dress this season, they’ll survive. But Jessica will not survive without her mother. That poor bairn has tae grow up without a father, don’t let her be left behind by her maw.’

She turned and efficiently put a clean nappy on Jessica whilst she continued to speak. ‘If you won’t book ma ticket on the next boat tae Glasgow, then I’ll go tae your studio and ask Oti tae do it for me.’ She said this in her sweetest singsong voice, all the time looking at Jessica, teasing her and tickling her. ‘I’m sure you’d rather I didnae do that, so why don’t you just get on down tae the booking office and pay for a third-class ticket. None of that first-class nonsense, I just want tae be , not some la-di-da lady who dresses for dinner.’

At this she picked up the now re-dressed Jessica and handed her over to me. ‘Now, you best get her into that pram and take her off tae the park, I’m sure she’s sleepy and could do with the rest and some fresh air. I’m off to finish knitting those booties I’ve been making for her, need tae get them done before I go.’

The first work that must be done on creating a collection is seeing all the regular textile manufacturers and choosing the fabrics for that season. This is no small job, spread over several days, involving appointment after appointment with their travelling salesmen arriving with suitcases full of tweeds, woollens, coat fabrics, velours and duvetyns, followed by velvets and furs, then the silks and satins, taffetas and organzas, gauzes and crepes. As I inspect the bolts of fabric, designs begin to whirl around inside my head, whispering to me which tweed is best or which taffeta is the most eye-catching. Then we have to consider the embellishments, the lace samples, the new buttons, the latest belts and updated beads and sequins, the newly made fabric flowers.

Keeping all of these fabrics, details and designs in my head as we spend the days working through all the samples, noting which ones we want, changing an order because we’ve just found a silk in a more subtle pink, or a tweed with a more prominent purple thread running through it, becomes complicated and requires our full attention. So, when I arrived in the main workroom, ready for our first appointment to look through the textiles, with Jessica fast asleep in the pram, Oti rolled her eyes and shook her head at me.

‘Oh, my,’ she said. ‘This is going to be an interesting day.’ She looked down into the pram. ‘She’s a cutie.’

‘That’s because she’s asleep; you might not think so when she opens her mouth.’ I put my hand in and stroked her cheek. Jessica snuffled and wriggled a little in her pram, the momentary trace of a smile crossing her lips. Just for a second I felt a tiny stab of love for this surprisingly quiet daughter of mine.

‘Shall I get Yulia?’ Oti asked. Yulia, still working for us after those very first days in the studio, was now a grandmother. She still regaled the girls with stories of her ever-growing family, whose antics constantly entertained the workroom staff.

‘Yes, maybe that would be a good idea.’

Oti left and I pushed the pram into the elevator and took Jessica silently into my studio on the first floor, shutting the door behind me. I put the pram beside the large picture window that looked over the workrooms and stood there watching: the long rows of tables where dresses were carefully laid out, in various stages of construction, being hand-sewn; sleeves being attached, hems being finished, pleats being neatly folded. I could hear the gentle hum of voices, sewing machines, of scissors cutting fabric. I felt safe, cocooned. In this room I could think what I liked, and nobody would know. I could look at my daughter and search desperately for something of her father: the crooked smile he’d crack after he’d told a joke, the flick of his wrist after he’d lit a cigar, the glint of red in his sandy hair and the little sigh he’d make when he lay down in bed. But she had none of these mannerisms or characteristics. She was resolutely serious, dark haired, and stiff wristed. I could see nothing of him in her, no hint that she was his child. I could sit in my studio and let myself feel the weight of all my conflicted mind – how some days I wanted to hold her close and others I wished I could forget she existed. Nobody would know. I could ask myself if Tori hadn’t been killed, would I have kept the baby? And acknowledge with a piercing clarity that the answer was no . I would have found a discreet doctor, paid whatever it took to keep my life intact. That thought should have shamed me, but in this room, where I was protected from the outside world, I could let that shame exist alongside everything else: my grief, my well-hidden love, my fear of being a bad mother and my long-held guilt.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, tired of the struggle that had been going on inside me since Jessica had arrived, tired of trying to be someone I was not. As I did this a terrible idea began to form in my head, an idea that both seemed appalling and the answer to my problems.

What if I asked to take Jessica with her, back to Scotland? What if I gave her enough money so that she could live comfortably and bring her up in a manner that would be consistent, homely, and full of love? wouldn’t have to contend with her difficult sister, she could bring Jessica up in the way she wanted, but she’d never have to worry about affording it, she’d never have to worry about money again. She’d be able to move to somewhere more suitable, somewhere bigger and newer, warmer and cleaner. She could even find somewhere that Ava or Carla could move in with her too. Jessica would have a family, have cousins to grow up with, be allowed to get dirty and make noise. She’d be loved.

I could picture the scene in my head. Saying goodbye to on the ship, tucking her bags away beside her bunk and just as the warning was given for visitors to leave, I’d hand Jessica to her. She’d give her the usual cuddle, a raspberry on the tummy, an Eskimo kiss, and then she’d try to hand her back, perhaps a slight tear in her eye. But I’d say, gently, ‘No. You’re better at this than I am, you can give her a better life than I can.’ I could clearly see the tears and the pleading, perhaps a bit of anger, but I’d refuse and extricate myself, running down the crowded corridor and down the gangplank before could even bundle up Jessica and get up off her bunk. It seemed so easy, such a neat solution.

But even as these thoughts filled my head, they frightened me – these thoughts of abandoning my child, of making her an orphan. Looking back into the pram at that now angelic face, pink and sweet, breathing gently, for once sleeping soundly, could I really do that to Jessica, to ? Wouldn’t it make all three of us happier in the long run?

Oti came into the studio and shut the door behind her. ‘Yulia will come over shortly, she’s just finishing up with a customer. Hell, you look awful. What’s up with you?’ She sat beside me on the sofa, concern on her face.

With my head in my hands I said, ‘I’ve made the most terrible mistake. I shouldn’t have done this. I can’t be a mother. I’m just no good at it.’ And then I told her of the thoughts I’d just had, the plan that had formed in my head, the plan that seemed so rational and sensible, that would solve everybody’s problems.

‘Oh, now you cannot go on thinking like that. You’ve just got the baby blues, you aren’t thinking straight,’ Oti said. ‘You’ll work this out, this is just another of those Maisie McIntyre conundrums.’

‘No. This isn’t just some passing feeling that will wear off next week, I’m sure of that. I don’t feel that I can be trusted around that child. She doesn’t like me and, to be honest, I’m not sure I like her.’ I couldn’t look at Oti, knowing that my words would be shocking, would probably turn her away from me, make her look at me in a different light. I could feel her intent stare, but I kept my head in my hands, looking at the pattern of the wooden grain in the floor.

‘Audrey felt the same way about Laura. It near killed her for a while. That girl hadn’t a clue. She cried and cried, couldn’t hardly get out of her bed, telling me and Joseph that she didn’t want the baby, that she wanted her to be taken away. But she made it, in the end, and so will you.’

Finally, she stood up. ‘But I wonder if this calls for a break. For you to go away and live a different life.’ She walked over to my desk as I sat up, surprised by her words. I couldn’t go away; I had a business to run.

‘This arrived yesterday and I haven’t had the chance to speak to you about it.’ She opened the top drawer of my desk and pulled out an envelope.

‘This came from Samuel Goldwyn Productions.’ She pulled the letter out of the envelope and brought it to me. ‘They’re asking if you’d like to head up Costume Design and re-organise the wardrobe department. You could start immediately, pending salary negotiations.’

Slowly I took the letter and read it. Costume design in film had become an important business. As the Depression continued, audiences were looking for escapism and Hollywood delivered that in spades. Extravagant films such a Palmy Days and The Kid from Spain had romantic sets, lavish costumes and fairy-tale endings, all for twenty-five cents a go. The big movie theatres on 42nd Street, like the Roxy and the Paramount, were packed during several showings a day, entertaining thousands of people.

But I would be following in the footsteps of Coco Chanel.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Oti said as if reading my mind. ‘You know the bad press that woman’s had. They’re gonna be relieved to have you there. Her style is too muted for Hollywood, her demands too much. I heard they parted ways without much love lost.’

I re-read the letter. Mr Samuel Goldwyn was giving me the opportunity to move to Hollywood and get away from the feeling of claustrophobia that was engulfing me. New York had become nothing but an enormous construction site, filled with the noise of jackhammers, steam-shovels and blasting crews as they built more skyscrapers, public projects and the new subway system. The place was being torn down and built back up again, only bigger and higher, the traffic on the streets becoming more and more congested as everyone bought their own automobile. I craved peace and anonymity, retreating to my fabric-filled office, my apartment no longer being the haven it had once been. The letter that I was holding in my hands was giving me the opportunity to stretch again, to extend my range and see another side of life.

Since I’d arrived in New York, twenty-three years previously, I had rarely left the city. I’d loved it too much to want to leave. I’d never felt the need to take time away from my work, to go and walk the hills, sit in the sun or soak up another culture. I had everything I needed in this busy, crowded, noisy town. But now the idea of a different climate, different people, different work was appealing.

But what about Jessica?

‘Jessica will like the climate better there, it’ll be quieter, she’ll be calmer. You’ll be able to have a house with a garden, she can play on the grass, she’ll be able to breathe the fresh air, not this city of dust and car fumes.’ Oti again seeming to read my mind.

‘But what about Maison McIntyre? I’d be too far away.’

‘I think we could manage. If you came back twice a year, at the time when we see the fabric suppliers and we work on the designs – so, say you come back for three to four weeks every April and October. I know how to do this; I’ve been putting these collections together for as long as you have. I can do all the fittings with the models, I know what you want, I know how you think. If you’re happy leaving me in charge, we can make this work.’

I stood up and walked over to the picture window, again looking at the busy women in the workroom below, the scene I looked at every day, that made me feel safe and secure, just like the rainbow-coloured reels of thread that I still kept in a cupboard in my apartment.

Would a change of scenery, change of lifestyle give me the time and patience to become a better mother and bring me back to a more instinctive way of designing, less rushed and more natural? Oti knew every part of the couture business, I knew she could run it without me.

‘,’ I said that night at the supper table. ‘I wondered if you’d consider staying on a little longer. I’ve got to start working on designing up the new collection and will be busy for the next two to three weeks, depending on how things go but then…’

put down her knife and fork and took a deep breath.

‘Before you start, please, hear me out. You might be interested.’ I put my hand on my heart. ‘I’ve been offered a job in Hollywood, to design for one of the studios. I think we should go. We’d move to a house, there’d be a garden, we’d be near the sea, it’s much warmer over there and I think I’d be able to spend more time with Jessica. But I need your help getting us settled in, and helping me learn how to be a mother.’ I tried my best to keep myself from pleading, but whilst I spoke my eyes began to prick and I couldn’t keep a wobble out of my voice. ‘Once I’ve found someone who’d be good with Jessica,’ I sniffed, ‘then, if you wanted to, you could go home.’

She opened her mouth but no words came out. It was like a fish that has just been landed, floundering for air, a confused frown, her mouth opening and shutting.

‘They’ve signed stars like Anna Sten and Eddie Cantor, and they’ve made some of the biggest musicals in the last year. I’m sure you could come and visit me at work, perhaps take a tour around the studio, maybe even work in the wardrobe department if you wanted to stay. Can you imagine? You might be able to dress some of the stars.’

began to redden, to blink furiously.

‘, are you all right?’ I said, leaning towards her, touching her arm. A tear slowly fell down her cheek.

‘Aye,’ she eventually said, wiping her nose on her sleeve. ‘Aye, I’m all right.’ She sniffed loudly and wiped both her hands on her upper thighs. ‘Aye,’ she repeated. Sniffing again she said, ‘I want tae go home, but…’ She smiled lopsidedly at me. ‘I’d like tae go and see Hollywood.’ And then she burst into tears.

‘, what on earth is the matter? You shouldn’t go if the idea of it upsets you. I just thought that you might like to see what it’s like.’

‘Ach, ye nugget,’ she laughed. ‘You know I love the pictures. I’ve always wanted tae go and see where they are made and see the life those film stars live. But I never thought… no, I never thought…’ She shook her head. ‘I canna say no tae that. Carla’s gonna have tae wait. Her bairn will survive a few more weeks without her gran.’