Page 4 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

If I’d been a good daughter, I’d have thought about my mother’s health, but I only thought about the haberdasher’s and how quickly I could get there. Going to Maurice Crawford’s on Cockburn Street was an errand I was always happy to run. There I could revel in the business of dressmaking; there I could discuss the merits of one fabric over another. But it wasn’t even Crawford’s that I wanted to see. If I could get my errand done quickly enough, I’d have a bit of time to run down the hill to…

‘And none o’ that disappearing off tae brood in Jenners. I’ve tae get Mrs Balfour’s dress finished tonight and I’d like tae get it finished before dinnertime. Mind you come straight home.’

‘Yes, ,’ I shouted as I ran out of the apartment.

The fabrics hall at Jenners Department Store seemed to have an invisible thread that pulled me towards it, drawing me away from the chaos of our cramped living conditions, to a place where I could stroll amongst women who took leisure time and luxurious fabrics, warm clothes and dry shoes for granted. I could scrutinise the way they held themselves and analyse the styles of dresses being worn, I could touch the fabrics on display, feel how they would move, whether they were crisp like a taffeta or soft like a georgette. This became my library, my technical school, where I could learn about the materials required to dress a woman, their advantages and their disadvantages. I would hear snippets of conversation regarding the best way to finish a dress, which fastenings worked best for which part of a garment, when to use chiffon or organza.

Working in the laundry, I’d be in a tunnel of hot steam, harsh gossip and monotony – life seemed so narrow and constricted. But standing in the fabrics hall at Jenners, the high, glass roof spreading an optimistic light over the room, my pinched and spare world opened up as if someone had unlocked a box full of opportunities. Fashion, I came to realise, wasn’t just about beautiful dresses, it was about self-respect, freedom of expression and power.

When I returned home that evening with paper bags full of ribbon, thread and needles, dinner was over, in a fitful sleep, and Ava and Carla were in bed. Netta was finishing the washing up, Duncan reading the newspaper.

‘Better wake our maw. She’s got that gown to finish and she’s nae happy wi’ you.’ Netta scowled. ‘Yet again, Maisie McIntyre’s dreams are more important than ’s work. Do you have any idea how we’d manage wi’out the money her dressmaking brings in?’

But Netta wasn’t going to ruin my afternoon of ideas. ‘It’s nae bother. I’ll finish the dress; I know what’s needed.’ I put the bags on the table, removed my coat, kept my voice calm. I didn’t want to antagonise my sister. ‘No need tae wake . And I’ll package it up and deliver it on my way tae work tomorrow.’

Her mouth opened. She was brewing for a fight but held her tongue.

I wiped down the table, dried it off and then pulled out the green ribbon I had just bought. I began to lay it out, cutting it into short strips and then making it into a lattice. Velvet has a nap to it so that when it’s placed in different directions, it looks almost as if it has two distinctive shades of the same colour. Quickly I made two lengths of green velvet ribbon lattice, four widths wide, long enough to create deep cuffs, looking like a discreet green checkerboard.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Netta leaned over me to look at the ribbon. ‘I thought just needed the ribbon tae edge the cuffs she’s already made?’ Her voice was full of disdain. ‘You’re not doing another of your Maisie McIntyre trimmings are you?’ She tutted. ‘That’ll put in a flap. Tha’s not what Mrs Balfour asked for.’

I closed my eyes, just for a moment. ‘I know. But I saw a gown today that was finished in a similar way, and I thought it would look good on this dress. Mrs Balfour disnae mind if we do things a bit differently, she likes tae look like she can afford a more expensive seamstress.’

Netta picked up a pot from the side of the sink, dried it with the tea towel and slung it into the cupboard under the sink. The pan crashed as Netta slammed the door shut. ‘Maisie McIntyre, always with a smart solution.’

The next morning, I was up early, tiptoeing around , leaving her to sleep, avoiding the chaos of breakfast, not wanting to face Netta’s criticism again.

That evening I came home to find a note to from Mrs Balfour.

Mrs McIntyre

I received your latest gown this morning. I was surprised at the changes, but I grant you, the dress is all the better for it.

Perhaps you could make yourself available next week. I’m in need of an outfit for my daughter’s wedding and I’d appreciate your opinion.

Yours

Mrs Balfour

‘Hen, I didnae know what she was talking about, but Netta told me what you did. She thinks you’re being too bold.’ stopped as she wheezed, putting her hand to her chest. She closed her eyes and took a few shallow breaths. ‘Tell me about the ribbon. I want tae know.’

As I explained about the checker-board cuffs, the lines creased around her eyes, her chuckle interrupted by a cough.

‘Ma Maisie.’ She patted my hand and closed her eyes again.

‘? Are you well?’ Our mother rarely showed affection. A nod of approval maybe, perhaps a discreet wink, occasionally a treat such as a penny bun or a piece of tablet, but almost never a spontaneous touch. No hugs, no linking arms on a walk, never a kiss goodnight.

‘Aye, I’m well.’ She sighed, patting my hand again. ‘Never bin better.’

‘, should you be seeing a doctor?’ I awkwardly kept my hand under hers, despite the cold emanating from it.

‘I dinnae need the doctor. What I need is ma Maisie to go an’ see Mrs Balfour. You take her on as your own customer; I’ve got too much else tae be doin’. Besides, she likes your strange Maisie McIntyre ways.’ She gave me a far-off, enigmatic smile. ‘I like your strange Maisie McIntyre ways too.’

Despite her protestations, ’s so-called cold never did go away and her breathlessness increased. To make sure she could rest, I took on more of her work. I’d get the sewing machine out once everyone had gone to bed, leaving to sleep on our makeshift bed, whilst I worked at the table late into the night. In that quiet time, I could be the Maisie I wanted to be. I could strip away the laundry girl, the chores and the babysitting and step into another world of colour and creativity.

Just a few weeks later, our maw died, in her sleep, aged forty-eight.

‘Weak heart,’ announced the undertaker in his monotone as he asked us what had happened. ‘Breathlessness, tiredness, swollen legs, all classic symptoms.’ It was almost as if he was pleased with his amateur diagnosis.

I watched the men take ’s body away, remove the spirit of our home, the machine that stitched us all together. Small hands fitted into mine, warm, pudgy fingers searching for the comfort I couldn’t find. I looked down at the girls.

‘I have tae get tae work. I’ll be late.’ My voice was like some kind of automaton, mechanical and inhuman. I handed Carla to her father and gave the fidgeting Ava back to her mother. ‘I need tae get dressed.’ I was still in my nightgown, my hair still in its nighttime braid. I picked my way over the empty bedclothes, the crate full of dirty washing, slipped behind the kitchen table, pulled my work dress from the cupboard and shut myself in Netta and Duncan’s bedroom. I pressed my forehead against the door, the walls seeming to draw closer with each breath. Outside, life crashed on – Ava knocked over her cup of water, Duncan’s sharp rebuke, Carla’s whine, Netta’s distracted scolding. But in here, where time stood still, I was caught between what was and what could be.

I left without clearing ’s bed, unable to touch the sheets that still held her shape. Outside on the street, the normality of life, the nonchalance of Edinburgh, felt like a hard slap. I walked fast, hoping the exercise would help untangle some of the tumult inside me, like a knotted ball of wool that becomes impossible to untie, the harder you try to ease the knot, the tighter it becomes.

The day after we buried my mother, I found myself sitting alone at ’s sewing machine. It was a Saturday afternoon and Netta and Duncan had taken the children out to Holyrood Park to escape the gloom of the apartment, to let the girls stretch away from the silent strictures of mourning conventions.

My mother’s sewing table sat in the corner of the main room, a sturdy table with thick legs and two wide drawers. The left-hand drawer held a haphazard jumble of pins, scissors, tailor’s chalk, those kinds of necessary tools required for dressmaking, but the right-hand drawer was filled with spool after spool of neatly stacked thread, reels arranged on their side in rainbow order. That kind of military orderliness made me feel safe and in control. Living in such cramped conditions, I would always need to be tidy, folding my clothes, straightening the cutlery, ensuring the chairs sat exactly square to the table. When I felt out of sorts or frustrated, opening the thread drawer would give me some strange kind of comfort – I’d run my fingers along each spool, letting them spin, enjoying the shuffle of the soft wood of the spool dragging against the harder, dark wood of the drawer.

would never again sit at this table, would never again thread this needle, or spin the hand wheel. My mother, who had taught me everything, who had sewn me together. Never again would I be able to watch her work – gathering, pleating, basting, stitching. Now it was me sitting at her table, knowing it was down to me to finish what she’d started.

There were three commissions, an evening dress, a mourning dress and a shirt that was almost complete. By now I knew my work was as good as my mother’s, maybe better, I could easily finish those garments.

The machine had already been fully threaded by , a pale-green thread matching the material of Mrs Robertson’s almost-finished cotton shirt. I fingered the thread, ran my hands along the central barrel of the machine, knowing she had only been doing the same thing a few days ago. The green fabric had the faint earthy smell of my mother, that smell that still lingered on my bedsheet. It felt out of place that this shirt, handled so intimately by my maw, my dead parent, would soon be worn by someone else.

I took a deep breath and sat up straight. All I had to do was sew the collar before attaching it to the main body of the garment, a simple job. As I got to work the hypnotic sound of the machine helped the disquiet in my head, the needle and thread doing their job, the way the sewing machine parts all moved together in harmony, the needle dipping up and down, the reel of thread fitfully spinning, the smooth motion of the material – these orchestrated movements took me away from the cramped rooms and the new uncertainty of life without my mother.

I made quick work of finishing the shirt, but the two dresses would have to wait until everyone had gone to bed. With a sigh, I unthreaded the machine and put the bobbin and spool into their correct places in the right-hand drawer of the table, gave the machine a quick polish and put its lid on. I was unused to the eerie quiet; there was little noise in the building, most families out making the most of the fine weather. I didn’t enjoy silence, inactivity always sending me into a melancholic downward spiral. With nothing else to do, I decided to tidy up the left-hand drawer. I pulled out the pins, needles, scissors, the thread hook, threw away some old scraps of material until I found ’s collection of fabric samples. These were in a handmade book that she would take to customers to encourage them to buy. As I took this out, I discovered a beautiful fabric envelope lying at the bottom of the drawer. I picked it up, frowning at the yellow silk taffeta that I didn’t recognise, at the red decorative frog and matching Chinese ball button. Carefully I undid the fastening and peered into the envelope. It was thick with five-pound notes.

Instinctively, I looked around to see if anyone had seen me. Of course, I was alone, nobody could see what I had found. Warily I pulled the notes out. They were crisp and unused, pristine and beautiful: blue and orange printed onto a yellow paper, intricate blue patterns on the left-hand side, the detail on the royal coat of arms breathtaking. As I admired the elaborate patterns, I slowly counted the sheaf of paper.

Thirty notes.

One hundred and fifty pounds.

I had never seen so much money, had rarely even seen paper notes, never even touched one. My heart was thumping and my hands clammy. I couldn’t even imagine what this amount of money would buy. A horse? A house? Would we even be able to spend it? The shops we frequented only seemed to take coins. My fingers stroked the virgin notes, admiring the illusory quality, worrying that the sweat on my hands would make them vanish.

Where had this money come from? How did it come to be inside ’s sewing drawer? She could never have earned that kind of money. Surely Netta knew nothing of it; she never went near the sewing table. There was no letter of explanation to help solve the mystery.

My heart was now beating so fast I could hardly breathe. I got up, just to be able to do something, to force air into my lungs, and began pacing up and down the tiny room.

This money was for our family, to make our lives better.

Turn.

Perhaps I could keep it all for myself.

Turn.

Should I tell Netta?

Turn.

But if I didn’t, she’d never know. I could just leave and start my own life somewhere else.

Turn.

But if had left it for us, she’d know what I’d done. Somehow, she’d know. I came to a halt. What should I do?

Standing in the middle of the room I heard footsteps on the stairs, voices: Netta and Duncan returning with the girls. Hurriedly, I gathered up the notes and, without thought, rolled them up and put them in my dress pocket, shoved the fabric envelope into the drawer and looked up to see Ava burst into the room.

‘Auntie Maisie. Auntie Maisie. Look what we made.’ A long daisy chain hung from her grubby index finger.

With one hand I took the daisies, crowing my delight, with the other I carefully removed Mrs Robertson’s green shirt before Ava’s other grimy hand could lean on it. Putting the shirt on top of the sewing machine I said, ‘Well, hen, we must make a crown.’ Swiftly, I turned the chain into a loop, making a hole in the end stem and hooking the daisy head from the other end into it.