Page 40 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue
Joan’s stories always made everyone laugh, would always suck out any bad air in the room. At twenty-one, she revelled in the freedom of volunteering for the WVS.
‘Best uniform a girl could have,’ she’d declared her first day in the service. ‘I got two new suits, blouses and an overcoat, I’ve never had such good quality clothes, designed by none other than Mr Digby Morton himself! And look at these shoes; I’ve never owned a pair of shoes that didn’t belong to someone else beforehand. When I put these on I knew that I was the only person to have ever worn them. God they hurt my feet for three weeks, but I didn’t care, they were brand new!’
‘Joan, I’ve left several pairs of trousers for you to make up at your usual machine,’ I said. ‘Mrs Elliot, can you take them with you this evening?’
‘Yes, dear, of course I can,’ she roared from her machine. ‘Oh, hell and damnation, this fabric’s too slippery for me. Can someone come and help me get out of this jam?’
Margaret, one of the four land girls billeted with Jessica and me, went to her rescue.
And finally, there was Maura.
‘You said you might have some buttons for me.’ She’d quietly sidled over to my side, a little glimmer of excitement in her eyes.
‘Let me see,’ I said, riffling through an old carpet bag filled with threads, buttons and as many embellishments as I could bring from home. These items were now highly sought after and mostly used to help disguise rips, tears and stains on old clothes that needed a bit of love and cheer.
‘Here you go. I found these at home,’ I lied, omitting to tell her that I’d asked a local potter to make them especially. ‘The deep, shiny black will stand out against the red.’ I handed over the eight oval buttons, two for each cuff and four for the front opening.
She held one of the buttons against her mother’s old red coat that had needed considerable taking in, inspecting it as if it were a piece of gold. A shy smile spread across her face. ‘Thank you.’
Since that day when her father had declared that she was my sister, I’d found myself keeping a close eye on her, nurturing her sewing skills, giving her more responsibility at work, trying to get a little closer. Even though her father had left and she was free of his influence, there was something fragile about her that I couldn’t put my finger on. I often wondered whether I should tell her about our father, that I should come clean about who he was, but I was wary about doing any further damage – she so rarely opened up, almost never joining in the girlish, joking conversation, never giving away any detail of her life outside of the mill. I brooded over what it was that kept her so buttoned up. Her brother, Jack, who used to work in the linking room, had left at the beginning of the war and hadn’t been seen since, captured in Dunkirk, now languishing in discomfort somewhere in Germany. But after four years of working in the mill and these evenings that cushioned us for a few brief hours from the hardships outside, she had changed, become more confident and I didn’t want her to lose that. In the mill she was one of the more competent workers; I’d done my best to give her the more interesting projects, begun to ask her opinion on new lines that we were trying out, brought her in on future planning meetings. In the evening Make Do and Mend sessions she’d become a skilful seamstress with a good eye for line and shape and I noticed that whenever she produced a finished garment for one of the evacuee children, she’d stand up straighter, her eyes would sparkle, and her voice would have more strength.
‘You going to wear that to the dance next Friday?’ asked Fanny, another of the girls who worked in the mill. ‘You’d make a grand entrance in that, that’d be sure,’ she said, envy running through her voice.
Maura blushed. ‘Wouldn’t that be a thing,’ she said wistfully, but then looked down and quickly picked up the buttons and went back to her seat, threaded a needle and purposefully concentrated on her work.
Fanny, a robust, big-chested girl, rolled her eyes at me and mouthed the words ‘Her father,’ before going back to her own sewing.
Her words brought me up sharply. I frowned at Fanny.
‘Her father?’ I mouthed back at her.
She nodded with a grimace.
I retreated to my sewing machine, my heart slamming against my chest, my colour rising as I thought what to do. Les Lewis was back? Oh, why hadn’t I told Maura about him? I put my hands on the sewing machine, steadying myself. I had planned for this day, I was ready, wasn’t I? I quickly I made three pairs of shorts from a heavy curtain material Mrs Elliot had brought with her that evening, the rhythm of the machine soothing me, my plan ready and in place.
At the end of our two hours, all the women tidied up their work either giving any finished children’s garments over to Mrs Elliot or taking their unfinished projects home. Joan rushed to get out, shouting her goodbyes from the street whereas Maura lingered, her frame shrinking as she slowly and purposely folded her fabric, overly careful as she put needles back in their packet and absently winding any loose thread onto its reel, as if she was trying to slow time down.
Suddenly the door burst open and in ran Jessica.
‘Mummy!’ She gave me a perfunctory hug before rushing over to Maura causing the physical shrinking to temporarily reprieve.
‘Little Jessica,’ Maura breathed, ‘where did you come from?’
Jessica giggled. ‘You know where. I’ve been at my friend Jenny’s. I go there every Tuesday after school and have my tea. She’s a much better cook than Mummy or Mrs Shaw.’ She said this, rubbing her tummy. ‘I love Tuesdays.’
Jessica, now nine years old, had lost her Californian accent and now had a slight Borders burr, making her seem softer, a little more serious. A life spent outdoors had transformed her into a vivacious, confident girl who was very happy in her own company, always willing to learn, albeit occasionally a bit of a know-it-all, always willing to tell me in great detail about the bugs, birds and animals she’d discovered at home or school.
Watching Maura with my daughter, I could see a hint at family resemblance: the slightly snub nose, the rounded jaw, the furrow in her brow. Maura’s face would light up in the same manner as Netta’s when in the company of children, taking away the darkness in her eyes.
‘I’m sure Jenny’s mother is very happy to feed you when we send you over with a dozen eggs every week, whatever’s available from the garden and even some of that sugar that Aidan included in his latest food parcel,’ I teased.
‘Oh, Mummy,’ she shrieked with delight, ‘she made a cake! It was soooo delicious.’ Her lips pursed as if she was whistling, lingering on the long ‘o’. ‘A Victoria sponge with just a smidge of raspberry jam. I could have eaten it all. Can we go home for supper now? I’m starving.’
When Jessica first smiled at me in those early days of Hollywood, it brought her father to me so strongly it caused a deep physical pain that took my breath away. Over time, she’d grown into the image of her father: the way her blue eyes flashed and twinkled with amusement, the little twist of her head, a mannerism you would have thought could only have been instilled by the presence of the man himself. That sharp pain had, slowly, turned into light tendrils, like an indigestion that crept along my chest. One day, as I received another hug from my daughter, her laughter bubbling against my shoulder, I realised that the constant background pain had vanished, having been replaced by a fierce love for this small child who astounded me each day with her ability to see beauty in our increasingly gloomy world. She taught me how to see the detail in the muted colours of the wildlife in our garden: the neat, scaly pale fringes on the tail feathers of the drab female pheasant, the shimmering purple and blue chest feathers of the black pheasant that reminded me of the shimmer of that peacock-blue material I stole from Jenners. She showed me that there can be flashes of colour and beauty in a world of camouflage.
On good weather days, Jessica and I would cycle into Hawick – petrol rationing dictating that we couldn’t use the car every day. But on Tuesdays and Thursdays we always drove into town. I’d bring any fabrics, threads, buttons and embellishments needed for the Make Do and Mend session, we’d bring in food for Jenny’s family and I could also give a lift to Maura, who lived on our route to the mill.
‘Ready to go, Maura?’ I asked, trying to keep a facade of normality as I watched her shrink, a hang-dog expression enveloping her.
The journey to Maura’s house was less than five minutes. The once shabby, two-up, two-down terrace on the edge of the town had been slowly improved over the four years since Maura’s father – my father – had left. She’d painted the door, replaced the putty in the leaking windows, put new curtains in the front room and dug up the overgrown front garden and planted it with vegetables.
‘Thanks for the lift,’ Maura said.
But just as she went to open the car door I said, ‘I need to tell you something, something I should have told you ages ago.’ Why hadn’t I told Maura before, why didn’t I tell her the night her father left? My heart was racing, I didn’t want to be here, I wanted to run away and not have to face this… what was this? I turned the light on inside the car.
‘We’re sisters. Your father is my father.’
She looked at me with disbelief, confusion knitted across her brow, the yellow light giving her face an eerie quality.
‘I have no recollection of him, he left when I was very young. But I think he used to beat my mother and I think he used to beat you.’ She blinked but said nothing. ‘I don’t want that to happen again. He’s come back because he wants money from me. He left my mother because he’d stolen money from a gang of men who he should never have stolen from. The kind of men who break your legs if you don’t do as they ask.’
She swallowed. ‘How do you know this?’
‘After our father left I made some discreet enquiries. He’s done a good job of keeping low but it seems that perhaps my queries have stirred up some long-held bad feeling. And’ – I winced – ‘I may have made a phone call just before we left this evening.’
She frowned. ‘How do you know people like this? You’re a couturier, a factory owner. You don’t mix with those kinds of people.’
She was right. How had I ended up mixing with thieves and fraudsters? It was simple – Aidan. The man who somehow knew every corner, every level of life, who knew where to find out every single piece of information needed.
‘You don’t want to know.’ I sighed. ‘But we need to get you inside, get your bags packed and you’re coming to stay for a few days. We need you out of harm’s way.’ I was beginning to shake.
‘Mummy,’ came a quiet voice from the back of the car. ‘Are some nasty men coming?’
My stomach heaved. I had almost forgotten that Jessica was in the back of the car, she’d been so still and quiet. I rubbed my face, ran my hands through my hair and took a deep breath, turning around to look at her properly.
‘Yes. So we’re going to help Maura pack her bags in double quick time and she’s going to come and stay for a while. While you pack, I’ll talk to her father, make sure he understands that he needs to leave.’
Her eyes were wide, her face pale. ‘Is he my grandfather?’
My too sharp, intelligent daughter. What was I doing involving this innocent girl in all of this… this sordid affair?
‘Sort of.’ I picked up her hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t worry. We’re going to run into the house, pick up what’s needed and as soon as you’ve packed the bags we’ll be out of there and back home in a flash. Okay? You ready?’ I gave her my best smile. ‘Ready, Maura?’
‘Ready,’ came the simultaneous answers.
Forty minutes later we arrived home. We lugged in Maura’s bags and were greeted by the smell of mutton stew.
‘I’m starving,’ said Jessica, running off to the kitchen.
‘Me too,’ I said. Mutton stew was not my favourite, but rationing was so severe that there was little that I now found unappetising.
‘Do you seriously think he’s gone for good?’ Maura asked, putting her bags at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Yes. I think so,’ I said as I walked into the drawing room and poured us both a glass of whisky.
‘Was it true about those men?’
‘Well…’ I drew out the word, then taking a sip of my drink. ‘Parts of it.’
She grinned. ‘Maisie McIntyre, always embellishing the truth.’
I laughed. ‘That’s exactly what Oti would have said.’ I looked at her with my head on one side. ‘Perhaps there’s a little bit of Oti’s strength in you. We could all do with a little bit of Oti.’
‘I’d like to meet her,’ Maura said quietly, sitting on the sofa.
‘Oh, you’d loooove Oti,’ Jessica declared at the top of her voice as she ran into the room. ‘She’s loud, she’s funny, she tells naughty jokes and she’s black.’ Jessica sat herself on Maura’s lap and took Maura’s face in both hands, staring into her eyes. ‘Have you ever met a black person?’ Her voice was full of earnestness. ‘Because I haven’t seen anyone like that since Oti was here for Netta’s wedding. Did you know I was only five years old then. And tomorrow is my birthday; I’m going to be ten. Double figures! Will you come to my party on Saturday?’ Jessica jumped off Maura’s lap and almost shivered with excitement. ‘Oh, oh, you can meet the rest of your new family. There’s Ava and her sister Carla, and then there’s all my cousins…’ She began listing them on her fingers.
For a moment Maura looked panicked, as if the idea of a new family was terrifying, as if she didn’t know what she’d do with them. But quite suddenly her face exploded into a smile, a huge, disarming smile, just like that of her good-looking brother, a smile I’d never seen on her before.
‘I will come to your party, and I can wear my new red coat.’
After dinner, after both Jessica and Maura had taken themselves to bed, I wasn’t ready to sleep. I was restless, my mind in a spin, running through the events of the evening, worrying whether my father would leave for good, whether he’d ever return, whether Maura was safe, Jessica… Netta. I sighed at the thought of Netta, who I still hadn’t told about the stolen money, who I was too afraid to tell. All her anger and bitterness had disappeared since her marriage to Eric and I didn’t want it to return, I didn’t want to lose her friendship again.
I poured myself another whisky and wandered through the house, unable to settle, until I came into the hallway and found a letter on the side table addressed to me.
When I saw the handwriting my heart almost stopped and I had to catch my breath. It was from Joseph. I hadn’t heard from Joseph since I’d left America, he had never written me a letter the whole time I’d known him. When I’d last seen him in New York, he’d been stiff and awkward with me, only talking work, hardly meeting my eye.
Carefully I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. His neat, precise handwriting matched the way he worked, just like his workshop, just like the way he did his embroidery.
27 127th St
Harlem
March 2nd 1943
Dear Maisie
Oti has been nagging at me to write, and you know when Oti gets into one of her moods, she won’t give up. I could say I’m writing this to save myself from her constant badgering, but that wouldn’t be entirely true. I feel it’s time I came clean and put aside my pride.
I couldn’t face you. You who led such a busy life, who were so successful, who had everything. Me, who was in a wheelchair, who was half the man you used to know, who had nothing to give you. But it’s been over twenty years and, as Oti says, I’ve got more to give than most, I’ve had a better life than most and it’s time for me to stop being, in Oti’s words, ‘a darned idiot’.
I put the letter down onto the side table and finished my glass of whisky and with a huge sigh I put my head in my hands.
* * *
I was in my office, Maura and I discussing schedules, deliveries, wool supplies, when Miss Brown burst in with the news.
‘It’s done. It’s over. The war in Europe is over!’ And as she said this I heard whoops and shouts and cries coming from the factory floor. She rushed over to me, this buttoned-up woman, always so strait-laced and sober, gave me a tight, meaningful hug, kissed Maura on the cheek and then blushed at her own boldness. ‘Oh, miss, this is so…’ She couldn’t find the words, she was shaking so hard.
Laughing, I said, ‘Tell everyone they must go home. We can’t possibly do any more work today, I’m sure they’re ready to celebrate.’ She ran out the room, but I shouted after her. ‘And tell them they can come in late tomorrow!’
Maura and I stared at each other. We should have been jumping up and down, dancing with joy, but instead I felt empty. We’d become so used to living a half-life, ragged and skinny, cold and colourless, it had become normal, and I could hardly remember what it felt like to eat too much, to indulge in an overly hot bath, or to eat a tooth-achingly sweet cake and feel a little sick afterwards.
I pulled a cigarette out of its packet and offered one to Maura and, leaning back in my seat, put my feet up on the table and closed my eyes. If Oti were here, she would have made me get up, would have given me that Jackson smile that I so missed, and insisted on me revelling with everyone else. I heard shrieks and hollers outside. Smiling, I thought of the mischief small boys would be getting up to that night, assuming their parents were too distracted to bother with punishing petty pranks, thinking cuffed ears would be missed out on in favour of a few beers and a good old sing-along.
‘I don’t think I can face all that jollity,’ I said, opening my eyes, seeing the water stain on the ceiling, ugly blotches that matched my mood.
‘Me neither,’ came the response.
We both sat smoking, saying nothing, listening to the distant sounds of joy. I wanted that elation to seep into me, but my body felt like a barrier, a brick wall shutting out the euphoria. I felt flat, willing myself to be happy, wishing myself into a positive frame of mind.
‘Tell you what. How about a drink? I think we’re allowed to, don’t you?’ Without waiting for an answer, I pulled open the bottom right drawer of my desk and brought out a bottle of whisky and two glass tumblers.
We chinked our glasses together. ‘To life without war. To a colourful life without war.’
The whisky slowly made its way down my throat. As it made its way downwards, it seemed to open an old door that had been sealed shut, and I began to see flickers of colour in my mind, hear whispers of rustling fabric, the chink of a heavy belt buckle, the titters of beads as they rolled across a table. Suddenly I felt as if I was glowing, fizzing, as if there was a bubbling under my skin. My face flushed; my heart began to beat too fast. I sat up.
‘Are you all right?’ Maura asked. ‘You look strange, you have this weird expression on your face. It seems as if you’re about to take off, like some aeroplane.’
I laughed, too hard, almost manically. I grabbed a pencil, some paper and began to sketch. ‘Can you pass me the coloured pencils?’ I asked, without looking up, drawing as fast as I could.
‘Which colour?’
‘All of them, I need them all,’ I said, like some greedy child. I could hardly breathe. I grabbed one colour after another, adding extra details with each one.
‘Look,’ I said, showing her the drawing, talking too fast. ‘A cardigan, much like the ones we used to produce. Made from cashmere, as soon as we can get hold of it. Crew neck, with buttons on the front. But the buttons will be made from Murano glass, each one will be a different colour. And the placket tape on the neck and button seams will be a vibrant, contrasting colour to the cashmere. So, if this cardigan is dark blue, the placket tape will be bright pink, or if the cashmere is cream, the tape will be turquoise, so you’ll get flashes of colour when you move.
‘The glass beads will be especially commissioned and then, perhaps, we can produce a range of Murano glass bead necklaces, earrings and maybe even rings and bracelets, that would all match the buttons on the cardigans. What do you think?’
Maura held her neck with one hand, her mouth slightly open.
‘I’ve never seen you like this.’
‘I haven’t been like this for years,’ I almost yelled. ‘This is what I should be like, this is how I am.’
‘Maisie McIntyre, let off her leash,’ she laughed, standing up. ‘This is a cause for celebration. I’ll go and get Jessica and I’ll meet you at my house for dinner. It’ll probably be Spam, but I’ll see if I can find some sugar and we can make a cake. By the time you’ve finished here the cake will be made and supper will be ready.’
She skipped out of my office whilst I poured myself another drink. It was as if someone had taken the lid off my coffin, had let the air in and given me life all over again. I smiled to myself, looking forward to dinner, to tomorrow, to the next few months.
But as I put the bottle down on my desk I suddenly felt dizzy and lost my balance, falling onto the side of the desk. Picking myself up, I was still lightheaded, a little nauseous, I couldn’t stand. Crawling to my chair, with a huge effort I pulled myself onto the seat, twisting to sit down. The room seemed to swerve at an angle, my legs felt unruly, the queasiness continued.