Page 44 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

The yellow cab drops Mandy and I close to the Bethesda Fountain, and I ask her if she can give me half an hour by myself. Mandy is always somewhere close by, keeping an eye out for me, making sure I’ve not fallen, doing her best to let me hide my inabilities. She’s nervous about leaving me alone, but I think she realises there’s something I must do.

Mandy helps me down the stairs to the fountain and then leaves me to walk along the shore of the Lake until I find the bench. I must look like one of those old widows that I used to watch. I’m hunched over my stick, in my new dark-blue silk suit, a straight, mid-calf skirt and single-breasted, straight-cut jacket with mandarin collar. The Maison McIntyre colour is in the red contrasting double cuffs, collar and the matching bright-red frog buttons.

The bench. It’s the bench where I was sitting when I first met , where I first saw that smile, where my life in Manhattan really began. I sit at one end and look out over the water. It’s a warm end-of-summer day. A few boats are out on the Lake, a toddler staggers past me, his mother behind, ready to catch him. I smile at the irony of it; that’s me, I’ve gone full circle, Mandy is the one who now waits behind me whilst I shuffle along, feet going slap, thud, slap, thud, trying my very best not to fall over. I lean back and close my eyes, enjoy the heat of the sun on my face, just like I had then, forty-seven years ago. Now I don’t have that excitement, that fizzing in my stomach as I’d looked forward to a whole life ahead, now I have a leaden dread in my legs. Then I felt as if anything could happen, as if I could open all those doors ahead of me. Today those doors are slowing shutting, becoming heavier and heavier, more and more difficult to push open. Still with my eyes closed, I can smell the water so close to me, hear a whisper of the leaves in the tree behind me, an efficient click-click of women’s shoes, and then the rustling of a paper bag, the smell of something familiar but I can’t place it, it’s too far away in my memory bank, I can’t quite reach it.

‘Here you go. New York’s finest soft pretzel.’ I recognise the voice, gentle and thoughtful.

Opening my eyes I see kneeling down in front of me. He’s the I first knew, the beautiful, smooth-skinned , in a white collarless shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and tucked into a pair of brown woollen trousers and flat cap. There’s that little vertical scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, like a chalk mark. The sadness that comes over me when I realise that I never found out how he got that scar almost makes me weep, but I can’t do that because he’s smiling that overwhelming Jackson smile that makes my heart hurt so hard I have to put my hand to my chest and catch my breath, tears beginning to gather in my eyes.

‘This’ll help,’ he says, handing me the paper bag with a fresh pretzel in it. He does that nervous double blink, before getting up and bringing over the boy, that boy I dream about, those wild black curls framing his slightly chubby face, the youthful soft skin and almost green eyes. He also has a pretzel in his small hand and that Jackson smile that’s anticipating the treat to come. They both sit beside me. I look out over towards the Lake, the light catching the ripples on the water, winking at me conspiratorially as I try to understand what’s going on, whether I’m dreaming, having fallen asleep on this bench and fantasising about a parallel world that could have been. I turn to the two of them again and gestures at me to eat my pretzel, the boy already eating, a cheeky grin amongst the chewing. I take a wee bite. I’m dazed by the warm, pillowy, salty, yeasty taste, so evocative of my early years in New York, of my relationship with , of those long walks we used to take, those yellow daffodils he gave me on my first day in my studio, of the tiny bolts of electricity whenever I brushed his arm, of the softness of his cheek when I’d kissed it, the slight pain in my heart as I’d yearned for more. My whole chest seems to expand with the effect of the pretzel, the memories, the smells, the tastes, the touch. I can hardly breathe, but I don’t care, everything about this moment is delicious.

He leans over and takes my hand, putting it gently on his knee and keeps a hold of it, his head nodding unhurriedly. There are none of the usual sounds, just a roaring in my ears as his touch sends a tidal wave of warmth surging through my body, releasing the dread and the fear that’s been building in me over the last few years. Suddenly the life ahead of me doesn’t seem so horrifying, I feel at ease, as if it’s a Sunday afternoon and the three of us are out for a stroll with nowhere we need to be; we can amble at our own pace, we can look down at the beetle in the grass, we can throw a morsel of pretzel to the ducks in the Lake, the boy sits on his haunches in that endearing way children do, picking at a flower in the grass. puts his arm around me and it feels as if every ache and pain, those dead legs and all that fatigue have just drained away leaving me feeling as if we are floating, arm in arm.

I let out a sigh of long-wished-for contentment.

New York Times , September 26, 1958

Maisie McIntyre, world-renowned couturier, dies aged 68.

Maisie McIntyre, who, for more than half a century, led the couture house Maison McIntyre, dressing the likes of Mrs Harriet Bailey Parsons, Mrs Rex Marshall, film star Helen Montrose and more recently the former First Lady Mrs Eleanor Roosevelt and Mrs Jacqueline Kennedy, wife of Senator John F. Kennedy, died suddenly in New York yesterday.

Miss McIntyre was revered for her use of colour and embellishment in her couture creations, rivalling designers such as Schiaparelli and the House of Lanvin. Her work was marked out as extraordinary when she began using the embroidery atelier Jackson, set up by the brother of Miss McIntyre’s Premier, Otella Jackson. Her support of a company that employed wounded veterans was seen as groundbreaking.

Miss McIntyre often courted speculation, her outfits revealing her unfashionable opinions: a dress championing the vote for women during a charity event for the Great War, a black trouser suit with colourful trimmings worn to her long-time lover’s funeral.

Born in Edinburgh, Scotland in 1890, she moved to New York when she was nineteen. She was employed by the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory but missed working the day of the infamous fire, which killed many of her friends. She set up her own business soon after, moving into her first studio on MacDougal Street. In 1914 she opened the first Colour Emporium shop on Fifth Avenue, a revolutionary homewares business that was to expand and become a worldwide phenomenon. She ran the costume department at Samuel Goldwyn Productions for four years before moving to Hawick, Scotland, where she remained for the duration of the Second World War, running a hosiery factory, eventually leading to the set-up of her ready-to-wear business McIntyre Cashmere, well known for its colourful cashmere cardigans, jumpers and jackets.

Although the cashmere, couture and homewares businesses have been rapidly expanding since the war, there had been rumours of ill-health and financial troubles.

Miss McIntyre never married but is survived by her daughter, Jessica Smyth-Black, whose father was the murdered Senator Torridon Smyth. Miss Smyth-Black will take over as CEO of Maison McIntyre, the Colour Emporium and McIntyre Cashmere.

Miss McIntyre’s body was found on a park bench in Central Park, three fresh pretzels placed in a neat row beside her. Police believe she died of a heart attack and have ruled out foul play.

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If the daring ambition of Maisie McIntyre moved you, uncover another tale of female resilience in The Herbalist’s Secret, where between the gothic arches of a Highland mansion and its mysterious walled garden, two women separated by a century are bound by long-buried secrets waiting to be unearthed.

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