Page 6 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue
The corridor of the first-class deck on the SS Furnessia was a muddle of voices, stewards directing porters, mothers shouting to their daughters. Children ran into trunks, wide-brimmed hats battled with wall lanterns. It was all very inelegant and chaotic. I’d expected first-class to be more serene. Following my steward, I kept as close to him as I could.
‘Your cabin.’ He put a key in the door and pushed it open with his body, directing the porter to come in after him and holding the door for me.
Ahead of me lay a narrow bed with painted railings, to ensure I didn’t fall out during rough weather, and a small seating area. Between both was a piece of mahogany furniture, too large for the cabin, that held a basin, mirror, bookshelves, somewhere to place my cup of tea and many clever little storage spaces made to ensure nothing moved when the ship was at sea. My trunk and sewing machine were placed beneath a tiny porthole and next to my own bathroom.
The steward held out the key. ‘Don’t forget there’s always a steward on call, just at the end of the corridor, if you’re in need of any help.’ At last, he left me in peace, shutting out the chaotic noise as he closed the door.
Leaning against the door I let out a long breath. The cabin was only a little smaller than the rooms at our Richmond Place tenement and I had it all to myself: a proper bed, with crisp clean sheets, my own bathroom with no one dirtying it for me, no one sloshing water on the floor. With childish glee I realised there was hot running water and the first thing I did was fill the bath, knowing I could stay in it as long as I liked, use as much water and soap as I wanted, and dry myself with the big, white, soft towel, unused by anyone else.
Lying in that tiny bath, knees bent, toes wriggling, hair frizzing in the heat, I considered how I’d packed my trunk, taken the train to Glasgow and bought a first-class ticket on the next liner bound for New York with a boldness I never knew I had. And now, here I was, wallowing in the height of luxury, with no children to feed, dress or entertain, no cooking, cleaning or washing to attend to, no rats and no cockroaches, no snores or noises of Duncan giving my sister his unwanted attentions late into the night.
Nobody had run after me, nobody had questioned or challenged me: no police, no angry sister.
The tension of the last few weeks soaked into the bathwater. But there was no time to idle. I had work to do.
‘Seventy-seven benevolent elephants.’ It was time to practise my American accent. ‘Seventy-seven benevolent elephants,’ I repeated again and again. My friend Laura, assistant costumier at the King’s Theatre, a perfect mimic, had learned accents from watching rehearsals and had taught me New Town, English, Irish and American accents, saying they’d be the most useful in a sticky situation. We’d dress in gowns from the costume department, she’d do my hair, cover my face in powder and we’d sneak into the bar at the interval, becoming part of the scene, listening to the way people spoke, the types of conversations, the cadence, their lilts, their mannerisms. This tongue-twister was my warm-up, she’d told me. Then we’d go on to words that were very different to our usual Edinburgh everyday accent:
‘Mobile, fragile, herb, water, leisure, vase. Mobile, fragile, herb, water, leisure, vase,’ I repeated again and again, talking to the swirling steam in the bathroom, conjuring up potential scenarios, greeting my imagined fellow passengers, chatting over dinner, readying myself for the days ahead.
The next morning, I redressed myself in Mrs Foster’s mourning dress and jacket. The suit was made of the softest black Henrietta cloth with little embellishment. It didn’t need any decoration as the fabric alone made it stand out. Cut from the finest wool it draped beautifully and I’d only had to make minor adjustments so that it fitted me. I’d added three sets of interchangeable collars and cuffs for the jacket so that it would appear to be different every time I wore it. I kept the same cuffs from the day before, made from crepe with three discreet jet buttons, the matching crepe collar studded with tiny jet beads. I dressed carefully, attending to the required illusion: money, connections, pretty but not too pretty (mustn’t outshine my peers), demure (a widow must not be brash or surrounded by any hint of scandal). This meant a fresh, healthy complexion, hair not too severe, maybe a loose curl here and there, jacket buttoned all the way to the top. Looking in the mirror I again practised my tongue twister, silently thanking my old friend for the training I never knew I’d be in need of.
I stood back to inspect the finished article.
‘Good morning. What a pleasure to meet you. I’m Mrs McIntyre,’ I said in my newly acquired American accent, putting my hand out to greet my companion in the mirror. But there was something wrong. Looking down, I realised that the illusion of quiet elegance was being ruined by my red and raw hands, hands that did not belong to a woman of society. Hurriedly, I rummaged through my bag and found the pair of black gloves Laura had given me – the final touch steadying me, letting the slight panic fade, my racing heart start to slow down.
The first-class lounge reminded me of the salon at the North British: a wide sweeping staircase leading into it, columns decorated with marble effect, sparkling chandeliers, large Persian carpets, mini palm trees and rows of tables with leather armchairs. If we weren’t swaying slightly, you’d never have known we were at sea.
Breakfast onboard the SS Furnessia was a sumptuous affair. A large buffet table was heaving with piles of fruit, much of which I didn’t recognise, bread in every shape and shade of brown that could be imagined, the smell of sausages, bacon, kidneys, smoked mackerel and black pudding, wafting around the heated serving platters. I ordered a pot of tea and, whilst I had no breakfast companions, I made the most of my time alone watching everyone take part in the serious business of breakfast.
The ladies were dressed as if ready for a day at the races: sumptuous day dresses, parasols and veils; long, three-quarter and short sleeves, lace, chiffon or cotton cuffs, velvet, taffeta and silk bows, the occasional trim two-thirds of the way down the skirt, unusual and the very height of fashion; one of the elderly women was still wearing a bustle, all black and stiff.
I was desperate to take out my notebook, but kept it in my pocket, sipping tea instead. My job was to find my perfect model, the ideal mannequin for the peacock-coloured silk. Too tall and pale was no good – that fine blue silk would be washed out. Too fat would make it difficult to create a truly flattering design. Blonde could work, but I thought that dark hair would create a better contrast. A young, fresh complexion would complement that precious, vibrant fabric. I just needed to be patient.
‘Mrs McIntyre, may I introduce your table companion.’ A steward turned to show me a tiny bird of a woman.
‘Well, how delighted I am to meet you.’ She stepped forward and held out her gloved hand as if I was to kiss it. There was something of the teenage sparrow about her, all beaky and brown, awkwardly dressed in a suit that seemed to overpower her tiny frame, making her appear almost as if she was just a dress with no person inside it. She had slightly olive colouring, her hair like dark-brown wire, backcombed into an old-fashioned bouffant that made her small face look even smaller, almost out of proportion. I couldn’t guess how old she was; her manner was youthful, energetic, almost na?ve but the way she dressed, the way she held herself, suggested that she was much older.
‘,’ said the steward with a slight bow and left us.
‘Oh, honey. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re not some dusty old relic,’ she said as she sat down. ‘Back home in Alabama, the only McIntyres I know are ancient; I was terrified you’d be one of them. But listen to me, prattling on. I see that you’re in mourning. May I ask what you’re doing on this boat?’
‘I’m returning home after visiting my late husband’s family in Edinburgh,’ I said mournfully, looking down at my plate for a moment. ‘I felt I should go and pay them my respects and take them some of his favourite trinkets and photographs so that they could have some remembrances of him.’
‘Oh, my darling girl, you must be devastated. I simply would not know how I would manage without my Rex. He’s my absolute rock. You know we’re on our honeymoon? He’ll be joining us shortly. He’s just been to check up on his mother.’ She leaned in and dropped her voice. ‘Heavens, his mother is such a grouch in the mornings. I do my best to avoid her before ten o’clock.’
‘Your mother-in-law came with you on your honeymoon?’ I couldn’t help but ask.
‘Oh, Lord, yes.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘One of the reasons I come down to breakfast early is I know she won’t be up for a while. I can have my coffee in peace. Talking of which…’ She stood up awkwardly, her dress hampering free movement. ‘I’m just gasping. Shall we go over to the buffet table?’
As we began to make our way, she suddenly stopped, standing back to look at me.
‘ Who is your dressmaker? That dress has been tailored beautifully. It utterly suits you, my dear.’
‘Well… I have a dressmaker in New York. I’d highly recommend her.’
‘I’d say you need to introduce me to her. My mother-in-law insists I use her seamstress, she’s so old-fashioned, all beiges and browns…’
She was interrupted by a small but insistent gentleman.
‘Julia, darling, I’m afraid we must go.’ He checked his pocket watch. ‘Mother is waiting for us.’ His voice had a sheen of weariness to it.
‘Oh, Rex, darling, I haven’t even had my coffee yet. It’s not as if we’re going anywhere, can she not wait two minutes?’
The gentleman stroked his beard fastidiously. ‘No, it’s best not.’ He put the watch back into his waistcoat pocket and smoothed it down, then rubbed his fingers against his thumb, as if brushing off unseen crumbs to an unheard beat.
‘Oh, honey,’ Mrs Marshall said as she turned to me. ‘I just so want to talk to you. Will you be here tomorrow? Well, heavens to Betsy, what a stupid question.’ She touched my upper arm. ‘You won’t be going anywhere, and neither will I. I’d just love to have a proper gossip with you. Let’s have breakfast tomorrow morning.’
‘Julia,’ the husband repeated in his tired manner.
The tiny bird pulled at the cuff of one of her sleeves, then the other, her mouth twisting to one side, looking down at her feet. ‘Of course, darling.’ And taking his arm she gave me a bright smile.
‘Tomorrow, Mrs McIntyre.’ And with that, I watched her walk away, that tiny brown bird, with diamonds in her ears and on her wedding finger.
A good figure, the right colouring, plenty of money, malleable, perhaps too talkative, but I could work with that.
I’d found my model.
As she and her husband continued towards the stairs, I was already working out the best design to suit her shape, an evening dress, perhaps with a chiffon partial overskirt but with a large opening at the front, tantalising us with the shimmer of the peacock silk.
I went up to the buffet table in a kind of trance, not really taking in the display in front of me, piling my plate with whatever food was in front of me, head filled with possible neckline shapes, types of sleeve and waistline, embroidery to embellish the skirt.
‘Honey, sausages and strawberries.’ A languorous English accent. ‘What a fascinating combination.’
I turned to see a tall man, not much older than myself, well-dressed and with an air of comfortable confidence. The three-piece Prince of Wales check suit had been tailored to perfection, the white shirt had a silky lustre to it that made me want to touch it, the rich quietness of his silk tie, and the handmade quality of his shoes all made my heart skip a beat at the thoughtful elegance. No one else on board had such an impressive suit of clothing; there was nothing ready-made about this man.
I looked down at my plate and blushed intensely. ‘It seems I wasn’t looking at what I was doing.’ I closed my eyes for a moment, putting my mask back on. ‘A bad night’s sleep, I’m afraid.’
‘Your bad night’s sleep has made my morning.’ He clicked his heels together and gave a slight bow, an amused look on his face. ‘Mr Aidan Cruickshank at your service.’
There was something about this man that seemed faintly familiar: the cut of his suit, the fresh face, the slight look of boyish glee. I glanced around me, worried about how this encounter would look. ‘Mrs McIntyre,’ I said, reluctantly holding out my gloved hand, just as Mrs Marshall had, but I kept my voice non-committal.
‘Would you excuse me, Mr Cruickshank? I must return to my table; my breakfast will be getting cold.’ And before he could answer I left him, my under-arms slightly tacky, my heart beating a little too fast.
The following morning, after another wallowing bath, the luxury of tea in my cabin and a few minutes with my sketchbook, I changed the collars and cuffs on my mourning suit (oversized black woollen cuffs with satin piped edges, held together with large black toggle buttons, a plain woollen pointed collar with matching satin piping), and took myself back to the first-class lounge to work on my friendship with that tiny, awkward bird.
She was waiting for me at the breakfast table. ‘Oh, thank God. There you are, daahling!’ The familiar voice drew out the word as if she was pulling on a piece of string. ‘I do hate my own company. Come, sit by me.’ She patted the chair beside her. ‘You and I are going to be such great friends; I just know it.’ She scrunched up her face in delight, pulling her shoulders upwards.
Julia Marshall, or rather as the newlywed liked to refer to herself, stood at a dead five foot and would never wear any kind of heeled shoe because she believed they would do her feet damage. She hardly wore any make-up; a dash of rouge and a smear of lipstick enhanced a fresh, vigorous but pinched face.
‘Good morning,’ I said, ‘I do hope you were able to sleep.’ I’d overheard the polite greetings on my way to the table and was doing my best to mimic them, taking care with my American accent.
‘Well, to be perfectly honest, I didn’t sleep well. I believe it’s very important to take an hour’s exercise every day, without it, I just feel awful. When I lived at home, in Alabama, I could run on my parents’ land. I’d run forever, but, of course, I can’t do that on board, and I don’t think I’ll be able to do that in New York, now that we’re moving there. How I would love to run around Central Park, but it seems it isn’t the thing, and anyway, what would I wear? Us ladies of society simply can’t run the circuit of Central Park in their skirts. At home I could wear any old thing, I could run for miles and never see a soul, but in the city, I need something that’s suitable for a woman of my position. But if it could be comfortable too, wouldn’t that be just swell? I do hope someone will come up with something soon as I’m just dying to get out there. Running gives me so much energy.’ She touched my hand and lowered her voice. ‘God knows I need that vitality after the deadly tea parties my mother-in-law organises.’
‘And tell me of your honeymoon.’ I could see she was in the mood for talking.
‘Oh, honey.’ She patted my hand. ‘I do love a person who wants to know all about me.’ She took a deep breath. ‘We’ve been away for three months, but honestly, it only feels like three short weeks. We have just had such a ball; I can’t tell you. We’ve been to Paris, France, followed by a driving tour down to Nice and on to Monte Carlo. Darling, the money we lost at gambling! Rex has banned me from the casinos, it was doing his reputation no good. But I’m just fine with that.’ She leaned towards me and began whispering, ‘I don’t really like gambling. But I’d never done it before, so I just had to give it a go.’ She laughed so loud I almost jumped. ‘It’s like champagne. I’d never had it before our wedding day, but oh golly, that stuff did me in. I’ve sworn never to touch alcohol ever again, I just couldn’t get my head off the pillow the next day.’
It was as if a dam had burst, almost as if she hadn’t spoken to anyone in days and just needed to make sure she still had a voice. I looked around the room, letting the words waft over me. After a while, I realised that Mr Marshall was walking purposefully towards us. I leaned into my companion and pointed him out.
‘Oh, dear Lord, I know that walk,’ she whispered. ‘That means his mother’s on the warpath.’ She clung to my arm. ‘We’ve hardly had a moment to ourselves all honeymoon, half the reason I insisted we go to the casinos was because she wouldn’t come with us. It was simply delicious to be away from her perpetual frown.’ She squeezed my arm and gave an almost inaudible squeal.
Mr Marshall arrived by our side and stood to attention. ‘Mrs McIntyre.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘Julia, Mother is awaiting our morning visit.’ He twisted one end of his moustache before rubbing his thumb and fingers together as he’d done the day before, as if to a beat in his head.
Mrs Marshall blinked before carefully standing and taking her husband’s arm. ‘Honey.’ She winked at me. ‘We’ve still got days to catch up. Maybe you could join us for dinner tonight and then you could meet the mother who keeps us so busy.’
I watched them leave the lounge.
‘No sausages and strawberries today?’ That languorous English accent.
‘No, sir. Not as yet.’
‘May I join you? My table companions seem to never take breakfast and I find I’m in need of company. I feel as if I’ve been in solitary confinement for the last twenty-four hours.’
I waved at the chair opposite me, trying to appear indifferent.
‘Are you travelling with family?’ Mr Cruickshank asked in a careful, polite manner as he sat, indicating to the steward that he’d like coffee sent to the table.
‘No, sir. I have been visiting my late husband’s family in Edinburgh.’ I held my gloved hands neatly in front of me.
‘My most heartfelt condolences.’ His hand to his heart, his voice appearing more delighted than sorrowful. ‘May I enquire as to which part of Edinburgh his family resides in?’
I couldn’t help the twitch of my mouth, my attempt to suppress a smile. Was he assessing the viability of the widow? If so, he was too keen, the lack of subtlety almost shocking. ‘Charlotte Square, but the family seat is in Ayrshire.’ A little extra detail to tantalise. Why not have some fun?
He was slightly better at hiding his own twitch, but the glimmer in his eyes gave him away.
‘And you, Mr…?’ I asked, feigning forgetfulness.
‘Cruickshank.’ He repeated his name with a tight smile.
‘Ah, yes. My apologies. Why are you on board?’ I looked around the room as I spoke, as if I were trying to find someone.
‘I’m looking to expand my horizons,’ he announced pompously and then set off on a rambling explanation of a great American tour, pointedly telling me of family on Fifth Avenue, cousins in Rhode Island, a much-anticipated trip to Washington and a visit to the family’s cotton plantation in Georgia.
As the coffee arrived and the steward poured for us both, I considered Mr Cruickshank and his laid-back manner that people who’ve grown up with money have. It makes them appear handsome, leisurely and attractive, even when they aren’t blessed with natural good looks. But he’d have been striking even if he’d been born in the worst of the slums in the Grassmarket. He seemed to ooze self-confidence, a natural self-belief that he could achieve anything he put his mind to. His chiselled features, slightly hooked nose and deep-brown eyes were complemented by a dark crop of wavy and unkempt hair, too long for the current fashion and suggesting a hint of rebellion. He exuded an irresistible sexuality and the faintest whiff of insincerity.
Was I his mark, his ideal model? Had he been watching me from across the room?
I interrupted his monologue.
‘Mr Cruickshank, perhaps you would excuse me. I’m not good company just now and you may find that solitary confinement is preferable to a conversation with this rather gloomy widow.’ I stood up. ‘Perhaps we could continue this conversation tomorrow.’
Hurriedly getting up, I stood on the hem of my dress and wobbled slightly, knocking over my half-drunk cup of coffee and, as I tried to steady myself, I put my left hand in the pool of spilled coffee, soaking my glove.
‘Ach, ye nugget!’ I said and, without thinking, pulled the glove off and quickly put it between two napkins on the table to try and get the liquid off as quickly as possible.
‘Are you all right? You’re not burned?’ My companion stood and picked up my hand, my left hand. He looked at it and then at me. Quickly I pulled it away.
‘Thank you, I’m fine, it wasn’t that hot. I must take your leave.’ And with the soggy glove in one hand, I left the lounge as fast as I could.
I almost ran to my cabin, but before I could reach my door, I heard his voice.
‘Mrs McIntyre. Perhaps you’d wait a moment.’
I made myself stop, took a deep breath and smoothed down my hair. As I turned, he was almost upon me, picking up my gloveless hand and standing too close to me.
‘I’m concerned about your hand.’ He looked down at my red, ringless fingers. ‘I wanted to make sure you get to see a doctor.’ There was amusement in his voice.
I said nothing.
‘I’m a little confused. No young widow residing in first-class would have such rough, work-scarred hands, no distraught widow would have taken her wedding ring off.’ He caressed my hand, almost as if it soothed him. ‘Such a tiny hand.’ He put it to his mouth and kissed it, before breaking into an unreadable smile.
‘So, what are you doing here, Mrs McIntyre?’ He said this slowly as if enjoying the moment.
‘I’m travelling back home…’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. That slip of the tongue, that Edinburgh accent doesn’t quite fit in with the image of the lonely, demure widow from America, does it?’
Gently he pushed me against the wall, the handrail pushing into my back, his body pressed into mine. He was a taller than me, his chin at my forehead, so he bent his head to whisper in my ear.
‘You and I are just like two peas in a pod… not being truthful about who we are.’ He stood back to get a better look at me. ‘I think…’ he continued, assessing his mark, ‘we’ve met before. I couldn’t work it out until just now. You’re that girl in Jenners, the one who stole the bolt of peacock-blue fabric and boldly walked out the door.’
My stomach heaved. The man who had returned the dropped five-pound note, who had winked at me, who knew I was a thief and a fraud.
What to do? In those days I wasn’t quite yet formed, my boldness had yet to peak. I should have made friends, got him on my side, but I could see there was danger – he was too confident, too attractive, just a bit too smooth. I knew that trouble would surely follow him, trouble which would jeopardise my new friendship with Mrs Marshall, my potential new client, my pathway into New York society.
Just then I heard someone whistling, footsteps coming towards us. He loosened his grip and I wriggled out of his hold.
My companion stepped away from me, smoothing down his ruffled hair. ‘Let’s continue this talk at dinner, where we can both play our parts, fool those around us, mock their gullibility.’ He clicked his heels together, gave a quick bow and left me with my mouth open.
Mrs McIntyre was suddenly taken ill by the seasickness and found herself unable to leave her cabin for the remainder of the voyage. Mrs Marshall and Mrs McIntyre exchanged notes: Mrs Marshall professed extreme sorrow at not being able to cement their new acquaintance, happy reunions were pledged on arrival in Manhattan and Mrs Marshall was promised an introduction to Mrs McIntyre’s much-admired seamstress as soon as could be arranged.
The remaining four days of the voyage were spent in self-prescribed solitude. With a locked door I could reject any advances from Mr Cruickshank, and I could hide from Mrs Marshall. I ordered food at odd times, I took three baths a day, I revelled in my own company and, thrillingly, I began designing a dress for Mrs Marshall.
I took the silk fabric from my trunk, pulled out a length of the material and spread it across my bunk before sitting on my knees to inspect it.
The peacock green-blue was sumptuous, the cloth shimmering, throwing out many different colours. I was mesmerised by its quality. The darker greens in the small repeating pattern of trees were a mixture of a shiny emerald green and something that felt more earthy, more natural. The tiny brown birds were embroidered and raised above the rest of the pattern, neat brown, white and sunny-orange stitching that was so delicate I couldn’t imagine who had fingers small enough, or eyes sharp enough to sew the pattern so uniformly. The more I looked at the fabric in front of me, the more I wondered at the dyes that had been required to create it, the workmanship involved, and the patience and creativity needed to produce such a masterpiece. I sketched and drew until my fingers hurt.
In I had found the ideal model. Everything about her suited the material: her olive colouring, dark-brown hair, deep-brown eyes and petite frame. They were the perfect balance for this lavish fabric. And she would undoubtedly have the right kind of event to wear it to. But she was too conservative, too boyish in her manner of dressing. I was going to need to persuade her to change her style, inject colour into her wardrobe, make her more confident. Somehow, I’d have to find a way to introduce myself as Miss Maisie McIntyre, despite my deceit, and then persuade her to give me her patronage.
But those four days of much anticipated solitude quickly became dull, the throb of the ship’s engines drilling into my ears, the lack of fresh air making me feel lead-like. Then there were the continuous notes from Mrs Marshall wanting to check if I’d recovered, and the occasional insistent knock on my door from Aidan Cruickshank.
Finally, on the day before our arrival in New York, I left my cabin at midnight, dressed in my normal shirtwaist and skirt, wrapped up in my slightly shabby shawl, hoping most passengers would be asleep or too tired to notice me.
‘Sir,’ I said to my friendly steward, ‘perhaps you’ve noticed there’s a gentleman who seems a little too insistent on seeing me, knocking on my door at all hours,’ I said wearily, slipping a coin into his palm. ‘I need some fresh air and I’d like to make sure he won’t be bothering me. Is there any chance you could sneak me down to the third-class deck, so I know I’ll have some peace and quiet?’ I saw that he’d noticed what I was wearing and I leaned into him. ‘I’m in disguise,’ I whispered. ‘I thought it would be safer.’ And I handed over another coin.
The fresh air was more than welcome, the cool blast on my hot cheeks reminding me of the days I would leave work after a ten-hour shift at the North British, the relief so intense I’d feel as if I was a calf who had been kept in all winter and had just been released into the spring fields. And just the same, I wanted to kick my heels and run up and down the deck to get rid of some of the pent-up energy surging around my body. Instead, I wrapped my shawl tightly against the brisk wind and began walking along the deck.
‘Another one who can’t sleep?’ a heavily accented voice asked out of the dark.
I turned to find a short, wide-hipped, olive-skinned woman, facing me, wrapped up in an intricately patterned shawl. She had a tired smile on her face and the same slightly red-cheeked appearance of someone who has been kept indoors for days.
‘Aye,’ I returned. ‘Too many things in my head tae sleep,’ I said, happy to be back speaking with my native Scottish accent, feeling more comfortable in less grand surroundings.
‘I wish that was my problem. Too many people in such a small space, children feeling sick, Nonna who can’t keep down anything, my cousin already homesick for Glasgow, my husband worried we won’t be allowed into America.’ She drew a deep breath, closing her eyes, turning her face to the wind.
‘Only a few days tae go. It’ll be over soon.’
Her eyes still closed, she replied, ‘I hope so. And the food. Oh, the food is just terrible. It’s so…’ She turned to me. ‘Excuse me for saying so, but it’s so boring.’
I laughed. ‘Meat and potatoes?’
‘My little ones need a gentle broth to settle their stomachs, some decent vegetables, soft bread.’ She leaned heavily on the railings. ‘But you are right. This will be over soon.’ She rubbed her face with her hand.
‘If you don’t mind me asking. Where did you get your shawl from?’
Suddenly the tired expression was replaced with a wide smile. ‘I made it myself. I love to knit and it’s so easy to take with me – when I’m waiting at the doctor’s, or in the queue at the bakery. It calms my mind and makes me feel like I am achieving something on those days when all I seem to have done is swept the floor and wiped away the tears of the children.’
‘Can I look at it more closely?’ I asked.
‘Of course.’ We moved to a more sheltered part of the deck where there was better light and less wind. The wool was very soft, the pattern almost like the Fair Isle pullovers I had seen, but with much brighter colours. The stitches were tiny and consistent, the pattern intricate.
‘Where did you learn tae do this?’ I loved how different it was.
‘I taught myself. When we arrived in Glasgow, I would see these children in the park wearing such beautifully knitted hats, but they seemed to lack something, some…’ she searched for the word, ‘vibrancy. I managed to study a few hats in a shop one day and then went home and drew my own designs. I had lots of leftover wool, so I just used what I had. Some of the wool had belonged to my nonna , some to my husband’s. It was passed on to me because I like to knit so much. But I found the colours of wool in Glasgow a bit dull, so I also learned how to dye to get some more exciting colours.’
I fingered the shawl revelling in the colour and the workmanship.
‘You should sell these. I would bet naebody in America has seen anything like this.’
The woman laughed. ‘When would I find the time? I must find work when I get to New York, we have so many mouths to feed.’
Her dark, almost black eyes matched her long hair which, although tied back in a bun, was frizzing in the sea air. She had the soft features of a woman who has given birth to several children and the dark circles of someone with never-ending chores. But nothing about her suggested bitterness or rancour as she held her hands on her hips and her eyes glittered.
‘Where will you look tae find work?’ I asked.
‘My cousin is working at a garment factory. She says they are always looking for women who can sew. I will go there. I’m lucky that Nonna can mind the bambini .’
My ears pricked up at this. I was going to need to find work. I might still have the best part of the stolen money, but I wanted to hold on to it as I would need it to set myself up in business when the time was right.
‘I’m useful with a sewing machine. Do you think I could get work there too?’ My heart began to beat a little faster, the hairs on the back of my neck lifted.
‘I am sure. But my cousin, Isabella, says they work you hard and don’t pay such good money. It may be we only go there if we can’t find work elsewhere.’
‘Where have you come from?’ I asked, not able to recognise her accent.
‘Italy. A small village in the Tuscany mountains called Barga. But we have been in Glasgow for the last five years. My daughter was born there. When we arrived in Scotland, we had run out of money to get to America. We stayed until we could afford for us all to join my husband’s brother in New York. I pray we will be there soon.’
As she spoke I realised that for the first time since my mother had died, since I’d made the decision to steal the blue fabric, to lie to my sister, to leave my home and start a new life, that I might have found someone I could be myself with.
‘I’m Maisie. It’s nice tae meet you.’
Again, the woman gave me another of those genial smiles, the kind of smile you have to earn and it reminded me of the day my mother had patted my hand, the day she’d said she liked my ‘strange Maisie McIntyre ways’. That smile almost made my eyes prick.
‘And I am Rosa. Rosa Bassino.’ Suddenly her Italian accent became exaggerated in her excitement. ‘I think that we should be friends.’