Page 8 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue
1910
I stood on 59th Street, across the road from the entrance to The Plaza Hotel. This imposing building was surprisingly alluring, the first three storeys enthralling me with its rusticated marble, the upper floors calming me with their cream-coloured, enamelled bricks topped by the sloping roof with ornate copper and slate dormers and gables. Its stateliness matched the grandeur that strode through its porticoed entrance, singular dresses constructed in multiple layers, furled parasols with sharp edges, tailored suits and gleaming top hats. Watching the business of this overpowering building, I began to recapture something of the optimism I’d felt on the ship’s deck on the day of my arrival, a stirring enthusiasm that had begun to slip away over the previous ten days.
My cousin Aileen had grudgingly offered me space in her apartment until I could find my own lodgings. The sharp contrast between the first-class lounge and her noisy, dingy one-room tenement, filled with her sometime husband, another couple and an atmosphere of rotting food, was inevitable. Picking my way through the mess of dirty dishes and chocolate wrappers, I had been shown a small pallet to use as my bed. I remembered Netta’s warning, how I’d so easily dismissed her words of the ‘good-fer-nothin’ husband’ and the ‘pigsty’, and gritted my teeth.
In need of an income, I had gone with Rosa to the garment factory on Washington Square to find a job as a seamstress. Getting the job was easy, our machine skills were more than adequate, and we’d na?vely celebrated our quick assimilation into the New York workforce. But all too soon I realised I was in yet another bad, underpaid job, I was living in similar poor, cramped conditions. What had been the point of leaving Edinburgh if I was stuck in the same life all over again? So, taking matters into my own hands, I dressed in my Sunday best, I put the bolt of blue silk in my carpet bag along with my sketchbook, and took myself to The Plaza, shuddering at the thought of meeting with Mrs Marshall and revealing my complicity. Worst-case scenario I would be sent back to Scotland branded a liar and a fraud, a failure and a disgrace.
I crossed the road and climbed the steps into the hotel with a straight back, catching the eye of the doorman as if I did this every day. To hide my shaking hands, I held my carpet bag firmly in front of me.
‘Miss McIntyre to see Mrs Rex Marshall,’ I announced to the concierge behind a deep mahogany desk. I spoke in a soft, understated Scottish accent. This was to be the way Maisie McIntyre, seamstress, dressmaker, perhaps one day a couturier, would speak from now on. An alluring accent, not too harsh, just enough of a lilt to make me noticeable amongst the notable women of New York.
Turning to look at the elaborate marble foyer and the immaculate rococo furnishing, I feigned disinterest. To help push down the rising terror I made myself remember the words of my friend Laura.
‘It’s an act, that’s all it is, and if you see it simply as that then you’ll be away. Hold your head high, never let your shoulders slump, don’t cower in a corner. Just act in the same way the other women do. Look everyone in the eye, don’t fidget, don’t hesitate, don’t stutter. Act full of confidence; you’ll be amazed at the effect it has.’
That all sounded so easy, but standing in the spacious lobby, watching the polished and refined guests wander through into the public rooms, I felt as if the smell of Aileen’s filthy tenement must be radiating from me, like the musty odour of a dead mouse.
My nervousness was temporarily replaced by sheer terror as I rode the elevator, with glass doors that revealed the mechanical pistons at work, reminding me that I was dangling over a deep shaft that I could fall into at any moment. Bile began to rise the nearer I got to the top floor.
The elevator operator rang the bell, calling the floor number, before sliding the door open and revealing a large lobby, the floor shining with black and white tiles. The space echoed with the sound of my shoes and, just as I was about to knock on the door, it was opened by a maid.
‘Miss McIntyre?’ she asked, surveying me carefully.
I nodded and the maid led me into a cavernous apartment, decorated unlike anything I had ever seen. Marble columns lined the hallway and wide corridor, gold and red brocaded wallpaper in between each pillar, a parquet floor with a herringbone pattern spread through the whole suite of rooms, embroidered silk curtains framed each large window overlooking Central Park, the room filled with more rococo furniture, this time in a green and yellow colourway. It seemed as if there was space to fit all the families from the garment factory, with plenty of room to spare.
‘Miss McIntyre… oh!’
Julia Marshall pulled back as if she’d been bitten. Confusion covered her face as she then leaned forward to look at me more closely.
‘Aren’t you Mrs McIntyre? Aren’t you supposed to be in mourning?’
‘No, I am Miss Maisie McIntyre. Never married, never widowed.’
‘But you look exactly like Mrs McIntyre. How can that be? Your face is the same, your hair is the same, your figure is the same. Are you related?’
‘That’s because I am the same person.’ I made my voice as light as I could as if this confession was just an unimportant piece of information that we could dispense with as quickly as possible.
‘Mrs Marshall, I lied to you,’ I said, looking her square in the face. ‘I made up my story, pretending to be a rich widow because I knew you wouldn’t speak to me as Maisie McIntyre, a mere dressmaker from Edinburgh. I needed you to see me as someone who dressed well, someone who understood the meaning of quality workmanship, someone who wanted the same things for you.’
Mrs Marshall slowly walked around me, eyeing me up, looking at every detail of my dress, my hair, my hat and my bag before she finally said, ‘You lied.’ Her voice was bland as if she couldn’t find the right emotion, as if she couldn’t work out what her own thoughts were.
Finally, she stood still. We held each other’s gaze as I tried to control my breathing. When she still hadn’t moved, still had said nothing, I began considering making my excuses and leaving, cutting my losses and leaving with my dignity. But then, out of the blue, she burst out laughing, that too-loud, too-showy laugh.
‘I couldn’t be happier.’ She thrust her arms out to me and held me by the shoulders. ‘Nobody has ever admitted to lying to me before. And there have been plenty who have. Everyone thinks I’m a fly-by-night, silly little girl who only married Rex for his place in society and his access to the Four Hundred. Nobody has ever considered that I might not be quite as stupid as I look.’
She circled me again. ‘Except for you, Miss McIntyre. And for that, I am truly grateful.’
She said my name with a hint of triumph in her southern twang, clapping her hands in glee, like a little girl at a birthday party. ‘So, what have you brought me?’
The quick progression from high tension to extreme relief made me momentarily speechless. ‘Well…’ I gathered my wits, fumbling with my bag. ‘I have a particular fabric that I want to show you. I believe your colouring will suit it perfectly. I also have some sketches that I’ve made, illustrating how I think we could show this fabric, and you, off to their best.’
I moved over to a sofa table close to one of the windows and pulled out a yard of the fabric so that it could be seen in the daylight. ‘This peacock blue will work perfectly with your darker colouring. It will highlight the sculptured look of your face and the freshness of your skin. Come over and have a look.’
Mrs Marshall came towards me slowly, peering with uncertainty at the cloth, her hands clasped behind her back as if she were being made to inspect a dead body.
‘I’m not one for bright colours.’ Her voice was full of doubt. ‘I prefer something more muted; I don’t want to stand out. I prefer to hide behind my clothes, wear something that doesn’t show up my obvious imperfections.’ She pointed to her strange, fleshy-coloured dress. Her movements hinted at the restrictions caused by the corset she wore. ‘But I do love it that I have the tiniest waist of all my friends, even if sometimes I have to sit down due to lack of breath.’ She laughed nervously.
‘Mrs Marshall. Have you not heard that restricted dresses are out of fashion?’ I looked around the room and quickly spotted the latest copy of Vogue on a small coffee table. I walked over and picked it up. ‘Have you not read this yet?’ I queried, flicking through the pages.
‘Oh, no. The hotel put these magazines in our suite, but I have never dared show interest. It seems to me that giving too much attention to fashion makes you appear somewhat whimsical.’ She flicked her hand as if to bat away the suggestion. ‘Miss McIntyre, I already know what my reputation is, I don’t want to turn the myth into reality.’
The complete look of seriousness on her face made me smile. I moved over to the grand sofa, sitting and patting the space beside me.
‘Mrs Marshall. Perhaps you would sit beside me?’ Once she was seated I looked her straight in the face. Suddenly I felt the confidence that I’d been feigning. It seemed that Mrs Marshall and I were no different; we had both been dealing in falsehoods of one type or another.
‘I can understand that many people would see the study of dress and fashion as shallow and meaningless. But those people miss something very important. As a woman of influence in society, it’s imperative that you dress the part. You need to make sure that what you are wearing is appropriate and completely suited to the occasion. If you turned up at the committee meeting for a fundraiser for, say, a charity raising money to buy new hospital beds for a foundling hospital, wearing a pink chiffon tea dress, some might think you weren’t taking the event seriously. But if you turned up wearing a well-cut, sombre two-piece suit, perhaps with one or two well-placed embellishments to show your personality, people would look at you very differently. You know that men of business wouldn’t wear slacks to a board meeting. Just because they don’t have the burden of so many changing fashions it doesn’t mean that they don’t also take their dress seriously. And so must you.’
A look of unqualified relief came over Mrs Marshall’s face.
‘Miss McIntyre. I can’t believe that I’ve never seen it like that. My father used to get so exasperated with me when I kept talking about what new dresses I could have, that he made me think that the whole thing was a childish frivolity that I should hurriedly grow out of. What a darling you are to make me see that it’s something more than that.’
She clasped her hands together on her lap and straightened up. ‘Well, I think you’d better show me your sketches.’
Before she could change her mind, I took my notebook out of my bag.
‘Look. Your petite figure is perfect for the new designs that are coming over from Paris. You don’t need to wear corsets anymore. The waist is higher meaning that you’ll be more comfortable. The skirt is loose with gathered folds going down to a narrow, ankle-length hemline. This means you can move around much more easily. You could even dance.’
‘Oh, Lord. I simply can’t dance. I’m so unladylike, especially in these tight dresses. I just lose all my puff. Rex is quite the dancer and gets most upset when I have to sit down for fear of passing out.’ Her eyes were suddenly bright with excitement, until, abruptly, she said, ‘But wouldn’t that hemline be a bit racy? I’m not sure what my mother-in-law would say.’
Quickly I picked up the magazine again and flicked through the pages. I stopped at a photograph of a woman with an extraordinary tumble of curly hair.
‘Look at this.’ I showed her the image. ‘Have you heard of Mary Pickford?’
‘Oh yes. The Girl with the Golden Curls. She’s quite the up-and-coming little starlet.’ Her voice was a little tart as she said this.
‘Look at what she’s wearing. High waist, shorter hemline, loose skirt.’
‘Yes, but she’s an actress. Everyone knows they have questionable morals.’ She put her hand on her hair as she spoke. ‘I’m sure my mother-in-law would have something to say about me looking like an actress.’
I put the magazine down and again looked at the woman in front of me. ‘But what do you say, Mrs Marshall?’
‘Well…’ She stumbled through her words. ‘I… I just don’t rightly know.’ Blushing, she looked down at her feet.
I suppressed the urge to sigh. ‘Look at the front cover of the magazine. The model is wearing a white dress, her waistline is just a little higher. Can you see how much easier it would be to wear? And at this time of year, in the terrible New York heat, that dress must be so much more practical.’
‘Now, Miss McIntyre, when has practicality ever been a consideration in a woman’s attire?’ Mrs Marshall laughed, the embarrassment quickly forgotten.
‘Women are driving cars, playing sports. You like to keep fit; I know that. There are people out there trying to help women find clothes that suit their lifestyle. You don’t want to spend your life sitting in a hotel drawing room just looking pretty, do you?’
‘Why, you seem positively angry at the idea that women are nothing but clotheshorses. Do you not like us to look good?’
I changed tack. ‘I want you to look the best you possibly can. Let me take some measurements and then I’m going to go away and make you a dress. It will be unlike anything you’ve ever worn before, and I can guarantee that you will love it. The toile will be ready in two weeks and the first fitting for the dress will be four weeks later. If you’re happy with it I’ll require full payment before I go any further.’
I gave her my most persuasive smile. ‘Is there somewhere we can go so I can measure up?’
The enormous, high-ceilinged room, with large windows on two sides, was filled with eight long tables, running the length of the room, each holding up to thirty-five electric sewing machines. At the beginning of the day, this light-filled room would seem impressive, but as the day wore on it would become overbearing and hot, the constant, loud, stuttering thrum of the sewing machines making everyone anxious and jittery. Concentrating on sewing for nine hours at a stretch, with hardly any breaks, was exhausting and, despite the noise, some girls would fall asleep at their tables. This was what we all dreaded; nobody wanted to be caught napping or making a mistake. But I found that I could lose myself in that oppressive noise. The machine sewing was simple enough that I could do it whilst thinking of the work I needed to do on Mrs Marshall’s blue evening gown. I’d already worked up the designs, created a paper pattern and was ready to cut the calico to make the toile. I mentally listed which pieces to hand baste first, how much work I could manage each evening to get the toile finished on time.
The noise suddenly stopped, the closing bell shrieking, the power cut off and the machines were abruptly silenced.
The scraping of the wooden chairs on the floor, the chatter of the girls as we all made our way to the exit, the waiting as they unlocked the doors. As it was a Saturday, we finished a bit earlier and we had pay to collect, so we all congregated at the end of the room. I could see Rosa, dark circles under her eyes, her cheeks flushed and those usually bright, beady eyes somehow diluted, washed out by exhaustion.
‘Where’s Isabella?’ I asked. It was unusual for Rosa to be seen without her cousin.
‘She arrived five minutes late for work today.’ She leaned in towards me. ‘It’s early days, but she’s with child and she is sleeping so much just now, she overslept.’ She let out a large sigh of exasperation. ‘They sent her home!’ She gesticulated wildly. ‘They said she was late and didn’t want her working, even if she said she’d make up the five minutes in her break time. I don’t understand these mean-minded men. They have no idea that losing one day’s pay is like losing one day’s food.’ Her black hair began to spring out of its bun and her cheeks became a deeper red. And then she lowered her voice as we came closer to the table where they were handing out the pay packets. ‘They have no… I don’t know the word… ah, yes. They have no compassion. They are unreasonable and petty.’
Already it was becoming easy to forget that excruciating poverty. I had the cushion of the stolen money, even if I wasn’t spending it, and I had the anticipation of payment from Mrs Marshall in a few weeks’ time. I was making sure that I didn’t have to rely wholly on the poor pay packet from the factory. Isabella and Rosa and most of the girls in the factory weren’t in a position to do that, and I had to remind myself of that fear of no food, that fear of having no coal for the fire that would pervade every moment of your day.
But before I had a chance to give my opinion of the men who worked on our factory floor Rosa whispered, ‘What excuse do you think they will give me today? That I’m too stupid, that I’m Italian and therefore I can’t count?’
Approaching the table there was a nervous silence, heads bowed as the girls picked up their pay packets.
‘Maisie McIntyre,’ I said, my stomach contracting.
Pointing to a line in the book, the bookkeeper passed me a pen and I signed my name. As I took the small envelope, I made a point of opening it immediately and checking how much was inside.
‘Eight dollars,’ I announced.
‘What did you think?’ the bookkeeper growled. ‘Did you think I’d short-change you?’
‘It’s not unheard of,’ I said defiantly and then flashed a sarcastic smile at him. ‘I just hope you’ve done the same for my friend here.’
Head down, Rosa approached the table, mumbled her name and took her envelope, scurrying away.
In the corridor Rosa grabbed my arm, annoyance on her tight lips. ‘Maisie, you’re so bold! If I said that they’d sack me. I can’t afford to lose this job,’ she hissed.
‘They won’t let you or I go. We’re too good at our jobs. There’s not many out there who can make up the samples. It’s those other girls who just sew one part of the shirt, they can be easily replaced, but we know what we’re doing, we learn quickly. They’d find it more difficult to replace us.’
We joined the line of girls waiting to get into the freight elevator back down to the street.
Rosa shook her head. ‘It’s easy for you. You don’t have bambini to feed.’ And as she said this, she brought her bag out in front of her and opened it up, thrusting it at the man at the entrance of the elevator. He gave the inside of it a cursory look and then moved on to me.
‘Hands up,’ he barked and then, with his grubby, nail-bitten hands he patted down my waist, under my arms, brushing my left breast. I closed my eyes as he moved down to my thigh and between my legs.
I braced myself for this daily humiliation, thinking of my mother and the so-called accident that had broken her leg.
‘I saw him push you down the stairs,’ Mrs Robertson had said. Had my mother been rebuffing unwanted advances? Had she said ‘No’ once too often to a man who was used to getting his own way?
I grabbed the man’s arm.
‘Dinna think of it for a minute,’ I growled at him, an unusually harsh Scottish accent materialising in my anger. ‘Aye, I’ve come across the likes of you before. Next time I’ll kick you where you know it’ll hurt and I’ll scream ’til your ears bleed.’ I was looking at him directly, our noses almost touching. ‘You’re outnumbered here, the women would have your guts for garters.’
The Saturday night bustle of the girls stopped, the chatter about which movie to go to, which dance hall, all dissipated as every eye landed on us.
‘If I was going to steal, I’d steal sommit worthwhile, not a piece of cotton.’ I threw down his arm and walked into the elevator. Leaning against the side I suddenly had to gasp for breath.
‘Maisie,’ Rosa said, putting a hand on my arm. ‘Breathe slowly.’
She rubbed my back in her motherly way. I brushed away the threatening tears: tears of relief, tears for my dead mother, even if her touch had been rare, tears for the familiar life I had left behind.
The rest of the girls trooped into the elevator, subdued and looking away from the gates as they were closed. The noisy and faltering journey from the ninth floor was filled with the odd whispered ‘thank you’ or ‘well done’ in Russian, Italian, Polish and more. I didn’t really know what they were saying, but the gist of it was obvious.
Outside, Rosa took my arm as we walked towards Little Italy.
‘You need to be careful, Maisie. If you lose your job, how are you going to pay for the room in your new boarding house? I don’t even know how you can afford it now.’ She sighed. ‘If I was your mother, I wouldn’t know what to do with you. You are too fearless, and you are still a bambina ! One day it will get you into trouble.’
She rubbed my cheek as if I was her own child. ‘We must get going. Matteo will be waiting for us. Are you all packed up?’
‘Yes,’ I said, wiping my face, ‘everything is ready to go.’
The cart drew up outside number six, Jones Street, a red-brick, five-storey house with a front door that was too narrow, dark arched windows on the first floor and the now familiar zigzag of the metal fire escape staircase on the outside.
Matteo pulled my trunk from the cart and handed me my sewing machine, giving Rosa my carpet bag. I knocked on the door. My new landlady, Mrs Majewski, her worn, brown cardigan matching the peeling paint of the door, ushered us in.
‘So, Miss McIntyre,’ she said curtly. ‘Follow me.’ Turning, she led us up three flights of stairs, leaning heavily on the banister, her substantial woollen stockings bagging at her ankles. I turned to Rosa and noticed her nose wrinkling at the smell of stale cooking.
Mrs Majewski, one of those capable but long-suffering widows, opened a low door with one of the many keys on a chain that hung around her waist and led me in to a small, narrow room containing a low metal bed, with a thin, stained mattress and bedding piled neatly on top, a small table with spindly legs and a rickety chair sitting beside a reasonably sized window, a small basin in one corner and a tiny fireplace.
She held the key out to me as if it was filthy. ‘You must be in your room by ten p.m. and the electricity will be extinguished at ten thirty. I will not have anybody coming in after that, I won’t have my sleep disturbed. The water closet is down the hallway on the right and the bathroom is next to it. Two baths a week for each person, you work out a rota with the other girls on this floor.’ She coughed a small, ugly cough, no hand in front of her mouth. ‘There is a parlour downstairs where you can sit with the others and sew or play my old piano, maybe even talk to each other.
Breakfast is at seven o’clock and dinner is at half past seven in the evening. You must not be late or there will be no meal for you. No food in your room, no guests, no washing to be done in your room. Laundry will be taken once a week. Your meals and laundry are included in the rent. Five dollars a week, payable on a Sunday or I throw you out.’ Her voice was a monotone, with no emotion, not a flicker of feeling passing over her face.