Page 9 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

She dropped the key into my outstretched hand. ‘I expect my girls to have morals. I will not put up with lewd behaviour and I insist your room be kept most clean and tidy. You understand me?’

I wanted to laugh but her claw-like hands made me hold back. ‘Mrs Majewski, there’ll be no time for bad behaviour, I promise you.’

She glared at me, grunted and left.

‘Well, this is good,’ said Rosa as she shuffled into the room. ‘You have a table to sew at and such a big window. Plenty of light.’ She put my carpet bag on the bed and looked about her. ‘All this space to yourself. And so clean.’ She ran her finger around the basin, along the wall. ‘Yes, it’s good and clean. Now, let me help you unpack.’

Matteo put the trunk on the floor, and I opened it up, the bolt of blue silk on the top.

‘Is this the silk you are using to make the dress for Mrs Marshall?’ Rosa asked, wonder in her voice.

‘Yes. Shall I show you the design I’m working to?’ I took out my sketchbook from my pocket.

Rosa inspected the drawings carefully, then bent down and felt the fabric, almost caressing it, then went back to the sketches. ‘This will be beautiful, but I think you should be bolder. After all, this is a beautiful material, it should be given a beautiful setting. Do not have a chiffon overskirt, it will hide that shimmering fabric. Make the rose on the waist bigger, make it really stand out and be more playful with the sleeves, perhaps give them ties at the end to create some extra movement. It’s a bit serious just now. Make people smile when they see it.’

My understanding of line and colour was improving but Rosa too easily exposed my limitations when it came to the ornamentation and embellishments; I was being too safe, perhaps even a little dull.

‘Maybe you could come and look at it tomorrow. I’m going to work on this in my spare time this week – by the end of the week the bones of it will be in place. Perhaps you could help me come up with some ideas?’

‘Of course! I will come. Oh… I mustn’t forget.’ She pulled a cloth-covered object out of her bag. ‘A present to welcome you to your new home.’ She placed the parcel on the table and unwrapped it. ‘This is my torta margherita , an Italian cake that I know you will like. Sometimes we eat this for breakfast, sometimes for celebrations, so I think we should celebrate your new home.’ She pulled a knife out of her coat pocket and began to cut three pieces. ‘I know that grey old woman said no food in your room, but she doesn’t need to know.’

She handed me the yellow sponge cake with a very light dusting of icing sugar on the top. I was starving, not having eaten for hours. Such light and fluffy sponge, a hint of lemon and deliciously sweet, such a simple flavour, a taste that temporarily took away the dreariness of my very first home, gave some extra light to that tiny room.

Five weeks after moving to the boarding house I was back at The Plaza, but this time I could greet the doorman with a confident smile, I didn’t need to steady my hands, I even thanked the elevator operator as if I did that kind of thing every day. If only Maw could see me, acting as if a visit to The Plaza was commonplace, off to take a fitting with one of New York’s most talked about newlyweds.

In those five weeks I had settled in to my new life, long, tedious days at the garment factory, followed by late, exhilarating nights creating the new dress for Mrs Marshall by candlelight, first the toile and then the real thing. The long hours had me in a stupor, but adrenaline, fear and bravado were keeping me alert.

The maid ushered me into Mrs Marshall’s bedroom for the fitting.

‘There you are, Miss McIntyre,’ she said, looking at her watch as if I was late. ‘Can we get this over and done with as soon as possible?’

Trying to ignore her unexpected brusque manner, I pulled the gown, wrapped carefully in tissue, out of my bag. She made no comment as I held it up, there was no excitement at the sight of the shimmering fabric. As this was the first fitting using the final fabric, the dress was only hand basted, so I had to gently coax her into it. The surprising silence, from a woman who never stopped talking, didn’t bother me as I needed to concentrate, pinning Mrs Marshall into the gown and making any adjustments that were required. The pincushion on my wrist was in constant use, delivering and receiving pins whilst I persuaded the fabric into place. Once I was happy with the fit, I asked her to walk up and down the room. I wanted to see how the skirt flowed, how the light caught the metal thread on the pattern, how the peacock-blue silk came alive with movement, giving it a depth that was missing in its static state. I listened as the dress rustled, as the layers of fabric whispered to me. For the first time since I had stolen that bolt of blue cloth, I could see it as it should have been used.

I stood back to admire the result. The peacock colours, with their shimmer and luminosity, had changed Mrs Marshall from an everyday, insignificant mouse to someone that shone, to a woman that could bring brilliance into an already bright room. There was now a glow that gave her a surety I hadn’t caught before. My whole body fizzed with satisfied excitement, my heart running too fast, little flickers in my stomach.

Finally, I asked her to look in the full-length mirror and tell me what she thought.

Her mouth kept twitching between a smile and a grimace, her eyes darting across the room to the door to the drawing room.

‘Would you be able to hurry this up?’ she asked. ‘I have an appointment that I mustn’t be late for.’

Was this how it would be? No comment, no pleasure in her attire, no wish to enjoy the dress. I let a beat go by, only flattened my lips, kept my hands by my sides.

‘We need to get this right, I don’t want to waste your time and have to re-do it later.’ I tried to keep my voice level.

Her body softened a little at this and she lowered her voice, leaning towards me. ‘It’s only that my mother-in-law is in the next room, and I don’t want her to see this yet.’ She glanced back at the door.

‘Do you not think she’ll like it?’ I asked.

She looked down at her hands. ‘No. She always disapproves of my dress. She believes I have the wrong figure and that nothing will look right on me. Whenever I’ve loved something, she puts it down, always finds something to criticise. If she sees this now, before it’s finished, she’ll persuade me to change it, make the skirt bigger or lower the hem perhaps, maybe even’ – and here she gazed carefully at the blue skirt of the dress, her voice quiet with uncertainty – ‘change the material.’

‘I think we should ask her.’ I walked over to the door.

‘Oh, no! I don’t advise that.’ Mrs Marshall’s body became rigid, and she blanched. ‘She’ll just cause trouble,’ she whispered, putting her hand up to her lips as I knocked and immediately opened the door.

In the drawing room, a tall and severe woman, probably in her early fifties, stood in front of one of the windows overlooking Central Park, holding her gloves neatly in both hands. The sunlight gave her an unnatural halo, emphasised by the shimmer in her pale-grey gown.

‘Excuse me,’ I interrupted. ‘Mrs Marshall would like your opinion on her new dress. It’s the first fitting and she’s a little unsure of its suitability. We’d be delighted if you could join us.’ I held my arm out towards the door and waited.

Her eyes narrowed as she registered my appearance: my clothes, my hair, my general suitability. Wordlessly she came towards me, her movement suggesting that she was fully upholstered, that everything was kept in check, that nothing was given to chance.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What a sensible idea. I take it that you’ve already come to understand that most clothes simply don’t suit her.’ She swept past me and into the bedroom.

I followed, watching the older woman move around Julia Marshall, inspecting her from all angles, saying nothing. The junior Mrs Marshall continued to stay stock-still, but I noticed her dark eyes appeared to have changed to a pale brown, her breathing seemed a little erratic and her hand was at her neck in an attempt to hide the now rising colour.

It was then that I realised that the younger Mrs Marshall had been trying to copy her mother-in-law or, more likely, had been persuaded to. The same bouffant hairstyle, the pale colouring, the out-of-fashion dress style, even down to the same type of heeled lace-up boots, so impractical for a warm September day.

‘As you can see, Mrs Marshall, we’ve been working on a dress for your daughter-in-law’s fundraiser in a few weeks. This is a design that’s in keeping with the newest fashions that are coming out of Paris. You’ll notice the higher waistline which suits Mrs Marshall’s tiny frame, that makes her seem a little taller. I expect you’ve seen the likes of Mrs Hamilton Cary wearing dresses like this. The skirt is much less full and tapers in at the bottom, but we’re still able to accommodate a small train at the back. See how the folds at the waistline shimmer, hinting at a liquidity that will only increase when she moves. I think you’ll agree the blue-green brings out her own natural colouring, makes her look less washed out. The fabric was specially imported from India.’ I kept on talking, worried she’d interrupt and throw me out. ‘I’m looking to make a pale-blue chiffon over-bodice which introduces some additional discretion to the gown without it being too demure. I understand Mr Marshall loves to dance and this dress, with its freer structure, will allow your daughter-in-law to join her husband on the dance floor.’

The elder Mrs Marshall had come to a halt and was staring at me. I suspected that she was a woman who was rarely short of words, but, just now, her mouth was open in a perfect ‘o’, her breath held, a slight look of confusion on her face, as if she’d not been in this situation before.

Finally, she let out a deep sigh and began.

‘Well, well.’ Her words were almost accusatory, and my heart gave a small hiccup. ‘What’s your name? I didn’t catch it.’ She leaned towards me, looking me over myopically, as though she might find my name somewhere on my person.

‘Miss McIntyre,’ I said, trying my best to stay polite.

‘Ah, yes. Miss McIntyre. At last, someone who’s taken my advice. You’ve actually studied the girl in front of you. You’ve understood the faults in her shape, and you’ve been able to bring out the best, hide the many weaknesses. Thank goodness for changing fashion, where would she have been without it? Yes, this will do very nicely. She will complement Rex accordingly. This will ensure she makes the entrance required of her, will ensure people notice her and, perhaps…’ Here she looked down at her junior. ‘Perhaps, for once, you will no longer fade into the background.’ She sniffed, her hands clasped together in front of her as if holding up her more than ample bosom. ‘I believe that this may be the first dress I approve of, the one that will help you take your rightful place by your husband’s side.’

Her jaw was set, and her eyes narrowed. Then she walked around her daughter-in-law again, examining every detail.

‘Yes, very good. Carry on.’ And with that, she left the room.

The junior Mrs Marshall had her hands on her hips as if she was ready to roar with laughter except that her inbred good manners wouldn’t let her. Her now wide eyes had returned to their deep, amicable brown, the profound flush on her neck already receding.

‘Well, I do declare, Miss McIntyre. You have tamed my mother-in-law! Nobody, but nobody speaks to her like that.’ She turned to look at herself in the mirror and began moving her dress around, checking the back, the waist, the underneath of the arms. ‘I should take that lesson from you. Just talk to her like you know it all. Yes, you are quite the mother-tamer.’

And just like that the mood of the room changed, from the earlier oppressive silence to frivolous nonstop chattiness. No longer was I the irritating seamstress pinning her into a dress she thought she didn’t want; suddenly she was telling me all, as if we were the closest of friends: how inadequate her mother-in-law made her feel, the expectation of her performance at the fundraiser in a few weeks, the loneliness of New York when all her friends and family were back in Alabama. She continued, meaningless chatter the content of which I cannot remember. But it served as a strangely calming background music whilst I concentrated on my work. Finally, I was able to relax and pretend this was what I did all day long.

And then we were done, and I was again walking, trying not to run, through the foyer of The Plaza, down the steps and over the road into Central Park, relief coursing through my veins, almost making me laugh. Somehow, I’d pulled it off. Somehow, both the Mrs Marshalls thought I knew what I was talking about, they’d accepted me as someone who understood how to dress them, make them look good. And there was money in my pocket. True to her word, Mrs Marshall had paid me in full.

It was a hot Saturday lunchtime, and for the first time since my arrival in New York, I had nowhere to be.

The whole cross-section of New York society was out either to see or be seen, the jumble of costume that walked past me a welcome distraction from the profound release that was beginning to make me overheat. Women in cool summer dresses with wide-brimmed hats decorated with pastel flowers, occasional flashes of brilliance in bright-pink satin sashes or girls’ yellow hair ribbons, the gentlemen sporting near-identical boater hats, street boys with ripped shirts and grubby knees weaving in and out of the crowds, no doubt pickpocketing, slow widows in their heavy black dresses with their bejewelled lap dogs, nannies pushing large prams with lace-bonneted babies. Walking the tree-lined Mall, I felt as if I was in some kind of mesmeric trance. Everyone seemed to float by me. Eventually, I reached the Lake, found an empty bench, and sat, closing my eyes, leaning back and letting the sun on my face, not caring if my skin turned a shade darker or another freckle appeared, the luminosity of my indoor white skin in need of toning down. I soaked up the heat and listened: the tap, shuffle, tap of an old man walking with a cane, a dog splashing in the water, small feet running, the repetitive creak of an ancient wheelchair, the swish of a silk skirt.

I continued to sit, my eyes still shut, my muscles beginning to relax. Five weeks of only occasional snatched hours of sleep was catching up with me and I felt as if my whole body was going to sag, the ability to hold myself upright seeping away.

My tired mind strayed to Netta and what I’d left behind: my constantly anxious sister, her sweet but hapless husband, her two innocent daughters and another child on the way, their never-ending worry about money, that damp and cold tenement. Had I made their lives easier by ensuring they had one less mouth to feed or would the loss of my earnings have made life even more difficult? The answer was obvious. But if I could make my mark here, in this city that seemed more open, that appeared to have doors with well-oiled hinges that would not so easily be slammed in my face, then maybe I could push those doors wide open. Then I would eventually be able to support them, send money home, be the good sister I should have been.

That thought brought me back to the dress, the dress folded carefully in the bag at my feet, the bag that held my future. There was much work to do and I needed to get on with it.

I got up to make my way back to my boarding room, but as soon as I stood there were black spots in my eyes, and my legs gave way. I staggered, trying to keep myself upright and fell straight into the path of a gentleman who caught me.

‘Whoa! Easy does it.’ He steered me back to the bench. ‘I think you should sit and catch your breath.’

Gently he sat me down and then kneeled in front of me. ‘Are you all right, miss?’

Uncomprehending, I stared at him. His eyes, full of concern, had a kind intelligence embedded in them. He held himself with a solid dignity. He must have noticed my hesitation because he leaned back slightly, as if remembering the social boundaries he was subject to, as if he’d just recalled that he shouldn’t have touched me.

My puzzled fog began to lift. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry to put you out,’ I said, intrigued by this man in front of me. ‘I’m afraid I forgot to eat today and…’

‘Oh, that’ll do it. A girl’s got to eat. Well, I have an easy solution. There’s a pretzel cart just over there. I’ll get you one and that’ll help get your strength back.’

He walked off before I could say any more and I was left watching this stranger amble towards the cart. He had a jaunty walk, as though he was on his way to the fair. He wore a white collarless shirt, with its sleeves rolled up and tucked into a pair of brown woollen trousers, and a brown flat cap that covered his crown of close-cropped curls. He chatted amiably to the vendor before digging deep into his trouser pocket and handing over a coin, then returning with two paper bags and a small paper pot.

‘Here you go. New York’s finest soft pretzel.’ Again, he kneeled in front of me and handed me one of the bags.

I pulled out a dark brown, shiny knot with three holes. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

He pulled back in mock horror. ‘You’ve never heard of a pretzel?’

‘I’ve only recently arrived in New York,’ I retorted.

‘Well.’ He smiled. ‘It’s like a bread roll. It’s got a slightly chewy crust but is soft and doughy on the inside. And it’s oh so beautifully salty.’ He said this with a singsong lilt, pointing to the coarse grains flecked across the top of my pretzel. ‘The Germans invented it and it’s one of the best things about this fine city.’ And suddenly there was a brilliant smile that took over his whole body and made me unable to do anything else but join in.

I buried my teeth into the pretzel, thankful for any food, but that warm, salty bread, crunchy and soft all at the same time, felt like a hearty welcome, as if New York had just opened its front door to me.

‘Welcome to Manhattan!’ the man crowed. He had a habitual blink that was disconcerting when he looked straight at me, as though each blink allowed him a little more access to my mind. ‘There you go. There’s colour returning to your face. Now don’t forget the mustard.’ He put the paper pot of yellow sauce beside me on the bench.

‘I have to fly. An appointment, you know.’ He tipped his cap and turned on his heel.

‘Wait,’ I called after him. ‘What’s your name?’

Spinning on a sixpence he took his cap off and bowed. ‘Joseph. Joseph Jackson at your service.’ That devastating smile, then he ran off before I could say thank you.