The Wedding Dress Maker

by Leah Fleming

  The Wedding Dress Maker

  Also by Leah Fleming

  The Olive Garden Choir

  The Wedding Dress Maker

  The Daughter of the Tide

  The Wedding Dress Maker

  LEAH FLEMING

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in the UK in 1999 by Judy Piatkus (Publishers) Ltd

  This paperback edition published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Leah Fleming, 2019

  The moral right of Leah Fleming to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (PBO): 9781789543254

  ISBN (E): 9781789543360

  Author photograph © MKI Photo

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London ec1r 4rg

  www.headofzeus.com

  In memory of my sister, Audrey

  1935–1977

  ‘Life is a rainbow which also includes black’

  —yevgeny yevtushenko

  ‘My heart leaps up when I behold

  A rainbow in the sky:

  So it was when my life began

  So it is now I am a man:

  So be it when I shall grow old,

  Or let me die!

  The child is father of the man’

  —william wordsworth, ‘My Heart Leaps Up’

  Contents

  Also by Leah Fleming

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1 Freya’s Necklace

  A Wednesday Afternoon in May 1949

  Early on Friday Morning

  September 1937

  May 1949, Friday

  September 1939

  May 1949, Friday

  Dressing Miss Forsyth, June 1942

  May 1949, Friday

  2 Stepping Stones Garnet

  Rae, 1944

  Summer 1944

  May 1949, Friday

  August 1944

  May 1949, Friday

  Ten Days in March 1945

  On The Tenth Day, 1945

  May 1949, Friday at Noon

  Park Royal, Spring 1945

  May 1949, Saturday Morning

  3 Amber

  Snapshots from The Royal, 1945

  May 1949, Saturday Morning

  Hogmanay, 1945

  A Secret Outing

  Saturday, Midday on Shap Fell, 1949

  4 Jet

  February 1946

  Nothing To Write Home About, March 1946

  Homeward Bound, July 1946

  Saturday Afternoon in Kendal, 1949

  5 Citrine

  In the Winter of 1947

  The Texas Rangers, Autumn 1947

  Spring 1948

  Saturday Teatime in Kendal, 1949

  6 Jade

  Dancing on the Green, Summer 1948

  Showdown

  Christmas 1948

  Window Shopping in Kendal, May 1949

  7 Turquoise

  Into 1949

  Forks in the Path, March 1949

  Late Afternoon in Kendal, May 1949

  8 Lapis Lazuli

  The Same Saturday Afternoon at Brigg Farm

  Staying On, June 1949

  9 Amethyst

  Back to Griseley, June 1949

  On Carrick Sands, September 1949

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  1

  Freya’s Necklace

  ‘A golden yoke

  Forged with pride

  Worn with sorrow.

  Circlet of chains

  And stones polished

  Like glass tears.’

  A Wednesday Afternoon in May 1949

  It was like cycling straight into an oil painting: into a canvas of sea and mountains, islands and shore, into a rainbow of colours as far as the eye could see. A brassy sun hung in an enamel blue sky; the turquoise sea shimmered underneath, lapping on to dark rocky outcrops and islands overlooking Fleet Bay, two sides of this canvas framed by brown-mauve hills to the north. The foreground glinted with dots of shorebirds fishing on the edge of the tide: gulls, wagtails, waders, and black and white flashes of oyster catchers kleep-kleeping in alarm at the sight of a small boy careering towards the sand, shouting, ‘Come on, Auntie Netta! Race you to the beach!’

  The young woman skidded to a halt, her fingers pumping the brakes of her sit up and beg bicycle, the wind whipping strands of red-gold hair across her eyes, blinding them from the seascape for a second. She paused to drink deep the precious scene for it had been carried with her into exile so many times, tucked safe at the back of her mind in reserve for dreich Yorkshire evenings.

  The picnic to Castlehaven and Carrick Sands was always the high point of her holiday back home in Stratharvar; a precious ritual. Who would be first to catch sight of the shoreline and the barrack-like towers of the huge ‘cow palace’ at Corseyard, or run around the walls of the Viking fortress? It was always Gus who was first to scatter the brown Ayrshires from their grazing as he tore across the green machars.

  Netta wheeled her pushbike slowly over the humps, scouring the coastline to see what had changed since their last picnic a year ago. Thankfully there were no jagged stumps of wartime coastal defences to spoil the beach, no barbed wire and fences with KEEP OUT signs thrown up on other coasts when fear of invasion was real.

  ‘Come on, Auntie Netta, you’re such a slowcoach!’ yelled Gus as he turned impatiently. His aunt was not in her usual hurrying mode but plonked herself down on a grey boulder while he skimmed pebbles over the surface as she had taught him on her last visit. There’s no rush, she thought to herself, we have this day all to ourselves to explore together. This is our time.

  Usually her visits followed a familiar route march. First she would arrive in Kirkcudbright by train, but, this time thanks to the loan of some petrol coupons she arrived in style in an old Ford van, parking by the harbour square. Then she usually stopped to steady her nerves with tea and scones upstairs in the Paul Jones Tearoom before catching the bus, looking out over the harbour as if from the prow of a boat, admiring the fishing fleet anchored in the estuary. This time she watched from the window for a glimpse of her stepmother, Peg Nichol, puffing along the street in her faded cotton frock and handknitted cardigan, weighed down with the weekly shopping; her wicker basket stuffed with extras from the High Class grocers in Cuthbert Street. With her was young Gus in shorts and Aertex shirt, itching to go crabbing somewhere on the edge of the harbour.

  Netta liked to tiptoe up behind the boy to surprise him with an ice cream cone from Angelini’s Café. She’d watched him gulp it down while Peg sniffed about spoiling his dinner and warned him not to put sticky fingers on the car bonnet. Then they all piled into the van to wend their way westwards around the twisting lanes towards the coast and Brigg Farm.

  Gus was already sunburned, having shot up inches since Netta’s last visit. The journey gave them all time to pass pleasantries, to warm to each other again for
the sake of the child who bounced up and down in the back with the messages. Gus was dying to know what goodies Auntie Netta had brought from England in her leather case and hatbox.

  She watched for the first sights of home: the bumpy track up the hill towards the grey Galloway farmhouse which stood four-square, lintels edged with red sandstone, attic windows jutting out of the roof, glinting in the afternoon sunshine.

  Her father, Angus Nichol, would be hovering somewhere in the courtyard of the old whitewashed farm buildings ready with his usual gruff greeting, ruddy face weatherbeaten by fifty summers, sandy hair frizzled by salt and sun. Gus raced up the stairs ahead of her, hovering by the door of her old childhood bedroom with its iron bedstead, pegged rug and wash stand. The summer curtains were thin and barely closed, faded by sunshine from the southern aspect. He hovered excitedly while she unpacked, eyes scanning her luggage just in case…

  ‘Thank you for my birthday present. I’ve got a farm and tractor and loads of cars now. Jamie Paterson’s got a wee sister called Maisie and I’ve got a new calf. Do you want to see my pageant costume? We made helmets out of silver paper with real horns. The Sunday school teacher said mine was the best, so she did… and I got my photo in the paper, do you want to see it?’

  Gus raced off down the passage to bring back a crumpled account of the carnival procession from the Galloway News and his battered Viking helmet. She looked down at his dark pixie face with its shock of black hair and those piercing blue eyes; such a strange mixture, more Irish than Scots.

  ‘How long did this take you?’ asked Netta, amazed by his achievement. ‘It’s very good. Did Father find you the horns?’ Gus nodded, eyes still fixed on her luggage. One of their rituals on her arrival was for the suitcase to be opened and Gus to finger through the piles of clothing for any lumpy packages. ‘What’s this in your shoe? Is it a shoehorn?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is it toothpaste?’ Netta shook her head with a smile. ‘Look and see.’ It was a rolled up copy of the Beano. Gus ferreted about until he also found the packet of Liquorice Allsorts and the picture book and crayons. ‘Thanks, Auntie Netta! Come and see my toy farm. Father made it for me.’

  His whitewashed bedroom at the back of the farmhouse was changing from an infant’s bedroom to a Boys’ Own den, with battered pre-war toys and half-made models cluttering the floor. He had a homemade wooden garage crammed with Dinky toys; a high bed covered with a candlewick bedspread in airforce blue. A moth-eaten stuffed animal of uncertain breed was tucked by the pillow. Yumpy had gone everywhere with Gus when he was small, on picnics and car rides, now he was relegated to the bed. ‘I spy Yumpy!’ Netta laughed and Gus looked crestfallen. ‘Mammy says I’m too big for a suckie.’

  ‘I expect Yumpy’s too old to play now so he stays in bed all day to keep it warm for you,’ Netta reassured him. Trust Peg to give the orders. All the Nichols were secret suckie sniffers. Netta’s old rag doll still sat on a wicker basket chair in her Griseley home. It was sad day when a little boy must give up his comforter but she supposed it was for the best.

  ‘Tea, folks!’ Peg shouted from the banister rail. ‘Wash yer hands afore ye sit down, Gus!’ He dunked his hands in the bathroom wash bowl and they trooped down together into the kitchen. There was a fine spread of ham and eggs, and a custard trifle with hundreds and thousands melting rainbows of colour on to the cream.

  This was the moment when Netta always knew that she was a visitor and no longer a daughter of the house ready to take her family as she found them. Hands were washed, napkins unfolded and the holiday began.

  On the first evening she would usually walk around the fields to view the stock with Father, admiring his fine herd of Ayshires and his field full of Belties, the black Galloway cattle with a white band round their middle, famous for providing succulent beef.

  There had been Nichols around Stratharvar for two hundred years: Nichols who had supped with Rabbie Burns at the Murray Arms in Gatehouse of Fleet; Nichols who had built up a dairy herd second to none in the district, supplying produce to the huge creameries; Nichols who carved their names on the black oak desks of Stratharvar school and lined the pathways of the parish kirk.

  The farm lay nestled in the hollow between two hummocks, sheltered by trees, a good mile from the coastal gusts. Above it were some ancient cairn stones set on a hilltop.

  On her second day back Netta would always walk up to the top of the hill for the panoramic view over Wigtown Bay. On the third day she took herself off shopping to Castle Douglas. The fourth, if it was fine, would be a ride to Gatehouse of Fleet and Mossyard beach so Gus could collect the beautiful shells blown off course by the Gulf Stream. Then on the fifth day came their picnic ride to Castlehaven, to the small galleried broch heavily restored but still a magical haunt.

  To Gus it was a real fort where pirates were driven off the rocks by warriors and old sea dogs were repulsed from Carrick Shore, but its origins were as old as the ports and townships of the Stewartry itself, part of an ancient Gallovidian defence system. He was too young yet to understand the technicalities but already he had a feel for its history.

  Now Gus had abandoned his own tricycle in favour of the slippery rock pools. Netta watched his progress as she sniffed the briars and honeysuckle gorse, the hedgerows full of blossom, the sculpted shapes of thorn bushes carved by the sea winds, that tangle of sea and meadow flowers and salt wind – the smell of home. The cows grazing on the shoreline ignored their intrusion after a while so she unloaded her knapsack, unpacking Peg’s contribution of thick Spam sandwiches, a bottle of still lemonade, ginger buns and slices of fruit loaf. This was the mid-week ritual of Netta’s stay which was always observed, rain or shine; the solemn waving off, the race to be first to see the sea, the picnic and the story.

  For as long as she could remember, Netta had loved this special place where the pink marsh orchids glistened in late spring, the wild flowers lined the inner walls of the fort now encrusted with lichen and rocky alpines in the crevices, the squills the grassy promontories. Here they could pretend to be guards on sentry duty, imagining life in Viking times. Gus had caught her excitement about times past and Netta fed him stories of the Norse Gods in Valhalla and Asgard. For each visit she prepared another tale from the lives of Odin, Thor, Baldur and Loki, who had fought terrible battles against evil monsters and goblins.

  Once she had found a battered copy of the Lives of the Gods in the Griseley Bookshop. Censoring all its more bloodthirsty details, Netta had prepared her story for this visit. The storytelling usually came after Gus had stuffed down his picnic in order to let his meal settle before they pedalled off on the rest of their day.

  ‘What’s it today? he asked, munching his apple. He knew their routine by now.

  ‘Another story of the old Gods and the rainbow bridge, I think. I thought we might look at one of their Goddesses for change… Freya, wife of Odur, who lived with their daughter Hrossa in Asgard. This is the story of Freya and the necklace Brisingamen.’ She told him the story of the young Goddess who, against her husband’s wishes, went off in search of the mountain of the Giant Women, the Goldsmiths of Middlearth, leaving her child with her husband in the palace. Freya was lured by dwarves who kissed and entrapped her. Then, when she found the Goldsmiths and they showed her that golden necklace, Freya clasped it and it seemed to make her more beautiful than ever. On her return to Asgard her husband had gone away in search of her and she was sorely distressed. She searched all over the earth for him but he never returned and she was left heartbroken.

  ‘What did she do next?’ asked Gus, puzzled.

  ‘She kept on searching and stood on the Bifrost bridge, the rainbow bridge between heaven and earth. Remember we’ve been there before? Some say she stood there weeping like a fountain until Goddess Frigga came out to comfort her and remind her that she still had a beautiful daughter, Hrossa, to look after. From then on Freya wore that cursed necklace, not out of pride but out of shame. When she weeps, her tears fall as
rain on the earth and sometimes we see her rainbow bridge with all the colours of the world in it.’

  Gus fidgeted, disappointed with this girlie story. There were no monsters in it… He munched the rest of his apple in silence before racing off again on his trike to lead the way to Carrick Sands, past the big house at Knockbrex which stood back from the rocky inlet like a toy fort. He wanted to see if the tide had washed up any messages in ships’ bottles on the beach opposite Ardwall Island among the seawood and flotsam, driftwood and metal strewn over the grey pebbles and sand. This time he was in luck.

  ‘Look! Come and see, Auntie Netta! I’ve found a helmet.’ Gus was waving an object excitedly. He watched his young aunt in her pleated shorts and plimsolls, picking her way through the boulders and shingle to the line of seaweed where he lifted up a leather helmet like a dead animal, slimy and with barnacles clinging underneath. He’d noticed that when he walked with her in town she always got wolf whistles from the seamen on the harbour. She pretended not to notice but he saw her freckles go pink.

  Now she shuddered as he offered the mask for her to inspect. The face that must once have donned this pilot’s mask was probably sunk fifty fathoms deep in some lonely grave at the bottom of the Irish Sea like Long John Silver.

  ‘Put it down, it might have fleas!’ His aunt shook her head, not wanting to touch the slimy object.

  ‘Mammy’d say that.’ Why did grown-ups hate getting dirty and muddy and greased up? ‘Do you think it was a Spitfire pilot’s or a Jerry’s?’ Gus and his friend Jamie would play war all day long if allowed to.

  ‘I don’t know, dear.’

  ‘Did you know any soldiers who were killed in the war?’ Gus asked in his matter-of-fact voice, hoping she would tell him another adventure story like the ones in his comic. She nodded but said nothing. Why did everyone always clam up when he asked about the thing called war? He knew it was a great big adventure he had missed out on. The big boys played Japs and Jerries in the playground, knocking the littler ones over, but Mammy said nice boys didn’t fight. Gus was secretly a pirate so he always fought back. Netta was family and she didn’t usually mind. Now his auntie was staring out to sea and looked sad, like the woman in her soppy story.