The Wedding Dress Maker

by Leah Fleming

  He always carried them the same way: two steps forward with the first case, two steps backwards to pick up the other two, like some strange dance, forward and backwards, all the way from the station or where his old van was parked by the main road to the coast. He could not risk his suspension on the potholes to Stratharvar.

  He was a cheery sight that morning: Kerr’s Tailors and Drapery Store on the move to each farmhouse to mark out the seasons of the year. She could remember her own mother sifting through each of the samples in his cases in silence. ‘I’m just waiting for something to jump out at me,’ she would say to Wee Alec as he sipped his cup of tea, and little Netta would wait with bated breath for something to leap out of the case into her hand. It never did but Alec Kerr never went away without an order: warm shirting material, heavy stockings, interlock directoires in salmon pink or sky blue. Come hail or shine, he was always a welcome sight for there were few visitors up the long track to bring the news from Dumfries to the eager ears of the farmers’ wives.

  All the colours of the rainbow came in those cases: satin ribbons; winceyettes and Clydella for nightgowns; even the heathery tweed suiting brightened the long dark nights when Mother would sew up the cloth on her Singer machine. Netta’s job was to catch the offcuts and make them into doll’s dresses, collect the fluff into balls. The feel of fine material across her fingers was always soothing. Wee Alec brought no shoddy cloth on his rounds for farmers needed warmth and quality in their clothing to keep out the draughts and wild weather.

  Netta recalled Wee Alec and his dance up the lane in those happier times when she stumbled down to meet him halfway as a child.

  Now she watched furtively, ashamed to be showing her bulk so boldly. But for Auld lang syne’ she must make an effort and drag herself down to be polite.

  *

  In the farm kitchen Wee Alec’s visit was a welcome intrusion on the day’s chores for Peg. The ritual never varied. First there were the formal greetings, a weather report, the state of rationing – all discussed as Alec laid out his samples on the scrubbed deal table and Peg infused the tea, buttering drop scones to accompany his forenoon cuppa.

  The trek up the lane took it out of Wee Alec Kerr’s stubby legs for he was now the wrong side of sixty, but he was always turned out in a dapper tweed suit, his iron-grey hair still thick with Brylcreem and sporting a trimmed moustache. Then would come the vain search for Angus in the cobbled yard to get him measured up for a new tweed jacket. His old one was not fit to be seen at the cattle market. Peg knew that getting him to open his wallet would take weeks of nagging, cajoling and downright deceit. His natural parsimony made wartime make do and mend seem like profligacy. Try as she might this district worthy shuffled about his work dressed in oilskin coats tied up with twine around the waist, patched trousers and shirts, more holey than godly, and a greasy cap which shone like leather.

  Peg boiled with shame at the sight of him for they were not poor tenants. Brigg Farm was one of the finest dairies in the Stewartry, its herd of brown and white Ayrshires, the envy of many in the district. They supplied butter, cream and milk to the best creamery in the South of Scotland. Was not her front parlour stuffed with solid oak cupboards, adorned with silver and brassware? So why her husband needed to go round threadbare was beyond anyone’s ken.

  There was much about Angus she could never fathom out; that stubborn streak of Kyle stock, kindness itself to strangers but a gey strange manner of showing affection to his own kin. Sometimes it was as if he begrudged his own breath. The shock of Jean Kirkpatrick’s untimely death still burned like acid within him, eroding any spark of outward warmth at times. Peg knew he would not be coming to greet Alec but went through the motions as usual then trundled upstairs for his old jacket.

  ‘Here, can you match the colours in yon swatch with this, measure up the length of it and bring me one made up next time? If I hang it to air on the range, waft it in the byre a wee bitty, he’ll no notice the difference. I’ve enough coupons put by and the hens are doing well. You can give me the bill this time.’ Peg sat down, exasperated, and sipped her cooling tea.

  ‘I saw young Netta on her way down the hill giving it great licks. She looks fine enough considering she’s no far to find her sorrow,’ said Alec, searching for his tape measure and a swatch of tweed to match up with the jacket.

  Peg turned, shaking her head. ‘Would you believe her! Stravaigin’ up and down dale for all to see the size of her. It’s a good job she’s a willow wand or she’d never get her figure back. In my day you wore a cloak and went out at dusk. Modern women have no shame!’

  Alec looked at her sideways, whispering, ‘We was awful sorry about the bad news. Still, it’s no the size of the dog in a fight but the fight in the dog. Netta was aye a brave wee bairn and she didna come up the river Fleet on a biscuit tin, Mistress Nichols. She’ll earn her own keep.’

  ‘With her big ideas, she’ll have to! You don’t know the half of it, Alec Kerr. The stuff she’s made for this bairn: nightgowns, barricoats, spencers, knitted bonnets, shawls. Where she got the terry towelling napkins and muslin liners from… I don’t hold with all that spending afore a birth. It’s tempting fate. She could have got the necessaries from you… I dare say you would have given her extra, for old times’ sake?’ Peg sniffed, staring at the old man with a frown.

  ‘No, she did right to get it where she could,’ he said solemnly. It’s no that easy to for us to get hold of quality goods and getting worse all the time. I had tae make up a bride’s costume for a young wife in Dumfries… Could I get her the colour she wanted? In the end the poor soul took what I brought from the warehouse: a linen dress in rust with box pleats and appliquéd pockets. Not her colours at all but when there’s a war on… Will Mr Nichol be long? Only I have an appointment at McQuirter’s at noon.’ Wee Alec was anxious to be on his way now the courtesies had all been observed, as usual.

  ‘You’ll no get much out of them the day, not now Billy’s gone west. Old man McQuirter spends most of the day in the King’s Head and his wife in the Catholic Chapel, so I’m told,’ sniffed Peg.

  ‘Aye, well, drinking and praying tame the strongest grief, they say. If there’s anything Netta’ll be needing,’ Alec collected his bags, ‘I’ll see myself out and go and meet her.’

  Once the farewells were over Peg slumped at the stone sink. She could feel the tension mounting whenever Netta came into view. Why had they never taken to each other? She had tried to be understanding. They should have been companions not rivals, especially at a time like this.

  Had Peg not stepped in between the arguments over Rae? And look what a disappointment she had turned out to be, running off to marry the first soldier who’d looked her way. After all Angus had done for her, insisting his girl stayed on at school. And where had it got her: not a single qualification and now not even eligible for war work. A disgrace to this house!

  If Peg was honest there had been a measure of silent relief for her when Netta had waltzed off to Gretna Green with yon artist. Yet within days she was back under their roof and now the size of a bus. It wasnae fair! Try as she might Peg could never call her Jeanette, even though she was growing more and more like her mother. Roots will out, Peg mused. Trust Netta to chase after some penniless artist with only a satchel full of drawings to his name – she was after all the granddaughter of John Kirkpatrick, who’d once lived by the shore.

  His derelict studio stood close to where Angus sometimes let the cattle roam and the pictures in the parlour were some of his finest. Peg wondered if they could do up the studio and put Netta and her bairn in there, out of her hair…

  She had always been jealous of Jean. They had made such a handsome couple, she and Angus, in their hey-day; the tall farmer with his square face and sandy hair, quite a catch himself, and the fair artist’s model. But their offspring would try the patience of a saint! When Netta turned up in her kitchen each morning with her belly bulging, it rubbed further salt into the wound of Peg’s childless desp
air.

  *

  ‘Look what Wee Alec’s given me!’ Netta breezed into the kitchen waving a dog-eared magazine in her hand: American Harper’s Bazaar. ‘Maisie Kerr found it wrapped round a food parcel from her cousin in New Jersey and they thought I might like to have it.’

  Angus, after seeing the salesman’s departure, was now tucking into his hot mutton broth, blowing on the spoon and slurping. He barely raised his head. ‘He’s got a good eye for business, soft soaping you to spend at his store.’

  ‘Why do you always think everyone’s out to diddle us? I noticed you managed to sneak in without the poor man seeing you. He was waiting to catch you,’ answered Netta. The unexpected gift had lifted her spirits. It was good to have a fashion magazine to read at her leisure. She plonked down and shoved her trophy forward for Peg to admire. Angus looked up from his meal, pleased with himself.

  ‘You two were stood there blethering ninety to the dozen like fishwives. You didna notice me. That’ll teach old man Kerr to hang about! Now he’ll be late for the rest of his rounds.’ He stared down at Bump. ‘Isn’t it about time you dropped that bairn of yours or is it just wind in yer belly? If you were one of my kine, I’d be dosing you up.’

  His daughter ignored the gibe and flipped through the thin pages, poring over the photographs with delight. ‘Oh, look! Claire McArdell. Three pages of her designs. Isn’t this wonderful?’ wafting a photograph of a film star sitting casually at her mending: Miss Lauren Bacall darning her socks, relaxing in a one-piece linen lounger by Claire McArdell, New York’s best young designer.

  ‘Don’t you think the line is very unusual? So sophisticated yet practical too. Look, Peg.’

  She peered down and sniffed. ‘It looks more like a Chinese coolie outfit to me.

  ‘Look at the belt. Oh, I do wish it was in colour and I could see the shade contrasts. That mandarin collar is so right, and the neat buttons… I think they’d be brass to give a military effect.’

  ‘Stop yer running commentary. You’re not on the wireless. I’m trying to have my dinner, lass.’

  ‘Look at the sleeves, Peg, so full…’

  ‘Seems a waste of good cloth to me and such plain material. I like a bold pattern, a bit of interest. They look just like plain overalls.’

  ‘Yes, McArdell likes working materials: for leisure wear: cottons, cowboy denim, jersey. Isn’t it just tickety-boo!’

  ‘Where do you get such words? Tickety-boo indeed… all steamed up aboot a bit of cloth! Who’s got time for leisure? This is no Hollywood. Women in trousers is for the factory floor and nowhere else. A backside isn’t fit for britches, not on a woman. It’s no decent,’ Angus contributed, blowing the cold breeze of reality on her chatter as usual.

  ‘Why don’t you save it for when you’re in bed with the bairn? It’ll be something to look forward to after all the nappy pails and night feeds.’ Peg was trying to be pleasant.

  ‘I’ll be breast feeding.’ Netta smiled, knowing how Peg would react.

  ‘Not in ma house you won’t! That’s for peasants and Papes who ken nae better, not well brought up mothers,’ snapped Peg, her cheeks flushing at the very thought of such barbarism. Angus bent his head low to keep out of the crossfire. For once Netta would let this pour right over her, too thrilled by the magazine to hit back.

  ‘You’re right, I’ll have to be strong and put it away. Oh, I wish the Bump would shift itself. If nothing happens the day, I’m off to see Dr Begg and Leithy to get them to do something.’

  ‘Let nature take its course. You always did have ants in your pants. Did you turn yon shirt I gave you? Seeing as his lordship here saw fit to avoid Wee Alec and stop the moths escaping from his wallet again. Shame on you, Angus Nichol, for going round looking like a tramp.’

  ‘I’ve got better things to spend my money on than parading about like a peacock. It gives folk the wrong idea. If I look like a dandy, they’ll think they can put their prices up. These shirts’ll see me out.’ He banged his spoon for more soup.

  ‘Out of where, tell me?’ snapped Peg, sloshing the ladle of broth in the general direction of his bowl. ‘You’re only fifty-five, man. You’ll wear out a few more shirt collars yet, God willing.’

  ‘I’ll no have Alec Kerr thinking I’m a soft touch.’

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t, Father. I’ll turn the sleeves on your tweed jacket and put some patches on, if you like?’ offered Netta.

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ve ordered the old skinflint a new one. A ragged coat puts off a robber – but I’m no going round this district with this bag of rags on my arm and that’s my last word on the matter!’

  At Peg’s words Angus rose abruptly from the table and stormed out of the door. Netta sat in silence, head bent, suddenly overcome with tiredness, aches and pains low in her back. Peg looked up and saw the grimace.

  ‘Don’t bother about him, he’ll come to by teatime. You look wabbit, my girl. Do me a bit of mending but put those puffy ankles up. I don’t like you running about up the hillside. You’re not a sheep. What if your waters had broken while you were out? Who would see to you then?’

  ‘They didn’t, more’s the pity. I feel so restless and can’t seem to settle to anything.’

  ‘Your father would say that was a good sign. Stay close by. Save your strength for when you’ll be needing it. Have you thought what you’ll do when all this lot is over?’

  Don’t worry, Peg, I won’t burden you any longer than is necessary.’ Netta bristled at the hint. In truth she could think no further than the birthing.

  ‘I didna mean it that way…’

  ‘You did. I know I’m a nuisance and I can’t do much around the farm but I did want Bump born safely. Staying here seemed right at the time. I wanted to be close to… well, to have family around, just in case.’

  Just in case? Is there anything you’re not telling me? Is there something amiss?’

  ‘I’m fine, I just keep getting these feelings – tired one minute, excited the next. I can’t explain. And then I feel fearful. It comes and goes over me like the tide. Leithy says it’s all to do with losing Rae, the disappointment and all that…’ Her voice trailed away and tears filled her eyes.

  She could never talk about him without crying. Peg kept silent. The silly girl had had no marriage to speak of and now she was burdened with a bairn.

  Netta was wishing her parents could have got to know him better, to appreciate he was not just any student but one who’d won prizes at the College of Art; how he’d supported himself with part-time work in a warehouse. What a brief marriage of might-have-beens. If only Netta could explain how it still hurt every time she thought of him. ‘This time last year’ kept ringing in her head.

  ‘You just take it easy, my lady. If Nurse Leithy says feet up and rest, then do it.’

  ‘Peg?’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘What’s it going to be like?’

  ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘You were a nurse.’

  Just invalids and chronics, never a midwife.’

  ‘But you must know something. The only thing I know is cows.’

  ‘All I know about birthing can said in one sentence: castor oil, a hot bath, then use your pains…’

  ‘Why castor oil?’

  ‘It helps nature take its course and eases the passage ways, so I’m told.’

  ‘Will it hurt? Cows don’t seem to mind much.’

  ‘Of course it’ll hurt! Remember Eve’s curse: “In sorrow shalt thou bring forth children”. But there’s joy at the end of your pains.’

  ‘What if I die. Who will take care of Bump then?’

  ‘Don’t talk such rot. Whatever put that idea into your head? You’ve been reading too many of those dreadful novelettes from the circulating library. Rest is all you need, and a good dose of castor oil. There’s some in the cabinet under the wash stand. If it’s a bath you’re after you’ll have to heat up the kettle and fill the tub yourself. This isn’t the Ritz, more’s
the pity. But mind and wait until I’m back in the house, just in case.’

  Netta couldn’t wait all afternoon for Peg to return and so dosed herself thoroughly, filled the tub and read Harper’s Bazaar in the bath. One way or another Bump would be making an appearance before the night was out.

  *

  Bump was in no hurry to obey orders so Netta spent an uncomfortable night in and out of the bathroom, but by the morning the ache in her back had worsened into a definite pain. That was the cue to swig down more castor oil, shutting her bleary eyes with a grimace. That should do the trick.

  ‘A ride in my old jalopy down the track should shift it nicely,’ Father said as they bumped their way slowly over the switchbacks in his van along to the coast road, chugging and spluttering to the outskirts of Kirkcudbright and Braeside Nursing Home. The red sandstone villa was set back from the coast road with a shale driveway and steps up to the porch. The sun was shining on trees dripping with early pink blossom, the borders edged with crocuses. Netta could sniff the salt spray from the shore, feel the soft Gulf Stream breeze on her cheeks. This was a moment to savour: stepping proudly over the portals into an unseen world of bed pans and babies.

  Nurse Sadie Plenderleith was waiting for the new arrival and ushered both of them in with their brown suitcase. ‘Away you go to see Hector, Angus. A braw day for your first grandchild’s coming, is it no?’

  He hesitated, thinking to wait with Netta, but was hustled into the hall. ‘Don’t worry, Angus Nichol, we’ll take good care of her. There’s women’s work to be done here. I need to examine her just in case she’s having us all on.’

  Leithy welcomed her charge through the door with a broad, beaming smile. Who could not fail to feel more confident, thought Netta, knowing the hundreds of babies she had delivered over the years, the bundles wrapped in shawls and bonnets she had handed over to proud parents? Braeside was a home for invalids and convalescents but difficult confinements were her speciality. Comings and goings, births and deaths, Leithy and her brother who ran the establishment were respected in the district for cleanliness and efficiency beyond the call of duty. Woe betide any assistant who tried to cut corners or skimp rations, they were sent packing with no references. ‘This is my nursing home and while I’m in charge it’ll be home from home for my patients too. Cheery faces heal wounds, good food feeds the spirit. Come in and let’s be seeing to you, Mrs Hunter.’