by Leah Fleming
‘We were children, babes then. Now it’s different. I know my place.’
‘Now you’re offended. Like I say, it’s all for the best. But we’re friends and we work well together, yes?’
Netta shrugged her shoulders. ‘Aye, Mistress Bloom, there have to be rules.’
*
Arnie chose to let his hair down for a change, rejecting a piano recital in favour of the latest revue at the City Variety Theatre in Leeds. It was a famous little theatre, a compact smoky atmosphere where the punters yelled and cheered if they liked an act and bawled if they didn’t. It was the usual mixed bill: comic turns, animal acts, dancers and singers and acrobats. One of the speciality acts was Karenza the Snake Woman, a contortionist who slithered on to the stage in a snakeskin body suit while an exotic-looking man in oriental costume played some pipes. What a figure the artist had and could she twist her body and put her legs where legs were never meant to go! It made Netta’s bones creak just watching her.
At the end of her act Karenza stood up and took a well-deserved bow before the audience, whipping off her mask and skullcap. Out popped a cascade of bleached blonde hair in bunches and Netta recognised instantly who it was: Wilma Dixey. It must be.
‘That’s Dixie!’ Netta screamed, jumping out of her seat to wave at her. Arnie held her back whispering, ‘Shush! She’s a foreigner.’ He thought Netta was going bananas and tried to pull her down but she was determined to see if it really was her old sparring partner. At the interval she made him troop round to the stage door to ask if they could speak to Miss Karenza herself. The doorman wouldn’t let them cross his threshold but did allow Netta to scribble a note to the artist instead. ‘Hi there! Greetings to the Evaporee from Stratharvar! How’s Malky?’ Her hand was trembling with excitement. Arnie did not know where to put himself for shame at her antics.
‘What will Mother say?’ he mumbled.
Within minutes a woman shot out of the door in a glamorous dressing gown lined with swan’sdown, ‘Ach, away ye go, hen. Is it really yous?’
‘She’s foreign, right enough,’ whispered Arnie.
‘That’s not foreign, it’s broad Glaswegian! Have you forgotten your Scottish education already?’ Netta laughed and gave Wilma a bear hug, introducing the astonished Arnie who seemed dazzled by her false eyelashes, make-up and glamorous air. Wilma looked like a Hollywood star now but underneath Netta sensed that she was still the same rough and ready Dixie.
At the end of the show she took them both for a late-night meal in a cellar where there was a jazz band and dancing. The music was sizzling and Arnie’s feet never slopped tapping. It was the best birthday night out ever, thanks to Dixie’s nous. She knew city hot spots better than any locals. The night began for her only when the curtain dropped. They missed the last bus home and Arnie walked Netta all the way to Kirkstall. ‘To think we grew up in the same city,’ he said,’ and didn’t know each other.’
‘I don’t think yer mothers washed in the same bathhouse, Arnie. Peg never got over having Papes and Jews as refugees, and her such a good Presbyterian. What a coincidence we should all meet up again, even if she’s just passing through.’
‘She’s off to the Grand in Bolton, next week. Wasn’t she wonderful… those costumes, and such a smart act? To think we’ve so much in common. I’ll take Mother to see her tomorrow.’
‘I don’t think so, it’s Friday,’ whispered Netta tactfully. Poor old Arnie was smitten by the sight of Karenza in the footlights and the lure of her greasepaint. Vida was not going to be happy about this at all.
*
‘I do think you were thoughtless to let him roam the streets with that girl, Netta. I’m disappointed in you. You know he has work to go to in the morning.’ They were finishing off the last fitting for Edna’s wedding dress in the sewing room at Rosamund Street. Netta sucked on her pins, trying not to swallow them.
‘We all had work to go to. And Arnie had a wonderful time at the jazz club, I’ve never seen him so relaxed. It was his birthday, surely you don’t begrudge him a good time?’
‘He’s been back there again, you know, three times.’
‘Good for him!’
‘But his studies… what about his exams? I don’t know what’s got into him.’
‘Flexing his wings a little. He’s over twenty-one, old enough to do as he pleases.’
‘Well, I don’t like it,’ snapped Vida Bloom, spitting pins.
I don’t suppose you do, thought Netta, burying her head in the hem, out of the crossfire.
*
Netta watched the solemn procession: the silver band, clergy, civic dignitaries carrying poppy wreaths, scouts and cubs carrying their flags and the local territorials and British Legion walking stiffly behind. There was a steady stream of ordinary people following carrying little wooden crosses with names on them. Women with small children, older couples and widows, all in sombre clothing, walking together on that solemn morning when the city streets were silent and still and the bell from the parish church tolled in remembrance of fallen heroes.
Netta took her place with her own small cross of poppies: another sad face in the crowd as they reached the Cenotaph on which were inscribed the newly engraved names of the dead. It had to be done. A public display was the least survivors could offer to Rae and his friends for their sacrifice, but how Netta wished she was holding her own child in her arms for comfort as a token of their love. One day, she vowed, Gus would go with her to find his father’s grave. She would teach him then about sacrifice and duty. It was the least she could do.
She was going to give Christmas a miss this year. What was there to celebrate after all? Netta swallowed her sadness. For two long days the whole world would fall silent and the curtains in Aireview Street would be drawn tight against the darkness. There was a carol service at the parish church if she was desperate, music on the wireless for company, plenty of outwork from Vida to be getting on with. She promised herself a long walk along the river in the afternoon of Boxing Day, with a basket of alterations on the go to keep her mind from yearning for Stratharvar. She wondered if Ray would like his parcel of soft toys sent through the post? The dungarees and leggings, and the siren play suit, would wait for final fitting when she saw him once more. She was not going to make the same mistake again. This time she had made sure her sewing gifts would be acceptable.
*
Her mind was full of sewing plans when Dixie turned up unexpectedly at Netta’s digs one Sunday lunchtime en route to a mysterious assignation. Miss Karenza was requesting a new sequinned costume for her pantomime appearance and Netta was to have the order.
‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’ She shook her head, looking at the sketch in surprise, but Dixie just winked and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m sure you’ll do me fine, hen. How’s that handsome fella of yours?’ She smiled at the photograph of mother and son on the mantelpiece. ‘You’re a dark horse and no mistake! I couldn’t believe it when you told me about yer wean. A shotgun wedding, was it, up the aisle with an elastic waist? I bet Peg was charming about that?’
‘Not exactly.’ Time for Netta to spill some of the beans but her audience just roared in response, ‘You divil! Running off to Gretna Green like that. How romantic – and an anvil wedding, what a hoot!’ Dixie was not the type to be shocked by a mismatch of dates and certificates. ‘But how can you bear to leave the wean with that dragon?’
‘I can’t keep him here.’
‘There must be good nurseries for working women. Better than living apart, surely. And if you got piecework at home… ’
‘I haven’t space here to swing a cat. Children aren’t allowed. I’ll move to somewhere bigger as soon as I can.’ How easy it was for Dixie to shrug off her shame as some minor indiscretion. And Netta longed to confide in her how much it really cost her to live two hundred miles from her own baby, but the moment passed. Dixie waltzed off in her fine fur coat to meet Arnie somewhere for tea, leaving behind the other joker she had
thrown into the pack of cards when she challenged Netta about a proper sewing career.
‘You’re wasted on a factory floor. If you sew everything to this standard you ought to be making dresses for a living, not killin’ yerself after midnight for pennies!’
‘Making what, though?’ Netta mumbled.
‘You know fine what I mean: costumes like these, fancy stuff, theatricals, ballgowns, bridal dresses to order. You can do the lot. You’ve got an eye for colour and detail with that special bitty flair and sparkle. Yer own clothes have real style and you cannae buy that in shops these days.’
‘Style won’t pay my digs and board, Dixie, or buy messages at the store. I need regular work but yer right enough – I do so much moonlighting, I can hardly raise my neck it’s that sore. Sometimes I wake up in the night and I’m dreaming fabrics: fents and cotton reels and buttons dancing round my head even in the dark! I count bobbins, not sheep.’
‘Think about it, hen. You only come round the once. Why waste yer talents? I should talk to Arnie’s mum, see if she can help. No flies on that one when it comes to making a bob or two, I’d say, if he’s anything to go by.’
‘Are you seeing him?’ asked Netta. Dixie flashed her big eyes like a Kewpie Doll, putting one scarlet-fingered nail on her lips. ‘Mum’s the word!’ They both giggled.
Dixie’s suggestions were unsettling with Christmas so close and no one to discuss it all with but the festivities were only two days in the year after all. It would not be long before Netta would be back home to hold her boy again. Then they would take the road down to Carrick beach and she would tell him all about these scary possibilities. One step at a time, Dr Anwar had said. Was a golden path of opportunity opening up for Netta at last?
Saturday Afternoon in Kendal, 1949
Netta descended down the A6 to Kendal and parked the car by the river. She climbed up towards the town, pausing to browse in the shop windows and the indoor market. She drifted from one street to another looking for a café to slake her thirst. The town was full of holiday makers jostling their raffia shopping bags and ice creams, kiddies in sun bonnets whining for toys and treats on hot pavements. Youths lounged outside milk bars and old men in flat caps and open shirts chivvied their wives to be quick about their purchases.
It was late afternoon, close and sticky. She must find somewhere for afternoon tea to clear her dusty throat and throbbing head. There were still hours of driving ahead. Netta was swept along the street through the swing doors into Woolworth’s store which were jammed open to let in some air.
It was the usual layout: sweet stalls and tables spread with buckets and spades, toys, colouring books, leftover paper flags and souvenirs, haberdashery, fancy goods. Netta was pushed to the back of the store where the hardware was stacked high and began to feel queasy and faint, light-headed and short of breath. She turned to get out of the door but the thronging shoppers were bearing down on her and she clung to one of the counters to steady her rising panic. She couldn’t find the way out and her chest began to tighten, her throat constricting so she couldn’t breathe. I’m dying, she thought. I’m going to die on this dirty floor if I don’t escape. The room was spinning around her head.
She woke up on the floor with someone waving a paper over her face. They carried her to a chair by the door and her head was shoved unceremoniously between her knees. A glass of water appeared and she was fanned like an oriental princess by one of the young assistants. Netta felt like a freak show with everyone staring at her. ‘I’m sorry, it must be the heat. This has never happened to me before,’ she lied. In fact it was becoming an all too frequent occurrence in crowded places when she was tired or upset.
She drank in the fumes and smell of horse dung on the busy road as the traffic crawled through the town. It felt safer now, in the fresher air and the shaded part of the street. She thanked everyone and made for Finkle Street to a corner café up a flight of stairs that was her usual stop for tea and scones. She lit a cigarette to steady her nerves, ordered an iced lime soda, slurping the fizzy pop through a straw and scooping out the creamy ice with a long spoon. It cooled her thirst and reminded her of childhood treats at Angelinas. She relished the blast of cold on the back of her throat and wished Gus was there beside her to share the sensation.
Netta fingered the package of photographs that she had stuck in her large straw handbag. There were enough here to start another album after all: a special tartan one with tassels. Here was her mother and herself, tiny specks on the shoreline taken when she was five, more school snapshots, some of her letters packaged up and a printed card of her very first sewing venture in its infancy. She fingered the gold lettering lovingly. Where would she be now without her dressmaking?
5
Citrine
‘Sacred colour of midday,
Worn for purpose of mind and spirit
For wisdom and courage on the journey.’
In the Winter of 1947
All Netta’s resolutions froze solid on her return to Yorkshire. No one was prepared for the winter of 1947 when snow blanketed Britain for week upon week. It could only be endured. Pavements were piled high with icy mounds and Netta struggled by foot to Salomon’s through tunnels of ice. Everything ground to a halt, pipes froze up and the power failed. Coal supplies were difficult and factories began to seize up, laying off their workforce. Business was slack at Salomon’s and the girls who did make the effort to get themselves to work were often turned away again when there was no power.
Netta had never known such cold. Her bedsit was like a block of ice with no heating when the power failed and ferns of frost crusted the insides of the window pane. The rooflight was thick with ice. She piled on layers of clothing, struggling to keep out the chill, but her gumboots were at the farm and her bootees thin, giving her chilblains on her heels. In desperation she ran out into the Abbey grounds to dance away their itching, barefoot in the snow.
The daily tramp to Salomon’s was agony. The wind whistled from the steppes of Russia, chilled to iciness by the North Sea and the bleak moors, biting into her face until the ends of her nose and lips were raw.
The only comfort in all of this freezing mayhem was the beauty of the scenery, the wonderful snowscapes and drifting sculptures that hung from the Abbey ruins by the river skating rink. Netta loved to watch the children tobogganing down the slopes and hoped that Father would make Gus his own snowman in the farmyard. Even Aireview Street looked like the castle of a snow princess, dripping with icicles, crusted with rose-tinted snow in the sunlight, all its grim shabby reality disguised by the dazzling whiteness. Her fingers were too raw to sew fine work, no one was in the mood for making clothes and Netta was bored, lost without something in her hand. She walked up the slippery street to see if Vida Bloom needed a hand with anything.
When she arrived there, shivering on the doorstep, Vida ushered her in before a warm coal fire, gave her a glass of strange spirits. ‘That’ll warm you up better than any hot water bottle!’
It burned Netta’s throat but fired her brain with Dixie’s challenge. She leaned back and told Vida how Dixie had suggested she set up her own dressmaking business.
Vida shook her head vehemently. ‘She’s right, it’s time for you to move on from the factory floor but not to this, girl, sewing up dresses for millgirls. It suits me for the moment, I’ve seen the big time and it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. But you need experience of the better end of the market first, where the real money is to be made – the carriage trade in Harrogate or Ilkley. Get yourself some experience there in retail fashion, get to know your customers and what they want.
‘Arnie and I were only thinking the other day that when the coupons go there’ll be such a rush for decent clothes and new ideas. Everyone’s so fed up with threadbare suits and coats. The garment factories will be spinning for years, just wait and see.’
‘But I don’t want to make utility clothes. I want to make the stuff of dreams and glamour and hope for the future… bea
utiful gowns, couture concoctions with yards of material, all flounces and furbelows, silks and satins, buttons and bows…’ Netta had slumped over the table for the brandy had gone to her speech as well as her knees. ‘I want to make Cinderellas into princesses not pumpkins. How can I do that with ration books under my nose?’
‘I know warehouse garments are like gold dust, expensive to buy and scarce to order with all the restrictions on purchase and export, but where money dwells there’s always a way round restrictions, believe me. You’ll just have to be patient, one step at a time. Learn your trade in a quality retail establishment, that’s a start. Look in the Post, smarten yourself up and go for interviews. See what comes up.’
‘But if I made a simple collection of unusual gowns and hired them out together: Scarlett O’Hara ballgowns and Bette Davis cocktail and party frocks?’ Netta was carried away with her ideas, already in the realms of fantasy. It was Vida who splashed cold water on her dream.
‘Not so fast, love, keep it simple and safe. Think big ideas, yes… just start slowly, focus on finding the right clientele. Who would want such stuff round here? Where would you get the capital outlay for materials, workshop equipment and saleroom hire as well as advertising? I’m sure I could get you wholesale on materials and I could give you a hand with the sewing sometimes. It’s a grand idea making dresses for Yorkshire princesses but hold yer sweat and start off at the bottom with the top people. That’s my advice for what it’s worth.’ Mrs Bloom paused. ‘Have you seen Arnie lately? He’s behaving very oddly. I don’t like the look of him.’
‘Perhaps he’s sickening for something,’ muttered Netta, stifling a smile. Vida Bloom looked wearily at her over her glasses.