by Leah Fleming
‘What are you grinning at? It’s not funny. I don’t get a straight answer out of him these days. He’s taken up his clarinet again. Not for Mozart but that dreadful wailing stuff they play on the Light Programme.’
‘The Blues. It’s Jazz, Mrs Bloom. He’s taken to Jazz that’s all.’ Netta sighed with relief that this change of subject had shifted them away from the real cause of Arnie’s distracted air.
‘It all sounds like two cats in a dyke to me.’ Netta smiled, thinking those were the very words Peg had used about Vida’s Third Programme. There was no accounting for musical taste.
*
The proprietress of Maison Dorelle surveyed Netta with disdain, sniffing over her homespun suit like a bloodhound, searching in vain for a loose thread, uneven hem, any visible flaws in her sewing skills. ‘I wouldn’t be interviewing a factory gel if I wasn’t desperate. Why I should be taking you on, I don’t know. This reference from a Mrs Bloom, a back street dressmaker, no doubt, is hardly worth the paper it’s written on, Mrs Hunter. I don’t take marrieds but as you’re a widow I suppose I can make an exception.
‘My ladies like familiar faces when they disrobe, clean fingernails and sweet breath. Do you smoke?’ Netta shook her head. ‘I want no stale smells on our garments. This is all highly irregular but that harpy just upped and left us without a moment’s notice and with the summer season to prepare for… You’ll have to do, I suppose. You’re the least offensive of the bunch and your accent is at least tolerable. My ladies can manage a bit of Scotch as long as it’s not broad and common.
‘Pity about your hair. Not a fashionable colour at all, too brash to the eye. We’ll have to cover it up. You’ll be on a month’s trial. If you fit into our ways, then we’ll see. This is a very respectable establishment founded by our father, Mr Percival, God rest his soul, departed these two years. Everyone here knows their place and I won’t have slackers. Do you understand me?’
Netta almost bobbed like a servant girl. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And it’s Miss… Miss Venables to you. I shall expect you at eight sharp, tomorrow morning. We shall take it from there. You will answer to Jeanette when called upon to render assistance to our vendeuse, Maybelle.’
Netta gulped as she studied the bus timetable to see what unearthly hour she must rise to get back to Griseley in time. Beggars can’t be choosers, she sighed. Of all the jobs in all the papers she had written to and asked after, this was the only one to come up trumps. Mrs Danvers from the film Rebecca, that was who Miss Venables looked like, and she came to a sticky end. If this was the grilling for a humble alterations seamstress, heaven knows what a sales assistant must go through to be acceptable. Still it was a job in fashion retailing, the next step forward. As Netta stared from the top of the bus the sights around her looked pleasing enough. Griseley was almost countrified with moorland stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see and it was on the road to Ilkley with fine houses with huge frontages and gardens, an elegant parade of shops, broad streets and an air of prosperity about the shoppers even in these shabby times.
The last of the terrible snow lay melting in piles on the sides of the pavements but the hills were clearing fast. There was no white in the hollows, a sure indication that the snow would not return. Spring was late but it had come at last and her spirits soared with excitement at this new opportunity. Vida had been right when she’d said Netta should find the right clientele. There would be so much to learn about Maison Dorelle even though it was old-fashioned. Who nowadays had ‘Gowns, Furs and Overmantles’ printed in faded gold lettering above the window? There were no prices in the window displays and that meant expensive, exclusive and quality. If she was going to be a dress designer then this was where she must start.
In the days that followed her arrival across Maison Dorelle’s hallowed portals, Netta found herself on her hands and knees to the great and good of the county. Miss Venables was a stickler for pecking orders, procedures and propriety. ‘You stay in your corner, Jeanette, until called. Speak to no one unless spoken to. Maybelle makes the sale and you obey her orders at all times. She will nod. Do not hover and above all make no suggestions. I will not have pin-pickers altering my garments without my say so. No contact, no comments and no connection with our customers. Is that understood?’
Netta was banished to the cubby hole at the back of the shop; a tiny workroom with a bench and machine, just a few shelves and a sink. She was expected to make tea for customers as they browsed through the latest collection of summer wear. She was also expected to prepare dresses for the part-time mannequin, well past the full flush of youth, to parade before the customers who could not be expected to disrobe themselves for fear of catching a chill. Their measurements were kept discreetly in a cardboard box and occasionally they submitted themselves to the tape measure for a renewal of the sad statistics.
‘We specialise in portly fittings,’ said Miss Venables as she sifted through the files, chucking the unfortunates who had not made it through the harsh winter into the bin. ‘Yorkshire ladies all like their puddings and it shows.’
When the bell rang, Netta made her discreet entrance through the plush curtain in a dove grey overall, an exact match to the carpet, pins on her chest lined up like medals, tape around her neck like a stethoscope, to grovel silently at the feet of the client while Maybelle talked them through possible alterations and Netta adjusted seams, tucks and length swiftly, trying not to put cold fingers on their delicate flesh.
How bare and vulnerable these bodies all looked in the harsh mirror and some smelled as if they had not had a wash for weeks. Some of the richest women did not care how they were dressed but flung on several dresses and then flung them off again on the floor for their poodles to trample on. These were not the women she wanted to make dresses for, they were old and tired and corseted into unnatural shapes. She longed for young flesh and bright colours, stylish modern cuts in glamorous fabrics. How dowdy were the rails of colours, maroons and dark blues, black and every shade of mud: dull as dishwater colours on plain women, all reflecting the taste of Miss Venables and ‘Our father who has gone before’.
Then there were the tweed brigades who lived in draughty barns out in the country. They wanted serviceable and sensible and more sludgy country colours. Some were young enough to smarten up and Netta hoped their evening wear would be brighter and more alluring, but even Maison Dorelle could not get everything they ordered from the tired-looking trade reps who called hopefully each season. A quota of Utility designs seemed be the best value but their bridal wear turned out to be skimpy and plain beer. No wonder customers went elsewhere for their evening wear.
Hadn’t they heard of the ‘New Look’ in the fashion magazines? Christian Dior was the talk of the trade. Netta had scoured the fashion magazines when she first began to hear of this bombshell exploding in Paris. Christian Dior’s look was rocking fashion houses all over the world. He was doing the unthinkable, lowering skirts, shaping women into tiny waists and full bosoms, using yards and yards of tulle and taffeta to plump out skirts into bells.
‘I think his designs are disgusting, emphasising curves in such a suggestive manner… a waste of materials, such decadent ideas,’ condemned Miss Venables. ‘Our father would turn in his grave to see such a betrayal of wartime spirit. It won’t catch on. Our ladies have more sense!’ Netta said nothing about seeing the latest newsreel pictures and how his ideas were taking fashion by storm in London. She wanted to be the first girl on the High Street to sport such advanced fashion and stayed up all weekend to run up a printed cotton dress with a tight bodice and full skirt which hovered just above her ankles. If only she was a real designer she could grab these ideas and translate them into the most wonderful ball gowns and wedding dresses too. Make everyday women glamorous and feminine again. She wrote to Brigg Farm to tell them all about her new position and turned up for work on the brightest of mornings, knowing that her visit home was only two weeks away.
‘Tak
e that off at once, Jeanette Hunter. You look ridiculous. Don’t make such a spectacle of yourself. Whatever next!’ Her new outfit was banished to the workroom and it was on with the uniform once more. But she was going to wear it for Gus when she stepped off the train.
*
Neither Peg nor Angus could see the point of her dressmaking idea. ‘It’s all a bit of an airy-fairy scheme. Why don’t you stay in this dress shop and be done with it?’ argued Peg.
‘But anyone can run a dress shop. I want to make clothes out of my head. The world has gone wild with the New Look and Royal wedding fever, or hasn’t it reached these parts yet?’
Peg shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s all one tae me, lassie. You should ken, there’s mair to marriage than dressing up, Princess or no!’
‘Oh, Peg, don’t be a wet blanket!’
‘Better a wet blanket than living with ma head stuffed in the clouds. It’ll take more than a bit of confetti and ribbon to make yer fortune. It changes nothing.’
‘Nothing… what?’ asked Netta, not catching her meaning.
‘Gus stays here with us where he’s settled. You’re in no position to take on a kiddie with all they daft schemes of yours.’
All her pride and excitement in her progress suddenly evaporated with these cool words. Was she always to be punished for her mistakes? Would her own needs and desires ever be respected by them? It seemed not, but Netta would keep on trying whatever it took. One day she would be a success despite them and then nothing would stop her from being a mother to Gus.
The Texas Rangers, Autumn 1947
Each night Netta stood wearily at the bus stop, sheltering from the downpour in a shop doorway. One evening she saw the poster announcing: ‘Come Scottish Dancing’. Memories of jigging it down the Memorial Hall at Stratharvar flooded her with nostalgia and homesickness. ‘Find your own’ the doctor had suggested. If she stayed on after work and caught a later bus back to her rooms she might enjoy the music and the company. It was a warm thought on a cold night and cheered her all the way home.
The windows of St Andrew’s church hall were steaming, the parquet floor groaning under the thunder of the dancers who swirled around the room until the gramophone jerked its needle, throwing everyone into confusion. They were mostly young women and a few older men who were shared out fairly to learn their steps. Netta was welcomed with open arms because it was obvious she didn’t have two left feet. St Andrew’s Night was fast approaching and the troupe were hoping to lead the Yorkshire Scotia at the annual bash in the Royal Hotel.
All those years pounding the Memorial Hall dragging reluctant pupils came in useful and she sent for her black leather lace-up pumps from Brigg Farm. They were a friendly bunch of nurses and teachers, butchers and housewives, and her own partner was the matron of some Cottage Homes close by. It was good to hear familiar accents en masse, not just a stray Scots voice on a bus. The Scotia Club members who were turning up to polish their steps were a different breed, mostly second-hand by marriage with a sentimental attraction to tartan and pipe bands.
The late influx of official members was dominated by a loud horsy set of snappy dressers who roared up to the church hall in flash MGs: the sort Netta surmised who had wealthy parents or husbands who shelled out petrol coupons, fodder bills and clothing allowances. Here were her future customers: youngish, many still single, an untapped source of wedding dress potential perhaps. She was going to stick close to them and observe.
The leader of the gang was Ginnie Mackeever. Jean, the matron, whispered that the girl was the daughter of the biggest builder’s merchant in the district. He had started out his career as a humble Glasgow brickie but now lived in some grey stone villa on the outskirts of Ilkley with his own stable of hunters.
‘Watch out! Here come the Texas Rangers,’ Jean warned. ‘You watch, they’ll push their way in and ruin all our rehearsals. I wish they could dance as well as they can ride! We do all the serious stuff, charity displays and dancing classes. They get all the glory turning up in a posse of fur coats and a cloud of blue smoke.’ But Netta couldn’t take her eyes off Ginnie Mackeever. She looked like a mannequin, tall and curvy with a stylish perm. As she twirled, the diamonds on her engagement finger flashed in the gaslight. How confident she looked and how wildly glamorous. She was wearing a New Look full skirt cinched by a waspie waist band in the very latest style. Even her boat-neck sweater was straight out of Vogue: such casual careless elegance, cutting her own workaday homespun clothes down to size.
Jean was watching her partner, eyeing her enviously. ‘Forget it, they Texas Rangers take no prisoners. Many are called but few are chosen. We’re no in their league. To be one of them you have to ride like the devil, own your own horse and drink like a fish. Oh, and have some poor soul up yer sleeve to fund all their fun and games, hen.’
You could be useful to them, Netta thought to herself, sew them up outfits as up to date as any they are wearing. But if you want some of their clothing allowance you’ll have to run yourself up something stunning for the Ball, something they will notice and want to know where you bought it. Yes, St Andrew’s Night must be the next stepping stone on her path to success.
*
The buffet supper was demolished. An afterglow of speeches and toasts lay like a smoky haze over the assembly. The hotel ballroom glittered with silver buckles and tartans in the lamplight, from deepest scarlet to midnight blue: Macgregor, Macduff, Macleod, Black Watch, Scott, Ogilvie, all the colours of the rainbow set against black velvet and white satin.
Tonight Netta felt the colours around her so keenly that she could almost taste them. Carmines smelled of burnt rose petals; yellows brought a tinge of mustard and gorse flowers; greens were the newly cropped fields of grass, and blue and purple brought whiffs of smoke and heather honey to her nostrils. She sat back to admire the guests, glad to have joined the dancing group.
The troupe had led the floor in a short display of reels and Netta’s white dress, boned and scooped out at the neck, with layers of rustling underskirts made from net curtain lace and offcuts, had been much admired. White was the purest, harshest of hues on a redhead so she had softened the fabric with a soaking in tea. Working with pale shades was soothing. Was it because it was a safe and female colour? Did it make up for so much that was murky grey in her own life? Why was she pondering such gloomy thoughts when she was safe among her fellow exiles, listening to the chink of raised glasses?
For the first time in many months she could relax, away from the strains of the dress shop and her shabby rooms. One day she would be one of the Scotia club when she was Jeanette Hunter, dress designer, with her own little business on the High Street. How she envied the Texas Rangers the comfortable security of solid homes and local connections, all that noisy exuberance. They belonged because of who they were. Ginnie didn’t have to budget and scrimp, stay up all night to finish her dress or worry about a secret child so far away. They must be about the same age but Netta felt so old and staid in comparison. The sparkle had gone out of her life. She sometimes felt almost invisible amongst them and it hurt to be ignored.
There’re other exiles here besides you, though, thought Netta. The soldiers in their dress kilts, the butchers, builders, teachers, policemen, wives and nurses, doctors, shopkeepers and landowners. Exiles who found nostalgic comfort every now and then in recalling the homeland with its bagpipes and folk songs, mountains, lochs, tenements, tram cars and pawky humour. What was it that really made a Scot? What a mixed bunch the members were with only their birthplace in common. Yet this St Andrew’s Night was going to be an evening to savour when she was back hemming miles of tulle under Miss Venables’s hawkish eye.
Then Ginnie Mackeever swept across the floor in her white lace dress and tartan sash, flouncing across the ballroom with her fiancé on her arm. ‘Come and meet the natives, darling. This is our own Moira Shearer… such red hair it makes me go out of step just looking at it. Is it really that colour,’ she whispered,’ or are we looking at
some quality henna? Love the dress… Who’s your dressmaker? A little bird told me you’re the star stitching up Dorelle’s. Poor girl, however do you suffer Maudie Venables?’ Ginnie’s accent sounded as if it had never crossed the border in its life.
Netta averted her eyes, feeling Ginnie’s sharp eyes roaming over her dress with reluctant admiration. ‘Quite the little Schiaparelli! Not bad, is it, my sweet? Meet Dr Andrew Stirling, my fiancé… Darling, meet the crowd.’
He nodded casually, putting his hand on the table to steady himself for he was a bit the worse for whisky. The hand lay spreadeagled in front of Netta’s nose, a hairy freckled pigment on the wrist. She looked up out of politeness, waiting to shake hands, but her arm froze at the sight of the man. She would have recognised that mottled face, those waves of sandy hair anywhere. A flash of recognition crossed his face and his mouth twitched into a small smile.
Netta glanced away, her neck flushing with the effort to stay calm. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ She bent her head down with relief but couldn’t help noticing he was still staring at her. She stared back at him, warning him with a brief shake of her head. Would he blab it out to Ginnie? It would be all over the club in minutes. Suddenly a feeling of dread flooded over her and she couldn’t breathe. Netta rose to find the ladies’ room, to steady her nerves and calm this awful shaking.
*
Drew leaned on the table to catch his breath. Good grief! What a shock to see that mane of flaming hair and those sea-green eyes wide as saucers at the sight of him. What on earth was she doing in Yorkshire? He lit a fag to steady his nerves while Ginnie flitted from table to table like a noisy starling. Smiling to himself, he thought of the poster which had been stuck on the Sunday School wall as a child. BE SURE YOUR SINS WILL FIND YOU OUT. This meeting could call his bluff with this crowd, but somehow he knew Netta was a safe bet.
Nevertheless he had been thunderstruck by her slenderness and elegance and the warmth of her smile. He had forgotten how luminous those eyes were.