by Leah Fleming
The day of the annual garden party drew closer and it was time to inspect the girls’ costumes just in case they needed redoing. Netta hoped against hope that they had pressed everything at every stage as she had insisted. There was still time to repair puckered seams and dippy hems.
Lily Liddell and the other small dancers paraded in pink, lilac, blue and green costumes. Each of these efforts was good enough to use, Netta saw with relief, but one set of costumes jumped out at her for their quality and flair. These were not covered in paper leaves or felt appliqué but hand embroidered in satin stitch, quilted and padded into lustrous trailing ivy leaves with green toy beads threaded here and there to add texture to the decoration. There were hours of work in each of these dresses: work that would not have shamed an apprentice dressmaker.
‘Who made these?’ asked Netta, lifting up the costumes, intrigued by the sheer exuberance of this handiwork. No one spoke then Beryl pointed to the corner.
‘Her, miss. Polly’s a divil with embroidery. All day and all night, never leaves it alone. Allus stitching summat.’
Polly had gone scarlet and darted out of the room with the little girls.
‘Where’s she gone? I only wanted to congratulate her. You’ve all done very well.’
‘Polly’s gone with her sister to take her little brother a walk, he’s still in the baby house. Not quite there is Jack Liddell but Polly’s dead good with him.’
It was Matron Jean who told Netta the full story of how the Liddell family came to Oldroyds Home two years ago when their mother had been killed by a hit and run driver in a peasouper of a smog. She had been carrying the boy in her arms and as she was struck his head hit the kerb and he was left unconscious for several days. When he woke up he couldn’t speak or walk. Polly had nursed him fiercely ever since. They were all brought into Oldroyds so as not to be separated but Polly was due to leave her school at the end of term and find work. Lily Liddell was nine and Jack four.
‘She wants to be able to support them on her own, a tall order for a lass of her age,’ Matron sighed.
Netta nodded: one look at those costumes had convinced her that Polly was a sewing natural, an apprentice worth training up. If ever she rose to the dizzy heights of having her own premises, then Polly was the helper for her.
*
The garden party was a great success and the scorching heatwave brought everyone searching for shade as they watched the little ones go through their paces in the home-made costumes. Netta was resting from the exertions of the Scottish dancing display, walking in the shade of the old woodland path, when a familiar voice called her name and she spun round. It was Drew Stirling.
‘Netta Hunter… Thought it was you jigging in the sunlight. Must be mad, dancing in all this heat. So we meet again in the undergrowth!’
‘Not you again! What are you doing here? And where’s Miss Mackeever?’ Netta shaded her eyes to see him standing under a branch in a pre-war crumpled linen suit and open shirt worn with a Panama hat cocked at a rakish angle and a cravat skewered with a gold pin.
‘Lord knows. Buying up Harrogate, no doubt. This isn’t her sort of occasion, and it’s strictly business for me. I’m on the Management Committee for the Local Authority, a sort of MO. Come to lend moral support and all that.’
‘You’re still a doctor then?’
‘Heavens above! why not? Doctors’re a valuable commodity these days with this new National Health Service about to appear any day. “From cradle to grave” – where would you be without us? You don’t just get chucked out for liking a dram or three. There’d be no quacks left if that was the case.
‘No, I’m one of the new breed of public servant, school doctor if you must know, nothing too taxing. I just line them up, stick a needle in their arm or a stick down their throat, poke in ears, up noses, examine their skin like a vet. Try to catch anything before it hurts. And, boy, is there plenty to catch in Leeds with all the slums and shortages!’
He pulled out a hip flask from his pocket and offered it to her. ‘Fancy a swig? All this jollification makes me thirsty. I never know where you’re going to pop up. You make me nervous. Ginnie usually does enough talking for both of us. Come and have a stroll in the shade, just like old times in Park Royal.’
Netta brushed aside his offer of a drink but walked along the dusty path with him, trying not to catch the undergrowth on her best dancing dress. It was cool under the dappled shade with the music of a silver band echoing across the long garden.
‘Jean Brownleys asked me to help the older girls do the costumes. I’ve enjoyed it. It’s made me think how lucky we are to have families, however distant and troublesome.’
‘Matron Jean is a good egg, just right for the place, efficient but motherly. The walls of this house should weep for some of the kids in here, orphaned by bombs and blitz. The worst cases are those who’ve been dumped here by their own parents, the children of some brief wartime fling. There’s been an influx since demob of unwanted babies turfed out by returning soldiers who won’t have some stranger’s kiddy in their house as a reminder. There’s a few brothers and sisters who can’t be separated, some backward ones nobody wants… a rag-taggle of sadness, I suppose. Anything you can do to support this outfit will be welcomed with open arms. Better than throwing a few pennies in a collecting box. I can see the wings sprouting out of your back already!’
‘And I can see your horns! Why do you always put things down?’ Netta’s heart was saddened by the thought of bairns with no home of their own. At least Gus wanted for nothing, especially love. It made her ashamed of all her past sulking. Vida was right, there are always others less fortunate than yourself. It was time to change the subject.
‘How did you and Miss Mackeever meet?’ she asked, more out of politeness than interest.
‘At some horsy bash last summer. She fell at a hurdle and I was Sir Galahad to the rescue. Big Billie Mackeever made a fuss over me and the next thing I knew we were choosing rings. The poor girl ought to be marrying a horse, not me. I can’t keep up with her in the saddle, she’s like a streak of lightning and fearless over the jumps. We’re a pair, the two of us, both stubborn as mules. That’s another reason for keeping out of general practice – I can’t see Ginnie sipping tea with the Vicar’s wife in twinset and pearls or being the angel of mercy on the phone at two o’clock in the morning. She’s not exactly the soul of discretion but a real sweetie. I sense you don’t like her much?’
‘We’ve not much in common coming from such different circumstances. I don’t know the colour of her heart yet.’
‘What a funny expression, Netta! I must call you that. I’ve only known you as Netta and it’s not exactly Mrs Hunter as I recall.’
‘How kind of you to remind me, Dr Stirling. The colour of a heart, my mother used to say, is lightened or darkened by shades of kindness and thoughtfulness, putting others at their ease, warmth and generosity. It’s not the splash of brightness on the outside, all the clothes and possessions, but what’s inside of us that matters. When you live by yourself you soon see who is friendly and who is not. Matron Jean has a heart of gold, welcoming me to the Scotia Club. Ginnie’s crowd made me feel an outsider, small and insignificant. I’m sorry but you asked me.’
‘Aye, she’s young and had it easy.’ Drew came to his fiancée’s defence. ‘I’m sure she’s a diamond at heart.’
‘I hope not, for your sake. Diamonds are brilliant but very hard. I’m sure that’s not what you meant. Here we go again, putting the world to right and making judgements.’
‘You’ll see some pretty black despair and blue hearts in Oldroyds. Life can be cruel and unfair to children through no fault of their own. To be honest, it’s a grim job but Ginnie is a great distraction. She’s the only girl I know who can dance all night and down her bubbly faster than me, but she seems to stay sober and be up with the lark each morning. Funny, isn’t it?’
‘Sewing does that for me. Times flies so fast when I’m lost in it.’ Netta to
ld him about her hopes to open her own bridal shop, fill a gap in the retail trade. ‘All very modest, just in the planning stage, but one day I’ll make it happen.’
‘Good for you! I wish you luck. You’ll need it with all the restrictions.’
‘Apart from Gus, sewing’s the only thing I ever wanted to do. Rationing can’t last forever.’
They came to the parting of the ways back to the crowds and the tea tables. ‘Hope to see you about this place, Netta, your help is much needed here.’ Drew raised his Panama hat and smiled. She nodded and walked back to the Scottish dancers. It was time for their second display.
Drew watched the dancers swirling around the lawn and one in particular always caught his eye. It was funny how he could say anything to that girl and she listened as if she was interested. He would like to have told Netta how he had been approached by the Legion to talk to a group of ex-prisoners of war about aftercare and rehabilitation. There was some concern about the Jap POWs who were still not fully recovered from their ordeal. Some of the stuff they came out with to each other was a revelation to Drew. His own European experiences had been harrowing enough but theirs were something else.
They usually sat in a pub on a no name, no shame basis, awkward and suspicious at first. When they saw he could down the pints as quickly as they he felt he was halfway to gaining their trust. It was going to be a hard slog to open them up and he was not sure what good it would do to reopen past horrors. There was some evidence from the Military Rehab Units that talking in groups was useful but he had yet to be convinced.
*
From now on Oldroyds was no longer just a name but a place where Netta was always welcome to visit. At weekends she sometimes took some of Lily Liddell’s friends for a picnic, high among the heather on the moors, and wondered if the Scotia Club dancers might band together to plan an outing for the children to Bridlington by coach. How she wished that she could share her own beautiful Carrick seaside with those less fortunate than herself.
Only two weeks later, when she called into see her adopted sewing group, she was met at the door by Drew. He was wearing a white coat, his face like thunder. He held up his hand firmly and shooed her out of the door.
‘Out, Netta. I’m afraid the place is in quarantine. No visitors. We’ve got fever in the place. It’s in the district… all this hot weather’s a breeding ground. Dreadful business. Infantile paralysis in some cases, kids going down like flies. I’ve just rushed three off to the isolation hospital for tests. One’s in a bad way, I fear. Respiratory failure.’
‘My sewing girls – Polly, Beryl, Lily?’
‘Just tummy bugs but poor little Jacky Liddell’s very sick. I don’t hold out much hope. Don’t come any further, call back in a few weeks. I’m sorry to bear such sad news.’
‘What about Jean?’
‘Rushed off her feet but fine. Don’t worry.’
‘Are you OK? You looked washed out.’ She noticed he was grey about the gills and his cheeks were sunken again.
‘Fine. Oh, what the hell? Fancy a brew? Come in the office.’ Over a cup of Camp coffee and sterilised milk, Drew Stirling began to relax.
‘It makes me fume to think of the unfairness of all this, you know. These kids deserve the best, and what do we do? we herd them all together in dormitories so that any Tom, Dick or Harry sort of infection goes on the rampage amongst them like wildfire, far faster than if they’d been in their own homes. It’s always the weakest who suffer in this world. I hope this new National Health Service will iron out such social differences but it’s only early days and I have my doubts. I’m just impatient, which makes matters worse.
‘A bad start in life is a bad start, the constitution is weakened and impaired and easily defeated. Poor housing and food, damp conditions, it doesn’t help to fight illness.’
‘Is that the cry of conscience I’m hearing? So much for the dispassionate distance of a school doctor. Your mask is slipping, Dr Stirling. Shame on you!’ Netta teased. He shot her glance and she blushed pink.
‘How do you manage it? Each time we meet you keep me on the straight and narrow. Just when I was about to pull the golden liquid from the filing cabinet, up you pop like Tinkerbell to call, “Time, gentlemen, please. ” I think I’m going to need you as my friend. Who else knows me like you do? You’ve cheered up a dark morning. Call again any time.’ Drew smiled and Netta suddenly felt the heat of his gaze.
‘I really came to see Jean but I’ll call back later. Give my love to all the patients. Tell them I’ll see them when I can. I must go. Thanks for the coffee but I’ll leave it, if you don’t mind.’
‘Me too, it’s awful stuff.’ Drew rushed to open the office door for her in a flurry of mock courtesy which made Netta smile.
‘See you around, Drew.’
‘My pleasure, Netta. Away to your needles.’
*
In the weeks that followed there were such tragic events. The town was full of the dreaded polio epidemic, and Netta found herself drawn to Oldroyds, to Jean but especially to Polly and her sister Lily. Their brother Jack had not survived his illness. She caught glimpses of Drew Stirling in the distance. He waved and would have made his way to her side but she chose to keep her distance. His friendship was a marker of sorts around some of the greatest milestones of her life: her breakdown, her newfound sense of purpose here in Griseley. It was a strange friendship of conspiracy based on mutual secrecy, as sort of affinity which each of them felt.
Outwardly, she supposed, they made an odd pairing: he a doctor and manager and she only a seamstress and volunteer. He was almost a married man and she would never be any part of their circle so it was best to keep to the surface of things, not delve too deeply into feelings and fears. She was here to support the Liddells after all.
Netta dreaded that first meeting with Polly after the outbreak. She did not know what she was going to say to her. The girl came up the stairs in the cottage looking like crumpled linen, in an over-large smock with pins already lined up on her chest like medals. She’d brought her dolly bag containing a clean handkerchief and a silver thimble. Her eyes were tired and red-rimmed, hair scraped back in a dancer’s ponytail making her face look pale and pinched and her ears stick out. Netta ushered her into the workroom amongst the other silent girls, trying to put them at ease. Just watch what I do and ask whenever you see me doing something you don’t understand.
‘Yes, miss.’
‘Mrs Hunter will do, Polly. Tell me where you learned to do such lovely embroidery?’
‘My granny, Miss… er, Mrs Hunter. She taught me to do tatting, crochet work and lace. She was a ladies’ maid and did alterations, but then her fingers swelled up into sausages and she couldn’t hold a needle so she taught me. She died…’
‘And your mother, could she sew?’
‘No, miss, she just stayed in the back kitchen baking. Lily liked baking.’
‘And your father? What did he do?
‘Dunno, miss, can’t remember much about him.’ Polly bent her head, embarrassed by this grilling in front of the others.
‘I was so sorry to hear about Jack…’
‘It’s OK.’
‘How’s Lily?’
‘She’s OK now.’ And that was the sum of conversation that Netta could raise from Polly Liddell, but her concentration and interest were like blotting paper, soaking up all the sights and tasks. Netta recognised another who was losing her sorrows in her work.
She showed them some fashion magazines where the New Look was at last hitting bridal fashions and customers were clamouring for full or ballerina-length bell-shaped skirts, with tight-fitting waists in the Christian Dior padded style. Pathé News was a great inspiration too, showing the latest Paris collections. Shawl collars and off-the-shoulder dresses with boned bodices were much in demand, with beading and lace trimmings. Beryl wanted to make a straight skirt with a kick pleat at the back.
Netta started them off by making fancy bows, showing them how to line a
nd stiffen the bow, to shape and design it for different lengths and effects. Polly was a stickler for detail and more interested in fancy embellishments than overall design. They were going to make a good team if Polly could relax into her sewing, but now was not the moment to pursue the matter.
Showdown
Netta paused twenty yards from Dorelle’s to gather herself for the day’s onslaught. As she saw the discreet sign on the three-storey soot-blackened building her heart sank. The shop was along a smart parade of similar properties with overhanging glass canopies that sheltered shoppers from the squalls of rain off the moors. There was a solid, no-nonsense quality about this row of buildings: the very stuff of smart Griseley. Dorelle’s was the exception. One day Netta would have her own premises down this row and they would be the smartest.
Miss Venables was waiting for admiration of her latest attempt at window dressing. ‘Where have you been? You’re late again.’ She pointed Netta towards the back room.
Netta engrossed herself in the usual stream of drab outfits to be altered, bending her head to the daily tasks. It was Maybelle’s day off and there were just the two of them in the showroom. It was quiet first thing. Madam Maudie would demand that the mirrors be polished and it was Netta’s job to vacuum the velvet pile of the dove grey carpet, dust the copper beech leaves arranged in a cracked lustre vase and check the cubicles for any stale smells while Miss Venables just checked the post and tidied along the hangers, picking over the stock as if it had fleas.
Dorelle’s customers were not window shoppers. A price tag was of no consequence to many of them so none was evident. From the moment they walked through the door they would be at the mercy of Madam Maudie.
It was the future Mrs Herbert Batley of Batley’s Mill who opened the batting on that miserable wet morning, coming in to make the final choice for her bridal two-piece outfit.