The Wedding Dress Maker

by Leah Fleming

  ‘I’m going to try on that pink job again – the one you ordered for me, Miss Venables, just to be sure.’

  Netta brought down the sample dress and jacket. Elsie Cumberbatch peeled off her clothes and tried it on. ‘What do you think?’ She had squeezed herself into ‘Aurora’ but it was a tight fit. Elsie was to be the second wife of one of the wealthier mill owners; a war widow whisked from her loom in Cinderella fashion. Poor lassie would never have dared cross these snooty portals once upon a time but her husband’s wallet, being as full as any in Griseley, meant his intended would have only the best of wedding outfits.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ sniffed the proprietress. ‘Mrs Cumberbatch, aren’t we satisfied?’ Netta could clearly see the bulges round the waist and the unsuitable colour.

  ‘Not really, I just felt like another look before I make up my mind. I do love the idea of a two-piece but it’s a bit like candy floss on me hips and it sticks out a bit…’ This was only a sample model but the client was already hesitating at the sight of herself in the mirror. ‘Herbie will want me to stick out but not this much. It’s both us big day after all. What do you think, Jeanette?’

  Netta took in a deep breath. The drab beetroot shade drained all the colour from Elsie’s plump baby-faced prettiness and the platinum blonde fluff of her expensive perm. She had also expanded since the last session and the length was unforgiving.

  It was written in tablets of stone that no alterations minion should venture an opinion. This being the case many customers were allowed out of the door in the wrong length of sleeve or hemline or the wrong design for their shape, whatever the price of their dress, grateful to have anything new to wear. Every defect was put down to ‘shortages in the trade’ and the ‘best goes for export’, which Netta knew was blatantly untrue. ‘We never lose a sale. If needs be, we sell our ladies short;’ was Maudie’s secret maxim. Quality and class meant dishonesty and disrespect in this establishment.

  Elsie was going to look like a puce beer barrel in that suit. Maybelle was not here to run the show and Miss Venables was called away by telephone so Netta whispered, ‘It’s not the best colour for you, it drains your lovely suntan, and where will the honeymoon be?’ She paused, seeing Miss Venables approaching fast to clinch the sale.

  ‘To Madeira like the cake – quiet but rocky, my Herbie says. Just his sort of place. Still, at our age… The gardens are supposed to be nice. Not the same second time around, I reckon.’

  ‘Well, you’ll look lovely on your day, I’m sure, but maybe not in that pink, and I’m not sure about the waistline. The “Aurora” is quite a tight-fitting suit, it would need re-shaping completely. Is that style really what you had in mind? Another shade perhaps, a larger size. Did we try on the “Margaret Rose”? It’s a bit simpler…’

  ‘It looked a bit plain on the hanger, didn’t it, Miss Venables? But if you think… is me bum getting in the way of things or me tum this time? Eeh, what it is to be young and have a figure like you! At least Madam Maudie keeps me company.’ Elsie was clearly wavering.

  Miss Venables flushed with fury and pointed a dagger-like finger to the stockroom. ‘The seamstress will get it for you. Sometimes dresses that look limp on a hanger are stunning on the figure.’

  Netta scurried to find their largest sample of ‘Margaret Rose’. Maudie whisked away the ‘Aurora’ and guided Elsie into the new dress and jacket, emphasising all its good points. ‘It’s a generous cut, with three-quarter sleeves and a plain neckline. Ideal with jewellery, don’t you think?’ She stood back to admire the effect. ‘We can start with this and add any details you require.’

  The art of selling was simple; a dress was bought not sold. But this one was even worse than the first. Netta noted with disappointment that it was even less flattering on Elsie’s sturdy hips and there were plenty of Batley pearls and clasps to emphasise her bulging bosom. Elsie was smiling as she twirled before the carefully chosen flattering mirror ordered especially for the cubicles to lengthen the figure.

  ‘You know, Jeanette, you’re right as usual, this drains me too. I could get some wear out of it for parties if it were a better shade, happen, but I’m not sure… It always cheers me up, coming in here, to have your honest opinion. I’ll call back when yer new stock comes in and try again, happen. Cheery bye.’

  Silence thundered in the cubicle as Netta gathered up the outfit.

  ‘How dare you lose us that sale, Jeanette? She would have taken the first one but for your big mouth!’ hissed Miss Venables after Elsie’s departure.

  ‘But it didn’t suit her and she’s a nice lady. It’s her big day, surely she has the right to look her best?’

  ‘My clients are grateful to know that our label is in the back of their dresses. That’s sufficient in itself. These days people are grateful for what’s on offer. Giving them too much choice only confuses them. You have been very disobedient. I’ve a good mind to give you your notice…’ Miss Venables paused, arms folded, waiting for her menial to grovel in repentance.

  ‘And I’ve got a good mind to snap your mean hand off and take it! How can you face your conscience, knowing that Dorelle’s is famous in Griseley for its three Ds: designs as dull as dishwater fit only for the three Bs-batty, boring old biddies!’

  ‘Get your coat on this minute, you impudent hussy, and never darken my door again.’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure. And regards to “our father”. He still seems to be running the show from the other side.’

  Netta flounced into the autumn rain with a flourish. How sweet the air was after the staleness inside. Then she stood stock still, sweating. What had she gone and done? But nothing would induce her to step back inside and as she hurried along the pavement, not looking, she bumped straight into Elsie Cumberbatch, coming out of the bakery clutching a bag to her bosom. They collided.

  ‘In for your elevenses? Don’t look what I’ve bought but I was that fed up with being fair, fat and forty I bought mesel’ a vanilla slice to cheer myself up. You look like you lost a bob and found a tanner. Was Madam Maudie mad I never bought that dress? You were right, I looked like a jelly mould – all of a wobble.’

  ‘I’ve had my cards, if you must know.’ Netta smiled weakly.

  ‘For speaking up about them suits… I’ve a good mind to give the old skinflint a piece of my mind! Poor love, what’ll you do?’

  ‘What I should have done months ago. Set up on my own and give Maison Dorelle a run for its money.’

  ‘You do right, love. And let me be yer first customer. It’s not too late to run me something up, is it?’ Elsie rummaged in her bag for a pencil. ‘Here’s my address. Come and see me, bring some patterns. If I’m going to spend an arm and a leg, I’d rather be suited by you, eh?’ She smiled at her little joke, shoving a note into Netta’s hand and the paper bag. ‘If you’re going to run a tape measure round me, I’d better give this cake to you as a downpayment. Next week, then?’

  Netta walked up the hill from Griseley in the pouring rain, her mind racing with all the possibilities. How would she manage, working from home on her own? A new stitch overlocking machine would be necessary to see to the hemming but everything else would have to do. Then she remembered there was no electricity to power any machine. She would need to rent a small workshop somewhere plus a little showroom for her samples and stock. There would have to be a bank loan and an order book, working capital to set up the venture… so much to think about.

  On the mat was letter from Dixie asking if she would run up a cocktail dress for Christmas, something spectacular, a surprise for Arnie. She was sending the fabric through the post for Netta to look at and would come for a fitting as soon as she could. Another order! What she needed was printed cards and an advertisement in the local Echo. What should she call herself?

  Fear stalked Netta through the night; fear of failure, fear of not paying the rent, fear of not being up to the job, running out of ideas, making a hash of precious cloth. Fear drove her to the sketch pad to ske
tch out a shape that would suit Elsie’s figure.

  In the small hours she banked up the stove and made a bowl of comforting porridge to soothe the gnawing pangs in her churning stomach. Fear made her write down every penny she would need to survive for three months ahead. Her savings would have to last. Perhaps Father would chip in too. She would have to have extra help with basic work. Perhaps Vida Bloom might help and introduce her family in the wholesale trade. Now was the time to ask if Polly would like to be her apprentice. So much to think about…

  She dozed and woke suddenly with a poster before her eyes: LET NETTA NICHOL DESIGN FOR YOU. Why not use her real name? It was sharp and neat. Jeanette Hunter was only the pin-picker at Dorelle’s. Netta Nichol was her own boss. A new name for afresh start.

  Follow what you love and it will lead you where you need to go… who was it had said that? Out of the window she saw the turquoise dawn rising from the east, streaked with pink and orange. It would set the shepherd tapping his barometer but after such a dark night it was just the sign Netta needed. Today was her new beginning.

  Christmas 1948

  ‘Not another present for wee Gus! Netta, you spoil that child! I ken they Pelham Puppets is all the rage in the toy shop windows but are you sure that’s what he wants? Surely those farm animals are more up his street?’ said Dixie, grabbing her friend’s arm away from the tempting display.

  ‘Oh, but puppets are more fun. He can make his own theatre and plays. I can’t decide between the Wizard, the Cowboy or the Soldier.’

  ‘Come on, hen, I’m starving. You can come back later. This wind is going right through me,’ moaned Dixie, wrapping her fur coat round her chest. It was a chill north-easterly blowing down on to Briggate in Leeds and the first flakes of snow landed on her sleeve. Dixie was appearing here in the pantomime Aladdin as the top speciality act. This outing was a chance to hand over her party dress and for Netta to find presents for Brigg Farm. Gus was not going to get another stuffed toy this year whatever the cost.

  They found seats in a smoky café off the Headrow and collapsed with all their shopping bags to sink their teeth into toasted teacakes dripping with margarine which tasted like farm oil.

  ‘Hand it over then, how much do I owe you?’ Dixie peeped in the box. ‘Arnie didn’t see it, did he?’

  ‘No, why should he… but it’s all crumpled in that little box, why couldn’t you let me bring it to the theatre later? What’s the rush?’ The red slipper satin sheath with the sari silk overskirt streaked with gold threads was going to look stunning by candlelight. True to her word Dixie had turned up for a fitting, strangely silent for once, examining the dramatic effect without her usual banter.

  She puffed a loop of blue smoke into a ring. ‘I want it to be a surprise for him, that’s all. How’s it going? I’m so glad you got off yer bahoochie and left that dragon’s lair of a dress shop. Is it working out?’

  ‘Early days but my orders for spring are looking better than I expected. Elsie Batley has passed my name on to her friends. I found a small room, not exactly the Parade but near enough for clients to call in for fittings. Polly will start after Christmas when she’s fifteen. I wish I’d done it sooner. I shall go to Stratharvar, of course. I can’t wait to see Gus’s face…’

  ‘Promise me you’ll send for the bairn now? Snatch him if you have to but stop shilly-shallying. Waiting to see if things get better never works, believe me.’

  ‘Is anything wrong with you and Arnie?’ asked Netta seeing the furrow of concern flash over Dixie’s smooth brow.

  ‘Just the usual. His mammy sticking her nose into everything, making him feel guilty. Nags, nags nags at him all the hours when his heart’s not in the jobbie. Can she see it? There’s none as blind as them as dinna want to see… She’ll learn the hard way. Poor lad’s torn in two pieces. Still, ye can shape a bairn’s coat but not the way he wears it.’

  ‘Dixie, what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Wait and see, hen, wait and see, And thanks for the tip. Show us the presents then.’

  Netta pulled out a paper bag full of little naked dolls with brassy gold hair in ruffes. ‘Not exactly Rosebuds but imitations for the girls at Oldroyds. I’m going to dress them up as wedding dolls for Lily Liddell and her gang… a job lot from the market hall. I got some face powder and lipstick for Beryl and Polly. I do hope it’s all still on for Oldroyds Home to come backstage after the panto? Thanks for letting them have those seats at the front. The managers are giving them a special tea at the Albany Hotel and then on to your theatre. What a great outing on Christmas Eve!’

  ‘An’ we can promise you a good show this year. The Principal Boy’s not exactly David Whitfield but Danny Larado can croon the pants off you, I promise. Not a dry eye in the hoose!’

  ‘I just hope it doesn’t snow and block us all in like last year. My first proper Yorkshire Christmas and I thought I’d come to the Arctic wastes!’

  ‘When are you going north?’

  ‘For New Year’s Eve. I can’t wait to see Gus’s face when I produce two puppets. We can make our own show.’

  ‘Netta, will you call and see Vida sometime over Christmas? I’m not exactly welcome in the hoose. Now I’ll have to love you and leave you, hen. Time for rehearsals. See you sometime and here’s what I owe you.’ Dixie plonked down the pound notes, gathered her parcels, gave Netta a theatrical kiss on the cheek. She fled out into the darkening street, leaving more questions than answers hanging in the air.

  *

  There was so much to finish off before the Christmas holiday: two last-minute alterations, dressing the Rosebud dolls, sending off the Christmas parcel. The Stratharvar parcel arrived early and Netta shoved it under her little artificial tree. She was going to be spending Christmas alone again. It was her choice but that didn’t mean there weren’t decorations to be put up, paper chains and lanterns, bringing in holly and ivy from the garden to trim up her fireplace. She was so busy there was no time to brood. The girls from Oldroyds would bring Christmas to her hearth. Each would have one of the sequinned quilted stars she had made for her tree.

  On Christmas Eve it was snowy enough to look like a Christmas card. The road was still clear down into Griseley town centre and the mill chimneys sparkled with hoar frost as the charabanc edged its way cautiously from Oldroyds, packed with excited children, steaming up the windows and writing love hearts and messages for passers by to see. Netta didn’t know who was the more thrilled to be going to the theatre on Christmas Eve: she or they.

  Tea was a bunfight, a noisy affair with paper hats and crackers. Father Christmas, who looked suspiciously like their Medical Officer, handed round sweets and balloons. Then they trooped the party across the slushy streets to the theatre where they chattered like flocks of starlings until the house lights went down.

  As the orchestra struck up the Intro, the children’s faces lit by the footlights were a picture of anticipation. Matron and her assistants sat scattered among the boys, with Drew and Maggie, Netta and Mary Finlayson, sitting alongside the girls. How they all jeered at wicked Uncle Ebenezer, cheered on the handsome Principal Boy crooner and Princess Sulima, and shouted at Widow Twankey to watch out for the ghosts hiding behind the screen. Then Karenza the Snake Woman came on as the Genie’s mate in a turban, doing a fire-eating turn. Lily Liddell cooried into Netta’s lap as poor Aladdin was trapped in the treasure cave, believing every word of the drama. Netta saw Drew down the row, fast asleep, and wondered how many noggins Father Christmas had knocked back in the Albany. He was so unpredictable.

  At the end of the show the children trooped backstage to meet the stars, tongue-tied and shy with Danny Laredo, gobsmacked by all the glamour of scenery, costumes and bustle. Dixie showed them her sequinned snake suits and headdresses, her box of make-up sticks, the dressing rooms and the scenery stacked up behind the stage. The stage was cleared enough for the children to have a bottle of fizzy pop, a bar of chocolate wrapped in amethyst paper and a packet of crisps each while the
y collected autographs from their favourite stars.

  ‘Isn’t it grand? And Father Christmas is on his way too,’ yelled Lily over the back of the coach seat later. ‘Matron says we’re last on his rounds so we’ve not to wake early and put the light on or he’ll think he’s been and we’ll get passed o’er! Is he coming to your house, miss?’

  Netta nodded. ‘He’s already been and left some parcels under my tree because grown-ups can be trusted not to open them until Christmas Day.’

  ‘Will you come and see what he’s brought us?’

  ‘Of course, in the morning. I’m coming for dinner.’

  They all sang carols as the coach chugged up the hill but Polly was looking out of the window, not joining in. Netta touched her arm. ‘Are you thinking about Jack?’

  ‘Mrs Hunter, do you think he’s with Mam in Heaven?’

  ‘Wherever he is, I’m sure he knows you’re thinking about him with love, and yer mammy too. I lost my own mother when I was about Lily’s age. Each Christmas I hang up a star on the tree, one for her and one for Rae who died in the war. It doesn’t seem right, does it, to be enjoying ourselves without them?’

  ‘No. Lily can forget, she’s still nobbut a babby, but I can’t. It’s not fair. Why him? He’d not done owt wrong.’

  ‘I don’t think it works like that, Polly. Some diseases are too strong for us, but one day soon someone will find a way to cure them.’

  ‘Jack would have loved that show, all them lights and noises and colours. I’d love to make dresses and costumes like them. The way they shimmered in the light… Theatre costumes have to be different from everyday ones, don’t they? They have to stand out and sparkle so you can see them right up in the Gods… sparkling like lights in the dark. Fireworks. It cheers you up to see all them colours. I suppose wedding dresses are a bit like that, an’ all?’ Polly smiled and her tired face relaxed for once.