The Wedding Dress Maker

by Leah Fleming

  ‘I’ve never thought of it like that before but you ’re right. For one day in her life a girl puts away her everyday clothes to be lit up like a holy candle, shining before the altar so everyone can see her.’

  ‘A bit of magic, like a rainbow painting the sky. There isn’t much magic about in Leeds, is there? But we’re magicians, making costumes for magic to happen. Was your wedding magic?’

  Netta felt her answering voice tremble. ‘It was wartime, not that long ago but things were different. Many of us were calico brides, not shiny satin ones like nowadays, but we felt like shining stars inside just the same. Yes, love, it was a sort of magic.’

  No use telling this girl that magic never lasts. Polly knew that already.

  *

  Matron took the helpers back to her office for a snifter and they helped her wrap up the last of the children’s presents. Afterwards Drew offered to run everyone home. He was in no hurry to drive up to Ilkley, making sure he did a complicated detour which dropped Netta off last of all.

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ He paused and shut off the engine. ‘Can I come in and see your decorations?’ He’d been feeling decidedly queasy all evening, the after effect of all the kids’ shouting and the whisky.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be going back? Ginnie will be waiting for you…’

  ‘Like hell she will! The party’s been going on for hours already. I’ll turn up when most of them have gone. To be honest I can’t stand some of the hunting crowd – such bores. Horses, horses, horses is all they talk about. It’s cold standing out here but the view looks good to me.’ He wasn’t looking at the stars.

  ‘You’re half cut again. Oh, Drew, I thought you’d turned your back on the bottle,’ Netta sighed, green eyes wide with disapproval.

  ‘It’s Christmas! I shall have to tank myself up to get through Christmas with the Mackeevers.’

  ‘What about your own family?’

  ‘Far away overseas still.’ He paused in the doorway to the little room. ‘This is cosy and beautifully furnished. All handmade, I expect?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s under the tree? Parcels —goody. Go on, open them. It’s almost midnight.’

  ‘Not quite. I’ll make some spiced tea, hot and strong and then you can help me open Gus’s parcel. The rest can wait, all the bedsocks and hot water bottles, hankies and soap.’ Netta was dying to read the Christmas letter from the farm and to think of Gus tucked up in his room with that stocking waiting at the foot of his bed. It was nearly Christmas Day after all.

  She brought out some tree candles that gave a soft rosy glow to the room and stoked up the fire to put the kettle on the hob. Drew had had enough booze for one night. Tearing open the brown paper and sealing wax, she plunged into the parcel for the Christmas card: a snow scene with glittery frosting on the front and a letter neatly attached in Father’s square hand. She smiled as she read out:

  Dear Netta,

  Peg and Gus join me in wishing you all the best for the season. We hope you have a lovely day with your friends in Griseley and our gifts make up for the disappointment of not being together this Hogmanay. We hope you don’t mind but we’ll be away this Ne’rday, visiting Peg’s cousin, Eileen Huston.

  She’s in the family way and can’t travel to us this year so we decided on a wee change so Gus could play with Morag. It’ll make a break for Peg. I’ve got John Paterson’s son, Alan, to do the milking. Hope you’re not too disappointed but I’m sure there’ll be plenty going on for young fry in Yorkshire. Have a Guid New Year.

  Aye yours,

  Father, Peg and Gus

  Drew watched Netta fling the letter across the room and burst into tears. ‘How could they just spring this on me? So that’s why their parcel arrived earlier than normal this year and I just pushed it under the tree as a treat to savour. I did what I always do, saving it for Christmas Day. It’s not fair, Drew, they know how much a visit means to me! I’ve been so busy trying to build up the business, but not to see Gus or be able to give him his present… If only I’d known in time… to make arrangements, go on the train for Christmas. How stupid! They think I don’t care. Perhaps it’s not too late to catch a train on Boxing Day. Oh, Drew, it’s not fair!’

  ‘I’m sorry, poor you. Not much of Christmas then but we can have our own party here. I’ve a bottle of wine or two in the car and some chocs. Light the candles, put on the gramophone and find some glasses. We can cheer each other up.’

  They sat by the firelight, glasses drained, listening to the Winter movement of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, huddled on cushions on the floor. Drew watched the flames flickering in her emerald eyes. He was in no hurry to shift himself to the grander party up the road. Their silence was oddly comforting, their friendship a strange hidden sort of affair, unknown to others.

  He wished he didn’t drink so hard and fast and wondered what drove him to seek solace in a bottle. Now was not the time to ask such a deep question, when Netta was so grateful for company, so down at heart about her letter. They were leaning against each other, swaying with the rhythm of the music, letting the sound soothe away all the tension. So much so that they slid slowly down on to the flag stones and the peg rug and lay back, laughing.

  ‘This the true spirit of Christmas, Netta: a warm welcome on a cold night, the laughter of children, the heat of good wine in the belly, and above all to be side by side with a good friend – one who understands and doesn’t judge. Better than a load of stuffy wallahs in dinner jackets blethering about nothing.’

  ‘Thanks, Drew, you’ve made this evening bearable. At least someone wants me.’

  He raised himself on to his elbow to admire the view again. ‘Netta you’re lovely, how many times have I told you that?’

  ‘Words, Drew, only words. That’s all I’ve ever had for years. I’m still young but I feel a hundred sometimes.’

  ‘Let me show you how lovely you are with those sea-green eyes and foxy hair.’ He reached over and ruffled her hair playfully. ‘And I like the way your nose tilts up like a ski jump.’ He fingered her cheek and put his lips to hers in a long and lingering kiss.

  The power of his touch shot through Netta’s body, waking her from this half-dream. ‘No, Drew… don’t. It’s not fair. I can’t. There’s Ginnie…’

  ‘If I know my wife to be, she’ll be hard at it with someone under the mistletoe. No one knows… We could be good together, you and me.’

  ‘Call me old-fashioned but two wrongs don’t make a right. Please, get up. My arm’s gone to sleep. Don’t spoil what we have.’

  ‘What’ve we got that’s so different from anyone else? I think you’re special. I want to kiss you now. Where’s the harm?’

  ‘If you think me some silly damsel you can disarm like a knight of old when you’re sozzled and I’m squiffy then you don’t think of me as that special. You can go right now, Drew Stirling! I pity your poor bride if you take every drunken opportunity that falls your way.’

  ‘I’m not drunk, just merry. Don’t be such a spoilsport.’

  Netta sat bolt upright and looked down at him with a scowl.

  ‘Take a long, hard look at yourself. Call yourself a doctor? I pity any patient who comes to you for a stitch when you’re half seas over. What is it drives the demon in you? How can you be so unreliable, so slap-happy and unaware? How many times have you been dried out?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a card carrying Temperance Worker.’ Drew sat up, hair standing out like a hedgehog, puzzled by her change of tone.

  ‘I know when to stop. You can’t. That’s the difference between us. I can’t face Christmas without seeing my child and you can’t face anything without a drink. What a pair of misfits we are! I don’t like Ginnie very much, but I won’t lie here with you whispering sweet nothings in my ear either. Go and sort yourself out. Don’t make matters worse than they already are for me.’

  Netta rose pulling down her skirt with embarrassment. Drew staggered to his feet, looking woebegone.
>
  ‘I was only trying to help…’

  ‘I know, but you’ve just gone and spoiled it all, so hop it.’

  ‘Shall I pop in to see you again?’

  ‘What do you think? I’m not your patient.’

  ‘Perhaps not then. I’ll find my coat.’ He shuffled to the door and cracked his head on the beam. ‘Damnation! Must you live in such a tiny room.’

  ‘It suits me fine. Mind how you go.’

  Drew paused at the gate. ‘Happy Christmas to you, Netta.’ She picked up a lump of frozen snow and threw it at his back. It cracked him on the neck. Drew turned round in surprise but the door was already shut.

  Window Shopping in Kendal, May 1949

  The shops were shutting for the day as Netta dawdled down Strickland Gate, browsing in the shop windows with tired eyes. She was putting off the moment of decision, wasting the best of the afternoon driving light, reluctant to return to the van and take the long winding road south. She looked at young couples pushing go-chairs with babies in sun bonnets, their mouths plugged with rubber dummies. There were still busy shoppers trundling along the street together, peering in the windows or waiting at bus stops; older couples hand in hand enjoying an afternoon stroll, unworried by the sun setting behind the buildings. She thought of Drew and Ginnie planning their wedding as they cantered over the moors together. All the world was paired up and she felt utterly alone. Then she saw the dress.

  It was turquoise, shimmering like a peacock’s feathers, a shantung silky fabric that caught the light. It had a simple line, a bold shawl collar with no sleeves. It was perfect, safe and unobtainable for the shop was now in darkness. She stood transfixed by the colour, drinking in its effect. She thought of kingfishers by the river flashing in the sunlight and the sea shimmering on a summer’s day, rippled with silver. Turning her back, she hurried down to the parking space by the river bank.

  7

  Turquoise

  ‘Colour of inspiration,

  Sadness and yearning

  Coolness of heart to

  Keep plodding forwards.’

  Into 1949

  In that saggy hummock between Christmas and New Year when everyone was back at work and the children at Oldroyds received visits from whatever relatives they could muster, Netta stayed indoors with just her sewing for company, mulling over her amorous tussle with Drew on Christmas Eve and wondering how young Gus was going to enjoy his visit to Ayr. How would he sleep in a strange bed? Would there be squabbles with Morag Huston over toys? Had he missed the fact that Auntie Netta was absent? Did any of them care that they had let her down badly?

  Tossing and turning in the dark she wondered if she ought to go to Stratharvar and await their return but the pressure of being her own boss did not allow it. If Polly were to join her workshop then orders must be prepared and the workroom kitted out properly. Only new orders would finance her outlay. Nevertheless Dixie’s challenge was still ringing in her ears: ‘Go back to Scotland and grab him, stop shilly-shallying.’ Now was not the time but it would be her New Year’s Resolution, she vowed. This is the year she would make it all happen and bring Gus home. This time she would succeed.

  Then the postman shoved some letters through the door and she shuffled sleepily over to see who was late with their greetings cards. The postcard on the mat had a familiar picture on it and its contents sent Netta rushing for her clothes and boots, scurrying down the hill to catch the bus to Leeds. She must go and see Vida Bloom at once.

  The curtains were closed but there was a strange wailing sound coming from inside. A nosy neighbour shook her head from an upstairs window. ‘There’s been a bereavement in the family, love. She’s sitting shivah or something, poor soul, and her a widow and such a hard worker. If you’re not one of them, I wouldn’t go in. Best let them get on with it. The whole tribe of Israel’s been knocking at her door, weeping and wailing. I wouldn’t bother, if I were you.’

  Netta was not so easily put off so she banged harder. A strange face came to the door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Mrs Bloom. Please, I must see her.’

  ‘She’s seeing no one, there’s been a sudden bereavement…’

  ‘What has happened? I got a postcard from Arnie only this morning. I have to know. Please let me in to give my condolences. That’s what you do, isn’t it, visit the mourners?’ The woman in the sheitel wig hesitated and opened the door. ‘Just one minute, she’s very tired. To lose a son, an only son…’

  ‘But when? Where? Are they killed… Arnie and Dixie?’

  ‘Don’t mention that shiksa’s name in this house. Is that you, Netta? You have robbed me of my only joy.’

  Vida Bloom was sitting on a chair surrounded by women. From upstairs came the sound of men at prayer. She had aged overnight, her eyes red with crying, and the lapels of her jacket were torn, hanging down from her suit. ‘This is what it comes to when I trust my son to you… you traitor!’

  ‘Tell me what I’ve done? I just had a postcard from Gretna Green from Mr and Mrs Arnie Bloom. Did something happen to them?’

  Vida rose with an effort. ‘He has married out… to that slum keelie of yours – yon dancer from the show. I will not say her name, coarse, Catholic and common as it is.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Mrs Bloom, they must love each other. At least he’s happy,’ Netta pleaded, looking at a photograph torn to shreds in the hearth. ‘Was that their wedding photo? Is that why you’re so upset?’

  ‘Aye, lass, and all your doing. Look at the dress. See, the one you made up for the scarlet woman and brought for me to finish off. To think, I made the wedding dress in my own home! You gave them the notion of Gretna when you told the yenta about your own runaway marriage, did you not?’

  Netta blushed, bowing her head.

  ‘I’m so sorry, it was only a passing mention. I didn’t know they would run off themselves, but what were they to do if you wouldn’t speak to them about their feelings?’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it. He’s left his job… my son, the accountant is now just a jobbing jazz musician, following her all over. Well, he’s dead to me now. How can you live with that?’ screamed Vida.

  ‘Calm, Davida, remember what the doctor said? Tears won’t bring him back,’ said the friend, pointing Netta to the door.

  ‘He’s not dead – he lives and breathes. Remember what you said to me? “Be grateful he lives when others have perished. Blame keeps wounds open, only forgiveness closes them.” You said that to me once but Arnie’s better off without a mother who wants happiness only for herself and not for her child. Don’t worry, I’m leaving. I won’t trouble you again. They’ll always be welcome in my home. I envy them their happiness and pity you.’

  ‘Don’t think I shall put any more work your way. You walk yer own path from now on.’

  ‘I always have, Mrs Bloom. Believe me, it’s a lonely road and you won’t be far behind.’

  *

  February was a bleak month for any bridal trader. No one wanted to shed layers and parade down the aisle in the muck and mire of a Griseley winter. Then came Lent when no one married and the order book looked so thin that Netta wondered if she ought to lay Polly off. They beavered away on the few orders coming in for Easter. Sometimes sales reps in smart suits came to show off their latest fabric ranges and bridal accessories but mostly it was quiet and Netta busied herself making hire samples to lift the heaviness in her heart. Then the bell on the showroom door ding-donged, announcing a customer. Netta whipped off her overall and found herself face to face with Ginnie Mackeever who was clutching a magazine.

  ‘Don’t get excited, Jeanette, I’m just browsing round. Dr Stirling seems to think you’d be able to sew me something rather spectacular for the nuptials so I promised to show you what I want. I can’t seem to make the Leeds stores deliver to my standards: all these shortages. Isn’t it boring?’

  ‘Congratulations! I hope you’ll both be very happy.’ Netta smiled through gritted teeth. ‘How do you t
hink I can help?’

  Ginnie plonked a calfskin leather glove on the table and fingered for the page in her magazine. ‘There, that’s what I want, an exact copy of that. If I could fly the real thing across I would. A design from Priscilla of Boston, all the rage in the States. This is from American Vogue.’

  Netta was looking at a vast gown of ballroom dancing proportions with a bodice that cascaded and flounced down the back in an elaborate peplum. It would take acres of material. ‘I’ll have a go – but the cloth… I have only a small quota.’ Her wholesale supply had mysteriously dried up since Arnie’s marriage and there had been no reconciliation with Vida Bloom.

  ‘Don’t worry, Daddy has ways and means, leave it to me. I want pink lace guipure. With silk underlining, of course. I shall wear a picture hat like Margaret Lockwood in Wicked Lady. That should knock ’em dead in the aisles! I want it for June but I shall be away in May so we’d better put our skates on.

  ‘You can come to the house, of course, this is far too poky for a decent fitting. I’ll catch my death stripping off in here. Do you think you’re up to it? Speak now, for God’s sake, or forever hold thy peace. Andrew seems to think you are, always singing your praises: you’re quite the favourite aunt at some Home or other.’

  How is Dr Stirling?’ Netta had been relieved to have seen nothing of him since Christmas.

  ‘Like a bear with a sore head, poor darling. Always off to some damn’ meeting or another. He can be quite a spoilsport with all his boring shoptalk. He gets so involved with it all. I don’t know what he sees in a bunch of whingeing ex-soldiers, sitting over their pints moaning on about the war. Thank God it’s all over, I say. Let’s forget about it and get on with the good times. Don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not so easy for some, I expect. Bad injuries to live with…’ She was glad Drew was branching out with his work.

  ‘Rubbish! Life is for living now, not harping on about what you can’t change. It’s making him quite a misery guts but a few whiskies and he lightens up, thank God!’