The Wedding Dress Maker

by Leah Fleming

  Netta did not want to make this dress or copy someone else’s creation, however far away, but she needed the order and the prestige of the Mackeever name. It was what she had always planned but now it was happening there was no excitement, only apprehension. The thought of Drew being yoked to this hard heart was not a satisfying one but that was his business. This order would keep them afloat.

  Netta smiled sweetly and brought out the diary. It was full of embarrassing gaps that the sharp-eyed Ginnie was quick to notice. ‘Oh, dear, we’re very new at this, aren’t we? You’ll be opening a bottle of champers after my visit, won’t you?’

  Netta forced her face into a semblance of a smile.

  ‘I should really be going to London to have it made up but Daddy has this quaint notion of supporting local tradespeople. Very noble of him, don’t you think? Herbert Batley told him you’re the best in the district and did his little Elsie proud.’ She sniffed at the rail of half-finished garments. ‘Judging by these, I’m sure you’ll come up trumps. Even if it is a bit out of your usual league.’

  ‘All my bride’s dresses are special.’

  ‘The wedding’s in Leeds parish church, of course. So many guests to cram in. Lots of publicity for you if you hit the mark.’

  ‘It all sounds very grand. We’ll have plenty of time to sort you out, won’t we?’ Netta refused to be patronised.

  Ginnie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Must dash, masses to organise. See you next week.’

  Love’s got one eye and is awful deaf, thought Netta as the bride swept out of the shop.

  Dr Stirling’s got a right one there,’ smirked Polly from the shadows.

  ‘I couldn’t have said it better myself’ Netta replied with satisfaction, just the thought to cheer a body up on a cold winter’s afternoon: the sight of a floating blancmange rustling down the aisle to her Prince Charming. But it would be the most beautiful blancmange ever seen on this planet, if that was what she wants.

  She banged the iron down to shake herself out of this strange mood. Netta Nichol Designs must embark upon a strawberry sea of silk and lace.

  ‘Shall I make us a brew?’ said Polly from her machine.

  ‘Yes, and put a slug of gin in mine. I think I’m going to need it. Sometimes, Polly, I think this business’s like the weather… there’s no pattern to it.’

  Forks in the Path, March 1949

  The iron grip of winter loosened its hold on Griseley. Snowy white patches gave way to the greeny-yellow of early spring and still Netta had not returned north to see the boy. There were too many demands on her time: training Polly; pattern making into the small hours until her eyes ached with weariness. She must get ahead with the spring bridal wear and snatch some time with Gus in May before the final onslaught of the Mackeever extravaganza.

  There was little pleasure in copying someone else’s creation, however loosely she interpreted the design. How she wished for Vida’s advice but there was no word from that quarter, only postcards from Dixie and Arnie who were blissfully unaware of the estrangement, on tour around the country.

  Netta stifled the guilty feeling that she had stayed away too long from Brigg Farm. She parcelled up a lavish present for Gus’s fourth birthday, one she could ill afford. Her New Year resolution to bring him back to Yorkshire had faded under a flurry of orders. Somehow the success of Netta Nichol Designs, beating the odds and staying solvent, was taking over her life. There was always some other pressing priority, leaving little time even for the Home visiting and relaxation with her young friends there.

  Polly had her own crowd and went to the local pictures and the Town Hall dances, dressed in offcuts. There was talk of her applying for a bursary to do a college course at night school. She was staying at the Home until she was sixteen. Polly’s gang made Netta feel ancient and washed out with all their crazes and pashes. She felt lonely, cast adrift on a tide of busyness; a silent observer peering through the curtains into other people’s happiness. She watched the cherry blossom in full bloom on the Parade, eager for its petals to be shed and to hurry on Maytime when she would be returning home to make her stand over Gus’s future.

  *

  Drew Stirling was in the bath when the telephone rang. Ginnie was on her second Martini, stamping her high heels impatiently in his flat in West Park on the outskirts of Leeds. ‘For God’s sake, get your skates on! We’ll be late for the theatre again. Five mins and I’m off without you…’

  She lifted the telephone receiver. ‘Dr Stirling’s residence.’

  ‘Is that you?’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘Do I sound like him? He’s off duty now. Can I give him a message?’

  ‘Tell him it’s Arthur Bates. Sorry to trouble him but he said I could call this number anytime.’

  ‘Not now you can’t! Dr Drew is just going out and he’s late. Give me the number and he’ll call you back later.’

  ‘Who is it?’ shouted Drew from the bathroom.

  ‘Just some Arthur chappie, sounds a bit squiffy. Really, Drew, you shouldn’t encourage them…’

  Drew shot out of the bath dripping his way towards the phone. ‘Give me that.’ The line was dead.

  ‘Was it Arthur Bates? Did you get his number?’

  ‘No, why should I? I told him to call back. I’m not your secretary!’ Ginnie pouted, her hands on her hips.

  Drew shook his head, ‘Oh, Ginnie, you should have let me speak to the man. He needs help.’

  ‘And make us even later than ever? Darling, it’s after six. Even a school doctor has a private life. What’s so important about one drunk?’

  ‘Nothing you would understand, my silly darling. What would you know about torture and imprisonment, failure and agony?’

  Drew poured himself a whisky and stormed back into the bathroom, troubled by the phone call. Things must have been desperate for Arthur to make it. He was one of the members of the voluntary group that met regularly at the Red Lion, a quiet unassuming man who had hung back from the general discussions about prisoner of war experiences. Things were not going right for him at work or home and he’d found he couldn’t hold down a job. He had confided to Drew in the Gents that he had nightmares and sweats and couldn’t settle to anything. He had lost two jobs after he’d clocked in drunk. Drew had suggested they met up on their own to talk about his symptoms and perhaps refer him to someone in Leeds who specialised in rehabilitation.

  At the theatre Drew sat through the performance, wondering if Arthur would ring him back. He was the quietest of the bunch, always sitting in the corner supping slowly, listening, nodding, but saying bugger all. He’d been in some camp on the Burma Railway, starved and worked almost to death like most of them, but he’d had a pal, a bit of a singer and concert party star. The pal was executed in front of him. Drew guessed that Arthur was hard up and didn’t want to miss his round so he only came once or twice.

  Drew was finding all this talking about their past feelings disturbing. He wasn’t trained for this sort of palaver himself. Needles and pills, yes, anything physical. But he couldn’t get a handle on this invisible pain. The stuff that goes on in somebody else’s head was properly speaking a job for a trick cyclist. It was a relief at least to know they had arranged to meet later that week.

  But back at the flat an overwhelming urge to find Arthur took over him. This sense of urgency got him ringing round discreetly to find out Arthur’s home address, but nobody knew it.

  Two days later Drew arrived early and sat at their table in the Red Lion, waiting for Arthur to turn up. He didn’t show. With a sinking feeling he sat there for hours before he got in the car and drove to Rawdon. He found Arthur’s address by asking around the pubs, saying he was an army pal. Drew knocked on his front door, feeling apprehensive. A tired woman in black opened it. One look at her face and he knew that Arthur was dead.

  ‘I’m Dr Stirling. I was concerned about Arthur.’

  ‘Come in,’ she whispered. ‘He’s not here, I’m sorry. He’s gone. He went missing two ni
ghts ago…’

  Drew bent his head, thinking, It’s all my fault. I could have helped him but I was in the bloody bath.

  ‘What’s happened? How did he die?’

  ‘He took a tow rope and hung himself in the local park two nights ago. Some children found him swinging from a tree. He had a note in his pocket saying he didn’t want to stick around in this rotten world anymore. He was very low. Didn’t think that what he fought for was worth a toss to people now and so he was better off with his pals. He was never the same when he come home. Not my Arthur, more like a stranger. I never thought he’d shame us like this, though. He wouldn’t want to scare kiddies like that. It must have been the booze. He were teetotal before the war.’

  Drew listened in silence with a sinking heart. He made the right noises and left in a turmoil. He did not want to be alone.

  *

  He took the high winding road northwards on to the moors away from the cold comfort of his flat in West Park, parking his car to face the twinkling lights flickering through the mist from the city below. It was lashing with rain. He opened the door to feel the water splashing on to his face, stinging his cheeks, then closed it quickly. On the windscreen the raindrops bubbled down, full of faces trapped like ships in bottles: faces of long-dead comrades and dying soldiers, children. Bobbing in front of him the pudgy, paleface of Arthur Bates glistened: such a quiet, sad man. All the torrent of rage and sadness tearing his soul apart had been hidden by his unassuming exterior.

  Drew banged his fist on the glass. How could he have misread such misery? His own sense of failure thundered like a punch in the gut, taking his breath away. What sort of doctor are you, Stirling? he asked himself. He felt under his seat for his usual comfort but there was not enough left to anaesthetise a flea. He revved up the engine and headed for the nearest off licence.

  *

  How he found his way to Netta’s door was a mystery of automatic driving. Drew stepped out of the shadows in the pouring rain, looking like a drowned rat holding a bottle of whisky. Netta couldn’t make out at first if tears or rain were dripping down his cheeks. Then she saw it was both. ‘Drew, for goodness’ sake, away inside. You look like death warmed up. What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve been standing soaking in the rain, staring at this damn’ bottle, looking inside for an answer until I’m numb. Liquid gold, my little comforter. Tonight for once it’s let me down. I can still feel the pain and there’s no answer inside any bottle, is there? So I thought, Do I buy another or do I come and see my friend one more time? That’s what I thought to myself: the bottle or Netta. And for once you won.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to be flattered? I haven’t the faintest clue what this is all about. Has Ginnie left you?’ Visions of that pink marshmallow wedding dress and the fat cheque floating away over the horizon flashed before her eyes.

  ‘No such luck! Ginnie sticks to me like a plaster. Dear beautiful Ginnie, not a flicker of conscience in her diamond heart to trouble her. She can’t help me on this one but you might…’

  ‘I see,’ sniffed Netta as she put the kettle on the hob. He was going to need sobering up before she got any sense out of him. ‘Have you eaten?’ Drew shook his hair like a puppy, scattering drops in all directions. ‘Take off your wet things, dry your socks on the fender rail. Warm up and tell Auntie Netta what on earth’s been going on? Bacon and egg, I think. One rasher’s all that’s left of my ration but there’s plenty of fried bread. Go on, I’m all ears.’

  Drew told her the bare bones of his story, his hands shaking. ‘I could do with a fag. It’s all my fault. I might as well have handed him the rope when I didn’t answer his call. If only…’

  ‘You were unlucky. He called you so he must have thought something of you. It was unfortunate. You must have faced suicide before?’

  ‘Yes, but they were just names to me, people I didn’t know or much care about. Arthur was a good chap. He deserved better. There must be thousands of war veterans, suffering silently, surviving with guilt, pushing down their panic and memories, trying to live normal lives. I should know. Even I saw enough on my fighting patch to turn the stomach. Battle is torture. Arthur’s right, it’s a rotten world if you are weak and vulnerable. Only the tough and uncaring survive.’

  ‘That’s not true and you know it.’

  ‘How can I face the other men and tell them about Arthur? Did all our talking stir it all up and make it worse for him? Talking about stuff is dangerous. You never know where it’ll end. Look at you and me: I talk to you. Ginnie and I don’t talk – we just pass the time of day, swap anecdotes, crack jokes. You and I, we bare our souls. We’re best pals. What shall I do, Netta?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. At least you chose to tell me about it, not drown your sorrows again. Surely that proves something? It’s a start. Go and tell the group the truth and see if there are any others who are as desperate as Arthur was. Use what has happened to help someone else and then his death won’t have been in vain. That’s all you can do.

  ‘As for you and me, yes, we’re friends but you ought to try and find that palship with Ginnie in your marriage. You can’t run the two of us, side by side like tram lines: Ginnie for sunshine and fun, poor old Netta for showers and sorrow. You can’t keep bobbing up out of the blue when you feel like it to lumber me with all your troubles, leaving me anxious and sad while you swan off back down the road to the High House, free to dance to Ginnie’s beat. It’s not fair on either of us. I’m really sorry for what happened tonight. I know what it’s like to have nowhere to turn and feel life’s not worth living. You once said to me, “Cling on to hope and honesty”, remember?’

  ‘Aye, I know, but where is all this leading me?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s your life. One step at a time, Drew. Follow your heart, don’t go against your instincts. Look what happens when you do.’

  ‘Where do you find all these gems of insight… from a Patience Strong calendar?’ He was grinning.

  Don’t mock. That particular one came from a far better doctor than you’ll ever be if you don’t use your compassion. A man who saved my life by following his instincts.’

  Netta shoved a mug of cocoa in his face. The story of her own suicide attempt could wait for another time. Drew’s burden of guilt was hard enough for the moment. They sipped in silence and she saw weariness fill his face. He fell asleep in the chair and she saw no point in disturbing him. Covering him with a quilt, she blew out the lamp and went upstairs.

  *

  High House was another Oldroyds but untouched by the local council, a private residence set up a long winding drive into Rombalds Moor, overlooking the whole of Whafedale. This solid mansion bearing witness to Victorian grandeur had stables to the side in a cobbled courtyard. Netta had long ago decided that the tradesmen’s entrance was her proper port of call.

  She parked the hired van on the gravel and carried her precious cargo in a coffin-like cardboard box. The housekeeper helped her up the stairs to a large dressing room where the cupboards were attached to the wall in the contemporary fashion with mirrors for doors. There was a sink of turquoise enamel and a shower by its side. A separate door led into Ginnie’s own suite of rooms overlooking the valley below – quite the most luxurious apartments she had ever seen. Netta smiled, thinking of her own hurried ablutions in the zinc tub in front of the kitchen range.

  Ginnie was late for her fitting. She bounded up the stairs in her jodhpurs, her cheeks flushed with exercise. ‘Won’t be a sec! Just a quick shower.’ And she flung off her clothes, going through the door. On the four-poster bed were laid out a fine French corselet and silk underslip in coffee silk trimmed with blue lace. Netta unpacked the pieces of the wedding dress carefully. This was the first trial fit of the bodice.

  She had to admit the colour suited Ginnie’s fairness, a rich fizzy pink with tinges of oyster, apricot and a hint of cream. Ginnie called it, ‘My pink gin and champagne.’ The guipure lace was heavy, sculpted into florets, every piece handstitch
ed and appliquéed into one flowing whole. No seams were to be visible to the naked eye. Polly was spending hours preparing the lace and now the three layers of bodice were ready.

  ‘Only got half an hour to spare. I hope it fits this time. You know I’m off to France with the girls for my trousseau in May? Going to have my hen party in Paris. Meeting Dr Stirling now, off to dinner with the Macmurrays. You won’t know them, Irish not Scotch. Ouch!’

  Netta pulled out the offending pin with satisfaction. The bodice was perfect but the line of the panels at the back needed attention. She gave Ginnie a stiffened petticoat to wear underneath to see the effect. She twirled excitedly in the mirror. ‘Hmm… Andrew was right. You can sew! I wish he’d take a bit more interest in the wedding… left to muggins as usual. Just hasn’t had the time, poor darling, all this National Health nonsense. I’ve told him when he moves in here, Daddy will find him plenty of customers for a private clinic.’

  ‘But…’ Netta bit her tongue. She was not supposed to know that he had rejected that offer already. ‘You’ll both be staying here then?’

  ‘Of course. Daddy would rattle round this place like a pea in a jar on his own. And I’m not leaving my horses. Masses of room for all of us. I don’t intend to live in some street down there.’ She dismissed the whole of Ilkley with one flick of her elegant wrist.

  It’s none of your business what your customers do after their wedding, thought Netta, but her heart lurched with pity for Drew. Dr Begg’s grand surgery came to mind. She could not see Drew in the same mould, not after what had happened last week. Ginnie was not the right girl for him. She needed all her corners knocking off: this spoiled daddy’s girl who would not give up any comfort for her man. Surely one-sided giving came to nothing in the end?

  Netta fled from High House in confusion. This was the most exacting commission she had ever had. The hardest dress she would ever make. She realised with an ache in the pit of her stomach that every stitch would be agony, for it would be made in sorrow not joy. When it was finished she would lose Drew Stirling forever.