Attend

by West Camel

  ‘Well, I learned it, Anne. I didn’t realise what I was doing at the time. I didn’t know until after the war, until I’d found all the other tapestries. Until Mr Mellor had pointed me in the right direction. It took me a long time, a lot of study. I told you they were my life, didn’t I? Well I finally worked it out.’

  She went over to the chest in the window, leaving Anne slumped back in her chair, surveying the room full of scraps of cloth and neatly sewn panels. A few crimped fibres were floating in the sunlight. She had not had time to think what Deborah’s reaction would be when she coughed up her indigestible tangle about Kathleen. Perhaps the shopping for material and the working together had led her to assume Deborah would have a patient ear, an understanding nod, maybe some small and gentle misgivings. Somehow Anne had put aside the tapestries, the tunnel, the stories – the long, white, embroidered sheet. But they had been there all the time, as they were for Deborah, of course; they coloured everything. And here she was coming back to the table with the sheet and the fold of tissue paper Anne recognised from the boat.

  ‘Here – this is it. This is the motif she gave me.’ Deborah let the sheet slip to the floor and held the paper out to Anne with both hands.

  Anne leaned forwards to see and Deborah laughed nervously. ‘You can touch it. You’ll only live forever if you learn how to stitch it.’

  A few words entered Anne’s head – she thought she recalled them from the story Deborah had told her the first day she was here in her house, Deborah seeming to read from a tapestry like a cartoon. Anne gave Deborah a patient smile, straightened her back and reached across the blue-and-orange confusion on the table top. As she took one end of the paper, she felt sure Deborah was holding on to the other a little too tightly. But the motif slithered out and curled into Anne’s palm. It was frail and yellow, the weave coming loose. It looked like it might be part of a much longer piece – a strip or a border to something, perhaps a strap or a belt. She knew Deborah was watching her face as she examined the faded, dirty design that ran its length.

  ‘Live forever?’ Anne asked. And once again the story of the woman being given a piece of cloth came back to her. Being given it and told to copy it.

  ‘This is the one the woman gave me – the woman in the tunnel.’

  Anne nodded. It was an effort to look interested but not condescending.

  ‘It could be one she made herself, I suppose. And I’ve made plenty of others since. But it’s the motif that’s important, not the actual stitching.’ Deborah picked the sheet up from the floor. ‘As I say, it’s the learning of it that does the damage; then you become like – like a candle that can’t be blown out.’ She sat, beginning to unfold the sheet over the half-made dress. ‘Whether or not she meant me to learn it, I don’t know. But I’m sure what she wanted was for me to find a way to undo it.’ She looked at Anne with her head slightly to one side. ‘I’m sure of that.’

  Deborah’s face twitched, and Anne saw for the second time in just a few days that look of controlled hunger; the desperation in the eyes, the effort to suppress a pleading scream. And then, just like Kathleen, a tight, insinuating smile. Deborah turned back to the sheet and cleared her throat.

  Anne looked hard at the motif. Perhaps she should take the shears to the dirty little scrap right there and then. But Deborah had started her storytelling voice and the lilting phrases relaxed her; what was the harm in letting Deborah’s delusions run?

  The woman had taken the piece of cloth and copied it, Deborah was saying. The goddess – Anana, Inanna? – Anne couldn’t quite remember the name – had told her it was a gift. That it would save the woman from the plague. That it would save everyone. How, the goddess didn’t say. But the woman found out in the end, Deborah said, her voice growing quiet now. Learning the motif made the maker live forever. Made the woman live forever. So, yes, it worked. Deborah shook her head. Who would need children if they could live forever?

  Then Deborah’s voice became louder, as if a door had swung open. ‘But it was a curse too. Because who wants all that life when everything around you dies? And so the woman went looking. Searching for someone who could undo what she had made.’

  Deborah’s tale rolled on, the woman’s travels speckled with magic and tragedy. And as Anne listened she studied the motif in her hand. Faded as it was and apparently simple at first, it led her down its short length, then back again and along. Initially two separate strands, they crossed at a point where a third, paler strand joined them; a strand that, looking back, she realised had been there from the start. All three slipped one over the other, slid under and moved on. She brought the strip closer to her eyes, attempting to follow the motif’s progress, and found that she was always looking for its end.

  Chapter 14: Deborah, 1930

  ‘It had been a hot day and the evening was still warm – my underclothes were sticking to my body and sweat ran down my forehead from underneath my hat. It was already five-and-twenty to eight, but the shopkeepers the length of the High Street had left their awnings open – to keep the heat and glare off while they brought their things in from the pavement and shut up for the night.

  ‘But the new draper’s was still open. The draper had placed a trestle table of samples in front of the window and there were bolts of cloth leaning on either side of the door, making it like the entrance to a small temple. The draper himself was sat on the step in his shirtsleeves and braces, smoking and fanning himself with the evening paper. Even from the other side of the street, I could see he was a big, handsome man. The white of his shirt made him even broader against the darkness of the shop behind.

  ‘I think he saw me looking at him across the street, and I hoped he couldn’t see my blush from that distance. Everyone had a high colour that day, I thought.

  ‘I did my couple of errands and, ten minutes later, I was walking back down on the draper’s side of the street. The fact he was still open was my chance, I told myself. I should just walk in and tell him what I’d been thinking. At worst he’d say a simple “no”. This was how business was done, I thought.

  ‘I stopped in front of a window a few doors down, adjusted my hat and took a clean hanky out and pressed it against my cheeks. The way he filled his clothes wasn’t any concern of mine, I said to myself. But I should look neat and tidy if I was going to make him a proposition.

  ‘The trestle table had gone, but the door was still open and the bolts of cloth weren’t taken in yet, so I put one foot on the step and rapped on the door frame.

  ‘“Good evening? Hello?”

  ‘There was no reply, so I stepped inside. It was dim after the bright evening light and the walls were thick with cloth, muffling the noise from the street. I breathed in the spicy smell of the wools, cottons and linens. It seemed to me a very rich store for Deptford, and I wondered that anyone could afford to buy a yard of stuff here. I picked up a piece of dark-red cotton and rubbed it between my fingers; it had a fine texture.

  ‘“Can I help you, miss?”

  ‘The draper was close behind me – I hadn’t heard his footsteps, so I jumped.

  ‘“Good evening.” I backed away a little and felt a tall bolt of cloth against my back. The draper smelled of sweat.

  ‘I put out my hand. “Deborah Wybrow; I’m a seamstress.”

  ‘“Pleased to meet you Miss Wybrow, seamstress.” He smiled. “I’m just closing up, but if there’s something particular you’re looking for…” He held my hand in a firm grip, and for longer than was probably polite. I suddenly could have done with a seat.

  ‘“Thank you, but I was taking a look, you know. A new shop, and in my own line of business. You have … It’s all very lovely stuff. A bit better than Deptford, I’d say. Sorry.” All my carefully chosen words had melted into a sloppy soup.

  ‘He threw his arms up, his wide palms showing me his stock; “I don’t know. I’d say the Deptford girls like a bit of quality as much as anyone else.” He looked around at it all, and I ducked under his arm and took t
wo steps towards the door. Mrs Clyffe would have told me to walk out and come back when it was cooler. But I didn’t. He was looking at me, I knew, so I turned around and looked at him back.

  ‘“That’s as maybe, but can they afford it?”

  ‘He raised his eyebrows and twitched his full lips. “It’s the risk you take as a businessman. You’ll know that, I’m sure.”

  ‘I brought my bag up to my chest. There was something rude and wrong about him. But I took the two steps back towards him. The sweat was flowing freely down my back now, and I took a breath in through my nose to catch a whiff of his, mixed in with the scent of his cloth.

  ‘He pushed his shirtsleeves a little further up his arms, blinked and smiled at me again, and then brushed past me on his way to the door. He stepped outside, shouldered one of the bolts, and sauntered back in with it. Then he went and fetched the other, grinning at me as he passed. I watched him in silence. It was wrong to stare like that, but I did.

  ‘When all the cloth was brought inside, he turned the sign to “Closed”, but left the door open, leaning against it with a raised arm, the outside light showing a dark patch in his armpit.

  ‘I licked my lips. “Well, if we’re talking of business, how about I make you a proposal?”

  ‘His eyebrows and thick lips spread out all at once. I wished I was as good with words as I was with my needle.

  ‘“I’m a seamstress—”

  ‘“As you said,” he interrupted.

  ‘“Well, at the minute I’m working in a shirt factory down the way – Cooper’s. Do you know it?” I paused and he moved his head; I wasn’t sure whether it was a nod or a shake. “Anyway, I’m wanting to set up on my own. My work is wasted at the factory. I’m … I’m an excellent seamstress, you see.”

  ‘I didn’t say anything about the other girls in the factory. The way I ate my sandwich alone at dinner time, while they smoked and whispered in another corner of the sewing room. The way they teased me for my clothes. The way “Got a fella yet, Deborah?” always raised a big laugh.

  ‘The draper stood up straight and let the door swing closed. “Are you indeed? You seem rather young to be so certain of yourself.”

  ‘I thought I saw a bit of a smile in his eyes, and I wasn’t sure if I hadn’t spoiled my chances. I rummaged in my bag. “I’ve got some samples here if you’d like to see.” He was standing close to me again, his hands on his hips, looking down into my face. The difference in our sizes was huge.

  ‘“So, you’re asking me to recommend you to my customers?”

  ‘I handed him the sleeve sample I’d made from a scrap of silk. It had lots of tiny pleats around the cuff and neat buttonholes up to the elbow. I knew that it was fine work.

  ‘He took it to the window and examined it closely. His fingers were thick, but he turned the piece over with care and felt the stitching with an expert’s touch.

  ‘“That’s just some of what I can do. I was thinking that you could bring me business and I could do the same for you. You know, a lady comes in and buys a few yards of cloth – you send her to me to have it made up into a dress. Someone comes to me wanting a few shirts made – I send them to you to buy the linen. That kind of thing.”

  ‘He put a hand inside the sleeve, pinched the cuff and, with a sharp flick, pulled the thing inside out. He brought the inner seam close to his damp face. I thought he was going to wipe his lips. Still holding it close, he turned to me. “I see that having such small hands is an advantage.”

  ‘I felt like curtseying. But I just nodded and closed my eyes briefly.

  ‘“Come with me.” He went to the door at the back of the shop and opened it onto a staircase. I stayed where I was for a moment, so he beckoned me with his head, holding the silk sleeve out, as if to lure me.

  ‘I knew I shouldn’t, but I followed him. We climbed several flights, up to the top of the house. I was panting by the time we got there.

  ‘The top floor was freshly whitewashed. All the windows were open and clean and the evening light filled the whole of the large room that he showed me into, overlooking the High Street below.

  ‘“I’ve leased the whole house. My rooms are downstairs. But this is free. I’ve been looking for a suitable tenant.”

  ‘The breeze from the open windows quickly dried the sweat on my face. The sky outside was deepening its blue. The empty grate was clean and surrounded by a white fireplace. An open door showed another room at the back where there was a bedstead and a washstand.

  ‘The draper pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face. “So?” he said.

  ‘I was settled into the draper’s house within the month.

  ‘I took the back room too. He looked surprised when I suggested it – surprised and pleased. He’d thought I’d only want to work in his rooms, not come and live there. I reasoned that it was the clean whitewash and the size of the rooms that made me decide. But I was fooling myself. Having him downstairs was the real reason.

  ‘On the first night, lying in my new bed, I listened to his footsteps – heavy and measured. And then I thought I heard a creak and a sigh as he got into his bed. I imagined it was directly under mine, pushed up against the same wall.

  ‘I knew, with no other woman in the house, my living there would be looked at as not quite right. But the draper was new to Deptford, and I didn’t have anyone to offend. And it was like I was living too high up to worry about the gossip – or maybe I was just too small to be gossiped about. And the room was so clean and white.

  ‘The summer stayed hot right through to September, so there was plenty of work making light dresses and thin cotton shirts. The difficulty was getting our bills paid. But when the draper got strict with someone over what they owed, he’d do me a favour and remind them of what they owed me too. It was a good arrangement.

  ‘One evening, I came back late from visiting a customer. It was already dark and the shop was suffocating in the heat, but when I got to the first-floor landing, the window was open wide and the door to the draper’s kitchen was open too – I could see the glow of the gas lamp and hear its hiss.

  ‘“Miss Wybrow?”

  ‘I stopped with my foot on the stairs up to my floor. “Hello, there?”

  ‘“Step in for a moment, won’t you?”

  ‘There were some brown beer bottles on the table in front of him. He’d taken off his collar and undone his shirt buttons. I blinked in the brightness from the lamp.

  ‘“I’ve had a customer in the shop this evening, lives up Blackheath. She wants you to run up some dresses for her.”

  ‘“Blackheath? Will she come down to the shop, or does she want me to traipse up there?”

  ‘He laughed and took a big swig of beer. “It’ll be worth the traipsing. She saw one of your summer dresses on her maid. Says she’s never seen such good work.”

  ‘I leaned on the back of the empty chair opposite him. “Lady with a maid? Going up in the world, aren’t we?”

  ‘“She’ll pay well, I dare say. And with the winter coming, there’ll be coats and such to work on too. I’ll be getting the wools in soon.”

  ‘I rocked a little. “Wools, in this heat – doesn’t seem right, does it?”

  ‘He stared at me, drinking. I was used to his stare by now. In fact, I hoped for it.

  ‘He waved an open hand at the chair. “Take a seat. Drink some beer. We should celebrate.”

  ‘He stood up and took a glass from the shelf, while I removed my hat. I wanted a mirror to smooth my hair. But then I thought that maybe sitting drinking beer alone with a man didn’t require neat hair.

  ‘My head was already light from the heat, and I’d not eaten since dinner time, so the beer made me dizzy. Chatting about this and that, I heard myself giggling, like the girls from the shirt factory at break time, or in the orphanage at night. I didn’t know I could make my voice do that silly trill. It brought a big smile to the draper’s face, though, and he poured me another glass.

  ‘After
finishing that one, I thought I’d better excuse myself; and sure enough, going up the stairs, I missed a step and stumbled.

  ‘“You alright, there?” the draper called out.

  ‘I felt a lumpy chuckle kicking around in my throat. “Fine, fine,” I said. “I think I’ll be going straight to bed.”

  ‘But when I got to the top of the stairs, I unlocked the door to my bedroom, and didn’t close it again. It wasn’t a plan – it was more a sudden need.

  ‘Undressing, with all that warm, uninterrupted air between me and him, I felt my fingers trembling. I thought of his unbuttoned shirt, the patch of skin on his chest. He’d caught me staring, and being tipsy, I don’t think I’d moved my eyes away quick enough. Or I’d left them there on purpose.

  ‘I pulled my underwear off and took my nightdress from under the pillow. My arms were in the sleeves and the rest was tucked up ready to put over my head, when, without a thought, I threw it aside. It made a funny little figure on the floor – the arms held up as if in fright and the dress billowing as if kicked about by running legs. It made me laugh. I dragged back the bedclothes and threw myself down, naked, shaking with my silly laughter. I knew the draper could hear me.

  ‘“You’re drunk, girl.” I think I said it out loud. I grabbed the sheet and covered myself up, biting my lips to stop the giggles. What would Mrs Clyffe say if she walked in to check me before going to bed? That brought me up short. Nearly twenty years, and I still thought she was looking out for me.

  ‘I must have fallen asleep for a few minutes, because the next thing, I was woken up by footsteps on the stairs. I’d not closed my curtains and the white room was blue with light from the moon. The feet had no boots on; they made soft clapping sounds on the squeaking treads. Was he going down to the shop? No; he was coming up. I looked down at the sheet to see if it was twitching with my heartbeat.

  ‘The footsteps stopped. He was on the landing outside my open door; I could hear the little whistle of his breath. I moved my hands under the sheet.