The Wedding Dress Maker

by Leah Fleming

  ‘I just want to see my baby!’ Netta could feel her throat tightening with fear. Were they going to send her away from Stratharvar?’ She bowed her head and shifted the rising panic.

  ‘That’s better. Mother mustn’t fuss so. We don’t want any relapses, do we?’ His words did not register with Netta. Once she arrived on the doorstep of the farm all would be well, she knew.

  May 1949, Saturday Morning

  A plane flew overhead, jolting Netta from her half dream. Was she hurtling backwards or forwards to Griseley? She must stir herself off this bench and get on her way if she wanted to arrive back before dark. She took one last lingering look at Park Royal. You served me well, dear green place, but you couldn’t prepare me for what was to come.

  Hogmanay, 1945

  Home for Hogmanay! Every Scot’s dream is to let in the New Year with his ‘ain folk’ across the border. Netta couldn’t stop grinning as she watched those snow-tipped Galloway hills flash past the carriage window. What a surprise they would get when she arrived home early with a suitcase stuffed to bursting with all the sewing she’d done for baby: smocked rompers and stuffed toys, embroidered hankies as gifts, and tammies and mufflers knitted from the unravelled wool of old jumpers. Nettie Thimble knew ‘Mrs Sew and Sew’ was on the mend when she picked up needles once more, trying to teach Lizzie down the corridor how to cast on.

  The morning of departure Netta woke as usual at about four o’clock but this time there was no sickening panic fluttering in her guts, only a surge of joy that at last she would be seeing her son for the first time in eight months. Netta dressed quickly and sat by the bed, packing and repacking a battered leather case, not quite believing this day had come. How she was raring for release from this gilded prison but felt so sorry for those who must spend the festive season here, wishing them all well, hugging her neighbours, making promises to visit and last-minute farewells. She thanked each of the nurses and Dr Goldberg, who had kept his promise and brought her back to normal. It was warm and bright in Denny House with decorations and cards everywhere. The first Christmas after war was over and everyone was in festive mood. Here she felt safe and sheltered but her spirit was eager for release into that chilly outside world.

  Soon the smells, voices, shapes and colours of Park Royal would be only shadows and echoes, silhouettes on the wall by lamplight. She trusted she would never have to stay in there again.

  Telephoning Stratharvar took all her reserves of courage but try as they might there was no reply from the telephone in the hall and Miss Dennison at the Exchange promised to send a message through to inform them of her imminent arrival. It suited Netta to make a simple homecoming with no fuss, just a few moments alone with Ray to sniff his head and feel the warmth of his body close to her chest. Would he be sitting up and smiling? Would his hair be red and stick up straight like hers did as a baby? How she had pored over his photograph until it was crinkled and cracked, faded from exposure and fingering. Film was scarce but the first thing she would do was have a portrait taken: mother and son together. Start as you meant to go on, Netta, into 1946, into a New Year of peace and a new beginning for us both. She smiled, fists clenched with determination.

  There was no one waiting at the station halt, just the old porter who smiled and doffed his cap. ‘Home for Hogmanay, a Guid New Year to ye!’ She was just another weary traveller returned from abroad. His cheery wave gave her the confidence to feel normal. There was no prisoner’s circle of shame on her coat, no label ‘Mental Patient Out on Parole’. Yet shame was stained deep inside her wounded heart: shame that she had ever had to be sent to Park Royal in the first place. How would Netta ever brave company with that lead overcoat weighing her down?

  The rain turned to sleet, lashing down in gusts; the wind tearing at her coat buttons. She stopped to pull out a muffler and beret, pulling the hat down over her ears against the squall. The inside of the hospital was always so warm. Now she felt the full blast of the westerly on her cheeks, the sting of sleet in her eyes, the icy welcome of a solitary homecoming.

  She wondered now if she should have written to them and waited, but no! Netta had been determined to leave at the first opportunity. She legged it down the hill along the country road, hoping against hope that Father was just late and racing to meet her along the twisting lanes. Eventually it was the postie van on its collection round that stopped for her and the familiar schooldays face of Donnie Gillespie who told her to hop in the front seat and rest the suitcase in her lap. He quizzed her gently and Netta fenced her answers carefully. Donnie eventually dropped off his grateful passenger at the foot of the farm track.

  As she lifted the case out, thoughts of Wee Alec the draper and his bag-dance up the track to the farm buoyed up Netta’s courage as she trundled onwards and upwards: each step bringing her nearer and nearer to Ray. It was no afternoon for a pram to be outside in the yard but she searched for it just the same.

  Dusk was falling when she walked through the kitchen door, the lamplight burning. The heat of the range wafted on to Netta’s face as she scanned the room. Ray was sitting strapped into an old high chair, his mouth coated with egg yolk, his chubby fingers gripping a wedge of toast. She stood for a second, transfixed by the sight of his dark curly hair. He looked up at the stranger with his piercing blue eyes and quickly turned to the woman by the sink who spun round.

  ‘Netta! What in the name of goodness are you doing here?’ Peg wiped her hands on her apron as Ray lifted up his hands to her, looking at the figure in the doorway with suspicion.

  ‘Can I hold him?’ Netta moved forward, eager to clasp him, but he turned from her, burying his face in Peg’s floury pinafore. Netta tried to wrench him out of Peg’s arms but the baby writhed and howled. She was a stranger and he was frightened. He smelled of kitchen and stale nappy. Peg grabbed him back. ‘You’ve startled him! He’s not used to strangers… There, wee Gus. Here’s a lady come to see you, smile for the lady…’

  ‘For God’s sake, I’m his mother!’ Netta whispered, trying not to scare him further. The lovely reunion of her imagination was being spoiled.

  He disnae know who you are, Netta. This is the only place he knows. Why didn’t you let us know you were coming? Have they let you out for good?’

  ‘I asked Miss Dennison at the Exchange to let you know. She couldn’t get through.’

  ‘I expect the line was down with the gale. You should have waited for your father to collect you. We’re no prepared for visitors. What with wee Gus having a cold and the Ne’rday crowd, your room’s not even aired. Dr Begg said nothing about you coming home. Surely he knows you’re back?’ Netta shook her head.

  ‘You make it sound as if I’m just out of jail, Peg. There was a bit of a rush to send as many as possible home for Hogmanay. I haven’t gone AWOL, I promise you. I’ve been so keen to see Ray. Isn’t he dark? He’s so like his father, all those Shirley Temple curls. Spoilt on a big laddie like you, aren’t they, Raeburn?’

  ‘We’ve called him Gus… he answers to that. We didnae know how long you’d be away so we just got on with it our way, the best we could under the circumstances…’

  ‘I know, Peg. You’ve held the fort and I’m ever so grateful. It can’t be easy trying to run the farm, and the war…’

  ‘I’m not grumbling, am I? Wee Gus just had to fit into the routine of things, didn’t you?’ Peg put him back into the high chair, strapping him into the makeshift harness. ‘We were awful scared he’d rock himself out of yon contraption on to the flag floor and crack his skull so your father’s tied it to the table just in case. There now, you show the nice lady how you can hold a spoon…’

  Gus looked up suspiciously, not sure if Netta was going to take his toast soldiers, banging his horn spoon on the tray and bursting into a broad grin at the noise he was creating.

  Netta knelt down, slowly this time, to his level with tears in her eyes. Being so close to him and yet not to be able to hold him pierced her like a dagger. There was so much she didn�
�t know about him and he knew neither her smell nor her voice. To him she was just a pretty lady with a caseful of gifts. He was Gus, not Ray and suddenly fear twisted her stomach. Was he Peg’s baby not hers now? No, never!

  Lots of parents were separated from their offspring by the war, she argued to herself. In refugee camps and prisons, children sent abroad to Canada and Australia and now returning on ships to England had been separated a lot longer than Gus and her. It would take them time to adjust, of course. I must go gently and not force myself on him, she decided. Peg would let her help with his care and get to know his routine. Netta would jiggle him on her lap and sing lullabies by his cot. It was not too late, please God, to be reunited with her own baby.

  Netta’s knees were locked with cramp and she sat back on the floor to stretch them. Gus leaned over the side of his chair and saw her struggling to straighten her legs. He gurgled with curiosity at the funny lady’s yelping. For one second their eyes locked and she smiled at him through her tears. ‘What a silly mummy!’

  ‘Let’s have none of that,’ snapped Peg, whisking him out of the chair. ‘There’s only one mammy in this house – the one that’s fed and done for him night and day, who walked away his colic and sat up with him when he was sick. It’s no right to confuse the bairn. Away and unpack your suitcase if you’re staying… You can come and finish off the tatties for our tea while I see to his lordship.’

  How could Netta answer back, for Peg was right on every score? Netta was the failure who’d had to be sent to an asylum while Peg alone coped with the nursing. Surely I have a right to come and take him away, though? She cried to herself. Yet I’ve frightened my baby and put Peg’s back up. Good start, Netta, ten out of ten, go to the top of the class!

  Her knees buckled as she climbed those familiar stairs. All the thrill of the homeward journey, the walk in the wind, the disappointment of being unexpected and unwelcome, was exhausting. The Ray she had yearned for was a figment of her imagination. In the kitchen sat a very real Gus who knew her not. She sat on the carved oak landing chair like an old woman as Peg bustled around with nappies in the newly tiled bathroom.

  ‘You look done in, my girl. I’ll go and infuse the tea. You’re still peaky and your arms are like matchsticks. You need to put some weight on, pull yourself together before you think about the future. We can manage. We’ve managed so far just fine. I have baby to a strict routine. He knows who’s the gaffer and what’s what. So don’t go upsetting the applecart over Ne’rday.

  ‘My cousins, the Hustons, Sandy and Eileen and Morag – she’s about the same age as Gus – are coming for the night. It’ll be a chance to have a good blether and knees up at the Church Social. You can help me with the cooking.’

  Alone in the spartan bedroom of her childhood with a hot water bottle airing the bed, joylessly, unpacking parcels, hanging her coat and one decent dress in a wardrobe smelling of mothballs, only then did a wave of sickness and dread engulf Netta’s spirit. Later at the tea table there was not one word of welcome home. Father was quiet, his head down, eyes flitting from Peg to his daughter, backwards and forwards. The silences were awkward and full of menace. Something hung unspoken in the air.

  It was a relief to creep into the boxroom where Gus’s cot almost filled the room. He lay fast asleep, arms splayed out by his head, cheeks pink. He was wrapped in a woollen blanket coat, the flaps turned over into an envelope to keep his legs and feet cosy. The dressing gown was blue and looked new, not second-hand. It would have taken many coupons to purchase such a garment. The baby had kicked off his blankets so Netta leaned over to tuck him in; the first time she had seen her beautiful child alone.

  Peg appeared from nowhere like a silent shadow. ‘Don’t touch him! He’s fast asleep!’

  ‘I was only tucking him in,’ Netta whispered.

  ‘That’s my job, I’m his mother now.’

  She lay awake all night, hearing those words repeated in her head. Had she forfeited the right to her baby because she’d been ill? Netta cried into her pillow. Surely not? He was her flesh and blood, not Peg’s. He grew under her heart, not Peg’s. She was not even his real grandmother. How dare she claim him? And yet…

  Nothing was going to turn Peg’s preparations for Hogmanay from their traditional course. The black bun, like a pastry brick filed with spiced fruits, stood in the pantry; a rich Dundee cake glazed with hoarded nuts sat majestically in the round tin. Angus had killed a fat cockerel for the pot. The attic bedroom was cleared and aired for the Hustons’ visit, with a cot borrowed for Morag. Netta’s unexpected arrival had kept Peg awake all night. What a time to impose herself on them! Peg kept her busy in the kitchen like Cinderella, allowing her a dispensation to give the baby his midday slops, change him by the hearth and wheel him down the path to sleep in his bucket pram. Netta made herself useful doing his hand washing and steeping the nappies, feeding the livestock and poultry, content to hang around his lordship all day if Peg didn’t chivvy her away.

  Peg hovered over her like a hawk ready to pounce on any infringement of her own routine, gritting her teeth to choke back the frustration. Resentment at Netta’s return hung in the air like a bad smell. It made the girl clumsy and flummoxed. ‘It’s a good job you weren’t carrying the bairn with your butter fingers,’ Peg sneered when Netta almost dropped a batch of scones.

  With two pairs of hands they could polish the furniture in the parlour to a sheen; the log fire was lit to air the room and decorations strung across the ceiling, the faded pre-war paper bells which reminded them both of happier times.

  Christmas was never the main celebration here but a side show in which they all trooped off the kirk and then politely exchanged a few small gifts. Angus had made the bairn a fine wooden cart full of bricks to push around when he was walking; hours of work he had put into the toy. All Netta produced for him were hand-made clothes which Peg dismissed as ‘coming in handy and very serviceable when he grew into them’.

  New Year was to be the main event, the climax of this year’s end when lucky relatives with petrol coupons drove for miles to first foot. The darkest-haired would cross the threshold after midnight bringing a lump of coal for good luck; then the singing of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and the wee dram of whisky and slice of black bun to toast in 1946. Peg was dreading Netta’s making some scene in front of company. You never could tell with mental patients what they would come up with next. It was not often that her relatives came to visit so she kept the myriad questions she had for that young lady until after their departure.

  If Netta thought she could just waltz off with wee Gus into the sunset then she was in for a big surprise! He was beginning to get used to Peg’s handling him and singing to him. She loved the way he cocked his head like a sheepdog to listen to her voice while he dribbled out the last spoonful of Sister Laura’s gruel. He was beginning to roll over and crawl to the edge of his playpen where he howled to be let out.

  The first battle came over Netta’s wanting to lift him out. Peg told her it would spoil him. It was dangerous for a crawling baby on a farmhouse kitchen floor. Netta complained when he was sat on his potty for hours until he performed, his bottom encircled with a red rim. ‘He has to learn obedience and good habits. It’s never too soon to begin,’ Peg argued. Did the girl not see that babies were wilful and needed to be tamed and trained by a strict regime? Peg knew that when she left the room Netta would rush to pick him up and cuddle him to stop his crying. He would struggle against her, his eyes on the door searching for Peg’s return, and it choked her heart with relief to be first and best in his world. No one needed her like Gus had needed her all those months. Nothing had prepared her for such a welter of emotions.

  On New Year’s Eve the Hustons poured out of their little Austin Seven which was piled up at the back with a metal rack on which was strapped a collapsible go-chair. Peg had never seen such a contraption before and decided that Gus would be getting about in one of those. It could be shoved in the back of the farm van for trips into
town. Eileen struggled out of the back seat with Morag on her knee from where they were sitting next to a crate of bottles ready for the celebrations.

  Morag was dressed like a little princess in a pink woollen coat edged with swan’sdown, leggings and a matching peekaboo bonnet but she had been sick down the front of her coat and stank to high heaven. Nobody had ever warned Netta how foul a soiled nappy could be, especially one that belonged to somebody else’s child. Morag had a podgy face and piggy eyes, not the most appealing of little girls, and Peg was proud that Gus was so handsome with features that were defined and strong.

  Eileen was surprised to see Netta. She had been told she was away on war work.

  ‘It’s a long time, Netta, since we had a chin wag. You home for Hogmanay? Here, Sandy, take the wean, my arms are stiff. Where’s that gorgeous nephew of mine? Isn’t he a doll? Peg’s so proud of him. After such a long time they must have given up hope…’ Her words exploded like an incendiary bomb.

  ‘But he’s…’

  Netta tried to catch her attention but thankfully Morag’s foot was trapped in Sandy’s jacket and she was making a din. Peg rushed into the breach.

  ‘Eileen! Here at last, are the roads bad? I’ve put you in the loft, you see we’ve got a visitor in the spare bedroom. Netta’s come to stay a while…’ Eileen turned again to the daughter of the house.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear your bad news. Not much of a marriage, was it? Robbed of your man so soon. Still the boys are coming home so I’m sure some other young man will take your eye… What a slender willow wand you are, you must take after your mother. Nothing like a baby to fill you out, is there, Peg?’ She smiled, patting her stomach.