The Wedding Dress Maker

by Leah Fleming

  She had been discharged by the time he found his weary way back to Park Royal. After weeks sleeping rough and sorting his head around his raging thirst, the crabs crawling through his mind, Drew had returned to complete his treatment in the hospital like a penitent child, kow-towing to the regime like a model patient.

  On his discharge he had been determined to put formal medicine behind him. Not for him the surgical ward or the surgery for he had seen enough drama and blood. He settled for a safe option behind a desk as a public servant. A few locum jobs were all it took to convince him he was hopeless with the ailments of hypochondriacs. In the end he took a post with the West Riding of Yorkshire School Welfare Association, providing screenings and medicals to local schools.

  The contact with children was refreshing although depressing at times. There were so many city children who were malnourished and downtrodden by wartime disruption, but kids in general were honest and uncomplaining. They allowed Drew to drift on the surface and avoid extreme reactions.

  Then came the fateful outing to the Yorkshire Show when he saw Ginnie Mackeever take a bad throw in the show jumping ring and rushed to give her first aid. Her father was distraught, worried that his only child should be seriously injured, but she must have had the devil’s luck and a spine of steel to walk away so easily from what could have been a wheelchair outcome.

  Ginnie’s crowd was, at first, just the tonic Drew needed to complete his social life. Horsy but generous, with no bourgeois hangups about spending lolly by the bucketful: the eat, drink and be merry brigade who welcomed him into their charmed circle. Ginnie bubbled like pink champagne, dazzling his senses with her glamour and horsemanship.

  He had ridden as a child of the Manse in Perthshire but needed many lessons even to begin to keep up with this crowd. How he’d got himself in to Fattorini’s the jeweller’s in Leeds to choose an engagement ring was all a bit of a blur. After some boozy party, no doubt. But Billie Mackeever had welcomed him as a fellow Scot and a tame quack in the family. Ginnie thought the whole romance a hoot. Why shouldn’t he enjoy himself after all those wasted years in the Forces? His parents sent a letter of congratulations from their clinic in the African bush, hoping Ginnie and Drew would make up the loving team needed to steer through the stormy waters of modern marriage. Ginnie had roared with laughter at their old-fashioned ideas.

  As the time to make wedding plans drew nearer he felt anxious about the commitment he was taking on but relieved at least that young Ginnie was in no rush to canter down the aisle. Long might it continue.

  *

  When Netta walked past the bar, Drew was propped up there, close enough to touch her arm. ‘We meet again.’ He saw her mouth tremble. ‘Never expected to see you again. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’ He was grinning with amusement.

  ‘It’s not funny! You stood me up, as I recall, on Remembrance Day. I wondered what happened to you.’ She muttered the words like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  ‘The usual, I expect. One too many, over the wall and far away. I came back but you were gone by then. Don’t look so po-faced.’

  ‘You’re drunk!’

  ‘I’m as sober as a judge but this sort of shindig always gets me reaching for the bottle. All this tartan glory makes my eyes water. Sorry, but it’s not my thing.’

  ‘Well, it was mine until you turned up.’

  ‘What brought you to Yorkshire?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘There was a baby, I recall?’

  ‘That’s the long story, but I live in hope. And you, did you find yourself some hope too or is the Texas Ranger your last chance saloon?’ He roared with laughter at her phrasing, drawing everyone’s attention to their conversation and Ginnie quickly to his side.

  ‘I can’t leave him alone for two seconds before he’s chatting up some skirt. You never told me you knew each other?’

  ‘We don’t. Just passing the time, aren’t we, Mrs Hunter? Nice to meet you.’ Drew put his arm around his fiancée and smiled sweetly. Netta watched as they swayed back to the dance floor. Ginnie gripped his arm, giving Netta a long hard look that signalled: Do not muscle in on my property. Keep to your place in the pecking order.

  Netta watched Drew staggering, Ginnie draped all over him like a stole. To look good in Highland dress a man needed firm full calves to show off the skean dhu in his stocking, broad shoulders and a neat waist to give the jacket and kilt definition. There was nothing distinguished about Drew Stirling. He was too lanky and spindle-legged with a slight stoop to his shoulders as if he was afraid to uncurl himself to his full height. Yet it was that very stoop that caught Netta’s eye as she could see him sobering up fast, trying to concentrate among the chatter, glancing furtively in her direction. What strange misalliance of stars had brought those two lovebirds together? she wondered.

  She no longer felt safe, knowing Drew Stirling was living at such close range. What he knew about her private life could bring down her fragile house of straw with one puff: all the little half-truths of its façade scattered by his first drunken gaffe. So he was a doctor? That was why he had been quick to make a diagnosis of her illness. Was he still practising medicine or had he been dishonourably discharged from the army? She was curious but would never risk a function at the Scotia again just in case.

  Ships that pass in the night was all they had meant to each other in Park Royal but he had recognised and remembered as much of her as she did of his sad story. Billie Mackeever, the builder, was quite the elder of the kirk now, indulgent with his daughter perhaps but not enough to want her to marry a drunk, whatever his nationality.

  Netta’s knees had stopped shaking. There was no reason for them ever to meet again socially. It need not stop her dancing on Thursday evenings. As for the Texas Rangers, it was a fantasy to think any of them would ever use her services when there were big stores locally and London only hours away.

  Netta caught sight of the silver-mounted cairngorm buttons on his black dress jacket, flashing in the light like the fear in his eyes. There was an odd solace in knowing somebody else was just as discomfited as she. Their strange encounter in Park Royal was a secret shared only by them, she was sure. Now they must collude in a mutual silence, an alliance of deceit. Each had power over the other in this affair; a disturbing thought. It was time for this Cinderella to change back into her rags and behind her. Nothing was going to stop her even the joys of Maison Dorelle awaiting her in the morning.

  Spring 1948

  There was cherry blossom dusting the pavements of Griseley High Street like pink confetti and wedding fever was in the air. The Royal wedding back in November had set its stamp of romance on the nation and Yorkshire brides were rushing to the altar in modest replicas of the ivory satin Hartnell creation which had staggered the world with its glorious embroidery and appliqué work. Vida was snowed under with cotton and net, farming out as much work to Netta as her weary eyes could manage. Dorelle’s were struggling to supply its quota of mother of the bride two-piece outfits and accessories. Netta crawled through the winter on her knees making alterations.

  Even Maudie Venables had bowed to the inevitable and at last bought in some fashion stock. With every stitch of overtime and bridal piecework, Netta was counting more pound notes. At last she was on the move from Aireview Street to upper Griseley, renting a stone end-terraced cottage, two up, two down, on a ledge of houses halfway up towards the moors.

  Her own place at last! No more early morning bus rides in the dark, no more grim streets and sooty smuts on her sewing for this was above the chimney line and away from the prevailing winds. Her thimble had been red hot with the effort to reach this milestone. Now she would have the right place to bring up her son, with schools close by and a nursery in the town. This was what she had been working towards all these years. So what if it had damp patches on the walls and a funny iron range with a will of its own, rickety steps up the middle of the house and an outside toilet in the backyard? For joy of joys
, it also had its own front garden, just a fenced off little patch with a latched gate and a privet hedge with a view right up into the fields and the sky. Nothing had prepared her for the pleasure of such a momentous move.

  When Netta was not sewing bridal wear, she was sewing cushion covers and loose covers and decorating the little box room for Gus. Vida Bloom had pointed her to auction sales and house clearances where she picked up beds and a table, an oak linen chest and sideboard, a corner cupboard and a set of shelves for her son’s room. She distempered this in duck egg blue with gingham check curtains made from an old tablecloth, stuck transfers on the painted wood and fresh linoleum on the floor. Then she bought a pegged rug from her neighbour to cover the stone flags in the kitchen. The walls were three feet thick and she had to bend under the beams here and there, but outside she could breathe fresh air and step out of her gate along the terrace and up on to the moors to stretch her aching back.

  Netta set up her treadle machine and ironing board in the front parlour with a sheet on the floor to protect all her sewing. There was no electricity connected but the range heated the water and she lived off griddle scones and oven stews. At the end of each weary day she could close her own front door and sew again by storm lamp, listening to records on the wind-up gramophone that Arnie had kindly donated to the cause.

  It was through him that she heard where Dixie was performing and how he visited her on station platforms each Sunday while she crossed the country with her theatrical trunk to the next Variety revue. Sometimes he brought his music and gave Netta a rendition of his latest Jazz piece. He sometimes stood in for someone at the Cellar but his mother didn’t like him taking time off work the morning after so he pretended to be on some audit out of town and kipped down in Gus’s room. Everything was ready and prepared. All Netta wanted now was her own child under her roof.

  *

  It usually happened somewhere between Carlisle and Dumfries as the train rattled northwards along the Solway coast line. Then all Netta’s Griseley layers of confidence and purpose slipped away, along with her assurance that her plans were set fair for the future. Somewhere on that journey homewards her neatly pressed suit was exchanged for the cotton overalls of a subservient farmer’s daughter. But this time it was all going to be different for all her self-imposed targets had been met.

  She had taken the precaution of registering Gus’s name at a little private nursery near by where he would be picked up after work each day. It had taken months to organise everything so that his homecoming would be as perfect as possible. At long last she was fired up to reclaim her son once and for all. This time she would take no refusals from Peg. They had had their fair share of him. Now it was his mother’s turn.

  What a shock Arnie and Vida would have when she introduced her son to them. Netta had taken the precaution of getting a statement of her financial affairs from the Penny Bank to prove to her father that her account was at long last in credit.

  She had even made a confidential visit to Arthur Worthington, a local lawyer, to check what rights she had concerning her son. He had assured her that according to English law there should be no problem since Netta had never signed him over for adoption in the first place. She was entitled to ask for him back. As far as his investigations could discover, Gus was not listed as a ward of any court in Scotland. This knowledge armed her even further with the righteousness of her claim.

  This time she made no song and dance about her return to Stratharvar, arriving unannounced and making her own way from the station by bus. She settled into the holiday routine as if nothing was changed but her heart was thumping for the right moment when she would spring her plans into action and take them by surprise.

  Peg for once was relaxed in the glorious sunshine, chatty, even ready to admire the photographs Netta had brought of her cottage and some of her brides in spectacular creations lined up for approval. She showed Father her accounts to prove how well she was progressing, drew in a gulp of breath and dropped her bombshell at the tea table on the second night of her visit.

  ‘It’s time Gus came home with me. I have kept my word and done everything you’ve asked of me. Stayed away when my fingers itched to hold him. Made no fuss with the lawyers and such like. Now I’ve got a lovely wee room for him to call his own and set everything in place for him to return with me at the end of the week. I never signed any papers so I know he’s mine by rights. He’s always been my son, hasn’t he? I was just too feared to make a fuss.’

  She watched the two of them shooting glances at each other, faces flushed with surprise at this outburst. Her thunderous news was bursting over their heads and for once they were silenced.

  ‘We didna think it would be so soon…’ Her father pushed his dinner to one side.

  ‘Three years I’ve been waiting for this moment. He’s all I’ve lived and worked for – to be successful enough to prove I can keep him myself. That was the promise. You knew it would come to this one day. It was what was agreed.’

  ‘Don’t be hasty, Netta, bide a while more. The bairn’ll have to get used to the move too. He’s hardly seen much of you, has he?’

  ‘And whose fault is that? I’ve come when I’m bidden and welcome. I’ve bit ma tongue not to just turn up.’

  ‘Aye, you’ve done well enough but there’s a sour tip on yer tongue the now. You cannae just spring this on us. I’ll have to speak to my lawyer. We have our rights tool’

  ‘What grazing right is this? Keep a bairn on yer pasture for three years and automatically he’s yours to keep? He’s not a cowl’ she heard herself shouting.

  ‘Ach, not that at all. In his eyes we’re his mam and paw and you’re his Auntie Netta. Tell me how we just let him upsticks with you and flit to another country with no preparation? He’s only three and at a difficult stage,’ pleaded Peg.

  ‘It seems to me every stage is difficult. First he was a bairn and needed routine, then he was a toddler and now he’s three. He can use a potty and talk. He’s not at school yet. Do I have to wait until he’s left the Academy before he’s ready to live with me?’

  ‘I think we should all sleep on this. Gus can be an awkward little cuss when he’s having a tantrum. He’s awful strong-willed the now. You’ve no experience. You just see him high days and holidays in short bursts. You come bearing gifts and sweeties, far too many in ma book, and he’s all over you. I know… that’s what visitors do. I suppose you need to do that to compensate for not being around, but you’ve no the full picture of things here.’ Peg twirled her cup round and round on its saucer, hardly able to hold back the tears. Netta was not going to be swayed.

  ‘At the end of the week he comes away home with me. We shall have a holiday on our own to settle him in his new surroundings. You don’t know how long I’ve been preparing for this day. Don’t try and stop me or I shall just walk out with my baby and you’ll never see him again. It’s not that I’m not grateful for what you’ve done here. I suppose I had to go and prove myself, set the heather ablaze after such a bad start. Now there’s nothing left to prove.

  ‘Griseley’s a fine town. He’ll have the best of both worlds there. You can come and visit him any time. I won’t put restrictions on you. It’s not as if I’m taking him to the other end of the world, now is it?’

  ‘You might as well, for all the chance we’ll get to leave the farm and visit. He’s a country boy not a townie, used to roaming fields in safety, not traffic. How safe will he be in mills and muck?’

  ‘There’s enough country on our doorstep, rivers and riding schools, good schools and cities to visit. He’ll have the best of both worlds. He’ll soon make friends of his own age there. I shall see to that, don’t worry.’

  ‘And when you go to work all day? Where will he go then? Cooped up in some nursery, I suppose, like a caged animal. Is that what you want for a farmer’s boy?’

  ‘He’s not just from farm stock. Gus must have a broad enough education to choose his own path. Rae would have wanted that for him.
This farm can still be part of his life, in the holidays.’

  ‘Think what yer doing, Netta. Why such a rush? Why not come back here and get to know him better before you whisk him away?’ Her father’s eyes were frightened and suddenly he looked old and weary.

  ‘I have my living to make. I can’t just leave it when it’s just taking off. I like my work too, you know! Giving girls what I didna have myself, I suppose. For three years I’ve had time to think about this day and I won’t be fobbed off.’

  Gus sat at his high chair, sensing the tension in the air. He climbed on to Peg’s knee, sucking his thumb. For once she did not check him.

  He began to say no to everything Netta suggested, hanging back, clinging on to Peg’s apron and looking up at Netta with suspicion.

  ‘Shall we go to Carrick beach today?’

  ‘Nope!’ Gus turned and ran out into the yard.

  ‘Come in and let me wash your hands. We’re going for a walk.’

  ‘No! Go away.’

  Gus ran round in circles like an aeroplane and refused to listen to her cajoling. She had to pick him up, kicking and screaming and wriggling from her grasp.

  ‘Look, Gus… we’re going to go on a big train soon. Shall we choose some toys to take for your room?’ He looked at her as if she was speaking some strange language and laughed.

  ‘How long’s he been like this?’ she asked Peg, puzzled by this fierce little boy who was always defying her.

  ‘For months now. I told you, he’s at that awkward stage. Tears and tantrums, paddiwacks and cuddles: that’s all we get. He’s needing a nap and his Yumpy bear.’ But Yumpy was nowhere to be found and Gus lay on the floor and howled like a puppy in agony until Angus couldn’t stand the din any longer, whisking him over his shoulder. He took him up the stairs for a rest, settling him down with firm words.

  For the first time Netta felt at a loss to understand his behaviour. This was not the little boy she knew and loved but a stranger who could bring the whole household to a standstill with his screams. Was he sickening for something? Was he normal?