Brigid the Girl from County Clare

by Vicky Adin

  “You did what?” Brigid thrust the papers towards Sally. “Take them back. Go on, go back to him and tell him I can’t meet his conditions. I can’t tell lies, Sally. I can’t.”

  “Oh, stop being a fusspot. I only altered them a little bit – just to get us started. Do you want new fabrics and stuff or not? Pander to his dear old Mrs and word will get around, and before you know it, business will have picked up and my figures will be telling the truth anyway.”

  15

  Making an Impression

  Wednesday, 10th October 1888

  “Sally. Sally, come quickly.” Brigid scanned the letter as fast as she could, then reread it more slowly.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” Sally hurried into the newly refurbished anteroom where Brigid was working. “You sound upset.”

  “I am that.” Brigid passed the letter to her friend. “There’s been a fire – a huge one.” Tears welled as she imagined the scene. “It’s destroyed the Harrison Browne Drapery store, it has.”

  Sally put her arm around Brigid’s shoulder, as she wiped away a tear. “What? Oh, that’s terrible news.”

  “Mrs B says her husband has had a stroke and is confined to his bed. Master Philip has taken over the clean-up, but she says the losses are huge. Between the floods last year and now this, she doesn’t think Harrison Browne’s will recover. I hope that doesn’t mean bad news for us here.”

  But what would she do without Mrs Browne as her guiding hand? She hoped Philip wouldn’t try to take it all away from her.

  “Don’t worry. Surely it can’t be that bad. You always said young Mr Harrison-Browne would modernise the place as soon as his father would let him. Looks like his poor old dad has no option now, and the young man will have his chance.”

  Would this mean Philip coming back into her life? She didn’t know how she felt about that possibility. She had put him completely out of her mind – most of the time. Especially since she’d met ... no, she mustn’t think about him right now.

  “Perhaps you’re right. You were right about this place.”

  Over the last six months, ‘Miss Brigid’s’ had exceeded the growth expectations Sally had predicted. Delighted that Mrs Fortesque had accepted her invitation, their first step had been to redecorate the anteroom and turn it into a comfortable, if not quite elegant salon in which to greet her estimable guest. On the day, Brigid was even more delighted her slim-built attractive customer was as stylish as she’d hoped.

  Brigid eagerly indulged her visitor with tea and Maggie’s best baking. Sally had rushed to and fro bringing examples of laces, trims and fabrics from the shop, while Brigid demonstrated her craft and explained her ideas. “Your costume is beautifully made and looks grand on you.”

  Mrs Fortesque simpered at Brigid’s compliment.

  “And I don’t plan to compete with your seamstress, I want to add to her work – with lacework made just for you. I’m sure a woman of taste, such as yourself, likes to be distinctive.”

  Brigid’s assessment had been correct, and she was thankful to Mrs Browne, yet again, for teaching her better words to use. A smile lit the face of her client.

  “I’ve noticed there is a current trend to mass production, and I’m not happy seeing fabrics in shop windows the same as those my dressmaker is offering.”

  Perfect, thought Brigid, in full agreement, taking note to look into where to get better quality fabrics than those she’d found in the shop when they arrived.

  “I know I could be a dressmaker if I wanted to. But I t’ink I can give people better service through my traditional lacework. Each piece I make is unique to its owner. Don’t you agree?”

  Lacemaking took time, and in Ireland the girls received little for their efforts since machine-made lace was quicker and cheaper to make, and much more profitable. It undermined the market for the genuine article, and it had taken Brigid a long time to accept that her lace was not only beautiful but also rare and valuable.

  A nod from her visitor encouraged Brigid to keep talking. She picked up a roll of lace Sally had left on the table for her. “Like this machine lace, here. It comes to me by the yard, it does. And, aye, I can sell it cheaply to anyone with the skills to sew it onto a blouse or jacket. But you’ll find similar laces at your dressmaker’s. You might even see a sales girl, or a secretary, or a housewife, wearing the same lace you have on your visiting and evening gowns. I can guarantee every piece of my lace is a one-off that no one else has. I’m sure you would prefer that.”

  By the end of the afternoon, Mrs Fortesque had agreed to order several pieces of lace to enhance dress designs Brigid had sketched, along with others seen in the fashion catalogues Mrs Browne had ordered from London and Paris to be sent to her.

  But, more importantly, Mrs Fortesque intended to tell all her friends and advise her dressmaker that, from now on, all the materials required for her gowns were to be purchased through ‘Miss Brigid’s’.

  The tide had turned that day, in more ways than one.

  The bell over the door tinkled. Sally got up to answer it but stopped when a voice called out.

  “Are you there, Brigid? I’ve got some new samples to show ye.”

  Still flustered by the news of the fire, Brigid jumped at the familiar but unexpected Welsh accent. She straightened her shoulders and wiped any remaining trace of tears from her face before making her way into the shop. “Thomas Price. What brings you back so soon? I thought you’d gone travelling.”

  The jaunty, dapper young man standing before her was an entrepreneur before the word had come into fashion. Sometimes he sailed the oceans, returning with hand-picked stock, sometimes he brokered deals with importers for top-of-the-line small runs, all of which he on-sold to shops like hers.

  “You.” He winked and grinned that cheeky grin she’d come to prize. “I’ve been and gone and now I’m back.”

  Brigid’s spirits lifted. He might always be on the move and she never knew when he’d appear next, but she liked him. She’d found him trustworthy ever since he’d first arrived on her doorstep the day after Mrs Fortesque’s visit, as if destiny had sent him.

  “You’ll never guess what I’ve got.” Tom was a sweet-talker – Brigid had no doubts about that – but he knew his trade and she was the beneficiary.

  “Now how can I guess if you won’t give me any clues?”

  With a flourish, he withdrew a short length of peacock coloured silk from his bag. “Look what I’ve brought my favourite girl.”

  Individuality had become her mark of difference. She dealt with exclusive, quality products, but this piece was outstanding. Brigid put her hands on her face, her mouth opened, eyes widened. Then she reached out to touch smooth, soft and unbelievably luxurious fabric. “Where did you get it?”

  She could feel Tom’s eyes on her as she held the fabric up this way and that to the light, seeing how it draped. Of all her patrons, she would offer this fabric to Mrs Fortesque as a thank you for all the new clients she had sent her way. Dressmakers, milliners and cloak makers were now buying their fabrics and wares from ‘Miss Brigid’s’ and she was sometimes stretched to meet demand.

  “Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it.” He wiggled both eyebrows and made her laugh.

  “I don’t want to know your trade secrets, Tommy. I want to know where it was made. This didn’t come from Britain.”

  “You are right on there, lass. It comes from the Far East, does that.”

  No amount of persuasion and cajolery would make him tell her how he’d got hold of it. ‘Influential businessman’ was all he’d say. “But this much I can tell you. There’s not a lot of it, but I’ve laid me hands on a bolt just for you. Can you use it?”

  “Of course I can! I know just the person – but what’s it going to cost me, Tommy? The customs tariffs have just gone up again and everything is so expensive now.”

  “A kiss?” He tapped his finger against the side of his face and beamed.

  She put both hands on her
side of the counter, lifted herself up and dropped a brief kiss on his cheek.

  Tommy was so surprised he staggered back and, grinning from ear to ear, put his hand over his heart and patted his chest.

  Brigid blushed and then giggled. She hadn’t giggled like that in such a long time, not since Philip made her giggle on the ship. Goodness, that was two years ago, she realised as she registered the date. Two years since she’d boarded the ship in London looking for a new life, and what a new life she’d found. Full of ups and downs, heartaches and triumphs, successes and failures, but she’d come a long way, in so many ways.

  They negotiated a price that suited both of them, and Brigid ordered other stock from his range of notions and threads.

  He gathered up his samples, put his bowler hat on top of his curls and prepared to leave. “One day, Miss Brigid, I’m going to come in here and ask you to step out with me. Would you do that? Would you come out with me?”

  Brigid felt her legs go wobbly, and a tingling in the pit of her stomach guaranteed her answer. “Aye, Tommy. I would.” She dropped her chin and tilted her head coyly to one side. “When you ask me proper.”

  He crossed one foot over the other and spun around on the spot. “Until next time, Miss Brigid.”

  As soon as he stepped outside and the door closed behind him, Sally emerged from where she’d been hiding, listening. “Well, well. Looks like you’ve made a conquest there.”

  Brigid’s gaze remained on the door, but her mind had walked a mile or two further. “Maybe. But I thought I had a future with Mr Harrison-Browne once, and look where that got me.”

  Sally snorted. “Yes, look where it got you. In this thriving establishment, living in New Zealand surrounded by people who love you, and a man knocking on your door. No more doubts, Brigid O’Brien. The world has arrived at your doorstep. Enjoy it.”

  In spite of Sally’s assertions, Brigid couldn’t quite get rid of all her doubts. Jamie’s silence and prolonged absence weighed heavily on her, and Maggie had become stranger as time had passed. She could often hear the woman talking to herself, and she’d started to twist her hair in her fingers so much she pulled some out, then more and more until her hair looked like string rather than the luxuriant locks she’d once sported. Her interest in the girls had completely waned to the point they were nervous of being around her, which troubled Brigid greatly. Laura and Jane were Maggie’s blood nieces, but their welfare had fallen to Sally and herself.

  Brigid couldn’t deny she enjoyed their company and it felt like having little sisters again, but their free spirit was so distant from her life at that age. Not for them the uncertainty of where the next meal was coming from, or whether the bailiffs would take their house from them. They would be the educated, well-fed, adventurous ladies of tomorrow.

  From time to time she wondered what her parents and siblings were doing back home. Their letters were brief and infrequent, and did not always hold welcome news. Máire was away working in the town as a kitchen maid, and the babby Katie was growing into a pretty wee thing, but there’d been more evictions. The papers were full of it, they said. Things weren’t getting any easier.

  She prayed for them and lit candles.

  Laura was already asking about the suffragettes and what it all meant. She was a clever one was Laura, and little Jane, coming up ten soon, was the quiet one. Laura’s stitching was exceedingly accomplished for her age, and Jane had Sally’s eye for colour and shape. And she loved to draw.

  While high-society ladies were sticking to the fashion dictates of Britain, fashions for the emerging class of women, working as professionals in shops or offices and who rode bicycles and played sport, were changing. Brigid saw a bright future in dress design for Jane.

  And as for Sally, well, sometimes, she was at a loss about her friend.

  Watching Sally change the window display while she sat in her habitual early-morning spot making lace, Brigid guessed it as good a time as any to broach the subject. “Have you ever considered what you want to do for the rest of your life?”

  Sally stopped what she was doing and removed the pins from her mouth. “What are you talking about?”

  Brigid covertly glanced up at her friend as she worked the hook and thread between her fingers. “You told me I should enjoy the rewards of what I’ve done, but what about you? What do you want that you don’t have?”

  Sally bent to pin another length of trim to the flounce she’d created. “I have what I want.”

  “I don’t believe you. You didn’t leave the old country to go to Australia, or come here to New Zealand for that matter, to work in a shop.”

  Lifting her skirt, Sally clambered down from the window and went in search of something to add to the display. “Why not? It’s a better job than anything I had back home. I’ve a roof over my head, food in my belly and the best clothes I’ve ever had.” She turned to stare at Brigid, one hand on her hip, the other still holding the open button drawer. “Why are you asking?”

  “No reason.” Brigid dropped her head to her work. “I thought you might want to find something more exciting. That’s all.”

  “Damn and blast it.”

  Startled by the noise of the drawer falling out, and surprised at Sally’s cursing, Brigid put her lacework aside and started to help pick up the scattered buttons.

  “Do you want me to leave?” Sally kept her head down, but her voice sounded close to panic.

  Side by side on their knees, their hands touched briefly as they both reached out at the same time to drop the retrieved buttons back into the drawer. Their eyes met. Sally’s were brimming.

  Standing up, Brigid took her friend’s wrist and pulled her close. She wrapped her arms around the other woman. “Of course not.”

  Sally sobbed into her shoulder. “Don’t send me away, Bree. Please don’t send me away.”

  “Whatever happened to you, Sally? Where did the woman I met on the ship disappear to?”

  For a long time Brigid failed to convince Sally that Carruthers would not find her in New Zealand. They’d left no trace anywhere, on any paperwork, to show she’d left the country, but more importantly than that, with her gone from Townsville he had no need to look for her. She was no longer a temptation or a problem.

  “Are you haunted by Maggie’s brother, is that it?” For some time after hearing the rest of the story, Brigid had struggled to get it out of her mind. The whole episode went against everything she believed in. She’d even talked to God about it, but she’d received no answer, no guidance. The problem was not hers to solve. Did Jamie struggle? Was that why he left?

  “No. I hardly knew him, and after what he did to Maggie and the girls, he deserved everything he got.” Brigid crossed herself at this godless thought but said nothing, wanting Sally to say what plagued her. “Jamie was the brave one. He took all our troubles on his shoulders and now he’s gone. I feel bad that Maggie rejected him after all he’d done for her.”

  Brigid had known on the ship that Maggie would cause Jamie heartache, and she’d been proved right. “Aye, I am too, but it’s not Jamie I’m asking about – it’s you. Are you still frightened of that fella?”

  Most of the time Sally’s accent was only slight, but under stress it became exaggerated. “I dinna think so. We’ve been here all of twelvemonth now. The life I had in Townsville’s all past, just like the life I had back home. But summat’s gone from in here.” Sally placed her hand over her rib cage. “The hollow feeling I used to have and tried to fill has gone. I canna explain it. But I’m no troubled any more. Do you ken?”

  Brigid knew only too well what she meant, but could three women continue to live together, raising two girls, forever? Or rather, two women and one who was slowly losing her mind.

  “Did you ever write to your friend at the hotel – what was her name? Emily?”

  Sally shook her head. “I was too scared she might let something slip and the police or ... or ... he would come looking for me. Like I said – it’s in the
past. Leave it where it belongs.”

  “All right, I will. If you’re sure you are happy here. You’re my dearest friend, but I don’t want you to stay with me if there is something in life you want to do. You used to like to sing, to party, even to risk a game of cards. Where’s that Sally?”

  “She’s grown up and got some sense.”

  “But you never go out. Don’t you want a husband and family of your own?”

  “Nay, lass. Never.”

  “But why ever not? You’re always trying to hook me up with someone. Tom’s your latest target.”

  A dark cloud veiled Sally’s eyes, and her face paled. “There’s one last secret you should know ...” Between long pauses and deep breaths, Sally spoke of her hidden past for the first time. “I were not much older than Laura when it started. My stepfather and ...” she shuddered but put her hand out to stop Brigid from comforting her as the tale unfolded. “It all came back to me when that man started pawing me. I can never let a man touch me. Never.”

  Sally shook her head as if coming out of a trance. “Now don’t speak of it. Put it out of your head. I’m here because I want to be, not because I’m obliged. I treasure our friendship. And I’ve learnt a new trade. That yon bank manager is impressed with my bookkeeping. You do what you’re good at, and I’ll do my part, and ‘Miss Brigid’s’ will prosper and keep all of us in style.”

  Whatever Brigid thought would come from the conversation, it certainly wasn’t that, but reassured Sally was here to stay, she smiled.

  “And don’t forget your window dressing talents.” Brigid had been delighted when Sally had been invited to dress windows for other merchants. “Now, let’s open the doors and see if we can conjure up some new customers.”

  16

  The Proposition

  Thursday, 15th November 1888

  “Your fella’s back again.” Sally recognised the jaunty walk of Tom Price the instant he came into view. Bowler hat slightly tilted back on his head, cigar in hand and wearing a beautiful, well-tied cravat and pin, he looked the essence of an up-and-coming dandy about town.