The Sewing Room Girl

by Susanna Bavin

  Emerging from Ingleby’s with hope fluttering inside her, she set off along Market Street before realising she was heading the wrong way. As she turned about, the road sign at the corner she was passing caught her eye. Rosemount Place. The hopeful flutters turned to cold shakiness. Rosemount Place: the address on William Turton’s card.

  Her mind screamed at her not to, but her feet forced her into the smart, quiet cul-de-sac. A line of front steps led up to a line of handsome front doors, complete with brass door furniture. Beside each door a brass plate gleamed, bearing the name of the firm.

  Winterton, Sowerby and Jenks. Where William Turton worked.

  She could march in and leave his career in tatters. Either that or be taken away by a policeman for daring to make such an accusation against a respectable legal clerk.

  The thought of facing him again turned her stomach. She hurried home, trying to recapture the hopeful flutters.

  Over the following days, she worked every spare minute, rising early and staying up late. Soon she had created two designs, one copy of each for Miss Lindsay and one for herself. The first was a jacket and skirt, what the fashion magazines in the sewing room had called a ‘walking costume’. Mindful of Ingleby’s likely customers, she didn’t incorporate the vast leg-o’-mutton sleeves favoured by Lady Margaret, but toned down the fullness, adding a blouse with a dainty froth of lace that would peep out from the jacket collar. To complete the costume, she chose toning gloves from Ladies’ Accessories.

  Her second design featured a flared skirt in brown lightweight wool, a serviceable fabric that would hang and settle nicely, with a cream silk blouse, high-collared as fashion dictated, and with the leg-o’-mutton shape softened by subtle draping. To finish, she added a narrow belt.

  Now there was one thing left to do before she applied to Miss Lindsay. If she did this first, she could concentrate on building her future in sewing and not agonise over … her other problem. She went to the gates of the local orphanage. She had stood here a few times. Was this the right place?

  A crocodile of children approached and she eased herself away. The children were dressed in blue, a sombre blue admittedly, but it was better than grey. The orphanage itself was a big house with a garden. The lawn had great patches without grass. Hal would have had something to say about that. Did they neglect the children the way they neglected the garden? Then, at a word from the woman leading the crocodile, the pairs of children burst apart with glad cries and started chasing one another about.

  Juliet smiled. That was why the grass had worn away. Her decision was made.

  How long before her condition revealed itself? It would be a race between Clara and Mrs Duggan to see who could throw her out first. But if she could find work with Ingleby’s, her future would be a lot brighter, and now she knew where she would leave the child. That was as much planning as she could face.

  Her letter to Miss Lindsay was word-perfect in her head. She wrote it in best, addressing the envelope for Miss Lindsay’s personal attention. When the letter dropped into the pillar box, goosebumps popped up all over her.

  Would Miss Lindsay be interested?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Getting up early was no hardship. Hal only wished he could rise even earlier, but he couldn’t without disturbing Gil Tierney, whom he was bunking with and who, in spite of snoring like a drunken navvy all night, woke at the slightest thing, compelling Hal to lie there, battling with the questions that had tormented him since the day Agnes Harper was buried.

  During the day, he mucked in with every physically demanding job, the more taxing the better.

  ‘You don’t have to construct that rockery single-handed,’ Mr Clayton observed wryly. ‘I know you’ve been let down by your girl. I’ll have to employ only heartbroken chaps in future, if they all work like you.’

  Let down by your girl. It was difficult to argue otherwise, and yet he couldn’t accept what had happened. Had Juliet been stringing him along, hoping he would take on her baby, while keeping the other fellow in reserve? He couldn’t believe it. He knew her too well. Or so he had thought. But there was no getting round the fact that she had run away. Aye, and it hadn’t been on the spur of the moment either, because Mrs Harper’s sewing box had gone missing at the same time … which shows she had it planned all along, according to Ma in a letter.

  In another letter, she recounted how, when Mr Nugent’s staff had gone through Juliet’s belongings, various items were conspicuous by their absence, such as her hairbrush, which just goes to show – he screwed up the letter. Did Ma think she was helping by blackening Juliet’s name?

  Cecily! Why hadn’t he thought of her before? If Juliet were to contact anyone, surely it would be Cecily, though it wouldn’t be easy getting a message to her if the London housekeeper was anything like Mrs Whicker, but even if Juliet couldn’t write, she might have confided in Cecily back at home. How long ago had Cecily come to London with Miss Phoebe?

  It was worth a try.

  ‘Well, that’s something I never thought I’d see,’ Gil Tierney exclaimed. ‘You – smiling. Didn’t think you knew how.’

  Later, having dashed back to his digs to spruce himself up, Hal presented himself at the back door of the Drysdales’ town house. He explained who he was and waited. Presently, a dark-clad woman appeared. She didn’t introduce herself, but she must be Mrs Goodwin, the London housekeeper.

  ‘What brings you here, young man?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Cecily – Miss Phoebe’s maid. Please,’ he added.

  ‘She’s not here. The family has left town. And if she were here, I wouldn’t let her see you. I don’t know what sort of slack household Eglantine Whicker runs in the country, but here in town we don’t permit followers.’

  ‘I’m not—’

  The door closed in his face.

  Juliet came home from an evening’s charring to find Clara leafing through her drawings. After finishing her Ingleby’s designs, she had done more, enjoying the work, not least because it took her mind off … other things. Clara acknowledged her with a glance, then carried on, which left Juliet even more taken aback.

  ‘These are good.’ Clara sounded surprised. ‘You mentioned drawing lessons. And Agnes taught you to design, I suppose?’

  ‘No, it’s just something I enjoy. Mother wasn’t that keen on my doing it, actually.’

  ‘I bet she wasn’t,’ Clara said archly before settling down with the latest issue of Vera’s Voice.

  Juliet stared at her, willing her to comprehend the invasion of privacy. When Clara reached for her cup of tea without lifting her eyes from the page, she gave up and went into the bedroom for her daily strip wash. Charring was like that, rough, sweaty work, especially in summer.

  She rested an assessing hand on her belly. It wouldn’t be flat for much longer, and she knew her breasts had grown. She had secretly let out the darts on her white blouse and black dress. Clara had helped her make a new blouse, and Juliet had cut the pattern as full as she could without arousing comment.

  She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the need for Miss Lindsay to admire her work. She was going to meet her grandmother this Sunday. If she received a favourable reply from Miss Lindsay beforehand, what a splendid thing that would be to tell the great Adeline Tewson.

  But Sunday arrived with no word from Ingleby’s. Juliet set off with Clara. Ever since arriving in Manchester, she had tried asking about her grandmother, but Clara’s replies were terse. ‘You’ll see,’ was the standard response.

  Clara took her to a tree-lined road in West Didsbury. Each villa stood in a leafy garden fronted by a wall of the distinctive red brick that Juliet saw everywhere she looked. Recognising mop-headed hydrangeas and the cone-shaped flowers of butterfly bushes nodding over the garden walls, she was assailed by a powerful memory of the future wife who had once hung on Hal’s every word. Her heart squeezed. They came to a garden where elegant ballerina blooms of fuchsias spilt over the wall. Clara unlatched the gate and l
ed the way up the path. The house had a vast bay window to either side of the roofed porch and three big windows above.

  They were admitted by a middle-aged maid, who regarded Juliet curiously. Juliet offered a smile that wasn’t returned, but she forgot the snub as her eyes popped out on stalks. The hall was larger than Clara’s sitting room. There was wood everywhere – floor, staircase, newel post, bannisters – masses of it, dark and gleaming. She frowned at what looked like an extra skirting board three feet up the wall. Below it, the wallpaper was gold and brown, while that above was gold and green. She had a brief impression of potted palms and a colossal sideboard before Clara shoved her towards a door the maid was holding open.

  She walked in, ready to be impressed all over again. The mantelpiece over the fireplace boasted not one but two mantelshelves and an ornate mirror. The chairs were upholstered in velvet – velvet! – and her trained eye recognised the exquisite petit point on the cushion covers. Glass domes covered wax fruit and flowers. What must Lady Margaret’s morning room be like, if a factory owner could live like this? It was impossible to picture anything more splendid.

  Wait a moment. In spite of the glorious day and the bay window, the room was gloomy, its wallpaper a mixture of dark green and dull red, the carpet maroon, the hearthrug black sheepskin. In her imagination, Juliet filled the room with light colours and heaps of flowers, real flowers, not artificial arrangements beneath glass domes. She pictured Mother in a tied cottage and Clara in her rented rooms and wasn’t sure what to make of the contrast.

  She glanced round, ready to meet her grandmother.

  ‘Save it till it’s needed,’ said Clara.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The smile. She’ll make us wait. She always does.’

  Sure enough, they stood there for ten minutes. Clara didn’t sit down, so Juliet didn’t either. Clara crossed to the window, as if admiring the garden. Juliet joined her.

  ‘My mother never told me about this house.’

  ‘She never saw it. Mother moved here – what? – thirteen, fourteen years ago. We lived in a poky two-up two-down in Levenshulme when we were small. I hardly remember it. What I do remember is the other children tying me up and making me eat mud because we were moving to an end terrace in a better road. Little did they know that Mother wanted the big front room for her sewing and we lived crammed in the kitchen. It was always work, work, work with Mother. After a year or two, she commandeered the upstairs front as well. She, Agnes and Auntie Juley squeezed into the back bedroom while I had to make do with under the stairs. To this day I can’t bear confined spaces.’

  ‘Why were two sewing rooms needed?’

  ‘That was when Mother started taking on slave labour.’

  ‘Slave labour?’

  ‘She took on extra work and paid local needlewomen to do it. She made them come to the house, so she could crack the whip. Then she bought a sewing machine on hire purchase. Eventually she had four machines whirring away, and the women had to pay a fee to use them, which was deducted from their wages.’

  ‘Don’t sound so snotty about it, Clara,’ said a crisp, dry voice.

  Juliet whirled round. With her eyes full of sunlight, all she could make out was a tall outline in the doorway. As her eyes adjusted, the figure stalked into the room. Adeline Tewson was taller than her daughters, the swish of her panelled skirt suggesting long legs and stamina. Her features were heavy and strong, her hair iron-grey with wings of stark white at the sides. Her clothes were plain to the point of severity, but their cut was perfection itself.

  She spared Juliet a glance that suggested a glance was all she needed, then fixed penetrating eyes on Clara.

  ‘Those whirring machines marked the turning point of my fortunes. It’s where your drawing lessons came from, and the elocution and deportment classes. I invested substantially in my daughters, my one poor investment. You were never going to amount to much, but Agnes could have been successful.’ She looked at Juliet. ‘And here’s what she threw it away for.’

  With that, she sat in a handsome fireside chair, waving her guests to the sofa before resting a hand on each wooden arm.

  ‘Well, girl, what have you to say for yourself?’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’

  ‘No doubt. Whether I am pleased to meet you remains to be seen.’

  Juliet tensed. So much for meeting the orphaned granddaughter.

  ‘And you, Clara – I trust you aren’t in the habit of referring to my employees as slave labour. If you are, I shall speak to my solicitor.’

  The silence that followed throbbed with humiliation.

  ‘Well? Is legal action required?’

  ‘No, Mother,’ Clara whispered.

  Anxious to break the moment, Juliet said, ‘My mother told me you did all kinds of sewing when you were getting started.’

  ‘I still do. Not personally. My workers do it, and I have a great many more than four machines these days. We’re currently sewing for a new hotel in Southport – bedlinen, curtains, cushion covers, uniforms. That’s where the money is, in the big orders. I always knew that. I saw my opportunity when the workhouse guardians in Withington stumped up the money for new winter capes for the females. The matron was ready to hand out the work to half a dozen seamstresses, but I said I’d do the whole order and if I didn’t get it done in time, she could fine me, but she had to pay a bonus if I finished early. I took on three local women and sacked one at the end of the first day, which made the other two work harder. We worked day and night to get those capes ready.’

  ‘And earned the bonus.’

  ‘Always find a way to earn extra.’ The wide mouth flickered, forming a grim line that wasn’t a smile. ‘I was never going to be able to have my own salon; I didn’t have the background. I found my success elsewhere. It was my daughters who were meant to have the salons.’ She flung Clara a dark look.

  Juliet jumped in to spare Clara’s blushes. ‘What should I call you? Mother always referred to you as Nana Adeline.’

  An eyebrow climbed up the broad forehead. ‘The country air clearly addled her brains.’

  That settled it. She would call her Grandmother if she must, because it was polite, but she wouldn’t think of her as a grandmother. She didn’t deserve it.

  ‘You have a look of her about you,’ said Adeline. ‘Similar colouring. And you’re evidently as unreliable.’

  Juliet sat up straighter. ‘I’m not unreliable. I work hard – and so did my mother.’

  ‘Your mother, girl, was sent to take care of an invalid and promptly went gallivanting. As for you, I go by the evidence before me. You walked out on a good position.’

  ‘If you know that, I assume Auntie Clara also told you why.’

  ‘The gentleman with the roving eye. It was, however, unutterably stupid of you not to furnish yourself with character references.’

  ‘I left in a hurry. I never thought about references.’

  ‘More fool you. Are you here to beg for employment?’

  If only she had heard from Miss Lindsay! ‘I have work, thank you.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I’m a char.’ ‘She’s a daily maid.’ She and Clara spoke together, then looked at one another.

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me. Your father was a labourer, after all.’

  ‘Pop was an estate worker for a lord,’ Juliet said fiercely.

  ‘Precisely: a labourer.’

  ‘Anyroad,’ she said, unable to keep her mouth shut, ‘I’ve done some designs and offered them to Ingleby’s for their consideration.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Adeline spoke scornfully. ‘What can you possibly produce that is worth anyone’s consideration?’

  The door opened to admit the maid. ‘Tea is served,’ she announced.

  Adeline led the way into another room where Juliet looked at the table, its white cloth heavy with lace, and couldn’t help smiling because it was the prettiest tea she had ever seen. The china was white, patterned with little spray
s of roses, and had a gold line round the rim. There were plates of sandwiches with the crusts cut off and a cake stand displaying macaroons, Eccles cakes and petticoat tails, as well as a separate plate of scones, flanked by dishes of jam and cream. The cutlery shone, and there were snowy napkins. Gracing the centre was a silver rose bowl of honey-scented sweet peas.

  Clara glanced at Adeline for permission and reached for the teapot.

  ‘Are you going to be mother?’ Juliet asked, desperate for normal conversation.

  ‘No, she’s going to play the servant,’ said Adeline. ‘That’s all she’s fit for.’

  Bully. Was this how Adeline treated everyone? Bullying and carping and deriding until they were too ground down to resist? She felt unexpectedly protective towards Clara.

  ‘One day I want to sew for a living. I’m already taking the first steps.’

  ‘Charring?’

  ‘Preparing samples.’

  ‘And she claims not to want a job from me.’

  ‘I don’t.’ Not any more, she didn’t. Never again.

  ‘Then you’re a fool. How good is she, Clara?’

  ‘Better than Agnes and I at that age.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She was surprised by the compliment.

  Adeline snorted. ‘If she’s that good, why did Agnes put her in for shop work?’

  ‘I did dressmaking as well,’ said Juliet. ‘I paid for drawing lessons by sewing.’

  ‘If you hope to impress me by showing initiative, you won’t succeed since your more recent show of so-called initiative led to your turning up on Clara’s doorstep without a single reference to your name.’

  ‘I thought Auntie Clara would’ − beside her, Clara stiffened − ‘… help me find a job.’ Evidently, Adeline knew nothing of the lies Clara had written year upon year to her sister.

  ‘You backed the wrong horse there, girl,’ Adeline scoffed.

  ‘Please stop calling me that. My name is Juliet.’