The Forgotten Seamstress

by Liz Trenow

  ‘That’s the front entrance to the hospital,’ Ben said.

  ‘It’s just how Maria described it! I can see why she thought she’d arrived at a stately home. It must have been beautiful, once.’

  Stretching away on either side were long three-storey buildings of the same red brick, with rows of sash windows on each floor. ‘Those were the wards?’

  Ben nodded. Every window was bounded by close-packed upright metal bars. The thought that Maria and my beloved Granny had once been incarcerated behind those bars made me shiver.

  He put his arm around my shoulder. ‘Doesn’t seem quite so idyllic from here, does it?’

  ‘Poor things,’ I whispered. ‘Locked away in all this beautiful parkland, and all because they didn’t conform.’

  ‘I’m sure most of them were genuinely ill, and needed to be protected from harming themselves or others. But I’m glad it’s now closed, and all the brutal treatments with it.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to the place?’

  ‘They’re still wrangling over planning agreements, but it’ll probably become yet another estate of little boxes like Burton Close.’

  ‘And, after a while, no one will remember what happened here.’

  ‘There was a real community of people who worked here and they’ve spent the last couple of decades getting all nostalgic about it and chewing my ear off to help them campaign to stop it being demolished,’ Ben said. ‘But I think knocking it down is probably for the best. It will close that chapter for good.’

  We stood there a few moments longer, in the cold silence of the woods. No birds sang, no leaves rustled, I couldn’t even hear the sound of traffic from the distant A12. Despite the grand architecture and beautiful grounds I couldn’t help seeing it as the prison in which Maria had spent the best decades of her life.

  ‘Let’s go, Ben.’ I took his arm. ‘This place is depressing me.’

  Back at Burton Close he made sandwiches and more coffee while I checked my phone.

  ‘Ohmigod!’ I whooped, punching the air and dancing around the kitchen. ‘It’s a text from Justin, the designer.’ I read it out loud: Please call asap. Have a buyer interested in your designs. Justin.

  ‘I told you they were something special,’ Ben said, grinning broadly and catching me mid-jig for a hug. ‘I’ve got a good eye for these things.’

  But initial euphoria was turning to panic. ‘What if I get a commission from this? How am I going to get them made up?’

  ‘You’ll need a bloody good upholsterer who can interpret what you want,’ he said. ‘Do you know any?’

  ‘I thought I might do it myself.’ My training was at least fifteen years ago, and I hadn’t attempted anything since.

  ‘Where would you work, though?’

  Good question. The flat was entirely unsuitable. I hadn’t thought this one through carefully enough. ‘I might have to rent a workshop.’

  ‘What about using your mum’s place? The garage would make the perfect workshop. All it needs is a few more windows and some heating.’

  ‘It’s no good, you know I’ve got to sell it. How else am I going to pay for Mum’s care home?’

  ‘You could sell the flat instead,’ he said mildly, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

  ‘Are you crazy? That’s not going to happen! All my friends are in London, my contacts, my job …’ I checked myself. ‘Well, you know what I mean. I need to find out what Justin wants first. It might come to nothing, in the end.’

  ‘It was just a thought.’ He made a mock-chastened face, sweet and rather sexy and, for a moment, I was tempted all over again.

  ‘I really have to go, to visit Mum before it gets too late,’ I said, giving him a hug. ‘Thanks for everything.’

  Perhaps getting together with Ben was meant to be, a sign of good things to come because, after that, my day turned out better and better.

  Mum told me straight out that she liked ‘this hotel’ and had already talked to the matron about extending her stay. As I left Holmfield, I found myself skipping across the car park as though a boulder had been lifted from my shoulders. I would worry about the cost later. Matron had given me details of a financial adviser who could suggest ways of releasing capital from the cottage.

  Then, when I got home and called Justin, it turned out that not one, but two, significant clients were interested in my designs. ‘How soon can you get me some sample pieces?’ he asked. ‘Nothing too elaborate, say a chair and a footstool?’

  ‘No problem,’ I said, silently shouting ‘yess!’ and punching the air with excitement. ‘Can you give me till the end of the month?’

  I’d have to work day and night to achieve it, but I couldn’t let this big break slip through my fingers. Life seemed suddenly so full of possibilities: I’d found my quilt-maker, had some great sex, got Mum happily settled and got two commissions which might just kick-start my fledgling company.

  The following day, still in jubilant mood, I scoured two flea markets and, in my enthusiasm, spent a great deal more than I should have on a dilapidated spoon-back Victorian armchair with a mess of straps, horsehair and cotton wadding bulging below its seat. I also bought a footstool that was sufficiently similar in design so that, when both pieces were re-upholstered in the same fabrics, they would look like a match. Both needed so much work I would never recover my costs, but they would be my ‘showpiece’ items and, I hoped, an investment for the future.

  As I lugged them up the three flights of stairs, risking the wrath of the traffic wardens gathering around my illegally-parked car, I began to see that Ben’s suggestion of using the garage at Rowan Cottage made a lot of sense. Stripping down old upholstery is a messy, dusty business for which my flat was completely unsuitable. Besides, to do the job properly I would need to invest in specialist tools, power staplers, glue guns and the rest.

  I spent a fruitless few hours telephoning every professional upholsterer in North London, but none were able even to start such a project until the end of February and the quotes they suggested were completely over the top for my projected budget. Reluctantly, I concluded that there was nothing for it. I would have to do the work myself and, this time round, the flat would have to double as a workshop.

  In the spare bedroom I pushed the bed aside and covered the furniture and carpet with old sheets. With everything now protected, I set to stripping the old upholstery and padding. It was satisfying to work with my hands once more, rediscovering my practical skills, seeing tangible results. I put on my favourite tracks and sang along to them loudly and unselfconsciously.

  When my fingers became blistered from pulling out tacks, I made a start on the upholstery scheme, working with swatches of fabrics, paper and paint, trying to create stunning, unique patchwork designs that would wow Justin’s clients. At college I’d received my best marks for drawing. My skills were rusty but I knew they would improve with practice and, in future, I would need to learn computer-aided design. For now, I relished the process of sketching and applying paint to paper.

  Next, I hauled out my long-neglected sewing machine and set to work on a few test-samples, creating collages of fabrics and bindings. It was exhilarating to see the creations that I’d had in my imagination, and had then sketched onto paper, now taking physical shape.

  In the middle of the week, Ben texted, ‘Good luck with the designs xx.’ The double x was new, but being apart for a few days had left me uncertain about what I really felt for him. We’d become comfortable together and seemed to enjoy each other’s company, that was true. But he was so different from anyone I’d imagined myself ending up with.

  Then he rang. ‘You are real then, not just a figment of my lurid imagination?’

  ‘Sorry Ben, I’ve been manic with this upholstery project.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Slowly, messily.’

  ‘I’ve been to the register office, like you asked,’ he said, after an awkward pause. ‘I’m sorry to say that there�
��s no trace of any baby born at Helena Hall with the name of Romano. Nor any babies at all registered around nineteen eighteen, the time you said she was admitted. None born, none registered as having died. So we have to wonder whether the baby was also a fantasy.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the hospital could have disposed of it without anyone knowing?’

  ‘That would have been illegal, even back then, so unlikely but not impossible,’ he said. ‘But there’s good news on the other front. The Register of Voters in Bethnal Green records only three Kowalskis, and they’re all living at the same address.’

  My heart leapt. This had to be Nora’s family. ‘Wow. What are their names?’

  ‘Just a sec.’ A flick of notebook pages. ‘Samuel, Andrew and Tracey.’

  It was a moment before the obvious dawned. ‘Father and son? Nora’s son and grandson, perhaps, and the grandson’s wife? I’ll phone them this evening.’ My thoughts were sprinting ahead and I was already imagining the conversation we might have about the woman their grandmother had rescued from a mental hospital. Maria was constantly in my head, especially when working on the patchwork designs, and I often found myself asking, ‘How would she have done this? Would she have put that colour against this one?’ These people were the closest she had to family, so surely they would be able to confirm some of her story and what had happened to her?

  ‘I’ve checked, but can’t find a number. You could write. Or just knock on their door.’

  ‘Are you crazy? This is London. People don’t open their doors to strangers.’

  ‘They can only turn you away, and if they do you could write instead. But in my experience if people haven’t got anything to hide, they are usually quite generous. They might just invite you in, you never know.’

  ‘I’m not sure …’ I dithered.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you? It could be less threatening if we turn up on their doorstep together, and safer for you in case they turn out to be axe-murderers,’ he laughed. It seemed unlikely, but he had a point. ‘I could come on Saturday.’

  ‘What about Tom’s football?’

  ‘I’m free from dad duties this weekend,’ Ben said. ‘He’s off on a school trip. What about visiting your mum?’

  ‘Not a problem. I can go on Monday. I’m my own boss now.’ I repeated the words in my head: my own boss. I could do what I liked, to hell with being cautious. ‘Come on Friday evening,’ I said quickly, before I could change my mind. ‘I’ll cook. It’ll make a nice change from pulling out tacks.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  It had become clear that the chair’s upholstery was in a terminal state and would need to be stripped back to its wooden frame before completely rebuilding. By Thursday, it was a skeleton, cleaned and stripped of old tacks and staples, but my spare room looked as though a cyclone had hit it, with wadding, horsehair and webbing scattered all over the floor. Years ago, at college, I’d completed an evening class in upholstery and we had tackled something similar, but then we were working in pairs, in a fully-equipped workshop, with an experienced tutor helping at every stage. This was an altogether more daunting task.

  I wrote a list of the basic kit that I would need:

  workmate bench

  scissors

  chisels (x 2)

  mallet + magnetic hammer

  staple gun

  tack lifter

  webbing stretcher

  regulator

  materials: webbing, horsehair, cotton wadding and hessian, cording + trimmings.

  This lot could cost well over a thousand pounds, I figured, on top of what I’d paid for the chair and stool, and this first commission would never make a profit. But I tried to reassure myself that all new businesses have to operate at a loss to start with, and there must be a value in my designs, or why would Justin and his clients been so interested in them?

  On Friday morning I examined myself in the mirror and decided that I needed to invest in myself, as well as in the business. First, a trip to the hairdresser’s for highlights to conceal the ugly stripe at my parting, and a cut which shaped without shortening too much. I watched happily as she feathered the ends, softening my face and taking years off me. Then it was off to the beauticians for a manicure to sort out my work-roughened hands, and to get my eyebrows shaped and lashes and brows tinted.

  I spent a blissfully domestic afternoon cooking a nut roast for me and a lamb shank for Ben – he’d told me this was his favourite meal. It was so long since I’d cooked anything significant and I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it. Even so, for a vegetarian, handling hunks of raw meat is a sign of true friendship. I hoped he would appreciate it.

  ‘Mmm, that smells delicious. I’m starving.’ He stood back to appraise me. ‘Like the new look.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He’d made an effort, too. The leather jacket and stonewashed blue jeans had gone, replaced with black trousers and a fitted V-neck sweater in deep purple that instantly made him appear slimmer, less bulky. Who advised him on this new style? His ex? More likely a friend or work colleague. Whoever it was had done a good job.

  ‘Food’s nearly ready. Why don’t you pour yourself a glass of this while I light the candles?’ I handed him the bottle of Burgundy that had been warming on the mantelpiece and I’d already started.

  At that very moment my phone rang.

  ‘Miss Meadows?’

  ‘Speaking. Who’s that please?’

  ‘My name is Arun. I’m the manager of the King’s Cross night shelter. You emailed us about your stolen quilt? I think we may have found it.’

  ‘It’s the night shelter,’ I whispered to Ben.

  ‘Have they found it?’ he mouthed.

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘Are you there, Miss Meadows?’

  ‘Sorry it’s just … I am almost speechless,’ I gabbled. ‘Thank you so much! When can I come and collect it? Do I need to bring anything to exchange it with?’

  ‘It’s not quite so simple I’m afraid,’ the man said. ‘Let me explain. We had a meeting of our volunteers this morning and I mentioned your friend’s request. One of them remembered talking to one of our regulars, a man called Dennis, about his bedroll. It was unusual, she says, because it was made of patchwork.’

  Surely there couldn’t be too many tramps in central London with patchwork quilts in their bedrolls? ‘Is he there now?’

  ‘Sorry, I should have explained. They only come for the night and have to leave in the morning. But you can speak to our volunteer if you like. Just a sec.’ He shouted away from the phone, his voice reverberating in what sounded like a large room. ‘Leylah? Can you come and talk to Miss Meadows about Dennis’s quilt?’

  A tentative voice with a strong Jamaican twang: ‘Hello, can I help you?’

  ‘I hear you recognised the quilt. Thank you so much.’

  ‘I didn’t see much of it. When I offered to get it laundered he told me to bugger off.’ Her smoky chuckle reminded me of Maria’s.

  ‘What about colours?’

  ‘Well, there was a lot of blue,’ she said, ‘with flowers. And a design like a sunrise. Hard to see, the thing’s pretty grubby.’

  My heart danced, remembering the grandmother’s fan. ‘That sounds like the one. Thank you so much. By the way, if he does give it to you, please don’t wash it, because it’s very delicate and might damage the fabrics.’

  ‘No problem.’

  She handed the phone back to Arun. ‘It sounds like my quilt,’ I said. ‘I wonder where he found it?’

  There was a hushed conversation at the other end, before he came back on the line. ‘He’s adamant that he didn’t steal it – he found it on a piece of waste ground.’

  ‘Would he agree to part with it, do you think? Perhaps I could offer something to replace it: a new blanket, a winter coat perhaps?’

  ‘We can certainly ask him when he comes back,’ Arun said.

  ‘Is he there every evening?’ My imagination was fast-forwarding to the happy moment of exchan
ge; the tramp delightedly trying on his new coat, me returning home with my precious quilt. The vision was instantly dashed.

  ‘He’s not one of our regulars, I’m afraid. He often disappears for weeks, or even months. But as soon as we see him we’ll get in touch.’

  ‘It’s so frustrating,’ I wailed to Ben after ringing off. ‘For a moment it felt as though I was almost close enough to grasp it, but now it’s gone again.’

  ‘Dennis will turn up again, somewhere,’ he said calmly. ‘If not at King’s Cross then somewhere else.’

  All we could do was wait.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Over breakfast next day (croissants and real coffee, of course), we chatted easily and planned our trip to the East End. The meal had been a success, and our previous awkwardness seemed to have evaporated. As Ben bent his head over his phone to check the route, the back of his neck looked so vulnerable my fingers itched to stroke it. Or bury my head in it. Or even take him straight back to bed.

  But first, we had a mission to achieve.

  Bethnal Green is in the throes of a patchy process of gentrification. Skips litter its narrow residential streets, where Audis jostle with ancient Astras and neglected motorbikes. Among the DIY replacement doors and windows, some frontages have been restored to Edwardian glory, with glimmering Farrow & Ball paintwork and brass fittings. Many of the tiny front gardens are just dumping grounds, others have been landscaped with Yorkstone pathways, box hedges and other tasteful adornments.

  The Kowalskis’ house, a three-storey, bay-windowed Edwardian terrace, was somewhere between the two extremes. It had a comfortable, lived-in look: by no means gentrified but in a reasonable state of repair. The paintwork was fresh and, although they were now dead and frosted, the window boxes had once been bright with geraniums. Unlike many of its neighbours, the house had not been converted into flats and there was a single button for the bell, which sounded hollowly inside the house. After a short pause, the gaunt face of a middle-aged woman peered through the lace curtains.