The Tailor's Girl

by Fiona McIntosh

  His daughter’s intrigue was his uppermost concern; at twenty-three she was not prone to the histrionics he’d heard or witnessed in his friends’ teenaged daughters, but she was nonetheless vulnerable. The loss of her brother had affected her profoundly. His love for Edie, the only member of his small family left, was inestimable, and he’d be damned if he was going to let some good-looking sapper returned from the front line with a shrapnel wound and a sob story steal her heart, which was not only promised but about to be wed. Abe Valentine had planned this for his daughter. Levi’s son, Benjamin, was a perfect match.

  ‘Pardon me, but did you say you were in the mental asylum?’ Abe queried.

  ‘I did, Sir, yes. But I was moved because that institution was for the insane . . . and in terms of the returning soldiers, it was mainly used for the men who were troubled.’

  ‘You were neither, I take it?’ Abe offered, masking the dryness of his comment.

  Tom put his cup and saucer down, smiling thanks at Edie. ‘Memory loss might have made me disgruntled, even irritable, but it does not make me hostile, or a hazard to anyone or anything around me, Sir. To put it frankly, I believe I’ve done the War Office a good deed by ridding it of a problem.’

  ‘And what do you propose to do now?’

  He watched Jones blow out his cheeks and already knew the answer. ‘I’m not exactly sure. This morning I simply wanted to put distance between the hospital and myself. I was tired of being paraded before hopeful families only to watch them shake their collective heads with deep disappointment.’

  ‘That must have been humiliating,’ Edie murmured.

  ‘It was. And ultimately heartbreaking. I couldn’t watch another family’s despair because I wasn’t who they needed me to be, and with each shake of the head my own heart hurt a little more. Besides, I want to make my own decisions – I’m sure I must have in civilian life before the war. I see no reason why I shouldn’t now. I’m not sick. I simply have no recall.’

  ‘Surely the authorities can reunite families in a more sensitive way?’ Abe said, dabbing his beard out of habit with his large white handkerchief.

  ‘Maybe, but given the circumstances I suspect they’re doing their best. There are so many soldiers still lost, I gather, still trying to find their way back. I don’t mean to criticise or sound ungrateful. As soon as I knew the Spanish flu had reached the hospital I wanted to get out.’

  At Abe’s startled expression, Tom raised his hands to show there was nothing to fear from him. ‘I was in a completely protected wing, but I wasn’t going to wait for it to find me, Sir. I assure you I am in good health.’

  Abe blinked. ‘My problem is that you’ve encouraged my daughter to break the law.’

  ‘No law was broken, Mr Valentine. I have been released from the army. I am a free man with a free will. I just didn’t choose to exercise it until today. Edie is in no danger from me or my actions.’

  ‘That’s good to know, Mr Jones, because Edie is about to be married.’ It was as good a chance as any to press the point, he’d decided.

  Edie cut him a glare. ‘Well,’ she said, standing. ‘Abba, you have an appointment in less than twenty minutes. Mr Fletcher will be here and you still have to check over his suit.’

  Abe quieted his daughter with a weary nod of submission as he pushed himself up from his chair. Tom stood too. ‘Well . . . it’s been a pleasure to meet you. Forgive me, but you heard my daughter’s instructions. Edie will show you out . . . er . . .’ He could hear the rain pounding on the roof again and felt guilty at his urging that it was time for their visitor to leave.

  ‘Thank you, Sir. I’m really most grateful for your indulgence and especially, of course, to Edie for helping me as she did this morning.’ He offered his hand and Abe clasped it. ‘I learned about Daniel. I’m deeply sorry for the loss of your son. I was at Ypres. I believe I still dream about it.’

  Abe blinked. ‘You fought at Ypres?’ His random thought that their guest may have fought alongside his son wasn’t so far-fetched after all.

  ‘So I’m told,’ Tom said with a sad smile. ‘I remember nothing, but the limp is a reminder because whatever explosion wounded me took my memory as well. Apparently I was transferred from Flanders.’ He shrugged.

  ‘My son died in the second battle.’

  ‘Maybe I’m the fortunate one, Sir, because I have no memory of it, but I did see a lot of men at the hospital who were ghosts. They survived the battle but it seemed only their bodies came back. Their spirits had fled.’

  Abe frowned, sickened by what he was hearing. He knew Tom was gallantly trying to convey the message that perhaps Daniel had even been fortunate to die over there rather than return as one of those ghosts. As he shook his visitor’s hand, it occurred to him that he’d never been closer to Daniel in four years than through this stranger right now. No body had been returned; there was no grave to visit, only memories and grief. He felt the bleak sense of despair rise again.

  ‘And where did you say you will go now?’ he said, clearing his throat, aware he was repeating himself.

  Tom shrugged. ‘Whichever direction beckons,’ he said, sounding surprisingly cheerful. ‘I shall probably rent a room for the night and make a plan for myself. Er, by the way, this suit, Sir, I . . .’

  ‘You are to keep it, as I said.’

  Tom nodded. ‘Then I’ll wear it proudly.’

  Valentine glanced at his daughter, seeing the pain in her express­ion, although she would not meet his gaze. He knew what she wanted of him.

  ‘Listen . . . son . . . I don’t wish to cast you out into —’

  He saw genuine concern erupt across their visitor’s face. ‘Please, Mr Valentine. You’re not. I haven’t felt this optimistic since I returned from Europe. Really, each passing minute away from the hospital and its gloom improves my humour. Your family has been so kind. Perhaps one day I can visit and repay that kindness. I have a debt to your daughter anyway to keep.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Edie shook her head, looking embarrassed. ‘It’s nothing, Abba. A few words in jest.’

  He returned his attention to Tom, whose gaze held him steadily. The man was no trickster. Abe sighed. What could it hurt? ‘I was going to suggest that you are welcome to stay . . .’ Tom blinked in surprise and Abe found himself shrugging self-­consciously. ‘At least until you get on your feet and set yourself a direction, a purpose.’

  ‘Oh, Abba!’ Edie said and flung herself to hug him. ‘Really? I knew you’d help. You see, Tom – I told you he would know what to do.’

  Jones looked startled as well as dumbfounded. ‘I . . . I don’t know what to say, Sir. I feel I should leave. You’ve already been more than —’

  ‘Tosh!’ Abe said, waving a hand as he made the decision. ‘I now have work to do. And I’m not suggesting you sit around and twiddle your thumbs, young man. You can earn your keep until you move on to the next stage of your journey.’

  ‘I know nothing about tailoring.’

  ‘Who said anything about tailoring?’ Abe chuckled. ‘There’s always coal that needs shifting, errands to be run. I have bolts of fabric that I haven’t had the strength to get to . . . Edie?’

  ‘I’ll show him. You get on with Mr Fletcher’s suit.’

  ‘I shall see you for dinner, then, Tom,’ Abe said and nodded, muttering to himself about hating to be late for clients.

  Edie threw Tom a look of triumph. ‘Say yes,’ she urged.

  ‘How can I refuse either of you?’

  She clapped her hands. ‘I’m pleased. Now when you next set off, I hope you’ll feel less chaotic. Come on, then. I’ll show you where everything is, although maybe it’s best you change back out of that suit. It’s Italian cloth,’ she added, as though he should be mightily impressed.

  _______________

  By dinnertime Tom had restacked the two coal scuttles and after cleaning up had given over what remained of the day to shifting some of the bolts of cloth from a towering stack to managea
ble, easier to navigate pillars in the storeroom. But there was plenty more to be done.

  He was relieved they hadn’t suggested he sleep in Daniel’s room and was glad the family had the space in the apartment to give him a spare room, which Edie had made up for him. It was sparse but more than adequate. After washing his face and hands, and dressing in the trousers of his loan suit and his shirt and jumper from the hospital, he appeared at the doorway of the small kitchen.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said and Edie glanced his way, standing back from her stove to look at him with appreciation.

  ‘Good evening to you, Tom. Well, you’ve got colour back in your cheeks.’

  ‘Nothing like a bit of physical work,’ he said, pretending to pump his muscles. ‘I’ve been far too long in that hospital mooching around.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you,’ she encouraged and they shared an affectionate smile before Abe arrived, having changed for dinner and now wearing a round, flat cap only large enough to cover his crown.

  ‘You can lay the table if you want, Tom,’ Edie said. ‘Everything you need is in the sideboard. And you may want to light the candles too.’

  ‘At the double,’ he said, saluting Edie and disappearing around the corner into the adjoining room. There were two sideboards. Inside the closest one he saw that it was full of all the right accoutrements.

  It didn’t take him long. Perhaps it was the habit of being in the army and doing things quickly but he found a damask cloth that he shook out of its perfectly ironed creases to lay across the table. Matching napkins and rings soon followed. In a mahogany box he discovered the cutlery and laid out three places. Behind one of the cupboard doors were glasses. He moved to the wall to admire his work. Perfect. He put the candelabra he’d spied on top of the sideboard onto the table and added four new candles, which he lit. It felt so homely and he realised how much and how long he’d been yearning for this sort of normality.

  Tom returned to the kitchen where father and daughter were arguing gently over the seasoning of whatever was about to be ladled into a large tureen.

  ‘The table awaits!’ he called, not wanting to cram into the kitchen as well.

  As his companions arrived, their chatter stopped abruptly. He looked at them, surprised, and then followed their bemused gazes to the table. He didn’t know what had caught their attention. The table was set precisely. The silver and crystal glittered beneath the candlelight.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he had to say.

  They both rushed to reassure him, voices stumbling over each other.

  ‘It’s just . . . a simple meal,’ Edie added, taking in the sumptuous scene before her.

  Tom looked back at his handiwork. He still didn’t grasp the dilemma.

  ‘Tom, my boy, since when did you eat with silver cutlery and drink water from crystal glasses on a Tuesday?’ Abe asked, and Tom heard the glee in the old man’s voice. ‘Look, Edie, our guest is expecting several courses, it seems,’ he said, pointing to the two sets of forks and knives and dessert fork and spoon laid neatly at each place. ‘I hope you’ve made pudding too, daughter.’ He chuckled with obvious delight.

  Edie set the tureen down and now that Tom looked at the dish, it was a simple lidded pottery bowl. The silver tureen he could see was glinting at him from the cabinet. But Edie’s eyes sparkled with similar amusement to her father’s.

  ‘Abba, how long has it been since we’ve used the good crockery and cutlery?’

  ‘Too long, child,’ he admitted.

  ‘It’s wonderful, Tom,’ she said, turning to him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is there an alternative?’ he frowned.

  She pointed to the other, more modest-looking sideboard. ‘In there. Our daily cutlery and crockery. This is our best ware,’ she said, glancing back at the fine table that was laid out. ‘But what a treat. Maybe it’s a clue to your past, Tom.’

  He was aware of his hosts sharing puzzled glances despite their encouraging smiles. Abe handed him a small dark velvet kippah to cover his crown. ‘Won’t hurt to wear it around the table,’ Abe said, slight apology in his tone.

  ‘I’ll be glad to. Tomorrow, I’ll keep working in the storeroom.’

  Abe nodded. ‘You’ve already done more than I anticipated.’

  Tom smiled at Edie, who shifted the tureen and lifted the lid to reveal a stew. His eyes widened and they both noted his expression and waited. ‘I don’t know why I was expecting chicken soup with dumplings,’ he said in explanation.

  Abe waved a finger. ‘My grandparents were born in London but I believe we originally came from Russia or eastern Europe.’

  ‘Cooler climes, hence the hearty stew that’s part of our culture,’ Edie finished, seating herself.

  ‘Let us pray,’ Abe said.

  Tom bent his head, hands in his lap, hoping this was the right way to pray at this Jewish table. His inclination was to clasp his hands, or better still to reach towards Edie’s hand and hold it in a hush of pleasure. But even though he wouldn't dare, he took silent joy in reminding himself that she had held his hand twice today on the journey here and even now that memory of touching Edie’s gloved hand was setting off an unexpected series of physical reactions that made him clear his throat as Abe Valentine quietly thanked God for the food on his table, for his family’s health and for the improving health of their guest seated at it. Tom felt, too, the unfamiliar warmth spread through him, which spoke of a thin sense of belonging for the first time in his new, short lifetime and felt empowering.

  And as Edie stood to take his plate and serve, he deliberately positioned his fingers so that he might ‘accidentally’ touch hers. Letting go of the plate and the fingertips he skimmed seemed far harder than it should have and she glanced at him, amused, when she pulled away and felt the tension still in Tom’s clasp. Her dark eyes looked soulful in the lamplight she’d added to help illuminate the room, and despite his best intentions not to think further about Edie’s life and her plans, Tom gave in to irrational thoughts about her fiancé . . . particularly how much he envied him.

  ‘Forgive the oil lamps,’ Edie said. ‘We do have gaslight but Abba suffers from short breath if we use it for prolonged periods. We’ll turn it up later in the sitting room.’

  Tom grinned. ‘Candles and lamps are far more romantic anyway.’

  ‘Expensive to have both,’ Abe cautioned softly as he busied himself unfurling his napkin to place on his lap.

  Edie reached for the ladle to begin dishing out the stew, serving her father first, before Tom, then herself. She handed around warmed bread rolls with a hole in the middle and as Tom helped himself to one of the intriguing breads, his hand brushed Edie’s, this time genuinely by accident. The bread dish wobbled, she looked startled and now he was sure it wasn’t just him feeling the frisson that had begun to invisibly spark and crackle between them.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said.

  Her expression evened although she did not fully meet his gaze and immediately began talking to her father about the suit she had delivered today at the hospital. It gave Tom a chance to break the roll that was studded with chips of salt. Inside the lightly crisp shell was soft, spongy dough that became delightfully chewy in his mouth.

  ‘This is amazing!’ he said.

  His hosts stopped speaking and regarded him, surprised by the outburst.

  ‘That’s a bagel, Tom,’ Abe said. ‘You’ll eat plenty of those while you live with us.’

  While you live with us. He liked the sound of that.

  ‘It has a wonderful flavour,’ he admitted. ‘I taste onion.’

  Edie smiled. ‘And a hint of wild garlic.’

  Tom tucked into the stew, which was as hearty as Edie had promised, and she’d managed to cover the small amount of meat that rationing imposed with a variety of vegetables.

  ‘Have more,’ Abe encouraged. ‘You need fattening,’ he added, although Tom became aware that neither of his hosts had put much on their plates. It occurred to him only now, as he f
elt obliged to take a second helping, that they were probably holding back to ensure their guest had plenty.

  ‘It’s delicious, Edie, thank you.’

  ‘You’re most welcome.’ This time she watched him and it was Tom who looked away, unsettled by the intensity in her eyes that made his throat catch; he hadn’t felt this attuned to anything or anyone – or so alive – for as far back as he could recall.

  They ate quietly for a time.

  Tom broke the silence. ‘Um, Mr Valentine . . .’

  ‘In my house, at my table, I am Abe.’

  ‘Abe,’ Tom repeated. ‘Those bolts of fabric in your storeroom.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There seemed an awful lot to be holding in stock.’

  Edie cut her father a rueful glance.

  ‘Have you been talking with my daughter, Tom?’ Abe said, humour still in his tone.

  ‘No, Sir,’ he answered honestly, frowning. ‘I stopped counting at sixty-two bolts. There seemed to be twice as many and more still to count.’

  ‘It’s a contentious topic,’ Edie quipped.

  ‘What’s your point?’ Abe asked, shaking his head as Edie offered another helping from the paltry remains of vegetables in the tureen. ‘Thank you, dear. It was as good as your mother’s.’

  She stood to take his plate and Tom saw how she laid an affectionate hand on her father and wondered what it might feel like to have Edie squeeze his shoulder like that. His mind was wandering and Abe was waiting.

  ‘Curiosity, I suppose. Do you really need that much fabric? I mean, is it wise to hold that much stock? Especially in these times. How many suits do you make in a month?’

  ‘Oh, perhaps eight,’ Abe replied far too quickly.

  ‘Don’t fib, Abba. You’re lucky if it’s four . . . on average,’ Edie said, reaching to take Tom’s plate. ‘You make up to four new suits – it’s probably more like three – and we work on another six maybe.’ She glanced at Tom. ‘My father offers repairs, adjustments and so on. And as these are not prosperous times for anyone, the majority of people are making do with older clothes being given a new lease of life.’