The Dress

18.

Navy blue blouse, silk chiffon with hand-stitched embellishment. Late 1940s.



Although the boy was quite out of his mind, Jean Cushworth decided that she really quite liked him.

Pike had told her to beware of him, that he was trouble, a boy from the wrong side of the river, brought up – dragged up, he’d said – with half a dozen brothers in one of those poky little terraces with the bathroom downstairs. His dad was a foreman at the Nestlé factory, a union man who liked his beer and his football and thought he might stand in the next local elections. Fat chance, Pike had said.

And now the boy was here, right here, in the middle of her living room floor. Really quite presentable, she thought, with clean jeans and a pressed shirt and those intense blue-green eyes. His face was chiselled with high cheekbones. His mouth was moving very quickly. She found herself strangely fascinated by his mouth, the sounds that were coming out of him. His hands were cutting the air in quick gestures that she couldn’t make any sense of.

It was as if he was ablaze with something from the inside. Which was a shame, really, Jean thought. What a waste. Because the Moreno girl really wasn’t worth all this bother.

She’d be gone soon, she and her mother. That much was clear. You couldn’t go around making those kinds of accusations, casting aspersions, using that kind of language. And about the leader of the council, no less. It was bound to backfire. Yes, she had it coming to her, that Moreno woman and the strange girl, so silent, always looking at you, as if she could see inside you, see what you were thinking.

And what really gets to me, she’d said to Pike, is that she’s been here, in my house, so many times. Katrina was so kind to her when none of the other girls wanted anything to do with her. To turn on us like this just isn’t fair. It really isn’t good enough.

Back there in the shop, she’d been caught out for a moment, when the girl had said that thing about seeing her with Pike. Her mind had whirred like a faulty clock, trying to remember what exactly had happened that night of the party. To be honest, it was all a bit of a blur. The champagne, the whisky, her tablets which, she had to admit, were making her forget things. But she was sure, quite sure, that they couldn’t possibly have been seen. She’d locked the door. Surely she had? She was always so careful.

And even if the girl had seen something, or guessed something, well, it was her word against theirs, wasn’t it? And, quite frankly, who was going to listen to a common thief?

She forced herself to concentrate now on what the boy - Billy, yes, she remembered now, that was his name - what it was that he was saying. He seemed very worked up about it. On and on he went, that rosebud mouth moving endlessly, that nice clean jaw opening and closing. She really should tell him not to waste his breath. Plenty more fish in the sea, that’s what she’d say. Especially at his age. His whole life ahead of him. And he could really make something of himself, a handsome boy like him.

She lifted her hand and he paused for a moment. She tried to say something but the words wouldn’t come. She swallowed, made herself focus on setting down her wine glass, watching her hand move slowly towards the little mahogany side table.

She felt as if she were moving underwater, as if her bare arm in its silver bracelets was floating out from her shoulder and her hand wasn’t her own hand any more.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ the boy was saying. ‘You haven’t made sense of a word, have you?’

She smiled, nodding at him. He reminded her a bit of a naughty Yorkshire terrier with his fiery eyes, his thatch of black sticky-outy hair.

‘Where’s Katrina? I want to speak to her.’

His voice reached her from a long way off. She felt herself sinking backwards into the cushions, which were soft and deep and welcoming, the waves coming faster now, her arm buoyed upwards again, drifting of its own accord, floating out on the surface of the water, her finger pointing up, up through the white ceiling before it burst open and the sky closed over her.


Ella saw them from the bedroom window.

She was watching Mamma spread her silk blouses on the bed, folding their limp arms across themselves, straightening their collars, smoothing them between layers of tissue paper.

‘Mum, please,’ she pleaded and then, feeling the fluttery feeling under her ribs, ‘Well, if you go, I’m not coming with you.’

Mamma turned then to look at her, making that clicking sound with her tongue.

‘Oh, really? And where will you go, tesora? Where will you live? With Billy and his family? You think they’ll take you in? You think you’ll want to be here tomorrow, the week after, the week after that? When the name-calling gets worse and every small thing that goes wrong in this town gets blamed on you? Do you think Billy will be able to protect you, all day, every day, forever?’

‘Yes,’ said Ella, ‘Actually, I do. Everyone hates Pike. Well, everyone who really matters. And David. He’s already said that we can go and live with him. He wants to marry you, Mum, for goodness’ sake. And you love him, I know you do. This is all just because you’re scared…’

‘Ella, you don’t understand what you’re saying. You don’t even know my reasons…’

‘Then explain them to me, Mum. Explain why you’re so frightened, why you think we have to run away. Because I just don’t get it.’

‘I’ve told you, there are some things I can’t explain. Things you don’t need to know about…’

‘Oh, Mum. I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ Ella punched the pillow. She felt hot, tired, frustrated. ‘Don’t you understand? You can’t ruin my life just because you haven’t got the guts to stay here!’

‘Ruin your life? Tsk. Six months ago, you didn’t even know these people, Ella. You didn’t want to come here. I had to drag you, kicking and screaming…’

‘Yes, I know. But I’m just starting to get used to it. And now you want to do it all over again. Who cares what people say about me? They’ve been saying it all along anyway. They’ll believe whatever they want to believe. I don’t care any more. And neither should you, Mum.’

She launched herself from the edge of the bed to the window and stood, looking out over the little courtyard, the rooftops where the pigeons jostled one another.

She tried to relax her mind. It was worth a try. If she could just, for a few moments, feel her way into Mamma’s thoughts, tune in, find out what she was thinking… But there seemed to be something in the way. It was as if something was blocking her.

‘Ella.’

‘Yes, Mum?’

‘Don’t even think about it. I can feel what you’re doing. And I have to warn you. You won’t get anywhere. Some things are none of your business. So just leave me alone, OK?’

Outside in Grape Lane, there was a scuffle and the sound of voices and then Billy appeared in the courtyard below, gripping Katrina by the arm. She was trying to wriggle her arm free, digging her elbow into his ribs, but he held on tight.

‘El,’ Billy shouted. ‘Let us in. Katrina has something she wants to say to you.’

Ella felt Mamma’s hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her aside. She leaned out of the window.

‘Billy. Please. It’s no use. Go home. You’ll only make things worse…’

But Ella was already running down the stairs, unlocking the door. Billy shoved Katrina roughly through the doorway, standing behind her, barring the door.

‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Say what you’re here to say.’

Katrina scowled. She stuck her chin out and rolled her eyes heavenwards.

‘It was only meant to be a bit of a joke,’ she said. ‘For God’s sake, I didn’t mean for all this to happen.’

Billy jabbed his finger between her shoulder-blades. ‘No, that’s not it. That’s not why we came here. Go on. Say it.’

‘Chill out, OK?’ Katrina hissed. She folded her arms in front of her and glared at Ella.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was angry. I didn’t mean for you or your mum to get into trouble. I just wanted to get back at her. For never being there. You’re lucky, Ella, to have a mum like yours. Mine doesn’t give a damn about anyone except herself. I just wanted to hurt her. So I took her stupid dresses.’

Ella watched her carefully. She could feel and hear The Signals. They crackled around her, the colour of flame. She’s lying. Don’t believe her.

Katrina sighed and unfolded her arms, as if she could hear them too.

‘Look, it’s the truth, Ella,’ she said. ‘Honestly, it is. I’m sorry. I really am.’

She turned to Billy, her hands on her hips. ‘See? I told you this was a stupid idea. That she’d never believe me. She doesn’t want to listen.‘

Inside her, Ella felt a certainty that she hadn’t had before. She was learning to trust what The Signals told her.

‘I know that you’re lying, Katrina,’ she said, slowly. ‘You’ve never liked me. Not really. And, anyway, it doesn’t make sense, your story. You could have thrown the dresses in the bin, cut them up into little pieces, taken them to the charity shop. You didn’t have to bring them here.’

‘Yes,’ said Billy. ‘I don’t get it, either. Why did you do it? To Ella? To Mrs Moreno? What’ve they ever done to you?’

Katrina looked away then, out of the window. She seemed to be asking herself the same question.

And then suddenly her face crumpled. Her mouth twisted up on itself and she hid her face in her hands.

Ella saw that Katrina wasn’t pretending. These were real tears. But Billy sighed impatiently.

‘Oh, spare us the waterworks, Katrina. You’ll have to do better than that. You’d better tell us exactly what’s been going on.’


Fabbia finished folding the last of her blouses. It was her favourite one, navy blue, which was always an easy colour to wear, and she smiled to herself now to think that even Ella, with her sober tastes, would approve of it. Fabbia loved the collar and the wide buttoned cuffs; and she loved the way that someone had edged these, patiently, carefully, with tiny hand-sewn criss-cross stitches in cream. But most of all, Fabbia loved the way that the fabric felt in her hands and the memory of it, so soft and supple, against her bare skin.

She’d last worn it on the trip to London with David. They’d sat in the first-class restaurant car and she’d been slightly tipsy already, at nine o’ clock in the morning, on two glasses of bucks fizz. She’d watched the fields slip by and she’d felt lighter and lighter, as if she were finally leaving the past behind. She’d imagined that she was in one of her favourite films – as Marilyn or Audrey or perhaps Jane – travelling into another life, a new life in which nothing else would ever matter again except this moment. She smiled at David and, as she did, she caught her reflection in the train window. It was almost as if she could continue forwards, smiling, whilst this ghost of herself, the sad part, the pale part, fell further and further behind until it disappeared completely, fading away like the trees and the fields in a green haze.

Fabbia sighed. She could hear, from the shop below, the sound of Katrina sobbing and she felt her skin prickle all over with irritation.

Why had the girl done this to them? Fabbia couldn’t understand. She knew that Katrina was unhappy. She had known this for a long time and had even felt sorry for her. But to do such a spiteful thing. It was unforgivable.

And why was she here now in the shop? Billy was a nice boy. He was trying to help. But it couldn’t possibly achieve anything. Things had gone too far.

Tart, ridiculous, floozy. Fabbia heard those words, over and over, as she lined-up the cuffs with the hem and smoothed the sleeves and laid the blue blouse in her suitcase. She felt the words enter her body, again and again, the little sharp points of them.

Her mind drifted back to Eustacia’s parcel of letters.

‘And that’s why I simply can’t accept your decision, my darling… We have to be together, Eu. We simply have to…’

But they hadn’t been together in the end, had they? Some things were just not possible. Eustacia Beddowes had made her choice. She’d remained single all her life. Fabbia didn’t know the whole story but she could guess. That was the choice you had to make sometimes, if you wanted to stay true to your principles. Falling in love with someone was the easy part. It was what happened afterwards that counted. And if Eustacia could make a hard decision, so could she.

And besides, she hadn’t known David long enough. Just five months. And as she’d always told Ella, you shouldn’t give away your sealskin, your selkie skin, to just anyone.

She began to layer scarves over the top of the case – her Hermés, her Chanel, wisps of delicate silk and squares of brightly patterned cotton.

Through the floorboards, the sobbing had become a kind of wailing. Fabbia’s tongue made the tsk-ing noise. It was too much, just too much. She should go down and put an end to it, right now.

She crossed to the top of the stairs and paused for a moment with her hand on the rail, straining to hear.

‘She asked me to do it,’ Katrina was gasping now, her voice breaking between sobs. ‘She asked me herself to drop off the parcel. Just a few old things, she said. I’ve been having a clear-out. Perhaps Mrs Moreno can use them… I didn’t know. Honestly, Ella, I Didn’t Know Anything. I didn’t know that you’d seen her with Pike. I knew they were seeing one another behind dad’s back, of course. But there was always someone she had on the go, lots of men…’

‘But why did you lie when I asked you before? Why didn’t you tell me that it was all your mum’s fault?’ Billy’s voice sounded hard, unmoved, disbelieving.

‘Because I didn’t want people to know what a mess she is. I was ashamed to think she could plan such a horrible thing. I didn’t want to admit it, even to myself. And she is my mum, after all. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, half the time. She’s drugged up to the eyeballs and drinking when she shouldn’t. And I thought she might be grateful if I covered up for her, took the blame. I thought she might be nicer to me, more interested. But she isn’t. I can see that now. I think she’s lost the plot. You know, ever since my brother… She’s never been the same since. I think she needs some kind of help.’

Fabbia pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself. She made herself walk down the stairs very slowly.

She saw Katrina put her face in her hands, saw her whole body begin to shake uncontrollably.

‘Katrina,’ she said and the girl stopped and looked at her from between her fingers and then the sobs and the shaking began all over again.

Fabbia crossed the floor. She laid her hands on Katrina’s shoulders. For the second time that day, she dropped to her knees.

‘Don’t now,’ she said. ‘Please. No more tears, carina,’ and she smoothed a wisp of hair from Katrina’s damp forehead.