Six
THE first month at Primrose Bridal was magical despite the air raid sirens going off nearly every night and the friction between Emmy and her mother.
Emmy had relented and suggested Mum talk to Thea about caring for Julia when Emmy had to work, an arrangement to which their childless next-door neighbor was clearly happy to agree. Julia didn’t seem to mind much, although Thea’s aging mother thought Julia was a classmate from the Welsh village where she grew up, a state of affairs Julia didn’t quite know what to make of.
Still, the situation couldn’t have been more ideal. Thea was dependable, as she hardly ever left her flat, she doted on Julia, and she refused to be paid any money. The easy fix tamed Mum’s annoyance over Emmy’s taking a job without having consulted her. Her attitude toward Emmy’s good fortune quickly dissolved into the ambivalence Emmy was used to.
After their fight that early Sunday morning, Emmy thought she began to understand why indifference suited Mum when it came to her older daughter. Surely it was because Emmy reminded Mum of herself. Emmy was nearly the age Mum had been when she became pregnant; Emmy’s unfolding life mirrored hers before she had found herself a mother at sixteen. Emmy wanted to think that her mother involved herself so little in Emmy’s life so that her bad luck wouldn’t rub off on her, but it was perplexing to think Mum was doing something as noble as that on Emmy’s behalf. Mum’s way of showing love, if that was what it was, was mystifying.
When Emmy entered the bridal shop, she could forget about what was going on at home. Mrs. Crofton was easy to work for, provided Emmy arrived on time and stayed on task. As Emmy sewed in the back room, she could hear her waiting on anxious brides-to-be, helping them choose a dress off the rack—no one wanted to wait to have a dress made—and assuring them that war or no war, they could have a beautiful wedding even with just a gown and a groom.
Mrs. Crofton was also a patient instructor on the Singer, an impressive machine that seemed to have a mind of its own. The needle moved so fast and was so precise. On Emmy’s first Saturday afternoon, when the morning crowd died away and the afternoon shoppers had yet to appear, Emmy threaded and rethreaded the needle fifty times so that she could do it confidently with her eyes closed. And then she sewed ten straight lines and ten figure eights, half on easy muslin and half on unforgiving crepe. When she was finished, Mrs. Crofton said Emmy had performed better than she had when she first learned and that, with practice, Emmy would be able to master crepe, satin, chiffon, taffeta, and all the other fabrics that floated like air or swam like water when a seamstress tried to guide them past a slender needle the width of a cat’s whisker.
On the first Saturday in June, after showing Emmy how to alter a bodice to fit a woman with far less cleavage than the dress provided for, Mrs. Crofton told Emmy she had heard back from her cousin Graham Dabney.
“His father-in-law is very ill and he’s up in Edinburgh with his wife taking care of him. I don’t know when he’ll be back in London. Soon, he thinks. But he said if your sketches are as good as I told him they were, he’d like to meet and discuss perhaps mentoring you.”
Emmy wasn’t sure what that meant. It sounded wonderful but also beyond what she could afford. “Does that mean . . . Would I need to pay him?” she asked.
“Graham said if you’ve the raw talent, he will teach you how to make your patterns in exchange for working in his studio here in London. He designs for several theaters on the West End and he always needs extra hands who understand formal wear. He’s done this before with young designers who lack instruction and experience. Does that sound agreeable?”
It sounded amazingly perfect.
“A thousand times yes,” Emmy said.
“I didn’t tell him you were not yet sixteen. You might want to keep that to yourself for right now. And if school starts up again, you will have to work out a schedule with him that he will be happy with if you choose to continue with your schooling. He can be a little demanding when there’s a show in production. And of course I will still expect you for the ten or so hours that you work for me. Will your mother have a problem with your being gone so much?”
“I make my own decisions about my time,” Emmy said, and then quickly added, “My mum treats me like an adult.”
“You’re fortunate she does, Emmeline. I doubt this would work if she didn’t.”
Perhaps Emmy was fortunate. Up to that point, she hadn’t seen the benefit of Mum’s casual parenting.
“One more thing,” Mrs. Crofton said. “Graham has asked to see a couple of your sketches. I’d like to send him by post the two that I liked the best.”
As much as Emmy wanted to have all that Mrs. Crofton had just promised, the thought of handing over two of her best designs to a man she had never met made her instantly anxious. Her eyes must have betrayed her panic.
“You don’t have to worry about sending them to him, Emmeline,” Mrs. Crofton said. “He’s a designer, too. He knows how to safeguard the work of a colleague. If I were you, I might be a little afraid, too, but I wouldn’t let that stop me from sending them. This is a tremendous opportunity. He wouldn’t ask to see them if he wasn’t intrigued by what I told him about you.”
For a breath of a second Emmy considered telling Mrs. Crofton she wasn’t interested in having Mr. Dabney’s offer if it meant sending him two of the designs before she’d even met him. But Emmy had no sooner imagined herself saying these words than she realized she had been brought to a life-changing fork in the road. If she chose to keep all the brides in the box and never trust them with anyone, it was likely they would never leave it. Mum had said wishing something didn’t make it happen. Emmy had to do more than wish.
“All right,” Emmy said. “I’ll bring them on Tuesday.”
It was going on early evening when Emmy got back to the flat. The air inside was stuffy and hot even though a metal fan swung its neck from side to side from the windowsill by the front door. Other than the hum of the fan, the flat was eerily quiet for a Saturday at near twilight. Emmy stepped into the kitchen and found Mum still in her uniform at the kitchen table with a juice glass in her hand. In the middle of the table, a bottle of whiskey, a crumpled handkerchief, and the day’s mail all touched one another in a triangle of unspoken woe. She looked up at Emmy and her eyes, red rimmed from earlier tears, glimmered from the numbing effect of alcohol. Pins had come loose in her hair and one long lock curled over her shoulder in a graceful way. The light above the table tossed a mellow and compassionate light onto Mum, the bottle, the handkerchief, and the two opened envelopes.
“Expected you home earlier,” Mum murmured with no trace of anger in her voice. It was almost as if she were jealous Emmy had the lucky fortune of having been somewhere other than the flat.
“I was learning how to use the sewing machine. What’s wrong? Where’s Julia?” A band of sweat broke out on Emmy’s forehead. The kitchen was sweltering. She walked over to the window above the sink and opened it to let in a breeze, but only hot stale air met her. She turned back to face Mum. “Why are you drinking? What happened?”
Mum downed the last bit of amber liquid in the glass and set it down gently. She fingered the corner of her mouth. “Neville was in a car accident. He’s dead.”
Emmy’s gaze darted to the two opened letters on the table. “How do you know? Who told you? Where’s Julia?”
Mum looked up. “His mother wrote to me. That’s right, his mother. She’s not dead after all. Neither is his father. You were right about him, weren’t you, oh wise Emmeline? You tried to tell me he was a lying cheat. But I wouldn’t listen.” She picked up the glass, stared at its emptiness, and set it back on the table. “His last name isn’t even what he told me it was. Black was his stage name.”
Emmy closed the distance between them. “Mum, where is Julia?”
Mum waved Emmy’s concern away with one hand and picked up the handkerchief with the other. “Next door at Thea’s. The cat had her kittens. She doesn’t know.” Mum reached for the bottle and sloshed another mouthful into the glass. “She’s not going to know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly that. She’s not going to know.” Mum downed the whiskey and grimaced. She wiped her mouth with the handkerchief. “You’re not to tell her, Em. I’m not going to do to her what I did to you.”
“Mum—”