‘I like this one.’ Zippy pointed to a sketch of a series of chairs.
‘You call the number I give you?’ Eda asked, looking up from her ironing. She ran a small laundry and ironing business from home. Her face was worn, her lips always downturned since her husband’s death. She also drove trains for London Transport.
‘You look tired, Mama.’
‘You call?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Well … call. The boy waiting.’
Hortensia sighed.
‘And this one.’ Zippy had a special ability to zone out their mother’s nagging, perhaps, Hortensia thought, because the nagging was seldom directed at her. She watched her sister flick through her sketchbook.
‘I’m going to start selling my own designs,’ Hortensia said, looking at Zippy although the statement was intended for Eda. She’d started getting her documents together for the registration of House of Braithwaite.
‘Your own designs?’ Eda asked, lifting the iron and taking a moment to glance at her firstborn.
‘Yes.’
What Hortensia didn’t tell Eda was that she had no need to call ‘the boy’ Eda was trying to fix her up with. Instead, she and Peter were in the last stages of their courtship. He had asked for her hand in marriage and she’d said yes.
They had been courting in secret for three years. Later, when Peter would tease Hortensia for her love of beautiful things, what he couldn’t have known was that he’d been that for her once too – a beautiful thing, perfect and in need of nothing. The year they met, Hortensia’s first summer in England, Peter was tutoring in Pure Mathematics and Statistics at Croydon College. Hortensia was on vacation from design school. Mr List, the same enthusiastic teacher that had introduced fashion to Bailer’s, had noticed Hortensia’s talent and invited her to join him as his assistant. He ran a summer pattern-making class at Croydon College. Accustomed to being received coolly at Bailer’s, the young teacher’s interest in her work had surprised Hortensia. She accepted the offer, keen for the extra money. She moved in with her Uncle Leroy. Her mother sent a letter with the details of the family’s imminent arrival.
Within days of starting her job at Croydon, Hortensia had observed Peter from afar; he was distinctly tall and difficult to miss. Up close one day in the cafeteria, Hortensia saw that he had freckles on his face, they were dark brown and she found them pleasant. She smiled at him and he stammered a greeting.
Almost on arrival Eda found something to worry about. She didn’t like the hours Hortensia was keeping, the journey into Croydon. She said as much to Hortensia who, as usual, didn’t pay her any mind. And as if danger follows worry, one night, after staying late in Croydon to enjoy a drink with some of the students, Hortensia began her journey home. She was dressed in high heels, which was unusual despite her short stature. She wobbled in the heels, walked slowly, shivered from the cold (how could this be summer?). One came up on her left and another on her right. A hand pressed against her back meant someone was behind her too. Teddy boys were always spoken of but, up till then, she’d never encountered any. In the early days of their marriage, when there was still laughter, Hortensia would claim she had had all three boys on their backs by the time Peter showed up. He’d respond by saying, ‘If on their backs means standing with their fists jabbing the air, then yes.’
They were boys, though, and whether due to Peter’s size or Hortensia’s curses (she reined them in with screeches, spitting and raising her left hand, fingers spread, for effect), the hooligans seemed to catch a fright and eventually ran off. Peter asked if he could walk with her and Hortensia told him she’d be fine. It’s not you I’m worried about, he said. He grinned and shone all his teeth at her. This wide smile struck her as such a precious thing. She’d never fallen in love before.
SIX
THERE CAME A time when Hortensia did wonder who the person was. She played a game, thought up faces, dreamed them. There were moments where she thought very clearly that if for any reason she found the woman and was left alone with her, she would kill her. Then there were days she felt she had to meet, speak and reason with her, find her number in Peter’s book. But of course there was no such book. So it seemed natural, one day, to follow him. And it seemed sensible to get a disguise, so he didn’t notice that he was being followed. She would later hide the camouflage in the storeroom off the kitchen – a place she knew Peter would never look.
The woman was small and young. She wore strappy heels but still had to raise herself onto the tips of her toes to greet Peter with a drawn-out kiss. Her hair, curls of black, was so shiny Hortensia wondered if it wasn’t a wig.