Tara (36 page)

The shop only got busy at twelve, as girls started to come in during their lunch hour. Tara was amazed at the amount of money girls only a little older than herself had to spend, and at their slavish following of fashion. When she saw short, dumpy girls putting on long pleated skirts, she wanted to lead them to slimmer shapes and encourage them to wear softer colours than the grey, bottle green and black they seemed so struck on, but she hadn't the confidence yet.

Again and again she saw girls turning away because there were no real summer dresses. The sun was blazing outside, they were going away for a holiday at the weekend, but they could find nothing revealing to wear.

'Daft, innit.' Angie giggled as yet another disappointed girl walked out. 'Here we are in a heatwave with only things with long sleeves to sell. I'm going down to Southend on Sunday if it's still nice and I ain't got nothing new to wear either.'

The afternoon was very quiet and, although Josh brought in some new stock for them to price up, there was nothing much to do. Tara sat behind the counter and idly drew a summer dress on a scrap of paper.

'That's nice.' Angie rested her breasts and elbows on the counter to look at what Tara was doing. 'I wish I could draw.'

'Would you wear that on Sunday?' Tara showed her the sketch of a scoop-necked print shift dress, the back cut very low.

'Yeah, I would,' Angie said enthusiastically. 'You can never get dresses like that when you want them, though.'

Tara tucked the sketch away under the counter, her head spinning with an idea.

Josh sat back in his chair and smiled to himself.

He called the room above the shop his office, though in reality it was more of a stockroom. But at his big desk under the window, swivelling in his leatherette chair, with dress-rails behind him, he could imagine he was a tycoon surveying his empire.

His good mood was entirely the result of hiring Tara and, although it was only four in the afternoon of her first day, he knew he'd picked a cracker. He would've taken her on just for the way she said 'I've come for the job'. Josh liked positive people who weren't afraid to be pushy. He was that way himself, and he understood it.

Joshua Bergman hadn't been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, though people tended to forget this. He had been almost eight when they moved to Golders Green and early memories of poverty and hunger were etched on his brain. He could barely recall the expensive private school he went to later, other than having elocution lessons to rid him of his Cockney accent. Yet he could still remember waking in Cable Street to find a rat sitting by his bed, and his mother cooking chicken soup over an open fire.

His father, Solly Bergman, had come to England from Germany in the 1920s with nothing but his tailoring skills and a smattering of English. Until 1939, when he met and married Rachael Steinway, he had resigned himself to poverty, accepting a home in Cable Street as his lot. Rachael, however, was ambitious, and soon after Josh was born in 1942, she persuaded her husband to use his tailoring skills on women's clothes.

Josh had been brought up on the story of the elegant royal blue costume Solly made for Rachael and how she toured the West End shops in it until someone gave her an order. That first small order was the start of Bergman's. By the time the War ended Solly had a small workroom with two machinists, but his home was still the single squalid room Josh was born in.

'Build up the business before you spend any money' was his father's motto, and he stuck to it in those post-war years as his business flourished. Josh had patches in the seats of his pants, his mother cooked on an open fire, and
every
penny went into bigger and bigger workshops.

The end of 1949 was when everything changed. Rachael put her foot down and insisted on a decent home, and Solly reluctantly bought a small house. The first one was in Stoke Newington, but later they moved on to Golders Green.

Josh had a great deal of respect for Solly's business acumen, but his father's way was too slow for him. He intended to be a millionaire by the time he was thirty and have a good time while he was getting there. Art college, then an extensive business course gave him all the knowledge he needed. A little wheeling and dealing in bankrupt stock gave him enough capital to start and, when the shop in Bethnal Green came on the market at a low rent, he took the plunge.

He didn't need to know every step that went into the making of a garment, the East End was full of little sweat-shops. All it took was a few sketches of clothes he'd seen in magazines, and picking up fabric at the right price. His father's name, and his degree in art, persuaded people the clothes he produced were his own designs, and he kept the truth under his hat. Josh was nobody's fool. He knew he couldn't steal other people's ideas forever. If someone tumbled he'd lose all credibility. But good designers cost money, they wanted their name on the labels; furthermore they balked at making cheap clothes.

He wasn't going to bank on anything with Tara. She might turn out to be as full of bullshit as himself. But, all the same, he had a good feeling about her. She had a discerning eye. He noticed the way she skimmed through the rails, really looking at the clothes. She'd winced at several garments, and he was tempted right then to ask what was wrong with them.

A consumer boom had started. All the post-war babies brought up on free orange juice and the welfare state wanted to live now. There was work for everyone, fat pay packets waiting to be spent, and Joshua Bergman was determined that he was going to get a big slice of the pie.

'Did I do all right?' Tara lingered by the counter as Josh cashed up the till. Angie had already shot off home and the shop door was closed.

Josh looked at the takings and smiled. Considering the heatwave he hadn't expected as much and he had a feeling that Tara dancing attendance on the few customers had helped.

'You did well,' he said, shoving the notes into a bag. 'I think you were born to it.'

Tara fidgeted nervously. Josh seemed easy to work for, and he clearly liked people who used their initiative, but he was still the boss. He was hard to read. Although his dark brown eyes seemed soft and gentle, his manner suggested he could be ruthless.

'We lost a lot of sales because we haven't got any summery dresses,' she said tentatively. 'People kept asking for sleeveless things and there's only those left.' She pointed to a rail of ugly eau de nil frocks with full skirts.

'That's always a problem at this time of year.' Josh sighed. 'If only we could predict the weather! It's too late now to get some new designs and patterns made.'

Tara took a deep breath and pulled her sketch out of her pocket.

'I could make a pattern for this.' She put it on the counter cautiously. 'There are three bolts of lovely print out the back. I could even make up a sample for you tonight, if you liked it.'

Josh looked at the sketch and his pulse quickened. The dress was simple, but it was classy. He hadn't even considered that fabric out the back and she was quite right, it would be perfect. Under the pretence of considering it, he studied Tara. She had moved away from the counter and was straightening a rack of skirts, obviously afraid she had overstepped the mark. A spotlight caught her gold hair and profile. The curve of her cheeks, her long neck and determined chin were achingly beautiful. She looked so vulnerable.

'I'll give it a try.' He shrugged his shoulders in an effort to look unconvinced. 'Take a length of fabric home and if it works you can keep the sample.'

'You mean you'll get my pattern made up and sell them?' Tara spun round to face him, eyes flashing with pleasure.

'Only if it's right.' Josh had to bite his lower lip to keep from laughing. 'A sketch doesn't always work out. Let's just say we'll see!'

Tara wolfed down her tea and between mouthfuls told George and Queenie all about her day.

'I didn't expect him to agree,' she said rapturously. 'Just think, if he likes it I could be in business.'

'You'd better use the dining-room table.' George smiled at her excitement. 'But don't get carried away, love, be prepared for disappointment.'

At nine o'clock Tara heard Harry at the front door. He went into the lounge with Queenie and George and a rumble of laughter and chinking of glasses suggested they were all having a drink. She was too engrossed in her work to go and say hello.

Queenie's sewing machine was a hand one, but far more modern than her Gran's treadle. It sat on a small table under the long narrow window that looked out on to the side of the kitchen and the back yard. The high wall up to the railway blocked out a great deal of light, but Queenie had made George paint the walls white and she'd planted a creeper up the railway wall, so it wasn't half as gloomy as it used to be.

The dress was cut in six panels, but it had no collar or sleeves and already she was at the pressing stage, with only the edges of the facing and the hem to finish off. Her face was flushed with the heat but she glowed with pleasure.

'What's this, a sweat-shop?' Harry came in just as she took it off the ironing board. He had clearly dropped in on his way to a club and he wore a sharp navy suit with a red handkerchief peeping out of the breast pocket. She wasn't sure she liked him looking like a spiv, with every hair in place and reeking of expensive aftershave – the Harry in jeans down at the farm had been much more approachable.

He sat astride one of the dining chairs, leaning his arms on its back, taking in the brown paper pattern and the floor covered with off-cuts of bright fabric.

'I'm making a sample for Josh,' she said. 'What do you think?' She held the dress up against her.

George had already told him the story, but Harry smiled at her expression. Ecstatic was the only word that sprang to mind. She had bits of cotton all over her jeans and T-shirt, her hair shoved back behind her ears, and she looked adorable.

'It's brilliant.' He grinned. 'At least, as far as I can tell with you just holding it. I dare say it fits as well as everything you make.'

'I love it at the shop.' She sat down at the sewing machine again, but turned her head towards him. 'It's just perfect.'

'What are you going to get out of making this sample?' Harry asked.

'I'll keep it.' She bent her head over the machine and turned the handle.

Harry looked at Tara's back and frowned. Her hair had parted to reveal her neck, her small shoulder blades stood out through her thin T-shirt, and all at once he felt fiercely protective.

Something had happened to his feelings about Tara since she had arrived last Friday. It wasn't a purely brotherly thing any more; he kept looking at her shape, her face and wanting to stroke her hair.

The feeling was so strong he hadn't even trusted himself to do Wainwright over personally, he'd sent some of the lads instead. If he'd been there it might not have stopped at a good kicking. Thank heavens he had a pad of his own now. If he kept bumping into Tara in her nightie there was no telling what would happen!

'If 'e gets it made up and starts selling them you must keep a tally of them,' he said brusquely.

Tara stopped machining and turned round in her seat. She didn't like his tone, it sounded disapproving, and he was scowling.

'Don't be a wet blanket. It's a start for me. I might get to be his designer.'

Harry checked himself. He could drop in on Josh and make sure he didn't take advantage. He didn't want to dampen her enthusiasm.

'Yeah, of course you might. I only meant that if it takes off you need some figures and stuff to bargain with. That's a lot of work for someone who's been in a shop all day.'

'I don't mind.' She bent back over her work. 'Anyway, it doesn't seem like a real job. I love it, and the other girl Angie is nice.'

'You 'aven't told them you used to live round 'ere?'

Tara shook her head.

'Keep it that way, darlin',' he said softly. 'And don't go mentioning me to Josh Bergman neither, not yet.'

Once again Tara broke off and turned, puzzled by that last sentence.

'Why? I thought you were old friends?'

Harry shrugged his shoulders. 'It might prejudice 'im. I mean, I ain't no angel, darlin'. People with shops get a bit edgy when one of their girls knows "a face".'

Tara felt uneasy. She knew he meant that if the shop got broken into he might be suspected. But only a guilty person would think that way!

'OK.' She didn't feel she could question him. 'Just until I've settled down. But I can't keep it a secret forever, Harry. I'm too proud of you for that. Besides, Angie would go weak at the knees if she saw you.'

Chapter 16

June 1965

Harry climbed over the high wire fence like a monkey, dropped silently to the concrete below, and ran to the shelter of the warehouse.

It was a wild night. Not just rain but a deluge, driven sideways by strong wind. But the unexpected foul weather pleased Harry. It meant less chance of nosy-parkers showing up, and footprints and tyre marks would be eliminated. He pulled the hood of his black oilskin coat over his head, wiped the worst of the rain off his face with one gloved hand and looked around.

The warehouse had been built as a store during the War, a single-storey brick building with a corrugated iron roof. Further down the road leading to Tilbury a new industrial estate was being built, but this place was surrounded by scrubby Essex marshland.

In the far distance he could see a row of lights leading towards the docks, but here there was only inky darkness. The rain obscured everything, even the black dress van they'd stolen earlier this evening in Gray's Thurrock. Harry smiled to himself, imagining Needles peering anxiously out into the darkness, waiting for the signal.

The big double gates were only more wire mesh over an iron frame, the gate-man's tiny hut next to them was in darkness. It looked like a prison camp, but without the arc-lights and sentries, and the only sound was the rain beating down on the iron roof and gushing from an overloaded gutter.

Harry made a reconnoitre. Stealthily, he climbed up on to a raised wooden loading bay and peered into two dirty barred windows. There were no lights here either, and he smiled with satisfaction. Jumping down from the platform he skirted right round the building. At the back a small brick office had been added in recent times. By standing on tip-toe he could just make out a typewriter on a desk, a couple of filing cabinets and a Xerox copying machine. Further round the building the concrete gave way to rough grass and mud. Another window here was barred, but then as he came back on to concrete he saw a narrow door.