The Most Precious Thing (25 page)
Although the front room held a drop-leaf table, four Georgian style chairs and two small pink armchairs with bobbles round the bottom, these were pushed against two walls and covered in piles of clothing. A bundle of woollens waiting to be unpicked, finished articles neatly arranged in piles and awaiting collection by Horwood’s van, work in hand, and remnants of linen and rolls of cloth were piled high, and in front of all these stood an ancient table with a small sewing machine on the top and a chair tucked underneath it. Two clothes horses, one holding garments and the other draped with more cloth, completed the room, and the cream paper blinds with deep imitation lace on the bottom at the window were bordered by thick blue curtains, the same colour as the lino on the floor.
Carrie looked about her. In view of the number of people coming to Matthew’s birthday tea the next day, she would need to clear all her work away into the big packing case in a corner of the room and rearrange the furniture so folk could sit and eat in here as well as in the kitchen, she thought. And there was still plenty of baking to do, the kitchen floor to scour and clean, lemonade to make with the lemons and sugar and ginger essence she’d had soaking all day in one of her big pans, and a hundred and one other things besides.
But still she stood there without moving, her eyes coming to rest on the neatly folded clothing she had finished that month. Folk just would not believe how little it cost her to make them, certainly not in view of what Horwood & Sons, Outfitters and Hosiers, sold them for.
Carrie walked across to the pile of clothing, stroking the soft material of the top garment absently. ‘Exclusive design.’ ‘Original model.’ That was how Mr Horwood had decided to market what he had called her ‘line’. After what he’d considered a slow start, he’d recently announced himself well satisfied with the way things had picked up.
And it had all started from the day she had walked into the grand shop in the best part of Bishopwearmouth, inwardly shaking in her boots and outwardly poised. She told one of the shop assistants she wished to speak to Mr Horwood, and she could still picture in her mind’s eye the way the beautifully dressed woman had eyed her from head to foot. The shop assistant’s voice had been coldly superior when she’d asked
which
Mr Horwood madam was referring to. And from somewhere deep inside, the part of her that had reached out for life that morning on Penshaw Hill sprang up, giving her the courage to answer equally coolly that she meant Mr Horwood Senior of course.
which
Mr Horwood madam was referring to. And from somewhere deep inside, the part of her that had reached out for life that morning on Penshaw Hill sprang up, giving her the courage to answer equally coolly that she meant Mr Horwood Senior of course.
Did madam have an appointment?
No, madam did not have an appointment but madam was quite sure Mr Horwood would want to see her.
Would madam like to explain what it was about?
Carrie had thought quickly before saying that the matter was private but greatly to Mr Horwood’s advantage. And, amazingly, the woman had asked her to take a seat while she enquired if Mr Horwood was free.
Cuthbert Horwood had turned out to be a fat little man with a mop of grey, wiry hair which stuck straight up from his head like a brush. But it was his eyes, black, round and penetrating, that had unnerved her when she’d stood before him in his office five minutes later.
‘I’m told you are about to inform me of something which is greatly to my advantage, Mrs Sutton.’ His tone was not encouraging.
Her stomach was turning over like the hoops some of the bairns played with in the street, but she swallowed hard and said, ‘Aye, that’s right. I . . . I make things. Clothes. I knit and crochet.’
‘And?’
‘And I wondered if you’d like to sell them in your shop.’
‘And this is the matter you led one of my staff to believe was of some importance? I don’t like people wasting my time, young lady.’
‘Neither do I.’ Her head shot up at his biting tone. ‘Probably because I never have enough of it.’
It clearly wasn’t the response he expected. He stared at her, long and hard, and she stared back. She had nothing to lose now anyway.
‘Show me.’ He gestured abruptly to the large brown paper parcel she was holding, his voice impatient.
She unwrapped it on his grand mahogany desk, laying out the three items she’d brought as samples. They were favourites of hers: a crocheted sleeveless top in dove grey with matching cardigan, a cream and beige knitted dress, and a long-sleeved, waist-length jumper in midnight blue.
He picked each garment up, examined it closely but made no comment, and Carrie’s confidence in the quality of her work took a nosedive.
After what seemed like an eternity, he leaned back in his big leather chair and raised his eyes to hers. ‘You say you designed and made these?’
‘Aye, I did.’ Her voice was flat now.
‘I like them. I like them very much.’ His smile altered the hard face entirely. ‘You have flair, Mrs Sutton. Panache, our London friends would call it. This is something that cannot be learned, it is here’ - he rested a finger next to his eyes - ‘and here’ - he tapped his forehead. ‘You clearly are an admirer of Coco Chanel, abandoning flamboyant fussiness in favour of a bold simplicity dependent on line, cut and quality.’
Was she? She had no idea what he was talking about. She’d vaguely heard of the Parisian designer who had led a revolution to make it ‘chic’ to dress like the poor in black or beige or grey, even adopting the workman’s cap or scarf as an accessory, but fashion magazines were an expensive luxury she couldn’t afford. She looked into the bright black eyes, sensing he knew something of what she was thinking and expected her to try and bluff it out. She cleared her throat, searching for the right words before she spoke. ‘I’m not familiar with her work,’ she said quietly. ‘These are just my ideas, that’s all.’
Again he stared at her for some moments. ‘Then that is even better. May I ask you, Mrs Sutton, exactly what you are looking for here? A buyer who will pay well for any finished articles you wish to sell, or someone who will invest in promoting the clothing as an ongoing venture?’
All this clever talk. ‘I’m looking for someone who doesn’t think the two things are incompatible.’ She was meeting the astute gaze head on now, and then, as he threw his head back and gave a hearty bellow of laughter, she continued, ‘My husband is a miner, Mr Horwood. I’m not doing this simply because I think I can make a success of it but because I have to. I can’t afford -
we
can’t afford - to live on promises for the future. That doesn’t pay the rent or put food on the table. I don’t want to be forward but if you do like my clothes I would want a fair price for them, taking into account you have to make a profit too, of course.’
we
can’t afford - to live on promises for the future. That doesn’t pay the rent or put food on the table. I don’t want to be forward but if you do like my clothes I would want a fair price for them, taking into account you have to make a profit too, of course.’
‘Of course.’ There was still a semblance of a smile on his face. ‘In London’s Regent Street a dress of wool lined with crêpe de chine would sell at something like fifty-five shillings, but this is Sunderland, not London. Would you be able to line your clothing, Mrs Sutton, where appropriate? Horwood and Sons cater for the discerning customer, and something like this dress and the top that goes with the cardigan would need to be lined.’
She nodded quickly.
‘And some clients would like an edging of satin or silk to enhance an otherwise plain item of clothing. You do have a sewing machine at home?’
Now she lied without blinking. ‘Of course.’
‘Then I think we can come to some arrangement which would suit us both. You work alone?’
Again she nodded.
‘That is not a problem at the present. If the line takes off we can reassess the situation.’ And then, as though coming to some decision, he said, ‘Can I offer you a cup of coffee, Mrs Sutton? And then we can thrash out terms and conditions.’
‘Thank you.’ Her head was whirling so much it was an effort to speak.
She left the shop some time later with a letter in her bag stating that Horwood & Sons were prepared to take her work and pay her handsomely for the privilege. She went straight to the Sunderland library to look up the word ‘panache’. ‘Flamboyant confidence of style or manner.’ She read it twice before laughing out loud. From the library she called in at Tot Sewell’s pawn shop and purchased a small sewing machine with some of the money she had received for the clothing she had left with Mr Horwood.
Carrie came back to the present as Matthew bounded to the threshold of the room, saying, ‘We’ve sorted some wood from the orange boxes in the yard but we need a bit more. Da said we’ll get it tomorrow if there’s time before everyone comes.’ He didn’t venture into the room, having learned long ago that thick leather boots and dirty hands didn’t mix with delicate material and paper patterns. ‘Mam, can I have a shive of bread and dripping to take up to bed?’
‘You can’t still be hungry, you’ve only just had your dinner.’
He grinned, all charm. ‘I am. Please, Mam?’
Carrie shook her head at him, smiling as she did so. ‘You’ve hollow legs, lad. Aye, go on, you know where it is, and just one piece mind. And then straight to sleep. We’ve a houseful tomorrow to celebrate you going into double numbers.’
‘Aye, I am, aren’t I?’ It clearly hadn’t struck him before. He stared at her and then said without any preamble, ‘Is Uncle Alec coming?’
Carrie picked up a pile of clothes, turning away as she said, ‘I’m not sure who’s coming but I wouldn’t be surprised,’ the familiar sickness churning her stomach at Alec’s name.
‘Uncle Alec said he was getting me something right grand for my birthday.’
Now Carrie really had to control her voice. ‘It’s Aunt Margaret and Uncle Alec who buy you things, not just Uncle Alec.’
There was silence for a moment. Matthew stared at his mother. Why did she always have that note in her voice, the scratchy note, when she talked about Uncle Alec? She didn’t have it with anyone else. He plucked up his courage and asked the question he’d been dying to ask for ages. ‘Do you like Uncle Alec, Mam?’
‘What?’ Carrie was surprised into turning to face her son and by the expression on his face she saw that Matthew had the bit firmly between his teeth. It was at moments like these, when a kind of hardness came across the boyish features, that he resembled Alec the most. But she was not going to be drawn into discussing Alec with Matthew so she said, ‘That’s too silly a question to deserve an answer. Uncle Alec is your da’s brother, isn’t he? Part of the family. Now wash your hands before you get yourself that bread and dripping and I’ll be up to say goodnight in a minute.’
‘All right, Mam.’ It was subdued but she pretended not to notice. ‘
I
like Uncle Alec.’
I
like Uncle Alec.’
He shut the door before she could comment, leaving her staring across the room. She bit on her lip hard. Matthew, oh, Matthew. Where was this going to end?
It was another two hours before Carrie and David went to bed. Carrie did some baking and then she got David to help her reorganise the front room, but all the time her mind was dissecting the conversation with Matthew.
When she sat down heavily on the bed with a little sigh, David said, ‘You’re done in, lass, and no wonder. All this carry-on because of a birthday, as though you haven’t got enough to do.’
‘I wanted to do it.’
‘Who’s coming exactly?’
‘Lillian and Isaac, Renee and Walter, and Ada of course. And Mam called by to say they’re all coming, even Da.’
David nodded to this but said nothing. He had long since stopped hoping things would ever be right between him and Sandy. Sometimes he got the feeling that Carrie’s father would have liked to soften his attitude but Sandy was a proud man and any mellowing on his part would have meant losing face. True, Sandy answered him civilly enough these days but that was all, and David was in no doubt that this was only because he wanted access to his daughter and grandson. Both sets of grandparents worshipped the ground Matthew walked on; David had never thought to see his own mother so besotted with a child. Even with Alec he couldn’t remember her being so indulgent.
The thought of his brother now moved David to say, ‘Alec and Margaret, are they coming?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘They haven’t let you know?’ That wasn’t like Margaret. Alec’s wife was a stickler for doing things properly.
‘I never got round to inviting them.’ Carrie rose from the bed and walked across to the dressing table. She picked up her hairbrush and began to brush her hair, seated on the little stool with her back to him. ‘I dare say they’ll call by.’
Other books
Men, Women & Children by Chad Kultgen
Mara McBain by McCade's Way
The White Lioness by Henning Mankell
Give Me Love by Zoey Derrick
I Kissed a Dog by Carol Van Atta
The Good Mom by Cathryn Parry
Forbidden Fruit by Nika Michelle
Sweet as Honey (The Seven Sisters) by Robertson, Caitlyn
The Demonists by Thomas E. Sniegoski
Defense for the Devil by Kate Wilhelm
