“It’s hard to relax when it’s so ticklish,” she said, twitching as the tape measure slithered over the silky nylon fabric.
“All done. I think you are a size fourteen in need of some adjustments.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” said Jean, reaching for her skirt and blouse. Tact was often the first casualty of Gretchen’s imperfect fluency.
They had come upstairs to the room Gretchen used for her needlework. In one corner stood a dressmaker’s mannequin wearing a gray satin evening gown, inside out and held together with tacking stitches and pins. A Singer sewing machine sat at one end of a large cutting table on which an expanse of printed cotton was spread out; tissue-thin pieces of pattern for some unidentifiable garment were pinned in place—strange abstract shapes that seemed to bear no relation to the human form. Jean looked at Gretchen with new respect; there was more artistry and skill than drudgery in this work.
Somehow, without discussion, they had progressed to Christian names now. It was too bizarre to be calling each other Miss This and Mrs. That when in this state of undress and intimacy. Jean wasn’t sorry to see the back of “Miss Svinny.”
The invitation had come while she was at work. Howard, at Gretchen’s urging, had called her at the paper. His voice sounded faraway and hesitant, and Jean could imagine his reluctance in undertaking this particular errand.
“My wife wondered if you would like to join us for tea on Sunday. She said something about dressmaking. It’ll be just us and Margaret—nothing formal.”
Since her last meeting with Gretchen at the hospital she had told herself to maintain a strictly professional distance, avoiding any overtures of friendship in case it clouded her judgment and made a potentially tricky conversation in the future even trickier. But in the face of this stammered invitation, she had caved in and accepted immediately.
The truth was that congenial new acquaintances were too rare a phenomenon to be dismissed. Her colleagues at the paper were pleasant enough company, but only during office hours. They didn’t socialize outside work, apart from those Friday pub nights, from which Jean had already excluded herself. Old school friends were married now and scattered, their weekends taken up with family life. A single woman was an awkward fit. But the Tilburys seemed to like her, to look up to her, even, as someone of influence and importance.
It was impossible not to be flattered and charmed by their interest, to blossom and expand in their company and become the interesting woman they thought she was. And besides, there was Margaret, who was either a perfectly ordinary child, or uniquely, miraculously special. Whichever she was, she had stirred in Jean a longing she had thought safely buried.
Having accepted, Jean had now acquired two new problems: how to manage the abandonment of her mother for the best part of Sunday, and how to reciprocate in due course. The solution to the first came providentially one evening as she cycled home from a doctor’s appointment. Ahead of her, toiling up the hill carrying several distended string bags of shopping, was Winnie Melsom, an acquaintance of her mother’s from the days when she used to attend church.
There had been a disagreement about the annual collection of Christmas gifts for the poor children of the parish. Someone had suggested that hand-knitted toys, stuffed with chopped-up nylon stockings, were not hygienic. Mrs. Swinney, who had enjoyed making these little dolls, had taken umbrage and stopped attending. She was not a religious woman and had never much liked the services anyway, so it was no great hardship.
Jean pedalled faster and drew alongside Mrs. Melsom, who looked up fearfully at this interruption.
“Hello. Why don’t I help you with those?” Jean said, slipping down from her bicycle and relieving the struggling woman of her bags, putting one in her pannier and hanging the other two from the handlebars.
“Oh, you are kind,” said Mrs. Melsom, who had taken a moment or two to recognize Jean and recover from the idea that she was being robbed in broad daylight. “I made the mistake of buying rather more than I could carry. I’m glad you came past.”
They continued to walk up the hill together, Jean pushing the bicycle. Mrs. Melsom lived in one of the Victorian cottages on Keston Road, some way farther than Jean needed to go. She remembered that there was a daughter, Ann, who lived overseas, like Dorrie. The pain of separation had once been a bond between the two mothers—up to a point. Unlike Dorrie, Ann made regular trips home.
“How is Ann?” Jean asked.
“Oh, very well. I had a letter from her just yesterday. She writes every fortnight.”