London Transports (20 page)

There was a nagging voice which wondered would they like to be forgiven…or might it all be a bit too much trouble now? Perhaps they all had their own Christmas planned. Perhaps the priest was coming to lunch on Christmas Day, and old Mrs. Lynch from the shop where Louis had worked. Perhaps Nessa and her fellow had to go to the pub people for Christmas. Who knew what Seamus was like now?

She touched her grey hair as she looked in the mirror. She was a stranger to them all. It didn’t really matter whose fault it had been…or who had said what…the main thing was that they didn’t know her. They didn’t know what her life had been like with Louis; they’d never heard that she and Louis took a train to Rome one year and had picnics with Italians all the time. They didn’t know what her little flat was like here, and how she had made a patchwork quilt and how she had gone on a holiday to an old hotel with a lot of other people who wanted to learn about antiques.

Her mother and father didn’t know that she had had her gall bladder out three years ago, and that she had given up smoking three times and the last time it seemed to be working. They didn’t know she could make pickles and that she had a friend, Phyllis, whom she went to a show with every week. They would look up the papers and choose what seemed suitable.

They both had the same taste. Phyllis had been going to book them a Christmas lunch in a hotel…she had probably made the booking by now. She would understand, of course. But still.

No, perhaps it would be foolish to rush into it. She might do more harm than good. Perhaps this year she should just pave the way. Send them a card. Let them know that she was holding no more grudges. Yes, that would be the way, and when they wrote and thanked her…then, little by little. And next Christmas.
That
was it. Not immediately, people don’t like to be forgiven too quickly.

She found a card and put a second-class stamp on it. There was still plenty of time—no point in wasting first-class postage. She thought for a while. People mustn’t be rushed.

After a lot of thought she wrote, “Seasonal Wishes to one and all. Mary.”

She put it on the little table to post early next morning, on her way to the shop. She thought that it would give them all a nice warm glow to know that she had forgiven them, and she was glad that it had happened at Christmastime.

Warren Street

N
an had had another god-awful day. Nobody seemed to use any underarm deodorant anymore. She had been wincing from whiffs of sweat all day, as people flung off their garments to try on her designs.

That maddening Mrs. Fine had, of course, noticed the seam that wasn’t exactly right; while that stupid, stupid woman—who apparently worked in some important position in an estate agent’s—had forgotten again what she wanted made out of the woollen material but was absolutely certain that it wasn’t the poncho that Nan had cut out for her.

“Why would I have said a poncho, when I have one already?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“That’s what I asked you at the time,” hissed Nan.

But the thing that was making Nan’s heart leaden was that she had had a row with Shirley.

Now nobody had rows with Shirley. She had a face so like the rising sun you expected rays to stick out from her head like in a child’s drawing. If Nan had rowed with her, it had to have been Nan’s fault and that was that.

Shirley had been coming to Nan for two years now, ordering maybe five garments a year. Nan remembered the first day she came she had been pressing her nose against the window rather wistfully, looking at a little bolero and skirt outfit on display. The skirt wouldn’t have gone over Shirley’s head, let alone made it to her waist.

Nan pulled back the curtain and waved her inside—she still wondered why she did it. Normally she never encouraged customers. She had enough enquiries she couldn’t deal with, and this was obviously not a fashion-conscious girl whom it would be a pleasure to dress.

Shirley’s great, happy face and bouncing, bulging body arrived in Nan’s little shop.

“I think I have the wrong place,” she began. “Lola, who works with me and who’s eight months pregnant, said she got her smocks here, and I was wondering if you have any more smocks. I mean, they might fit me, even though I’m not pregnant.”

Nan had liked her cheerful face so much she’d encouraged her.

“Sit down. I’ll go and see. I’ve very few things really—I mainly make clothes up for people, you see.”

“Oh, are you a designer?” asked Shirley innocently.

She had touched on something very near to Nan’s heart. She would have liked to think of herself as a designer and she had a flair for ideas and style. She sold things to classy boutiques from time to time. But something about Shirley’s face made her answer, to her own surprise, “No, more a dressmaker.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Shirley had said. “I thought that they’d disappeared. I wonder, would you be able to make me a smock…?” She broke off, seeing a refusal beginning to form itself on Nan’s face.

“Oh, please, please do!” she said. “I can’t find anything in the shops that doesn’t have white collars or tiny, thoughtful mum-to-be prints on it.”

“It’s just that I’m very busy…” Nan began.

“It would be very easy to do,” said Shirley. “You wouldn’t have to put any shape in it, and you wouldn’t have to waste time wondering if the fit was right.” She grinned encouragingly, and that did it. Nan couldn’t bear her to go around the world as vulnerable as that, and indeed, as badly dressed in that hideous, diagonally striped garment she had on.

“You win,” Nan had said, and they spent a happy half hour planning what Shirley would wear for the winter.

Away went the belted grey army issue-type coats—the only ones that fitted Shirley—and on came a cape. Away, too, the men’s warm sweaters and on with a rosy-red dress and a warm pink one.

Nan also made her a multicoloured evening dress, which had all the shades of the rainbow in it. It was, she thought, a pleasure to design a dress for Shirley. She was so grateful, so touched and happy when it was finished. Sometimes she would whirl around in it in front of the mirror, her fat little hands clasped excitedly like a child.

Shirley was one of the few clients who didn’t seem to have a list of complaints and personal problems, which was another bonus. Nan thought of Mrs. Fine, always running down her husband. Shirley never complained about men at all.

Miss Harris was always bitching about traffic or work, or how you couldn’t get a taxi or a waiter who spoke English, or proper whole-meal bread. Shirley never seemed in the least upset by such deprivations.

In fact, Nan knew little of Shirley’s life, except that she fancied her boss in an advertising agency. Or maybe she didn’t—Shirley was always so jokey. The last garment she had made Shirley was a really lovely dress. Nan had spent hours on the very fine wool, with its embroidery, ruffs, and frills, its soft blues and yellows. Shirley looked like an enormous, beautiful baby.

It was for some gala evening and Shirley had said, “If he doesn’t tear the clothes off me when he sees me like this, he never will.”

Nan worked on a system of appointments that meant you had to come and see her on the hour, and she saw only eight people a day. That way, she said, the job was manageable. People didn’t stay longer than twenty minutes at the most. The rest of the hour Nan worked away, with her quiet little machinist burring on in the background.

She would never be rich, never be famous, but it was a living. She couldn’t see a life where she would be finishing buttonholes at 3
A.M.
for a show next day. Her own life and her own lover were far too precious for that. Colin and she had lived together happily for ages and often thought of getting married but they’d never actually got the details organized.

That’s what they said. The truth was that Colin would have disappeared very sharply if Nan had suggested marriage. She didn’t mind much, although sometimes she felt he had it all ways since they both worked. She did the housework and paid the rent; but then it was her place, and he did share the bills.

And he loved the fact that she worked downstairs. Sometimes if he had a day off he would come in and give her a rose in the workroom, and on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion he had asked the machinist to go for a walk, locked the door, and made love to her there and then, to the accompaniment of Miss Harris pounding on the door.

One day Colin had seen Shirley leaving with a finished dress. “Who on earth was the beach ball bouncing out a minute ago?” he asked. Shirley wasn’t the usual mould of Nan’s clients.

“That’s our Shirl, whom I talk about sometimes,” Nan said.

“You never told me she looked like a technicoloured Moby Dick,” said Colin. Nan was annoyed. True, Shirley was enormous; true, she was dressed extremely brightly—mainly at Nan’s insistence. But because she had such a lovely face, she looked well in colourful clothes and Nan didn’t like Colin’s joke.

“That’s a bit uncalled for, isn’t it?” she said sharply. Colin was amazed.

“Sorry to tease her—let me hold out my hand for a smack,” he mocked. “Yes, it was very uncalled for, teacher, nobody called for it at all.”

Nan retorted, “It’s cruel—to laugh at somebody’s shape!”

“Aw, come on, come on,” said Colin reasonably. “You’re always saying someone’s like a car aerial or the Michelin Man or whatever. It was just a remark, just a joke.”

Nan forgave him. “It’s just that I feel, I don’t know, a bit protective about her. She’s so bloody nice compared with almost anyone who comes in here, and she’s literally so soft—in every way. I just feel she’d melt into a little pool if she heard anyone making a remark like that about her, honestly.”

“She was halfway down the street before I opened my mouth,” said Colin.

“I know—I suppose I just hope that nobody says such things whether she hears them or not,” said Nan.

That conversation had been a few months ago, Nan reflected, as she sat, head in hands. Funny that it all came back to her now. She did remember exactly how protective she had felt, as if Shirley had been her favorite sister and their mother had entrusted Nan with the care of seeing that nobody ever laughed at the fat girl.

Nan could hardly believe that, not half an hour ago, Shirley had banged out of the door and shouted from the street that she would never come back. It was like a nightmare where people behave completely out of character.

Shirley had come along for a final fitting for the wedding outfit. Her best friend was getting married and Shirley and Nan had been through reams of ideas before settling on the emerald-green dress and matching hat.

Nan had been delighted with it and Shirley’s face was a picture of happiness as they both looked at the outfit in the mirror: the tall, slim, slightly wary-looking dressmaker in her elegant grey wool tunic and the short, mountainous client in her metres and metres of glittering emerald.

“You’ll need green eye shadow, not blue,” said Nan. “I’ll lend you some for the wedding if you like.” She looked around for her bag. “Do you know, I was running out of some, and then I thought of you and this color, so I asked Colin to get me some. He’s in the trade, you know, so it’s a little perk. I can’t find the wretched thing anywhere.” As she hunted for the parcel, which wasn’t in her handbag after all, Nan felt a strange, unnatural silence descend behind her.

“Is that it?” asked Shirley, holding up an envelope that was on a table. The envelope had writing on it. It said “Green eye shadow for burly Shirley.”

The two women looked at the inscription in silence for what must have been only four seconds or so, but seemed never-ending. Nan could think of only one thing to say.

When it was obvious that Shirley was going to say nothing either, she tried, but her voice only came out like a squeak. What she had been going to say was, “I didn’t write that,” and that didn’t seem a very helpful thing to say at that moment.

She thought she would kill Colin. She would physically hurt him and bruise him for this. She would never forgive him.

Shirley’s face had turned pink. Her fat neck had gone pink, too, which didn’t go very well with the emerald.

“Is that what you call me—‘Burly Shirley’? Well I suppose it has the advantage of rhyming,” she said. She was so hurt she was almost bleeding.

Nan found her words finally. “Colin has rude, destructive nicknames for all my clients. It amuses him—it’s childish, immature, and senseless,” she snapped fiercely.

“How does he know I’m…burly? He’s never met me,” said Shirley.

“Well, you see he makes up these nicknames without knowing who people are. You do see that it’s not an insult and it’s not a comment. He could have written anything.” Nan nearly laughed with relief. How marvellous to get out of it in this way. But Shirley was looking at her oddly.

“So I expect he just chose the word because it rhymes with your name. If you had been called Dotty he might have said Spotty.” Nan was very pleased with herself, at the unknown powers of invention that were suddenly welling up within her.

Shirley just looked.

“So now that’s cleared up, why don’t you take the eye shadow and put a little on to see how it looks with the outfit?” urged Nan.

Shirley politely started to put it on, and Nan released her breath and foolishly didn’t leave well, or nearly well, enough alone.

“I mean it’s not as if anyone would deliberately make a joke about fat to anyone, not that you are very fat or anything, but one wouldn’t mention it even if you were.”

“Why not?” asked Shirley.

“Why? Well, you know why—it would be rude and hurtful to tell someone they were fat. Like saying they were ugly or…you know…”

“I didn’t think being fat was on the same level as being ugly, did you?”

Desperately Nan tried to get back to the comparatively happy level they had just clawed their way to a few moments ago.

“No, of course I don’t think being fat is the same as being ugly, but you know what I mean—nobody wants to be either if they can possibly avoid it.”

“I haven’t hated being fat,” said Shirley. “But I wouldn’t like to think it was on a par with being ugly—something that would revolt people and make them want to turn away.”

“You’re not very fat, Shirley,” Nan cried desperately.

“Oh but I am, I am very fat. I am very short and weigh sixteen stone, and no normal clothes will fit me. I am very, very fat, actually,” said Shirley.

“Yes, but you’re not really fat; you’re not fat like…” Nan’s inventive streak gave out and she stopped.

“I’m the fattest person you know, right? Right. I thought it didn’t matter so much because I sort of felt I had a pretty face.”

“Well, you do have a very pretty face.”

“You gave me the courage to wear all these bright clothes instead of the blacks and browns…”

“You look lovely in…”

“And I didn’t worry about looking a bit ridiculous; but you know, ridiculous was the worst I thought I ever looked. I didn’t think it was ugly…”

“It isn’t, you misunderstood…”

“It’s always disappointing when you discover that someone hasn’t been sincere, and has just been having a bit of fun, that she’s just been pitying you.”

“I don’t pity you…I wasn’t…”

“But thanks anyway, for the outfit.” Shirley started to leave. “It’s lovely and I’m really very grateful. But I won’t take the eye shadow, if you don’t mind.”

“Shirley, will you sit down…?”

“The cheque is here—that
is
the right price, by the way? You’re not doing it cheaply just for me, I hope.”

“Please, listen…”

“No, I’m off now. The life has gone out of it here, now that you pity me. I suppose it’s just silly pride on my part, but I wouldn’t enjoy it anymore.”

“Shirley, let me say something. I regard you as my most valued customer. I know that sounds like something out of a book, but I mean it. I looked forward to your coming here. Compared with most of the others, you’re a joy—like a friend, a breath of fresh air. I enjoyed the days that you’d been. Now don’t make me go down on my knees. Don’t be touchy…”

“You’ve always been very friendly and helpful…”

“Friendly…helpful…I regard you as some kind of kid sister or daughter. I had a fight with Colin about you not three months ago, when he said you looked like Moby Dick with stripes or something.”

“Oh yes.”

“Oh God.”

Shirley had gone. The bang of the door nearly took the pictures off the walls.