The Tailor's Girl (15 page)

They comprised mainly three-storey houses with a garret and a basement. Mr Fitch’s tailoring home sprawled through all three levels. Wynter knew that seamstresses were in the garret, where the daylight was good for the buttonholing and finishing jobs that required small, nimble hands and a deft touch. Meanwhile the basement usually housed the cutting team and patternmakers, where plenty of sunlight filtered down into the tiny courtyard below street level and through the tall windows directly onto the cutting table.

The familiar plum-coloured brick beckoned and Wynter used the pretty iron railing to steady his climb up the short flight of stairs into the tailoring salon. He didn’t really want to admit that his head was still feeling ‘fuzzy’, which was the only way he could describe it.

Panelled timber walls and a marble fireplace welcomed him into the club-like interior.

‘Ah, that’s better,’ Fitch said. ‘Elton?’

A younger man appeared. ‘Mr Wynter, Sir!’ His eyes were wide with astonishment and delight. ‘How wonderful to welcome you back into the salon!’

Their visitor stood with his back to the unlit fireplace. ‘It’s damn good to be back, Elton. You made it home as well. How are you?’

‘Oh, as you see, all in one piece, Sir, thank you.’

‘Where did you end up?’

‘In Italy, Sir. But it’s good to be home. I married my sweetheart, Sally. She’s expecting our first any minute. You must be just as pleased to be home too.’

‘Good lad,’ Wynter said, not wanting to admit he had no idea what home felt like these days.

‘Mr Elton, would you fetch Mr Wynter’s suit, please, and ask Yardley to bring something warm to drink. Tea, Sir?’

He considered it. ‘Better not,’ Wynter said, reaching for his fob that wasn’t there. ‘Odd,’ he murmured. ‘Um, Dr Cavendish is waiting.’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Fitch replied. ‘Mr Wynter, if you’ll follow me, we’ll get you out of your clothes in the back room.’

Within minutes, Fitch had him re-dressed in a dark charcoal-coloured suit of impeccable cut. Wynter knew he had a long torso but so did Fitch and that was reflected in the perfect image he saw in the mirror as Fitch swept a brush across his client’s shoulders.

‘Excellent, Sir. I’m thrilled. Of course, back in 1915 you were something of a visionary with suiting and knew this styling, though daring, was the future. Your splendid father came with you that day. Do you remember, Sir?’

Father? ‘Ah yes, of course,’ Wynter said, as pre-war memories began to flood back into his mind. He took a slow breath to stop himself feeling overwhelmed. He was suddenly desperate to see his father, Thomas Fineas Wynter.

‘Your father was having his new morning suit measured and I don’t know if you recall how horrified he was by your choice.’ Fitch chuckled and Wynter had to follow. ‘Anyway, Sir, for your next suit we’ll be putting cuffs on the trousers, wider lapels, I suspect, and the jacket will go double-breasted.’

‘Really?’

‘You always liked to stay at the front of the new cuts.’

‘Whatever you say, Fitch. Thank you for the shirt and tie, too.’

‘Don’t mention it, Mr Wynter. We selected everything before you . . . um, at the last fitting. And this looks extremely sharp, if I may say so. Plus the colour is very you, Sir.’

Wynter smiled. ‘Well, I’d better dash, old boy. Thank you again. Er, payment?’

‘Already paid, Sir.’

‘Excellent. Dr Cavendish will be getting impatient, I suspect.’

‘Um, what about the old suit, Sir?’

‘I have no need for it.’

‘I shall repair it and give it to the poor house, if that’s all right with you? There are plenty of men in need.’

‘Of course,’ Wynter said, covering his embarrassment that he hadn’t thought that far himself. If Fitch only realised the truth, he’d know that his client was barely thinking at all. The world felt like a horribly strange place and it was all he could do to just keep track of this conversation. It was 1920! What had happened since 1917, when he had been standing in a trench trying to bolster the spirits of demoralised men?

‘I’ll see you out, Mr Wynter. Please visit again soon. I’m sure you’ll be wanting some new garments for autumn, perhaps even a new winter coat?’

‘Oh, absolutely.’ Wynter lifted a hand to Cavendish waiting in a taxi.

‘I hope that’s not the one that hit you, Sir,’ Fitch remarked, making a good attempt at a parting jest.

‘Indeed.’ He shook the man’s hand. ‘See you soon, Fitch.’

‘You will, Sir. Thank you.’

He clambered into the car. ‘Thank you, Cavendish.’

‘Not at all. It wouldn’t sit easily on my conscience if we didn’t do this. Harley Street, please,’ he said and tapped his walking cane on the window between them and the driver. ‘Hope this isn’t the same fellow who clipped you,’ he mumbled.

_______________

Later, in Cavendish’s rooms, the doctor frowned at him.

‘So, what’s the verdict?’ Wynter asked.

‘So far, so good; you’re in sound physical health, although I notice a limp?’

‘Shrapnel,’ Wynter offered wearily, taking a guess.

‘Where were you?’

‘Ypres.’ He chuckled with no mirth. ‘The generals liked to break it down into battles. For us in the trenches it was just one long war. But for the purposes of bureaucratic accuracy, I sustained this injury in what the military called the Third Battle.’ He’d guessed at the last bit – it seemed obvious enough, although he wished he could remember more than simply that it was close to the end of 1917, there was constant shelling, a determined press to take the town of Passchendaele, and clay soil that had turned their lives into an endless mudslide.

The doctor reached for his stethoscope, which he placed around his neck in a fluid motion. ‘Go on,’ he encouraged as he began setting up some equipment from a shiny oblong tin box.

Wynter frowned as he recalled the images. ‘We were running in formation across no-man’s-land; a shell exploded nearby and the blast hurled me into a ditch.’ His gaze narrowed as though he was trying to see it all over again from the horizon of his mind. ‘It was extremely deep and littered with corpses and dying men; awful sounds of pain, pleading for their mothers; most of them so young.’

The doctor nodded as he set up his blood pressure contraption.

‘Shrapnel and bullets were whizzing overhead and the ground was shaking with constant shelling. I didn’t expect to survive beyond the next few minutes anyway and thought I’d claw my way out and at least get off a few more rounds with the brave lads on top.’

The doctor put a finger to his lips as he put his stethoscope into his ears. Wynter listened to the cuff wheezing to full inflation and felt the slightly numb sensation in his arm. Cavendish continued listening, seemingly content with what he’d heard, and began unravelling the cuff. ‘Please continue.’

Wynter shrugged. ‘Nothing more to tell. I . . . well, I think there was another enormous explosion, another direct hit on the trench. I don’t know how I’m here to tell the tale, to be honest, but I suppose I was knocked out for a while as I can’t remember much more of that day.’

‘Indeed, you are a fortunate fellow,’ the doctor agreed, giving a sigh. ‘Blood pressure’s up but that’s to be expected. All in all, you seem in jolly decent shape. You’ll have a bruise there tomorrow,’ he said, pointing beneath his patient’s chin, ‘and I suspect it will feel rather tender for a while.’

‘Ouch!’ Wynter complained.

‘Mmm, sorry about that.’ He frowned. ‘And your shoulder is obviously painful. It’s not broken or dislocated. Time will heal it.’ Cavendish blew out a breath. ‘So, Wynter, I can work out everything that happened to make you unconscious in Savile Row, I just can’t work out what happened immediately prior. Care to enlighten me?’

Wynter stared back at him unblinking. ‘I’m afraid I cannot.’

The doctor’s expression was one of confusion. ‘Why can’t you remember?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m at a loss.’

Cavendish’s gaze narrowed. ‘What’s going on, Wynter? Tell me. I will help.’

‘That’s just it. I can’t remember anything to tell.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I remember nothing else . . . except the grave. After that . . . nothing much at all until now.’

The doctor stared at him over his glasses. ‘Are you telling me you can’t remember coming home?’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing since I saw dear old Johnny Four Fingers explode into mist where his body had formerly stood and only minutes earlier had made me a mug of tea . . .’

‘Good heavens! Complete memory loss?’

He nodded. ‘Probably. Is amnesia common?’

‘There’s no stigma in calling it for what it likely is, Wynter. Shellshock is far more common than people realise in our brave returned soldiers.’

Wynter shrugged. ‘Frankly, I’m astonished to find myself here. It’s as though I’ve lost a chunk of my life. My last clear memory is the trench during the battle. After that, nothing.’

‘How intriguing,’ Cavendish said, in spite of his concern. ‘So we have no clue as to why you came to be in London or in Savile Row?’

He shook his head. ‘I have no idea what I’m doing back in England, Cavendish! Why am I in London? Why am I staggering around when you can tell I haven’t been drinking? My family home is in Sussex but I’ve no memory of being there.’

‘You can’t remember your family . . . I mean, seeing them?’

‘No. And to be honest, it was only when the tailor mentioned my father that I realised the last time I remember seeing him was hugging him on the steps of Larksfell.’

‘Oh, of course, Larksfell Hall,’ Cavendish remarked, frowning. ‘I believe my cousin may know your family. Richard Bosworth.’

Wynter grinned. ‘Dickie Bosworth? He and my father go back.’

‘So, which date is your last memory?’

‘October 12, 1917 is the day I recall. We were sandwiched between the Anzacs – New Zealanders to the left of us, Aussies to the right – with a mind to assault the Passchendaele Ridge and capture the village itself. There were thickets of barbed wire stretching out either side of us, thirty-feet deep. Behind them German machine-gun posts populated the area and deeper into the valley were concrete strongholds of Germans spotting the ugly marshland that both sides were giving up a generation of our young men for. In truth, the Anzacs had already relieved most of our Tommies in the front line. We desperately needed some relief from the onslaught. My men were spent, morale was as low as it had ever been, numbers were shockingly depleted, food was appalling and weather conditions more hellish than anyone back home could even dream in their worst nightmares.’

Cavendish watched Wynter’s gaze drift as though seeing an image far away and his tone turned dreamy. ‘The winds had escalated during the previous evening. It was as though hurricanes were battering us as storms lashed across Flanders. The troops were exhausted and this extra beating from the weather felt like the final straw. Our boys trudged along the duckboard tracks we’d constructed so we could cover the boggy ground faster. Without them we’d sink halfway to our knees.’ He shook his head. ‘I assured my lads that the edict from above was that attacks would only be pressed when the weather favoured it. Experience should have taught us once and for all how futile it is to throw the men into full assault under unfavourable conditions. Men get isolated, bogged, exhausted twice as fast, disoriented quickly as vision decreases; they get trapped in hopeless positions with no advantage . . . whole units get wiped out,’ Wynter recalled passionately.

Then his voice turned toneless. ‘Of course, that was the agreement in principle, but the reality was that our generals pushed ahead despite all of the experience and hard-won knowledge . . . and all the pointless deaths of bright, brave young men. The pressure was on to take the village after years of trying.’ He gave a choked laugh. ‘I think they rather hoped that the enemy’s vigilance would be disrupted by the violence of the storm and that in some fairyland of their thoughts, they really believed that the Germans might be taken unawares.’

Wynter blinked, coming out of his memories. He shook his head as though he didn’t want to continue speaking. Cavendish stared at him silently, enthralled.

‘We dug in but digging into water is a contradiction in terms. Stiff from the freezing cold, our men never had much of a chance. Pitch dark, our superiors wanted us to leap over the top, pre-dawn, into a raging wind, while they drank brandy probably and pored over maps like schoolboys pushing around their tin soldiers!’ His tone had turned to full disgust. ‘Germans had the high ground. It was all so pointless. We didn’t even know they’d brought in fresh divisions. The men and I did our duty and most died for it. I got lucky again. I was one of the first over the top, heard the spray of machine-gun fire, kept running far longer than I thought I might, and then there was an almighty explosion.’ He rubbed his face as if trying to wipe the memory of it. ‘And then I told you how I was buried alive. Don’t ask me how they found me. I was losing consciousness again so I wasn’t aware of drawing any attention to myself. I have no idea precisely how long I lay there in the mud, slowly suffocating. I genuinely have no memory of time – it seemed to all happen in a few heartbeats. Everything is lost to me from that explosion; actually that’s not true. I have a hazy recollection of a surgeon, drugs and fever. And I’m sure I recall somewhere in my stupor overhearing about the slaughter.’

Cavendish nodded. ‘One of our darkest days. I followed the war closely. Two of my best friends were at Passchendaele.’

‘Did they make it?’

Cavendish closed the equipment tin. ‘You can roll down your sleeve, get dressed,’ he said. ‘Only Clifton returned. I was in one of those field hospitals supporting the Western Front. I saw much suffering and fully understand what you’re describing, but that battle was one of the worst, according to Donald. Nearly half a million lives lost. The Australians and New Zealanders were worst hit; the Aussies lost nearly twenty-six thousand of their young braves in just one month, although Don said the Anzacs were incredibly courageous, as were the Canadians.’

Both men remained silent momentarily, lost in bleak thought.