The Tailor's Girl (5 page)

Tom looked back at his handiwork. He still didn’t grasp the dilemma.

‘Tom, my boy, since when did you eat with silver cutlery and drink water from crystal glasses on a Tuesday?’ Abe asked, and Tom heard the glee in the old man’s voice. ‘Look, Edie, our guest is expecting several courses, it seems,’ he said, pointing to the two sets of forks and knives and dessert fork and spoon laid neatly at each place. ‘I hope you’ve made pudding too, daughter.’ He chuckled with obvious delight.

Edie set the tureen down and now that Tom looked at the dish, it was a simple lidded pottery bowl. The silver tureen he could see was glinting at him from the cabinet. But Edie’s eyes sparkled with similar amusement to her father’s.

‘Abba, how long has it been since we’ve used the good crockery and cutlery?’

‘Too long, child,’ he admitted.

‘It’s wonderful, Tom,’ she said, turning to him. ‘Thank you.’

‘Is there an alternative?’ he frowned.

She pointed to the other, more modest-looking sideboard. ‘In there. Our daily cutlery and crockery. This is our best ware,’ she said, glancing back at the fine table that was laid out. ‘But what a treat. Maybe it’s a clue to your past, Tom.’

He was aware of his hosts sharing puzzled glances despite their encouraging smiles. Abe handed him a small dark velvet
kippah
to cover his crown. ‘Won’t hurt to wear it around the table,’ Abe said, slight apology in his tone.

‘I’ll be glad to. Tomorrow, I’ll keep working in the storeroom.’

Abe nodded. ‘You’ve already done more than I anticipated.’

Tom smiled at Edie, who shifted the tureen and lifted the lid to reveal a stew. His eyes widened and they both noted his expression and waited. ‘I don’t know why I was expecting chicken soup with dumplings,’ he said in explanation.

Abe waved a finger. ‘My grandparents were born in London but I believe we originally came from Russia or eastern Europe.’

‘Cooler climes, hence the hearty stew that’s part of our culture,’ Edie finished, seating herself.

‘Let us pray,’ Abe said.

Tom bent his head, hands in his lap, hoping this was the right way to pray at this Jewish table. His inclination was to clasp his hands, or better still to reach towards Edie’s hand and hold it in a hush of pleasure. But even though he wouldn't dare, he took silent joy in reminding himself that she had held his hand twice today on the journey here and even now that memory of touching Edie’s gloved hand was setting off an unexpected series of physical reactions that made him clear his throat as Abe Valentine quietly thanked God for the food on his table, for his family’s health and for the improving health of their guest seated at it. Tom felt, too, the unfamiliar warmth spread through him, which spoke of a thin sense of belonging for the first time in his new, short lifetime and felt empowering.

And as Edie stood to take his plate and serve, he deliberately positioned his fingers so that he might ‘accidentally’ touch hers. Letting go of the plate and the fingertips he skimmed seemed far harder than it should have and she glanced at him, amused, when she pulled away and felt the tension still in Tom’s clasp. Her dark eyes looked soulful in the lamplight she’d added to help illuminate the room, and despite his best intentions not to think further about Edie’s life and her plans, Tom gave in to irrational thoughts about her fiancé . . . particularly how much he envied him.

‘Forgive the oil lamps,’ Edie said. ‘We do have gaslight but Abba suffers from short breath if we use it for prolonged periods. We’ll turn it up later in the sitting room.’

Tom grinned. ‘Candles and lamps are far more romantic anyway.’

‘Expensive to have both,’ Abe cautioned softly as he busied himself unfurling his napkin to place on his lap.

Edie reached for the ladle to begin dishing out the stew, serving her father first, before Tom, then herself. She handed around warmed bread rolls with a hole in the middle and as Tom helped himself to one of the intriguing breads, his hand brushed Edie’s, this time genuinely by accident. The bread dish wobbled, she looked startled and now he was sure it wasn’t just him feeling the frisson that had begun to invisibly spark and crackle between them.

‘Forgive me,’ he said.

Her expression evened although she did not fully meet his gaze and immediately began talking to her father about the suit she had delivered today at the hospital. It gave Tom a chance to break the roll that was studded with chips of salt. Inside the lightly crisp shell was soft, spongy dough that became delightfully chewy in his mouth.

‘This is amazing!’ he said.

His hosts stopped speaking and regarded him, surprised by the outburst.

‘That’s a bagel, Tom,’ Abe said. ‘You’ll eat plenty of those while you live with us.’

While you live with us
. He liked the sound of that.

‘It has a wonderful flavour,’ he admitted. ‘I taste onion.’

Edie smiled. ‘And a hint of wild garlic.’

Tom tucked into the stew, which was as hearty as Edie had promised, and she’d managed to cover the small amount of meat that rationing imposed with a variety of vegetables.

‘Have more,’ Abe encouraged. ‘You need fattening,’ he added, although Tom became aware that neither of his hosts had put much on their plates. It occurred to him only now, as he felt obliged to take a second helping, that they were probably holding back to ensure their guest had plenty.

‘It’s delicious, Edie, thank you.’

‘You’re most welcome.’ This time she watched him and it was Tom who looked away, unsettled by the intensity in her eyes that made his throat catch; he hadn’t felt this attuned to anything or anyone – or so alive – for as far back as he could recall.

They ate quietly for a time.

Tom broke the silence. ‘Um, Mr Valentine . . .’

‘In my house, at my table, I am Abe.’

‘Abe,’ Tom repeated. ‘Those bolts of fabric in your storeroom.’

‘Yes?’

‘There seemed an awful lot to be holding in stock.’

Edie cut her father a rueful glance.

‘Have you been talking with my daughter, Tom?’ Abe said, humour still in his tone.

‘No, Sir,’ he answered honestly, frowning. ‘I stopped counting at sixty-two bolts. There seemed to be twice as many and more still to count.’

‘It’s a contentious topic,’ Edie quipped.

‘What’s your point?’ Abe asked, shaking his head as Edie offered another helping from the paltry remains of vegetables in the tureen. ‘Thank you, dear. It was as good as your mother’s.’

She stood to take his plate and Tom saw how she laid an affectionate hand on her father and wondered what it might feel like to have Edie squeeze his shoulder like that. His mind was wandering and Abe was waiting.

‘Curiosity, I suppose. Do you really need that much fabric? I mean, is it wise to hold that much stock? Especially in these times. How many suits do you make in a month?’

‘Oh, perhaps eight,’ Abe replied far too quickly.

‘Don’t fib, Abba. You’re lucky if it’s four . . . on average,’ Edie said, reaching to take Tom’s plate. ‘You make
up
to four new suits – it’s probably more like three – and we work on another six maybe.’ She glanced at Tom. ‘My father offers repairs, adjustments and so on. And as these are not prosperous times for anyone, the majority of people are making do with older clothes being given a new lease of life.’

Her father nodded sombrely in agreement. ‘They say the Jewish tailors got fat and rich on making uniforms for our soldiers. I don’t know anyone who fits that description.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe tailors elsewhere in London.’

‘Or up north,’ Edie suggested. ‘Abba tends to serve people of nearby neighbourhoods. He’s never really looked beyond.’ She gave her father an affectionate look that spoke of reproach. ‘And yet, Abba, you’re so talented. Everyone says so. It’s why the director of the hospital refuses to go to anyone else, and Mr Linden, the wealthy industrialist, refuses to have his suits tailored by anyone else.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Mr Hughes, Mr Frayne, Mr Beeton, Mr —’

‘Enough, Edie . . . enough,’ her father said, sounding weary. It was obviously an old debate, Tom decided, so he changed the focus.

‘The dust on some of that fabric suggests it hasn’t been looked at in a long time. And yet the quality is superb.’

Abe nodded. ‘I’ve stockpiled over the years and bought a lot before the war, but these are not times . . .’ Again he shrugged, not finishing his thought.

Tom frowned as he reached towards something, unsure of what it was but going with it anyway, because his thoughts could run independently like this at times. The door to his past was locked but the invisible part of him – his soul, his spirit . . . whatever it was that made him who he was – could slip across that barrier and access his experiences pre- and post-war.

‘For the poor this is a time of austerity. Not for the wealthy, though.’ As Tom spoke, the elder man set his glass down and studied him. He ignored the scrutiny and continued, becoming more animated. ‘Rich people will now want life to return to normality as much as possible. They’ll want to be hunting, going to balls, theatre in the city, opera, engagements, weddings . . .’ He cut a look at Edie at the mention of nuptials. ‘Parties for any manner of reasons, cocktail evenings and grand gatherings . . . all of which require new, expensive suits. As we turn the corner on 1919, most will want to rebuild their lives, although none of us who were on the battlefields probably can —’

‘Unless they’ve lost their memory,’ Edie chimed in, still busily clearing away the quarter plates and the salt and pepper cellars.

‘Exactly,’ Tom said, waving a finger, ‘but the majority of people will be pushing themselves to look forward, reinvent their lives as best they can. The affluent, however, will do that through business, through festivity, through new ventures. And they will use their houses, their new cars, their holidays, their women and wine to prove it.’ He held Abe’s stare.

‘You speak with such authority, Tom,’ the old man observed.

Tom shrugged. ‘But doesn’t that make sense to you? Isn’t it obvious?’

Abe nodded, relenting. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Well, fine clothes are part of that resurgence, surely. What shows off wealth faster than mink and tuxedos?’

‘So?’ Abe said.

‘Shift the cloth.’ Tom finally reached his point. Privately he hadn’t realised that was where he’d been headed with this conversation but suddenly it made sense. ‘Why store it if you can’t use it? Sell it on. I presume you bought it at brilliant pre-war prices?’

‘I did. But no one here is going to buy it in Golders Green. There is one other tailor. We both do all right, but —’

‘Forget Golders Green, Abe,’ Tom said, waving a hand and eyeing Edie, who had paused in the doorway. ‘Where do the truly wealthy go to have their suits made?’

‘Savile Row,’ Abe and Edie said at the same time.

‘What is that, a shop?’

They both laughed. ‘Savile Row, my boy,’ Abe said with an avuncular nod, ‘is a place. It is the high altar of British tailoring.’

‘Why?’

Abe shrugged as Edie ducked back to the kitchen. ‘Because these are the tailors to royalty, to the nobility, to the gentry and to the fabulously wealthy. The tailoring community that looks after these rich people base themselves there.’

‘So why aren’t
you
there?’ Tom asked.

‘Why indeed!’ Edie said, returning with some cheese.

‘Abe?’ Tom pressed.

The old man sighed. ‘My daughter’s right. This is a contentious subject. She’s been nagging for years, and Daniel before her. He had dreams that Valentine & Son would open on Savile Row.’

‘And you won’t consider it?’

‘Tom, I’m about to turn seventy. What can I say? I had my family late. And now, I’ve raised my family . . . and lost half of it. What is the point in striving? We’re comfortable. We aren’t starving, we aren’t struggling to meet bills, although one can always do with a little more. But tell me why I would keep the dream alive for Savile Row when Valentine & Son can never be?’

Tom didn’t need to look at Edie to know she was staring at the tablecloth as her father had spoken so earnestly. His honesty hurt Tom so he could only imagine how Edie was feeling.

‘How about Valentine & Daughter?’

The tailor looked dumbstruck momentarily, turned to regard Edie, who had turned away to place something on the sideboard, and so he looked back at Tom. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What do I mean? Perhaps I don’t know anything about your trade, Abe, but I gather that Edie sews as well as any man.’ He didn’t mean for it to come out as an accusation but that’s how it sounded. Suddenly he wished he’d never opened this box of hurt, knowing Edie’s eyes were watering but he couldn’t look at her. Nevertheless he was too far down the track with his argument now. ‘Doesn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ Abe answered, as though bullied into it.

Tom shook his head, shrugging. ‘Surely you want to secure a future for Edie?’

‘And you think Savile Row is it?’

‘Right now I don’t know Savile Row from the street your house is on but you do. Only you can tell me the idea is ludicrous.’

Abe nodded, glanced at his daughter. ‘Are we having coffee, Edie dear?’

At the threshold between kitchen and dining room she flinched as if stung. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘We’ll take it in the sitting room,’ Abe said and motioned at Tom. He didn’t look happy.

Tom gave Edie an apologetic glance, firstly for stirring a pot he now realised he should have left untouched, and also for the cheese she’d laid out that remained untouched.

In the sitting room a small coal fire bounced with blue flames and gave off a vaguely sulphurous smell. Abe turned down the gaslight and darkened the room further so the heavy furnishings fell into deep shadows.

‘Sit, Tom,’ he said, as he lowered himself into a comfortable-looking armchair near the hearth. He waited until Tom was seated opposite. ‘Why are you putting ideas into my daughter’s head? It can come to no good.’

‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to intrude. But this was Edie’s notion, not mine.’

Her father nodded, which covered the flash of surprise that Tom detected in his expression. ‘Eden Valentine can sew beautifully . . . better than her brother.’ He murmured a brief and private beseechment for forgiveness that he should say such a thing about his dead son before he continued. ‘But she is a woman . . . I want to say “in case you hadn’t noticed” but I am still sharp enough to realise that you have indeed noticed her.’