The Tailor's Girl Page 6

  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.’

  Tom cleared his throat. ‘Edie is beautiful. I —’

  ‘Eden is also promised, Tom,’ Abe cut across him softly, then fixed him with a mournful gaze.

  ‘Yes, I’ve gathered as much. Of course, it is nearly 1920 and today’s woman has the well-deserved luxury of —’

  ‘She will marry Benjamin Levi next month,’ Abe said, ruthlessly dashing Tom’s embryonic hope that there might be a chance for him.

  ‘So soon?’ was all he could force out beneath the weight of Abe’s heartless revelation.

  The old man continued, oblivious to Tom’s pain but not to his intent; the younger man heard the warning in his tone. ‘He’s a good boy. They’ve known each other since nursery
days. Our two families decided on this course before my darling Edie was born. He has prospects . . .’ Abe let that hang.

  ‘I dare say,’ Tom said, clearing his throat. ‘But Edie has dreams for her tailoring.’

  ‘She is a seamstress . . . a dressmaker.’

  ‘And yet you have her sewing suiting.’

  Abe’s expression, despite the low light and the dancing flames, appeared as wintry as the November night outside.

  ‘What exactly has Edie been saying to you . . . a stranger?’

  Tom shook his head. ‘It’s perhaps what she didn’t say. She mentioned the dream of having her own shop.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the dream of a little girl, which a lone parent, lonely himself and very much in love and proud of his daughter, perhaps indulges. But this is not the aspiration of a woman. Soon she will have responsibilities of being a wife, a mother . . .’

  ‘Forgive me, this is none of my business, I realise, but Abe, the roles of women are surely changing. You’re talking about the women of a previous century, not the modern woman who has been running the country in the absence of the men who were busy getting killed on the battlefields of Europe and beyond.’

  He regretted the outburst immediately. It was insensitive, critical and patronising.

  ‘You’re right, Tom, this is not your business. Edie will marry and she will live under the rules of her husband’s household. I think we should talk about something else.’

  5

  Edie leaned back into the corner and wiped away silent tears. Dear Tom. He’d gone into battle for her without even being asked. Had she led him into that fight? Maybe she had. She couldn’t pretend to herself that she’d not encouraged him, remembering her daring opening conversation with the stranger, her even more daring entertainment of helping him escape the hospital, the intimate smiles, their closeness on the bus, their laughter in the rain . . . Who was she kidding that she didn’t feel a current passing between them? She nearly dropped the bread plate when he accidentally touched her, and how she didn’t tremble over her father’s blessing she would never know. She was also sure she was not imagining that Tom had begun to believe they might become more than new friends. If the way he’d resisted letting go of her hand after the prayer was a glimpse behind the polite mask he’d put on for her father, then she needed to dissuade him quickly.

  Her father had been dreaming of linking the Levi and Valentine families since her mother’s passing more than two decades previous. She’d heard the shock in Tom’s voice at her father’s remark about how soon the wedding was, and yet she’d also heard how unflinchingly he’d taken on Abe Valentine and argued for her. Few people would. Her father was one of the elders of Golders Green; his words were heard, his advice heeded. His words echoed, each like a small punch: ‘she will live under the rules of her husband’s household’.

  More rules. Men’s rules. Her dreams and desires? Irrelevant. And here was a stranger called Tom, fighting for her right to make her own decisions. While she, cringing in the shadows, had never yet found the courage to say to Abe Valentine what her brave, battle-scarred soldier had just said, blundering into the no-man’s-land that was Jewish custom. Her father had not lied. She had known Ben Levi since both of them had been old enough to walk and talk. Their two mothers had been close friends and when Ben had been born his mother had looked at pregnant Nina Valentine and wished that she were carrying a daughter. They’d agreed that if the child were a girl, then she would be promised to Ben. Their families would join. Her father was simply following the plan . . . but no one had asked Edie whether this pledge suited her. She had always known of the betrothal to Ben. She’d just not taken it seriously enough and now it was too late; marriage was almost upon her.

  Edie stared at the rose-gold ring she’d taken off this morning and forgotten to put on before she’d headed to the hospital. It was back in place now, proclaiming that she was ‘spoken for’, with its tiny embedded diamond catching the light, and she had to quickly swallow a sob. Age had caught up with her and so had Ben and their mothers’ promises. In twenty-seven days she would meekly agree with the rabbi that she was now to be known as Eden Levi. Meanwhile a man she knew so little about was willing her to cling to being Valentine, and to fight for her dream. Most of all she sensed that Tom was silently tapping into her own fears that regret was just twenty-six nights away. Everything that had happened since meeting Tom confirmed that she did not want this marriage as much as everyone else around her did. She was a helpless marionette dancing beneath strings being pulled by others.

  But Tom had no strings. Tom was free. She was helplessly drawn to him, wanting to learn more about him, to spend time with him, even though Abba’s glares forbade it and Ben would loathe him; but then Ben loathed any other man who might potentially show interest in her. She’d learned that the hard way when she was seventeen and had attended a local gathering with one of her peers from her father’s synagogue. Ben had made a terrible scene when he’d caught sight of them laughing in a café together. It was only then that the full realisation of what her mother’s promise to Ben’s family meant hit her – exclusivity, control, power. But how does a daughter remain dutiful if she defies her parents’ wishes? And once Daniel – her only conspirator – had died, she felt it was now her duty more than ever to remain obedient. It was a demonstration of her love and commitment to the Valentine family.

  Wedding arrangements had gone ahead, with Ben’s mother masterminding them in the absence of Nina. Edie had become resigned, but then there had never been an alternative; no one had challenged Ben’s presence or sense of ownership of Edie until tonight . . . until she’d heard that catch in Tom’s voice when Abba had reinforced Edie’s engagement.

  She couldn’t help enjoying the way he watched her, that lingering gaze of his that made her blush and feel deliciously uncomfortable. The private smile they’d shared in the kitchen felt like a thousand words were carried within it . . . all of them dangerously romantic. Tom’s very presence was exciting. She wanted to march into the sitting room and yell at her father that the best she had with Ben was fun memories and secrets from childhood – a past, but no hope of a future.

  She heard the men shifting in their seats in the room next door, and she tiptoed hurriedly to the kitchen to pick up the tray. Wiping her eyes with a handkerchief and pinching her cheeks, she whisked the tea tray into the hall, nearly bumping into Tom.

  ‘I thought you may need some help,’ he said.

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you,’ she said and then smiled. ‘Oh, well, you can take this. I’ve forgotten the milk.’

  She pushed the tray towards him and felt his fingers touch hers as he took it. It was surely deliberate. Edie was convinced that if she looked down at her hands now she would see scorch marks where Tom’s fingertips had caressed hers. Instead she swallowed, rubbing her empty hands against her apron as he turned back to where her father waited. Tom looked so suddenly imposing in the low light. Her father was clearly unwilling to let her have any more moments alone, perhaps fearing she could become susceptible to Tom’s obvious charm. Well, it was too late for that . . . she was ready to surrender to it.

  She returned to the sitting room. ‘Are you warm enough, Abba?’

  He nodded silently, taking the cup of coffee she offered. Edie could still feel the men’s previous conversation hanging uncomfortably in the air. She plunged in as though she was none the wiser to what had been discussed.

  ‘Did you resolve the questions of the fabric?’

  ‘We didn’t,’ Abe admitted. ‘Tom was going to tell me his plan.’

  Tom gave a rueful shrug. ‘No plan, just a notion for how to make that fabric pay you back.’

  ‘Do you suggest I just travel to Savile Row in the city and hawk it on a wheelbarrow?’ Abe asked.

  ‘No. I’d suggest you make up a set of samples – a sort of catalogue – so you can show your fabrics to the buyers. How many tailoring salons are there?’

  Abe sighed. ‘It’s g
rowing. Perhaps six at the moment, but I know of two more that may open up soon enough.’

  ‘That’s eight to sell to.’

  Abe shook his head warily.

  ‘It’s a good plan, Abba,’ Edie pressed. ‘At least Tom has a relevant suggestion about that fabric – all I did was nag.’

  ‘I don’t want to go cap in hand to Savile Row,’ Abe admitted finally. ‘I don’t want to be the desperate Jew. I am doing just fine.’

  ‘But you agree, the cloth is just wasted money if we don’t use it or sell it.’

  ‘Of course! I have scores of pounds tied up in my storeroom.’

  Tom sighed. ‘All right. How’s this, then, Abe? You get the buyers to come here and I’ll triple what you paid for it. Use me as an intermediary and keep yourself at a distance.’

  The old man laughed. ‘Triple. Now that’s a business I’d like a part of.’

  ‘I’m not lying. I’m confident.’

  ‘I can see. I have to wonder from where this confidence springs when you have no memory and my daughter tells me a mere bus backfiring can turn you into a gibbering heap.’

  Edie gasped. ‘Abba, that’s not fair.’

  The old man shrugged.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tom,’ Edie said for him.

  ‘Don’t be,’ Tom said. ‘Your father speaks the truth.’

  ‘And what do you get out of this, Tom?’ Abe demanded quietly.

  ‘Nothing, Sir. I only want to see it happen. I’m grateful for the generosity shown to me. It’s a way of returning your kindness.’

  ‘You want no cut, Tom? Is that what you’re telling me?’

  Tom looked at his elder, frowning. Abe was clearly unsettled by his approach. ‘Cut? No, not at all. I simply see an opportunity for your family. Abe, you’ve taken me in. You’ve fed me. You’ve been kind to me and, more so, understanding of my condition.’