The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Sylvia stood in the shop’s inventory cupboard, clipboard in hand, surrounded by bolts of material. It was, she knew, a luxury to have so much fabric already on hand given the extreme restriction on rationing. However, thanks to Miss Reid’s explanation, she’d learned that all of this fabric posed two problems for Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions:

The Board of Trade’s restrictions precluded them from selling garments made of certain materials like silk, which was meant to be used for parachutes.

All of this beautiful fabric represented money that was sitting in the shop’s inventory that could have been used elsewhere.

Sylvia hadn’t intended to find herself anywhere near the inventory cupboard when she’d agreed to help Izzie mind the shop. It certainly hadn’t come up in her sister’s training. However, she’d spent most of Christmas all alone in her flat with only her thoughts and the wireless for company. Finally, on the twenty-seventh of December, as London began to emerge from its Boxing Day haze, she’d dressed and boarded a bus for Maida Vale. She’d unlocked the shop, closed the door behind her, and breathed deep, taking in the scent of wool and beeswax polish. Then she’d pushed off the door and returned to her mother’s office to continue tackling the monumental task of sorting out the mess of paperwork.

Almost without thinking, Sylvia had come back the next day, and then the next. When Miss Reid had returned to work after the New Year, the seamstress had raised a brow at the sight of Sylvia using the wide cutting table to sort out receipts and invoices from years past. Sylvia had waited for the inevitable comments and criticisms to start, but instead Miss Reid had gone to her machine and begun working on seaming a gray wool dress.

Two days later, Sylvia had found a post office savings book stuffed in the back of her mother’s lower desk drawer and, after opening it and seeing the balance of just over ￡462, a sense of dread had washed over her. Years ago, when she’d taken over doing the books at Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions, Sylvia had insisted that her mother stop mingling her business and personal accounts.

“You might think it’s easier now, Mum, but just wait until the taxman comes asking to look at the shop’s books,” she’d argued.

Maggie Shelton had pulled a face, but Sylvia had finally convinced her to go to a bank and open an account just for the business. Then, each week, she’d walked her mother’s profits to the bank to make a deposit, earning her mother’s grudging thanks when it had come time to work out and pay the shop’s taxes that year.

She’d assumed that system must have remained in place, but when she saw such a high balance in the post office savings book, that old fear crept in again. Had Maggie been blending her accounts?

Sylvia continued to search, separating bills for the electricity and water from materials, empty envelopes with totals written on the front of them that she feared had once held notes and coins from scraps of old women’s magazines she suspected had been kept for inspiration. A few loose sketches went with a clothbound sketchbook that had been stuffed into a bookshelf.

It was while organizing invoices by year that she quickly realized she had no idea how her mother or Izzie had kept track of what fabric they had in-house and how much had been used on various orders. The shop, she was learning, was like a jumper: pull one loose bit of yarn and the whole thing could unravel.

She checked a tag on a bolt of burgundy bouclé wool and noted down the starting and remaining yardage of the material. She remembered standing on a stool at about twelve years old, reading off the markings to her mother as they performed this task. She’d been desperate then to do anything to please her mother.

“Mrs. Pearsall?” came Miss Reid’s voice from outside the closet.

“Yes?” she called back.

Miss Reid stuck her head around the door. “Are you still taking inventory?”

“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “I don’t know the last time it was done.”

Miss Reid looked around her at the disordered cupboard. “Mrs. Shelton used to insist on it being done each month.”

“And how long ago did she stop?” she asked.

Miss Reid pursed her lips. No doubt unwilling to criticize the good mother in front of the bad daughter, the seamstress said, “You asked me to let you know if Miss Keynes telephones.”

“I did,” she said.

“Well, she’s standing in the front now, wanting to pick up her order.”

“I see.” Sylvia set her clipboard down. “Thank you, Miss Reid. I’ll take it from here.”

“May I ask what exactly you are planning on doing?” Miss Reid asked.

“I’m going to have a discussion with Miss Keynes about her outstanding bill.”

She walked around Miss Reid, aware that the seamstress watched her as she went. At the door to the reception, she paused and set her smile.

“Miss Keynes, I believe,” she said as she opened the door.

A slender woman in a light tweed suit with dark brown accents at the pockets and lapels turned around. “Yes…?”

“How may I help you?” Sylvia asked.

Miss Keynes tilted her head, not a hair on her elegantly streaked blond-and-gray head shifting with the movement. “I beg your pardon, but I don’t know you.”

“I’m Mrs. Pearsall, one of the new owners,” Sylvia said.

“New owners? But I was expecting Mrs. Shelton or her daughter.”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you that my mother died in November,” she said, crossing her hands in front of her. “I’m her eldest daughter. My sister, Isabelle Shelton, and I now own the shop together.”

At least for the time being.

Miss Keynes’s suspicion melted into compassion as she stepped forward, placing a hand on Sylvia’s arm. “Oh, my dear. I’m so very sorry for your loss. Your mother had a good soul. She will be dearly missed.”

“Thank you,” Sylvia said, twisting her body slightly to release herself from Miss Keynes’s grasp.

“And your sister. How is she coping?” asked Miss Keynes, craning her neck as though expecting to see Izzie walk through from the back of the shop at any moment.

“She’s serving in the WAAF now. I’ve taken over the management of the shop in her absence,” she said.

“How fortunate for your dear sister to have your help. Well, I imagine that you have a great many things to keep you occupied here. I’ll just take the skirt I ordered and leave you in peace.”

“Of course, Miss Keynes. I’ll just ask Miss Reid to box it up for you.” She reached to open the door to the back of the shop and found Miss Reid standing right behind it.

“Eavesdropping now, Miss Reid?” she asked in a low voice.

“Well, I never—” Miss Reid began to bluster.

In a voice loud enough for Miss Keynes to hear, she asked, “Would you please box up Miss Keynes’s order?”

“But I thought you said…” At Sylvia’s sharp look, Miss Reid trailed off. “Yes, of course, Mrs. Pearsall.”

With Miss Reid dispatched to the back, Sylvia turned once again to her waiting customer. She moved to the front counter, opening up the order book she’d stashed there in anticipation of this moment.

“I can see from our records that you’ve been a loyal customer of Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions for many years,” she commented, not hinting at the hours she’d spent poring over her mother’s scribbles to decipher the extent of Miss Keynes’s orders. While the office might be a mess, Sylvia had been grateful to learn that her mother at least marked down who had paid and whose bill was still outstanding.

“Oh yes, I’ve been coming here for eight, maybe nine years,” said Miss Keynes. “Your mother always appreciated the old ways of doing things. I’ve had my clothes made since I was a little girl. None of these department store dresses for me.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” She ran her finger down the page to the number she’d tallied, checked, and checked again. “I believe you will find that, including today’s skirt, your bill stands at forty-three pounds and four shillings.”

Miss Keynes gave her an indulgent smile. “Thank you for reminding me. I shall be certain to stop by my bank the next time I come in. I was thinking about a green dress in wool—”

“Miss Keynes, I’m afraid I really must insist that you settle your account today,” Sylvia said firmly as Miss Reid came through the door and placed the white box tied with the shop’s signature blue ribbon on the counter.

Miss Keynes tittered. “Well, I can’t do that, my dear. You see, I don’t have the necessary funds on me at the moment.”

“The banks are open for another”—she glanced at her watch—“four hours. I’m certain that should give you sufficient time to withdraw the money.”

“But I couldn’t possibly make it to my bank and back in that time! It’s practically across town!” cried Miss Keynes.

“Perhaps Miss Keynes would be able to write a check,” said Miss Reid, her expression inscrutable.

“Thank you, Miss Reid, but I think we would much rather settle the bill in bank notes. If it’s all the same to you, Miss Keynes,” said Sylvia.

Miss Keynes reared back. “Well, I never.”

“You are, of course, most welcome to come back tomorrow to pay the account in full.” Sylvia placed her hand on the box. “We would be happy to keep your skirt safe until then.”

Miss Keynes’s gaze fixed on the box. “Your mother was always very understanding…”

“I’m afraid that this shop is no longer able to extend lines of credit to our customers. We are asking all our ladies to settle their outstanding accounts. You understand, given the uncertainty of the world we live in now,” she said with a smile.

“I supposed I could pay for the skirt now,” Miss Keynes muttered, unclasping the gold top of her handbag.

“That would be most appreciated, but I’m afraid that given the size of your debt, I must insist that you settle the bill in full before we can release this skirt to you.” An idea dawned on her, so she added, “I should also mention that all future orders will require a deposit equal to half the price of the garment as well as the appropriate number of clothing coupons before any work can begin. The rest of the payment should be made upon collection.”

Miss Keynes looked between her and the box and then back to her again. “This is most distressing. I’m certain your mother would not approve.”

“Unfortunately for all of us, my mother is no longer with us,” she said.

Miss Keynes’s hand flew to her chest. “My goodness…”

“If you would like me to write an invoice for the full amount with an itemization of the clothing items that have not yet been paid for, I would be happy to do so,” Sylvia finished with a sweet smile.

Miss Keynes clutched her handbag to her stomach as though she thought Sylvia would rip the thing from her. “That will not be necessary. You will have your money within the week.”

“I’m certain that I will,” she said.

Miss Keynes sent Sylvia one last horrified look and then scurried out of the shop.

When the bell at the top of the door fell quiet, Sylvia turned to Miss Reid and said, “Well, we shall see if she’s good to her word.”

“What if she doesn’t bring the money?” asked Miss Reid.

“Then I will speak to her one more time, and if she still will not pay, I will speak to the bailiffs,” she said, closing the order book.

“She’s been one of your mother’s best customers for many years,” said Miss Reid.

“What she has been doing is virtually stealing from my mother for many years. We are no longer taking orders from her until her account is paid in full,” she said firmly, picking up the box.

She could hear the clatter of Miss Reid’s shoes on the wood floor of the passageway behind her.

“Your mother never required deposits,” Miss Reid called out.

“That was my mother’s business, not mine,” she said, pushing open the workroom door with her hip. “Things change.”

“Have you written to your sister about this? Requiring a deposit may offend some customers,” said Miss Reid.

She walked through the open door of her mother’s office and set the skirt box on a free spot on the increasingly neater desk. Then she turned back to Miss Reid, placing her hands on her hips.

“Then that is a fact that our customers will have to accept,” she said.

“I really don’t think—”

She held up both hands. “Miss Reid, I am going to be frank with you. Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions is teetering on the edge. How badly it’s teetering is still a mystery to me, but what I’ve found so far is not good.

“If things do not change, there will be no more orders to make up. There will be no more wages for you. There will be no more shop for my sister to come home to. I can understand why you might not believe me when I say this, but I do not want that to happen. However, to avoid that, we cannot continue to do things the way that we’ve always done them. We are carrying all of the costs of doing business up front when we have no deposit at the commissioning of a garment outside of clothing coupons. It makes no sense.”

Miss Reid crossed her arms. “And what if all our customers leave us for other dressmakers? Business has been hard enough to come by with rationing in place.”

“Then we will find new customers. Ones who will pay.”

“How?” asked Miss Reid.

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it? Still, she might not yet know how to transform the shop’s fortunes, but she knew that it would not be helped by allowing the likes of Miss Keynes to take advantage of the Shelton women’s kindness.

“Just ready yourself for all of the new orders that will pour through those doors, Miss Reid.”

The seamstress sniffed but retreated to her sewing machine without another word.

Once she was alone, Sylvia let out a deep breath. She would figure out a way to make this all work. She had to.

In the meantime, she had every intention of returning to the inventory cupboard and figuring out how to break the news of the Miss Keynes incident to her sister.