The Dressmakers of London

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

A woman in a gray department store suit that didn’t quite fit her around the shoulders stopped in front of an office door, knocked gently, and then opened it to announce, “Mrs. Pearsall to see you, Mr. Manon.”

Sylvia stepped around the banker’s secretary as Mr. Manon rose from his desk and greeted her with an appropriately solemn look.

“Mrs. Pearsall, my deepest condolences,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the banker’s warm, dry hand.

“How are you and your sister?” he asked. She remembered his kind, gentle manner. He’d handled her stubborn mother, who hadn’t really seen the purpose of their visits to the bank, beautifully, and now she realized that just seeing him made her feel as though a weight were lifting off her chest.

“As well as can be. Izzie has been called up to the WAAF, so I am doing my best to manage while she is away,” she said.

“We must all do what we can in times like these,” he said with a nod. “If you would care to sit.”

She sank down into the chair he gestured to, placing her handbag at her feet and folding her hands in her lap.

“I will be frank with you, Mrs. Pearsall,” said Mr. Manon, smoothing a hand over the front of his suit before sitting, “I have been concerned for some time about your mother’s affairs. It has been nearly five years since she and I have spoken in any significant way, and the last record I have of her making a deposit was…” He consulted a paper in front of him. “It looks as though it was November of 1938.”

Sylvia’s lips parted. Nearly three and a half years was an eternity when it came to a business.

“I tried to contact her several times, both by letter and telephone, but I’m afraid that when I was able to converse with Mrs. Shelton she made it clear that she did not see speaking to me as a matter of great urgency,” said Mr. Manon.

“Well,” said Sylvia, “I cannot pretend I’m happy to hear that. However, I’m also not entirely surprised. Do you know where she has been banking? The shop has continued running in that time. She must have been doing something with the money in all those years.”

“I’m afraid that is something I cannot help you with,” said Mr. Manon, setting the paper back down.

Sylvia sighed. It had been enough of a struggle to make her mother see sense about the need for a proper account for the business with a proper bank. It was unlikely that her mother had gone to yet another institution to go through the entire rigmarole again years later.

No, if Sylvia had to guess, her mother had been overwhelmed by the bookkeeping and had neglected all of the procedures Sylvia had put into place, instead reverting to her old habits. That meant slapdash accounting, lost receipts, and a mixing of personal and business income in her mother’s post office savings account.

After all of her work sorting out her mother’s office, Sylvia was facing yet another mess. It felt never-ending.

“I know you said the last deposit was in 1938. Have there been any withdrawals against the account since then?” she asked, holding on to one last shred of hope that her mother might have been sensible and done some basic things like pay her taxes.

Mr. Manon shook his head. “There have been no deposits or withdrawals from that date. Would you like to close the account? I could have the funds withdrawn for you today.”

She huffed a laugh. “It’s a wonder there is anything still in there to withdraw.”

“A little,” he said, that same small smile playing on his lips. “I know what a great help you were to her when you were younger, Mrs. Pearsall.”

She could sense the bank manager’s sympathy, but she didn’t want it. What she actually wanted was to set things to rights, to fix all of the straining seams at Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions, because she was not going to be the sister who let it fall to pieces.

She rolled back her shoulders. “Please keep the account open, Mr. Manon. I can promise you that you will begin seeing deposits once again.”

“I’m very glad to hear it, Mrs. Pearsall,” he said. “Is there anything else I can help you with this morning?”

There were so many things she needed help with, from attracting new customers to finding out why Hugo had strayed, but this man couldn’t help her with any of that. Instead, she would have to rely on the one person she’d always been able to turn to. Herself.

“No, thank you,” she said, rising to her feet, “but I expect we shall be seeing a great deal more of one another in the near future.”

After leaving the bank, Sylvia made her way to Glengall Road via a stop at Mrs. Reynolds, Glengall Road’s finest—and only—grocer, which was located two doors down from Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions. Miss Reid had told her that Mrs. Reynolds had started selling sandwiches five years ago, becoming something of a lunchtime staple in the neighborhood. Sylvia had intended to go in earlier, but between the shop and her committee work, she’d been too busy.

However, going to the bank had been a difficult thing, and Sylvia had always thought difficult things deserved to be rewarded.

She waited patiently until the woman ahead of her in the queue collected her sandwiches and stepped aside. Then she fixed a smile on her face and said, “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds. I don’t suppose you remember me.”

The grocer peered at her over the edge of her glasses and then said, “Mrs. Pearsall.”

The woman’s tone wasn’t exactly warm, but Sylvia soldiered on. “You do remember.”

“How could I forget? You were always stealing oranges off of my stand,” said Mrs. Reynolds.

Sylvia shifted from foot to foot. This was not the reception she’d expected. There had been a time just after the Shelton women had moved into the flat above the shop when the widowed grocer had doted on Sylvia and Izzie. She could remember Mrs. Reynolds giving them bits of fruit in the summer and occasionally stopping them on a cold winter’s day for a cup of cocoa brewed on the old gas ring in her storeroom.

“I do apologize for the oranges,” she said, realizing too late that she was fiddling with the leather strap of her handbag. She forced her fingers to still. “It has been a very long time.”

Mrs. Reynolds huffed. “When Miss Shelton said you’d be minding the shop, I couldn’t believe it. We all thought you believed you were a bit too good for Glengall Road now.”

“?‘We’?” Sylvia asked.

Mrs. Reynolds crossed her arms over her aproned chest. “Everyone on the road.”

“Well, I’m back, so clearly everyone was misinformed,” she said.

“What do you want then?” asked the grocer.

“Two sandwiches, please.”

“What kind?” asked Mrs. Reynolds pointing to a chalkboard. “Everything’s written there, except chicken and cress is off.”

“Whatever you think looks best.” Mrs. Reynolds looked about to protest, so Sylvia added, “I thought I would bring Miss Reid lunch, as she’s been working so hard.”

The grocer’s eyes narrowed, no doubt annoyed at being robbed of the prospect of fobbing off her least appealing sandwiches on Sylvia if one might be for Miss Reid. “That woman must be a saint. She’s doing all of the sewing and carrying on the business for your sister as well. I would say that’s going above and beyond, wouldn’t you?” asked Mrs. Reynolds as she put the paper-wrapped sandwiches on the counter.

“You’re right, Mrs. Reynolds. Miss Reid is a saint for everything she does for Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions. However, make no mistake that I am the one running the business,” she said firmly as she put down her shillings.

“You?” asked Mrs. Reynolds.

“You said so yourself that I’m back to mind the business, and that’s precisely what I am doing.”

Sylvia dropped her coin purse back into her handbag, scooped up her sandwiches, and left.

When she stepped outside, she found it had started misting with rain. She put her head down and hurried along the pavement to Mrs. Shelton’s front door, hoping her hair would hold up for the short trip. She pushed inside, the bell jangling merrily, and let her eyes sweep over the front of the shop. It was neat as a pin, just as her mother had always insisted it be. Satisfied, she let herself through to the back of the shop.

“I’m here!” Sylvia called out as she entered the workroom. “I brought lunch.”

However, she stopped short when she saw the expression on Miss Reid’s face.

“We have a problem,” said Miss Reid, rising from her sewing machine.

Her shoulders slumped. “Another?”

Surely she should be allowed a little time to recover before the next issue reared its head.

Miss Reid picked up a letter that sat open on the worktable and thrust it at Sylvia.

“Normally I wouldn’t open the post, but Mrs. Moss, who has a shop in Ladbroke Grove, telephoned while you were out asking whether we’d seen the Board of Trade’s new letter. I told her no, and she said we’d want to open it as soon as the post arrived,” said Miss Reid.

Sylvia’s stomach dropped. One of her mother’s fellow dressmakers—and rivals for customers—wouldn’t be ringing about a communication from the Board of Trade unless the news was very grave indeed.

She took the letter from Miss Reid and began to read.

It was a notice from the Board of Trade describing new austerity measures called the Making-Up of Civilian Clothing (Restrictions) Orders that were being put in place as part of the utility clothing scheme. The scheme, which had begun the previous year, dictated everything from the kind of wool that could be produced to the prohibition of leather trimmings. However, this went further. The Board of Trade was now telling the women of Britain how many pleats there could be in a skirt and how many buttons on a jacket or coat. Visible trimmings, pockets, and embellishments were out. The number of seams on a garment, the size of lapels, whether buttons could be covered—all of it was subject to restrictions.

Sylvia looked up with alarm. “Surely this can’t be real.”

“It is. Apparently it’s all to save cloth, as though we weren’t already doing enough of that,” said Miss Reid.

Sylvia kept reading down the page, as Miss Reid muttered, “It’s a travesty. What business does the Board of Trade have telling me whether I can have nine pleats or eight in a skirt?”

She sighed. “It looks as though it’s two inverted or boxed pleats or four knife pleats according to this.”

“It’s like they want to strip away every bit of style we have left and run shops like this one into the ground. It isn’t right,” Miss Reid huffed.

It might have been unpatriotic, but Sylvia couldn’t help but agree. It was one thing to restrict the amount of clothing—and therefore cloth—that a person could buy over the course of a year, but dictating how that clothing was designed felt particularly mean in a time when beauty and pleasure seemed in short supply.

“At least the men haven’t gotten off completely scot-free,” she said with a thin smile. “It looks as though turned-up cuffs on trousers are to be a thing of the past. And the rule about buttons applies to them as well.”

“And what of the things we already have in production?” asked Miss Reid. “It doesn’t make any sense to scrap everything that’s already cut.”

“There must be something about that.” She shuffled through the papers. “Ah, yes. Here it is. Apparently a general license has been released to allow drapers and tailors to continue to produce garments that are ordered before the first of April or cut before the first of May. That should buy us some time to finish what’s already commissioned and underway.”

“But it still doesn’t account for what we’ll do after that,” said Miss Reid.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“None of your mother’s designs take the new rules into account. It means that after the first of April we won’t be able to make and sell the very clothes this shop was built on,” said Miss Reid.

Sylvia’s heart began to beat a little faster. “But surely they can be adapted.”

The seamstress tilted her head in acknowledgment. “Some of them, but not all. Possibly not even many.”

“Why not?”

“It’s pure logic, really. Take an accordion-pleat wool skirt. If the government says new skirts can only have four knife pleats, you can’t make accordion-pleat skirts any longer. Any pattern calling for that would be useless, and something entirely new will have to be dreamed up in its place. Or what about an eight-button suit jacket that now must be two buttons? The entire front would have to be reconstructed, otherwise it won’t close, let alone sit properly on the body. You might as well start again with a new design,” explained Miss Reid.

“But you alter clothing all of the time,” she said.

Miss Reid crossed her arms. “Alterations work with the existing structure of a garment.”

“Can’t you create designs from scratch using a pattern block?” Sylvia asked, growing desperate.

“Blocks are really just stencils meant to show how much fabric is needed to cover the body. You still need someone to come up with the concept of a garment, because there is no design to a block.” Miss Reid held up her hand. “And even if I wanted to start designing patterns—which I do not—all of that takes time. If I’m occupied with that, who will actually make the clothes?”

Sylvia hated to admit it, but she could see the seamstress’s point. Her advertisements had brought a few new orders into the shop, and they needed Miss Reid working on fulfilling those orders to stay afloat.

Calm. It would do no one any good if she did not stay calm.

“What options do we have?” she asked.

“I’ll go through your mother’s pattern book and adapt what I can, but I suspect it won’t be enough. That means you either find someone who can design or we begin to steer customers to the Vogue Pattern Book ,” said Miss Reid.

Sylvia shook her head at the mention of the commercial pattern book. She could still hear her mother saying, “Any fool with a needle can make a dress from a commercial pattern. Women come to Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions for good dresses that they won’t find anywhere else.”

Sylvia might not favor the style of frumpy, old-fashioned clothing her mother produced, but there was no denying that one of the shop’s greatest selling points was that the ladies who had their clothes made there wouldn’t walk into a room and find another woman wearing the same garment.

If the shop lost that distinction, what would prevent a lady from going to a rival dressmaker? Why wouldn’t she take her clothing coupons and money to a department store, where a dress might cost that little bit less?

“We have some time,” Sylvia said. “I’ll figure it out. I just need a moment to think.”

Miss Reid raised a thin brow. “I hope you think quickly, because May will be here before we know it.”