The Gown(13)

Ann disagreed, but there was no point in making a pill of herself by saying so. The point of working was to earn her way, spend her days in an interesting occupation, and retain some measure of independence for herself. Once children arrived, Doris would be tied to home and hearth for years, so why not make the most of her freedom while she could?

“I suppose not,” she said instead. “We had better—”

“Good morning, ladies! I’m surprised to find you still standing about.”

“Sorry, Miss Duley,” said Edith. “It’s only that Doris got engaged and—”

“Splendid news. I’m very happy for you, my dear. Perhaps we could all continue the conversation at break? In the meantime we have quite a lot of work to get through.”

“Yes, Miss Duley,” came the chorus of voices.

On Friday afternoon Ann, Doris, and Ethel had begun work on a gown for a client who was moving abroad—apparently her husband had been named to a very important diplomatic post and she required a wardrobe to match. While Doris and Ethel worked on the skirt, Ann occupied herself with the bodice. She had Mr. Hartnell’s design at her elbow, as well as a sample of the motif that she’d worked up herself, and she was confident in her ability to translate his vision from paper to silk. Swirls of tiny gold beads, translucent crystals, and matte copper sequins would cover nearly all the bodice by the time she was finished, the design continuing onto the skirt in irregular waves. It was straightforward work, and relatively fast, too, since she could use a tambour hook for most of it.

She enjoyed the rhythm of such work, for it left no room in her head for anything beyond pushing the hook through the fabric in just the right spot, setting the bead or sequin, pulling the hook back, repeating the same, repeating and repeating, pausing only to check the design and sample to ensure she was copying them exactly.

At their morning break for tea, predictably enough, they all sat together in the basement canteen and discussed Doris’s plans for her wedding.

“I don’t want to waste coupons on a dress. I was thinking I could make over my mum’s.”

“When was she married?” asked Ruthie, one of the assistants. Only seventeen and as starry-eyed as they came. A good worker, though, and she would settle down in time.

“In 1914. White cotton and inset lace down to the ground. And a high neck. It looks like something Queen Mary would wear to a picnic.”

“Does your mum mind if you change it?” Ann asked.

“She said she doesn’t. I’m not sure where I’d even start.”

“Don’t worry about that now,” Edith broke in. “Tell us again how he proposed. Did he give you any hint ahead of time?”

Morning continued in the same vein as before, the workroom hushed and nearly still as the women bent over their frames. Once or twice the flash of a reflected thimble, caught in a rare beam of brighter sunshine, made Ann look up from her work, and then she would remind herself to stretch her neck and arms, rub her hands and wrists to get the blood flowing again, and close her eyes for a long, soothing minute.

When dinner began at half-past twelve, Ann stayed behind, promising the others she’d catch up. Working quickly, as they only stopped for half an hour, she unearthed a piece of tracing paper and a pencil, then set to work. Five minutes later she was joining Doris and the others in the canteen for a sandwich and cup of tea.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Ruthie asked, her attention drawn to the sketch in Ann’s hand.

“I had a few ideas for Doris’s dress. They aren’t—”

“Don’t keep us waiting! Give it over here.”

Ann set the drawing in front of Doris, now wishing she had chosen a quieter and more private moment to share her ideas. “Here, on the bodice, it’s probably a bit drapey, so you’ll need to add some darts under the bust, and then, if you’re feeling brave, you can recut the neckline so it’s lower and a bit curved, just here—”

“Heart-shaped,” Doris sighed.

“Yes. And you’ll need to take it in at the waist, or make a sash that will cinch it in tight.”

“It looks a bit like something Mr. Hartnell would design,” said Ruthie, and everyone gasped.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Ann said, her voice sounding a little sharper than she meant. “It’s only because I used one of his drawings as a template—I traced the outline of the figure. Otherwise I’d never have got the proportions right.”

At school she’d never been very good at art, but during the war she’d started carrying an old exercise book with her, along with a few pencils, and had taught herself to draw. It was cheaper than buying books or magazines, and easier on her eyes, besides. Some things, like people’s faces or hands, would forever be beyond her capabilities, but it was a nice way to pass the time, and a means of remembering some of the really fine work she’d done over the years.

Last year, for Christmas, Milly had given her a beautiful sketchbook from the shop where she worked, the sort of thing a real artist would use, with thick paper and a lovely pale blue binding. It had taken Ann a week or two to work up the nerve to draw in it the first time, and even now she preferred to save it, like Sunday best, for her favorite ideas. She’d add Doris’s dress to the book as soon as she had a bit of spare time. Maybe on Sunday afternoon, when she’d finished her mending and other small chores.