Beryl Bainbridge - The Dressmaker

Afterwards she went through into the little front room, the tape measure still dangling about her neck, and allowed herself a glass of port. And in the dark she wiped at the surface of the polished sideboard with the edge of her flowered pinny in case the bottle had left a ring. She could hear Marge at the sink in the scullery, washing her hands. That tin bowl made a deafening noise. She nearly shouted for her to stop it, but instead she sat down on mothers old sofa, re-upholstered in LMS material bought at a sale, and immediately, in spite of the desperate cold of the unused room, the Christmas drink went to her head. She had to bite on her lip to keep from smiling. The light from the hallway shone on the carpet, red and brown and good as new from all the years she had spent caring for it. Here at least everything was ordered, secure. The removal of the rosewood table had been a terrible mistake, but it was foolish to blame herself for what had happened. There was nothing Mother could take umbrage at in the whole room not even the little mirror bordered in green velvet with the red roses painted on the glass because the crack across one corner, as she could prove, was war damage, not neglect or carelessness. The blast from a bomb dropped in Priory Road had knocked it off the wall, killing twelve people, including Mrs Eccless fancy man at the corner shop, and cracked Mothers mirror.

Are you all right then, Nellie?

Margo was in the doorway watching her. Mother had always warned her to keep an eye on Marge. Such a foolish girl. The way she had carried on about Mr Aveyard. He hadnt been a well man, nor young, and she would have lost her widows pension into the bargain. Fancy throwing away her independence just for the honour of siding his table and darning his combs. It had taken a lot to persuade her, but in the end shed seen the sense in it sent Mr Aveyard packing into the bright blue yonder; but her face, the look in her eyes for all to see there was something indecent in the explicitness of her expression.

Shed said: You would only have been a drudge for him, Marge. And Marge said: Yes, I know, Nellie. But her eyes, then as now, burned with the secrets of experience.

Let me be, said Nellie. Ill be through in a moment.

Valerie had been right about a belt for the engagement dress. It would add the final touch. She let her eyes close and dozed as if she were sitting in the sun, her two stout legs thrust out across Mothers carpet, threads of green cotton clinging to her stockings.

She was awakened by voices coming from the kitchen. She listened for a moment before getting to her feet. Rita had come in and was weeping again. She was at the age for it, but it was trying for all concerned.

Oh, Auntie, I wish I was dead. She didnt mean it of course.

Marge was saying, Shh, shh, trying to keep her quiet.

Beyond the lace curtains something glittered. Jack had pasted strips of asbestos to protect the glass, sticky to the touch, but she could just make out a square of red brick wall and the little dusty clump of privet stuck in the patch of dirt beneath the window, all pale and gleaming like a bush in flower, frozen in moonlight. She smoothed the folds of the lace curtains, rearranging the milky fragments of privet, distracted by the sounds from the next room. If that girl didnt stop her whingeing, the neighbours would be banging on the wall; God knows, thered been enough disturbance for one night.

She went into the hall, hiding the wine glass in the pocket of her apron. She swept broken glass into a heap and wrapped the pieces in newspaper; knelt to pick out between finger and thumb fragments embedded in the dust mat at the front door. She found an imitation pearl that Marge had overlooked, lying like a peppermint on the stair. She went into the kitchen with her parcel and laid it on the table.

Valerie Mander says her Chuck hasnt seen him in over a week, wailed Rita.

Shh, Margo said again, putting her arms about the girl to calm her, looking up at Nellie with entreaty in her eyes, no colour at all in her thin cheeks.

Thats enough, Rita. Its no use crying over spilt milk, said Nellie. Youre better off without him. Which was the truth, surely, though she had not meant to shout so loud.

Turn that gas off, Marge, she ordered and not waiting went into the scullery to turn off the ring under the kettle.

But we always have a cup of tea before bed, said Rita, lifting an exhausted face in protest, and Margo said for the umpteenth time, Shhh, shhh, in that daft way.

The girl washed in the scullery while the two women prepared for bed. The reflection of her bony face, pale with loss, flittered across the surface of the tarnished mirror above the sink. She bent her head and moaned, quite worn out by the depths of her emotion. A shadow leapt against the pane of glass high on the wall among the frying pans. She looked up startled, a piece of frayed towel held to her mouth, and opened the back door to let the cat in.

She called: Come on, Nigger, come on, Nigger!

Shut that door! Her aunts voice was harsh with irritation.

Cant the cat come in then, Auntie?

No, leave it out. But Nigger was in, streaking across the lino into the kitchen, up in one bound on to the sofa, eyes gleaming.

Rita went into the hall to put away her shoes in the space under the stairs. When she came back, Auntie Marge was standing on the table, reaching up to the gasolier with its pink fluted shades, showing a portion of leg where her nightie rode up. Nellie held her firmly by the ankle, in case she should turn dizzy.