Two for Sorrow

enough loops, then twisted a fine piece of wire around the centre of the material to form a stem. When she had made sure that everything was in place, she removed the hairpin and crushed the centres together to make the petals of the flower spread out, then wound the rest of the ribbon around the wire, finishing at the bottom with a tight knot. Was it because she had more to lose now, and he had dared to encroach on the new world she had created for herself? Or had she recognised a streak of opportunism which had surfaced recently in her own character?

Patiently, Marjorie cut a few more lengths of ribbon and carried on working until she had made enough single flowers to form a small corsage. She tied them together, her fingers deftly arranging the fabric to look as natural as possible and, as she looked down at her hands, she was surprised to see that they were barely recognisable as her own—comparatively well cared-for now, and with no sign of the dirt and bitten nails that she had grown used to. They were her best asset, and she needed to look after them—it was the first thing Mrs Reader had said to her when she arrived at Motley back in May, and Marjorie had surprised herself by heeding that and all the other advice which the head cutter had passed on. She was quick to learn, and as soon as Hilda Reader spotted her enthusiasm and potential she had made sure that the girl was given every possible chance to develop them, working her hard as she taught her the stitches and techniques involved in high-class couture—the hand-rolled hems and fine pin- tucks, the fringing and beading, the delicacy of embroidery by hand and machine; helping her to understand the different weights and qualities of the fabrics, and how they would be transformed by stage lighting. Under Mrs Reader’s patient but demanding eye, she had gradually learned to work at the speed which a busy house like Motley required—and, for the first time in her twenty-three years, Marjorie knew what it was to be genuinely grateful. It made no difference to her now whether she was working on costumes for the theatre or more conventional clothes for the sisters’ boutique range—it was the magical transformation of the materials which delighted her, the privilege of being surrounded by things which were beautiful.

So why had she risked all that with one rash decision, tricked by her father into a complicity that shamed and horrified her? Perhaps he was right—genes would always out, no matter how hard she fought against them, and a child’s life was mapped out even before he or she was born. She looked around the workroom, so full of colour and individuality—walls covered with sketches of historical costumes and glamorous theatrical production shots, shelves groaning under the weight of art books and gallery catalogues from which the Motleys so often took their inspiration, small personal items left next to the sewing machines by several of the girls, implying a sense of ownership and continuity—and compared it to what she was used to: long rows of treadle sewing machines, overlooked by two prison officers, where the only embroidery to be done was the stencilling of a number on a mailbag; no banter and no company, other than a few old drunks languidly teasing out coir to fill mattresses, the joints of their hands swollen with rheumatism; and certainly no creativity or beauty—just automatic, monotonous work, the relentless blue of prison uniforms.

Sighing heavily, she put the finished violets down and walked over to the row of tall windows which overlooked St Martin’s Lane. The first flakes of snow had begun to fall, fulfilling the promise of the day’s cold, and Marjorie watched the people on the pavement below hurrying into theatres or public houses, shaking the weather from their Friday-night clothes and laughing as the ultimate symbol of Christmas began its gentle veiling of the city. Why did everything seem so much more desperate as Christmas got closer? The sense of disappointment and longing was even stronger than usual, the briefest moments of happiness all the more intense. December was always marked in her house by the biggest rows of the year, and the pressure to please only increased the greatest worry—money. It had peaked when she was about twelve, when they still lived outside the city; her mother belonged to a loan club, and she always drew on it a couple of weeks ahead of Christmas. Marjorie remembered how she used to love putting the money out on the kitchen table; it couldn’t have been more than a few quid, but she would set some by for the kids’ presents and use the rest to pay back debts from the year; the small piles of coins built up on scraps of paper—IOUs or shopping lists. Marjorie was washing up at the sink, listening to her mother hum one of the familiar carols while she did her sums; her father was by the fire, reading his paper. Then one of her little brothers called out from the next room and her mother went to see what he wanted; her father must have gone out after her, because when Marjorie turned round a few minutes later, they were both standing in the doorway, looking accusingly at her across the table, where one of the piles had disappeared. There was a hell of a row and Marjorie stormed out; she knew that her father must have pocketed the money—later, her mother had admitted that she knew as much, too, but it had been easier to blame her daughter. That was a talent her mother had, finding anyone to blame but the person at fault; it was a trait that ran throughout Marjorie’s fractured family, with her parents at the centre of it—by turns resentful, uneasy, lost, as if they could no longer remember who had trapped who.

Frustrated, she turned away from her reflection in the glass and went through to the small clients’ fitting room to fetch the next job on Mrs Reader’s list and tidy up after the last of the appointments. In spite of her mood, she had to smile when she saw the bottle of vodka and two glasses that Geraldine Ashby had smuggled in with her earlier that evening. Marjorie was under no illusions as to Gerry’s interest in her, and she saw no reason to be coy about it; what intrigued her, though, was that the feeling was mutual. She was surprised by how much she liked Geraldine—not because of her wealth or her title, but because she was unpredictable; she resisted what was expected of her, and to a girl whose petty acts of rebellion had got her in and out of trouble since she was fifteen, that sort of spirit was dangerously attractive. Marjorie picked up the bottle to throw it away before it was discovered, then thought better of it and poured herself another drink from what was left. There was a cutting from a magazine on the wall in front of her, a piece from last month’s Tatler with the headline ‘Nurses to benefit from theatrical coup’; the photograph showed the Motley seamstresses and some of the members of the Cowdray Club standing in the workroom, preparing the clothes for next week’s gala, and there was a smaller picture underneath of Noel Coward on stage with Gertrude Lawrence. Ronnie and Lettice had bought copies for all the girls to take home, and Marjorie thought again of what her father had said—her new friends were not all they seemed. She knew what he meant, and yet there was something about this world of glamour and make-believe that seemed more real to her than anything else she had ever known. The taste of it had made her reckless, and encouraged her to make promises to Lucy which she had no idea if she could keep. Lucy didn’t seem bothered, though. Half the time, Marjorie got the impression that the girl was only humouring her anyway, and— emotionally—Lucy often seemed more grown up than she was; perhaps that’s what having a child did for you. Still, she thought, holding up the dress that was to be altered and looking at herself in the mirror, this plan was more solid than most, and it was stupid to have doubts when it was too late to do anything about them.

As she carried the gown carefully back into the workroom, a tailor’s dummy in the corner caught her eye, next to a roll of deep-blue silk. She knew it was waiting to be transformed into a cape to match one of the evening gowns for the gala, and that it would be the first job on Hilda Reader’s list in the morning. She never tired of watching as the cutter worked from the designs that the Motley sisters produced, interpreting their sketches into a three-dimensional garment by pinning, draping and cutting the material, apparently without effort. It was a great skill, and Marjorie had been so thrilled when Mrs Reader said she was almost ready to try it herself. She liked Lettice and Ronnie, and was in awe of their talent; obviously she wanted them to think well of her, but it was Hilda Reader—the woman who had first had confidence in her, the mother she wished she’d had—who she really wanted to impress, and what better way than by making the cape herself, now, when everywhere was quiet? It was a risk, but it would be worth it to see the look on the head cutter’s face in the morning, and it would keep Marjorie’s mind off other things.

She took another sip of vodka for courage and measured out a length of material, then arranged the silk on the back of the dummy, leaving enough at the top to complete the collar work later. Carefully, she brought the selvedges round to the front and pinned them to the back cloth at the top of the shoulders, making sure that the material was not too tightly drawn across the chest. She checked the desired length against the sketch one more time, took a deep breath, and picked up the scissors—this was the moment of no return, but there was no point being half-hearted about it. She cut boldly across the bottom, allowing for a two-inch hem, and was relieved to see that the line was straight and the silk fell as she knew it should. Buoyed up by her success, Marjorie carried on patiently, so absorbed in her work that she forgot everything else. As she stepped back to examine the general shape of the material before making the final cuts, she heard the sound of footsteps on the iron stairs outside. Still exhilarated by the miraculous way in which the garment now resembled its paper counterpart, she went out into the corridor, confident that she could handle anything.

When she saw who it was, she opened her mouth to speak but, before she could utter a word, she found herself shoved hard against the back wall of the lobby. The action took her completely by surprise, and there was