MARY STUDIED THE FIGURES SHE HAD WRITTEN DOWN, THEN TOTTED them up again. John worked hard but, with their rent and food purchases, they were barely making ends meet. Putting on her coat, hat and boots, she made her way to Catherine Ryan’s boarding house on Little Water Street and consulted with her about the prospect of finding dressmaking work.
‘Some folks don’t like hiring married women. That is the truth of it, but a family has to eat, I know. There are a few that might take you on, though keep away from Mena Stronge as she is meant to be a right old rip, and difficult to work for.’
Mary had taken out her sewing kit and gone from dressmaker to dressmaker and numerous garment factories in the district to offer her services, but with little luck.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sullivan,’ said dressmaker Betsy Smith, shaking her head, ‘but I already have three women working for me.’
‘I am a good worker with plenty of experience,’ she pressed.
‘I’m sorry, my dear. Why don’t you try Mena Stronge on Pearl Street?’
Mary thanked Mrs Smith, but was nervous about approaching Mrs Stronge. However, needs must. Putting her pride away, she found herself on Pearl Street looking at the narrow shop window with a dress and a maid’s uniform both on display. Taking her courage in hand, she pushed in the door and introduced herself to the tall woman presiding at the counter.
Mena Stronge’s wavy hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she wore a neat, high-collared blue dress, which showed off her trim figure. She had enormous limpid, pale-blue eyes, which might lull a person into thinking she was perhaps a quiet type of woman, but once the conversation started, those eyes became wide and searching, for she was a highly intelligent and astute woman.
Mrs Stronge said little as Mary told her about working for Honora Barry.
‘You seem to have made everything, from bridal dresses to fashionable styles and children’s clothes, and done difficult alterations to patching and mending,’ the woman said, somewhat sarcastically.
Mary blushed to hear her work described in such a fashion.
‘Have you brought any samples of your work?’
Mary’s hopes plummeted for a moment or two, before she thought to pass Mrs Stronge her plum-coloured winter coat and pointed out the finer details of the navy dress that she was wearing.
The woman examined the seams and hems, pin tucks and button holes meticulously.
‘This is good work, Mrs Sullivan. Very good work,’ she said admiringly.
‘Thank you.’
‘My business has a definite type of customer. I don’t make wedding dresses or fine stylish gowns for women to wear. Mostly I service the needs of people who wish to have uniforms fitted and made for their staff.’
‘Uniforms?’
‘For house maids, nursery maids and cooks. Of late, I have been fortunate to make the uniforms for all the maids in two new hotels – one in Brooklyn and one over on Lafayette Street. There are big houses, wealthy people employing staff, who want their maids to look neat and tidy but also to have some kind of personal detail on their uniform to distinguish them from their neighbours’. I tell you, it’s a growing business. That is, if you are interested in coming to work for me.’
‘Mrs Stronge, I would very much like to work with you,’ agreed Mary.
The other woman told her what her wages would be and explained that she would work for her for three full days a week at first.
‘Then we can see what’s what!’
Almost every day, maids came to the small shop on Pearl Street to be fitted for new uniform or to have an existing one repaired.
Every so often, Mary accompanied Mena as they travelled by coach to some grand house, where the maids were lined up to be fitted. Mary carefully wrote down measurements, names and details for Mena.
‘Hold up your arms, please?’ she asked a pretty girl from Kerry, as she ran the measuring tape over her.
Mary had started off fearful of Mena but, in time, came to respect the Belfast woman.
‘My husband and son and I came over here nearly fifteen years ago,’ Mena explained. ‘He was working in the bank for nearly three years when he suddenly took ill. A week later he died of a bronchial attack, leaving me and my poor boy, Henry, here in New York without a soul to help us. What was I to do, return to Belfast or try to make a life here?’
Mary was filled with admiration for Mena’s determination and business acumen. Bit by bit, she had built her business from scratch and, like Honora Barry, was a woman from whom she could learn much.