Dress Sense
WE WERE ALMOST HALFWAY THROUGH the summer term and I was starting to worry about my exams, when the letter came.
The house was empty and the envelope was on the shelf in the hall, propped against the little wooden telephone box that read, To keep the bill small, please pay for your call. Mum’s friend Rene had given it to her. I recognised the flimsy bluey-grey prison envelope before I recognised the handwriting. It was from Danny, addressed to me, intended for Sandra. She came over to collect it after tea.
Sitting on my bed, she opened the envelope and took out the yellowy lined prison writing paper covered in his neat curly handwriting. Another piece of paper fell onto her lap.
Sandra glanced down and then looked up, her eyes shining. ‘It’s a Visiting Order. He only wants us to go and visit him in the Scrubs.’
‘Who?’ My breath disappeared. ‘He wants who to go and visit him?’ I was playing for time, hoping that if I strung out the question long enough, the answer I feared would change.
‘Me and you.’
‘He wants me to go? I’m not old enough to visit someone in prison.’
‘Yes you are. Look, he says since we are his loving cousins he would be very pleased to see us –’
‘But we’re not his cousins.’
‘And could we bring some cigs.’
‘I thought you said he was giving up.’
‘Yeah, but they use them, don’t they? They swap them.’
‘Is it allowed?’
‘Of course it is, or they wouldn’t let him put it in the letter. Ooh, what shall we wear?’
‘Yes, and my mum’s likely to let me go. I don’t think.’
‘Just say we’re going to Oxford Street. You want to buy that nightshirt up there, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t want to go to prison for it. Anyway, I’m at school, remember.’
‘You have holidays, don’t you? It’s half-term soon, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘That’s when we’ll go.’
‘I’ll be at work,’ I said. ‘Probably.’
‘I thought you were on a probationary period.’
‘I am.’
‘You might not even have a job then.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But Mr Wainwright might not need you.’
‘It’s a holiday, we’ll be busy.’
‘But you need a holiday. You said we could go up to London in your half-term. You said that. Oh, go on. Please?’
‘Oh, Sandra.’
‘All right – just come up on the train with me, to Liverpool Street. Then I’ll go to the prison on my own. And we’ll both be able to say we’re going to London for the day, which will be true.’
‘Why? Why does he all of a sudden send you a Visiting Order? I thought he was coming out soon.’
‘He is.’
‘But he’s never done it before.’
‘He’s lonely. And I’m his girlfriend.’
‘So why doesn’t he just say that in the Visiting Order?’
‘Because that way you wouldn’t have been related to him and you couldn’t come.’
‘But I’m not coming.’
*
I knocked on Sylvie’s door.
‘Linda! What a lovely surprise. Have you come to take Mansell for a walk?’
‘No, I just . . . came to see you.’ And I have a big worry in the pit of my stomach, I didn’t say.
‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘Come in, I’ve just made a pot of tea.’ She put her finger to her lips. ‘The boy’s asleep.’ We walked past his pram. I went into the living room while Sylvie brought two cups of tea from the kitchen. ‘How’s the new job?’
Job, the word almost made me smile. ‘It’s good,’ I said. ‘It’s hard work.’
‘Good training for the rest of your life. Have any of the Beatles been in to see you yet?’
I laughed. It was embarrassing that I had ever thought that. And that I’d told her. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Unless they were in deep disguise as two blokes who sent back their pie and beans because they weren’t hot enough. But that would have been George and Ringo, so I don’t care.’
‘I haven’t seen you since the Aldermaston march, have I?’ she said. ‘Did you enjoy it? Did it give you any ideas?’
‘What kind of ideas?’
‘About your future. About the people you might get to know. The ones who might come in to the Milk Bar and get chatting.’
I didn’t want to talk about that now. I wanted to tell her about the Visiting Order, but I didn’t know how to put it. There was a pause.
‘School all right?’
‘I’ve got my exams soon.’
She looked at me expectantly, as if she knew I had something to say.
Hurriedly I said, ‘How’s that dress you were making?’
‘Oh, it hasn’t got much further.’
‘Do you want me to look at it?’
‘Would you? Really?’ She ran upstairs and came down with a large carrier bag.
I pulled out the white and red material from the bag. It was almost finished. Then a zip fell into my lap. A zip. It was my own fault. I sank down onto the cushion of the settee. I found a reel of cotton and a needle case. I would tack the zip into the back of the dress. That’s all. Carefully I began pinning the thick cloth of the zip to the seam of the dress. ‘Sandra wants me to go Wormwood Scrubs to see Danny with her,’ I said casually, then looked up at Sylvie to gauge her reaction. She had a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘And I don’t want to go,’ I added quickly, before she could say how thrilling that sounded and what a wonderful experience for me, and how she wished she’d been able to do something like that when she was my age.
But she smiled. ‘Oh, I say.’
‘I’m not going.’
She examined my face. ‘But . . . you feel you should go?’
‘Yes, except I shouldn’t. I mean, I should go for Sandra’s sake, but I shouldn’t go on my mum’s terms.’
‘And what about your terms?’
‘I don’t know!’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘All right. Here’s my advice – if you want it?’
I nodded miserably.
‘Don’t think about it, and make a decision only when you have to.’ That seemed so simple and sensible. ‘When is all this meant to happen?’
‘At half-term,’ I said. ‘Two weeks.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘When the bus into town arrives, decide at that point whether you’ll get on it, or simply stand at the bus stop and wave Sandra off with a jaunty smile.’
‘Oh, I’m definitely getting on the bus. I’m going to London. It’s what happens when we get there, that’s the problem. I want to go shopping, she wants to . . .’
‘. . . to visit Danny. Oh well, chicken, just see how it feels at the time, if it feels right, or wrong, or silly, or interesting. And then choose,’ she said.
I looked at her. ‘I have chosen,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to the prison.’ I wanted to see what she said, see if her face fell, see if she was disappointed in me.
‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s your decision. And you’ve made it. That’s something.’ She paused. ‘But you’re troubled, aren’t you? Don’t think about it anymore today. Now, what can we do to lighten the mood?’ She looked over at the record player.
She must have seen me wince. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘let me tell you about the casino.’ She arranged herself in the armchair, tucking her skirt under her knees. ‘So, where had we got up to? Ah, yes. I was just about to tell you what happened after I won all that money.’
‘I thought you lost it again.’
‘Did I? Oh yes.’
‘And then you had your night with . . .’
‘With Bob, my night of passion. Of course! I had quite forgotten I’d told you about that.’ She sighed.
‘And he gave you some money.’ Surely she remembered. It was her story.
‘Yes, yes, that’s right. Now this part has got some fashion in it,’ she added. ‘Quite a lot, actually.’
‘Go on, go on,’ I said.
‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ Sylvie said. She put her head back and closed her eyes.
*
In the morning over breakfast – very nice sausages, I remember, and very, very good crisp fried bread, Janet asked her aunt’s advice as to where we might buy a dress that was a little out of the ordinary, something with a bit of style, for a special event I had coming up in Chelmsford. Janet kept smirking, and her aunt looked at us suspiciously, but eventually she said she knew a shop that might sell the sort of outfit we were after, although it was rather high-class.
‘Perfect,’ said Janet.
It was a hot day. Janet and I pushed our way through the crowds in the main road, the tourists wandering aimlessly, eating candyfloss and licking sticks of rock. We had something very important to do. The thought of it made us laugh. Thinking back, I suppose I was a little hysterical – the memory of the night before, the things he’d said, it was all so wonderful. We couldn’t find the road. It took ages, up and down, round and round. I was sweating. Finally, we turned into a shadowy dark street.
‘Here we are,’ Janet said, stopping outside a door that looked like the door to a house, not a shop.
‘Are you sure?’ There was no one in the street; it all felt unreal.
‘It’s high-class,’ Janet said. ‘That’s what they’re like. In you go.’ She gave the door a push. The bell pinged and we were inside.
‘I need a dress,’ I said to the assistant.
‘It’s got to be glamorous, and she needs it for tonight.’ Janet sat down in a small, ornate armchair and crossed her hands over her stomach. She looked much more confident than I felt.
The assistant hesitated. We must have looked a sight, our faces so red and our hair all windswept. This was a very swanky establishment.
There wasn’t much of anything ready-made. I tried on a dress. It was grey, and it was too big.
‘You look like an elephant,’ Janet said.
I tried on two more. They were black. Janet shook her head. ‘Sorry, doll, you don’t look what I’d call gorgeous in those.’
The assistant pursed her lips. ‘I’m afraid that’s all we have.’
‘How much money have you got, Sylvie?’ Janet asked.
I pulled out the handful of notes from my bag.
The assistant’s eyes widened. She said, ‘Ah, well. Perhaps we have another dress. A lady was meant to be picking it up last week, but she didn’t come. It may fit you.’
It was blue, sapphire blue. I slipped it on. The heavy crepe fell over my hips, skimmed my knees. I looked at myself in the mirror and I was transformed. I looked lovely. Down to my ankles, that is. ‘I haven’t got the right shoes,’ I moaned, looking at my feet, which were very dusty.
‘How about these?’ The woman produced a pair of high, strappy gold sandals. I slid them on, and my goodness, the difference they made. My legs looked two feet longer and very, very slim.
Janet put her head on one side. ‘Turn round . . . Sylvie, you are gorgeous. Just right.’
The dress was 18 guineas, the shoes were 25s 11d. We scrabbled in our purses for the change for the last four shillings.
‘So you’ve paid for some of it yourself, which means you’re not exactly a kept woman,’ Janet said, putting the penny change in her bag.
I have to say that I could hardly tear myself away from my reflection, and I took the dress off very slowly and carefully.
‘You look like the cat with the cream,’ Janet said. I was smiling to myself, thinking about him, his face the night before, what his face would say that night when he saw me.
When we got back to the boarding house, I scurried upstairs with the expensive carrier bag while Janet told her aunt that we hadn’t seen anything we liked. If she’d suspected I was going out that night in an expensive dress she might have asked too many questions. If she’d thought I was going out with one of her lodgers, she might even have stopped me going. That’s what it was like in those days.
After the evening meal, I walked down the stairs, my raincoat draped over my shoulders, covering the dress. Janet walked behind me. We said goodbye at the door, grinning like mad at each other. We’d said I was going out with a friend from Chelmsford to a youth club she knew. Janet was going to put her aunt’s hair in rollers as a treat for letting us stay in her boarding house for such a reasonable price. I felt a bit guilty that I was having all the fun and Janet kept staying in. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Auntie and I have got all sorts of excitement planned. After the hair-washing, we’ll have a few rounds of gin rummy and a little whist. We might even play for money. It will be our very own casino, right here. Sure you don’t want to stay?’
At nine o’clock I walked into the pub, my raincoat over my arm, conscious of the dress moving with me, making me graceful, gliding. My hair was pulled back, all shiny and, what do you call it? tumbling down to my shoulders. I could feel people’s eyes on me as I approached the bar. I glanced round the room, smiling at everyone, heady with anticipation, then turned back to the barman. He studied my face with approval, I felt, and my smile got even wider. ‘You’re the lady who was in here last night, aren’t you, with the Yanks?’
I nodded.
‘You’re looking very nice tonight,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ I said. I noticed he had a pound note sticking out of his shirt pocket.
His expression changed. He frowned as he handed me a folded-up piece of paper. ‘I’ve to give you this.’ He almost spat the words, and I couldn’t think why. Did this man not like Americans? Did he think I was a loose woman? I looked at him. But he was polishing a glass, his face turned studiously away from me. I looked down at the folded piece of paper and I felt ever so slightly sick. I knew I wasn’t going to like whatever was in the note. Slowly I opened it and I read the words:
I’m sorry, honey, we have to go back to base. You were great. I’ll remember you. B
I looked up at the barman. Now he was wiping the counter, but glancing at me, not really looking. He said, almost to himself, ‘Yanks, eh?’ I was having difficulty breathing. Then he said casually, ‘Do you want a drink? On the house?’ He was so kind, the tears almost spilled over. I shook my head, I couldn’t speak. I turned and left the pub, trying to keep at least a little smile on my face. I put the raincoat on and dragged myself back to the boarding house. I walked upstairs to the room, kicked off the shoes and ripped off the dress.
Janet came in. ‘You don’t have to say anything. I know.’ Twenty minutes after I’d gone, she said, the Americans came down to pay their bill. Her auntie nearly died. The Americans were peeling off the pound notes, and there she was with a scarf tied round her head, hiding four rows of rollers.
I laughed. ‘Tell her she needn’t have worried.’
‘I’ll tell her she should have charged them twice as much.’ Janet straightened the gold shoes and put them neatly beside the wardrobe. She came and sat on the bed and put her arm round me. She said, ‘Can I borrow the dress for my sister’s wedding?’
I smiled, but tears were rolling down my face.
*
I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear that it had ended like that. I was furious. ‘But how could he? You and he . . .’ I looked at Sylvie’s face, but she seemed calm, just picking a bit of fluff from her skirt.
‘These things happen.’ She gave a little smile. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’
I didn’t know what to say. ‘Janet sounds nice,’ I said weakly.
‘Janet’s been with me through thick and thin.’
‘But when was this?’ I said, keeping my eyes on my stitching. Sandra’s comments were playing in my head.
‘Oh, don’t bother trying to do the sums, you’ll only get a headache,’ Sylvie said. ‘But yes. Bob played his part. And now there’s Mansell, and for that we must all be truly grateful.’
The way she said it, I wasn’t sure she meant it.
‘I have to say that,’ she said, as if she’d read my mind, ‘or people think I’m a terrible mother. But if things hadn’t happened the way they happened, and if he hadn’t been born, well, he wouldn’t have been born.’
‘But did you see Bob again? Does he send you money? For Mansell?’
‘Bob? He hasn’t got any money.’
‘I thought all Americans had money – even in the war they were giving everyone nylons and chewing gum, weren’t they?’
‘I think that, relatively speaking, those weren’t expensive. And Bob was what they call white trash. He lived in a trailer. A caravan. A lot of poor Americans do it. Being in the Air Force was a great thing for him. Any spare cash he had he sent home to his dear old mom. That’s what he said, anyway.’
I was so confused. Was Bob a good thing or a bad thing? He was an American serviceman, but he was poor and he loved his mum. Did Sylvie like him or not?
‘Why don’t you care about . . . Mansell’s father?’
‘It’s not me who doesn’t care, it’s his father who . . . who doesn’t show his feelings.’
‘But what if Mansell wants to know him?’
‘Well, that might be a hard one. His dad is very good at making himself scarce. As you see, I have very little company. Except for you, of course, and I wouldn’t be without that. If his dad wants to know Mansell when he’s older, I shan’t stop him. But basically, children need the people who love them and care for them. It doesn’t have to be their parents. It could be like the children of the kibbutz.’
I didn’t know what a kibbutz was. It sounded like a made-up word. It sounded mad.
‘Naturally,’ Sandra would say. ‘That’s because she is mad.’
But today she didn’t look mad; today she looked thoughtful and lovely.
‘So would you have given him away? To be adopted?’
‘No! A kibbutz isn’t about giving children away, it’s about the community caring for them. I’ve seen it in action. In Israel.’
‘Abroad? Did you go there? Have you got a passport?’
‘All these questions! No, I didn’t go there, I saw a film. So I didn’t need a passport. But the kibbutz system works very well. It’s a shame we don’t have them here. I was, in fact, under a lot of pressure to give Mansell away. People said he’d have a better life if he was adopted, but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t do it.’
‘Do you think he would have been better off adopted?’ I said, before I realised what I was saying. ‘Oh, I mean, I didn’t mean he’s not well off . . . he’s . . . he’s growing so well.’
‘What does it mean? Better off,’ Sylvie said thoughtfully, taking my question as just a question. ‘Materially, yes, he might have been. But he’s not adopted, and he never will be.’ She looked over at Mansell. ‘He’s mine.’
Quietly I folded up the dress and put it back in its bag.
‘Well, what an afternoon!’ Sylvie said. ‘We’ve talked about a lot of things, haven’t we? But I’ve rather enjoyed it.’
I looked at her. We both had tears in our eyes. ‘So have I,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the advice. About the Visiting Order.’
Sylvie took the bag and held it against her. ‘I don’t think I said anything you hadn’t already thought yourself,’ she said. ‘I know it’s a tricky one.’
I picked up my coat and walked to the door. I realised I felt better than I had for a long time.