Empty Space
Youve become an empty space, Angela. Understand? Empty. Space itself.
He said it levelly, with almost no emotion, as if reading a list of groceries. Stood by the window, back to her, gazing at the communal green. Someone was out walking a dog down there, a cheerful little brown dachshund dragging its owner determinedly towards a muddy puddle.
Angela Baker sat on the sofa, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. The tea had gone cold at least twenty minutes ago, but she held onto the mug, simply because she didnt know what else to do with her hands.
What do you mean? she asked.
Her voice barely registered.
I mean exactly that. Robert finally turned. His face wore a look of weariness, almost bored, like a man forced to explain why water is wet. I look at you and theres just nothing. Empty. Grey. You walk, you cook, you sleep. Youre like furniture, Angela. Solid, reliable furniture, but nevertheless, furniture.
She put her mug down on the little oak table. The porcelain clinked against the wood.
Ten years, she said.
Ten years what?
Weve been together for ten years.
So? He shrugged, crossed the room, and dropped into the armchair opposite. Ten years is long enough to know theres no point carrying on. I dont want to live like this any longer. I want He paused, as if sifting through a jar of loose change for the right word. I want to feel something. And you dont give me that. You dont inspire me. Its like youre not even here, although, obviously, you are.
Angela felt something in her, some small, stubborn little rod inside, slowly start to bend.
So, where am I supposed to go, Rob?
Thats your problem now, he replied, crossing his legs. The flat, as you know, is in Mums name. Legally, youve no claim. Im not rushing you, but a week? That should be enough to find something.
A week is fine, she repeated, entirely on autopilot.
Good. Robert picked up his phone from the coffee table and started scrolling. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was finished.
Angela stood up, walked to the bedroom, closed the door behind her. She lay on top of the bedspread and stared up at the ceiling. The ceiling was white, with a irritating little stain in one corner shed been meaning to paint over for two years now. She hadnt, and at this rate never would.
Through the wall, the TV mumbled something unintelligible. Robert was amusing himself now.
She didnt cry. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling with the stain. Somewhere inside, it was very, very quietthe way it is right after a windows been smashed in a house.
***
A week unfolded into a strange, foggy stretch of time. Robert was hardly home now, out early, back late. They didnt speak. Angela packed her belongings, and was slightly affronted to discover how easy it wasthere werent many of her things here after all. A few dresses, a winter coat, a box of ancient photographs, some dusty sewing magazines shed kept out of habit.
She started to leave the sewing magazines behind, then felt oddly sentimental and stuffed them into a bag anyway.
She phoned her mums cousin, Aunt Irenea formidable woman shed last seen at her mothers funeral seven years ago. Aunt Irene listened, paused, then said:
Come along, love. Ive a room. Small, but itll do. Stay as long as you need.
Aunt Irene lived in a faded part of the outskirts of Norwichthe kind of street where buses appeared every forty minutes, and the corner shop, BestSaver, summed up the local options. Angela had never liked that neighbourhood. Drab rows of 1960s terraces, peeling porch roofs, and the sort of poplar trees that shed fluff over everything each spring.
She arrived on Friday night with two bags and a suitcase.
Good heavens, youve lost weight, Aunt Irene declared at the door. She was short, sturdy, and her kind face was weathered with laughter-lines that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and casserole. Well, come in, dont stand on the doormat. You want something for dinner?
Not hungry, thanks.
You need to eat, Irene said briskly, bustling to the kitchen.
The room itself was tiny, containing a narrow sofa-bed, an old wardrobe, and a window looking straight out onto the brick wall of the next house. The wallpapers original blue had faded into indifference. Three pots of brilliant red geraniums brightened the windowsill.
Angela dumped her bags, sat down on the sofa-bed. Its springs creaked in a noncommittal way.
Cup of tea? Aunt Irene called from the kitchen.
Yes, please, Angela replied.
And only then, in that little faded room with geraniums and drooping blue wallpaper, did she finally allow herself to cry.
***
Then came a long, unpleasant period.
One of those times when, upon waking, you really cant fathom why you should bother getting up. Shed wake at six, lying still, listening as Irene rattled the kettle in the kitchen, as the brakes of the odd car screeched outside. Eventually shed wash, perch in the chilly kitchen, drink tea, and stare at the brick wall outside.
Aunt Irene, being a practical woman, asked no questions, offered no advice, never said Itll all pass, or Plenty more fish in the sea. Instead she fed Angela shepherds pie, let her monopolise the television, and in the evenings would sometimes flip out a pack of cards and say:
Game of rummy?
And theyd play rummy. Silently, mostly.
Angela had some money, though not much. She withdrew her paltry savings£900, enough for a month or sos basic existence as long as she didnt splash out. Splashing out was not on the menu.
For the last few years, shed been working as an accountant in a small construction firm, and, miracle of miracles, kept the job: three days a week, trekking to the other side of Norwich, shifting numbers around for £600 a month. Decent enough, kept the wolf from the door. She paid Irene rent for her room, though Auntie protested until Angela simply left an envelope on the kitchen counter and retreated, giving no room for argument.
Evenings were the hardest. Sitting in her little room, thoughts looping endlessly: Ten years. Not nothing, is it? Ten years of breakfasts, colds, Christmas trees, seaside trips, arguments and making up. Hed looked at her and seen nothing. Must mean she really was nothing. Or perhaps something in her had just burnt out and she hadnt noticed. Or maybe he had. Or both.
Sometimes shed scroll through their old messages, flick back to photos from Devon, three years ago: Roberts arm around her, both laughing. She couldnt remember what had sparked that laughter.
On such evenings shed crawl into bed early and burrow under the duvet.
Once, Aunt Irene poked her head round the door:
Angela, are you asleep?
No.
I can hear that. A pause. You hungry?
No.
All right then. Another pause. You know, I kicked out my own years ago. Long before you were born. Thought itd kill me, but it didnt.
Soft click of the door. Irene shuffled away.
Angela lay in the dark thinking: Nearly fifty now, Angela. Start afresh. As if it were so simple.
***
She found the machine about five weeks in.
Aunt Irene requested she clear out the old storage cupboards above the hallway. Fifteen years worth of accumulation had reduced the cupboards contents to something between Cornwall and chaos. Angela agreed mostly to keep her hands busy.
She hauled out old copies of Womans Weekly, a snapped umbrella, boxes of buttons, empty perfume bottles, a stack of faded Mothers Day cards Then, right at the back, her hand found something heavy, swaddled in an ancient bedsheet.
It was a sewing machine. An antique, black with gold trim. Chips here and there, but still elegant. Faintly inscribed on the front, in elaborate script: Windsor.
Aunt Irene! Angela called.
Irene appeared, tea towel over her shoulder.
Blimey, Windsor! That was Aunt Nancys pride and joy. God, Id forgotten about it. Not sure if it works. Hasnt for ages.
Would you mind if I tried it?
Irene eyed her a little, with unexpected seriousness.
You know how to use one?
I used to.
Be my guest.
Angela lugged it to her room, set it up by the window. She wiped the casing, unwrapped the relic of fabric tangled in the bobbindried into a solid shroud a good thirty years ago. From a battered tin she cobbled together reels of thread, needles, a faded tape measure, scissors so blunt she suspected they were from the Jurassic.
She even found an oil dropper. The oil inside was solid, so she nipped to the hardware shop for a fresh bottle, lubricated everything, scoured out the gears, turned the wheel by hand. Stiff at first, then smoother.
Three hours slipped by as she figured out the shuttle. Threaded the needle. Fitted the bobbin.
Eventually, she slipped a scrap of old cotton under the presser foot and pressed down on the pedal.
The machine came to lifea tinny, metallic clatterand Angela experienced something unfamiliar: the strange ache that comes when blood flow starts up again in a deadened limb. Not exactly pain, but a twinge of life.
She stopped, examined the line of stitches: neat. Practically perfect.
Something flickered in the attic of her memory.
***
She was eighteen once, always sewing. Shed turn her mum’s old frocks into new skirts, cobble blouses together from market remnants. Over the road from college, Mrs Evans, a veteran dressmaker, would let Angela watch her cut patterns, pin facings, finish seams. Mrs Evans enjoyed explaining thingsshe could tell Angela wasnt there to kill time; she was there to see.
Then came university, then Robert, then the wedding, then lifelots of it and all at once. The sewing machine she bought with her first pay soon went; Roberts flat was small, Itll just take up space, he said. Angela, brimming with love and optimism, sold the machine with little protest. After all, life was about bigger things now.
Years passed. Sewing faded into a one day Ill thought. Every so often, shed eye a lovely dress in a window and think, I could make that. Then not make it.
Now, here she was, in a shoebox in Norwich, with Windsor humming busily beneath her hands.
The next day she visited the market. Not the mall, a real market, the sort with bolts of fabric packed into every square inch. She drifted between stalls. Linen, georgette, fine wool. She paused by a roll of dusky blue viscose, soft and understated.
How much for the lot? she asked the stall owner.
Four and a half metres.
Ill take it.
The woman wrapped it up.
What are you making, love?
A dress, Angela said.
She was surprised by how definite she sounded.
***
Angela cut out her dress on the floor, pinning a pattern together from memory, with Aunt Irenes ancient sewing mags for reference. The design was simple: straight silhouette with a belt, a high collar, three-quarter sleeves. Nothing fancy, just classic.
Aunt Irene hovered wordlessly, only offering a mug of tea when it seemed needed.
Nice colour choice, she observed.
Angela hesitated before the first cut. Shed unearthed a sharp pair of scissorslong-forgotten in Irenes kitchen drawer. Blade pressed to the marked line, then: she cut. The anxiety vanished as soon as fabric gave way.
Three days of sewingnot because it was slow, but because she savoured it, each evening after work. She did everything properly: side seams, a zip at the back, collar, the tricky sleeves (which were uncooperative at first, but relented after due patience).
If something was off, she thought, unpicked, and redid. The Windsor stitched neatly, almost quietly, nothing but a faint purr. In those hours, Robert ceased to exist. She thought only about the fabric, the seam, how to steer the collar point.
On the third evening, she stitched the final seam, snipped the threads, pressed the seams. She hung the dress up, took a step back.
A good dress. Simple, cool, with soft lines that didnt try too hard, which is perhaps why they worked. The matching belt cinched her waist. The collar sat just so at her necka touch of elegance.
She tried it on.
Checked herself in the lone full-length mirror in Irenes hallway. The mirror, with tarnished edges, told it as it was.
Angela stared at her reflectionlonger than a minute, maybe more.
A woman looked back. Not “no one,” not “empty space,” not “furniture.” Just a woman of fiftydark hair in a plain bun, straight back, eyes with something faintly and awkwardly rekindling.
The dress fit beautifully. Really beautifully.
Angela! Irenes voice rang from the kitchen. Come and show us what youve made!
Angela went in, still wearing the dress.
Irene turned from the cooker, took a look, paused a moment.
Now thats more like it, she said, turning back with a little smile as she checked the stew.
Angela returned to her room, stroked the fabric on her knee. It felt soft, sat just right.
Something inside, that small rod which had bent so severely that first night, was beginning, ever so slightly, to straighten.
***
She wore the dress that Saturday.
Just nipped out to buy Irenes blood pressure tablets. She put on her blue-grey dress, found an old cream cardigan in her case, and popped out.
October in England, dry, crisp air. Poplars on the verge of turning.
She noticed things more than usual: a cat in the neighbours window, a granny knitting on a bench, a toddler dragging his mother determinedly towards a puddle.
The pharmacy was only a couple of streets away, and right next to it a tiny café, The Nook, which, as far as Angela recalled, had not existed before (or else shed never noticed). In the window: Fresh pastries and coffee.
Why not? Today, she treated herself to a cappuccino and croissant.
The café was tinyfive tables in all. In the corner sat a chic woman of about sixty, with cropped silver hair and sizeable earrings, reading her phone by the light of the window. She had the air of someone rather used to calling the shots and being comfortable with it.
Angela settled at the next table with her order.
Ten minutes passed serenely, watching the world go by.
Excuse me.
She looked up. The chic woman was smiling at her.
I hope you dont mind me saying, but that is an absolutely smashing dress. Would you mind telling me where you got it?
Oh! Angela was flustered. I I made it.
Youre a dressmaker, then?
Not professionallyI just, well, used to sew. Started again recently.
The woman studied the dress with the forensic care only the truly interested bother with. The cut is excellentvery tricky to do well. I know: I worked in the alterations department at John Lewis for thirty years.
Thank you, Angela murmured, unsure what else to say.
Im Margaret Palmer, by the way. Just Margaret, please.
Angela. Angela Baker.
Angela, I know this is an odd request. But I have a birthday in three weekssixty-fiveand I simply cant find anything to wear. All the shops think youre either ancient or twenty. But your dresssomething just like itwould be perfect. Would you consider taking a commission?
Angela met her gaze, straightforward and unpressured.
Alright, she said, surprising herself. I would.
***
Margaret turned up two days later, bringing a bolt of wine-red georgetteher own careful pick from John Lewiss fabric section.
Angela took her measurements in the tiny room, scribbling notes in a spiral-bound notebook. Later, over tea at Irenes kitchen table, Angela sketched a handful of ideas in pencil until Margaret stopped her at one particular drawingan A-line dress, V-neck, three-quarter sleeves, nothing flashy.
Thats the one, Margaret said. Thats exactly what I want.
Itll be ready in two weeks.
How much do I owe you?
Angela hesitated. She hadnt thought about charging.
I Im not sure, really.
Margaret gave a businesslike nod. Well, I know what this work costs at a decent boutique. Ill pay you that. Fairs fair.
It would double what Angela earned in those three accounting days.
Deal, she said, after a pause that lingered just on the right side of awkward.
After Margaret left, Irene emerged from her den.
Heard all that. Good sum, youve set your price right.
Yeah, Angela said quietly.
Angela, you should stick at it. Youre good at this.”
Angela looked at her long-lost relative.
Aunt Irene, can I ask Why did you let me stay? We barely knew each other.
Irene thought for a bit.
Because youre Graces daughter, arent you? Grace helped me out once, years ago. Couldnt not do the same. Thats how it works.
She disappeared back to the kitchen.
Angela wandered to the window. The same blank brick wall greeted her, except now it sported a new graffiti mural shed never noticed beforebright blue flowers, curling up the grey.
***
Sewing Margarets dress was a very different experience. Not for herself, but for another persona responsibility she hadnt counted on but felt every time she sat at that old machine.
She was meticulous: fabric was expensive, mistakes not an option. Crisp lines, hand-set zip, hidden hem.
When Margaret came for her fitting, the result was immediate.
My goodness, Margaret breathed, twirling before the battered mirror. Its just its just not who I normally see in the mirror.
Thats still you, Angela told her. Just in a really good dress.
No, Margaret countered, inspecting her reflection. When somethings made for you, you feel it, body and soul. Im standing straighter already.
There were some tweaks to make at the waist, which Angela pinned expertly. Margaret barely wanted to change out of the dress.
I must tell my friend Stellayoull get along. Shes just turned seventy and likes a good dress. And my sons fiancée is looking for something for her wedding, proper awkward figure. No pressurebut would you consider it?
Angela straightened up.
I would, she smiled.
Margaret nodded, as though that was the most natural conclusion in the world.
***
The next two months were a whirlwind. Not a bad, panicked rush, eithera sort of infectious bustle.
Stella requested a two-piece suit. Stellas neighbours daughter ordered a blouse and skirt. A thirty-something teacher from Irenes book clubfancier party dress. The teacher uploaded photos to Instagram, gushing about “finally finding a proper seamstress.” Suddenly, three more commissions rolled in.
Irenes spare room was overrun with fabric: heaped on the chair, the bed, draped over any horizontal surface. Windsor whirred each evening and often all Saturday.
Not once did Irene complain. Only once, standing eyeing the chaos, did she say, Angela, you could do with a bigger place, you know.
Angela only nodded.
Shed already thought of that. Business was picking up; in two months, shed earned more than half a years wages at her day job. Commissions kept pelting in.
Angela scoured the city centre for places. Two were hopelessdamp, cluttered, and reeking of bygone mistakes. But the third was perfect: a sunny room above an independent bookshop in a Georgian terrace, huge bay window, high ceilings, polished wood floors. A little dear, perhaps.
She did the sums: deposit, professional sewing machine, overlocker, cutting tableall her savings gone, probably a bit more. Shed need a small loan.
With uncharacteristic impulse, she rang Margaret.
Margaret, could I have your advice?
Im listening.
Angela explained. Margaret was silent a moment, then said:
Take the room. Ill lend you the money, zero interest, pay me back whenever you can.
I couldnt possibly
Angela, Margaret cut in, gently but firmly. You gave me the best birthday dress Ive ever owned. Let me do the decent thing in return. People ought to help each other now and again.
Angela was quiet.
And anyway, Margaret added with a warm laugh, Ive four more friends fighting over your waiting list. Think of it as investing in my own wardrobe options, will you?
***
Angela opened her dressmaking studio at the start of December.
She brought the Windsor, mostly sentimental now; the modern machine could stitch twice as fast, but old Windsor had pride of place by the window. The studio felt airya proper cutting table, smart glass-fronted cupboard for fabric and thread, two workstations, a huge free-standing mirror. She hung a few of her designs in frames.
Irene popped in, running her palm over the worktop, lingering at the mirror.
Nice, she declared approvingly.
Aunt Irene. Angela took her hand. I owe you something.
She produced an envelope. Irene looked scandalised.
No, love, you dont
I do. Back rent for all the months. Ive kept tabs.
I never did
Well I did. Please. Take it.
Irene relented, eyeing her affectionately.
Might just treat myself to a new fridge. The old one’s ready for recycling.
Well get one together, Angela promised.
They hit Currys, where Irene quizzed the young chap about iceboxes and settled on a two-door model in brushed steel.
Very smart, Irene pronounced, and the quiet excitement radiating from that new fridge made Angela realise that, at least today, shed done something right.
***
December was busyeveryone wanted something special for Christmas: work dos, family parties, church carols. Angela worked late, sometimes till nine, third mug of tea in hand, listening to the machines calming hum.
By January, pace slowed. She took on an apprentice, Alicea young mum who could neaten seams and do basic hems, though cutting was a work in progress. Angela rather enjoyed this new teaching larkdemonstrating, explaining, noticing Alices slow growth.
She finally quit her accountant job. Bit of a shame, the boss said, You were good. She stayed till April, out of politeness.
In March, a stranger rang up. Another woman wanting private sewing lessons, said Margaret had recommended her.
Im not really a teacher, Angela demurred.
But you can do it. Margaret spoke very highly.”
Angela considered.
Shall we try a lesson and see?
Thus came her first masterclass, then another, then a small group. Not simply sewing more, but sharingsomehow it fit in.
By spring, Angela moved out of Irenes.
She took a one-bed flat near the studio, third floor, with a proper, light kitchen. The walls were all white, properly white, not a smudge in sight. She unpacked, arranged her things, stitched her own curtains.
That first night, Angela sat with tea, gazing out over the birch trees in the little park beyond. Her first ever place of her own. Tiny, not quite homely yetbut hers.
***
She ran into Robert in late May.
She was walking from her studio through the square, sunshine filtering through young leaves, her bag heavy with swatches. He was heading her way.
She recognised him instantly, though he looked slightly thinner, suit a bit looser, gait a shade less sure.
He saw herpaused.
Angela didnt stop. Only when they were almost shoulder to shoulder did he say, Angela.
She stopped.
Hello, Rob.
He regarded her curiously, perhaps uncertain.
You look great, he managed.
Thank you.
Awkward silence. He dug his hands into his jacket pockets.
Heading home?
Yes. I live nearby.
Oh. Right.
A woman passed, pushing a pram, wheels rattling over the tarmac.
Angela, II was wondering if we could talk for a minute, he said at last, voice faltering.
She considered, then nodded. Lets sit on the bench.
They did. Robert stared at his clasped hands.
I dont know how to start, he sighed.
Just start, Angela said kindly.
She left, he blurted out. The woman Iwell, she left. Six months ago. Said I was boring, no drive. Ironic, eh?
I see.
Im living with Mum now. Rubbish job. My old place shut down. Everythings gone bust. Sometimes I think Ive made an enormous, irretrievable mistake.
Angela listened, impassive.
I took you for granted, he said quietly. You were always there, steady, real. I was looking for something I never knew what. Called you an empty space. God, Im sorry. I really am. I keep thinking about it.
Angela watched the birch leaves fluttering.
Rob, you arent to blame for falling out of love. Life happens.
He sat, silent.
But you are to blame for the way you ended it. ‘Empty space,’ ‘furniture,’ threatening to throw me out. That cut deep, for a long time.
I know, he whispered.
In a strange way, she continued, you did do me a favour.
He looked at her, puzzled.
You shoved me out. I was terrified, leaving with two bags and £900, utterly clueless. I lodged with Irene, cried every night. It was the pits.
But there, I found that old sewing machine. Remembered how I once loved making things, how you used to moan about it taking up space. I sewed one dress for myself. Then another. Now Ive a studio of my own in the city, clients, work that suits me. I like my life.
He watched her, something undefinable in his eyes.
If you hadnt forced me out, Id probably still be there. Spoon in hand, no idea who I was. Not thanks, exactly, butwell, thats how it happened.
So, you forgive me?
Angela pondered.
I dont resent you, Rob. But thats not the same as wanting to go back. Im settled, for the first time. Properly settled.
He stared elsewhere.
We could
No, Rob. She looked at him gently. Really, no.
The silence lasted. Not awkward, just long.
How’s, um, Irene? he asked. He’d met her once, a lifetime ago.
Shes well. Got her a fridge for Christmas. I go on Sundays, we play rummy.
He smiled, faintly genuine.
You always were a good soul, Angela.
So were you, really, she replied. We just didnt quite fit. Probably hadnt for ages.
She stood, hefting her bag.
Got to go?
Yes. Client at eight tomorrow, she can only make early mornings!
Well. Im glad youre happy.
And Im glad for you. And it was nothing but genuineno triumph, no bitterness, just the unadorned truth. She wished him well. There was really no point in anything else.
She walked away, feeling him watch her for a moment. Then, presumably, he shrugged and went his own way.
A birch tree cast a slender shadow across the pavement. Angela followed the strip of cool, her tote heavy with dark green wool and a catalogue of trim shed dog-eared for a client. In the morning shed see Mrs Lyons, a retired teacher gunning for a no-nonsense winter skirt, one that looked respectable in both the theatre and the GPs waiting room.
Angela pondered the designhow to flatter Mrs Lyonss short, curvy figure with a straight skirt, without it looking like a poorly-planned sausage casing.
As she thought, she noticed the scent of lilac growing stronger towards dusk, and a little boy zipped past on a scooter, singing the theme from Peppa Pig at full tilt. Someone in a ground-floor flat was frying onions; the smell tugged at something in her memory.
***
That evening, the studio lay dormantrule was, after seven, the machine stayed off. Instead, she popped in for her notebook of clients measurements. There was Windsor, sitting in its customary place, stoic as ever.
Angela ran her hand along the battered casing.
Thanks, she said, feeling a little silly.
Who else did you thank for your own good outcomes? Irene, Margaret, Alice who now hemmed like a pro? Maybe all of them, maybe fateor a pile-up of small, unwelcome changes that had led to this bright, high-ceilinged room.
She took her notebook, shut off the lights, locked up, and walked down to the street.
Norwich carried on, normal as ever: people strolling, traffic inching, children laughing somewhere out of sight. A bog-standard evening in May.
She ducked into Fresh Loaf, picked up a seeded baton and a small jar of award-winning Suffolk honey from the lady who kept her own bees.
Evening, Angela smiled.
Evening, love. This is first-of-the-season, youll love it on toast tomorrow.
Thanks, I will.
Angela stepped out. Bag in handbread, honey, her notebook, the catalogue of trims. Over her shoulders, last weeks own creation: a heavy ivory linen dress with a broad belt and wide sleeves. A good dress. Comfortable.
It was a ten-minute stroll home. She mentally sketched Mrs Lyonss skirt, reminded herself to order new thread, planned Alices next practice pattern.
She stopped thinking about work and just walked.
The sky over the houses still gleamed blush-pink in the west. Swifts darted, quick as ink. Life simmered out of sightcomplicated, unpredictable.
Some people wrote about happiness after divorce, as if it were a special type of joy. Angela thought of it differently: Im walking home. Ill get up early tomorrow. I have work I love. Aunt Irenes there for Sunday. Clients come, leave smiling. Windsors by the window. And above, an endless May evening.
It was enough, really.
Not fairy-tale abundance. Not tragic lack. Enough. Perhaps this was what people were looking for when they talked about second youth, or starting over, or learning confidence at any age. Not in one leap but bit by bit: one dress, then another, a studio, a flat, the simple pleasure of bread and honey.
She rang Irene.
Aunt Irene, are you in?
Course I am, watching Gardeners World. Why?
No reason. Just checking in.
Pause.
Are you coming Sunday?
Wouldnt miss it. Shall I bake pies?
With apples, if its not too much bother, Irene replied. I do like them with apples.
Course. Apple pies it is.
Angela pocketed her phone. Climbing up three flights to her little flat, she unlocked the door.
Her home smelled faintly of linen from yesterdays cuttingsshed been working at the kitchen table as it rained. Shed tidied up, but the smell lingered. A good smell.
She switched on the kettle, sliced the bread, opened the honey. The honey was pale gold, absolutely clear.
Outside, the swifts still darted but less so; the evening closing in.
Angela slathered honey on her bread, bit in, and reckoned the seller hadnt liedvery good honey indeed.
***
The morning arrived, bright and full of birds.
Mrs Lyons arrived, punctual to the chime of eight. She was a compact, lively woman with expertly curled white hair and a schoolmistresss directness.
Angela, dear, I brought a clippingthis is the kind of skirt Id like, but less balloon-like. You see?
She offered a printout. Solid design, elegant. Interesting challenge.
Have a seat, Mrs Lyons, and Ill show you how I plan to make it.
Mrs Lyons perched, hands folded.
You know, she remarked, eyeing the tidy workroom, for years I wanted a skirt like this, but never quite got round to it. Shops never have the right thing. But Mrs Redworth swore you changed her life with that dress. Thats good enough for me.
The best recommendation, Angela agreed.
She opened her notebook, fetched the measuring tape.
If youll just stand over here, please.
Mrs Lyons stood, straightening her jacket. She glanced in the full-length mirror.
You know, she went on, Ive been retired four years now. Thought Id given up caring about clothes. But then I thoughtwhy? Got plenty of life yet, touch wood. Why shouldnt I look decent?
Why indeed? said Angela.
She noted down numbers, thinking through techniques. The morning sun fell in crisp squares across the wooden floor. Windsor lurked in the corner, dignified with its old gold patterning. Alice would arrive at ten. Eleven brought the next client.
Angela measured, chalked up her lines, and got to work.
