mother needed anything. To her horror she found Kathleen even more breathless than
usual, and as she moved closer she saw tears running down her mother’s shiny red cheeks.
Daisy didn’t need to ask why. Kathleen Sheridan was crying for the loss of her ambitions for her daughter with the beautiful voice, the loss of the future she had planned and dreamed of
for herself and then for Kay. Her daughter would have put right what had happened to Kathleen Clancy’s career, but now there was only a double tragedy that no one and nothing could put right.
Daisy knew she couldn’t put an arm round her; it only increased Kathleen’s sensation of being unable to breathe. It was space her mother’s body craved, so Daisy sat on the bed
beside her, holding her hand till she fell asleep, then she went and put three blankets on the couch, pulled one on top of her and lay down to sleep herself.
7
In the months that followed, Daisy kept her distance from the rest of the family as much as possible. She saw to her mother’s needs and still ran the house, but it was
with a new detachment that she didn’t understand herself.
Mrs Johnstone had given her a second-hand Singer sewing machine saying she had bought it out of vanity and knew she could never get the hang of it, so Daisy might as well be doing some good with
it. Daisy had made polite refusals for form’s sake, but she loved the machine. It was the most precious thing she owned, though it had to sit in the hallway because there was no room for it
anywhere else in the house. Before Kay’s marriage, Daisy had sat there by herself, sewing her versions of the clothes she saw and wore at work, fuming over her inability to create a skirt
sewn on the bias and fuming even more when Joan laughed at her for trying anything so ambitious.
Sitting at her machine she had mastered French seaming, sewing a seam on the right side then turning it to the wrong side and sewing another that enclosed the first; so that no ragged edges
showed. Quality was the key, that was what Joan always said. There were no shortcuts, the basics were important, and even material that wasn’t silk – Daisy’s favourite –
could be made to perform well and look good if the basics were mastered. Daisy learned the importance of detail, too, sewing little frills of lace on her blouse collars while removing anything
tacky that betrayed cheapness. ‘When you come across anything of bad taste,’ Joan would say severely, ‘you must avert your eyes, Daisy, or it will mar your judgement
forevermore!’
Daisy would laugh at her, but gradually she understood and her confidence in her eye grew stronger. She and her machine changed plain buttons for unusual ones, added matching colours to brighten
up the ordinary, and attached white collars to everything, because, as Joan said, that Chanel woman was absolutely right, there was no face so perfect that it couldn’t be improved by the
reflected glow from something white underneath.
The little machine had become her best companion out of working hours, but when Dessie had moved in all that came to an end. If he wasn’t going out to the pub he would stand behind her as
she worked, making her so conscious of his presence that she could feel his eyes and his breath on her; and if he was out drinking he could still come back at any moment and then loom behind her.
She knew he did it to make her feel uncomfortable; the other household doors were shut and might as well have been miles away. It was his way of establishing power over her, but she preferred to
give in rather than join in with his games, so the sewing machine was abandoned and she went back to sewing everything by hand when the household chores were done – even when he wasn’t
there. She had thought of sleeping in one of the cold, damp, unused bedrooms upstairs, though they had no beds, but the thought of him being so close at night put her off. Once he’d joined
Kay, Daisy was at a safer
usual, and as she moved closer she saw tears running down her mother’s shiny red cheeks.
Daisy didn’t need to ask why. Kathleen Sheridan was crying for the loss of her ambitions for her daughter with the beautiful voice, the loss of the future she had planned and dreamed of
for herself and then for Kay. Her daughter would have put right what had happened to Kathleen Clancy’s career, but now there was only a double tragedy that no one and nothing could put right.
Daisy knew she couldn’t put an arm round her; it only increased Kathleen’s sensation of being unable to breathe. It was space her mother’s body craved, so Daisy sat on the bed
beside her, holding her hand till she fell asleep, then she went and put three blankets on the couch, pulled one on top of her and lay down to sleep herself.
7
In the months that followed, Daisy kept her distance from the rest of the family as much as possible. She saw to her mother’s needs and still ran the house, but it was
with a new detachment that she didn’t understand herself.
Mrs Johnstone had given her a second-hand Singer sewing machine saying she had bought it out of vanity and knew she could never get the hang of it, so Daisy might as well be doing some good with
it. Daisy had made polite refusals for form’s sake, but she loved the machine. It was the most precious thing she owned, though it had to sit in the hallway because there was no room for it
anywhere else in the house. Before Kay’s marriage, Daisy had sat there by herself, sewing her versions of the clothes she saw and wore at work, fuming over her inability to create a skirt
sewn on the bias and fuming even more when Joan laughed at her for trying anything so ambitious.
Sitting at her machine she had mastered French seaming, sewing a seam on the right side then turning it to the wrong side and sewing another that enclosed the first; so that no ragged edges
showed. Quality was the key, that was what Joan always said. There were no shortcuts, the basics were important, and even material that wasn’t silk – Daisy’s favourite –
could be made to perform well and look good if the basics were mastered. Daisy learned the importance of detail, too, sewing little frills of lace on her blouse collars while removing anything
tacky that betrayed cheapness. ‘When you come across anything of bad taste,’ Joan would say severely, ‘you must avert your eyes, Daisy, or it will mar your judgement
forevermore!’
Daisy would laugh at her, but gradually she understood and her confidence in her eye grew stronger. She and her machine changed plain buttons for unusual ones, added matching colours to brighten
up the ordinary, and attached white collars to everything, because, as Joan said, that Chanel woman was absolutely right, there was no face so perfect that it couldn’t be improved by the
reflected glow from something white underneath.
The little machine had become her best companion out of working hours, but when Dessie had moved in all that came to an end. If he wasn’t going out to the pub he would stand behind her as
she worked, making her so conscious of his presence that she could feel his eyes and his breath on her; and if he was out drinking he could still come back at any moment and then loom behind her.
She knew he did it to make her feel uncomfortable; the other household doors were shut and might as well have been miles away. It was his way of establishing power over her, but she preferred to
give in rather than join in with his games, so the sewing machine was abandoned and she went back to sewing everything by hand when the household chores were done – even when he wasn’t
there. She had thought of sleeping in one of the cold, damp, unused bedrooms upstairs, though they had no beds, but the thought of him being so close at night put her off. Once he’d joined
Kay, Daisy was at a safer
Similar Books
