worn-out boots with lop-sided tongues and split edges, which were
too small for me to bother mending. I pulled open the tops and traced my fingers around the insides where my mother’s ankles
had once been. I wondered how much I could get in the pawn-shop for them, and if she would have minded.
Underneath them all was a dress, laid up in lavender. It was nothing special, but it was silk, and a most excellent, strong
silk at that, which had scarcely worn at the elbows and where the sash rubbed, despite the fact that it was over forty years
old. It had been given to my mother by the lady of the house where she was governess, who had never worn it. It was markedly
of the fashions of the twenties, and my mother had tried in vain to update it to suit first her, and then me. I had worn it
twice, on the summer evenings when Peter took me to Cremorne and the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, and always felt clumsy and
outdated in it, but I loved the way it felt against my skin, and the colours – a plain, cornflower blue, with a yellow silk
underskirt – were charming.
I knew immediately that it would do. I wondered why I had not thought of selling it to the Jew, or Huggity, or even taking
it north to the clothes traders off the Strand, but I was grateful to the guiding heavens that I had not. Its purpose was
now more than as a dress to a gentlewoman or a poor unfashionable bookseller’s betrothed. This was not a dress whose time
was over. It was several books whose life had only just begun.
Lucinda helped me unpick every seam with care, and we reserved the thin strips of cream lace around the cuffs and neckline.
Even the tiny triangles of silk from the darts around the bust and waist I saved, thinking I could use them for appliqué.
I only had to discard a square panel from the back of the skirts, where there was an indelible grass stain.
Then Lucinda and I teased out whatever coloured threads we could find from my workbasket, chatting, and laughing even. Over
the years I had kept the remnants of every headband I had ever sewn, and like any good housewife I had a variety of colours
and textures, silks, cottons and linens. The pinks, golds and creams I laid on top of the blue silk; by that evening they
had become embroidered flowers. The silver purl I laid on top of the yellow silk; this found its way to being plaited and
stitched on in elegant curls. Also in the suitcase was a patterned twill that was interesting enough of itself, and could
be transformed into a handsome desk book, striped with the delicate burgundy leather off-cuts – the ones pared off from spines
and edges that would be considered too thin to use – which I would learn to chase and répoussé with a simple scroll design, running from the raised bands of the back to within a half-inch of the fore-edge. I even cut
up a cushion, which, once I had discarded the shabby trimmings, would become a purple velvet album, embroidered with gold
thread and coloured silks in a rose and thistle design, with ornate gilt corner pieces, and pale pink ribbon ties.
Lucinda and I brought them back to Peter in the workshop, and watched his face carefully as he fingered through them, and
laid them out with care.
‘It is just as well you have found these. I have come to the conclusion that the journals must all be half-leather, and you
have done well to find the material for the front and back faces,’ Peter said solemnly. ‘Furthermore, we must continue without
Jack. I fear we have no choice.’
Lucinda clapped her hands. ‘We have worked hard, Papa! It was fun!’ I smoothed her hair and kissed her; I too was relishing
the prospect of the next phase of work.
First Lucinda and I folded and rubbed the papers with polished bone while Peter soaked his hands in Epsom Salts, and then
I worked out the various stitches that would be required for each type of book. Peter had always been happy for me to do this:
he asked my opinion
too small for me to bother mending. I pulled open the tops and traced my fingers around the insides where my mother’s ankles
had once been. I wondered how much I could get in the pawn-shop for them, and if she would have minded.
Underneath them all was a dress, laid up in lavender. It was nothing special, but it was silk, and a most excellent, strong
silk at that, which had scarcely worn at the elbows and where the sash rubbed, despite the fact that it was over forty years
old. It had been given to my mother by the lady of the house where she was governess, who had never worn it. It was markedly
of the fashions of the twenties, and my mother had tried in vain to update it to suit first her, and then me. I had worn it
twice, on the summer evenings when Peter took me to Cremorne and the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, and always felt clumsy and
outdated in it, but I loved the way it felt against my skin, and the colours – a plain, cornflower blue, with a yellow silk
underskirt – were charming.
I knew immediately that it would do. I wondered why I had not thought of selling it to the Jew, or Huggity, or even taking
it north to the clothes traders off the Strand, but I was grateful to the guiding heavens that I had not. Its purpose was
now more than as a dress to a gentlewoman or a poor unfashionable bookseller’s betrothed. This was not a dress whose time
was over. It was several books whose life had only just begun.
Lucinda helped me unpick every seam with care, and we reserved the thin strips of cream lace around the cuffs and neckline.
Even the tiny triangles of silk from the darts around the bust and waist I saved, thinking I could use them for appliqué.
I only had to discard a square panel from the back of the skirts, where there was an indelible grass stain.
Then Lucinda and I teased out whatever coloured threads we could find from my workbasket, chatting, and laughing even. Over
the years I had kept the remnants of every headband I had ever sewn, and like any good housewife I had a variety of colours
and textures, silks, cottons and linens. The pinks, golds and creams I laid on top of the blue silk; by that evening they
had become embroidered flowers. The silver purl I laid on top of the yellow silk; this found its way to being plaited and
stitched on in elegant curls. Also in the suitcase was a patterned twill that was interesting enough of itself, and could
be transformed into a handsome desk book, striped with the delicate burgundy leather off-cuts – the ones pared off from spines
and edges that would be considered too thin to use – which I would learn to chase and répoussé with a simple scroll design, running from the raised bands of the back to within a half-inch of the fore-edge. I even cut
up a cushion, which, once I had discarded the shabby trimmings, would become a purple velvet album, embroidered with gold
thread and coloured silks in a rose and thistle design, with ornate gilt corner pieces, and pale pink ribbon ties.
Lucinda and I brought them back to Peter in the workshop, and watched his face carefully as he fingered through them, and
laid them out with care.
‘It is just as well you have found these. I have come to the conclusion that the journals must all be half-leather, and you
have done well to find the material for the front and back faces,’ Peter said solemnly. ‘Furthermore, we must continue without
Jack. I fear we have no choice.’
Lucinda clapped her hands. ‘We have worked hard, Papa! It was fun!’ I smoothed her hair and kissed her; I too was relishing
the prospect of the next phase of work.
First Lucinda and I folded and rubbed the papers with polished bone while Peter soaked his hands in Epsom Salts, and then
I worked out the various stitches that would be required for each type of book. Peter had always been happy for me to do this:
he asked my opinion
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