began to eat hungrily: the cold air and an early breakfast had left their gap. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t properly dressed, Dad. I didn’t know you’d have a customer.’ A tailor’s daughter should proudly wear his handiwork.
‘Oh, you youngsters! I shouldn’t complain, though. Look what walked in this morning.’
He pointed at the far corner. A large roll of green velvet rested upright, its edges wrapped in tissue paper. In the soft light through a grimy window its surface shimmered.
‘Ever heard of the Remo Four? They’re one of the groups Brian Epstein’s signed. He told ’em to smarten themselves up, so one of them went down the market and bought that. It’s lovely stuff, fine silk velour, and they want four suits out of it.’
Their eyes met and both giggled. ‘They’ll look like a bunch of frogs.’ Helen helped herself to another sandwich then started to make the tea.
‘Won’t they just. Exotic, but that’s the effect they want. One of them’s portly so I’ll put a couple of hidden elastic panels in his trousers. Sewing it is a bugger. Every needle mark shows in weave that fine – no room for mistakes. I’ll probably make a toile first to get it right. That’s an old dress-making technique – haven’t done it in years.’
As she poured tea from the chipped teapot and stirred in milk and sugar Helen saw that the musicians’ need of his highest talents delighted her father. He continued, ‘They’d have done better with curtain material – damask or whatever, which would have taken some wear. Those outfits won’t last five minutes, but they’re for a TV programme. I told ’em it’d cost. They just hooted and said Brian’d pay.’
‘Customer is always right.’
‘Absolutely.’ Daniel reached for the notebook and scribbled a reminder to himself. He would ring NEMS before he laid a finger on the fabric.
Helen bit into a small apple. The discussion at school came back to her. Brenda’s careless remark that it must be ‘horrid’ to be Jewish, reinforced by her mother’s demand for conformity to rules – rules that produced that disgusting slaughterhouse – plus an increasing necessity to establish herself and her family in some sort of context, led her on. ‘Did you always want to be a tailor, Dad?’
‘God, no. I dreamed of being a draughtsman. At Cammell Laird’s. But that apprenticeship cost money – you had to buy your own tools if you didn’t have your father’s – and tailoring didn’t. So here I am. But I’m not a tailor , child. The tailor is Mr Mannheim upstairs. A tailor sews. I’m a tailor’s cutter – much more skilled. And more important: if the tailor makes a wrong stitch he can unpick it. If the cutter makes a mistake he ruins a whole bolt of cloth.’
He accepted the mug of tea. On its side was a faded coat of arms flanked by the two Liver birds and the legend ‘1207–1957’ underneath, a relic of a civic celebration. ‘In the factories it’s done by machine now. The jeans your pals wear: they’re cut fifty at a time by automatic knives, each pair identical. Don’t need an apprenticeship to learn that.’ He paused moodily. ‘But there’ll always be customers who like a jacket that fits, a pair of trousers which sit well, and who’ll pay the extra. I hope.’
With a hint of weariness he rose and went out on to the landing. Helen could hear him use the tiny smelly toilet and wash his hands. Quickly she gathered up the remains of their lunch. The greaseproof paper was folded and could be used again.
She settled herself in a corner. ‘Can I watch?’
‘Sure.’ Daniel lit another cigarette and balanced it carefully next to the previous stub which had gone out. On principle he would not relight a cold butt; he declared that they tasted awful and that he was not yet reduced to such penury. The hot raw smoke caught his chest and he coughed. In the morning he would rise and torture the family with much clearing of mucus. Since that happened
‘Oh, you youngsters! I shouldn’t complain, though. Look what walked in this morning.’
He pointed at the far corner. A large roll of green velvet rested upright, its edges wrapped in tissue paper. In the soft light through a grimy window its surface shimmered.
‘Ever heard of the Remo Four? They’re one of the groups Brian Epstein’s signed. He told ’em to smarten themselves up, so one of them went down the market and bought that. It’s lovely stuff, fine silk velour, and they want four suits out of it.’
Their eyes met and both giggled. ‘They’ll look like a bunch of frogs.’ Helen helped herself to another sandwich then started to make the tea.
‘Won’t they just. Exotic, but that’s the effect they want. One of them’s portly so I’ll put a couple of hidden elastic panels in his trousers. Sewing it is a bugger. Every needle mark shows in weave that fine – no room for mistakes. I’ll probably make a toile first to get it right. That’s an old dress-making technique – haven’t done it in years.’
As she poured tea from the chipped teapot and stirred in milk and sugar Helen saw that the musicians’ need of his highest talents delighted her father. He continued, ‘They’d have done better with curtain material – damask or whatever, which would have taken some wear. Those outfits won’t last five minutes, but they’re for a TV programme. I told ’em it’d cost. They just hooted and said Brian’d pay.’
‘Customer is always right.’
‘Absolutely.’ Daniel reached for the notebook and scribbled a reminder to himself. He would ring NEMS before he laid a finger on the fabric.
Helen bit into a small apple. The discussion at school came back to her. Brenda’s careless remark that it must be ‘horrid’ to be Jewish, reinforced by her mother’s demand for conformity to rules – rules that produced that disgusting slaughterhouse – plus an increasing necessity to establish herself and her family in some sort of context, led her on. ‘Did you always want to be a tailor, Dad?’
‘God, no. I dreamed of being a draughtsman. At Cammell Laird’s. But that apprenticeship cost money – you had to buy your own tools if you didn’t have your father’s – and tailoring didn’t. So here I am. But I’m not a tailor , child. The tailor is Mr Mannheim upstairs. A tailor sews. I’m a tailor’s cutter – much more skilled. And more important: if the tailor makes a wrong stitch he can unpick it. If the cutter makes a mistake he ruins a whole bolt of cloth.’
He accepted the mug of tea. On its side was a faded coat of arms flanked by the two Liver birds and the legend ‘1207–1957’ underneath, a relic of a civic celebration. ‘In the factories it’s done by machine now. The jeans your pals wear: they’re cut fifty at a time by automatic knives, each pair identical. Don’t need an apprenticeship to learn that.’ He paused moodily. ‘But there’ll always be customers who like a jacket that fits, a pair of trousers which sit well, and who’ll pay the extra. I hope.’
With a hint of weariness he rose and went out on to the landing. Helen could hear him use the tiny smelly toilet and wash his hands. Quickly she gathered up the remains of their lunch. The greaseproof paper was folded and could be used again.
She settled herself in a corner. ‘Can I watch?’
‘Sure.’ Daniel lit another cigarette and balanced it carefully next to the previous stub which had gone out. On principle he would not relight a cold butt; he declared that they tasted awful and that he was not yet reduced to such penury. The hot raw smoke caught his chest and he coughed. In the morning he would rise and torture the family with much clearing of mucus. Since that happened
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