Peaches knew better than to roll her eyes, even if this was her one-hundredth time hearing this. Behind her, on an old mannequin, hung the signature garment of her entire collection. A white leather jacket she’d found in an online vintage shop and managed to wangle for twenty-five quid due to its being very worn indeed, and she’d deconstructed the entire thing down to its constituent panels, re-cutting them to her own pattern, forming a wrap-around corset that tied at the back, before stiffening the old leather by soaking, shaping and then baking it, stitching in a lining of white cotton (which she’d found as deadstock in the Cairn Dhu charity shop), before reinforcing the cut leather edges with heavy white and silver hand embroidery (Willie had referred to this part of Peaches’ process as ‘upholstery’). Then she’d elevated the entire thing with her signature stiffened paper patches, rag fragments, tiny Indian mirrors and metal charms (all reclaimed, found, borrowed, or repurposed) as well as some highly pigmented brushstrokes of metallic paint, so that the whole thing had a scrappy, crafty, highly embellished, utterly unique finish, emphasising the slow, planet-conscious ethos that characterised Peaches’ collection.
‘But… I’m sure you know what you’re doing,’ Carenza finished, resorting to pride once more, before taking the glass offered by McIntyre. ‘A toast,’ she announced, like a theatrical queen. ‘To Peaches McDowell!’
‘Here to revolutionise the fashion industry!’ Willie added.
‘One sustainable, repaired and redesigned garment at a time!’ Roz put in, before everyone’s glasses met in the middle.
‘Slàinte Mhath!’ they all said at once.
Peaches wasn’t the type to make speeches, being only twenty-three and still very much in the shadow of her domineering mother, but she thanked everyone and thirstily downed her drink as talk turned to the runway rehearsal Peaches was planning to stage here in the big shed in a week’s time; a dress rehearsal to see how the garments moved when walked in (and to identify if any bits stretched or weakened when being used), before making the very final modifications.
‘And you’re sure you don’t need more models for your showcase runway?’ asked Rhona Gifford, now pink-cheeked from half a glass of bubbly, pulling at the leg of her corduroys to show off an orthopaedic sandal and a glimpse of American Tan pop sock. ‘Senga and me were quite the fashion plates in the seventies, you ken?’
Senga tutted at this and gave her younger sister a playful knock on the arm.
‘Fashion plates?’ Willie mouthed at a grinning Peaches who, trying not to laugh, shrugged back at her friend.
Willie and Peaches were as thick as thieves, even if Willie was a tiny bit sorry not to be completing his own fashion runway this summer. A winter bout of glandular fever had put paid to his studies this year and he’d sensibly deferred his showcase until next year. Still, Peaches knew it must sting a bit seeing her so close to graduating, even if she hadn’t heard him complain once.
‘Cary here would make a braw model,’ Sachin put in helpfully. ‘Every day’s a catwalk for him.’
All eyes turned to the handsome Cary, who pretended to flick a speck of dust from his shirt cuff. He was wearing yet another variation on his classic vintage waistcoat and baggy tailored trousers signature look, set off by his beautifully pomaded dark waves. He’d always been quietly confident, but since falling for the new doctor earlier this year (and after a fair bit of patience and pining found his love returned tenfold by the devoted Dr Alice Hargreave), he’d carried himself with an even greater poise and self-assurance.
The truth was Peaches had asked Cary to be her model right at the beginning of the semester, but he’d replied, quite rightly, that he was ‘a fair bit older than your collection’s target audience, am I no’?’
‘I’ll be fine with Willie’s modelling, thanks,’ Peaches told the sisters. ‘And you’re only allowed two models anyway.’
‘Sticking with just yerself and Willie, then?’ Rhona confirmed, still jolly. ‘Fair dos.’
‘But thanks for the offer,’ the young designer added. ‘And thanks, all of you, for letting me use the repair shop in the evenings, and your machines. There’s nothing better than these classic old overlockers.’ She gestured to the machines set up in Roz’s sewing station under the purple velvet ‘Make do and Mend’ banner that had the look of something the Suffragettes might have marched under.
Carenza’s face soured considerably at this.
‘Nae bother,’ McIntyre told the student as he topped up her glass, since this was, technically, his repair shed.
‘The light’s just so good in here,’ Peaches added. ‘And there was always someone around to keep me company.’
Roz McIntyre rubbed at her young protégée’s arm, knowing Peaches was mostly talking about her. Since Roz and McIntyre’s adult son, Murray, had moved into his own little townhouse down the road with his mountain ranger boyfriend, Finlay Morlich, she’d been glad of a project to really dedicate herself to.
The truth was, Roz was grateful to have the repair shop and the sweet and ditzy Peaches and Willie to distract her from her empty nest. These two fashion students had been coming here from the earliest days of the fixing barn, having responded to her advert for volunteer sewist-apprentices to help out with alterations on Saturdays.
It was three years since the shed opened its doors and that very first morning when the two awkward undergraduates had arrived to help out and learn as much as they could from Roz, who’d been sewing and knitting, darning and pattern-cutting as a hobbyist since her own student days in the early nineties.
The truth was, as her protégés excelled in their degree course, their skills had outstripped Roz’s and a slow role-reversal had taken place until they were the ones teaching her new techniques.
Neither Willie nor Peaches, however, had been astute enough to pick up on another shift taking place in Roz’s world; one that had seen her slowly sinking into herself. They couldn’t know – because no one knew – that Roz was viewing her life in Cairn Dhu as though from behind thick glass, not quite connected, never fully present.
‘And you’ve got your essay written for the college too?’ Roz asked, the master of hiding her feelings.
‘You mean her assessed design statement?’ Carenza crowed. ‘Tell them the title, Peach, darling.’
Peaches reached for her phone, finding her notes. ‘It’s called Project Preloved. A creative reflection on the design ethics and artistic processes behind my Master’s year project, a collection of sustainably sourced and thrifted garments, deconstructed and remade, integrating mixed media including scrap fabric, paper and other non-plastic “junk” materials and embellishments.’
Carenza tried to initiate a round of applause at this, but Peaches cut the smattering short. ‘My collection’s still got to be assessed at the uni showcase on the thirtieth, don’t forget.’ Peaches’ tone was cautioning, deflecting the excitement. ‘I still might not pass.’
‘Nonsense!’ Carenza tutted, doing what she did best and shutting down what she saw as unnecessary negativity. ‘The showcase is a mere formality, surely. You’re on your way to great things.’
‘Walpurgisnacht is nae night for an exam!’ Senga pitched in, in a voice so needlessly dramatic everyone stopped to stare at her once more.
