Page 73

23 April 1942

Dear Izzie,

I hope you will forgive me for not writing to you for a few days, but I do not want you to think that it is because I didn’t receive your last letter. On the contrary, I wanted to carefully consider what you said.

You are right. I don’t pretend to know what our mother was like after I left home and you stayed. I can’t pretend that that simple fact alone doesn’t make you eminently more qualified to understand more about our mother than I ever could. Yet, in some ways our mother must have been as much a mystery to you as she was to me. Why else would you have been so surprised that she left Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions to both of us?

There is one thing that I suspect I know of Maggie Shelton that you do not because you were far too young. Our mother was brave.

You were only seven when Papa died, so you might not remember those terrible days after the police came to our door and told our mother what happened. It’s strange that, other than our tears, the thing I remember most about that time is the telephone ringing and ringing. I loved the telephone with its candlestick receiver, but I didn’t understand why anyone would want to telephone us when everything was so sad. Years later, I realized that it must have been Papa’s banker and his solicitor. Perhaps it was the creditors descending like vultures, trying to collect their piece of him now that he was dead.

This went on until one day, our mother announced we were going out. She dressed both of us up in our very best clothes—she made beautiful frilled dresses for us out of love rather than necessity in those days—and took us on the bus. I remember that she held both of our hands tightly the entire way, and when we climbed off the bus she checked us over, straightening collars and fluffing bows. I didn’t understand why she wanted us to be perfect, but I could tell it was important, so I stood up as straight as I could and tried not to undo her good work.

It was only when we were walking up to the front door that I realized we were at Papa’s parents’ house. I remembered the black door standing out starkly against the white-painted front from our Christmas visits. I do not recall ever crossing the threshold other than during the festive season.

Our grandparents’ housekeeper let us into the drawing room and told us to wait. To my eleven-year-old mind it felt like we were there for an age, although I suspect that in reality it was only twenty minutes—just long enough to assure our mother of the reception she was about to receive from the elder Sheltons. When, finally, our grandmother and grandfather entered the room, it was clear that they did not care to see us. But our mother sat there, her back unbending, and explained the situation. Papa had overstretched himself to purchase our house in Ladbroke Grove. There was a mortgage. There were other debts. There was no money, and the creditors were calling to try to collect whatever they could.

“Our son would never be so irresponsible,” our grandmother had said, clearly horrified at the news of Papa’s debts.

“I can assure you that he was,” said our mother, her voice taking on that hardened quality it had when she was no longer willing to tolerate a person’s denial.

The longer our mother spoke, the more I could see our grandparents clam up. They wouldn’t look at you or me, and I wanted to reach out to tell our mother to stop. Whatever she was doing, stop, because these people did not want us there in their drawing room.

Then she asked for help.

She told the two of us to stand up and she said, “Peter always intended for the girls to receive a good education. Sylvia already has a place at an excellent school, but there is the matter of the fees. Will you please help your grandchildren?”

Our grandfather ordered you and me out of the room then but I already knew. The answer was never going to be yes.

We left and I thought that would be it, but after a fortnight, our mother put on her Sunday best once again and left us with the next-door neighbor. When she came back that afternoon, she said that she had been to see our grandparents and that everything was arranged. She explained that things would be different from now on. We would be moving. There would be no more trips to the seaside, no more cook or maid-of-all-work. We would both go to new schools. Our mother would open a shop and begin to work.

To this day, I don’t know how our mother convinced the Sheltons to give her enough money to set herself up in business. Did she humble herself and allow them to berate her for ruining the future of a son for whom they had great ambitions? Did she threaten to expose them for their miserly ways and their willingness to abandon their granddaughters? Whatever she did, I didn’t understand at the time the magnitude of her sacrifice for us. However, I’ve lived enough of life to have come to admire her greatly for doing what she had to in order to provide for us.

However, for all of our mother’s bravery and her determination, she was a woman, flawed and complicated. The very thing I admire her for—pulling herself up out of difficulties, first when she married our father and then again after he died—made her terrified of anything that might threaten her place in the world once again. You cannot deny, Izzie, that our mother would not take risks, and that is why Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions has been producing the same dresses since the twenties even as fashion has evolved. Our mother found a niche and built a business out of her talent as a seamstress, but she was neither a fashion plate nor a tastemaker.

Perhaps I should have been more straightforward with you weeks ago. Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions is in trouble. Our mother never carried debt, and she bought the building that Mrs. Shelton’s occupies as soon as she could. Both of those have proven to be incredibly prudent decisions. However, she was deficient and unwilling to accept help in many other ways. Our clientele has begun to dwindle to the point that we need to bring new customers through our doors, and quickly—otherwise we may not have doors to open any longer. We need to adapt to the Board of Trade’s new rules, and that means evolving our business practices and our designs. We cannot stand on outdated principles. Mrs. Shelton’s must change.

I ask you to believe me when I tell you that the business will not survive the war in its current state. That means that sometimes we will we need to go against our mother’s years of wisdom and experience. Sometimes we will need to openly defy her very fundamental beliefs about what the business could be. We must evolve.

I made a promise to myself when you left on the train for Innsworth that I would protect the shop while you are gone. I apologize again for not thinking to ask to use your sketches, but I hope you will believe me when I say that I was only doing what I thought was best for Mrs. Shelton’s Fashions. For you, Izzie.

Yours,

Sylvia

P.S. William stopped by the shop the other night while I was doing some work after closing for the day. I sometimes worry that he is lonely and has to settle for my company. Anyway, he asked after you.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Izzie nearly stumbled as Lottie and Amelia danced up to Alexandra and her in the lane and swept up their hands to tug them along.

“If all of you don’t hurry up, we’ll be late!” called Amelia over her shoulder.

“All right, all right,” said Izzie with a laugh.

“I don’t know why there’s such a rush,” grumbled Nancy behind them, but even she couldn’t completely hide her excitement.

The moment they’d arrived at RAF Horsham St Faith, they’d learned that the Assembly Hall dances were the highlight of everyone’s month. Apparently every WAAF and RAF man from all over north Norfolk who could manage permission to leave base would pour in and, fueled by a band and pints, would dance and flirt the night away. It was a bit of fun, a break from the business of war.