having something to do helped her cope with missing him just a little bit better. She enlisted Marie’s help in setting up the sewing machine, and Marie had shot straight upstairs to get Patrick, who appeared on Sunday morning carrying a fold-out table he’d found at the junk shop on the Parade. Marie had her own contribution: a boxful of old curtains and a stack of vintage bedding.
‘They were my mother’s,’ Marie explained, throwing the fabric onto Kate’s bed with no care at all. ‘I’ve never had a clue what to do with them.’
Kate picked up a set of curtains – sunshine yellow with a pattern of green and gold leaves – and stroked them in awe. ‘These are silk,’ she said. ‘They must be worth a fortune.’ The fabric was soft against her cheek; they smelt of perfume, the flowery kind that no one wore anymore.
Marie shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t want them. Maybe you could make me a dress or something,’ she added, laughing as though the very idea was completely impossible. But Kate nodded slowly.
A swift assessment of the contents of her storage box had produced very few wearable clothes for Kate herself. Most of the items she had thought to be clothing when they were vacuum-packed in the transparent storage bags had turned out to be either her own collection of fabric scraps or the bits and pieces she’d made for Sam during the first few months of his life. These were currently hanging in Sam’s room, or in what would soon be his room, even though it was doubtful they’d actually fit him. Kate’s favourite piece was a sailor’s outfit she’d constructed for Sam when he was six months old. She remembered that she had used offcuts from an old shirt Evan left behind, and some navy cord from a skirt she sourced in a charity shop. The buttons had been scavenged from a jacket left behind from Kate’s clubbing days, the ship design perfect for the tiny outfit. Kate had sat at the kitchen table for hours, working in the light of an angle-poise lamp clamped to the edge of the chipped Formica, sewing on the buttons so securely they could never be pulled off by tiny hands. The sailor suit was her finest piece, and she longed to show it to Sam. She wondered whether he would remember it – maybe not consciously, but perhaps the memory of the sense of it, of how she had made it just for him, would have lived on inside him somehow.
There was no sign of the angle-poise lamp, but the table Patrick had bought for her was practically the twin of her old one. Kate tried to pay him for it, but Patrick wouldn’t hear of it.
‘It cost buttons,’ he told her. He was under the table, replacing a blown fuse in the socket she needed for the sewing machine. Kate watched him from her perch on the bed. He was lovely, there was no denying it. Even in his Sunday scruffs – loose T-shirt and greying shorts – he had a presence that made Kate aware of his every movement. He was different from Evan, different from any man Kate had met before.
Patrick was nice.
‘Well, that’s lucky, because I have buttons,’ she said lightly. ‘I can pay you with them.’
He eased out from under the table and looked up at her, his eyes twinkling. ‘Okay. It’s a deal. You can pay me in buttons.’
Was he flirting with her? Kate had no idea. But if she couldn’t read his signals, she was even less adept at reading her own.
***
On Monday morning, Kate dressed in her smartest pair of jeans and a white blouse she remembered buying from a Manchester boutique during one of her flush spells.
‘Morning,’ Marie said, magically appearing in her doorway just as Kate reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘Off out, are we?’
‘Physio,’ Kate explained with a grimace.
‘Ah, yes. Hold on a minute.’ Marie disappeared back into her part of the house, which Kate had yet to explore, but which she imagined to be decorated in bright, gaudy colours with lamps shrouded in tasselled scarves and cushions plumping up every conceivable
‘They were my mother’s,’ Marie explained, throwing the fabric onto Kate’s bed with no care at all. ‘I’ve never had a clue what to do with them.’
Kate picked up a set of curtains – sunshine yellow with a pattern of green and gold leaves – and stroked them in awe. ‘These are silk,’ she said. ‘They must be worth a fortune.’ The fabric was soft against her cheek; they smelt of perfume, the flowery kind that no one wore anymore.
Marie shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t want them. Maybe you could make me a dress or something,’ she added, laughing as though the very idea was completely impossible. But Kate nodded slowly.
A swift assessment of the contents of her storage box had produced very few wearable clothes for Kate herself. Most of the items she had thought to be clothing when they were vacuum-packed in the transparent storage bags had turned out to be either her own collection of fabric scraps or the bits and pieces she’d made for Sam during the first few months of his life. These were currently hanging in Sam’s room, or in what would soon be his room, even though it was doubtful they’d actually fit him. Kate’s favourite piece was a sailor’s outfit she’d constructed for Sam when he was six months old. She remembered that she had used offcuts from an old shirt Evan left behind, and some navy cord from a skirt she sourced in a charity shop. The buttons had been scavenged from a jacket left behind from Kate’s clubbing days, the ship design perfect for the tiny outfit. Kate had sat at the kitchen table for hours, working in the light of an angle-poise lamp clamped to the edge of the chipped Formica, sewing on the buttons so securely they could never be pulled off by tiny hands. The sailor suit was her finest piece, and she longed to show it to Sam. She wondered whether he would remember it – maybe not consciously, but perhaps the memory of the sense of it, of how she had made it just for him, would have lived on inside him somehow.
There was no sign of the angle-poise lamp, but the table Patrick had bought for her was practically the twin of her old one. Kate tried to pay him for it, but Patrick wouldn’t hear of it.
‘It cost buttons,’ he told her. He was under the table, replacing a blown fuse in the socket she needed for the sewing machine. Kate watched him from her perch on the bed. He was lovely, there was no denying it. Even in his Sunday scruffs – loose T-shirt and greying shorts – he had a presence that made Kate aware of his every movement. He was different from Evan, different from any man Kate had met before.
Patrick was nice.
‘Well, that’s lucky, because I have buttons,’ she said lightly. ‘I can pay you with them.’
He eased out from under the table and looked up at her, his eyes twinkling. ‘Okay. It’s a deal. You can pay me in buttons.’
Was he flirting with her? Kate had no idea. But if she couldn’t read his signals, she was even less adept at reading her own.
***
On Monday morning, Kate dressed in her smartest pair of jeans and a white blouse she remembered buying from a Manchester boutique during one of her flush spells.
‘Morning,’ Marie said, magically appearing in her doorway just as Kate reached the bottom of the stairs. ‘Off out, are we?’
‘Physio,’ Kate explained with a grimace.
‘Ah, yes. Hold on a minute.’ Marie disappeared back into her part of the house, which Kate had yet to explore, but which she imagined to be decorated in bright, gaudy colours with lamps shrouded in tasselled scarves and cushions plumping up every conceivable
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