Read Online The End of the Alphabet by Cs Richardson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cs Richardson
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startling yellow tie. At his final fitting, with Zipper observing, Ambrose suggested a matching yellow carnationfor the lapel. Zipper rolled her eyes. Mr Umtata frowned in silence.
I think it makes a statement, donât you? said Ambrose.
Indeed sir, said Mr Umtata.
Just the thing for the big day.
Quite.
Bit much?
As you say sir.
Mr Umtata also fit and altered Zipperâs dress (an off-white vintage number, one previous owner, purchased in Portobello Road). With my compliments missus, Mr Umtata said as he snipped the last thread and stood aside to allow Zipper a full look in the mirror.
The lady does indeed dance, said Zipper as she swished.
Mr Umtata and Zipper then toasted her impending marriage with a deep and expert dip. To ensure proper movement, said Mr Umtata through a toothy smile.
On the day, the newlyweds looked like famous people, despite the downpour in Kensington Gardens. Zipperâs bouquet was a handful of small white rosebuds. Complemented by a small whiterosebud in Ambroseâs lapel. Mr Umtata was unable to attend. Saturday was a brisk day at the shop in Old Jewry. He sent regrets.
Years later the wedding suit still fit. The linen number, however, was in urgent need of attention. And there was the matter of shirts being ready.
Â
At the rear of the shop, Mr Umtata uttered a stream of sighs. Ambrose asked if anything could be done. Zipper mentioned time was pressing. Mr Umtata then suggested sir might strip to his boxers. Missus might want to take a seat.
In silence the tailor of Old Jewry worked his needles and threads and scissors and irons. Ambrose searched for somewhere to put his hands. Zipper watched her husbandâs white skin, stretched thin over bone.
Weâve been abroad, said Ambrose.
Indeed sir, said Mr Umtata through the pins between his teeth.
Rather suddenly.
Indeed.
Travelled light.
So it would seem sir.
Sorry for the rush.
As am I sir, said Mr Umtata, hiding the last seam, his eyes fixed on Zipperâs wet eyes.
A fresh shirt was unwrapped. Ambrose strained out a smile as he dressed.
A miracle, Umtata. As always.
As you say sir.
A bit loose across the shoulders though.
Indeed sir. Shall we check the fit?
With that Mr Umtata took Ambrose Zephyr in his arms. Allow me the lead sir, he whispered. The men dipped. Deeply, expertly.
Zipper Ashkenazi laughed out loud. For the first time in days.
Â
L.
The sun began to rise as Ambrose Zephyr sat on his front step. It was, still, his best time of the day.
He watched number twelve with his tiny dog. The elderly man frowned: he had forgotten his hat. Number eighteen, naked this morning and trusting that no one was awake at such an hour, gathered the morning paper from her doorstep. The neighbourhood stray, ignored, eyed the birds in the park across the way.
The night fog burned off. For Zipper Ashkenazi, standing at her front window wearing one of her husbandâs new shirts, it looked to be a rare morning. A fine one, for the time of year.
Ambrose sipped his coffee, certain his wife was catching just five minutes more. He waved to number eighteen and sheepishly smiled an apology for having seen more than he should have. The elderly man went home to get his hat.
Â
Zipper waited until the sun came through the front window, then made a cup of tea. She joined her husband on the front step.
I need to deal with the office, Ambrose said.
Zipper watched the neighbourhood stray.
Loose ends, that sort of thing.
Zipper examined the dregs in her cup.
I should have called, she said.
Â
Near Leicester Square stood the offices of Dravot, Carnehan. A few streets away stood the offices of the third most-read fashion magazine in the country. Zipper and Ambrose had managed to work in the same part of the city, but neither one could remember when they had managed lunchtogether. Or ridden the underground as a couple off to work. Isnât it funny, thought Zipper, to be doing that now. They decided D&C
I think it makes a statement, donât you? said Ambrose.
Indeed sir, said Mr Umtata.
Just the thing for the big day.
Quite.
Bit much?
As you say sir.
Mr Umtata also fit and altered Zipperâs dress (an off-white vintage number, one previous owner, purchased in Portobello Road). With my compliments missus, Mr Umtata said as he snipped the last thread and stood aside to allow Zipper a full look in the mirror.
The lady does indeed dance, said Zipper as she swished.
Mr Umtata and Zipper then toasted her impending marriage with a deep and expert dip. To ensure proper movement, said Mr Umtata through a toothy smile.
On the day, the newlyweds looked like famous people, despite the downpour in Kensington Gardens. Zipperâs bouquet was a handful of small white rosebuds. Complemented by a small whiterosebud in Ambroseâs lapel. Mr Umtata was unable to attend. Saturday was a brisk day at the shop in Old Jewry. He sent regrets.
Years later the wedding suit still fit. The linen number, however, was in urgent need of attention. And there was the matter of shirts being ready.
Â
At the rear of the shop, Mr Umtata uttered a stream of sighs. Ambrose asked if anything could be done. Zipper mentioned time was pressing. Mr Umtata then suggested sir might strip to his boxers. Missus might want to take a seat.
In silence the tailor of Old Jewry worked his needles and threads and scissors and irons. Ambrose searched for somewhere to put his hands. Zipper watched her husbandâs white skin, stretched thin over bone.
Weâve been abroad, said Ambrose.
Indeed sir, said Mr Umtata through the pins between his teeth.
Rather suddenly.
Indeed.
Travelled light.
So it would seem sir.
Sorry for the rush.
As am I sir, said Mr Umtata, hiding the last seam, his eyes fixed on Zipperâs wet eyes.
A fresh shirt was unwrapped. Ambrose strained out a smile as he dressed.
A miracle, Umtata. As always.
As you say sir.
A bit loose across the shoulders though.
Indeed sir. Shall we check the fit?
With that Mr Umtata took Ambrose Zephyr in his arms. Allow me the lead sir, he whispered. The men dipped. Deeply, expertly.
Zipper Ashkenazi laughed out loud. For the first time in days.
Â
L.
The sun began to rise as Ambrose Zephyr sat on his front step. It was, still, his best time of the day.
He watched number twelve with his tiny dog. The elderly man frowned: he had forgotten his hat. Number eighteen, naked this morning and trusting that no one was awake at such an hour, gathered the morning paper from her doorstep. The neighbourhood stray, ignored, eyed the birds in the park across the way.
The night fog burned off. For Zipper Ashkenazi, standing at her front window wearing one of her husbandâs new shirts, it looked to be a rare morning. A fine one, for the time of year.
Ambrose sipped his coffee, certain his wife was catching just five minutes more. He waved to number eighteen and sheepishly smiled an apology for having seen more than he should have. The elderly man went home to get his hat.
Â
Zipper waited until the sun came through the front window, then made a cup of tea. She joined her husband on the front step.
I need to deal with the office, Ambrose said.
Zipper watched the neighbourhood stray.
Loose ends, that sort of thing.
Zipper examined the dregs in her cup.
I should have called, she said.
Â
Near Leicester Square stood the offices of Dravot, Carnehan. A few streets away stood the offices of the third most-read fashion magazine in the country. Zipper and Ambrose had managed to work in the same part of the city, but neither one could remember when they had managed lunchtogether. Or ridden the underground as a couple off to work. Isnât it funny, thought Zipper, to be doing that now. They decided D&C
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