‘On second thoughts, since I don’t think in French, and therefore have no particular reason for devising a portmanteau name combining the words in that language for velvet and hook, I will select a trade-name which will enshrine my name in glorious company. The Cromer Cocklebur Closure. The Cromer for short. Accept no substitute. In the future, when people want to get out of their clothes, they will simple undo their Cromers …’
I suppose this scenario would have benefited from Peter being present, pushing the wheelchair. And since the burs would be unlikely to leap up onto my clothing, perhaps it would fall to Peter to say, slapping ineffectually at his trousers, ‘Drat these bally things! They’re not sticky when you touch them, but they stick like mad to fabric and pelt! I wonder how that comes about?’ He was a Cromer too, after all. He could share in the glory, before he got down to the chore of brushing Gipsy’s coat. Leaving me to say the fateful words, ‘Hold on a minute. I’ve got an idea. Let’s take a proper scientific look at one of those things …’ Though of course I’d also have to invent a time machine, so that I could pop back in time and steal a march on M. de Mestral, before he could steal a march on me.
Miss Pearce
For quite a time Velcro was the sole possession of the disabled, who loved it and were grateful for it. Then it was adopted as a fad by people who could manage zips and buttons perfectly well.
Installing Velcro in my trousers was elementary. It didn’t stretch Mum’s abilities as a seamstress. By now she had got to know Dorothy Foot a little better. Dorothy was a wonderful dressmaker, who started holding actual classes, and Mum told Dad she wanted to join.
He wouldn’t have it at first. ‘Mm. Bet that’s going to cost a packet, and where d’you think the money for it will come? From muggins here. What’s wrong with knitting? You’re good at that — go and buy some more balls of wool, and I’ll treat you to a new pair of needles. We can run to that!’
Mum shed actual tears at his callousness. ‘A little sewing and dressmaking class would be a perfect opportunity to meet people,’ she said, ‘and I know I’d be good at it. You know, I might get good enough to make shirts. Dorothy says that’s really hard, but she feels I’ve got it in me to do it. It would make such a difference if I could make shirts that really fit.’
‘Mine fit fine,’ said Dad.
‘You’re not the only person in the world, you know,’ Mum said, and I imagine she tipped her head towards me. I pretended not to be listening.
Later she poured her heart out to me. She still did that then. ‘It’s true I’d need a sewing machine and material and all sorts, so I suppose Dad is right. We don’t really have the money. It’s always there for his cigarettes, though …’ By now Dad was just starting to smoke his way through his second house.
Then he gave in after all. Perhaps it was the prospect of her being able to tailor shirts to my short arms which made him relent. When the sewing classes started, Mum found herself in a happy period of her life. In the end, those classes led to us acquiring a sort of house guest, even (if only in Mum’s eyes) a new member of the family.
She would come back into the house proud of what she had learned, bubbling also with the gossip that went with the sewing. She was newly plugged in to the grape-vine. It was as if she had been on a long holiday, rather than to a neighbour’s house for a few hours. All of us in the house felt the benefit.
It wasn’t long before Dorothy announced that Mum had learned all she needed to make clothes for other ladies. There was more involved than skill, however. ‘I knew it,’ said Dad when Mum passed this on.
If Mum was to do herself justice, she couldn’t just take her tape to make measurements, write them down, and come back later with the garment. That would be slap-dash and amateurish. To set herself up as any sort of professional she needed a proper dressmaker’s dummy. There may have been a fancy dressmakers’ term for such contraptions, to justify their vast expense, but if I was told it I have forgotten.
Mum showed Dad the catalogue and he went red in the face when he saw the prices. He said she could have the cheapest one there was, and half the money would have to be repaid when she started earning from the new hobby, if that day ever dawned. Mum hankered after one rather better than the basic model, though she wasn’t competing with Dorothy, who owned one which was very much de luxe. In the end I think she took a deep breath and ran down to the Post Office with her savings book and drew on that slim reserve.
Mum was very excited after placing her order at last. I could sympathise, remembering my own Ellisdons frenzies. She would phone up the catalogue headquarters on a regular basis to see if it had come in. When she was told at last that it had, she asked the man to be sure to hold on to it. Her cheque was on its way. The man told her not to worry. ‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘To put your mind at rest I’m going to get a special marker pen, and I’ll write Mrs Cromer on your model.’ ‘Oh would you? That would be so kind.’
Mum was very happy. At last the box arrived. I was in the next room when she opened it, and I could hear from her voice that something was wrong. It was obviously not the one she had ordered, after all. ‘Oh for Heaven’s sake!’ she called out to me. ‘You’ll never guess what they’ve done, JJ. They’ve sent me one with someone else’s name written on the back, and not “Cromer” at all. This one should have gone to “Miss Pearce”, whoever she may be.’
Mum seemed to be in a sort of agony. There was obviously something she wasn’t telling me. She picked up the phone and asked Dorothy if she could come over straight away. Mum didn’t say much on the phone, but Dorothy got enough of a whiff of emergency to drop everything and come over.
As she came in Dorothy called out politely, ‘How are you, John, keeping well?’ but then she went very quiet when she saw what was in the box. She said, ‘Would it be all right if I sat down and had a cup of coffee and a biscuit, Laura dear?’ This escalation to refreshments made me realise that I was eavesdropping on some sort of summit conference, even if I still had no idea what it was all about.
I punted the wheelchair round as gently as I could, so I could catch a glimpse of what was going on in the kitchen. I had made a little progress since the Bathford days. I wanted to know what was happening right away. I no longer had the patience to wait until later, when I could peck at Mum’s beak and be fed a meal of regurgitated gossip.
‘What do you think has happened, Dorothy?’ Mum was asking in a troubled voice. ‘And what should I do about it? I’m in a frightful bind.’
‘I don’t see that you are, dear, And it’s perfectly obvious what has happened. You ordered a Morris Minor and they delivered a Rolls-Royce instead! That’s what has happened. There’s nothing this model won’t do.’ I could see it now, a headless torso of wire and struts. Dorothy Foot started adjusting handles and pulling little levers. ‘It’s a marvel. Every single part of it adjustable. With this to work with, there’ll be no holding you — you’ll be the top dressmaker in the county!’
‘It is so beautiful,’ said Mum. ‘I think it’s almost as good as yours.’