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| The Jacket of Agnes Richter |
Despite the incessant nagging from her mother to get out more and meet suitors, Agnes enjoyed her work in Uncle Pat's shop. As flamboyant as he was, she was centred and quiet, which allowed her to spend hours mending, refining and decorating the frocks, waistcoats, sashes, gloves, shirts and underthings of the people in Cambridgeshire Mews.
"How's Mrs Tewksbury's bodice looking, then?" said Uncle Pat. He was fiddling with some ostrich feathers, trying to decide how best to embellish the stepping-out statement young Liza Flaxenwood would make in her sixteenth birthday ensemble.
"I think she'll be happy," said Agnes, not looking up from the shawl she was embroidering at the work table. Around the length of chiffon were glass vestibules of every size, containing beads that shone like peacock feathers, pearlescent nubs, chunky buttons of gold and fish-scale sequins in every shade. Uncle Pat insisted on keeping the jewels in the felt-lined drawer, lest one of the grubby urchins develop long fingers while pretending to beg for bread.
"Good, good," said Uncle Pat. "I'll be happy as a cricket when she finally collects it. I can't bear the sight of so much red velvet on one garment."
Agnes chuckled. "Good thing you won't have to wear it." She looked up as the bell above the door rang. "Hello Shep. You'll find Uncle Pat between the feathers."
"Hello, Agnes-dear." He neared the work space. "Oh my, that is looking rather pretty." He lowered his voice. "D'you think I could convince your Uncle to join me for a cuppa? We shouldn't be too long".
"Go on, then," said Agnes with a wink. "He must be parched after all that flapping about."
With her Uncle and Shep gone, Agnes risked securing her needle in a rectangle of cardboard and locking the front door. She only needed a few minutes alone. Her trunk with her personal effects was kept under the work space, against the back wall of the shop. Uncle Pat had only agreed to let her keep it there when she pointed out that it was in the interests of health and safety. Being clumsier than most, he conceded and it stayed. After sliding the trunk out from under the table, Agnes released the lock from its latch and the lid creaked as it opened. It still smelled strongly of linseed oil, though she couldn't remember when last she'd applied any.
The jacket was folded and tucked under a roll of satin her grandmother had insisted she use for her wedding dress. She removed it and shook it out, disturbing the dust motes from their perches around the shop. She placed it on the work space, well away from the shawl and beads, and began to examine the new additions to the sleeves.
Since its last outing, the jacket had accumulated a number of new features. Some older stitching had, in turn, disappeared, and the fabric bore the traces of the needle's exit points. All along one sleeve were the words, "Allow nothing to stop you" and "You may fall, but what if you fly". She also noticed a number of attempts at initials, but the embroidery was so hurried that she couldn't make the letters out. Just as she moved to return it to the trunk, three words on the cuff caught her attention. "Keep me out".
The bell above the shop door jangled against the frame, but the door remained shut. Agnes crouched, her heart in her throat.
"I say," she could hear Uncle Pat's voice, "it seems Agnes has stepped out to the privy. Shall we extend our walk to the centre of town and then return?" He guffawed. "That should give her plenty of time."
Although somewhat inaudible, she heard Shep's murmur of agreement and watched their shadows move away from the door. She had to act fast. She bundled the jacket into her bag, slammed the trunk closed, locked it and returned it to its spot under the table. She went to the small kitchen, splashed some water on her face and dried her hands on the front of her dress. It didn't stop her from shaking as she unlocked the shop door once again.
That night, as Agnes walked home, taking her usual route up Hill Road past the public houses, hotels and coffee shops, her bag felt heavy with her secret. She navigated her way past the Golden Lion Pub and paused outside Tucholsky's Tobbaconists to admire the new pipes from the Ivory Coast. A face appeared opposite hers in the window. It was Leon Tucholsky, the owner's son. He waved. Agnes stepped back, just as Jack Foley swerved to miss Mrs Branson's pram.
When she opened her eyes, she was aware that her head was pounding, and that there were about six faces hovering over hers.
"She's awake!" It was Ben Branson, the eldest of the Branson boys.
"All right, no harm done," said Mr Tucholsky. "Here comes Dr Kirk now."
Agnes felt a hand in hers. She panicked, and tried to raise her head, but it made her feel as if she might faint again.
"Don't worry," said Leon. "I have your bag. Had to wrestle an urchin for it, but I got it back."
Agnes smiled at him. She felt cold hands touching her face, throat and neck.
"Right, then. Nothing is broken. Do you think you can stand?" When Agnes nodded, Dr Kirk said, "Then let's get you back to the surgery."
Once in the back of the carriage, she peeked into her bag, and saw that new words had appeared on the cuff.
Told you.
... To be continued ...
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