Netta was banished to the cubby hole at the back of the shop; a tiny workroom with a bench and machine, just a few shelves and a sink. She was expected to make tea for customers as they browsed through the latest collection of summer wear. She was also expected to prepare dresses for the part-time mannequin, well past the full flush of youth, to parade before the customers who could not be expected to disrobe themselves for fear of catching a chill. Their measurements were kept discreetly in a cardboard box and occasionally they submitted themselves to the tape measure for a renewal of the sad statistics.

‘We specialise in portly fittings,’ said Miss Venables as she sifted through the files, chucking the unfortunates who had not made it through the harsh winter into the bin. ‘Yorkshire ladies all like their puddings and it shows.’

When the bell rang, Netta made her discreet entrance through the plush curtain in a dove grey overall, an exact match to the carpet, pins on her chest lined up like medals, tape around her neck like a stethoscope, to grovel silently at the feet of the client while Maybelle talked them through possible alterations and Netta adjusted seams, tucks and length swiftly, trying not to put cold fingers on their delicate flesh.

How bare and vulnerable these bodies all looked in the harsh mirror and some smelled as if they had not had a wash for weeks. Some of the richest women did not care how they were dressed but flung on several dresses and then flung them off again on the floor for their poodles to trample on. These were not the women she wanted to make dresses for, they were old and tired and corseted into unnatural shapes. She longed for young flesh and bright colours, stylish modern cuts in glamorous fabrics. How dowdy were the rails of colours, maroons and dark blues, black and every shade of mud: dull as dishwater colours on plain women, all reflecting the taste of Miss Venables and ‘Our father who has gone before’.

Then there were the tweed brigades who lived in draughty barns out in the country. They wanted serviceable and sensible and more sludgy country colours. Some were young enough to smarten up and Netta hoped their evening wear would be brighter and more alluring, but even Maison Dorelle could not get everything they ordered from the tired-looking trade reps who called hopefully each season. A quota of Utility designs seemed be the best value but their bridal wear turned out to be skimpy and plain beer. No wonder customers went elsewhere for their evening wear.