‘Mrs Hunter will do, Polly. Tell me where you learned to do such lovely embroidery?’

‘My granny, Miss… er, Mrs Hunter. She taught me to do tatting, crochet work and lace. She was a ladies’ maid and did alterations, but then her fingers swelled up into sausages and she couldn’t hold a needle so she taught me. She died…’

‘And your mother, could she sew?’

‘No, miss, she just stayed in the back kitchen baking. Lily liked baking.’

‘And your father? What did he do?

‘Dunno, miss, can’t remember much about him.’ Polly bent her head, embarrassed by this grilling in front of the others.

‘I was so sorry to hear about Jack…’

‘It’s OK.’

‘How’s Lily?’

‘She’s OK now.’ And that was the sum of conversation that Netta could raise from Polly Liddell, but her concentration and interest were like blotting paper, soaking up all the sights and tasks. Netta recognised another who was losing her sorrows in her work.

She showed them some fashion magazines where the New Look was at last hitting bridal fashions and customers were clamouring for full or ballerina-length bell-shaped skirts, with tight-fitting waists in the Christian Dior padded style. Pathé News was a great inspiration too, showing the latest Paris collections. Shawl collars and off-the-shoulder dresses with boned bodices were much in demand, with beading and lace trimmings. Beryl wanted to make a straight skirt with a kick pleat at the back.

Netta started them off by making fancy bows, showing them how to line and stiffen the bow, to shape and design it for different lengths and effects. Polly was a stickler for detail and more interested in fancy embellishments than overall design. They were going to make a good team if Polly could relax into her sewing, but now was not the moment to pursue the matter.

Showdown

Netta paused twenty yards from Dorelle’s to gather herself for the day’s onslaught. As she saw the discreet sign on the three-storey soot-blackened building her heart sank. The shop was along a smart parade of similar properties with overhanging glass canopies that sheltered shoppers from the squalls of rain off the moors. There was a solid, no-nonsense quality about this row of buildings: the very stuff of smart Griseley. Dorelle’s was the exception. One day Netta would have her own premises down this row and they would be the smartest.

Miss Venables was waiting for admiration of her latest attempt at window dressing. ‘Where have you been? You’re late again.’ She pointed Netta towards the back room.

Netta engrossed herself in the usual stream of drab outfits to be altered, bending her head to the daily tasks. It was Maybelle’s day off and there were just the two of them in the showroom. It was quiet first thing. Madam Maudie would demand that the mirrors be polished and it was Netta’s job to vacuum the velvet pile of the dove grey carpet, dust the copper beech leaves arranged in a cracked lustre vase and check the cubicles for any stale smells while Miss Venables just checked the post and tidied along the hangers, picking over the stock as if it had fleas.