The parlour now took on the clutter of a dressmaker’s showroom: a cheval mirror, a sewing machine, boxes of trimmings and offcuts that Vida showed Netta how to turn into delicate rosettes for the neck trim. Every piece of the old dress was accounted for and had to be utilised to piece up the lace into a simple overskirt cut on the cross lined with an ivory parachute silk underskirt, under-layered with net to give a little more body. The bodice had a soft sweetheart neckline caught with rosettes, and padded shoulders to neaten the waistline. By the time Aileen came for her last fitting she had slimmed down enough to do justice to the outline. There were gasps of appreciation and great excitement but Vida said that there was just one thing missing – it needed a touch of added glamour to put a lustre on its plainness. ‘What can we use to enhance the lace?’

The other women made suggestions but she shook her head at each one of their ideas. ‘If I was in the sewing room of Molyneux now we would be adding a little row of pearls or beads to offset… ah, I know! Do you have beads?’ Mrs Forsyth shook her head. ‘Only a row of pearls for her neck, but there’s an old bead purse of my grandmother’s – a peggy purse for evenings. You can unpick that if it’s suitable.’

Netta went to collect the purse and fingered it tenderly. It was a silk reticule, reminder of a bygone age, covered with shiny glassy beads of rose and pearl shaped into flowers.

Vida took one look and smiled. ‘This is exactly what I had in mind. Beads will make the lace flowers bloom and sparkle by candlelight.’

It took hours of unthreading and sorting into sizes. Vida’s face lit up with the challenge. She was in her element as she told Netta all about her days as an arpette, the lowest of pin-pickers, under the eye of a fierce dragon who breathed fire over her trainees and flung their efforts across the room if she was not satisfied. In the ateliers of a great couturier she had learned to sew gossamer stitches, make seams as smooth as liquid, to measure and cut, hem and trim, for the great maestro below.

By the firelight in the farmhouse parlour she was passing on all these skills to the willing fingers of her helper who lost herself in the intricate tasks and felt a sense of satisfaction never experienced when studying or working with farm stock. They had turned that simple wedding dress into a model gown, and putting the finishing touch of the beads raised it on to another plane.

Netta was sad when the task came to an end. She had learned so much from sitting with Mrs Bloom, watching, copying and asking questions. ‘I think I’ll be a dress designer,’ she declared.