Secrets

Secrets July 2015

My mother's glory box was the most beautiful treasure chest I had ever seen, stately and covered in glowing beaten copper on every surface, impressively studded along every seam. Its side, as well as the lid were decorated with rich rural scenes, featuring proudly sculpted Red Setter dogs, standing handsome and alert, with long feathered tails and legs and glowing copper-coloured coats. All the years I could remember, my fingers had lovingly stroked and polished those rounded reliefs, lustrous and lifelike, especially when firelight, on cold winter nights, flickered across the surface of the chest. I imagine those much-loved dogs springing into life My mother was a dressmaker and kept all her fabric remants, sewing patterns, spoons of thread and trimmings in her glory box. When I asked her why there were so many dress materials, she had an explanation. "Oh, the ladies bring the fabric, pattern and thread and the pattern envelope advises them how many yards of fabric to buy, so if I am clever and careful not to waste any, I keep what is left over, to make dresses and blouses for you and your sisters, or myself. It is another one of our little secrets." Well, it seemed to me she had too many secrets that made me feel worried and uncomfortable. There were all those gentleman callers, usually visiting when I came home from school – the insurance salesman, the postman who gave piano lessons, the builder who painted ladies, the jeweller who fashioned necklaces for my mother to model, the local butcher who often called by with extra parcels of meat. I did not understand what my mother was up to, but I knew it did not seem right, somehow. Meanwhile, I became a child apprentice dressmaker. I learnt how to stitch up hems, sow on buttons and tack interfacing in place. One lady in our neighbourhood made matching fabric-covered buttons and belts, another one specialized in machine-made buttonholes and embroidery. I would deliver and collect all those orders. Ladies would often come and have a fitting for their new dress or suit. "Oh, just take up the him one inch, or lower the bodice across the bust line a little." My mother always agreed, but seldom touched the garment again – it was another little secret, she said. It fascinated me to see the preening customers the affirming that the alteration was "just right." One afternoon, I came home from school and found my mother kneeling on the floor in front of her emptied glory box, crying and clutching a large framed picture. She turned towards me both her tear–ravage face and the portrait photograph of an unknown young man in sailors’ uniform and jaunty hat. "He was my fiancé early in the war and was posted missing at sea. I joined the air force and met your father, and three days before our wedding, my sailor came home – but what else could I do?" In shock, I voiced my fear-filled thoughts. "Oh no, I might never have been born!"