A SIMPLE FROCK

Evening Star, Issue 22382, 4 July 1936, Page 2

A SIMPLE FROCK

(Written by Mary Scott, for the ‘ Evening Star.’]

“ But, darling, 1 haven’t a rag m the world,” said the eldest daughter, tragically. “ Surely your stupid old writing could wait till to-morrow ?” 1 disliked those adjectives, and spoke severely and at length, hinting that my work was invaluable, carelessly depicting a nation’s Brers disorganised by my tardiness, a public expectant and oii tip-toe. She only laughed and kissed me. “ It’s such a lovely colour,” she said irrelevantly. Now. when school uniform—“ navy blue is such a serviceable colour, with a nice blade velvet for the evening ” has not long been discarded, the lure of pretty frocks is irresistible. Looking hack across the years 1 saw again that first new frock when I, too, had emerged, shyly, yet eagerly, from the conventual rigour of boarding school. It had been crimson, too. 1 told the Eldest Daughter about it, and she smiled, kindly but abstractedly, and said, “ How sweet and old-fashioned. . . . The skirt pleated, 1 think.*” I made a last despairing effort to escape. “ You know I’m the world’s worst dressmaker. I’ve often heard you make fun of my sewing. You learnt all about it at school; why not go ahead?” She had the grace to blush. "Of course, I’ll do all the actual sewing. 1 just want you to cut out and set me on the right track. You’re rather good at little nicks and things.” i accepted her praise gratefully, for I have always wished that the sigut of a sewing machine did not irritate me, and that 1 was one of those dear women who “ take up a piece of sewing ” for pleasure in tne evenings. If by any chance 1 have to sew an night jt is no pleasure to me—nor to anyone else in the house.

“ You know, you’ve got a certain dash,” she went on, and at once I was her slave. A certain dash. How splendid. At last 1 tell my ideal realised; 1 was a woman ot many parts.' True, 1 had never been a great sewer, but that was merely lack of opportunity. 1 had verve; that sounaed even better than dash; i saw myself one ot those magicians who drape materials about their wealthy clients, and say (or so 1 have read), " You have the ert'ect, Moddom. You can now see the line.” forgetting my feverish struggles with pins and patterns, with elusive scissors and needles that were later discovered in somebody’s armchair, 1 pushed the typewriter aside and reached for the fashion book.

“it's to bo perfectly simple,” said the Eldest Daughter, rapidly. " Something like that pattern, but wit|i different sleeves and pleats instead of a hair, and a collar like this.” She drew a rapid and impressionistic sketch on the back ot my typed sheet; i trust the editor will not take it for an illustration. 1 was frankly startled. “ But, my dear girl, 1 can’t cut out from that. I like patterns with nicks and plenty of illustrations and little sketenes.” She sighed patiently. “ But I’ve explained. If you use your head, it’s perfectly simple.” That is the sort of challenge to which my generation must rise, or be for ever subject. At last the lovely crimson cloth was reduced to a heap of shapeless pieces that dismayed me but delighted my daughter. “ Now I’ve cut it out,” I said with relief. “ You said you could go on.” “Ot course, i could,” she agreed, “ but 1 was just going to get you a cup of tea. Perhaps if you were just to put it together. ... I always think it’s best for the cutter-out to do that, don’t you? Of course, if rather ... I was only thinking of your cup of tea ...” An hour later I emerged sulkily from a crimson nightmare to say: ”1 hate sewing. My article’s waiting. I’ve put the wretched thing together. Surely you can - machine it now?” “ Why, of course,” she said reproachfully. “ I was just making some of those little cakes you like ; I thought you’d rather be sitting still, as you seem tired.” “ I’m tired of sewing,” I said brutally, “and I’d rather be sitting at my. typewriter,” and withdrew with all the honours of war.

I had just typed out my heading, “ The Womanly Woman,” and begun on a portrait, whose origin modesty forbids me to reveal, of a wife .and mother who could cook, sew, garden, play bridge, write articles, and all with equal ease, when the Eldest Daughter entered. “ Darling, that old beast of a machine won’t work for me. Our ones at school were nice and new. It’s hopelessly out of da,te, and it seems; to recognise only your touch. It’s making the most spiteful puckers.” I frowned and opened my mouth; then, remembering “ The Womanly Woman,” shut it again and went out, smiling patiently. 1 kept this smile on for the next hour as I worked, but it seemed oply to alarm the wretched daughter. “ Mother, have you a pain? Shall I get you some aspirin P It would be such a pity if you have to stop.” After lunch I tried to rest, but restless dreams, bordered with crimson, troubled my peace, and at last the door opened, “ I’ve brought you a nice strong cup of tei«. Then you won’t mind going on, will you? The sleeves look like wings the wrong way round.” No wonder; probably even wings have a right and a left and little nicks that must be treated with respect. My daughter may be creative, but she has not my slavish enthusiasm for nicks. 1 took the sleeves out and put them in the right arm holes. She was so grateful, so unusually admiring, that 1 went weakly on. At intervals my daughter looked breezily in, tried on pleasantly, said “ Aren’t the new fashions nice and simple?” and floated out, again with the parting remark; “Let mo know' when there’s any hand work; I know how you hate fine sewing.” When it came to the collar I definitely struck. “ What was the use of those expensive dressmaking lessons if you can’t make a collar? rm going back to my work.” 1 had just described the Womanly Woman creating dainty frocks out of the merest fragments when I heard an imploring voice: “ It’s just, like Toby’s ruff. You’re so clever with collars, dear.”

Now, this was frankly an untruth. I am not clever with collars; but at least 1 do realise that there must be some approximation between the _ size of the neck and the collar which is to be clasped about it. My daughter sighed happdy and said: “ I’ll turn up the hem. That’s hand work, and you're not good at it, are you? Then I think (.’ll Just take a little walk before dinner.' Sitting sewing all day always makes me irritable.”

At 9 o'clock it was finished, and she bore it triumphantly away to try it on, saying sweetly over her shoulder; “ I do hope you haven’t minded helping me, old dear. After all, it was a nice change from your writing, and that old article can always wait. 1 mean, it’s not as if it was anything very original or creative, is it?” I had just thought out my retort when she returned, a radiant vision. Her shining eyes, delighted with herself yet questioning mine diffidently, were my reward, and her quick hug: ‘‘lt’s rather a pet, isn’t it?—and so are you. We work well together, don’t we? [ supply the ideas and you play round with your funny little nicks.” Ten mimi.r-i later 1 heard her over

the telephone. “My dear, a simply hectic day. That new frock. . . . Yes, a burning success, though I had one or two awful moments. . _. . Very simple, because the parent is a little old-fashioned in her ideas and she lent a hand now and then. . . . Ob, well, I was always rather keen on dressmaking, you know, and, of course, if you have a gift. . . . But I’m worn out with the struggle, and going straight to bed. . . . Mother? Oh, she’s hammering away at her old typewriter. • „ . . Something about an air mail she must catch. She’s a little inclined to Fare tilings to the last