‘That’s why you don’t like me to …’ Jasper allowed some sunlight to briefly become a physical golden thread in his hand then quickly released it.
Noel put an arm around Jasper’s shoulders and pulled him tight against his side. ‘Precisely.’
The weather was still shite and Glory was still dead.
Constance plugged the kettle in and started the ritual she and Bobbin had begun decades earlier. Every morning they would get in early – long before their employees – drink tea and share a post-breakfast pastry. Breakfast they ate out. Cooking was forbidden in the atelier. The smell alone ruled it out. No one wanted to buy expensive clothes in a place that smelled of eggs, sausage, beans and bacon.
Normally, they would chat about what was happening with the studio. Constance would tell Bobbin about the designs she’d been working on and how she was planning on fabricating them. Then Bobbin would look dismayed as he mentally ran through the cost of materials.
But today they had the telly on instead and couldn’t stop watching reports of Queen Margaret’s death. It hardly seemed possible to Constance. Losing two people she loved in such a short time was horrid. She had always been inclined to get angry rather than cry. And today she was livid.
Footage of Henry, that bastard, came on and he was saying things about jokers no decent person would, except he’d wrapped it up in that royal verbal deceit. The things he said on the steps of St Paul’s were all too clear for anyone paying attention. She may have clothed his mother, but Constance was damned if she’d ever put so much as a scrap of fabric on his back.
And just as her indignation rose even higher, a vox pop interview began, with the reporter inquiring what their reaction was to what Henry had been saying.
‘The Pakis are one thing,’ said a stout fellow with a florid complexion. He wore a cap and an Army-green zippered jacket. ‘But those joker freaks down in East End? The King is right, send ’em to the moon.’
She swore at the telly, and then there were cool fingers on her wrist. Bobbin.
‘This is only going to make you angrier,’ he said, gently tugging her into her chair. ‘You should stop watching.’
She hadn’t even known she’d stood up. Henry was talking about her people, for the love of God.
‘Why are you so upset?’ he asked. ‘It isn’t as if you’ll ever have to deal with him.’
‘You know very well I made clothes for the Queen,’ Constance said, pulling her arm away. ‘Do you think that’s going to stop now?’
Bobbin shrugged and took a sip of his tea. ‘Why would he come here? There are plenty of other tailors that cater just to men that he would probably prefer to use.’
The reason Henry would come to her was part and parcel of what she hadn’t shared with Bobbin. Constance debated whether to tell him part of her secret, but decided against it. She’d kept the whole of it hidden for so long that she wasn’t even certain how to tell anyone.
‘Come on,’ he said. He gave her his funny lopsided smile that showed off his pretty teeth. ‘Tell me about your new sketch.’ He gestured at her drafting table.
‘I couldn’t sleep last night so I thought I’d do something to honour Glory,’ Constance said, punching the mute button on the remote. She wasn’t ready to let go of the news just yet. ‘Florals,’ she said with a smile. ‘Of course.’
She lifted the protective tissue up off the sketch. A simple, but sweeping, dress was covered by bright geometric rectangles. These provided a background for stylized flowers. It felt both modern and as if it were an homage to the sixties, which was what it was.
‘It’s quite lovely,’ Bobbin said. He stepped closer, looking down at the sketch, and Constance got a whiff of his spicy cologne and the Pears soap he used. There was a hint of pipe tobacco and wintergreen mint, too. The combination was very Bobbin-like. She felt a little rush of happiness and calm.
‘I suppose you’re going to do a whole line based on Glory?’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied.
‘And we’re going to need to have a lot of new fabric made up.’ There was resignation in his voice.
‘Indeed. As always.’ This was a bit of old play-acting between them and it made her feel a bit better.
‘And it’s going to cost a fortune because your fabrics always do.’
‘You have the right of it.’
Bobbin sighed. She knew he would work out a way to get the fabric made without bankrupting them and she would make sure they had designs people wanted to buy.
But out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a replay of Henry on the telly holding forth on the steps of St Paul’s.
Bastard.
Green Man sat at his desk staring at the array of newspapers, not really reading any of them. Every headline spoke of the same story, rendered in sombre lettering, and those that favoured a splash of colour in their logo had forgone it for a funeral black.
Queen Margaret was dead.
The spiteful comments of the new king, Henry, were there too, pushed to the corner but still on the front pages. A bad sign of things to come.
Green Man wasn’t a fervent royalist but he’d always had respect for the Queen. Throughout the turbulence of the war, and the ups and downs of Britain’s fortunes in the years that followed, she had been there. A thread of continuity and a thing of stability. It was not unlike the feeling of when he’d first left home but been told his old room was still available. He hadn’t needed it, but it was comforting to know it was there. Now she was gone, the world seemed that bit less safe.
A familiar knock at the door brought him back to the present. ‘Come in,’ he said.
Wayfarer stepped inside, reliable as ever. Thank God he still had her! She’d been a young slip of a woman when she’d first started working for the Fists, but time had thickened her. Despite this, her skirts remained too short, her hair often changed colour, and she still insisted on wearing sunglasses at all times. No doubt this last detail was connected to her mutation, but she’d never volunteered the information, and he’d never asked. A person should be allowed a few secrets. God knows, I have them.
Unlike him, however, she still had a youthful energy. A quiet spark of industry that he admired and wished he could reclaim.
‘Good morning.’
‘Is it?’ he replied, casting a glance towards the papers.
‘Sorry.’ She closed the door behind her. ‘What are the plans for today?’
‘No plans.’
‘I thought we were going to check in with the local cells.’
That had been the plan but he didn’t feel up to it. It all seemed so pointless. All these years of fighting and what did he have to show for it apart from bloodied hands? Despite their best efforts, jokers were no closer to being accepted now than they had been forty years ago.
The silence hung there for a while. He knew he should say something, perhaps give an order, but he couldn’t summon the energy for it.
Wayfarer came a few steps further into the room. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I don’t know, first Glory, now Queen Margaret. It seems as if we’re losing all of the greats. And look at her replacement: