Erwin Mortier - Marcel

On other afternoons Miss Veegaete would read, giving little sighs of contentment, as if she were blowing bubbles. When she was completely engrossed in her book she would unthinkingly pass her tongue over her teeth to dislodge bits of bread, making her cheeks bulge in all directions as if she were sucking a large boiled sweet.

It was when she was reading that I had the best chance of getting a look-in. Only then her thighs might part ever so slightly, making her skirt pull taut across her knees. From there her thighs receded into darkness. At some point at the back those two massive columns were joined together. But I had to put my head all the way down with my cheek almost touching the desk to get even the smallest peek, by which time Miss Veegaete had usually glanced up from her book and smacked her knees together again.

After an hour of mounting, bleary-eyed boredom, the gurgling of her intestines subsided. Shutting the book to banish all thoughts of siesta, she drew herself up. She did so deliberately and slowly, as if her body were being inflated with some strange gas. Next minute she was tripping through the classroom on her sandals, squeezing her ample body between the desks. When she leaned forward over my shoulders the silky fabric of her blouse brushed my neck and hair. It was a thin blouse with voluptuous flowers in pastel shades and lianas snaking across her breasts. A jungle from Maurice’s stockroom.

*

“Only the best is good enough for Miss Veegaete,” the grandmother said.

Stella admired Miss Veegaete’s full figure.

“Everything looks good on her. Mademoiselle Veekàt . Even her name suits her. If I had a name like that I’d ask for a raise.”

“Indeed,” said the grandmother with a chuckle, “but your name isn’t like that. Do you know what yours sounds like in French? Pom. See how far that will get you.”

“What do you mean, Pom?”

“Apple is ‘pom’ in French. Stella Pom. Hardly a name that’ll get you a raise, eh?”

*

When Miss Veegaete had had her fill of cake it was time to get down to business. The three women put their heads together in the parlour, flapping their fashion magazines.

“I rather like wide sleeves,” Miss Veegaete said. “They hide my upper arms. But I’m not so keen on them being wide around the wrists.”

The grandmother spoke reassuringly.

“We can always do a large cuff, you know, with two or three buttonholes. I’ve got the perfect buttons for that style of blouse. And what do you have in mind for the skirt?”

More riffling of pages. The grandmother snapped her fingers for Stella to bring her the samples. The different fabrics were held up to the light in the narrow parting between the curtains, they were draped on Miss Veegaete’s shoulders, held against her legs, laid across her stomach and chest. Wearing all these patches Miss Veegaete turned into a tortoiseshell cat.

“I’ll leave it to you to select the material, Andrea,” she said weakly.

The grandmother hid her satisfaction by plunging her hands into the pockets of her apron.

Miss Veegaete was finding it hard to make up her mind.

“Tartan is lovely, but it doesn’t suit me.”

“I’ll find you a tartan that does suit you,” the grandmother said firmly. “There are tartans and tartans.”

The fabrics passed through all three pairs of hands while the grandmother gave a running commentary. The pinafore she wore over her best dress clinked with the regalia of her trade: thimbles, scissors and the little clothes-brush that had velvet pile instead of bristles, with which she gave the garments a final stroke before they left the premises.

“We’ll make a tuck right here,” I heard her mutter. “We’ll line it, too, that’ll do a world of good …” “A well-made plissé is a gem …” “If we have a flat yoke, the front can be shirred.”

Stella grew impatient.

“It’s time we took your measurements. You’re not planning on going on a diet or anything?”

“A diet?” Miss Veegaete giggled.

Rising from the sofa she seemed to be preparing a curtsey, with her arms describing arcs in the air.

“Lose weight? Moi ? How can I if you keep offering me all those goodies?”

*

They moved to the sewing room, where a great many more samples were met with twitters of approval.

“Ah, cashmere. If I had the money I’d wear cashmere all the time.”

“You want to watch out with cashmere,” the grandmother said. “A lot of inferior stuff goes by that name nowadays. So-called cashmere.”

Miss Veegaete peeled off her cardigan. I prayed they would forget about me for once. I slunk to the corner between the wardrobe and the wall, sank to my knees and vanished under the sewing table.

“Do you still buy from Maurice?” Miss Veegaete asked.

She bent down, undid the buckles of her shoes and pinched her stockings out from between her toes. “And how is Maurice these days?”

“Ups and downs, you know how it is. Nothing much has changed. What do you expect?”

“Poor Maurice,” Miss Veegaete said dreamily. “Such a flourishing business, and yet he still hasn’t got his licence back.”

She drew herself up again.

“It’s …” she tried to think of a suitable word while she unbuttoned her sleeves,

“… odious, that’s what it is. Odious!”

“It is indeed,” Stella echoed.

“And you’re rather odious too, young man.”

The grandmother lifted a corner of the tablecloth and gave me an icy stare.

“Off you go and play in the garden, now. No need for menfolk here. Besides, you’re far too young to care about skirts.”

“Heavens above,” Miss Veegaete cried. “I hadn’t even noticed he was there.”

I sloped off, hanging my head.

“You don’t mean to say you take an interest in ladies already? At your age!”

She turned to the grandmother.

“He’s very forward — and not only with his reading either, I see. The boy is a genius.”

“When all is said and done,” the grandmother remarked, “they’re all geniuses.”

“Polite boys leave the room without being told,” hissed Stella, shutting the door behind me with a bang.

*

I pressed my ear against the door to hear what they were saying, without much success. The doors in the house were solid, pre-war quality, and although Stella was quite thin her back almost completely blocked my view through the keyhole. All I could hear were whispers, the rustle of Miss Veegaete shedding her clothes, the swish of her satin slip, which would be white or vieux rose .

“My brother was lucky,” I heard her say. “He was only seventeen at the time.”

“There were plenty of others they didn’t let off so lightly,” the grandmother retorted. “They picked on Maurice just to make themselves look better. Every single textile firm made money off the Germans. Good money, too.”

“All those little men in the camps on television,” Stella blurted, “where d’you suppose the material for all those striped pyjamas came from? Am I right, Andrea?”

“Whenever I see those old films,” the grandmother said, “I think: there goes the Flanders rag trade. And who gets the blame? Maurice. Or me.”

“They always blame the ordinary folk,” Miss Veegaete chimed in. “Nothing new there. Anyway, it’s not a question of blame, is it?”

I didn’t catch what the grandmother said. Her voice was drowned in the clatter of buttons spilling from a box.

“Stella! What a butterfingers you are! That’s the second time you’ve sent those buttons flying.”

“I can’t think straight today,” Stella moaned. “It’s the heat. I’m sweating my heart out.”

She bent down to collect the buttons off the floor.