Michele Forbes - Ghost Moth

“You’re an accountant?”

“An accounting clerk. There’s a difference!”

“And where did an accounting clerk learn to sing so beautifully?”

“I’m very flattered you think so. But I’m not that good.”

“I can hear you above me as I work. I think all the tailors are in love with you.”

She shrugged off Tom’s comment.

“No, I’m not that good at all. My father was a lovely singer, though. Not that he sang professionally or anything. He was a draftsman. Worked in the drawing office of the Belfast Corporation. But he was a larger-than-life character, should have been a performer himself. Would always sing to me when I was a child. And never had a bad word to say about anyone.”

“And does he still listen to you sing?”

“No, no,” she said gently. “He died when I was nine.”

“I’m sorry.”

She moved her head to rest her cheek against Tom’s arm.

“How did he die?” Tom’s question surprised Katherine, so direct was its tone, so personal. But she embraced it nonetheless, felt the relief of responding to it.

“Well. . I was told he died from an accident at work, but I’m not so sure. I think it may have been a heart attack or something. I don’t know. It was never talked about. Never. And it was all so sudden. He just wasn’t there anymore — how can a person be just not there anymore? I feel as though I spend every day waiting for him to come back,” she said. “Isn’t that strange?”

“No, not so strange.”

The clock behind them ticked.

Then her tone shifted quickly. “So that explains it, then,” she said. “He passed the singing on to me. You can blame him!”

Tom gently stroked the pale skin exposed along her forearm.

“And you’re not such a bad singer yourself,” she continued. They lay silently again. Then after a moment, she released a deep sigh. “Why do people say that?”

“Say what?”

“Why do people say ‘I’m sorry’ like that, as though they are responsible for the person dying?”

“It’s just a formality.”

Tap-tap-tap went her fingernail on his pocket watch.

“Quarter to ten,” he said quietly.

“If only I could have done something so that he didn’t die,” Katherine said quietly. “I don’t even know what I mean — I’m sure there’s nothing I could have done — but if only it had happened when I was with him.”

“Katherine, you were only nine. There’s nothing you could have done.”

“I know. . but I can’t make any sense of it.”

“Maybe stop trying.”

Suddenly, voices rose from the photographer’s studio on the ground floor, where staff were locking up after working late. There was the bang of a door and then silence. From the lamp on the table Katherine could detect a limp fizzing sound. She turned her head to look. A moth had caught itself inside the shade and was trying to escape.

Tom adjusted his position on the cloth, resting his chin lightly on her hair.

“Thank you again for the present,” he said. “I’m very impressed.”

“You’re very welcome — again.”

“Is it supposed to be me?” he said, laughing a little as he spoke.

“No!” she protested, nudging him with her elbow. “No, of course not.”

They drifted each into their own world for a few moments. All was quiet.

“How did a young man like you find himself as senior tailor anyway?”

“I’m not as young as you think.” Tom traced his finger across the back of her hand.

“You must be good at your job, then.”

“Well, my father originally owned this business; he and Mr. Boyne were partners. It had started off as a modest alterations service, but then during the First World War, it thrived, making uniforms.” Tom spread his hand over hers. “Anyway, here’s where I started when I was sixteen, and five years after that I volunteered for the army, as the whole mess had started up again. I was stationed in Sussex on administration duties — so I know just how boring accounting is”—he strokes her hair—“and I was never drafted out to fight. But just as the war ended and I returned home, my father died.”

“I’m sorry.” The response came automatically; then, realizing what she had just said, she checked Tom’s reaction.

“You see. Just a formality.” He smiled, then pressed his body a little more into hers.

“Well, two years on from that now and I find myself in my father’s shoes.”

“But only Mr. Boyne’s name is used for the business.” She was curious.

“It’s a long story, but my father had signed nothing to secure any of his holdings on the business, so I’m an employee here, just like everyone else, nothing more.”

“And you live on your own?”

“No, at home with my mother and sister.”

They fell quiet. Their warm breath spread like a low smoke around them. She clicked her fingernail against Tom’s pocket watch again.

“Forget the time, Katherine.”

“I can’t.”

Tom glanced at his pocket watch.

“Nine fifty-five.”

“So you’re an old bachelor, then.” She gave a short laugh, but she could feel her pulse begin to race. She swallowed hard.

“Oh, call me an old romantic…. I’ve just been waiting for the right person to come along.”

His reply pained her like a soft burning in her stomach. She closed her eyes in an attempt to quell it.

“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?” he asked her.

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she shifted the conversation in a different direction. “And where exactly do you live?” she asked him quickly.

“Why do you want to know — exactly?”

“You know where I live. You walked me there. You could find me anytime you wanted to.”

“Ravenhill Road.”

“And you walk home by the river?” She sounded incredulous. “Hardly a shortcut.”

Tom paused. “I know, you’re right.”

Katherine breathed deeply, then wriggled her shoulders as a way to settle into him a little more. She was aware of how late it was getting, but there was something she had wanted to ask him. Her eyes lifted to a costume rail in the corner, which was covered in a large cotton sheet.

“Tom. . the costume you’ve designed for me, for Carmen—”

“Yes.”

“It can’t be as elaborate as you’ve been making out. Everything is still ‘make do and mend.’ So all those things you were saying to Mr. Agnew at the fitting about the material, and the beading, and the sateen lining — you’re such a showman!”

The moth beat its wings against the shade in a furious pitter.

Pushing his body closer to her, Tom raised himself slightly on one arm and slipped the other around her waist. He placed his mouth close to her ear and said quietly, “You won’t believe how beautifully made it will be, Katherine. Wait until you see. Mr. Agnew wouldn’t know where to start. I’m going to make it for you, Katherine. I’m going to make it. Let me tell you what I’m going to do. . ”

The furious pitter of the moth came to a sudden stop.

“First I’ll run the tracing wheel along the paper pattern. The tiny tracing wheel will make no sound as it moves, obeying the gentle thrust of my arm around your shape.” He moved his hand down her shoulder and along the length of her arm. “I’ll cut the material, holding it flat by the weights I’ve placed across it. My shears will slice effortlessly through the salmon-colored silk and its lining of lemon sateen, and through the mandarin-and-cherry-colored bouclé wool, for the blades are obscenely sharp and the cloth will surrender easily.” He spread his fingers along her thigh to her knee. “Then I’ll drape the roughly assembled bodice of the costume around the tailor’s dummy, pulling the waist of the garment tightly in toward the front.” He brought his hand up under her skirt and shifted her legs to open them a little. “I’ll bring the raw edges of the material together to pin them into a seam, snipping the armholes a little, if need be, as a surgeon might incise a flap of skin.” His hand moved upward along her inner thigh, rubbing against her stockings. “Then I’ll bind the seams with taffeta. When I press the seams under the hot iron, I’ll take in the smell of the new cloth and imagine how your sweet body heat will perfume it.” Then slowly he released his hand from under her skirt to turn her fully around to him, pressing his body gently on top of her. “Then I’ll take some strips of whalebone and place them into a basin of warm water to soften them. I’ll cut the corners off the bone with the blade of my pocketknife, making a little curve at each end.” He leaned his body more heavily onto her. “And then I’ll insert the bone through the aperture of the casing, sliding it firmly upward all the way to the top of the seam. I’ll draw the bone back just a little, if I need to, so that it won’t force the material. The spring of the bone must always be right.” He stroked her face and neck. “I’ll begin to insert another strip of whalebone into the casing. Then another. And another. And the garment will slowly take on your shape.” He put his face close to her to smell her skin. “When I attach the panels of the skirt to the bodice, I’ll roll the material between my thumb and forefinger to firm its position; then I’ll fasten the rolls with thread as I go.” He kissed her face, his hand moving across her breast. “Once all the sections of the skirt are in place, then I’ll slip the garment onto the tailor’s dummy again to check that the waistline sits well down into the curve of the figure.” His hand moved up under her skirt again. “I’ll sew twenty-two buttons down the front of the bodice, along its opening. Twenty-two buttons I’ve already handmade from silk.” His hand pulled at her underwear. “For each buttonhole, I’ll work with a cerise linen thread, taking my time to allow the purl to come to the edge of the slit.” He kissed her again and eased her legs farther apart.