In spite of becoming quite attached to the place and the cantankerous old crone who owned it, I left the house once and for all with my head held high. I didn’t look back. There’s nothing here for me now. I’ve walked the lane down to the town many times before, always in a hurry when running an errand for my late aunt. Today however, I stroll. My first port of call is the building society where I withdraw some cash. Then I head to the train station and purchased a one-way ticket to the south coast and with a couple of hours to kill, I purchased a few essentials (tea, bread, milk, cheese) and enjoyed afternoon tea before visiting Millighan’s Couturier. This is where Agatha had my housekeeping frocks made, so I’m no stranger. The proprietor greeted me and offered his condolences. I thanked him asked if Vanessa (Agatha’s preferred dressmaker) was present. She was and she too offered her condolence. I told her that I’d be leaving for good and wanted/needed some suitable clothing. “Something more suited to a young man such as yourself.” she supposed, gesturing towards one of the well dressed male mannequins.
“Yes.” I replied. “Although this is more what I have in mind.” I stepped to one of the female mannequins clad in the latest trend; the ladies trouser suit.
“I see.” Vanessa replied. “Agatha didn’t approve of such styles for ladies.” she stated.
“We both know that I’m not a lady Vanessa.” I said with a smile. “I do however prefer the cut and colour of this suit.” I informed her that I have a train to catch and request an immediate fitting. She sends me to the fitting room to undress whilst she removes the outfit from its mannequin. One upon a time, I used to feel so ashamed having to undress in this fitting room, being measured for a new housekeeping dress wearing little more than my corset and stockings. Auntie was very particular regarding the length of my skirts (just below the knee) and the circumference of my waist (exactly twenty-seven inches, no more, no less). Vanessa enters with the beige trouser suit. She offers to help me out of my corset. “That won’t be necessary thank you.” I reply. “They do say a year means a lifetime.” I added.
“They do.” Vanessa replied. “I could let it out a little.” she suggests. “…to twenty-nine or maybe thirty inches?”
“Let’s see how the trousers fit first.” I suggested. I slid my stocking feet through the legs and pulled them up to my waist. Vanessa tended to the back button fastening. The waist is a little loose and the legs are too long. She slackens my corset until the waist is a perfect fit, before asking if I have some flat shoes so she can pin the hems at their proper length. “I’ve spent so long in heels I can’t imagine wearing anything else.” I replied before donning my shoes. Stood on the small stool, Vanessa pins the hems of each leg before taking the trousers to her sewing machine and stitching the hems. Meanwhile, I try the cream blouse and matching beige jacket for size. It’s not a perfect fit but it’s not bad. Had I the time to get the jacket tailored, I would. It takes barely five minutes for Vanessa to sew the hems and before long, I’m wearing a pair trousers for the first since I was fifteen years old. I pay Vanessa for the trouser suit, blouse and her seamstress service, as well as leaving a sizeable tip. I pack my Sunday dress into my small case and bid Vanessa farewell.
I feel like a movie star as I stroll to the train station. I’ve only ever seen the likes of Louise Brooks and Florence Lawrence wearing such cutting edge fashions before. It’s strange that Agatha didn’t approve of ‘trouser’ styles for women. She was always quite vocal when seeing photographs of the aforementioned movie stars in her periodicals. She also didn’t approve of modern girdles which replaced the traditional corset and felt that all girls should be corseted from the age of ten. “A corseted girl knows her place.” she used to say when berating my mother for not putting my sister in one. I found it rather hypocritical that she held such traditional views regarding what women and girls should and shouldn’t wear, yet forced me to wear female garments throughout my years of servitude. Of course I questioned her at the beginning and she told me it’s so I know my place. “You may well be male Peter, but first and foremost, you’re the maid and you shall dress in a manner appropriate to your position.” she used to say. I used to hate donning my corset each morning. I’d pull it’s laces as tightly as I dare before donning my housekeeping frock. Its unforgiving waist was precisely twenty-seven inches and if I couldn’t fasten the buttons, I’d have to remove it and tighten my corset a little more. Her voice echoed in my mind. “You’re worse than a girl boy!” she’d bark. “You’ll get used to it.” she’d claim. She was right about that. After six months or so, my back felt weak without the support of my corset. After twelve, my feet didn’t feel at all comfortable without the support of a significant heel.
