Haberdasher

He was a rare beast for his time, even before he met her. A man confident in his selections of fabrics,  threads, buttons and ribbons. He had heard that she stocked only the best, and had gorgeous  things that were unique. This was what he had a hunger for. He sought her shop and found delight in seeing that this was true.

It took only a little time after his first visit for him to move his workroom into the back of her store. His client list continued to grow. They relished picking out their bits and pieces from her shelves. They loved even more so that she guided them to the right choices, complimenting them on their good taste. Everyone felt spoiled and right about the garments put together under that roof.

She asked him to marry her while they were sorting out a shipment of buttons. He, full of cheek, asked what dowry she offered. She gave him a button, adding that if he married her within the year he could have two. From that day, thoughts of their wedding attire filled his head.

She never worried. She trusted his instinct. She knew his garments would be both flattering and brilliant. They would be a joy to wear and see. She watched him draw up his ideas. He teased her, led her astray, kept his real plans secret. He planned to surprise and delight her, and that was where his focus was. He did not see that she was becoming frustrated with the time he was taking.

She spent less time in her precious store. She claimed that she had to find stock and needed to travel. Her trips away became more frequent and longer. Secrecy hung on her like a cheap cloak. He made excuses for her, denying there were any problems stalking them.

Then came that dreadful day. He looked up from his cutting table to see her standing in his workroom doorway. She was watching him. It was unusual for her to do this, she never lingered there, she would either barge in or rush out. Bring in a suggestion, or take out an idea.

There were no tears on her face, that he could see. It was her gut wrenching silence, rushing its way towards him, that told him how it was. It was over. She was leaving him. She did not need to say it. She turned to go, resting a hand against the doorframe for a moment. He rushed at her, grabbing at her skirt as he knelt before her. She leant over him, protective, trying to shield him from what was to come. She eyed his cutting scissors, they were within reach. 

Following her gaze he turned for them, desiring to feel them in his hand. He trusted their honesty. She made no effort to stop him.  With a deft stretch of his arm he had hold of them. He tightened his fist around the handles, the blades pointing downwards. He held them above her heart, ready to plunge them downwards. She did not beg for her life, she did not utter a sound. He hesitated. He dropped the scissors to the floor and turned away from her. The true horror of their parting was now revealed to him. 

Before he could say anything, before he could move away, she extracted the promise from him. He must still make her dress. He must have it ready in time, he must make it his best work, it must be unforgettable.

He made that promise months ago. He believed in his abilities, his strength to endure this. There was no doubt in his mind. Not about this. He did wonder though, during bouts of self pity, if he could cheat fate by not completing her dress. If she did not have it, then she could not go.

Still the work waited for him, half done, under done. His vision, his energy, slipped from his grasp day by day. Her dress remained little more than a sketch that he delayed bringing to life. He now feared he would not be able to keep his promise. She would not be angry, that was not her way, but he would find it unbearable to not do this for her. He had declared that he was up to the task and prove it he must.

Each day she asked him about it. Was it startling, was it true and honest, was it full of life? He fobbed her off, answering her questions with more questions. She must wait, must give him the necessary time, must trust him. He tried to find what he needed in establishments other than hers. It was no good. He did not want to remove a single item that she had placed on her shelves and he told her so. She was flippant with him, tossing him the keys to the store as if she had not heard him. She would allow him no escape.

So he sat at his workbench, wretched. He nursed his scissors in one hand, unfolded and refolded his measuring tape with the other. All the time he stared at the doorway between his workshop and her store. A half smile drifted across his face as memories returned to him. He again the delight of when he first found this haberdashery and the haberdasher who owned it.

He knew then that no amount of buttons would hold him together or lengths of ribbon constrain his grief. Nevertheless he would make her most wonderful dress. There would be colour, a myriad of delicate mother-of-pearl buttons and the finest of lace. He sharpened his scissors and threaded the needles. It was time to live up to his promise. He worked away, trying not to let tears stain the fabric or stop him from sewing a straight seam.

Her dress was his last creation. He buried her in it, along with his scissors which he put carefully in her hands. Afterwards he closed her shop and left. The only item he took with him was the button she had offered him as her dowry.

LINK TO BLOG - BEHIND THE STORY