Bespoke(n)

She measures my left arm from shoulder seam to cuff, pressing the tape into my skin. When I flex my elbow, my wrist bone evades the measure. A stray thread is caught on the metal tip of the tape. She removes it and writes the arm’s length down in her sketchbook. I notice her handwriting. Long fine lines, evenly spaced, more drawn than written, they suggest the hand of someone who cares about the form and structure of things.

“In Upshur County, West Virginia, the tailoring work of the household was usually done by the women” I say.

She pushes her glasses higher up her nose, but doesn’t reply.

“No single lady was considered a fit companion for man until she could cut out and make hunting shirts, leggings, coats, pantaloons, and underwear.”

“Nothing wrong with being single.” She runs the tape down my back.

I was not the one who taught her to sew. That was another woman though her grandmother maintains it was her great grandmother’s French DNA demanding more promising material to inhabit. Her father thinks it is a Huguenot connection. He cites the protestant refugees of France, bringing their silk weaving skills and setting up new lives in Bethnal Green.

She is measuring my waist now. “I read that the first itinerant lady tailor in the county was a Miss Young, who went from house to house and settlement to settlement doing work” I say, lifting my arms.

“Oh please, keep still, Ma.”

I don’t like the tape so close in to my waist. It makes me hold my breath.

She writes in her book again. The numbers are in a neat list under the title: Mama’s coat.

“Rosa Parks was an assistant tailor, you know.”

“Is this making you uncomfortable?” she stops writing in her book and looks appraisingly at the span of my hips.

“Just making conversation.”

“Do you want the lining to blend or to startle?”

“Surprise me!” I say but not meaning it. I want her to tell me what lining I should have. I want her to tell me what will fit and what will not.

“Are you changing your bag this winter?”

“Maybe…” I realise I sound suspicious.”

Well, what colour bag might you “maybe” be looking for?”

“I suppose it would be nice if it went with my coat.”

She tightens the tape around my neck. “Is Grandma like this with you?” she asks

“No. Probably. Yes.” I reply.

She closes her sketch book and reaches for a clutch of fabric swatches. She flips through them and points to a pale blue, the shade of expensive eggs at the farmers market. “That’s the colour you should choose for the lining. It goes well with that gold nail varnish you like and it will make your skin look glowy.”

The edges of the swatch are frayed with fine threads easing away from the warp and weft of the piece. She takes scissors from the pocket of her apron and slides her finger and thumb into the orange handles. The blades glide through the fabric leaving clean edges. She hands me a three-inch square of limp satin

I stroke the silky swatch across the back of my hand. I am holding my breath again. My daughter is watching me. She has the measure of me when once I had the measure of her. Soon I will have a coat with a lining the colour of expensive eggs. It will make my skin look glowy and it will go with the gold nail varnish that I like. It will have been made by my daughter, the tailor.