I wake up feeling… better. Not good, but better. Of course, I’m back in my own room, not sleeping over at Violet’s. I didn’t spend long at hers last night, didn’t tell her what happened, and she didn’t ask. No, she let me hug her tightly (squeezing her until she actually squeaked), and listened to me sniffle, my breath hitching, just being there for me. That was enough to calm me down.

Really, I was in such a state I can’t even remember anything about her room, except that the teddy bear I made her sits on her desk. It was just too funny to forget, a teacup beside it like it had been drinking before I interrupted.

Going through my morning routine, I wear a little smile.

Though the timing issue of Sundays is not exactly solved, (maid) Len has yet to complain about my wandering through town. I mean, she can’t complain, but I buy her a hot cup of (what is apparently) tea as compensation for accompanying me in the cold. She won’t follow me into shops, so it’s not like I can just hang around inside. But that is only for half an hour or so, about quarter to eight until quarter past, then I wait in the back of the café itself.

Ah, but I’m worried what will await me today. I didn’t exactly clear up everything with the other Len yesterday. What it means to forget Eleanor but remember Ellie….

As always, Iris doesn’t say anything about my early arrival. She’s busy checking over uniforms while I change into mine. Right, since I have the time now, I should say something to Neville. “Is your father around?” I ask. Like when he “found” me, he’s often out and about before the café opens, not a given he’s here today.

Iris hums for a moment, finishes folding the dress. “Papa’s just doing the accounts upstairs. Did you need him for something?” she asks.

“If it’s not a nuisance,” I say, unsure how big of a deal it is. I mean, if he’s been looking for a replacement for Len, then it shouldn’t be hard to find a second one? Got all the names and stuff.

“He’d probably be happy to get away from them,” Iris says, laughter in her voice.

It’s hard to gather my courage, but I do. “Can I go up?” I ask.

“Oh of course, the door should be open,” she says.

My steps perhaps rather closer together than usual, I shuffle through and out the back. The stairs up to the Thatcher’s flat are awfully long and yet I reach the landing too soon. Oh. I’ve only been here to use the toilet before, so I don’t know which door he would be behind.

“Mr Thatcher?” I loudly say.

“Ellie, is it? This must be serious if you’re not calling me Neville,” he says, ending on a light chuckle. I follow his voice to the one room, door ajar, but he opens it all the way before I can even raise my hand to knock. “Please, come in. You can leave the door open if that would be more comfortable for you.”

It’s a kind gesture, I guess telling of his employees mostly being young women. Although I’d like the privacy, I take him up on that, only closing the door halfway.

I try not to stare at the room on my way to the wooden chair in front of his desk. From what I do see, it’s fairly cramped, the various bookcases and other storage solutions intruding in on the space. Stacks of papers, bound together by string—like bundles of newspapers. A fairly bright lamp cuts through the gloom of a windowless room, but a shade keeps it from being blinding. Stuffy yet chilly, I dread to think of how many hours he has to suffer in here; I imagine it’s even worse in the summer heat.

His desk itself is simple wood, a somewhat fancy mug his only decoration, everything else the look of work. Papers, paperweights, a newspaper (probably today’s), and then an ink pot (very simple) and a couple of pens beside it.

Once I sit down, he says, “If I may, I would say this is related to Miss Tailor.”

He’s not wrong, but not entirely right either. “No. I was just thinking that this might be a good time to… resign,” I say.

For a moment, he gathers his thoughts. “That is, if you are worried due to Miss Tailor knowing your situation, she has already asked for leave to handle the changes to her wedding. She has also assured me that she hasn’t told the other staff and won’t speak of this matter to others.”

It occurs to me that, when I first visited, Iris mentioned they sometimes had rich girls “work” here. I’ve not run into any of them since I started, but maybe they only come during the week? Anyway, Neville really has this all perfected—or so it seems.

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“Still, I think this is a good time,” I say.

If I don’t stop now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to steel my heart again.

He gently nods. “I understand completely. If I may impose on you, would you consider working until the wedding? As you may have noticed, a lot of the waitresses have been invited and it would reassure Iris and myself to have another capable person on hand,” he says.

From our first meeting, I knew he had quite the silver tongue and it hasn’t dulled. Otherwise, the wedding is the first Saturday of March, so that would be… three more weeks of work. I think that’s okay. It would be nice to tie up everything today, but I can play pretend a little longer for a good reason.

“Okay.”

And so my life continues. I get through another day of work, walk back to the school with Lottie and Gwen (promising I haven’t opened the letter yet), and I push myself to see my friends after I change. When evening comes and it’s nearly tea time, I go see Violet again.

“I’m working for another three weeks, and then I’ll quit,” I tell her.

She smiles, lets out a relieved breath. “So that is what had you upset last night? Honestly, you gave me such a fright turning up like that,” she says, and she finishes with a short laugh.

Monday morning, I end up having a staring contest with myself after my bath. There’s no reason, I just switch my focus from the left eye to the right one and back again, over and over. Pale blue eyes that look silver, blonde hair so pale that the streaks of silver make it look almost white. If my skin was as pale as my mother’s and sister’s, I really would look like I was made of porcelain. Well, that’s nonsense, porcelain (or marble) having a shininess to it that clean skin doesn’t have.

Now that I have friends, is it okay to look for love, or do I just want to hear someone praise me? That’s the thought that lingers with me once I move on to applying my makeup, a light touch of foundation and a spot of concealer.

From breakfast to classes, I put in my best effort. Involve myself in the conversation, take notes that aren’t just page numbers and the odd quote. I can only move forward. It might not be in the right direction, but I’ll keep moving forward.

At embroidery club, I go with my plan and finish off the unimportant bits of sewing, and then get started on the seascape. I’m still not satisfied with my design, yet I’d rather regret that I couldn’t make it perfect than regret I didn’t make it. Besides, I know no one else cares, so it only matters that it exists. I’m not an artist. My family will come along and say it looks nice, and that’s it. Wanting to move someone’s heart isn’t enough to make something that can move someone’s heart. All these mismatched ideas flow through my empty head while my body focuses on sewing, fingers moving quickly yet with the utmost care.

The design, I decided, would be the mountains reflected in the waves—like you’re in a boat out at sea and looking back. This way, everything can be dyed aquamarine and distorted by the pleats and it makes sense. It gives me a lot of freedom to focus on creating shapes with outlines, and then add highlights in whatever colours I like. Talking to Ms Berks that one afternoon made me realise how a colour is more than meets the eye. Even if only using different tints and shades of blue, you can give a fantastic illusion of colour.

After club finishes and Evan and Cyril walk me (most of the way) back to the dormitory, I finally open Gwen’s envelope. (I didn’t want to open it before school in case I couldn’t stop smiling all day.) As I thought, it’s a Valentine’s card. That today is Valentine’s day didn’t actually come up at all in any other way, not so much as a whiff of a bouquet.

The card itself is no different to the ones I helped her with: a white-cream page (paper not so bleached in this world) folded in half; the front has a heart drawn in pink crayon that is rather neatly (for a seven-year-old) coloured in in red; on the back, there’s a simple smiley face, not much different from an emoji.

Of course, she’s written something inside, and it’s so wonderfully, beautifully sweet that I can’t bear to share it. Just know that it brings a tear to my eye, so very happy to hear I mean so much to her.

It was definitely the right call to wait until after school to read this. Only, I worry my smile will still be here come supper and my friends will surely ask why.

Joking aside, I really do treasure this card, place it on my bedside table so that I can see it when I wake up in the morning. A simple reminder that people do love me for who I am. Ah, I want to sew a heart for her. No reason to not, I scrounge through my scrap fabrics to look for a handkerchief, picking up lengths left over from my pink dress as I go. Then I gather up my pink and red threads, choosing the colours that look just right.

While I do start, I keep track of the time (using my internal clock, no watch or anything), and I stop a little before dinner to go see my friends. When supper finishes, I come to back to work. So I sew a big heart that fills most of the handkerchief, then I fill it in using cross-hatching, and finally add French knots in the gaps to really make the colour pop. Using the spare fabric I picked up, I bunch them up into little flowers and sew them on as well.

When it comes to what to write, all my enthusiasm fizzles out. What could I possibly say that reflects how touching and earnest her words to me were? To think that a girl only seven years of age could so eloquently express herself, it puts me to shame.

I mean, all I want to say is that I love her, and that I hope we can be friends forever, yet I can’t think of how to put that…. Wait, what if I just say: I love you, and I hope we can always be friends.

Perfect.

Careful, I sketch those words out in pencil on the other side of the handkerchief, and then trace over them in a special fabric paint I conveniently have. (I wouldn’t want to use pen and have it bleed through or wash out or anything like that.)

Oh, I nearly forgot. In a silvery thread, I sew my signature on the bottom of the front (below the heart). It wouldn’t feel right to paint my name, and I want to use a colour that reminds her of me.

It’s tempting to mail it off tomorrow morning, but I’ll hold onto it until the weekend—so I can see her reaction when I give it to her. She might be younger than Violet and Evan and everyone else, yet she’s still important to me.

A different kind of friend, but still a precious friend all the same.