She had never seen anything like it, not even in Bristol. The dress-shops she used to frequent catered for all ages, with dragon-like salesladies waiting to pounce. This one was exclusively for the under twenty-fives, with not a beady-eyed saleswoman in sight.
It was dark inside, painted the same dark red as outside, with spotlights here and there focused on garments hanging on the walls above the crowded rails. Dozens of girls were milling around, she could hear laughter and chatter above the music, as if they were at a party rather than shopping.
As Tara moved to go in, something caught her eye. There was a small notice stuck to the window – 'Junior salesgirl required, apply within'.
It was there for her. She knew it. Fate had drawn her to this shop because it was right. If she hesitated she might never pluck up courage.
Once inside the music was so loud she could scarcely think, but she took in everything at a single glance. In the centre was a raised counter; behind it stood a man with black curly hair operating the till and a busty blonde folding garments and putting them in bags.
Instinct told her he was the owner. His dark eyes watched everything at once and she knew he had noticed her the moment she stepped through the door. Taking a deep breath, she walked up to the counter and smiled.
'Hullo. I'm Tara Manning. I've come for the job!'
He didn't reply immediately, just looked her up and down. She guessed he was Jewish by his olive skin and prominent nose, he looked no more than thirty.
'How old are you?' He carried on ringing up a garment.
'Sixteen.'
'Where are you working now?'
'I'm not. I've just left school.'
He was almost handsome, with soulful dark eyes. It was a good-natured face, she decided, and he was dressed impeccably in light grey slacks and a pale blue buttoned-down shirt, with a heavy gold identity bracelet on one wrist and a sovereign ring on the other hand.
'Take over, Angie,' he said to the blonde girl, stepping down from his platform to come round to her.
He was only a fraction taller than her, carrying a little too much weight, but when she glanced down at his feet she saw his shoes were crocodile.
'That's not a London accent!' he said, and as he smiled his teeth flashed brilliant white. 'The West Country?'
'Somerset,' she said. 'But I'm staying up here with my aunt and uncle.'
'It's too noisy to talk here.' He took her arm and led her towards the door. 'I'd take you out the back but Saturdays are always busy and I have to keep my eyes open. I hope you don't mind talking outside?'
It wasn't that much quieter. A long traffic queue had formed, and the pavement was full of jostling shoppers. The air was thick with petrol fumes, a smell of fried onions wafted from a hamburger stall and it was very hot.
'Tara's a pretty name. What makes you want to work for me?' His voice was attractive. It had just enough of a London accent, but with the edges rubbed off.
'Because I love fashion.' She gave him her most winning smile, tossing back her hair from her shoulders the way she imagined models did. 'And because your shop looks exciting.'
'What's exciting about it?' He put his head on one side and she had a feeling he was trying not to laugh.
'The bustle, the music, the darkness and the clothes. As soon as I saw it I knew it was for me.'
'Did you now?' His eyes travelled down her body. 'Where did you buy that dress?'
She knew he liked it by the inquisitive look in his eyes, and she was flattered that it passed as a professionally made one.
'I didn't buy it. I made it. I make all my clothes.'
He raised one bushy dark eyebrow.
'What patterns do you use? Style? Simplicity?'
'I make my own,' she said. 'I just draw it first, then I make it up.'
'Can I look?' He moved nearer, bending down and lifting the hem just an inch or two to look at the seam. 'Very good!' He smiled up at her. 'You could make more as a machinist in a factory than I could pay you.'
She felt drawn to him, though she didn't know why. His black curly hair looked almost wet it was so shiny and those dark, treacly eyes were very appealing. It was a shame about his big nose and the fleshy lips, they detracted from his good points.
'I don't see myself as a machinist. More a designer.' It came out without thinking and she blushed at her own arrogance.
He grinned, showing in that one facial movement that he appreciated ambition.
'Well, as a designer, what do you think of my clothes?' Tara knew he was trying to put her down, but as she'd started blowing her own trumpet, she felt she might as well continue.
'The cut and styles are super,' she said, glancing back through the door at two girls holding up skirts. Even at a distance she could see prominent faults, such as an uneven hem and patch-pockets sewn on askew. 'The finish could be better, though.'
She waited, half expecting him to tell her to push off, but instead he laughed.
'Well, Tara, for your honesty I'm going to give you the job. But I'd be grateful if you wouldn't pass on your observations to my customers. In time you'll realise that to produce high fashion at low prices we have to compromise. How does four pounds a week sound?'
Her face lit up, eyes flashing with delight. She had no idea if that was good or bad, but it sounded like a fortune.
'Thank you, that's wonderful.' She beamed. 'I'm sorry, I don't know your name.'
'Joshua Bergman,' he said. 'But everyone calls me Josh. Now, if you come here at nine o'clock sharp on Monday morning, I'll sort you out something to wear. What size are you?'
'Ten.' She was bubbling with excitement now. 'You won't be sorry you took me on.'
Josh let his eyes slide down her. He took in the glorious red-gold hair, the pale gold eyes, the dress and the long, slender legs.
'No, I don't think I will be!'
Josh Bergman!' Queenie screwed up her face in disapproval.
Forgetting her aching feet, Tara had run almost the whole way to Whitechapel market to tell George and Queenie her news.
'Oh, don't be like that!' Tara pleaded. 'I love his shop. Do you know him, then?'
'Well, only by reputation.' Queenie shrugged her shoulders. 'Now if it was 'is dad you was getting a job with I'd be delighted. He owns Bergman's, a big company that makes quality coats and suits. But Josh is a bit of a wide-boy.'
'He didn't seem like that to me.' Tara pouted. 'Anyway, I thought you'd be thrilled.'
'Well, it's a job.' Queenie's tone changed and she put her hand on Tara's shoulder. 'Come and 'ave a cuppa and tell me all about it.' She looked over her shoulder and beckoned to a thin elderly man sitting on some boxes. 'Hey, Frank, do us a favour and mind the stall for a while?'
They sat on a wooden bench by the tea stall soaking up the hot sunshine.
Aside from George and Queenie, Tara didn't recognise any of the stallholders now. Instead of Mr Reynolds' meat van with its drop-down counter and striped awning, there were a couple of young men selling huge joints from a much bigger truck. She could see many Indians in turbans, but not one of them was Mr Singh, and the old lady selling sweets in paper cones had been replaced by a stall with giant-sized plastic bags already filled and priced.
'Everyone's different,' she said.
Queenie glanced around her, wrinkling her nose disdainfully.
'Mr Reynolds retired,' she said sadly. 'I wouldn't get my meat from those two crooks if they was giving it away.' She nodded towards the two men in the truck who were attracting a large crowd. 'Lots of the others moved down to Roman Road. Old Betty with the sweets died last year. It ain't the same any more luv, too many thugs and nig-nogs.'
It was every bit as colourful as Tara remembered, but with a different, foreign flavour. 'My Boy Lollipop' was belting out from a record stall and a couple of black girls were jigging about in time to it. Indians manned all the fabric stalls, and roll after roll of vivid satins and rayons were piled up with embroidered sari material. A vegetable stall held stra
nge-looking produce she'd never seen before and a black man sat in front of dozens of sacks filled with rice, herbs and pungent-smelling spices.
But there were just as many people as before. Children still clung to overloaded pushchairs and their mothers' legs, and the crowd in front of George's stall was bigger than ever.
He was standing on a box, with Harry passing things up to him. Sun gleamed on his bald patch; the remaining hair snow white and curling up around his ears. In a bright red waistcoat and bow-tie that matched his face, he was in fine voice.
'Look at the quality of these saucepans. You wouldn't get anything finer in the kitchens of the Savoy. Up West you'd pay thirty quid for this set, but I'm not asking even twenty for them. Not eighteen, not fifteen, not even twelve. First four people to put their hands up get them for ten!'
Tara laughed as the notes fluttered in hands.
'Do they really come planning to buy a set of saucepans?' she asked Queenie.
'Doubt it, darlin'.' Queenie's plump face broke into laughter. 'I 'spect they get 'ome and think "What the 'ell did I buy those for?". 'E's a genius at winkling money out of pockets. The Jamaican women love 'im, they buys 'is china like they're planning a street party. Last week 'e 'ad a load of lace tablecloths. Flogged the lot, 'e did, in about twenty minutes and to fink I said 'e'd never sell one 'cos they was too fancy.'
Tara sipped her tea and looked at Queenie. Her round face didn't show the rigours of time and hard work. Maybe the pink and white skin was only makeup and the blonde hair out of a bottle, but she hardly looked fifty. In a blue and white striped summer dress, with her dark green apron and money bag round her waist, she looked as plump and juicy as the fruit on her stall.
'Come on, then.' Queenie lit a cigarette. 'Tell me about this job.'
Tara poured it all out, pleased to see the older woman seemed to be warming to the idea.
'What's 'e like?' Queenie asked. 'I've met Solly, 'is dad, a couple of times, but I've never set eyes on Josh.'
'A bit flashy,' Tara admitted. 'Gold bracelet and stuff. Black curly hair, a big nose and sort of squishy lips. I'm not sure how old he is, though.'
'Same as our 'Any.' Queenie puffed thoughtfully. 'They used to play together when they was little. 'Course, the Bergmans went up in the world, moved away to Golders Green when they made their pile. But they did live in Cable Street.'
'Really?' Tara was surprised. Cable Street had been notorious when she was little, for its slums, gambling dens and prostitution. 'How old was he then? I can't imagine him anywhere that wasn't posh!'
'He was about seven when they moved out,' Queenie said. 'I 'eard he went to a private school soon after. 'Is dad's still got 'is factory down there. Bought the place cheap, but now he goes there in a flash motor. I was surprised when I 'eard Josh opened up a place round 'ere. I would've expected 'im to go for Chelsea or Kensington.'
'What do you think about the job, then?' Tara held her breath, knowing that if Queenie wasn't behind her, her mother and Gran wouldn't approve. 'It's perfect for me, it's a shop for young girls. Josh might let me design once I've been there a while. And it's close to home.'
Queenie sighed.
She'd had a hard life. She was married at seventeen, to a man who saw her as nothing more than a warm body in his bed and a willing pack-horse to do all the work for him. Dick came from a long line of coster-mongers, but he had been a lazy boozer with a vile temper. She had never wanted to work on a stall, but the alternative had been starvation. Out in all winds and weathers, the only thing Dick did was buy the produce in the morning, then go off down the pub while she sold it. Time and again she'd been tempted to leave him, but she'd made her vows in church and she couldn't go back on them. Friendships with people like George had sustained her all those years, and she let people think she was happy with Dick because that was the way then.
Dick had died when she was forty, and she had the money then, without Dick drinking it away, to indulge herself with nice clothes, and move into a better flat. Then finally George had turned from a lifelong friend into a sweetheart. Now she had everything any woman could want.
Like George, Amy and Mabel, she wanted more for Tara than they'd all had. A summer job to her meant a West End shop, mixing with girls from good homes, not coming back to a place that held only bitter memories and people who would drag her down. But when she looked at Tara's eyes dancing with excitement, she hadn't the heart to pour cold water on her dreams.
'Let's just see this as a temporary thing,' she said cautiously. 'I think you ought to go back to school in September. And if you must work local you've got to stick to the story.'
George had pointed out the dangers of anyone recognising her as Bill MacDonald's daughter. Although they all agreed Tara had changed so much from the skinny, carrot-haired child she had once been, there was always a danger of slipping up and revealing she'd lived here before.
'I only told Josh I was staying with my aunt and uncle,' Tara whispered, looking round to make sure no-one was listening. 'I won't ever let on about him.'
'Well, leave it to me to talk George round.' Queenie smiled. 'Now off you go and let me get back to the stall.'
'Cor, you don't 'alf look nice,' said Angie, Josh's other assistant, as Tara came out of the changing room on Monday morning. 'I wish I was as tall as you!'
'You're more feminine than me.' Tara smoothed the calf-length skirt down over her hips, turning round to see herself in the mirror. She didn't really like these long tight skirts the mods wore, and she certainly didn't want to turn into a replica of all the other girls in Bethnal Green. They all seemed to be small, with identical backcombed bobbed hair plastered forward on their pale cheeks. But this dark green skirt and the striped green and white top weren't too bad, in fact she thought she looked quite elegant.
Since she'd arrived at nine and been introduced to Angie by Josh, no customers had come in. Josh had instructed them to find a suitable outfit for Tara, then went upstairs to his office.
With a Wilson Pickett record on full blast, both girls were enjoying themselves, pulling out clothes willy-nilly and getting to know each other.
Angie was from South London and she'd come to work for Josh when he first opened the shop because at the time she'd had a boyfriend close by. Since then she'd finished with the boyfriend, but moved into a bedsitter in Stepney. It was clear she had an almighty crush on Josh. She reminded Tara of the girls in the Carry On films, wide-eyed and busty. Each time she giggled, her blonde curls shook. Although she was eighteen she looked younger than Tara, though from things she said she was no little Miss Innocent.
Already she'd talked endlessly about 'pulling blokes', her hangover from Saturday night and her anxiety last week because she hadn't come on. Yet when Josh came back to the shop for a few minutes, she was all batting eyelashes, provocative pouts and pretend dumbness.
Tara liked her, though. It was good to have another girl to work with, especially one who made her laugh.
'This is the sort of dress I want to wear,' Angie said, pulling out a slinky black crepe number. 'But I always meet fellas whose idea of a good time is to drag me down the dog track, or they've got motorbikes. I have to wear jeans all the time, and me bum's too big.'
The shop only got busy at twelve, as girls started to come in during their lunch hour. Tara was amazed at the amount of money girls only a little older than herself had to spend, and at their slavish following of fashion. When she saw short, dumpy girls putting on long pleated skirts, she wanted to lead them to slimmer shapes and encourage them to wear softer colours than the grey, bottle green and black they seemed so struck on, but she hadn't the confidence yet.
Again and again she saw girls turning away because there were no real summer dresses. The sun was blazing outside, they were going away for a holiday at the weekend, but they could find nothing revealing to wear.
'Daft, innit.' Angie giggled as yet another disappointed girl walked out. 'Here we are in a heatwave with only things with long sleeve
s to sell. I'm going down to Southend on Sunday if it's still nice and I ain't got nothing new to wear either.'
The afternoon was very quiet and, although Josh brought in some new stock for them to price up, there was nothing much to do. Tara sat behind the counter and idly drew a summer dress on a scrap of paper.
'That's nice.' Angie rested her breasts and elbows on the counter to look at what Tara was doing. 'I wish I could draw.'
'Would you wear that on Sunday?' Tara showed her the sketch of a scoop-necked print shift dress, the back cut very low.
'Yeah, I would,' Angie said enthusiastically. 'You can never get dresses like that when you want them, though.'
Tara tucked the sketch away under the counter, her head spinning with an idea.
Josh sat back in his chair and smiled to himself.
He called the room above the shop his office, though in reality it was more of a stockroom. But at his big desk under the window, swivelling in his leatherette chair, with dress-rails behind him, he could imagine he was a tycoon surveying his empire.
His good mood was entirely the result of hiring Tara and, although it was only four in the afternoon of her first day, he knew he'd picked a cracker. He would've taken her on just for the way she said 'I've come for the job'. Josh liked positive people who weren't afraid to be pushy. He was that way himself, and he understood it.
Joshua Bergman hadn't been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, though people tended to forget this. He had been almost eight when they moved to Golders Green and early memories of poverty and hunger were etched on his brain. He could barely recall the expensive private school he went to later, other than having elocution lessons to rid him of his Cockney accent. Yet he could still remember waking in Cable Street to find a rat sitting by his bed, and his mother cooking chicken soup over an open fire.
His father, Solly Bergman, had come to England from Germany in the 1920s with nothing but his tailoring skills and a smattering of English. Until 1939, when he met and married Rachael Steinway, he had resigned himself to poverty, accepting a home in Cable Street as his lot. Rachael, however, was ambitious, and soon after Josh was born in 1942, she persuaded her husband to use his tailoring skills on women's clothes.