PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook
I’d hear the noise all through the night, the working of the treadle, the chick-chick-chick of the needle.
We’d never see the tailor, just the bales of dazzling cloth and paper patterns bundled at the foot of the be-spidered stairs, then suits and skirts and shirts – pressed sharp as the paper patterns – hung like a gathering of mournful ghosts, waiting to be worn by the moneyed of the town.
The only thing I saw of the tailor was his narrow coffin the day they took him out. It was of plain wood, unembellished – his last, ragged suit.