The Bound Heart (20 page)

Jamie walked through the back door and upstairs where he knew Okazaki would be fixing his bed then she would tidy the attic ready for when he wanted to work.

He took the stairs two at a time.

“Okazaki-san”

“Hai.”

It came from his room.

He walked down the hall at the second landing and found her tucking in the bed corners.

“Olive needs some new clothes.”-he said in Japanese-“ Can you take her somewhere? Find something that she’ll like. We’ll need to be able to go out during the day, evening events. Blackburn’s.”

Okazaki moved up the bed, fluffed the pillows, and nodded.

Jamie paced.

His insides were restless.

“I asked her to model. She thinks its sex work. Thinks I’m paying her for being my lover.”

Okazaki straightened.

“Are you?”

“No!”

Okazaki left the room and went over to the parlor on the other side of the landing. He followed her.

“I’m taking her to the gallery to talk about art.”

Okazaki straightened the pillows on the coach. The golden cords had been sewed back on.

“I think she’s going to say no.”

That was it wasn’t it? His gut said she wasn’t going to do it.

“You are rushing her.”

“I can’t have her looking for work and lodgings, best to deal with it now. I thought you didn’t like her.”

“She has limits with her leg. Are you willing to risk losing to Sato in Paris? If he wins, you will not have a chance to win that contract again for five years. Five powerful earning years with The Collectors”—Okazaki snapped her fingers—”gone.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not about to start compromising what I believe in for money. They will either choose me or not.”

“Can you support this house if you do not win the contract?”

“For long enough.”

She smiled one of her rare smiles.

He couldn’t help but smile back. She wanted him to stick to his convictions, no matter what; she’d just pushed him so it became clearer to him.

He wanted to work with Olive, see where that led. Logic said he should take Madeline, the experienced rope woman, but his instincts, his passion, all wanted Olive.

“She could be totally wrong, some rope and sex is not the measure of a rope woman.”

“I think she has something, and she brings something out in me. Something I’m not sure of yet.”

“Impossible to be ready, but better than the washer woman.”

“Madeline is talented.”

“Pff.” Okazaki went to move past him.

“Will you take her?”

“Of course, Jamie-sama.”

“She likes to embroider. Maybe you could show her some of your things. Buy some threads, things she can create with, get settled. She wants to have her own business.”

He rubbed his hand over his face. He was sounding desperate.

Okazaki nodded and started to head out of the room.

“I also told her she could ask you about the rope, about your work with Sensei.”

Okazaki didn’t give any indication she’d heard, simply moved out into the landing and up to the attic. She still felt the loss of Sensei. They both did. However, for her, that connection they had when they worked the rope together was lost to her now. That loss was not one easily healed; it was a grief at the loss of something inside yourself as well as the other person.

Jamie followed Okazaki up and then took the small door and the narrow stairs that lead up to the roof and Sensei’s Bonsai.

The tap for the hose was close to the roof’s small walled edge. He couldn’t help but look down, and there Olive was, gazing at the fish in the Koi pond.

She turned, looked up. They looked at each other across that distance. Connection, an invisible rope, stretched out between them sending his awareness to her and hers to him.

He would be able to keep the house for a while if he lost the challenge. He had his own money, the house he had tenanted out. But five years was a stretch.

This magical world, this touch of feudal Japan would sell in a heartbeat, displacing Okazaki from her home of decades and leaving them both bereft of the memories that were in every section of the house.

The option was to play safe, choose Madeline. However, what if he did that and lost anyway. He’d hate himself for not following his instincts, not following his art.

He had another bookbinding commission from a Collector for a skin-covered book. He’d delayed committing; it wasn’t something he particularly liked working on and he simply wanted the chance to focus on his rope work and the exhibition plates.

The Collectors had asked him over the years; but they were very secretive bunch, and he was on the outskirts. Ironically, if he won the competition, he would be closer in, and he would be more likely to get that sort of request.

Either way, it was going to be a challenge to keep their lifestyle long term if he didn’t win from Sato.

“I don’t want to take off my shoes,” Olive whispered.

She had never taken her shoes off so often in her life. In and out of Jamie’s House, of Mrs. Okazaki’s house, and here at a shop.

Mrs. Okazaki pointed to a small seat next to the frosted-glass sliding doors they had just come through.

Olive leaned closer to Okazaki as a line of Japanese women in traditional dress looked on. They’d all just bowed and spoke in unison some greeting and now were waiting for them to remove their shoes, put on slippers, and step up the few steps into the small dress shop.

“I would have to take my brace off,” Olive whispered again.

“We can put it back on after you take the shoes off.”

“I just need a tie.”

Mrs. Okazaki reached into her kimono, took out a small length of rope, and handed it to her.

Why on earth would she have that in her beautiful kimono? Next time she would pull out her own piece of rope. Was it an oriental custom to have one handy like a handkerchief?

“But they’re all watching.” Heat raced up her chest and inched at her cheeks.

Mrs. Okazaki looked at her face, and then a simple nod. “I’ll start. When you are ready put those slippers on and come through the paper sliding doors.”

Mrs. Okazaki then went up the steps, slid on the slippers, and started talking to the line of staff in Japanese. They turned, opened a paper sliding door, and left the entrance.

Olive took off her brace, slipped the boot through the metal loop that sat next to the heel of her boot, removed her boots, and then looked at her brace. It was a bit ridiculous to put it back on.

Her fingers ran over the old soft leather. Billie’s brace. She’d worn it every day after he died, never took it off even if it meant sleeping with her right boot on and her foot stuck out of the bed so not to make the sheet filthy. As the grief passed, she’d just worn it while she was up. As much as she loved Billie it was more of a burden now.

Sitting here all by herself the shortness of breath didn’t come, the shaking of her leg. But it most likely would when she went in with everyone.

Olive lifted her skirt over her right knee, wrapped the rope around her calf tightly, and tied it so it couldn’t slip down to pool at her ankles when she walked.

She placed her brace on top of her shoes, the old leather heel of her right boot completely worn. It was expensive to have shoes made to fit her with the extra-high heel needed to even out her limp. She’d managed to do it once, saved for over a year and had the boots adjusted with a leather sole added to the bottom to lift it. She’d never earned enough again to repair it once it had worn down.

Well… she had but her embroidery was her path out to a better life and she could only afford one of them. New heal or threads. The threads won every time.

Olive took a deep breath and stood up. She looked down at the brace. She was going to try just using the rope. When they got home she’d put the brace away and see how she went.

“I’m not letting you go, Billie,” she spoke softly, “I just need to find my own way now.” Then she climbed the wooden steps, put on the slippers, and entered through the sliding doors into the shop.

Her breath stopped in her chest. Mrs. Okazaki had taken her to a Japanese tailor.

Fabric, oriental fabrics, so beautiful, silks, cottons, a large traditional dress embroidered with birds. The Japanese dress on display was opened wide on a black lacquered frame with the top bar slipping through the arms of the dress to show the fill effect of the design.

The next hour and a half, Olive tried on a range of pre-made clothes and fought with Mrs. Okazaki about what was reasonable to order. She only needed something so she wouldn’t embarrass Jamie if he wanted to go out with her. Nothing else was needed.

Olive looked at fashion plates and fabrics, undergarments, hats, and accessories. For a Japanese shop, it was equipped to service any woman wanting to update a wardrobe. Olive tried to remind Mrs. Okazaki that she was not one of those women. However, apart from talking to her in English, Mrs. Okazaki spoke in Japanese and made final decisions on what was ordered.

A gentleman came into the shop, a Japanese, older man with very polite manners bowing and keeping himself low.

“A man has come to show us some shoes, Olive, and to measure your feet.”

“Shoes?” It made sense that her old boots would not do with the quality of clothes she saw here. If she had a nice outfit by the end of it, she would need shoes.

The measurements were taken and sensitively, he requested the measurements of the length of her legs. Olive found herself ushered into one of the changing rooms and her legs measured by one of the young female staff.

When she came out, Mrs. Okazaki was opening up items handed to her by the staff holding the traditional dresses open and talking authoritatively. Olive didn’t need to understand Japanese to know the yeses and nos. The pile of yeses influenced what other items were being brought over.

“Thompson-san, come here and look at the kimonos.”

Thompson-san.
Pleasure rippled through Olive as she walked over to the counter where the kimonos were laid out.

“I thought you would like to try the Japanese traditional dress while we are here?”

Olive nodded furiously as she ran her fingers over the fabric of the garment closest to her. Apart from the lilac gown Jamie gave her to wear, she had never worn anything as beautiful let alone handled fabrics like this. They were beautifully embroidered, the colors and patterns so foreign and so botanical.

“See this one.” Mrs. Okazaki laid one in front of her. “This has been hand painted, here along the helm, up the front, and also here.” Mrs. Okazaki flipped open the front of the kimono and showed that the handed painted landscape continued seamlessly into the inside of the garment.

Small features of the landscape were embroidered over the image, like the line of the hills, the center of the flowers, small Japanese styled cottages. As her finger ran over the embellishments, Mrs. Okazaki said something to the woman who looked to be the proprietress.

Getting dressed in a kimono was not an easy task. The kimono itself is made to be so much longer than the wearer needs. The middle is folded over itself a few times in a wide thick band creating padding that will go under the belt. The Japanese liked women to look straight from the shoulder tips, waist, and hips. The indented waist was filled she guessed by the number of times the kimono is overlapped. And there were layers of them. Underneath, she wore a beautiful bright red under kimono, which was tied with a very small fabric belt. Then the actual kimono, which was in spring colors of soft greens. And a very long and wide belt called an obi was wrapped around her waist many times to make the straight look, and then was knotted elaborately at the back.

Olive stood in front of the full-length mirror and fell in love. With the garment, the exotic colors, the fabric…and with who she was as she wore it.

“This is beautiful,”-another person seemed to be easing into her old skin-“I feel so comfortable in it.”

The hugging belt, the wonderful colors.

How could something so foreign feel so familiar…so right? Olive ran her palms over the kimono, she was all tied up in another way.

The collar of the under kimono sat below the main exterior kimono, it had a cloth sewn over the actual kimono to protect the kimono from makeup and grim from the skin, Mrs. Okazaki explained. It was beautifully embroidered. Olive pointed to it.

“I can do these.”

Mrs. Okazaki nodded. “First, we try on more kimono. Do you think Jamie-sama would like the obi?” There was a special look as she said that and Olive flushed bright red.

“Yes, yes, I do.”

Mrs. Okazaki nodded. “Good, we will get some extra. Come and choose.”

That opened up another world of beauty, choices, and so many ideas of what she could do with her embroidery.

Eventually, it all stopped.

Olive could have stayed in the shop all day. She wanted to be there when the next customer arrived, to watch, help, and play with the fabrics and combinations. Some of her suggestions of what she wanted to put together caused many shaking heads. There were colors for seasons and colors for events and they had meanings. That she found a combination appealing didn’t mean it was appropriate to put together if she was to wear the kimono properly.

Olive went over to the counter where Okazaki was finalizing what they would purchase. Olive had no idea what was actually selected, and she had given up fighting with Mrs. Okazaki halfway through trying on the pre-mades.

“Thompson-san, can I show Iwara-san your embroidery.”

Olive looked down at her jacket and the small rim of embroidery Mrs. Okazaki had noticed in the kitchen. “This?” She pointed to the cuff.

“The whole jacket.”

A flush of nerves stirred through her. She loved the inside of this jacket. She was proud of it, but the idea it would be shown to women used to such fine things, that it may fall short tightened her chest.

“Yes, of course.” Olive took off her jacket and handed it to Mrs. Okazaki.

Mrs. Okazaki then started to show the small embroidery along the edges of the cuffs. She showed the soft muted colors that blended into the fabric. Then she opened the jacket inside out.

Mrs. Iwara’s face changed, her look was appreciative.

Heat moved up her neck as Olive flushed with pleasure at the reserved but genuine response. Mrs. Iwara was looking at her work as one skilled artisan looked at another skilled artisan’s work.

Here, Olive received no ridicule like from her sisters and mother. No pointing it out to a friend and laughing. Friends who later quietly came and asked for work to be done.

Inside the jacket, the embroidery was vibrant. It ran up the arms and inside the sides and back lining. Botanicals, small insects like ants, butterflies, and beetles. There were also birds and small things that were of London, shop fronts, a cart, a man, and a woman in fashionable dress, Hyde Park, Big Ben. It was beautiful and was made with small offcuts of things she’d gotten from the twine shop, from the samples that Jamie used to give her on Fridays, and occasionally, from materials she bought herself.

It made her feel good to make it. Her mind opened up to beauty. To nature that was so hard to find in the streets around her, the promise that the world was grander, that life was better than what she and those around her experienced.

Then there was the practicality; it was a way to put another layer of warmth between her and the cold.

The other girls in the shop came over and seemed especially excited by the fashionable couple and the cityscapes.

“This is very beautiful. Do you take on commissions or sell your work?” Mrs. Iwara asked.

Olive looked at Mrs. Okazaki who raised her eyebrows and tilted her head fractionally. This was something she could do. An income she could earn of her own.

“Yes. I used to take in sewing and so I can do repairs and standard patterns for pre-made clothes.” Olive looked over at a few racks around the room holding western pre-mades. Her heart was beating fast. Pay from an establishment like this would be much better than from the street.

“I have staff to work on those things. I am very interested in your embroidery. We especially like this.” Her fingers traced the couple, the buildings.

Olive knew her face would be bright red now. It felt hot; and inside, she was full of excitement, doubt, fear, and hope. It was all there.

“We think it would be wonderful for accessories and features like on handkerchiefs, scarfs for hats, edges for gloves, detachable collars.”

Olive looked around the shop again. It was a good quality shop. Given its Japanese orientation, it was hard to judge its status; but gauging from the quality of the fabric and the number of staff, this would be a very good quality dressmaker if not high quality. A job with a shop like this would be a boon. She might even be able to help sell in the shop.

“I can do them.”

Olive squared her shoulders to begin negotiation, but Mrs. Okazaki stepped up.

“Can we try something?”

Okazaki took her jacket and turned it inside out so the embroidery was all on the outside. It created a flurry of talking.

A black skirt and a black sheer shirt were brought out of the pre-mades then pinned and adjusted for Olive’s size.

“Thompson-san, please try this on, like this in the reverse.” Okazaki held the jacket as Olive put it on. The jacket reversed with all the embroidery on the outside.

Mrs. Okazaki smiled and nodded then turned Olive to face the full-length mirror.

Her chest tightened, and her breath froze. She’d been trying on beautiful clothes, exotic clothes all day; but this, this was hers. This was something she had made, and it looked beautiful. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she looked at herself.

“I look beautiful.” Her throat squeezed around the words.

“Yes, Olive-sama, you are,” Mrs. Okazaki whispered next to her. “Look at yourself, Olive-sama; this is who you are on the inside. It’s something to show the world, is it not? Do you have what it will take to walk your own path?”

Olive didn’t trust her voice. She could only nod.

Mrs. Okazaki’s face softened then left Olive to stand at the mirror as she returned to the counter.

It took a while before Olive was ready to remove the jacket and change back into her clothes. Clothes that now seemed like they belonged to another person and another life.

The fine clothes were, in themselves beautiful. However, what made her hanker for them, was that she had a taste of who she could be.

And, this shop made her dream, dream of a life that never held an argument about not wanting to go out and work the alleys and streets for that extra coin. A life removed from the hard and often cruel way that deprived and angry people survived together. Poverty didn’t affect everyone that way, but it did effect enough people to have a constant guard, have a constant barrier around the things you cherished.

At the counter, a pre-made jacket was waiting for her. Hers would be left here for alterations, so the inside embroidery would become the exterior of the jacket. Buttons and buttonholes needed to be reversed. The current external fabric removed and replaced, or simply a lining added over it to ensure the jacket kept its shape.