Work Text:
While the citizens of Whitechapel struggle to make ends meet, many of them can afford to visit the tailor occasionally. The tailor serves everyone, though they are primarily kept afloat by the customers who can afford to visit more often. For those that can’t, they offer cheaper services. Everyone needs clothes. And it’s not a bad way to keep up with the local gossip.
Dorothy Crane is a frequent visitor and friend to the tailor. She’s the one who runs the dispensary the tailor visits whenever they get ill, and in exchange for her services they offer her discounted rates. Her own clothes are often sewn herself, though she asks the tailor for more complex items such as embroidered blouses or the corset she had made years ago. At work she usually wears the usual nurse’s uniform she got from the Pembroke. Outside of work, which is rare, she tends towards the simple fashion of a long skirt and white shirtwaist.
They’re quite sure she has the ability to make her clothing, having seen her needlework, but the woman is absolutely swamped with work. Were she not so vital to the community, the tailor would offer her employment.
The tailor doesn’t know what Whitechapel would do without her. Dorothy is the only way most of them can access healthcare, especially since the war and the epidemic left everyone destitute and impoverished.
She’s called on the tailor for medical help a couple times, which speaks to how starved she is for workers. While their sewing skills do not transfer to sewing flesh together (fabric, unlike human beings, does not squirm and squeal), they’ve provided her with bandages and bedsheets, along with the odd patient’s garments that Dorothy cannot source herself. They’re pretty sure she’s stealing clothes from the hospital. Either way, they’re thankful for her help, and her recognition of the tailor’s abilities. Dorothy isn’t the type to look down on them, unlike many who sneer at their craft for being ‘too womanly’ to be respected, and in turn, they respect her.
Darius Petrescu is another customer, however infrequent. He’s Dorothy’s right hand man, and as such, is offered the same discount for his services to the community. All under the table, of course. He wears the clothes of the working man as many others in Whitechapel do. An old linen shirt purchased prior to war shortages, patched and repaired in many places. Cotton waistcoat and trousers, both in the boxy silhouette coming into fashion due to the war. An old frayed bowler hat. A woolen coat he’s had all his life, which he entrusted the tailor with only after they worked with him for a year. It was the first thing he bought after immigrating, after he found that the traditional clothing he wore in the winter made him the subject of harassment.
Both Dorothy and Darius have some traditional clothing brought with them from Romania. They don’t wear it, for fear of persecution, but they’ve allowed the tailor to do minor repairs to the garments necessitated by aging and improper storage. Darius has a beautiful cojoc, made of sheepskin with fur that is still soft despite its age. The tailor’s favourite garment by far is Dorothy’s suman. It’s made of black wool and embroidered with various flowers, a wonderful array of colour blossoming on the fabric. The tailor would quite like to employ whoever did the embroidery.
Camellia is another of Dorothy’s allies, however that is not the only reason she gets discounted rates. In fact, the tailor has employed her on a part time basis, after an employee was drafted. The tailor is fond of her. She’s mute, which means they don’t have to deal with incessant chatter as they try to focus on their work. She can sew quite well, beyond the skills of most women. Her parents never sent her to school, as they feared her being mistreated as well as thinking she wouldn’t be able to work and therefore wouldn’t benefit. Instead, her days as a child were spent working around the house, learning from her mother and caring for her younger siblings. She spent her days sewing while others were learning to read and write. It’s a sad tale, but she’s found her people, and the tailor can’t find any faults in her needlework.
On the complete opposite end of the scale, there are two people the tailor absolutely loathes. Tobias Whitaker and Cadogan Bates.
Whitaker (who the tailor refuses to refer to as Father, thank you very much) haunts the church steps, near the block housing the tailor’s shop. They detest the man. He is one of many men who find the work of mending their own clothes to be beneath them and, lacking a wife, he goes to the tailor for each tiny rip in his garments. Honestly, could the man not repair the hole in the seam the size of three stitches himself?
The only one worse than Whitaker is Cadogan Bates. They’re glad they never had him as a landlord, instead living in the small flat above their shop which they rent from a man who lives in the West End. Their landlord, while still a landlord and therefore somewhat of a bastard in the grand scheme of things, is quite a nice man all things considered.
The same cannot be said of Cadogan Bates.
They’ve heard stories of him from his tenants, and his clothes corroborate his filthy rich status. He purchases new clothes every few years, something practically unheard of in Whitechapel. All his clothes are bespoke. His coats and vests are made of wool, even the ones purchased during the height of war shortages.
He yelled at the tailor when it took longer to make a woolen vest, as the tailor had to source the wool. He then demanded a discount.
They also noted that he was present in Whitechapel throughout the entire duration of the war. While other men were called to the front lines, whether through conscription or voluntary enlistment, Bates remained in his properties and on the streets. He may have been just shy of the age of conscription, but they find it to be yet another reason that the man does not belong in their community. Bates has no need for the wages that drew many to the front lines. He may claim to want the country to become great again, but he is unwilling to truly fight for it.
(They’ve heard all the tales about him. There’s a reason that they add more buttons to his slacks than the pattern calls for. There’s a reason that they sharpen the edge of the buttons before sewing them on.)
Cristina Popa is a breath of fresh air compared to those two. She’s a woman who tells it like it is, and while some find it abrasive, particularly from the mouth of a woman, the tailor finds it to be a welcome reprieve. Her style tends towards simple fashions. The tailor supposes she has little need for elaborate garments, given her work. During the winter months, or when officers are sniffing around, she wears a long brown overcoat, made of fur. It’s a garment she arrived in London with, that the tailor has repaired many times. Beneath it she wears… well, just her undergarments. They’re a bit more elaborate. Lacy sleeves and closed drawers, which only just skirt the edge of the public indecency laws. Knit stockings that have been mended many times over. Her corset is in the straight-front style, which rose to popularity a decade before the war as a healthier alternative, though the tailor doubts Cristina cares much about that. It’s more likely that she’s simply following the fashions to appeal to customers.
She also owns a red scarf, one she brought with her from Romania when she emigrated. It’s beautiful, with floral embroidery over the red fabric woven from raw silk. Unlike Dorothy and Darius, she owns no traditional clothing. The tailor doesn’t know why. Perhaps she sold it, or got rid of it upon arriving in London. People here aren’t kind to outsiders.
Clayton Darby dresses quite simply. A wool jacket with matching trousers and a pinstripe shirt with an attached collar, along with a silk tie he’s owned for as long as the tailor can remember. He’s slightly better off than most customers here, but isn’t as irritating as most wealthier clients. The shirt was a new purchase, as attached collars have come into fashion after the war. Soldiers were issued shirts with attached collars for their uniforms. The tailor doesn’t know how they feel about it yet. On one hand, it means they don’t have to deal with starching collars and adding pin holes in the back, but on the other, it ties the shirts into one style.
Joe and Harry Peterson rarely make orders. It seems Joe relied on his wife to make clothes, and after her passing, he doesn’t know what to do. The tailor usually sees him wearing a cotton work shirt and trousers and a black golf cap. Harry, on the other hand, seems to wear hand-me-downs from Joe, such as a white collarless shirt and a weathered brown jacket.
The tailor doesn’t like Joe, anyways. He keeps trying to threaten them into paying higher taxes. It’s apparently for protection, but the tailor doesn’t know what Joe can really protect them from, considering Cadogan Bates and Tobias Whitaker are still walking the streets.
Anyways, the tailor regularly works with sharp needles and long scissors. They’re fairly sure they could handle any threat that comes their way.
A young lad comes by sometimes, by the name of Albert Palmer. They don’t really know what to make of him. He’s not an orphan, as evidenced by him bringing in his father’s clothing for repairs, but he might as well be. They’ve heard rumours that the shot many people in Whitechapel heard weeks ago was his father shooting at him. Albert, like many youths nowadays, wears his father's old clothes, but interestingly, he recently made an order for a new garment for himself. It’s a black cotton jacket, made in the relaxed style of workers. His father’s clothes, on the other hand, tend to be ragged and in desperate need of a wash.
The tailor might offer Albert a job, if only to get him out of that house sometimes.
Barrett Lewis and the tailor have a business relationship. He sources fabric from military surplus when he gets his weapons, and they return the favour with repairs and new garments. Unlike people like Bates, Lewis has no interest in wearing anything above the usual Whitechapel social class. Heavy cotton and linen tunics, cotton trousers, brown vests. The only new garment he’s requested over the past ten years is a waistcoat. Other than that, he brings around the occasional repair, but seems to handle most of his own sewing himself. The tailor thinks they’re getting the better end of the deal, but Barrett hasn’t upped his prices for them even though he’s not using much of their services.
The fabric he sources encompasses most of the wool they use. Wool and linen became scarce during the Great War, the wool being used for uniforms and the linen being used for airplanes. While tailors in richer areas were able to switch to other fabrics, such as silk and satin, the tailor in Whitechapel had a lull in fabric where they could only offer cotton and a slim variety of other fabrics.
A couple months into the shortages, Barrett Lewis had stomped into their store, planted three rolls of wool he’d liberated from the military on their counter, and asked if they could repair his trousers in exchange. The tailor had agreed.
On the other hand, the tailor is desperately trying to avoid a business relationship with the Swanboroughs. Loretta keeps offering her cordial in exchange for discounted rates, but the tailor has heard the tales of those who’ve taken it and keeps politely refusing. They doubt she even needs a discount. She’s only started coming to them since the quarantine prevented her from going to the West End tailors, and seems to doubt their skill. She’s ordered a silk dress, which is coming into fashion due to the war shortages, as well as a couple repairs to her fur coat. There’s been a couple orders for men’s clothing too. The tailor doesn’t know who it’s for, but they suspect Loretta has tricked someone into helping her with her scheme.
They try not to get too invested in the lives of their clients, but Hsaio Shun makes them sad. The first time they met her was when she purchased her wedding dress. Being the only tailor in the area, they also made her husband’s suit, and was able to see both garments before anyone else. Wedding clothes are special. Worn once for a joyful occasion, prized possessions that the tailor infuses with their own excitement for their clients. The husband’s suit was a double-breasted waistcoat, a tailcoat, and new black slacks, with a tunic he had starched for the occasion. Hsaio’s dress was made with delicate lace that nearly covered the garment entirely, puffing over the sleeves and embroidered over the breast. It was a decade ago now.
The last time they saw her, she simply ordered a ‘long black gown’. When the tailor asked for more specifications, Hsaio burst into tears.
She’s not the only one. The tailor can’t count how many black garments they’ve made over the past couple years. People used to wear specific garments for each stage of mourning, from black crape to black silk to lilacs and greys. One could tell how long it had been since the death by the clothing the mourner wore.
Now, though, things have changed. Were they to follow those practices now, London would be nothing but black. War, sickness, and violence, all plaguing the streets like ghosts waiting for their next victim. Sons killed in the trenches, mothers falling to the flu, daughters left to rot in alleyways. Mourning wear has become their regular clothes.
The tailor’s father died early on in the war. They wore black wool for months, then switched to silk, as they had been taught.
Then their brother died. Then their uncle. Then their cousin. Funerals held for empty graves, empty prayers said, all becoming monotonous. Death became daily. Everyone had lost someone.
There’s only so long that you can wear black for, when everyone is dying. There’s only so long you can mourn.
Sometimes, the tailor wonders why it’s wool and linen that’s in shortage. It seems that it should be black fabric.