The Borrowed Dress Back then, just a few doors down from our local GP’s, there lived a woman named …

A Borrowed Dress

Back then, on our road, just three doors down from the village surgery, lived Margaret Brown. Her surname was as plain as she herselfquiet, almost invisible, like the shadow of a birch at midday. Margaret worked in the village library. Pay was unreliable, and when it came, it arrived in the form of worn-out shoes, cheap sherry, or damp porridge oats crawling with weevils.

Margaret didnt have a husband. Hed left for work up north when her daughter Alice was still wrapped up in nappies and never returned. Whether he started a new family or vanished into the wild moors, no one knew.

So Margaret raised Alice alone, stretching every penny, labouring into the night at her old Singer sewing machine. She was talentedeverything, from school tights with no holes to brightly tied ribbons plaited in Alices hair, making sure Alice was never any worse off than other girls.

And Alice grew up oh, she was a firecracker. Beautiful beyond all reasoneyes blue as cornflowers, hair golden and thick, waist slender. But proud, fiercely so. She was ashamed of their poverty, bitter about how little they had. She wanted to blossom, go dancing, enjoy her youth, and yet here she was, stuck in patched boots for the third year running.

When spring arrived, the last term before leaving school beganthe time when young dreams race and hearts flutter. One day Margaret popped over to have her blood pressure checked, cherry blossom just starting to scent the mild May air. She perched on the couch, frail shoulders jutting out under her faded jumper.

Valerie, Im in trouble, she confessed nervously, twisting her fingers. Alice refuses to go to the prom. Shes gone to pieces.

Whys that? I asked, fastening the cuff around her thin arm.

She says shes not going to humiliate herself. Linda Richards, the headmistresss girl, has a dress from Londondesigner, grand as they come. And I Margaret sighed so heavily my heart tightened for her. I havent even enough for a bit of print cotton, Valerie. Weve eaten all the reserves this winter.

And what will you do? I inquired.

Ive an idea, she said, her eyes suddenly glinting with life. Remember the lush, heavy curtains Mum kept in her trunk? That satinwhat a colour. Ill take some old lace off a collar, add some beadwork. Itll be more than a dressitll be a picture!

I just shook my head. I knew Alice well. She didnt want a handmade piece, she wanted the real thing, a London label. But I held my tongue; after all, a mothers hope is blind but holy.

Throughout May, I saw the lights still burning in Margarets windows long past midnight. The sewing machine clattered on: tap tap tap Margaret was in her element. She slept three hours a night, eyes ringed and fingers full of pin pricks, yet she glowed.

Disaster struck about three weeks before the party. I dropped by with some back creamMargarets back was aflame from so much stooping.

I stepped into the living room and there Oh heavens! Spread out on the table was not just a dress, but a dream. The fabric glimmered, matte and dignified, the coloura noble, dusky rose like a sunset after a storm. Every seam, every bead stitched with such care it seemed to shine from within.

Well? Margaret asked, her smile shy, hands trembling and bandaged.

Regal, I replied honestly. Margaret, you truly have magic in your hands. Has Alice seen it?

Not yet, shes at school. Its a surprise.

Just then the front door banged. In burst Alicered faced and furious, schoolbag slung into the corner.

Linda showed off again! Alice fumed. Shes got patent leather heels nowproper pumps! Im to go in battered trainers?

Margaret approached her, lifting the dress gently from the table:

Sweetheart, look its finished.

Alice froze. Her eyes went wide, flicked over the dress. I thought shed be delighted. But then she burst out, face flaming.

Whats that? Her voice turned icy. Those those are Grandmas old curtains! I know them! Theyve stank of mothballs for ages! Are you joking?

Alice, its real satin, look how it fits Margarets voice grew faint, babbling, stepping closer.

Curtains! Alice shrieked so loud the windows rattled. Do you expect me to go on stage in a set of old drapes? The whole school will laugh! Poor Browns wrapped in curtains! I wont wear itnever! Id rather be naked, Id rather drown, than wear this miserable thing!

She grabbed the dress, yanked it away, flung it onto the floor and stamped on itsmashing beads, breaking her mothers hard work.

I hate this! I hate being poor! I hate you! Everyone elses mums a miracle worker, and you youre a misery, not a mother!

The room went dead silent. Thick, terrible quiet.

Margaret turned pale as plaster. She didnt yell, didnt cry. She just bent down, slow and stiff, picked up the dress, brushed away invisible dust, and clutched it to her chest.

Valerie, she whispered, not looking at Alice, please go. We need to talk.

I left, my heart thudding, wishing I could drag Alice outside for a good telling off

By morning, Margaret had disappeared.

Alice ran to me at the surgery next day, just after noon, her face like a ghost. All pride gone; only raw fear shone in her eyes.

Auntie Val Valerie Mums gone.

What do you mean, gone? At work?

Shes not in the library, its locked up. Didnt come home last night. And Alice faltered, lip trembling, chin quivering, And the icons gone.

What icon? I gasped, dropping my biro.

Saint Nicholas. The one in the cornerold, with a silver frame. Grandma said it saved us from the war. Mum always told me, This is our last bit of bread, Alice. For the darkest day.

A cold wave passed through me. I understood what Margaret had set out to do. Antique icons fetched big money back then, but selling them was risky, sometimes dangerous. Margaret was too trustingshe mustve gone to the city to sell it, to buy Alice her fancy dress.

Shes chasing the wind, I breathed. Oh Alice, what have you done

For three days, it was hell. Alice moved in with metoo scared to sleep in the empty house. She barely ate, just drank water. She perched on the step, watching the lane, waiting. Every car engine shed bolt to the gate, but it was always strangers.

Its my fault, she whispered at night, curled up tight. I killed her with my words. Valerie, if she comes back, Ill beg on my knees. I just want her home.

On the fourth day, close to evening, the village phone ranga harsh, urgent clatter.

I snatched it up:

Hello, surgery here!

Valerie? Its the district hospital, A&E. A tired, official male voice.

My knees went weak; I fell onto a chair.

What happened?

A woman came in three days ago, no ID. Found at the train station, heart attack. She was briefly conscious, gave your village and your name. Margaret Brown. Is she yours?

Shes alive?! I shouted.

For now. Critical. You need to come quickly.

How we made it to the hospital is another storybus was long gone. I ran, begged the council chairman for a lift. He lent us an ancient Land Rover with Pete the driver.

Alice was silent the whole journey, fingers white on the door handle, staring straight ahead, lips moving in silent prayerfor the first time in her life, Im sure.

That hospital smelled of anxietybleach, medicines, and that special hush that fills the air when life and death wrestle.

A young, sleep-deprived doctor met us.

For Margaret? Youve five minutes maximum, and no tears! She cant have excitement.

We entered her room. Machines beeped; tubes snaked everywhere. And there was Margaret

Lord, she looked ready for her final restface like ash, dark shadows below her eyes, shrunk by the state-issue sheets, smaller even than Alice had ever seen her.

Alice gasped, fell on her knees at the bedside, burying her face in the sheets, shoulders shaking, wordless with griefafraid to sob, as the doctor insisted.

Margarets eyelids flickeredher gaze cloudy, drifting. She didnt recognise us at first, then her hand, bruised and needle-pricked, moved weakly to Alices head.

Alice she murmured, brittle as dry leaves. Found you

Mummy, Alice choked out, kissing the cold hand, Mummy, Im sorry

The money Margaret traced her finger slowly over the duvet. I sold Its in my bag Take it, buy the dress With glitter Buy what you wanted

Alice raised her head, tears streaming.

I dont want a dress, Mum! Hear me? I dont want anything! Why did you do this, Mum?! Why?

So you could feel beautiful, Margaret smiled faintly. So you wouldnt feel less than anyone else

I stood at the door, throat tight, barely able to breathe. Watching them I thought: this is mothers love. It doesnt weigh or measure; it simply gives everythingblood, heartbeats, souleven if the child is thoughtless, even when wounded.

The doctor kicked us out soon after.

Thats enoughshes exhausted. The worst has passed, but her hearts weak. Shell be here a long time.

Long days of waiting began. Margaret stayed in hospital nearly a month. Alice went daily: lessons in the morning, revision, then hitch-hiked to town. She brought homemade soup, mashed apples, anything to help.

Alice changedentirely. All her arrogance vanished. She kept the house spotless, garden weeded, came to me each evening with an update just like a grown-up.

You know, Valerie, she confessed one evening, after Id shouted I tried on the dress, in secret. Itsthe gentlest thing. Smells like Mums hands. I was stupid. Thought if the dress looked expensive people would respect me. But now, I know: if I lose Mum, I wont care for any dress at all.

Slowly, Margaret recovereda miracle, the doctors said. I believe Alices love hauled her back from the brink. Margaret was discharged right before the school leavers dance. Still weak, barely walking, but desperate to be home.

The night of the dance arrived.

The whole village gathered outside the school. Pop music rattled out. The girls stood about, showing offLinda in her extravagant London dress, fluttering around, nose in the air, ignoring suitors.

Suddenly the crowd parted, a hush fell.

Alice appeared, arm-in-arm with Margaret. Margaret, pale, limping, leaning heavy but smiling.

And Alice well, Id never seen such beauty.

She wore the same dressmade from curtains.

In the light of the evening sun, its dusty rose shimmered with something unearthly. The satin flowed around her shape, veiling what need be veiled, highlighting what deserved. Beadwork sparkled at the shoulders.

But that wasnt the pointthe paramount thing was how Alice walked. Head held high, but eyes gentle, strong. She guided her mother like she was carrying rare chinalike saying to everyone, Look, heres my mother. Im proud of her.

One of the boys, local joker Colin, started up:

Oy, look! Shes wearing a set of drapes!

Alice stopped, turned to him slowly. Met his eyesfirm, but with a strange kindness.

Yes, she said loudly, for all to hear, my mother made it for me. And to me, this dress is worth more than any gold. You, Colin, are a fool not to see true beauty.

He flushed, the joke died on his lips. And Linda, in her store-bought frock, suddenly seemed hollowbecause clothes dont make a person beautiful, oh no.

Alice barely danced that night. She sat with Margaret, sharing a bench, covering her with a shawl, fetching water, holding her hand. Such warmth, such tendernesstears stung my eyes. Margaret gazed at Alice, her face shining. She knew itd all been worthwhile. That wonder-working icon hadnt just helped with moneyitd saved her soul.

Years have rolled by since then. Alice moved to London, became a cardiologistfine reputation, saving lives daily. She brought Margaret to live with her, caring for her as the apple of her eye. They are happy together.

And that icon? By some miracle, Alice tracked it down. Years spent searching antiques shops, paid a fortune, but bought it back. Now it hangs pride of place in their flat, lamp glowing before it day and night.

I look at todays youth sometimes, and it strikes mehow we wound those closest, stamp, demand, all over things that dont matter. Life is short, like a midsummers night. And we only have a single mother. While she lives, we are children, shelter behind her from the chill winds of eternity. Once shes gone, we are alone under wide, empty skies.

Cherish your mothers. Ring them now if you can. If notremember them with kindness. Up there, in heaven, theyll hear.

Looking back at all this, Ive learntno label, no riches mean a thing in comparison to a mothers love. True worth is stitched with sacrifice, and the beauty we keep closest will always be sewn with the hands that raised us.