The first customer of our smaller service knocked while I was writing collection times on a card. It was late December, and the workroom felt bare without Gordon's bundles. The customer had brought two pairs of trousers and a coat we had repaired before. She asked whether we still delivered. I said no, then waited instead of apologizing the price away.
"I can collect Thursday," she said.
We checked the repairs together. One trouser hem could be restored along its old fold; the other needed letting down and a facing to leave enough cloth. I showed her the difference before quoting. She agreed to the work and took the claim slip Celia wrote. The transaction was small, ordinary, and complete enough to begin.
We had told the established customers what had changed: collection at the door, arranged times, no promise of a route we could no longer provide. Some had stayed. Some had not answered. One had said the change would not work for him. I crossed that order out without treating his decision as an injury we had to repair.
Celia's shifts were shorter now, agreed from the paid work and realistic estimates. On the first afternoon she asked whether I wanted to add another order to Thursday. I looked at the time available and said Friday would be safer. We telephoned the customer rather than quietly borrowing an hour from Celia's evening.
The week brought no rescuing rush. It brought a pocket lining, three hems, a coat fastening, and several repairs that belonged to people who already knew our door. We did them properly. When a customer collected, we checked the garment against the slip and recorded payment together. The ledger stayed open on the central table, except when we covered it to protect it from pressing steam.
On the last collection afternoon, I discovered that I had written a payment on the wrong line. Celia spotted it while matching the slips. I felt the old heat rise in my face, but it had less authority now. We drew a line through the entry, put it where it belonged, and initialed the correction. Nobody needed to be humiliated for the figures to become right.
Hugh arrived near closing with the household envelope. We had agreed to review the week's completed, paid orders before taking a draw. Celia finished her entries and checked her wages with me. After we set aside supplies and the next workroom obligation, Hugh and I worked out the modest amount the household could take.
"This covers what we listed," he said.
"Not more."
"We didn't list more."
I signed the draw beside him. There were bills beyond this week, of course. We had written when they fell due and what money would meet them, with a reserve left intact and no renewal advance disguising itself as earnings. The plan was small enough to disappoint my pride and clear enough that I did not have to manage it alone.
Before Celia put on her coat, the telephone rang. It was an inquiry from the friend of the customer who had mentioned us the previous year. There might be regular repairs after the holiday. I wrote down the request, the return number, and what I had actually been told. I did not quote a schedule while Celia stood there holding her bag.
"We'll discuss it after the break," I said.
She looked at the inquiry book. "That works." Then she wished us a good evening and locked her machine cover in place. She did not need to leave her key as a reassurance. She took it with her.
I checked the windows while Hugh turned off the light over the cutting table. The old newspaper excerpts were filed with Gordon's closed account, still saying only what they had said at the time. I had learned nothing further about the stolen millions. I had no answer to carry out of that history, and no right to invent one.
Outside, Hugh asked whether I wanted to walk a little before we went home. I thought of the supper waiting, the bills in their envelope, and the inquiry we had permission to leave unanswered. Then I took his arm and said yes. Behind us, the workroom held finished work ready for collection and room for whatever we chose to accept next.