François Clément – Upholsterer

Catherine is researching her father’s ancestors. Every morning, I discover birth, marriage and death records, along with documents relating to each person’s occupation.

« Honestly, Catherine! I don’t mind, but please don’t cover my desk with all of this. One ancestor at a time! I’ve had to reorganize my library just to find room for everything. I understand—you’d like me to meet this man in his workshop. Give me a little time to prepare my interview, and I’ll be on my way. »

I head into the kitchen. Two slices of bread with jam, a good cup of coffee and a freshly squeezed orange make up my breakfast. Sitting at the table, I gaze out at the scenery. In the quiet of my apartment, I can hear the rustling leaves, the laughter of a child and the less pleasant cries of the street vendor. I smile. A quick wash, and then it’s time to get to work.

I sort the documents into categories. François Clément (1844–1913), an upholsterer in the fine city of Valenciennes, lived at 217 Rue Baudoin. Perhaps his shop occupied the ground floor, with the family apartment above. I’ve made a few notes and written down the questions I want to ask him.

I don’t feel like working just yet, so I go out. I walk towards the beach. My new ankle boots are hurting me terribly. I head back home. Yes, they’re very elegant, but not at all comfortable. As soon as I arrive, I take them off and slip into a pair of slippers. I return to my armchair and gradually drift into a pleasant drowsiness.

« You called for me, Miss Rose? »

I jump and sit bolt upright.

Standing in the middle of my sitting room is a man in his fifties. He wears a neatly groomed moustache, a coarse work apron dusted with horsehair, and his sleeves are rolled up. In his right hand, he is still holding an upholsterer’s hammer, as though he had been interrupted in the middle of his work.

He looks just as astonished as I am.

• « Excuse me, Miss… Where am I? »

For a few seconds, I cannot find my voice.

• « At my home… Well… I think so! »

He slowly turns around. His eyes come to rest on the gramophone I brought back from one of my journeys through time, then on the coffee pot, the lamps and finally the window.

• « Good heavens! This certainly isn’t Valenciennes. »
• « No. We’re in Calais. At least… I believe we’re still in 1895. »
• « And what about my workshop? »

I point to the armchair.

• « Please, have a seat, Mr. Clément. »

He approaches cautiously, presses his thumb against the armrest and smiles.

• « Beautiful workmanship… although the fabric could be stretched a little tighter. »

I can’t help laughing.

• « You really are François Clément, the upholsterer from Rue Baudoin? »

He inclines his head.

• « At your service, Miss. François Clément, upholsterer and furniture upholsterer. »

I point to the hammer.

• « You were working? »

He glances at the tool still in his hand.

• « Indeed. I was reupholstering an armchair, and here I am with you instead. If it’s to talk about my trade, I’ll gladly spare you a little time. But afterwards, you’ll have to send me back to my workshop. I still have six children to feed, and customers don’t like to be kept waiting. »

I take out my notebook.

• « That’s exactly why you’re here, Mr. Clément. Tell me about your work. »

He gently lays his hammer on my coffee table.

• « Then listen carefully, Miss Rose. A good upholsterer always begins by respecting the wood. »

I pick up my pencil.

• « So, Mr. Clément… Where does an upholsterer’s work begin? »

He smiles, clearly pleased by the question.

• « With the wood. »

I frown.

• « The wood? »
• « Always. An armchair may be covered in the finest velvet in France, but if the frame is unsound, it will never be worth anything. »

He picks up his hammer.

• « When a customer brings me a chair, I take it completely apart. I remove the old fabric, the tacks, the canvas, the horsehair. Sometimes, nothing is left but a few pieces of wood. »
• « You don’t throw anything away? »
• « Certainly not! Good timber deserves to be kept. The craftsmen of old knew how to build sturdy frames. I replace a broken rail, tighten the joints, and then I start all over again. »

I notice his hands. They are broad, powerful and marked with countless little scars.

• « That doesn’t sound like an easy trade. »

He bursts into laughter.

• « Oh, certainly not! People imagine we spend our days sewing cushions. Try stretching webbing for a whole day, and you’ll soon change your mind! »

He demonstrates the movement.

• « Look. I fasten one end, then I pull the webbing as tightly as I can with a special pair of pliers before nailing it down. It has to be firm—but not too firm. That’s what supports the weight of the person who sits on it. »
• « And then? »
• « Strong canvas. »

He traces the different layers in the air.

• « Then come the springs, when the chair has them. They’re becoming more common nowadays. I stitch them in one by one. After that comes the horsehair. »

He opens his hand as though holding an invisible bundle.

• « Horsehair is a marvellous material. It always springs back into shape. A well-stuffed armchair can last for decades. »

I look at his hammer.

• « And this tool goes everywhere with you? »

He turns it between his fingers.

• « This one? I’ve been using it for almost twenty years. Look at its magnetic face. »

He shows me one end of the hammer.

• « It holds the upholstery tacks while I place them against the wood. Without it, I’d crush my fingers from morning till night. »
• « The tacks? »

He takes a small box from his pocket.

• « Tiny upholstery tacks. It can take several hundred to complete a single armchair. »

I let them slide into the palm of my hand.

• « They’re so small! »
• « Yes… but they’re what holds the whole piece together. »

I make careful notes.

• « What other tools do you use? »

He thinks for a moment.

• « Webbing stretchers. Fabric pliers. Straight needles and curved needles. A regulator needle for shaping the horsehair. Heavy scissors. A tack lifter to remove the old tacks. Linen twine for the foundation stitching. Every tool has its place. If I can’t find one of them, I lose valuable time. »

I look up at him.

• « You seem to love your trade. »

His expression softens.

• « I’m not a wealthy man, Miss Rose. But I have the satisfaction of making something that will last. Perhaps an armchair I’m working on today will still welcome children long after I’m gone. »

He falls silent for a few moments.

• « It’s a strange thought… but I rather like it. »

I gently close my notebook.

• « You know… you were right earlier. »
• « About what? »
• « You’re not just an upholsterer. »

He looks at me, puzzled.

• « You’re also a keeper of comfort. »

François lowers his eyes to his old hammer. A discreet smile appears beneath his moustache.

• « It’s been a very long time since anyone spoke of my trade in quite that way. »

The sounds of the street wake me.

Of course, Mr. Clément has disappeared.

I smile.

Catherine will be pleased.

It’s still early, so I’ll go for my walk. I put on a much more comfortable pair of shoes, slip a jacket over my blouse, and place a hat on my head, held in place by two pins proudly displaying their delicate jade tops.

I almost run to catch the tramway.