Milly was too young for a life like this. She and Frank had only been married a matter of months before he’d been killed, one of those awful, senseless Blitz deaths that still upset Ann if she allowed herself to think about it. Her brother had been a fire-watcher, not a firefighter, but when the factory down the road had been hit, he hadn’t hesitated. He’d gone in, looking for survivors, and had never come out.
But Milly was still young, twenty-six to Ann’s twenty-five, and before she and Frank had married she’d been the sort of girl who loved to go to the pictures on a Friday night, or out dancing with friends, and would have turned up her nose at an evening spent reading aloud in front of the fire.
When was the last time Ann herself had gone out, for that matter? It wasn’t for lack of opportunity, for hardly a Friday went by that a group of girls from work didn’t go to one of the West End dance palaces. They always invited her, and she always said no, thanks, perhaps another time. It was a habit, one she’d acquired when her mother had been alive and would respond to her rare requests for an evening out with variations of the same reproachful lecture.
“Might as well throw the money away. Clothes, shoes, paint for your face, food and drink that’ll turn your stomach and your head, not to mention a shilling or more to get in,” she would say, counting off on the work-roughened fingers of an outstretched hand. “And for what? So you can hold up the wall with the rest of the plain girls?”
Her mum hadn’t said such things to hurt her, of course. She’d only meant to toughen her up. Make her aware of how pitiless the world could be, especially for plain girls. And she had been right, of course. There was little chance of anyone taking an honest interest in Ann, and it would be silly and self-indulgent to insist otherwise.
The same could not be said of Milly, however, who was young and pretty and never in her life had been described as plain. There was no reason Milly couldn’t go out and have some fun. All she needed was something to wear and a little encouragement from Ann.
The women who worked at Hartnell were allowed to borrow patterns for their own use, and even to use such scraps of fabric and trim that the workroom heads let them have, and from time to time Ann had gleaned enough material to reface the lapels on a blouse, or cover a set of buttons.
That’s what she would do. She would go to the next WI swap meet and find a frock for Milly that she could freshen up with some scavenged trim from work, and then she’d persuade her to go out dancing with some friends. Perhaps Milly might find a new beau. Perhaps she might aspire to a future that was a degree or two warmer and wider than a wanly flickering fire and the pages of People’s Friend.
The mantel clock sounded the hour. It was nine o’clock, the fire had faded to a few glowing crumbs, and suddenly Ann felt so tired she wasn’t certain how she’d manage to climb the stairs to her bedroom. At least she didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn the next morning.
“You go on up to your room,” she told Milly. “I’ll bring you a hot-water bottle to take the chill off the sheets.”
Alone in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to sing, Ann admired the pot of heather she’d brought home. In the spring she would plant it outside, for their house had a tiny back garden that had just enough room for one flower bed, tucked between the shed and the coal store. For most of the war it had been filled up with practical things like beans, carrots, marrows, and potatoes. The June after VE Day, though, she’d planted a handful of marigold seeds that Mr. Tilley down the street had given her, and they’d popped up again the next spring, and bit by bit she’d squeezed in more and more flowers, until she’d covered every square inch of soil with plants that did nothing more to earn their keep than give her pleasure.
Milly might scoff, but the heather was something to treasure. A gift from the queen herself, given in recognition of the work she had done. She’d baby it for the rest of the winter and then, if spring ever did come, she’d find a spot for the heather in her own garden. It was a long way from Balmoral to Barking, but her garden was a fine place for it to end up.
“You’ll be happy here,” she told the plant, letting her fingertips brush against its downy stems. And then, feeling a little silly at her flight of fancy, she filled her and Milly’s hot-water bottles, switched off the kitchen light, and went up to bed.
Chapter Two
Miriam
London
England
March 3, 1947
Her first impression would forever be the grayness of it all. It was late in the day, the half-seen sun withering by degrees as it sank in the western sky, and arrows of sleet were beating against the windows of the train. Outside she could make out a dull, leaden sort of countryside, its winter-bare fields and lonely cottages giving way slowly, almost mournfully, to the huddled buildings and tangled streets of a city. The city. London itself.
The train shunted from one track to another, then another, steadily losing speed, its engine groaning in a deeper, gloomier cadence. Soot-stained brick walls were her view now, relieved by the briefest glimpse of rushing water as they crossed a river. The Thames, she supposed. Slower and slower they moved, the train lumbering forward, until with one last, shuddering lurch it reached the end of the platform and halted, belching out its ire in great huffs of smoke and steam.
The people around her were gathering their cases, pulling on gloves, wrapping scarves tightly around their necks. She followed in their wake, hurrying along the platform, matching her stride to theirs. Her bags were light; it was easy to do.
They reached the barrier, and she saw the people before her were showing their tickets to the inspector, or guard, or whatever he was called in England. She watched his expression as he punched their tickets, and felt an easing sort of relief when he smiled at those who seemed unsure or anxious.
She already had her ticket in hand, having anticipated she might need it again, but all the same she hung back until everyone else had passed. No sense in calling attention to herself by holding up the queue. She had heard stories about English people and queues.
“Good evening,” she said to the man.
“Good evening, miss.” He took her ticket, punched a little hole in one corner, and handed it back to her. As if it were a memento she would want to keep. The journey that took her away from France, from everything she knew, and deposited her in this strange, cold, and desperately shabby place.
“I beg your pardon, but would you be so kind as to direct me to the Wilton Hotel? I believe it is near the station.” A few weeks ago, she’d combed through the racks of the bouquinistes along the Seine until she’d found a guide to London. From its description the Wilton had seemed like a safe and economical choice.
“It’s not far at all, miss. Go out those doors straight ahead, then turn to your right. That takes you to Wilton Road. The hotel’s just past the Victoria Theatre on the far side of the street. If you cross Gillingham Street you’ve gone too far. D’you need any help with your cases? I can find a porter who’ll—”
“No, thank you. I can manage. Thank you very much for your help.”
It was just as he had said, and in only a few minutes she was at the door of the hotel. Its grubby exterior, illuminated by a single dim bulb above the front entrance, had certainly seen better days, and the air inside smelled of damp, cabbage, and cigarette smoke.
A man sat behind the desk, his chin in his hand, his eyes closed. The lapels of his jacket had begun to fray, and a faint dusting of dandruff adorned his shoulders. As she watched, the corner of his mouth began to twitch, as if something amused him, then stilled just as quickly. Perhaps he was dreaming of happier times.
“Ahem,” she said, and waited for him to stir. Nothing. “Excuse me,” she said a bit more forcefully.
He sat up with a gasp. “I do beg your pardon. I was, uh, resting my eyes.”
“It is no trouble at all. I wonder if you have available a single room?”
He frowned down at the ledger before him. “For how many nights, m
iss?”
“I am not certain. Two or three to begin. May I ask what it is, the rate, for each night?”
“Ten and six including breakfast, or fifteen bob for full board. Bath and WC at the end of the hall, room made up once a day, linens changed weekly on account of the coal shortage.”
Her guide to London had provided a brief explanation of the strange British currency, but even so she was having trouble wrapping her brain around it. Presumably a bob was a shilling? And there were twenty shillings to the pound, which meant one night at this surprisingly expensive hotel would cost her something like two hundred and fifty francs. Too expensive to remain for long, but the thought of finding somewhere else to stay was more, in that moment, than she could bear to contemplate.
“Very well. I shall take one room with breakfast for three nights to begin.”
“Right you are. I’ll need your passport.” She handed it over, squelching a thrum of panic when he held it up and compared her face to the photograph. He had no power over her. He was not the police, or the Milice, or the Gestapo. He would write down her passport number and proceed to do nothing with it. That was all.
“Here on holiday, Miss . . . Dassin?”
“No. I have moved here. From France.”
“Hate to say it, but you couldn’t have picked a worse time. Coldest winter in living memory, not enough coal to go round, and rationing worse than ever. Potatoes are on the ration now, if you can believe it. Potatoes.”
She forced herself to smile. “We both survived the war, did we not? And it will be spring very soon.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said, and the thought of it, or perhaps the memory of past springs, made him smile, too. “We could all do with a bit of sunshine.”
He finished scribbling in another of his ledgers and handed back her passport. “If you’re staying longer than a week or two—I mean in England, not here necessarily—you’ll need a ration book. But you can eat in restaurants off-ration without any trouble. Breakfast is served from half seven to half nine, just so’s you know. Oh, and here’s your key,” he added. “Third floor, end of the corridor. We’ve a lift but it’s out of service, so you’ll have to take the stairs. Hot water’s shut off until morning. That includes the central heating. Sorry about that.”
“It is of no matter. I am used to the cold. May I ask . . . might it be possible to borrow an iron and a board from your laundry?”
This simple question seemed to confound him. “I don’t know. I . . . well, I suppose so. Usually guests send things down that need pressing.”
“I am certain they do, but this garment is precious to me. I feel . . .”—she had to reach for the word—“uneasy entrusting it to anyone else. I do hope you understand,” she said, softening her voice so it was little more than a whisper, and she aimed her most convincing smile at him, the one that was ever so slightly tremulous, with just a touch of diffidence. Such a smile had served her well over the past seven years.
“I’m sure I can sort something out for you, Miss Dassin.” Dass’n, he said, swallowing half her name. She suppressed an instinctive shudder and renewed her smile.
“May I have the use of them this evening? I have an important appointment tomorrow, you see, and I will not sleep well if I am not ready.”
“Of course,” he said, his face flushing a little. “I’ll bring them to your room. Do you need me to carry up your bags?”
“Oh, no—they are not heavy at all. Simply the iron and the board. Thank you so much. You are very kind.”
She rather missed having the lift, for her cases, light as they were, weighed heavily on her arms by the time she reached the hotel’s top floor. Her room was at the end of the hallway, as he had said, and she hoped it would be quiet. If it were quiet enough she might be able to sleep.
She unlocked the door, switched on the light, and set her cases down where she stood. And then she waited, her eyes shut tight, letting herself rest. Catching her breath and letting the pain fade from her arms. It had been almost two years since her liberation, and still she was weak. What had the American doctor said? Good food and rest and careful exercise, and above all patience, and she would one day be herself again.
He had been a kind man, shaken to his core by the suffering he had seen, and he had done his best to help. But he had been wrong, for no amount of fresh air or nourishing food or pleasant walks in the sunshine could ever restore what had been taken from her.
The day she had made her decision, she had written to the one friend who knew her well enough to understand. Catherine had sent a reply the next day.
20 February 1947
My dear Miriam,
Can you spare the time to see me before you leave? Not because I hope to change your mind—I assure you I understand your reasons—but only so we may say a proper farewell. Shall we say Thursday evening at six o’clock? I am staying with Tian at his new premises. I will tell the staff to expect you. If this time does not suit, do let me know.
With my warm regards,
Catherine
Tian was none other than Christian Dior, the Christian Dior whose first collection had astonished the world only weeks before. She had embroidered some of those gowns, for Maison Rébé was Monsieur Dior’s preferred atelier de broderie, but she had never met the man, nor would she have ever presumed upon her friendship with Catherine to try to engineer such a meeting.
It had felt very strange to walk through the front door of Maison Dior, as if she were a great lady arriving to be fitted for a gown, but Catherine would have known had she tried to creep in through the staff entrance. Miriam was escorted to an exquisitely furnished room, shown every courtesy, offered any refreshment she desired, and after protesting she was in need of nothing, she had been left alone. Only for a moment, though, before the door had opened and Catherine had rushed in.
“My dear, my dear—such a joy to see you again. Come and let us sit together. Would you like anything? Some coffee? A tisane?”
“No, thank you, Mademoiselle Dior,” Miriam said, suddenly cowed. Friend or not, she was the sister of the greatest couturier in the world.
But her friend shook her head and took hold of Miriam’s hands. “To you I am Catherine. I insist. Now, tell me—what has happened?”
“The trial began last week. I am sure I told you about it.”
“Your parents’ neighbor? The gendarme?”
Miriam nodded. She had gone to the courthouse on the first day of the trial, believing it would mean something if she were present to see justice done. Adolphe Leblanc had lived down the street from her parents for as long as she could remember, the local policeman with his big, tight-knit, and devoutly Catholic family, and in all those years he’d never once said hello, never once asked after their health, never once allowed Miriam to play with his children. “Dirty Jew,” they had called her, and she had learned to fear them and their red-faced, loudmouthed father.
He had helped to round up her family, an eager cog in a human machinery of death that had spread over nearly an entire continent. Yet he had been acquitted before the trial had even properly begun.
“They set him free, along with half of the other men who were on trial,” she now told Catherine. “The judges said they had atoned for their crimes by helping the resistance.”
“The wretch. He probably didn’t lift a finger until the writing was on the wall,” Catherine huffed.
“He brushed past me when he left. He was so close our sleeves were touching. I know he recognized me.”
“He wasn’t so foolish as to say anything to you, was he?”
“No.”
She had hoped to discern some slight evidence of guilt, of shame, in his gaze. What she had seen instead was hatred. Corrosive, incendiary hatred, and she had looked around the courtroom and recognized it in the eyes of others there, too.
“He did something to upset you. I can see that he did.”
Miriam shut tight her eyes, trying to wipe the memory from her mind. �
�He smiled. He smiled, and he nodded, and I knew that if it were in his power he would do it again. Maman, Papa, Grand-Père. He would send them to their deaths a second time if he could.”
“Not all of us hate,” Catherine whispered, her voice pleading.
“I know. But now I am afraid. He has reminded me of my fear.”
“I understand. I do.”
“I wanted to say good-bye, and to thank you for helping me. I would not have survived without you.”
“Nor I without you,” her friend said, and it was enough, then, that they both knew and remembered. “Will you wait here for a moment? I wish for you to meet someone.”
Before she could react, her friend had left the room. Catherine wanted her to meet someone? But surely she did not mean—
Catherine returned, and with her was a tall, balding, and instantly recognizable figure. “Monsieur Dior,” Miriam said, leaping to her feet.
He shook her hand, just as if she were his social equal, and his shy smile lent warmth to his earnest features. “Mademoiselle Dassin. It is an honor to make your acquaintance. My dear sister has told me of your many kindnesses to her, and to others, when you were imprisoned. I do hope you will allow me to express my gratitude.”
“She was, ah . . . was kind to me as well,” Miriam stammered. “We helped one another survive.”
It was true that Miriam had helped Catherine, but only in the small ways that prisoners often helped one another. She had scavenged a few morsels of impossible-to-find bread when the other woman hadn’t been able to keep down the rancid soup that passed for rations. She had used scraps of cloth, wheedled from another prisoner, to bind Catherine’s feet when they’d become infected. At night, when her friend had been close to despair, Miriam had reminded her of beautiful things. Gowns of silk, flowers in bloom, memories of comfort and love.
After their liberation, they had returned home to France on the same refugee train, and Catherine had paid for Miriam to attend a convalescent clinic to regain her health. She had known that Miriam had no family left to care for her.
The Gown Page 2