Chapter Seven
Ann
July 10, 1947
Milly had left for Canada a month ago, but it had only taken a few days for Ann to decide she hated living alone. It wasn’t as if she needed someone glued to her side every hour of the day, for she’d always been an independent sort of person. But this was different.
Without Milly, the house was empty. Hollowed out. Ann was lonely, with no one to share the little details of life, things that weren’t important on their own but, added together, made up the warp and weft of her life: an interesting person she’d noticed on the Tube, a conversation she’d had with Mr. Booth about his prize sweet peas and how they were suffering in the near-tropical summer heat, a new song she’d heard on the wireless.
She was lonely and getting poorer by the day, because the rent on the house was more than she could manage without help. After Milly had fixed a departure date, Ann had asked around at work, but the few girls who were interested in lodging with her had balked at the commute out to Barking. Never mind that it might easily take just as long to travel from Mayfair to their current lodgings in London; it was the idea of living in the suburbs, far away from the lights and fun and glamour of the city, that put them off.
All she had to do was write up a notice and post it in the newsagent’s.
Female lodger required. Rent 15/- p.w. Private bedroom. Furnished. Friendly accommodations. Reply to A. Hughes, 109 Morley Road, Barking.
Still she hesitated. Someone from the council might see the notice, or a busybody neighbor might report it, and then she’d be out on the street as soon as the council could issue an eviction notice.
Almost as bad: If she didn’t get on with her lodger? What if coming home from work became something she dreaded? It wouldn’t be fair to evict someone for being dull or silly, or for having tiresome habits. Eating with one’s mouth open wasn’t a hanging offense. There was no way she could really know until she’d lived with the lodger for a while, but no one she already knew was interested in her spare room.
Yet it had to be done.
Tonight, on her way home, she’d get off the train one stop farther, at Upney, and post her notice in the nearest newsagent’s or post office. If that didn’t work, she would look into the rates for the classified pages of the Dagenham Post. Then she might use their reply service to avoid unwanted scrutiny.
“‘. . . and queen announce the betrothal of—’”
Ann dropped the teacup she was washing, ran into the sitting room, and turned up the volume on the wireless. Had she missed it?
“‘—Lieutenant Philip Mountbatten, Royal Navy, son of the late Prince Andrew of Greece and Princess Andrew, formerly Princess Alice of Battenberg, to which union the king has gladly given his consent.’
The preceding was the official announcement from Buckingham Palace. No further information in regard to the betrothal has yet been announced. In other news . . .”
Thank goodness she’d turned on the wireless when she’d come down for breakfast. A royal engagement—a royal wedding. The last one had been . . . she couldn’t be sure. Perhaps the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester? But that had been well before the war.
Milly would roll her eyes at the notion of getting excited over the wedding of a stranger. And it was true, for Ann had never met Princess Elizabeth. But she had met the queen, or rather curtsied to her when she and some of the other girls had been taken to Buckingham Palace as a treat just before the war. The queen had been ever so friendly, so gracious and kind to everyone, and they’d all felt bowled over afterward.
The royal family had made sacrifices, same as the rest of them. Bombed out more than once, and the king’s own brother killed. The princess deserved a proper wedding in Westminster Abbey with beautiful music and flowers and decorations, a troop of bridesmaids, and a glorious gown. Surely the government would understand. Surely the gray-faced men in Whitehall wouldn’t insist on some dreary affair that conformed to all their tiresome austerity directives.
And if that included a gown from Hartnell, so much the better.
Suddenly Ann was so excited she couldn’t bear to sit in her lonely kitchen and eat her solitary piece of toast with margarine and a smear of watery jam. Today she would throw caution to the wind. She would take an early train, and stop off at the Corner House near Bond Street station, and have something delicious for breakfast. She would buy a newspaper, just in case it had more to say about the engagement, and she’d get to work early and be ready to hear the news when it came. If there was news of the gown, Miss Duley was sure to know.
She left for work a half hour early, so jubilant she all but ran up the road to the station, pausing only to buy a copy of the Daily Mail. On its front page was a picture of the princess from the evening before, a bit blurry, but Ann was almost sure she recognized the gown as one from the South Africa tour. One she had worked on herself.
Nearly the entire front page was taken up with news of the engagement—the betrothal, as they called it. Most was straightforward speculation, as there’d been no official announcement beyond the one she’d heard on the news earlier. There were a few more details about Lieutenant Mountbatten, who was a distant cousin of the princess, and had been decorated for his valor during the war.
She was famished by the time she walked into the Corner House, so she treated herself to a soft-boiled egg, a buttered crumpet, and a small pot of tea. It came to a shilling and tuppence, a shocking amount of money to spend on a single meal, but it had been months—no, years—since she’d done anything so frivolous and fun. If breakfast had been twice the price she still would have done it.
By a quarter past eight she was in the cloakroom at Hartnell, changing into her white coverall and smiling at the sight of her friends, all early for work, and all, like her, bouncing off the rafters with excitement. They were talking so quickly she could scarcely keep track of who said what.
“Remember back in the spring? When he gave up his foreign title and became British? The papers were saying there’d be an announcement any day.”
“I read somewhere that the king didn’t want her to get engaged before she turned twenty-one.”
“Well, that was in April. Why’ve they waited so long?”
“He’s in the navy. Maybe he had to ask for leave.” This last suggestion was greeted with hoots of laughter.
“I doubt that. One word from the king would’ve solved that problem.”
“I think they got engaged a while ago,” Ann said. “I do. And they didn’t say anything right away because they wanted to keep it to themselves for a while. Now that it’s official, they have to share it with the whole world.”
“I suppose that makes sense . . .”
“But we haven’t talked about the most important part: Will they ask Mr. Hartnell to design her gown?”
“The queen loves him. We’ll end up doing her gown at the very least.”
“Who else can do the wedding gown? All the society brides come to Mr. Hartnell for their wedding. And he did Princess Alice’s. That was the last royal wedding.”
“Yes, but it was more than ten years ago. And Molyneux did make some of their clothes for South Africa.”
“Only because so many were needed. For the important gowns it’s always Mr. Hartnell.”
“What if Princess Elizabeth wants a Dior gown?”
“No. She is an English princess. She will have an English dressmaker for her wedding gown.” This last comment came from Miriam, herself a Frenchwoman. Although Ann had worked with her closely since May, she couldn’t say she knew Miriam very well. But she was right: the queen and Princess Elizabeth would certainly choose an English dressmaker.
“The queen will want Mr. Hartnell. We’ll be hearing the news any day now.”
Ann looked at her watch; it was half-past eight. “Come on, everyone. Miss Duley will have a fit if she finds us gabbing away like this.”
Still chattering gaily, they trooped into the workroom. Miss Duley was already wa
iting for them.
“Girls, girls. You’re as noisy as a herd of elephants. I know it’s terribly exciting, but there’s been no announcement yet. And you know what they say about counting your chickens.”
“It’s so romantic I could die,” said one of the youngest girls. “Have you seen the photographs of him? He looks like a Greek god!”
“A Greek prince, at any rate,” Miss Duley said dryly. “And if I can trouble you to set your dreams of royal romance aside, you all need to calm down. We’ve no shortage of work to get through.”
Ann went straight to her frame, more than ready to begin her day. She and Miriam had been finishing off some fine beadwork on a gown for an American oil baron’s wife, but today she had the straightforward task of adding sequins and seed pearls to a length of antique French lace; the client had asked Mr. Hartnell to incorporate the precious material into the bodice of a cocktail gown.
She set to work on stretching the lace, which had been given a backing of finely woven silk taffeta, onto her frame, then sorted the pearls and sequins into tiny piles on her bead tray, ready to be scooped up and threaded on her thinnest needle.
Ann worked for an hour or more, her thoughts never straying from the fabric before her and the delicate effect—dewdrops on flower petals, she liked to imagine—that she was creating. Only when her fingers began to cramp and her eyes were sandy and dry did she look up, stretch, and breathe in deeply.
“A good morning so far?” Miss Duley had been keeping an eye on the workroom, the apprentices and assistants in particular, making sure they were focused on their sewing and not the diverting news from Buckingham Palace. Now she came over to stand at Ann’s side.
“Very good. Has he had a call?” In her mind, thinking of Mr. Hartnell, she all but put a capital H on “he.” The man did have that sort of effect on the people who worked for him, as profane as that might seem.
“Not yet. Not as far as I know.” Miss Duley pitched her voice low so as not to be overheard. “But I’m sure he’ll hear from the palace in a day or two. He’s working on some ideas now.”
“Will they even bother to ask anyone else?”
“I’d be surprised if they did. I know for a fact that the queen was very pleased with our work on her gowns for South Africa. Once things are certain, he’ll likely want us to do up some samples. Something to take along to the queen and Princess Elizabeth. Just to ensure they are completely happy with the design as executed. Naturally I’ll want you to make them up.”
Ann smiled and nodded, but otherwise gave no sign that Miss Duley had said anything. Never mind that she felt like jumping to her feet and doing cartwheels across the workroom. She would be given the task of making up the samples. Her work would be set before Princess Elizabeth. It was almost too much to take in.
“I gather you’re pleased?”
“Very,” she admitted. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
“Of course you won’t. I also want to ask, while we have a quiet moment . . . what do you think of Miriam? Would you say she’s getting on well?”
“She is. Very well. It’s not often you see someone who can work to such a high standard who wasn’t trained here.”
“Oh, good. I’ve been thinking that if we are awarded the commission, I should like her to continue working as your junior. It may cause some bad feelings. Some of the others may feel jealous. I’ll trust you to keep an eye on things, make sure there aren’t any problems. That sort of thing.”
“Of course.”
“There will be plenty of work to go round. At least that’s my guess. But everyone will be keen to work on the wedding gown itself.”
Ann nodded. Of course they would.
“Does Miriam get on well with the other girls? She seems very quiet,” Miss Duley asked.
“She is, but . . .”
“Is it a case of her not understanding? A problem with her English?”
“No, not at all. She’s shy, I think. Reserved. And rather sad. She hasn’t said anything, but I feel as if she must have had a hard time during the war.”
“Didn’t we all?”
Ann lowered her voice to the merest whisper. “Not like she did. I may be wrong, of course. It’s just a feeling. Nothing she’s said.”
She wasn’t wrong. If there was anything she had learned during the war, it was how to recognize the marks of grief on another.
“Well, keep an eye on her. Make sure she isn’t left to herself when you’re all sitting in the canteen. And if she’s struggling, do let me know.”
“I will.”
“How long until you’re finished with this lace, do you think?”
“Not long at all. By midday tomorrow at the latest.”
“Good.” Miss Duley nodded decisively, then moved on to the next frame to advise, to steady nerves, to caution anyone who was working too quickly or, conversely, was dawdling over a simple task.
Ann returned her attention to her own work, not pausing until it was time for their morning break. As she rose from her chair, already one of the last to head to the canteen, she noticed that Miriam was still intent on her work.
“You’ll wear yourself out,” she said. “Come on downstairs with me. I’m sure we can both use a few minutes away from our frames.”
The other woman looked up and noticed the empty workroom. “Oh. Do excuse me. I had not realized—”
“That’s a sign of a dedicated embroiderer. Come on, now, otherwise Miss Duley will be calling us back before we make it to the front of the queue.”
Mugs of tea in hand, they found a quiet table in the corner. Ann was the first to speak. “When I first started here, we didn’t have a canteen. I’d bring a flask of tea with me. It was fine in the morning but was always stone cold by the afternoon.”
“Where did you have your break? Not in the workrooms?”
“Heavens, no. In the cloakroom, sitting in between everyone’s raincoats and muddy boots. This is much nicer.”
Miriam’s smile was shy, a little hesitant, and Ann wished, now, that she had made more of an effort to get to know the other woman. This was the first time they’d talked about anything other than work, even though Miriam had been at Hartnell for more than two months.
Ann hadn’t wanted to push her; had thought to give her a while to settle in. But she’d waited too long. Miss Duley had asked her to keep an eye on Miriam, but instead she’d been so wrapped up with her worries about Milly leaving that—
“How long have you worked here? At Hartnell, I mean to say.”
Well, then. Perhaps Miriam wasn’t all that shy. Perhaps she just needed a quiet corner and someone who was prepared to listen.
“Would you believe it’s been eleven years? Feels like forever. I started as an apprentice, straight out of school. Could barely thread a needle. At first I swept the floor, fetched things for the junior and senior hands, things like that. Then they let me sort the beads and sequins, make sure they had what they needed. It was months before Miss Duley let me sew on so much as a spangle.”
“But you learned.”
“I did. Bit by bit, I learned.”
“And you have been here all that time?”
Ann nodded. “All that time. Even during the war, when we weren’t allowed to use embroidery on anything being sold here in England. Austerity regulations, you see. But we kept on making clothes for export, mostly to America, and quite often there were things to do up for the queen and other royals. And we did a lot of work for the London theaters. All in the interests of boosting morale, I suppose. Were you . . . were you able to keep working as an embroiderer during the war?”
The hovering smile faded from Miriam’s face. Looking down, she focused her gaze on her untouched mug of tea. “Yes. During the Occupation there was talk of the Germans shutting the couture houses, or of moving them to Germany, but the couturiers convinced them, the Nazis, to keep things as they were.”
“I remember reading about them. The Nazis at the fashion shows, with
their wives and, well, their . . .”
“Mistresses.”
“Yes. And how they wore the latest fashions while everyone else in France was starving.”
“It is true. They did. Yet most of the women at the défilés were French. Can you believe it? Those with wealth kept their riches. They had little to fear as long as they behaved themselves.”
“It must have been awful. Working on clothes for the enemy.”
“It was, and yet I was grateful for it. For the work, I mean. It kept me alive.”
“Of course,” Ann hastened to agree. “I expect I would have done the same. It’s not as if we were invaded. We never had to live under their thumb as you did.”
“You had the bombing. That is something. Until I came here and saw the holes—I mean the open spaces where the bombs fell—I did not understand how bad it was. I had no notion of how much was destroyed.”
“It was bad. Although I’m not sure I should complain after what you’ve been through.”
Ann had meant only to commiserate. To show that she truly sympathized. But something in her words had struck at the other woman, as sharp and painful as a slap. Every vestige of color had faded from Miriam’s face, and her hands, clasped tight around her mug of tea, had begun to tremble.
Ann reached across the table and touched her hands to Miriam’s. Only for an instant. She didn’t want to presume, or make the other woman feel worse. But how else to react in the face of such distress?
“I am so sorry,” she said. “So sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Miriam shook her head and tried to smile. “It is . . .”
“I only meant to say that the worst never happened here, did it? I remember, that first year of the war, being so frightened I could hardly sleep at night. It was all people talked about. How France had fallen and we were next. How it was a matter of time. And then the Blitz . . .”
“There are times I wake,” Miriam began, her voice so soft that Ann had to lean forward to hear her. The other girls were so awfully loud. “I wake, and there is that moment when everything is”—she twirled her hand to demonstrate—“not clear . . . ?”
The Gown Page 7