The Gown

by Jennifer Robson

  There was a reason that Nan had left the embroideries to her. Nan hadn’t wanted to talk about her life in England, or maybe she hadn’t felt able to do so, but she had saved the flowers for more than sixty years, and she had put Heather’s name on the box, and she had known that Heather would look for answers. She must have expected it—and that, in turn, meant she must have wanted Heather to know.

  It was the only thing Nan had ever asked her to do, and she couldn’t stand the idea of letting her down, and it was driving her nuts that she couldn’t figure out how—

  The pictures. Yes. She would do an image search on the pictures her mom had sent and see if anything similar popped up. She plugged in the photograph of Nan on her own; nothing. The same again for the one of Nan and Milly. But the results for the photo of Nan and the mystery woman instantly banished all thoughts of sleep from Heather’s mind.

  Miriam Dassin at the 1958 Venice Biennale. Miriam Dassin in her Hampstead studio. Miriam Dassin at Buckingham Palace after the queen had awarded her a damehood, which seemed, from what Heather could tell, to be the female version of a knighthood. Nan’s mysterious friend was none other than Miriam Dassin.

  In grade eleven, Heather had taken visual art as an elective; it had been that or drama. She’d been terrible at drawing and painting, really at anything that required she hold a pencil or brush, so her teacher had suggested she try collage work. He had given her a book on Miriam Dassin, who was best known for her large-scale embroideries, but had also experimented with mixed-media collage and sculpture.

  “Here’s an artist whose work is in every important museum collection in the world,” he’d told her, “and none of it is painted or drawn.”

  She’d looked at the pictures in the book for hours, and she’d read everything she could find on Miriam Dassin, too, and yet she couldn’t remember anything about the artist having ever worked for a fashion designer. Her heart in her throat, Heather began another search. Miriam Dassin.

  The details were more or less as she recalled: French, active in the resistance during the war, imprisoned at Ravensbrück, emigrated to England, spent years working in obscurity. Then the sensational success of Vél d’Hiv at the 1958 Venice Biennale had propelled Dassin to fame in the art world and beyond.

  But there was nothing about Norman Hartnell or the queen’s wedding dress, and certainly nothing about her ever having been friends with a young woman from Essex called Ann Hughes.

  Yet the proof was there, in the photographs, and unless Miriam Dassin had an unknown identical twin, she and Nan must have known one another. They had been colleagues at Hartnell, and possibly even friends. So why, then, had her grandmother never said a word?

  “I wouldn’t mind some help, you know,” she said in the direction of the ceiling. “If you didn’t want me to find out, why did you put my name on the box of embroideries? And what am I supposed to do next?”

  All she needed was a nudge in the right direction. A hint to keep her going. But Nan had never been one for sharing secrets, and no answer came from the ether now.

  Chapter Ten

  Ann

  August 8, 1947

  I don’t know why you’re nervous,” Doris said. “You look smashing. Really you do.”

  Ann forced herself to look at her reflection in the cloakroom mirror. At her mascaraed lashes, reddened lips, powder-burnished skin. At her new frock with its full, swirling skirt and plunging neckline. At her feet, so delicate in dainty new shoes.

  She saw a stranger.

  “‘Mutton dressed as lamb,’” she whispered. “That’s what my mum would say if she could see me in this.”

  “This idiom . . . what on earth does it mean?” Miriam asked. “You are speaking of sheep. It makes no sense.” She stood at Ann’s elbow and until a moment ago had been smiling in delight.

  “Ann is trying to say that she isn’t young enough to wear such a pretty frock,” Ethel explained.

  “Pfft,” Miriam said. “That is not true. Perhaps it would be too young for my grandmother, but not for a pretty girl like you. Everything in your ensemble is perfect. I would not lie to you about this. You certainly bear no resemblance to a sheep.”

  “I still think we ought to have used the other fabric. Not this. This is too . . . too . . .”

  It had been a moment of madness, agreeing to make a new frock from the material Milly had sent from Canada. There had been other fabric, practical fabric that would have seen her through the autumn and winter. A generous piece of woolen tartan, its colors nicely muted, that would have served for two skirts at least. But Miriam had been adamant.

  “We will sew you these boring skirts later. When the weather is cold again and you need something warm. But now it is summer, and the weather is far too hot for such heavy fabric, and you deserve something pretty. We shall make you a frock from this.”

  This had been a length of pale blue rayon, gossamer thin, with a delicate tracery of ivory flowers that almost looked like lace. It had been one of countless treasures in the parcels Milly had sent from Canada and, even now, as she remembered it all, her heart still skipped a beat.

  She and Miriam had only just got home from work. A knock had sounded, and Ann had answered to find Mr. Booth from next door, his face nearly hidden by a stack of five large parcels.

  “Postman left these with me earlier. Complaining something fierce about how many there are and how lucky some folks are to have relations in Canada to send them anything they want.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Booth. I had no idea—I wasn’t expecting . . .”

  “I told him to mind his own business. If I had family overseas I’d ask for everything excepting a kitchen sink!”

  She’d taken the parcels from him, one after the other, and had carried them into the kitchen. They were identical, each about a foot square and half as deep again, wrapped in brown paper and webbed round with string. One whole corner of each had been tiled with Canadian postage stamps. Miriam had helped her untie the knots in the string, and then they’d removed the paper and folded it neatly. Beneath was a layer of waxed muslin, still pristine; it would be perfect for storing things like cheese.

  One of the boxes—actually metal tins, a bit like the ones biscuits came in, only without any lettering—had a letter on top.

  June 17, 1947

  Dearest Ann,

  By now you’ll have had airmail letters from me with news of Toronto, so I won’t go on about that now. I’m sure I’ll have told you all about the shops and how nothing is rationed and everything is so cheap compared to home—people here have no idea of what it’s like in England right now. You can just go into any shop and buy what you want as long as you have the cash to pay for it.

  So that’s what I’ve done. My train from Halifax arrived on Sunday and on Monday morning—that’s yesterday—I went out shopping. When I was on the ship and feeling bored to death I made up a list of everything you can’t get at home right now. Things that are rationed or just aren’t in the shops or are so dear only the queen herself can afford them. I found nearly everything and I bundled it all into these five tins and we weighed them to make sure they aren’t more than five pounds each. The man at the post office here says you won’t get points taken off your rations that way.

  You must let me know if I’ve missed anything you want or need. There’s nothing for winter in the shops yet but I’ll send boots and woolies before it gets too cold.

  It was such fun filling these tins. I felt like Father Christmas and I hope it feels like an early Christmas for you, too.

  With much love from your friend and sister,

  Milly

  “I don’t know how they got here so fast,” Ann said. “It usually takes months for parcels to get here. That’s what Mrs. Turner down the street always says. Her daughter lives in Vancouver.”

  “Yes, but is not Vancouver very much farther away than Toronto? And what does it matter? The parcels are here. Go on. Open them,” Miriam urged.

  Ann’s hands
were trembling by the time the last tin had been emptied and its contents arranged upon the table. Milly hadn’t exaggerated when she’d compared herself to Father Christmas.

  There were tins of corned beef, salmon, evaporated milk, and peaches in syrup. Dried apricots and raisins. A big jar of strawberry jam. Packets of powdered milk, cocoa, tea, sugar, and rice. Yards of heavy woolen suiting, finely woven tartan, and two bolts of silky printed rayon, one of pale blue and the other a smoky purple, all with thread and buttons to match. Half a dozen pairs of stockings, and, taking up almost one entire tin, a brand-new pair of high-heeled shoes.

  “I thought Milly might send a few bits and pieces at Christmas. A plum pudding in a tin, or something like that. But not this . . .”

  “She is a very kind person, your Milly.”

  “She is. There’s just so much . . . I want you to have some of the fabric. You can have a new dress. And the shoes—”

  “No,” Miriam said. “Absolutely not. Those shoes are for you. Nothing could induce me to wear them. And you must make yourself a new dress. This blue, the color of the sky—this will be perfect for you.”

  “Then you must have the other length of rayon. I insist.”

  “Your Milly sent the fabric for you.”

  “Yes, but she seems to have forgotten that I have ginger hair. I look a fright in purple. If you don’t use it, the fabric will just sit there.”

  Once Miriam had agreed to a dress, Ann borrowed a pattern from Miss Holliday in the sewing workroom, which Mr. Hartnell allowed as long as they were making garments for their own use. They’d worked on the dresses after hours, first sewing up the long seams with the help of Miss Ireland, one of the machinists. At home, they did the finer work of finishing and fitting in the sitting room, the wireless singing in the background. There was no mirror in the house, apart from a small one over the sink in the washroom, so she’d had to trust Miriam’s assessment that the completed frock fit her perfectly.

  They’d finished their frocks and then, a day or two later, Ethel had suggested a night out to say farewell to Doris, whose wedding was fast approaching.

  “We’ll have supper at the Corner House, and then we’ll go dancing. At the Paramount, or maybe the Astoria. That’s closer. Bring your best frocks and your dancing shoes in the morning, and we’ll get gussied up in the cloakroom.”

  At first Miriam was the reluctant one. “I don’t know how to dance,” she’d protested.

  “You must come,” Ann had insisted. “Doris will be hurt if I don’t go, but I’m nervous as it is. And we don’t even have to dance. We can stand there and hold up the wall together.”

  There were nine of them all told: herself, Miriam, Doris, Ruthie and Ethel; Betty and Dorothy from sewing; Jessie from the millinery workroom; and Carmen, one of the Hartnell house models and so beautiful it was like having a film star in their midst. They’d shared round powder and lipstick, admired one another’s frocks and hairstyles, and just like that another hour had passed and they still hadn’t left the cloakroom.

  So they said good night to Miss Duley, who warned them to be careful and for heaven’s sake stay well clear of men in uniform, and they raced to the Corner House around the corner. While the others tucked into their suppers with gusto, Ann discovered her appetite had been replaced by a stomach full of butterflies. It wouldn’t do to waste the perfectly good meal she’d been served, though, so she ate every scrap of her Welsh rarebit. It might as well have been sawdust.

  Her apprehension finally began to melt away on their walk to the Astoria. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, a welcome relief after the late afternoon heat, and it was easy to imagine, as they strolled along Oxford Street, that life would always be this carefree and easy. That happiness might be found in a new frock and some pretty shoes and an evening out with friends.

  She’d never been to the dance hall at the Astoria before, although she’d walked past it any number of times. There was already a queue to get in, snaking down the two flights of stairs to the basement ballroom, but it moved quickly enough. She handed over her admission, a startling three-and-six for the evening, and followed along as Ethel and Doris debated where they ought to sit. Ethel wanted a table on the mezzanine that circled the dance floor, and thereby provided a better view of the proceedings, while Doris preferred a table on the main level, which had faster access to the dancing itself.

  “The two of you can bicker all you like,” Carmen declared after a few minutes, “but the place is filling up and I don’t feel like standing. I’m getting a table. Come on, girls. Follow me.” One of the large tables under the mezzanine was empty, and was just big enough for them all to squeeze round.

  That settled, Doris and Ethel set off to fetch drinks for everyone. Another tuppence from Ann’s pocket and, she hoped, the last she would spend that evening. It was a good thing she’d never made a habit of going out every weekend, otherwise she’d be living in the poorhouse by now.

  Jessie and Carmen extracted packets of cigarettes from their handbags and offered them round, but only Miriam accepted.

  “I didn’t think you smoked,” Ann said.

  “Not anymore. Not since I moved here. These English cigarettes are awful.” Miriam frowned as she exhaled a thin plume of smoke.

  “Then why bother?”

  “I am not sure,” Miriam admitted with a smile. “Habit, I suppose. Why do you not smoke?”

  “My mum didn’t approve. And then . . . well, I never really liked the smell of it. I still don’t. The air in here is like the top deck of a bus.”

  Ann looked around the ballroom, marveling at how quickly it had filled up. The dance floor was packed, with no shortage of uniformed men among the dancers. Some people were dressed in the same clothes they’d worn to work; some, like her, were wearing a variation of their Sunday best; and some were dressed to the nines.

  The group at the next table fell into the latter category. The women wore gorgeously embellished cocktail dresses, one of which Ann was fairly certain had come from Hartnell, and jewels sparkled at their wrists, necks, and ears. One even had a pearl-and-diamond-studded comb tucked into her chignon. The lone man at their table wore a dinner jacket and reminded her of Clark Gable, only with rather less chin.

  The woman closest to her was young, only just out of her teens, and had a mink-lined wrap around her shoulders in spite of the sweltering weather. As Ann watched, one end came loose and slithered down to droop on the floor, but the woman didn’t seem to notice. It would be a shame for such a pretty garment to be ruined.

  “Excuse me,” she said, leaning forward. The woman didn’t respond. “Excuse me,” she said again, and this time she reached out to touch the woman’s arm. “I beg your pardon, but your wrap has fallen.”

  The woman looked round, a vee of annoyance creasing her brow. “What?”

  “Your wrap. It’s on the floor.”

  “Oh, right.” She yanked the wrap up and back across her lap. “Thanks.” Almost as an afterthought, she offered a perfunctory smile before turning back to her friends.

  Ethel and Doris returned just then with glasses of lemonade for everyone. “Barman says the licensing inspector has a beef with the owners. So this is the strongest the drinks will get tonight.”

  Their reassurances that they didn’t mind at all, and in fact preferred lemonade to anything else, were interrupted by a squeal of protest from the next table.

  “Really? This is the best you can do? I told you I didn’t want to come to this grubby little place. Why don’t you ever listen?” It was the girl with the fur wrap.

  Another man had arrived at her table, his hands laden with glasses of lemonade, and she was making no secret of her disappointment. He bent his head low, said something that made her pout, then laugh, but rather than sit down he stood behind her, a hand on the back of her chair, and surveyed the ballroom. Perhaps he was looking for other people he knew. Perhaps he was feeling annoyed at her outburst and needed a moment to collect himself.
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  He really was terrifically handsome. Tall but not eye-wateringly so, he had a slim build and posture that hinted at time in the military. His fair hair was cut short and swept back from his brow, and his dinner jacket was tailored so perfectly it must have been made for him.

  “Do you see that fellow at the next table?” Ruthie hissed in her ear. “Do you think that’s the princess’s fiancé? Lieutenant Mountbatten?”

  “No,” Ann whispered back, shaking her head. “There’s a resemblance, but it’s not him. The lieutenant is in his early twenties, but this man must be closer to thirty.”

  “Too bad. Imagine if we’d been able to say we saw him on our night out!”

  Just then he turned and, as if he somehow knew she’d been talking about him, fixed his gaze on Ann. She shrank in her chair, although she knew there was no way he could have heard what she and Ruthie had been saying. And it wasn’t as if being compared to Princess Elizabeth’s fiancé was an insult, after all.

  He smiled at her. He smiled until a dimple appeared in his cheek and his eyes crinkled at the corners, and all the time he never looked away.

  She wanted so badly to check behind her, for surely he was looking at someone at the table beyond. Someone he knew and liked, and in a moment he would brush past her and she would know, definitively, that his smile had been too good to be true.

  She must have had a questioning look on her face, because he nodded, just the once, and then he walked over to her. To her, not anyone else, and he held out his hand. To her.

  “I beg your pardon if I’m intruding, but I should very much like the favor of a dance,” he said, and his voice was as attractive as the rest of him.

  “With me?” she asked, not even trying to hide her disbelief.

  “Yes. With you. If your friends don’t object.”

  “Go on,” Ruthie said, nudging her sharply. “Don’t make him wait.”

  “But—”

  “Leave your bag. We’ll keep an eye on it.”

  Ann looked to Miriam, but her friend only shrugged in that annoying French way of hers that never gave the slightest hint of what she really thought.