The Gown

by Jennifer Robson

  At last she moved on, still a little dazzled, and that’s when she came across the Hartnell gown. It was from 1953, an evening dress made of pale turquoise silk, and trailing over its strapless bodice and narrow skirt was unusual greenery that Heather couldn’t at first identify. She took a step closer, her nose almost touching the glass case, and realized it was seaweed. Long strands of green-gold seaweed, and here and there golden seashells and coral-colored flowers, or perhaps they were anemones? It was unusual and not at all pretty, not when compared to the Dior dresses, but it was eye-catching, and the embroidery, even at a distance, was incredibly fine and ornate.

  She came to the end of the fashion galleries, and after that she spent a further hour wandering around the museum. Before long, though, the beauty of the ceramics and furniture and jewelry and paintings and metalwork began to blur together. Her eyes, not to mention her brain, had had enough.

  As she was leaving she passed by the information desk, wanting to thank Zahra again for her help.

  “Did you enjoy your visit?”

  “It was amazing. Almost too much to take in, if that makes any sense.”

  “I know. I’ve worked here for two years and I’ve only scratched the surface. I’m sorry again about the Vél d’Hiv embroideries.”

  “That’s okay. I ought to have checked first. Maybe one day I’ll get to see them.”

  “Are you a student of her work?” Zahra asked.

  “No. I don’t know much about her at all. Only that she might have been friends with my grandmother. That’s why I’m here. In England, I mean. I’m trying to find out more about my nan. She died in March.”

  “I am sorry,” Zahra said, frowning in sympathy. And then, as if she had just made up her mind, “I do know someone who is involved with the retrospective. I could speak to him. Let him know why you came to see the embroideries. I can’t promise anything, but he might be able to help.”

  “That would be fantastic,” Heather said, her spirits soaring. “Can I write out a note or anything?”

  “Just your name and email address, and perhaps your mobile number, too? I’ll explain the rest to Dr. Friedman. He was one of my favorite lecturers when I was an undergrad. I’m sure he’ll do his best to help.”

  When Heather emerged from the museum, the afternoon was so beautiful and sunny that she abandoned her plan to take the Tube back to the hotel. It wasn’t so very far back to Soho, only about an hour’s walk according to the map on her phone, and she didn’t want to risk being underground if Dr. Friedman called.

  It was almost five o’clock when she arrived back at her hotel, having made a lengthy and expensive stop at Fortnum & Mason. Room service beckoned, and a hot bath, too, but first she needed a nap. It had been a long, long day.

  SHE DIDN’T WAKE until almost nine o’clock, and then her first reaction was panic. What if Dr. Friedman had tried to contact her when she was asleep?

  She hadn’t missed any calls, but there were a pile of new emails. Two from her mom, one from Tanya with the subject line tell me you love the hotel!, the usual sprinkling of spam, and one from Daniel Friedman.

  To: Heather Mackenzie

  From: Daniel Friedman

  Subject: Miriam Dassin

  Dear Ms. Mackenzie,

  A former student passed on the message that you are interested in speaking to me—I understand that you are Ann Hughes’s granddaughter. She and Miriam Dassin were indeed friends and I should be happy to meet with you to pass on whatever information I can. Perhaps you could let me know when and where might suit you?

  Regards,

  Daniel Friedman

  To: Daniel Friedman

  From: Heather Mackenzie

  Subject: Re: Miriam Dassin

  Dear Dr. Friedman,

  Thank you so much. I’m staying at a hotel in Soho and will be in London until Sunday morning. I can meet with you anytime before then. Just let me know a time and place and I will be there. I really do appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.

  Best wishes,

  Heather

  To: Heather Mackenzie

  From: Daniel Friedman

  Subject: Re: Miriam Dassin

  Dear Ms. Mackenzie,

  Why don’t we say tomorrow at noon at the French House on Dean Street? If that’s too early just let me know. I’ll send you a text message now with my mobile number so you have it. Looking forward to meeting you.

  Regards,

  D

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ann

  September 4, 1947

  It was raining, and she was ever so tired, and her eyes felt as if they’d been papered over with sandpaper after hours spent hunched over Princess Elizabeth’s wedding gown. With the day being so gloomy, and the workroom windows newly curtained with muslin in an attempt to keep out prying eyes, it had been a miracle she’d set even one decent stitch. Everything before her had been the same color, or near enough to make no difference, and the satin and pearls and crystal beads had all blended into one amorphous milk-colored blur after a while.

  At least the rain had let up a bit. With any luck she’d make it to the Tube station before her coat was soaked through, otherwise—

  “Miss Hughes? Hello?”

  She stopped short and looked around, an islet in the stream of people hurrying by. The rain kept getting in her eyes, but that was her fault for leaving her umbrella at home again. She wiped at her face, blinked hard, and there he was. Jeremy Thickett-Milne.

  “Miss Hughes—Ann. It is you. I wasn’t sure at first. What a lovely surprise. I was terribly disappointed when you didn’t call.”

  “I tried. Twice. But the woman who answered said that I had the wrong number.”

  His mouth tightened at this. “I do apologize. I expect it was my sister. Her idea of a joke, though not a very good one. In any event, I’ve found you again, so all is well. Are you on your way home from work?”

  “Yes. I just finished.”

  She was careful not to say more, for it had been drummed into them all, again and again, that they had to be wary. That’s why the windows had been curtained, and why there was talk of whitewashing them, too. That’s why Captain Mitchison, who managed the business side of things for Mr. Hartnell, had taken to sleeping in his office, a loaded pistol—or so Ethel insisted—at his side.

  “I wonder,” Jeremy said, inching a little closer, “if you might be free this evening. It is rather last minute, of course, but I find I’m not quite ready to say good-bye.”

  “Oh. I, ah . . .” Why couldn’t she think of something to say? But her mouth refused to cooperate with her brain.

  “Please tell me I’m forgiven for my awful sister. Please tell me you’ll give me a second chance.”

  Ann felt, suddenly, as if she were face-to-face with a film star. Ordinary people were never that good-looking, yet try as she might, she couldn’t discern a single flaw. His hairline wasn’t receding, his nose wasn’t beaky, his lips weren’t thin, his chin wasn’t weak. He was tall and broad-shouldered and had a flat stomach and ears that didn’t stick out and the bluest eyes she had ever seen. She stared on, even though it was probably making him feel uncomfortable, and found nothing to alarm her.

  Nothing, apart from the knowledge that his interest made absolutely no sense. She had nothing to offer him. Nothing. She wasn’t beautiful or witty, she had scarcely a penny to her name, and she didn’t have so much as a seed packet’s worth of charisma to sprinkle around. So why did he persist? Why wasn’t he ringing up one of his sister’s glamorous friends?

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why me? You’ve heard me speak. You know I’m an ordinary girl. Common, some might say.”

  “I wouldn’t. I don’t think you’re common at all.”

  She shook her head so vehemently that one of the clips holding back her fringe slipped free and fell on the ground. “Please. I know who I am, and I have never, ever, attracted the attention of a man
like you before.”

  He crouched to retrieve the clip, wiped it clean on the sleeve of his coat, and gently tucked it back in her hair. “What will it take for you to believe me? I like you. I think you’re very pretty. I find you interesting. Most of all, you’re nice. And that makes you different, in the best possible way, from most of the women I know. That’s why.”

  “Oh,” she said, her protestations dying away.

  “Dinner together. That’s all.” And then, his voice deepening, “I really can be very good company.”

  “That’s what worries me,” she said, and smiled for the first time since he’d approached her.

  “So? Shall we be off?”

  “I, well . . . I’m not dressed properly.” She wore a pretty new skirt, made from the wool tartan Milly had sent, but her shoes needed a shine and there was a splotch of tea on the front of her blouse that her cardigan didn’t quite cover.

  “The place we’re going isn’t grand at all. Just a café in Soho. You’ll be fine.”

  “What part of Soho?” She’d heard the stories about the goings-on in that part of the city. About the gangsters and burlesque shows and ladies of the night on every corner.

  “It’s a perfectly safe part. I mean, I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s respectable, but isn’t that half the fun?”

  His offer was tempting. Miriam was having supper out with Mr. Kaczmarek, they’d finished the last of the leftovers from Sunday dinner, and she didn’t much feel like another meal of sardines on toast.

  “All right. We won’t be out late, will we?”

  “I’ll have you on your way in an hour. Promise.” Before she could think of another excuse, he looped his arm through hers and led her along the street, his umbrella carefully positioned above her head.

  By the time they crossed Regent Street the rain had grown heavier, and Ann could feel her stockings squishing between her toes. “We’re almost there,” he said apologetically. “I ought to have flagged down a cab. Not that there’s ever one to be found in weather like this.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I don’t mind the rain at this time of year. And it does make my garden happy.”

  “An avid gardener. You’d get on with my mother. What sort of plants do you like to grow?”

  He was very good at keeping a conversation moving along, never interrupting, never talking over her, his questions never too pointed or intrusive. Step-by-step, minute by minute, she grew ever more comfortable in his company. Of course she knew he was setting out to charm her, and it wasn’t smart to simply let him bowl her over in such a fashion. Yet she couldn’t find it in her to care.

  He pointed out the café not long after they rounded the corner onto Old Compton Street. “Eye-catching, isn’t it?” An enormous Harlequin figure was attached to the upper floors of the building, and just below his dangling feet was a sign: CAFÉ TORINO RESTAURANT.

  “What on earth . . . ?”

  “I know. Odd, isn’t it? I think it may be Pulcinella—the Italian version of Punch. He doesn’t look very happy to be out in the rain, does he?”

  Inside the café it was warm and crowded and very noisy, and the air was laden with an array of tempting aromas, and though Ann couldn’t quite put a name to what she smelled, her mouth watered all the same. Some tables were punctuated by towers of empty coffee cups, while others held piles of books and hastily folded newspapers. The tables’ occupants were young for the most part, younger even than Ann. Students, she realized, and they were using this place as a sort of library—but what library allowed its patrons to eat and drink and smoke and, horror of horrors, engage in torrents of noisily passionate discussion?

  “Let me see if I can find us a table,” Jeremy said, and he led them through the maze of diners, occasionally pausing to ask someone to inch their chair out of the way. The table he found was small and only recently vacated, and still covered with a mass of dirty dishes, but rather than call over a waiter he stacked them neatly and carried them over to the bar.

  “You get settled while I deal with these. I’ll see if I can find a menu while I’m at it.”

  There didn’t seem to be any sort of rack, so Ann hung her sodden coat over the back of her chair, then sat down and tried to restore some degree of dignity to her appearance. Her hair had probably frizzed into an enormous orange nimbus by now, but she could only finger-comb it and clip it back off her face and hope the end result didn’t look too slapdash. At least she had a handkerchief in her bag. She patted her face dry, bent over her bag to apply a surreptitious dab of powder to her nose, and wished in vain for lipstick. As it was forbidden at work, she never thought to carry any with her.

  Jeremy had returned. “No luck on the menu, but I’m here often enough that I should be able to help. I usually have the spaghetti with meat sauce, but they serve it with the appetite of a typical undergraduate in mind. They also do vol-au-vents with chicken and peas. Not especially Italian, but it’s a more manageable amount of food.”

  She’d never eaten spaghetti before, although she had seen more than one comic short in which confused visitors to Italian restaurants struggled with improbably long strands of pasta. Best to stay with something she could consume in a dignified fashion. “I think the vol-au-vents. Please.”

  “Excellent. Ah—here comes the waiter. Right. I’ll have the spaghetti, and my friend will have the vol-au-vents. And some bread for the table.”

  “Very good, sir. Would you like anything to drink?”

  “Hmm. Do you have any Sangiovese? A bottle, then. And two glasses.”

  That accomplished, Jeremy sat back in his chair, produced a silver cigarette case from his inside breast pocket, and offered it to Ann. “No? You don’t mind if I do?”

  “Not at all.”

  He extracted a cigarette from the case, lighted it with practiced ease, and blew a gust of smoke toward the ceiling. “There. That’s better. Now, tell me—do you have a long journey home? Since you said you don’t live hereabouts.”

  “It’s not so very long. I live just outside the city proper. I grew up there. Where do you live?” she countered.

  “Here in town. At my parents’ house, actually. They spend most of their time in the country, you see, so otherwise it would just stand empty. Well, apart from the servants. My sister is meant to be living there, too, but I hardly see her. Either she’s off on holiday somewhere or she’s at some friend’s place. If my parents knew the half of it they’d keel over.”

  “Did you—”

  “Here’s your wine, sir.”

  “Very well. No—I’ll pour. Ann?”

  “Only a little. Thank you. What was I going to say . . . ?”

  “That this wine is awful? Because really it is. That’s the one problem with these places. Can’t find a decent bottle of claret to save your life. Well, unless you’re at one of the froggie places around the corner.”

  She took a sip of the wine and it seemed fine, but what did she know? “No, it wasn’t that. I was going to ask what you were doing before the war.”

  “Oh, this and that. I mostly flitted about. Had a thought or two as to what I’d end up doing, which rather mystified my father. To him, you see, the entire point of being a gentleman is to do nothing.” He drained the last of his wine and refilled his glass. “Even before the war, I could tell those days were gone. Like it or not, if I wanted to live in a decent fashion I’d have to earn my keep.”

  That was heartening, she supposed. “So what would you have done? If the war hadn’t got in the way?”

  “I did love to travel, and I was rather good at finding my way around, learning how the locals lived, that sort of thing. I’d thought of perhaps looking into something in the diplomatic sphere. I’d come down from Cambridge a few years before, and I had a friend who’d promised he’d put a word or two in the right ears. It was all about to come together when the war . . . well, it changed any number of things, didn’t it?”

  “It did,” she agreed. “I remember you said y
ou were in North Africa for a while?”

  “Yes, and I pray I never see a grain of sand again as long as I live. Awful place. One doesn’t forget, you know. The things one sees and hears. Even the smells, for the love of God.”

  The food arrived, saving her from thinking of something to talk about that wouldn’t make him melancholy or down another glass of wine. His spaghetti smelled wonderful, if unfamiliar, and she wished, now, that she had been a little braver when ordering her meal.

  “I see how you’re eyeing my dinner. Would you like to try some?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know how—”

  “It’s easy. Give me your fork and I’ll roll it on. See? Like a little cocoon. It helps if you put a spoon underneath. No—just open your mouth. Otherwise it’ll go everywhere. There. Isn’t that good?”

  It was a little mortifying to be fed like a child, and in public as well, but the spaghetti was good. Far better, she soon realized, than her vol-au-vents, which were soggy and strangely bland. Perhaps it was just that they suffered in comparison to the richly seasoned pasta.

  “I know you can’t talk about your work,” she said, picking up the threads of their conversation. “It being very secret, and all that. But do you find it interesting? Can you talk about it in a general sense?”

  “It is interesting. Absolutely. I don’t know if I’ll want to stay on there forever, but it keeps me occupied now. I’ve been able to make a few useful connections, too. You are sure that you don’t mind my being so tight-lipped about it?”

  “Not at all. Loads of people can’t talk about their work. And sometimes it’s nice, you know, to talk about other things.” Not my work, she prayed silently.

  “I agree. What shall we talk about? I know—what’s the best film you saw this year? Don’t think about it too long. Just say whatever comes into your head.”

  That was easy. “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.”

  He grimaced comically at her confession. “Why does every woman I know love that film? I thought it was a heap of romantic piffle. Dreadful stuff.”