by Isabel Wolff
I felt my pulse quicken. ‘But you don’t know for sure what happened to her.’
Mrs Bell shifted on her seat. ‘No. I don’t, but –’
‘And you haven’t searched again since?’
Mrs Bell shook her head. ‘I spent three years looking for Monique, and what I found convinced me that she had not survived. I felt that it would be futile and upsetting to seek for her further. I was getting married, and moving to England; I had been given the chance of a fresh start. I decided, ruthlessly perhaps, to draw a line under what had happened: I could not drag it through my life forever, punish myself forever …’ Mrs Bell’s voice caught again. ‘Nor did I dare mention it to my husband – I was terrified that I’d see in his eyes a look of disillusionment with me that would have … spoilt everything. So I buried the story of Monique – for decades, Phoebe – telling no one in the world about it. Not a soul. Until I met you.’
‘But you don’t know that Monique died in Auschwitz,’ I insisted. My heart was thudding in my ribcage.
Mrs Bell stared at me. ‘That’s true. But if she didn’t die there, the chances are that she died in another concentration camp or in the chaos of January ’45 as the Allies closed in and the Nazis forced those inmates who could still stand to march through the snow to other camps inside Germany – less than half of them survived. So many people were displaced or killed in those months that thousands upon thousands of deaths went unrecorded, and I believe Monique’s to have been one of them.’
‘But you don’t know –’ I tried to swallow but my mouth had gone dry. ‘And without that certain knowledge you must surely sometimes have wondered whether –’
‘Phoebe,’ said Mrs Bell, her pale blue eyes shimmering, ‘Monique has been dead for more than sixty-five years. And her house, like the clothes you sell, went on to have a new life, with new owners. Whatever you felt when you stood outside her house was … irrational. Because all you had seen was a glimpse of some person who lives there now, not some … I don’t know … “presence” – if that’s what you’re suggesting – compelling you to – I know not what! Now …’ Her hand flew to her chest and fluttered there like an injured bird. ‘I am tired.’
I stood up. ‘And I should get back.’ I took the tea tray into the kitchen then returned. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Mrs Bell. I didn’t mean to.’
She exhaled painfully. ‘And I am sorry to have become … agitated. I know you mean well, Phoebe, but it is painful for me – especially now, as I face up to the fact that my life will soon end and I will die knowing that I was never able to put right the wrong that I did.’
‘You mean the mistake that you made,’ I corrected her gently.
‘Yes. The mistake – the awful mistake.’ Mrs Bell put out her hand to me, and I held it. It felt so small and light. ‘But I appreciate the fact that you think about my story.’ I felt her fingers close around mine.
‘I do. I think about it a lot, Mrs Bell.’
She nodded. ‘As I think about yours.’
TEN
On Thursday Val phoned me again about collecting the repairs, so I drove over to Kidbrooke straight after work. As I parked outside her house I desperately hoped that Mags wouldn’t be there. I felt embarrassed and ashamed now about the psychic reading. It had all been so absurd and … low.
As I put my hand to Val’s bell I jumped. A fat-bodied spider, of the kind that emerges in the autumn, had spun its web across it. I knocked loudly instead, then, as Val opened the door, I pointed it out to her.
She stared at it. ‘Oh, that’s good. Spiders are lucky – do you know why?’
‘No.’
‘Because a spider hid the baby Jesus from Herod’s soldiers by weaving a web over him. Isn’t that incredible? That’s why you should never kill a spider,’ she added.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Ah … that’s interesting.’ Val was still peering at it. ‘It’s running up its web, which means that you’ve been on a journey, Phoebe.’
I looked at her in surprise. ‘I have actually – I’ve just been to France.’
‘If it had been running down its web then that would have meant you were about to go on one.’
‘Really? You’re a mine of information,’ I said as I went inside.
‘Well, I think it’s important to know these things.’
As I followed Val down the hall I detected the scent of Magie Noire with bass notes of nicotine. Maggie Noire, I thought dismally.
‘Hi, Mags,’ I said with a forced smile.
‘Hi, sweetheart,’ Mags rasped as she sat, filling the armchair in Val’s sewing room. She was eating a digestive. ‘Shame about the other day. But you should have let me keep trying.’ She scraped at the corner of her mouth with a crimson fingernail. ‘I think Emma was just about to come through.’
I stared at Mags, suddenly outraged at hearing my best friend referred to in this crass way. ‘I don’t think so, Maggie,’ I said, struggling to keep calm. ‘In fact, as you’ve brought it up, I don’t mind telling you that I thought the sitting was a complete waste of time.’
Mags looked at me as though I’d slapped her. Then she pulled a packet of tissues out of her cleavage and removed one. ‘The problem is you’re not really a believer.’
I stared at her as she unfolded the paper hanky. ‘That’s not true. I don’t disbelieve the idea that the human soul may continue or that we can even detect the presence of someone who’s died. But as you got every single thing about my friend wrong – including her gender – I can’t help feeling a bit cynical about your particular abilities.’
Mags blew her nose. ‘I was having an off-day,’ she sniffed. ‘Plus the ether’s often a bit murky on Tuesday mornings.’
‘Mags really is very good, Phoebe,’ Val said loyally. ‘She put me in touch with my granny the other night – didn’t you?’ Mags nodded. ‘I’d lost her lemon curd recipe so I got her to give it to me again.’
‘Eight eggs,’ said Mags. ‘Not six.’
‘That’s what I couldn’t remember,’ said Val. ‘Anyway, thanks to Mags, Gran and I had a nice little chat.’ I discreetly rolled my eyes. ‘In fact, Mags is so good that she’s been invited to be a guest medium on the In Spirit show on ITV 2, haven’t you, Mags?’ Mags nodded. ‘I’m sure she’ll bring comfort to lots of viewers. You should watch it, Phoebe,’ Val added amiably. ‘Every Sunday at two thirty.’
I picked up the case. ‘I’ll make a note of it,’ I said.
‘These will look wonderful,’ Annie said the next morning as I showed her the garments that Val had mended – Mrs Bell’s yellow knife-pleated evening dress, the glorious pink Guy Laroche silk cocoon coat, the Ossie Clark maxi dress and the damson-coloured gabardine suit. I showed her the Missoni rainbow-striped knitted dress that had had moth damage at the hem. ‘What a clever repair,’ Annie said as she examined it. Val had knitted a piece to cover the hole. ‘She must have used tiny needles to match the stitches and the colour is perfect.’ Now Annie held up the Chanel Boutique sapphire blue silk faille evening coat with elbow-length sleeves. ‘This is gorgeous. It should go in the window, don’t you think? Maybe instead of the Norma Kamali trouser suit,’ she mused.
Annie had come in at eight to help me rearrange the stock before the shop opened. We’d put away at least half the clothes, replacing them with garments in the key shades for autumn – midnight blue, tomato red, sea green, deep purple, and gold – jewel tones redolent of the colours seen in Renaissance paintings. Then we’d found clothes that reflected the season’s silhouettes – sculpted A-line coats and dresses with stand-away collars and full skirts; architectural leather jackets with exaggerated shoulders and curved sleeves. We’d gone for fabrics that tied in with the seductive fabrics of the moment – brocade, lace, satin and damask, crushed velvet, tartan and tweed.
‘Just because we’re selling vintage doesn’t mean that we can ignore trends in shape and colour,’ I’d said as I came down from the stockroom again clutching
several outfits.
‘In fact it’s probably even more important,’ Annie had pointed out. ‘There’s a “statement” feel to this season,’ she’d added as I’d handed her a Balmain cherry red dress with a flaring tulip skirt, an Alaia Couture chocolate brown leather suit with a nipped-in waist and huge lapels, and a Courrèges futurist orange crepe dress from the mid sixties. ‘Everything’s big and opulent,’ Annie had gone on. ‘Hot, bold colours, structured shapes, stiff fabrics that stand away from the body. You’ve got all of that here, Phoebe – all we have to do is put it together.’
Annie had put out most of Mrs Bell’s evening wear and was now looking at her damson-coloured gabardine two-piece. ‘This is lovely, but I think we should update it with a soft wide belt and a fake-fur collar – shall I look something out?’
‘Yes. Please.’
As I hung the suit on a rail I imagined Mrs Bell wearing it in the late forties. I thought of the conversation I’d had with her three days before; I reflected again on how hard it must have been for her, in the aftermath of war, trying to find out what had happened to Monique. If, God forbid, there were some comparable situation today, she’d be able to launch an appeal on radio and TV; she could scatter e-mails around the globe or post requests for information on internet message boards or on Facebook, MySpace or YouTube. She could simply put Monique’s name into a search engine and see what, if anything, came out of the ether …
‘Here,’ said Annie as she came downstairs with an ‘ocelot’ collar. I think this will work – and this belt should tone in.’ She held it against the jacket. ‘It does.’
‘Could you put them on the suit,’ I asked Annie as I went into the office. ‘I just need to … check the website.’
‘Sure.’
Ever since Mrs Bell had told me her story I’d wondered about searching the net for any possible references to Monique, however unlikely. But what would I do if I did find something? How could I then keep that from Mrs Bell? Given that it would almost certainly be negative, if not devastating, I’d resisted the urge to do it. But since going to Monique’s house I’d felt differently. I’d been gripped by the desire to know. And so, prompted by some inner compulsion that I couldn’t explain, I sat at the computer and typed Monique’s name into Google.
Nothing of any significance came up, just some references to an Avenue Richelieu in Quebec, and to the Cardinal Richelieu Lycée in Paris. I put in the name without the first ‘e’. Then I typed in ‘Monika Richter’, and up came a Californian psychoanalyst, a German paediatrician, and an Australian conservationist, none of whom would be likely to have any connection with their older namesake. I then did the same search spelling Monika with a ‘c’. Then I added ‘Auschwitz’, thinking that there might just be some eye-witness account that mentioned her, out of all the billions of words that had been written about the camp. Now I added ‘Mannheim’, because I remembered that that was where she had originally come from. But nothing that seemed to relate to Monique/Monika or her family came up – just a few references to an exhibition there by Gerhard Richter.
I stared at the screen. So that was that. As Mrs Bell had said, all I’d seen in Rochemare was the fleeting movement of a living person in a house that had long since shrugged off the memory of its wartime occupants. And I was about to close Internet Explorer when I decided to look at the Red Cross website.
On the Home page it explained that their Tracing Service had been started at the end of the war and that its archive in northern Germany now contained nearly fifty million Nazi documents that related to the camps. Any member of the public could request a search, which would be carried out by the IRC archivists; on average each search took between one and four hours. Given the volume of requests, the enquirer could expect to wait three months ‘maximum’ for a report.
I clicked on the ‘Download Form’ box. I was surprised at how short the form was: it simply asked for the personal details of the person being sought, and the place where they were last known to have been seen. The enquirer had to provide their own personal details and to explain their connection to the person they were seeking. They then had to give the reason for their search. There were two choices for this – ‘Documentation for reparations’ or ‘Desire to know what happened’.
‘Desire to know what happened,’ I murmured.
I printed off the form then put it in an envelope. I’d take it to Mrs Bell when her niece had left and we’d fill it in together, then I’d e-mail it to the Red Cross. If in their vast repository of information they could find any references to Monique then, I reasoned, there’d at least be the chance that Mrs Bell might finally gain closure on the issue. Three months ‘maximum’ implied that the report might well come back in less – perhaps in only one month, I reflected, or even a fortnight. I wondered about enclosing a note, explaining that, due to illness, time was short. But then that would be the case with so many enquirers of Mrs Bell’s generation, I reflected, the youngest of whom would now be well into their seventies.
‘So have you got many internet orders?’ I heard Annie call.
‘Oh …’ I forced my thoughts back to the shop, and quickly navigated to the Village Vintage website then opened the mailbox. ‘There are … three. Someone wants to buy the emerald green Kelly bag, there’s interest in the Pucci palazzo pants and … hurrah – someone’s buying the Madame Grès.’
‘That dress you don’t want.’
‘That’s right.’ The one that Guy had given me. I came back into the shop and removed it from the rail to pack up and send. ‘This woman asked me for the dimensions last week,’ I said as I slipped it off its hanger. ‘And now she’s come back with the money – thank goodness.’
‘You’re dying to get rid of it, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose I am.’
‘Is that because it was from a boyfriend?’
I looked at Annie. ‘Yes.’
‘I did guess, but as I didn’t know you I wasn’t going to ask. Now that I do know you, I feel I can be a bit nosey …’ I smiled. Annie and I did know each other now. I liked her friendly, easy company and her enthusiasm for the shop. ‘So was it a bit acrimonious?’
‘Well, you could say that.’
‘Then selling that dress is totally understandable. If Tim dumped me, I’d probably chuck everything he’d ever given me – except the paintings,’ she added, ‘just in case they turned out to be worth anything one day.’ She put a pair of Bruno Magli scarlet stilettos in the shoe display. ‘And how’s the sender of the red roses? If you don’t mind my asking.’
‘He’s … fine. In fact, I saw him in France.’ I explained why.
‘That sounds good – and he’s obviously nuts about you.’
I smiled. Then as I did up the buttons on a pink cashmere cardigan I told Annie a bit more about him.
‘So what’s his daughter like?’
I draped several heavy gold-plated chains around the neck of a wooden display head. ‘She’s sixteen, very pretty – and terribly spoilt.’
‘Like so many teenagers,’ Annie observed. ‘But she won’t always be a teenager.’
‘True,’ I said happily.
‘But teenagers can be vile.’
Suddenly there was a tap on the glass and there was Katie, in her uniform, waving at us. And teenagers can be lovely, I thought.
I unlocked the door and Katie came in. ‘Hi,’ she said. Then she glanced anxiously at the yellow prom dress. ‘Thank God for that.’ She smiled. ‘It’s still here.’
‘It is,’ I said. I wasn’t going to tell her that someone had tried it on only the day before. It had made them look like a grapefruit. ‘Annie, this is Katie.’
‘I remember seeing you here a week or two back,’ said Annie warmly.
‘Katie’s interested in the yellow prom dress.’
‘I adore it,’ she said longingly. ‘I’m saving up for it.’
‘Dare I ask how it’s going?’ I said.
‘Well, I’m babysitting for two families
, so I’ve now got £120 in the fund. But as the ball’s on November 1st I’ve got my work cut out.’
‘Well … keep at it. I wish I had children – then you could babysit them …’
‘I was just passing on my way to school and couldn’t resist having another peek – can I take a photo of it?’
‘Of course.’
Katie held her phone up to the dress and I heard a click. ‘There,’ she said, looking at it, ‘that’ll keep me motivated. Anyway, I’d better rush – it’s a quarter to nine.’ Katie shouldered her school bag and turned to go, then stooped to pick up the newspaper that had just landed on the mat. She handed it to Annie.
‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ Annie said.
I waved to Katie then began rearranging the eveningwear rail.
‘Good God!’ I heard Annie exclaim.
She was staring, goggle-eyed at the front of the paper. Then she held it up for me to see.
Covering the top half of the Black & Green was a photo of Keith. Above his drawn-looking face was the headline, LOCAL PROPERTY BOSS IN FRAUD PROBE – EXCLUSIVE!
Annie read the article out to me. ‘“Prominent local property developer Keith Brown, Chairman of Phoenix Land, today faces the possibility of a criminal investigation after this newspaper’s discovery of evidence implicating him in a massive insurance fraud.”’ I thought, with a sympathetic pang, of Keith’s girlfriend; this would be awful for her. ‘“Brown started Phoenix Land in 2004,”’ Annie read on, ‘“with the proceeds from a huge insurance payout after his kitchen business had been destroyed by fire two years earlier. Brown’s insurers, Star Alliance, disputed his claim that his warehouse had been torched by a disgruntled employee who had subsequently disappeared and could not be traced … Refused to pay out,”’ I heard her say as I rearranged the dresses. ‘“Brown started proceedings … Star Alliance eventually settled … Two million pounds …”’ I heard Annie gasp and looked at her. ‘“Now the Black & Green has been handed compelling evidence that the blaze was started by Keith Brown himself …”’ Annie stared at me, her eyes like tea-plates, then returned her gaze to the paper. ‘“Mr Brown declined to answer the questions we put to him last night, but his attempt to get an injunction against the Black & Green failed…” Well!’ she exclaimed with censorious satisfaction. ‘It’s good to know we weren’t too hard on him.’ She handed me the paper.