A Vintage Affair

by Isabel Wolff

  ‘I do like him – very much. I find him attractive and, yes, he does treat me well – he’s certainly very attentive.’ Then we moved the conversation on and I found myself telling Mrs Bell about the Robinson Rio.

  ‘Dan sounds like a joyful sort of man.’

  ‘He is. He has joie de vivre.’

  ‘That’s a lovely characteristic, in anyone. I’m trying to cultivate a little “joie de mourir”,’ she added with a grim smile. ‘It’s not easy. But at least I have had time to put everything in order …’ She nodded at the pile of papers. ‘And to see my family and say my adieux.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re only au revoirs,’ I suggested, not entirely flippantly.

  ‘Who knows?’ said Mrs Bell. A sudden silence descended. Now was the moment. I picked up my bag.

  Mrs Bell looked crestfallen. ‘You’re not going, are you, Phoebe?’

  ‘No. I’m not, but … there was something I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs Bell. Maybe it’s not appropriate now, given that you’re not well …’ I opened my bag. ‘Or maybe that fact makes it even more important.’

  She put her cup back in its saucer. ‘Phoebe, what are you trying to say?’

  I took the envelope out of my bag, removed the Red Cross form and put it on my lap, smoothing it where it had creased. I took a deep breath. ‘Mrs Bell, I’ve been looking at the Red Cross website recently. And I think that if you wanted to try again – to try to find out what happened to Monique, I mean – then you probably could.’

  ‘Oh,’ she murmured. ‘But … how could I? I did try.’

  ‘Yes – but that was a very long time ago. And in the meantime so much information has been added to the archive that the Red Cross has. On their website it tells you all about it, in particular that in 1989 the Soviet Union handed over to the charity a vast cache of Nazi files that they’d had in their possession since the end of the war.’ I looked at her. ‘Mrs Bell, when you began your search in 1945, all the Red Cross had was a card index. Now they have nearly fifty million documents relating to hundreds of thousands of people who went into concentration camps.’

  Mrs Bell sighed. ‘I see.’

  ‘You could request a search. It’s submitted on the computer.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t have a computer.’

  ‘No, but I do. All you’d have to do is fill in a form – I have one here …’ I handed it to Mrs Bell and she lifted it with both hands, closing one eye as she read it. ‘I would e-mail it back to them for you, and it would be sent to their archivists at Bad Arolsen in northern Germany. You would hear within a few weeks.’

  ‘As a few weeks are all I have, that would be just as well,’ she commented wryly.

  ‘I know that time … is not on your side, Mrs Bell. But I thought that if you could know what happened, you’d want to. Wouldn’t you?’ I held my breath.

  Mrs Bell lowered the form. ‘But why would I want to know, Phoebe? Or rather, why would I want to know now? Why would I want to request information about Monique only to read, in some official letter, that she had indeed met the dreadful end that I suspect she did meet? Do you think that would help me?’ Mrs Bell straightened up in her chair, wincing with pain; then her features relaxed. ‘Phoebe – I need to be calm now, to face my last days. I need to lay my regrets to rest, not torture myself about them anew.’ She lifted the form up then shook her head. ‘This would bring me only turmoil. You must realise that, Phoebe.’

  ‘I do – and of course I don’t want to expose you to turmoil, Mrs Bell, or to any unhappiness.’ I felt a constriction in my throat. ‘I only want to help you.’

  Mrs Bell was staring at me. ‘You want to help me, Phoebe?’ she said. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I’m sure.’ Why was she asking? ‘I think that’s why I found myself in Rochemare – I don’t believe it was purely by chance – I feel that I must have been guided there in some way by Fate, Destiny – whatever you want to call it. And ever since that day I’ve had this feeling about Monique that I’ve been unable to shake off.’ Mrs Bell was staring at me. ‘I’ve had this overwhelming sense, Mrs Bell, – I can’t explain why – that she might have survived; that you only thought she had died because, okay, yes, that’s how it looked. But perhaps by some miracle your friend actually didn’t die, she didn’t die, she didn’t, she didn’t …’ My head sank to my chest. A sob escaped me.

  ‘Phoebe,’ I heard Mrs Bell say quietly. I felt a tear seep into my mouth. ‘Phoebe, this isn’t about Monique, is it?’ I stared at my shirt. There was a tiny hole in it. ‘It’s about Emma.’ Now I looked at Mrs Bell. Her features were blurred. ‘You’re trying to restore Monique to life because Emma died,’ she whispered.

  ‘Maybe … I don’t know.’ I inhaled with a teary gasp then looked out of the window. ‘I only know that I’m just so … sad … and confused.’

  ‘Phoebe,’ said Mrs Bell gently, ‘helping me by “proving” that Monique survived won’t change what happened to Emma.’

  ‘No,’ I croaked. ‘Nothing can change that. Nothing can ever, ever, ever change that.’ My hands sprang to my face.

  ‘My poor girl,’ I heard Mrs Bell murmur. ‘What can I say? Only that you will simply have to try and live your life without too much regret for something that cannot be put right – something that was, in any case, probably not your fault.’

  I swallowed, painfully, then looked at her. ‘It’s enough that I feel that it was. I’ll blame myself forever, I’ll always be carrying it. I’m going to have to lug this through my life.’ The very thought of it made me feel tired. I closed my eyes, aware of the soft gasp of the fire and the steady tick of the clock.

  ‘Phoebe.’ I heard Mrs Bell sigh. ‘You have a lot of life left to live; probably fifty years – maybe more.’ I opened my eyes. ‘You are going to have to find some way to live it happily. Or as happily as any of us can. Here …’ She offered me a tissue and I pressed it to my eyes.

  ‘It doesn’t seem possible.’

  ‘Not now,’ she said quietly. ‘But it will.’

  ‘You never got over what happened to you …’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But I learned to give it its place, so that it didn’t overwhelm me. You still feel overwhelmed, Phoebe.’

  I nodded, then gazed out of the window. ‘I go to my shop every day, and I help my customers, and I chat to my assistant, Annie; I do everything that needs to be done. In my spare time I get together with friends; I see Miles. I function – I function well, even. But underneath I’m … struggling …’ My voice trailed away.

  ‘This is not surprising, Phoebe, given that what happened to you took place only a few months ago. And I think this is why you have, yes, fixated on Monique. Out of your own sorrow you have become obsessed with her – as though you believe that by restoring Monique to life, you could somehow restore Emma to life too.’

  ‘But I can’t.’ I wiped my eyes. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘So … no more of this now, Phoebe. Please. For both our sakes – no more.’ Now Mrs Bell picked up the Red Cross form, tore it in half then dropped the pieces into the bin.

  TWELVE

  Mrs Bell was right, I realised afterwards. I sat in my kitchen for over an hour, just staring down at the table, my face resting in my hands. I had become obsessed with Monique – it was an obsession fuelled by my grief and guilt. I felt ashamed now to think that I had stirred up such painful emotions in a frail, elderly woman.

  I waited a few days, then, feeling chastened, I went to see Mrs Bell again. This time we didn’t talk about Monique or Emma; we chatted about day-to-day things: what was in the news, local events – fireworks night was coming up – and programmes that we’d seen on TV.

  ‘Someone bought your blue silk faille coat,’ I said as we began to play Scrabble.

  ‘Really? And who was she?’

  ‘A very pretty model, in her late twenties.’

  ‘It will go to some lovely parties then,’ said Mrs Bell as she put her letters on her rack.
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  ‘I’m sure it will. I told her that it had danced with Sean Connery – she was thrilled.’

  ‘I hope that you will keep at least one of my outfits,’ Mrs Bell added.

  I hadn’t thought of this. ‘I do love your gabardine suit. It’s still in the window. Perhaps I’ll keep that – I think it would fit me.’

  ‘I’d like to think of you wearing it. Oh dear,’ she said.

  ‘I have six consonants. What can I do? Ah…’ She placed some letters on the board with a shaking hand. ‘There.’ She had made the word thanks. ‘And is romance still blossoming?’

  I counted her points. ‘With Miles?’

  She looked at me. ‘Yes. Who did you think I meant?’

  ‘That’s thirty-nine – a good score. I see Miles two or three times a week. Here…’ I got out my camera and showed Mrs Bell a photo of him that I’d taken in his garden.

  She nodded approvingly. ‘He’s a handsome man. I wonder why he has never married again,’ she mused.

  ‘I wondered that too.’ I said as I rearranged my letters. ‘He said that there had been someone he’d liked, about eight years ago; then last Friday we had dinner at the Michelin and he told me why it hadn’t worked out with this woman, Eva – it was because she’d wanted to have children.’

  Mrs Bell looked as puzzled as I had done. ‘Why would that have been a problem?’

  I shrugged. ‘Miles wasn’t sure that he wanted to have any more. He’d thought it might be too difficult for Roxy.’

  Mrs Bell brushed a silvery wisp from her eyes. ‘It might equally have been a positive thing for her – perhaps the best thing.’

  ‘I sort of said that … But Miles said he’d been worried that it could affect Roxy negatively if there were other children clamouring for his attention when she needed it so much. Her mum had died only two years before.’

  I glanced down into the garden as I recalled the conversation.

  ‘I’d been agonising about it all,’ Miles had said as we’d had our coffee. ‘Time was getting on. Eva was thirty-five and we’d been together for over a year.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘So it had come to the crunch.’

  ‘Yes. Naturally she wanted to know … where things were going. And I simply didn’t know what to do.’ He lowered his cup. ‘So I asked Roxy.’

  I looked at Miles. ‘You asked Roxy what?’

  ‘I asked her if she’d perhaps like to have a little brother or sister one day. And she looked … stricken, then she burst into tears. I felt that I was betraying her by even contemplating it and so …’ He shrugged.

  ‘So you broke it off with Eva?’

  ‘I wanted to protect Roxy from further stress.’

  I shook my head. ‘Poor girl.’

  ‘Yes – she’d been through so much.’

  ‘I meant Eva.’ I said quietly.

  Miles drew in his breath. ‘She was very upset. I heard that she quite quickly met someone else and did have children, but I came to feel …’ He sighed.

  ‘That you’d made a mistake?’

  Miles hesitated. ‘I’d done what I’d thought was right for my child …’

  ‘Poor girl,’ Mrs Bell said when I’d finished telling her this.

  ‘You mean Eva?’

  ‘I mean Roxy – that her father gave her so much power. It’s so bad for a child’s character.’

  Elle est son tendon d’Achille … Perhaps that was what Cecile had meant. That Miles had deferred to Roxy too much – allowing her to make decisions that he alone should have made.

  I put my letters down. Chance. ‘That’s twelve.’

  Mrs Bell passed me the bag. ‘Of course I feel sorry for his girlfriend too. But what if you wanted to have children, Phoebe?’ She pursed her lips. ‘I hope that Miles would not seek Roxy’s opinion again!’

  I shook my head. ‘He said that that was why he’d told me about it. He wanted me to know that if I did want to have a family, he would have no objections. As he pointed out, Roxy’s almost grown up.’ I took some more letters. ‘But it’s too early to be thinking about it, let alone talking about it.’

  Mrs Bell looked at me. ‘Have children, Phoebe – if you can. Not just for the happiness that children bring, but because I imagine that the busyness of family life leaves little time for dwelling on regrets from the past.’

  I nodded. ‘I can imagine that’s true. Well… I’m thirty-four so there’s still time …’ As long as I’m not unlucky, I reflected, like the poor woman who’d bought the pink cupcake dress. ‘Your turn again, Mrs Bell.’

  ‘I am going to make peace,’ she said with a smile. She stared at her letters then put them down. ‘P, E, A, C, and E …’

  ‘That’s … ten points.’

  ‘And tell me, is the shop busy?’

  ‘It’s becoming very busy now because of the party season. Christmas will soon be here,’ I added, then blushed at my lack of tact.

  Mrs Bell smiled bleakly. ‘Well, I don’t suppose I’ll be pulling crackers with anyone. But then… who knows?’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe I will.’

  On Tuesday a woman in her mid forties brought in some clothes for me to see.

  ‘It’s all lingerie,’ she explained as we sat in my office. She opened the small leather suitcase. ‘It’s never been worn.’

  Inside the small leather suitcase were beautiful silk satin nightdresses and peignoirs with lace edging; there were pretty corsets and suspender belts. There was a rather regal ice-blue silk long slip with a gathered bust and netting at the hem.

  ‘You could wear that one to a party, couldn’t you?’ the woman said as I held it up.

  ‘You could. These are lovely things.’ I ran my hand over a salmon pink quilted satin bed jacket. ‘They’re from the mid to late 1940s and are all wonderful quality.’ I lifted out a tea rose bias-cut silk slip with lace insets, and two peach-coloured satin bras with matching camiknickers. ‘These are from Rigby & Peller – they hadn’t been going very long then.’ Most of the garments still had their labels attached and were in perfect condition, except for one or two orange marks on a girdle where the metal of the suspender clips had rusted against the fabric. ‘So was this someone’s trousseau?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ the woman replied. ‘Because there wasn’t a wedding. They belonged to my mother’s sister, Lydia. She died this year, at eighty-six. She was a “maiden aunt” of the old school and a very sweet person. She was a primary school teacher,’ the woman went on. ‘She never took any interest in fashion – she always wore plain, practical clothes. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I went down to Plymouth to sort out her house. I looked through her wardrobe, taking most of her things to the charity shop. Then I went up into the attic, where I found this case. When I opened it, I was … amazed. I could hardly believe that these things had belonged to her.’

  ‘You mean because they’re so pretty and… sexy?’ The woman nodded. ‘So was your aunt ever engaged?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t, sadly.’ The woman sighed. ‘I knew that she’d had a disappointment,’ she went on. ‘But I’d forgotten the details, except that the man was American. So I immediately phoned my mum – she’s eighty-three – and she told me that Auntie Lydia had fallen for this GI, Walter, who she’d met at a dance at the Drill Hall in Totnes in the spring of ’43. There were thousands of GIs down there, training at Slapton Sands and Torcross for the Normandy landings.’

  ‘So … was he killed?’

  She shook her head. ‘He survived. My mother said that he was a handsome man and very nice – she remembered him mending her bicycle for her and bringing them sweets and nylons. He and Lydia saw a lot of each other, and before he went back to the States he came to see her again and told her that he was going to send for her just as soon as he’d “gotten things ready”, as he put it. So Walter went back to Michigan, and they wrote, and in each of his letters he said that he was going to come and collect my aunt “soon” but …’

  ‘He never did?’

  ‘No. On it went fo
r three years – these newsy letters arriving with photos of himself, and his parents and his two brothers and the family dog. Then in 1948 he wrote to say that he’d got married.’

  I lifted out a white satin ‘corselette’. ‘And your aunt had been collecting all these things during that time?’

  ‘Yes – for the honeymoon that she would never have. My mum said that she and my grandmother had kept telling her to forget about Walter – but Lydia clung to the belief that he would come. She was so heartbroken that she never looked at anyone else – such a waste.’

  I nodded. ‘And it’s sad to look at these lovely things and to think that your aunt never got any … pleasure out of them.’ It was easy to imagine the reveries and hopes that had fuelled their purchase. ‘And she spent a lot of money on them – and all her clothing coupons too, I should think.’

  ‘She must have done.’ The woman sighed. ‘Anyway – it’s a shame for them not to be worn; hopefully someone else will have a bit of … passion in them.’

  ‘Well, I’d love to buy them.’ I suggested a price. The woman was happy with it, so I wrote her a cheque then took the things up to the stockroom. As they’d never been worn I left them to air in order to eliminate the faint mustiness that clung to them: as I was putting them on hangers I heard the sound of the bell, then a male voice asking Annie for a signature.

  ‘It’s a delivery,’ I heard her call out. ‘Two enormous boxes – it must be the prom dresses. It is,’ she added as I came down the stairs. ‘The sender is … Rick Diaz – New York.’

  ‘He’s taken long enough,’ I said as Annie scored open the first box with a pair of scissors. She lifted the flaps and pulled out the dresses in turn, the tulle petticoats bouncing out, as though spring-loaded. ‘They’re gorgeous,’ Annie said. ‘Look how dense the underskirts are – and what fantastic colours!’ She held up the vermillion dress. ‘This one’s so red it’s as though it’s on fire – and this indigo one is like the night sky in midsummer. These will sell, Phoebe. I’d order some more if I were you.’

  I picked up the tangerine one and shook out the creases. ‘We’ll hang four of them on the wall, as before, and put two in the windows – the red one and the cocoa brown.’ Then Annie opened the second box, which, as expected, contained the bags.