The Wardrobe Mistress_A heart-wrenching wartime love story

by Natalie Meg Evans

  For a minute, neither spoke until Alistair brought up the gaping issue between them. ‘Are we going to be falling over each other for the rest of our days?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ After he left here, their lives could have no future touching points. Not if he and Fern lived apart, as seemed likely. ‘It is odd that we keep meeting but the common denominator is Brookwood Cemetery. Oh, and Euston Station.’

  ‘It’s this place. It’s Stanshurst.’

  ‘How does that work?’

  ‘Fern told me that your family served hers for generations.’

  Vanessa’s teeth came together. Fern hadn’t mentioned that, for seven years they’d been as close as siters? Perhaps finishing school and marriage had diluted Fern’s memory.

  Alistair’s quiet smile acknowledged her reaction. ‘“Served” was not my word. Your father, I understand—’

  ‘Assisted the estate overseer. Until the bright lights seduced him and he left.’

  Alistair picked up her copy of The Stage. The action was a question, but Vanessa remained still. No confidences, no explanations.

  Alistair said, ‘My godfather, Wilton Bovary, owned a theatre, but in the twenties, he’d bring companies of actors here and produce plays for Lord and Lady Stanshurst’s house parties. On occasion, he cast members of staff in small roles – until Lord Stanshurst stopped him. He was turning servants’ heads, I believe, giving them dreams of a life they hadn’t been born to.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Vanessa wondered if her father’s head had been one of those turned by the theatricals. Clive’s thirst for acting must have stemmed from something.

  Alistair carried on with his story. ‘When, many years later, Lady Stanshurst became unwell, my Uncle Bo – Wilton Bovary, I mean – lent her his house on Malta. He’d often stay there with her. Malta is where the British Mediterranean Fleet is based, which is how I came to meet Lady Stanshurst and in due course, Fern. So, you see, Stanshurst is the key to our repeated meetings.’

  ‘It’s the key to your meeting with Fern. I’ve no part in your life, Commander.’

  ‘No?’ Alistair opened The Stage, folding it to the last-but-one page and turning it so Vanessa could read an announcement:

  ‘The Farren Theatre to reopen in November.’

  She gasped, ‘The Farren? That’s where . . . where my friend Joanne played a chambermaid.’

  ‘And is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’ No. At The Farren, a Wardrobe Mistress had snipped off a lock of her hair and invited her to come back and play. Mystery radiated from that place, like spikes of light from a star. ‘It was Mr Bovary’s theatre?’

  ‘Correct. Now it belongs to me and I’ve quit the Navy to run it. One of the reasons Fern is so angry with me.’

  Vanessa nodded. Fern claimed to be a free spirit, but she enjoyed the status of being a Baron’s daughter. Once, Vanessa had asked her why the village shopkeeper called her ‘Miss Fern’ while addressing her as ‘Young Missy’, to which Fern had replied, ‘Because I’m the Honourable Fern Wichelow, of course. You’re just Vanessa Quinnell.’ To Fern, a naval commander would be an acceptable husband, while a theatrical manager . . . But it was Alistair who was leaving Fern, she reminded herself.

  ‘How did the Navy take your decision to run off to join the stage?’

  ‘I will leave you to imagine.’ Alistair thanked her for the water and got up. ‘Fern accuses me of jettisoning a fine career for something without social worth. But I’m looking for a new beginning.’

  ‘So is Fern!’

  He gave her a scouring look, and carried on with his earlier point. ‘I consider theatre to be a pulse of civilisation. We’ve had so much war, we should surely create the best peace we’re capable of. Do you wish to act?’

  ‘I want to work in wardrobe.’

  ‘It’s a tough profession, long hours with little glamour.’ Glancing at the chipped furniture, the whitewashed walls, he continued, ‘Fern would love you to stay on here, and why shouldn’t you? You’ll meet a pleasant man soon enough and make a life.’

  ‘I’ll decide what adds up to a life, thank you.’ This would be the moment to ask if he was hiring and to put herself forward. But if he was in charge of The Farren, she’d spend half her time hiding from him; she wouldn’t want a job there. Would she? ‘Will you be an actor-manager, in the footsteps of your godfather?’

  His eyes creased at the corners. ‘I wouldn’t inflict my acting talents on the paying public. I’ll be at the helm, but out of the spotlight.’ He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye. We won’t meet again.’

  As snubs went, that one was shoot to kill. Rebellion flashed and Vanessa called loudly after him, ‘Who knows, I might bump into you in Ledbury Terrace. Fern’s invited me to stay.’

  She had the impression that he hesitated, but a moment later, she heard him striding away.

  When next week’s copy of The Stage arrived, Vanessa turned straight to the classifieds and suddenly, her heart was going mad.

  REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY

  The Farren Theatre, Farren Court, WC2

  WARDROBE MASTER

  Must have War Service.

  Must also have knowledge of period costume

  and be able to cut and make.

  Apply by letter to Mr Macduff, Company Manager.

  Wardrobe Master? The swindler! Was this an example of what her friend Joanne called ‘jobs for the boys’ or was Alistair Redenhall trying to checkmate her?

  That night, she dreamed she was flying above a theatre stage on white wings. Soaring alongside her were her father and a woman with plaits so long, they swept the boards. Vanessa woke with the name ‘Farren’ on her lips.

  She climbed out of bed and lifted one of her floorboards, taking care not to let it creak and alert her mother. Fishing about in cobwebs, she located the little key. She’d cleaned it and it shone like a bracelet charm. From the same space, she retrieved a playbill, mended with Sellotape, and studied the cast list again. Wilton Bovary. Johnny Quinnell. She truly believed she was being pulled towards The Farren by unseen hands. Alistair Redenhall may believe that he wanted a man to run his wardrobe department, but he hadn’t reckoned with her. He might be a decorated naval officer, but she’d soaked up the spirit of the RAF: per ardua ad astra, ‘Through adversity to the stars’.

  She drafted two letters. The first gave notice to Lord Stanshurst. The second was to the unknown Mr Macduff.

  A week later, she got a reply on headed paper, offering her an interview, though not until the following month which condemned her to a period of chafing frustration.

  Part Two

  A Broken Pathway

  Chapter 8

  London, September 3rd, 1946

  In the front hall of 12 Ledbury Terrace, Vanessa checked herself in the oval mirror above the console table. The upper half of her body, which was all she could see, was clad in yellow.

  A shop assistant had once told her that yellow not only suited her, it was a colour that made things happen. Yellow pushed you forward.

  ‘As do banana skins on the pavement,’ she informed her reflection. Though as bananas had been off the shelves for so long, she had no way of proving the hypothesis. She’d arrived at Fern’s the previous day, and from the moment she’d crossed her friend’s threshold, her fears at what she was about to do had escalated.

  Fern hadn’t helped by saying, ‘Have I told you that I think you’re mad?’

  ‘Yes, twenty times.’

  That first night, Fern had insisted Vanessa sleep in the master bedroom, saying, ‘I’ve moved to the smaller room. I can’t bear the double bed, thinking about Alistair and what he’s done to me. What he’s still doing to me.’

  Vanessa had asked, ‘What has he done?’

  ‘Been faithless. He can’t help himself, but it doesn’t make it any better.’

  Lying where Alistair must have lain many times had ensured that Vanessa got little sleep. Fern had been generous, though, in her casual way. Her s
econd comment to Vanessa yesterday had been, ‘Darling, your hair. Girl Guide curls won’t do here! I’ll phone Mr Stephen at once.’ Fern then sent Vanessa trotting off to Hans Crescent where her stylist had his shop. He’d stayed open late as a special favour and had spent the first several minutes of the appointment lifting Vanessa’s hair before declaiming, ‘Your curls have gone into spasm, dear.’

  ‘I used to tuck them into a piece of stocking, tied round my head. It’s what we all did, to get the Victory Roll. It looked neat under a cap.’

  ‘The horrors of war.’ Mr Stephen had trimmed the tired ends and given her a side-sweep, her hair gathered to the left in a cluster of waves, leaving her right side plain for a ‘profile’ hat. Everybody was wearing hats side-on in London, apparently. On her return, Fern had opened the doors of her wardrobe and said, ‘I can’t share a dress – anything of mine would swamp you – but pick out a hat.’

  ‘Do I need a hat?’ Vanessa had wondered.

  ‘Hats mean business. D’you fancy straw or felt, plain or colour?’

  ‘One that goes on the side of the head, please.’

  ‘It’ll have to be this one, then.’ Fern had unboxed a hat of mustard-coloured satin.

  Lord Stanshurst had given Vanessa five pounds – a leaving gift, though she still had a couple more weeks to work at the Hall. She’d spent nearly the lot at a renowned dress agency in Charing Cross on a short jacket the colour of Forsythia blossom that matched the triangles on her print dress and squared off her shoulders. The jacket, being second-hand, hadn’t required any coupons.

  Two shades of yellow ought to have clashed, but the moment Fern placed the mustard satin hat on her head, Vanessa felt like a different person. WAAF-and-Stanshurst Vanessa was packed away. Stylish Mrs Kingcourt had emerged.

  Fern came down the stairs just then. She wore a green dress that made her eyes emerald, and her hair was arranged in a sleek chignon. It was only ten in the morning but she looked as though she was going out to dine. She asked, ‘What time’s your appointment?’

  ‘Eleven.’ Vanessa wanted to ask Fern if she’d ever come across Mr Macduff, so she could gauge whether she was heading for a kindly interview or a grilling, but any mention of The Farren irritated Fern, who called it ‘that bloody variety hall’.

  ‘I’d better shift.’ Vanessa checked her watch and as she did so, her wrist collided with a pile of framed photographs lying face down on the console. She caught one as it fell, gasping, ‘Sorry!’

  ‘Nerves?’ Fern asked.

  ‘I’ll say! They’re expecting a man.’ She’d written for this interview as ‘V E Kingcourt, ex-RAF’. It wasn’t exactly passing herself off as male, but it wasn’t coming clean, either. Mr Macduff was going to get a shock in approximately one hour. And what if she ran into Alistair?

  The thought of it made her unsteady. ‘Fern, if your husband—’

  ‘He won’t be there,’ Fern cut in contemptuously. ‘Alistair commands from the bridge. He gives orders and lets the underlings get on with it. He won’t know you’re even in the building.’

  ‘He’ll know soon enough if I get the job.’

  ‘It isn’t too late to cry off. They’re going to rumble you. The dress, you know.’

  ‘If I went in trousers, I’d be muscling in on false pretences. This outfit says, “I’m female, and proud of it.” Do I look all right?’

  Fern moved around her critically, and her signature fragrance filled the air. ‘Mm. It’s a Javier, this little jacket, from his spring ’38 collection.’ She laughed at Vanessa’s astonishment. ‘I used to go to the Paris shows with my mother. I worshipped Javier because he designed for real women. I wonder . . . no, I don’t want to think about it. A Jew, in Paris.’ She stroked Vanessa’s sleeve, which was polished cotton. ‘Don’t leave this lying around. Sticky fingers everywhere. Not sure about the hat, though.’

  ‘If you’d rather I didn’t wear it – ’

  ‘Normally, you wouldn’t mix yellows but it looks fine. Just – it has memories attached.’

  ‘Romantic ones?’

  ‘Dead ones. Wear it, it brings out topaz and gold in your eyes.’ Fern laughed as an irresistible idea struck. ‘If you do meet Alistair, tell him to move his bloody feet again! His face when you said that in the churchyard. Brilliant. Now, what about makeup?’

  ‘That’s the next job.’ Vanessa gave herself a generous mouth-shape with a stub of Leichner No 2 in poppy red. She’d found the lipstick inside the bag she’d also bought from the dress agency. A smear of petroleum jelly over the top gave a moist look. She declined Fern’s offer of a pair of American-import stockings, fearful she’d ladder them. She’d go bare-fleshed but she allowed Fern to apply leg makeup. Not the ‘Leg-stick’ which had been the emergency recourse during the war, but a homemade potion of talcum powder, liquid paraffin and brown pigment. Fern assured her that the pigment was the highest quality artist’s oil paint. The result looked good with the blond suede sandals that had cost Vanessa eight coupons from her ‘demob’ supply. She checked her watch, and again caught the corner of a framed photo. This time, the picture crashed to the floor.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m so clumsy!’ It was a wedding picture, showing Fern in a long lace veil and bias-cut silk, the man beside her in white naval uniform. His eyes . . .

  Vanessa felt a flutter of desire followed by shame. ‘Sorry!’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ Snatching the picture and shoving it, broken glass and all, into the console drawer, Fern showed the other variant of her smile. The short, irritated one. ‘You keep saying “sorry”. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Because I so often am. I’ll have the frame mended.’

  ‘We can’t even get glass to repair windows, let alone for family photos. Don’t fret, it’s not a picture I look at. Though he’s handsome, I grant you. I had to fight girls off him in Malta. You wouldn’t believe the effect that a white uniform has on women. Wait, Vanessa?’ Fern peered down into Vanessa’s face. ‘This sudden urgency for the “life theatrical” isn’t anything to do with him?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Fern narrowed her eyes. ‘He told me he was going to pick roses for you to make up for squashing the ones at the war memorial. Did he?’ When Vanessa nodded, she gave a sarcastic whoop. ‘And gave his performance of the wounded hero, brought low by a fiendish woman? That being me, of course. He did! And you lapped it up. You always were rotten at hiding your feelings.’

  ‘I think I’ll go, Fern.’

  Fern walked to the door with her, and down the white steps. ‘Nessie, please don’t fall for him. He’ll make you miserable.’

  Vanessa lingered. ‘I have my own reasons for wanting to work at The Farren, and none of them are to do with your husband.’ She kissed Fern’s cheek and struggled not to sneeze as she caught a nose-full of perfume. Arpège was potent, more night than day.

  ‘Thanks for everything,’ she said from the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Got your map?’

  ‘In my head. Farren Court’s between Russell Street and Bow Street and I know the way.’

  ‘Show them what you’re made of. Though not straight away.’ Fern giggled.

  A few yards along Ledbury Terrace, Vanessa turned to wave and saw that Fern hadn’t moved. Her gaze seemed to be locked on the end of the street. When she realised that Vanessa was looking at her, she called out, ‘I’ll beg or borrow some champagne to celebrate, or drown our sorrows, whichever’s needed. Good luck!’

  Joanne Sayer had told her that The Farren was hidden, and so it proved. Vanessa traipsed down Russell Street so many times she could reel off the stars of the Fortune Theatre’s current show and quote the ecstatic reviews. A Delight! Riveting!

  On Bow Street, she paused in front of the Royal Opera House. As an art student, she’d queued here for cheap tickets. In 1940, on her way to WAAF training in Blackpool, she’d been lured inside by a group of American GIs. The opera house had been a dance hall by then, a swing band playing behind the proscen
ium arch. The American boys had taught her how to jitterbug for six hours straight, and one of them had taken her in a taxi to catch the last available train to the northwest. Bending to adjust the straps of her sandals, which were beginning to rub, she listened for those vanished sounds, and instead heard the grind of buses. Life and business chugged on, though she could count the cars on the fingers of one hand. Fuel was being measured out in teaspoons, and thousands of private cars had been commandeered by the government. Behind the snarl of buses was the slam and scrape of far-off building work. It came from the direction of the City, where the bombing had been unremitting.

  From the Opera House, she crossed to the magistrate’s court and stared at a red telephone box, flat on its back, its panes criss-crossed with anti-shatter tape. Behind it lay an open space where orphaned walls stood at angles, charred cross-beams pointing into nothingness. A row of shops destroyed? On the blackened flank of a surviving draper’s establishment, somebody had painted a sign. ‘Farren Court’.

  This was her journey’s end. A bomb site.

  Picking her way across the rough ground, she smelled the stagnant breath of rain-flooded cellars. A board on a sagging wire fence shouted ‘Keep Out’. Farren Court had, in effect, been wiped off the map. But what of the theatre? She followed a path of broken cobbles, certain this had once been a passage between high walls. Ahead stood a stranded cube of a building.

  It had taken war and death to get her back here. Alistair Redenhall had given up his naval career for this place.

  The theatre’s doorway still had white stucco plaster clinging to its pillars like remnants of cake icing. The name, ‘The Farren’, was inscribed in black paint which badly needed touching up. Rough cement over the doorway spoke of some architectural detail ripped away. An arched window had lost its glass and boards kept the weather out. How many explosives had fallen nearby, she wondered? A miracle it had survived at all.