[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris

by Fliss Chester

  ‘Urg,’ she swallowed it in disgust. ‘It’s the chicory stuff again.’

  ‘It was all I could find,’ Fen shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘It’s all we have,’ Rose spoke over her. ‘And I’m sure it’s nothing so good as one can get at the breakfast tables of the Hotel de Lille.’

  Simone was modest enough to finally blush a pretty shade of pink and lowered her eyes to the coffee pot.

  Fen knew that Rose was cross with her, whether for her loose morals or just that she had been worried about her, she wasn’t sure, but she knew she should say something to ease the tension. ‘Simone, is a visit to your atelier still on the cards today? I rather fancy a walk out and about.’

  ‘Of course. I will warn my friends Christian and Pierre that they will be meeting one of the famous English land girls!’

  ‘Rightio!’ Fen clocked what Simone had said and smiled, cheered at the thought. ‘Though I didn’t know we were such celebrities.’

  Simone just laughed and took another sip of her coffee. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the ersatz brew. Fen took a sip too, but couldn’t say she disliked it. Real coffee was such a luxury these days and Fen had grown rather fond of the woodiness of the chicory drink.

  ‘Mind if I bring a chum?’ Fen remembered her promise to Magda and thought it might be friendly of her to ask if she’d like to come along as well. Simone merely shrugged and Fen wondered if perhaps an audience to show off her glamorous workplace to was always welcome. ‘Wonderful. See you later then.’

  With the rendezvous arranged, Simone bid her goodbyes and donned her coat before leaving the apartment.

  ‘If she were my daughter…’ Rose began, before leaning over to pick up her cigarette holder and light one up. Her long beads clanked against the jars of white spirit next to her easel. She had wrapped her hair up in a navy-blue turban today and paired it with a striking bejewelled peacock-feather hatpin. She inhaled deeply and then laughed to herself. ‘Who am I kidding, if she were my daughter, she’d be twice as bad and thrice as ugly.’

  ‘Oh Rose.’ Fen laughed at her. ‘Still, I’m rather intrigued by seeing this fashion house. I’ll put in a call to Magda’s building and, then, is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?’

  Fen had slightly regretted asking Rose that a few hours later. Her hands were now red raw and reeked of white spirit. Cleaning oil paint off brushes in the freezing cold of the kitchen sink was not fun at all, but Fen couldn’t begrudge her friend the favour – she was staying with her free of charge after all.

  ‘Reminds me,’ Fen said to Tipper as he sat on her feet like a fluffy hot-water bottle while she stood at the sink, ‘I must see if there’s anything particularly tasty at the shops this afternoon. I think we could all do with a bit of a treat.’

  The little dog had agreed with her, or so she thought by the yapping, followed by a particularly energetic bout of tail chasing. She looked at the ball of fluff as he skittered around the kitchen, bumping into her ankles, and couldn’t help but smile at him. Perhaps it would be nice to get a dog once she was settled back in England? The rather pleasant daydream of choosing a breed occupied her until she’d finished washing out the brushes, and once she was free of oil paint splats herself, she put her mind to what she should wear for this adventure into the heart of haute couture.

  Visiting a fashion house hadn’t been on Fen’s agenda when she’d packed her old brown case in West Sussex last month and headed off in search of Arthur. At that point, she’d figured her luggage would be more usefully filled with rugged work overalls and sensible jumpers; which indeed had been just the ticket as she’d taken up the role of a vineyard worker to aid her search.

  Now, though, she felt like her Sunday best of a smart tweed skirt and nice cream-coloured blouse just wasn’t going to cut it, while the Victorian cameo brooch of her grandmother’s that she’d so almost lost to a thief in Burgundy, as precious as it was to her, wasn’t exactly à la mode either. Plus, Rose’s dress she had worn the night before hadn’t had a chance to air out and still smelt of tobacco smoke and stale beer, more’s the pity. Luckily, Rose was as generous as ever, and although Fen had only her sensible shoes and trench coat, she was glad to have borrowed another one of her friend’s less-exuberant tea dresses, this one in a rather fetching blue with little white daisies on it.

  As Fen put it on and pulled the belt tight around the waist to give the dress a bit of definition, she started to feel a little of her old self come back. Fen had never been a vain woman, but she did follow her mother’s mantra of ‘it’s nice to look nice’ and had been known to check her headscarf and victory-rolled hairdo in the passing wing mirror of a farm vehicle when she’d been working in the fields. Perhaps this trip to the heart of the Parisian fashion world would be the boost she needed after losing her darling Arthur had knocked her for six.

  A few hours later and Fen and Magda walked along arm in arm towards the atelier.

  ‘This is such a joy,’ Magda exclaimed, ‘not just being here with you, although that is wonderful, don’t get me wrong,’ she squeezed Fen’s arm, ‘but I mean just being in Paris again! Home.’

  ‘It must have been terrible, having to escape from your own city, I mean.’

  ‘I cried all the way to New York,’ Magda said and released her arm from Fen’s. ‘Poor Joseph had to almost carry me onto Ellis Island.’

  ‘You knew then that your parents hadn’t made it?’

  ‘Yes. They should have been on the same voyage as us, but… still, Rose did all she could to help then, just as she is now. At least the war was good for one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Fen turned to her friend in bewilderment.

  ‘Rose. She was getting in some hot water just before we left.’

  ‘Rose?’

  ‘Bless her, you know how she loves copying paintings?’

  ‘Gosh yes, the paintings in my bedroom in her apartment could fill a wing of the Louvre and barely anyone would notice the difference!’ Fen suddenly remembered the woman in the fox fur saying something similar and was about to tell Magda all about it when she stopped herself. Gossiping about her most generous hostess had its limits.

  ‘Exactly.’ Magda carried on talking anyway. ‘Well, you know the old rumours about her being a forger? They were surfacing again and Rose was about to be hauled in front of some sort of committee. Apparently a few too many of her “homages” were on the open market and the auction houses were feeling the heat. Some of the news even made it to the New York Times. There really were some cross people out there who’d thought they’d bagged a Rembrandt or Degas for silly money and hadn’t realised they’d been duped.’

  ‘But not by Rose, surely? She always says they’re copies. She even adds her own flourishes at the end to prove it.’

  ‘I think that’s the point. She’s never anything but upfront about it. But once they’re sold on once or twice, and what with the art all being stolen and shifted around,’ Magda shivered and threaded her arm through Fen’s again, ‘well, I think she might have been investigated. It certainly made some of the art world and a few patrons very cross indeed.’

  ‘Poor Rose. All she ever wants to do is paint and create art. It’s not her fault if someone else sells it on as the real thing.’ Fen felt aggrieved for her eccentric friend.

  ‘I’m just glad to see her still with us now. I couldn’t have borne it if she had been killed too.’

  ‘Killed?’ Surely Magda was referring to Rose’s war work now? Fen checked. ‘You mean if she’d been caught by the Germans with her codes and ciphers and things?’

  ‘Oh yes, there was that too. What I meant, though, was that she had received quite a few threats, if you know what I mean. People don’t like being made fools of, and don’t you find it’s always easy to blame us women for everything. Just before we left, she was in a real pickle, almost about to go underground, then Henri Renaud vouched for her and… well, there you go. I’m just so glad she’s safe now.’


  Fen thought about Magda’s words. Rose hadn’t mentioned any of this. Perhaps she was embarrassed, falsely accused or not, mud often stuck. Maybe, as Magda had said, the war in its crazed crucible of fire and heat had at least saved one person – Rose. Like a phoenix from the flames, she was reborn as just another artist. Had the war done anything to silence her detractors though? Or was that just another pot waiting to boil over?

  Fifteen

  Fen and Magda chatted away about less serious subjects until they arrived at the address printed on the very smart little calling card that Simone had passed to Fen that morning. The atelier didn’t have a showy shop window and was in fact only recognisable from the discreet brass plaque next to the door. Fen was about to rap on the door when it opened and Simone appeared behind it.

  ‘Hello, Fenella, and…’ Simone stopped and stared at Magda for a brief moment before introducing herself to her. Pleasantries were made and Simone ushered the two women into the building. ‘Did you have any trouble finding your way?’ Simone asked as Fen and Magda hung their coats up on the stand in the vestibule.

  The entrance hall of the building was sparse in its own way, black-and-white tiles chequerboarded the floor and the only furniture was the stand, on which they’d just hung their coats, an upholstered bench seat and a mahogany receptionist’s desk, which was currently unoccupied.

  ‘No, not at all. We found it quite easily in fact.’ Fen’s sense of direction was something of which she was quite proud, plus she’d been to this neighbourhood before, as a girl, accompanying her mother on jaunts to her dressmaker. She had remembered the way, even if so many of the once-familiar shops and dressmaker’s ateliers had been closed now and some even boarded up.

  Magda spoke up too, echoing Fen’s thoughts. ‘This was always such an exciting part of Paris to come to, in the old days, I mean.’

  ‘As it is now,’ Simone said rather coquettishly, placing a hand on her hip.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Magda agreed, ‘and I’m sure it will be just as delightful as it ever was, even if perhaps my purse strings need to be pulled a little tighter these days.’

  Fen reached out and squeezed Magda’s hand, before realising that Simone was still waiting for them at the partially opened door, which led to the rest of the atelier.

  The atelier itself was a hive of buzzing sewing machines and scratching pens on drawing boards. Simone showed them into what she called the cutting room. Here, on one side, there were draughtsmen sitting at large white drawing boards, while seamstresses dressed mannequins and stood over large, wide tables measuring and cutting fabric. There were great windows, like those in Rose’s apartment, letting in the early-afternoon light, and drawings and sketches filled the walls. The whole place felt industrious and purposeful, and Fen could now understand Simone’s outrage at the way fashion models like herself were attacked and sworn at in the street. Here in the atelier of Lucien Lelong, for that had been the name on the brass plaque by the front door, progress was being made one stitch at a time.

  ‘Come, let me introduce to you to my friends. They will simply adore that crazy dress you’re wearing, Fenella. Is it one of Rose’s? She’s a scream that woman. Christian, Pierre!’ Simone led a rather self-conscious Fen and obviously rather awkward Magda through the cutting room to where two middle-aged men were sitting at their drawing boards. ‘Miss Churche, Madame Bernheim, may I introduce you to my mentors here at Lelong, Monsieurs Christian Dior and Pierre Balmain.’

  ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle, madame,’ the rather handsome Christian leaned over and kissed Fen’s hand, then that of Magda, while Pierre laughed and saluted them both from behind his drawing board.

  ‘These two men are geniuses,’ Simone gushed. ‘Their designs are so full of life…’

  ‘… And luxury,’ Pierre laughed. ‘Luckily for Mademoiselle Mercier here we like to dress her up like our younger sister and parade her around.’

  Simone tutted and huffed in that particularly Gallic way, but Fen could tell she was in her element, being the darling of these two trailblazing designers.

  ‘Next let me show you the pattern designs,’ Simone pulled Fen along with her as the two designers waved them all off. Once out of earshot, she pulled Fen and Magda into a huddle and said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Don’t you dare tell anyone, but Christian is leaving soon, he says.’

  ‘Oh dear. That will be a loss for Monsieur Lelong.’ Magda sounded genuinely worried for the proprietor. ‘My mother used to come here in the twenties…’ her voice trailed off and Fen looked at her with concern. ‘I’m all right, I’m all right,’ Magda confirmed as she fished around in her handbag for a handkerchief.

  Simone waited for Magda to finish blowing her nose and then carried on with her juicy piece of gossip. ‘It will be a disaster for this atelier, yes. Christian’s designs are out of this world, you know? They are in the new style, so fresh.’

  ‘Promise we won’t say a word,’ Fen assured her.

  ‘Good. I’m hoping that he might take me with him. If I’m still living in Paris by then, of course.’

  ‘Are you planning on leaving Paris?’ Magda asked but didn’t wait for an answer as she put her handkerchief back in her handbag and carried on. ‘I don’t think I could ever leave, not again. Never again.’

  Fen slipped her arm into Magda’s and gave it a squeeze as Simone merely shrugged and led them into another room, this one full of rolls of fabric, all standing on their ends, like a vibrantly coloured version of the Giant’s Causeway.

  Fen wanted to ask Simone what she meant about leaving Paris but was swept up by the sight of so much fabric. She remembered repurposing a pair of Mrs B’s old curtains to make a skirt during the war, and how Kitty had laughed at her as a rogue curtain hook had fallen out during a tea dance. Put it this way, the fabric in this room would have dressed the whole of West Sussex for the entirety of the war, with spare left over for the VE Day bunting.

  ‘Gosh aren’t these patterns wild!’ Fen ran her finger along a wide roll of brightly coloured silk, feeling the texture as much as seeing the pattern. ‘My friend Kitty would be in seventh heaven here!’

  ‘These are the fabrics for Christian’s new look, he’s very particular about them.’

  ‘I can see why, one yard of this is probably worth more than my entire wardrobe!’

  ‘Can you imagine,’ Magda joined in, ‘I used to come here and think nothing of ordering dress after dress. And now… well, same as you, Fen, dear, just being in this room is about as close to bespoke tailoring as I’ll get any time soon.’

  Simone smiled and carefully tucked a stray few strands of her hair behind her ear. ‘I know what it’s like to be poor, too. Though I’ve never resorted to borrowing old lady’s clothes.’ She touched the fabric on the slightly unfashionable squared-off shoulder of Rose’s tea dress and laughed. ‘So thirties!’

  ‘Oh, well, I mean…’ Fen trailed off as Simone carried on talking, her manner suddenly less carefree.

  ‘Still, I would have only dreamed of a dress like yours back then. I was a young girl when Paris was in crisis, you know? The depression?’

  Fen knew it well. It was The Crisis of Paris that had weighed on her mind heavily when she was deciding what to do for the war effort. She had witnessed the poorest in Paris starve back in 1934 when the shops ran empty and even bread was hard to come by. Her family had moved back to England the year after, but it had always haunted her, how it was the worst off in this world who suffered the most during times of depression, and how economic depression so often followed war…

  ‘We were starving. My father was out of work and my mother had died in the winter of ’33 from pneumonia. You might have been buying dresses here at Lelong, Madame Bernheim, but I was dressed in rags.’ Simone looked intensely at Magda.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Magda dropped her eyes and seemed to carefully examine the floor.

  ‘Tch, it is what it is. We have all been through hell and back these past few years. Back then, we wer
e alley rats, vermin on the streets of Paris. My sister and I were old enough to help our father ply the streets but too young to realise what was happening. You could say that we were dying, but we didn’t know it.’

  ‘What happened?’ Fen couldn’t help but find it hard to tally the story Simone was telling her to the cosmopolitan young woman standing before her.

  ‘I realised I was beautiful.’ Simone paused as if waiting for Fen and Magda to agree with her, and sure enough they did both nod. ‘And I traded it as my best asset.’

  ‘Oh, I see…’ Fen was slightly shocked, while Magda took to examining the floor again.

  ‘No, not like that.’ Simone stood taller, more proud. ‘I was barely seventeen when the war started. A woman, yes, but not worldly, you know? But I modelled for artists and became a waitress and then I worked for the Resistance in the war as a lure for the Germans.’

  ‘A lure?’

  ‘Yes, you pretend you want, you know, jiggy-jiggy with them and then lure them into an alley where others were waiting.’ She ran her finger across her throat and Fen instinctively raised her hand to protect her own neck.

  ‘Cripes!’

  ‘No more than they deserved,’ Magda crossed her arms, looking more defiant than Fen had seen her.

  Simone laughed and pulled a scrap of fabric out from an end of one of the rolls and draped it over Magda’s shoulder. ‘Suits you,’ she said and then coolly carried on with her story. ‘Of course, there was always that temptation to let them go, or accept their offers of money and ration books… like The Chameleon obviously did.’

  ‘That brute.’ Magda practically spat the words out, then hurriedly fetched her handkerchief out of her bag and blew her nose again.

  ‘Were there many double agents, do you think?’ Fen was curious, and while not wanting to upset Magda by dwelling on the subject, she wanted to know more.

  ‘Yes. More than you’d think.’ Simone looked thoughtful, and Fen watched as she took in the obvious sadness in Magda’s eyes. ‘Anyway, now my life is full of silks and brocades, not mouldy bread and rat droppings. Oh, this fabric is so beautiful, don’t you think?’ Simone seemed easily distracted, even from her own story.