Dressing the Dearloves

by Kelly Doust

  She summoned up her courage to tell them the news. ‘It’s finished, actually. The company. I had to wind it up.’

  ‘What? No!’ cried Robin, aghast. ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t want to get into it now,’ Sylvie said hurriedly. ‘Let’s just say that my backers changed their minds. It was ridiculously hard selling luxury products in a recession, and the US has been so badly hit. I don’t know what I was thinking, expanding my line when I did.’ She felt the familiar hot shame and panic rise up within her.

  Her mother rushed to her side, drawing her into a hug. Robin joined her, encircling his arms around them both.

  ‘Oh, Sylvie, I’m so sorry, darling. I know how much your label meant to you.’ Were those tears in her mother’s eyes? Sylvie thought, surprised. Surely not? Her mother had always been so down on her job, making her feel like designing was such an odd thing to want to do. She must be upset about losing Bledesford – she’d always prioritised the place ahead of everything.

  ‘You can stay here, of course, as long as you like,’ said Wendy, rubbing her back. ‘It’s your home too. I mean, I don’t know how much longer we’ll have it, but there’ll always be a place for you wherever we go, darling, if you want it.’ Her mother dug into her pocket for a handkerchief and wiped away tears, her face looking blotchy and red.

  ‘Of course. Your mother’s right,’ Robin assured her.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Sylvie, feeling a jolt of panic at the thought of moving back to Bledesford. All she needed was a temporary refuge, but it would be like going backwards, as if she’d made no life for herself at all! And it would only make her failure feel all the more stark. ‘I mean, that’s not necessary,’ she gulped. ‘I have my US citizenship and I have a life. Plus, Ben – remember? I won’t be coming “home”, but it’s nice of you to offer . . . I mean, I’m just here for a visit. I’m bound to get back on my feet again soon . . . I’m not sure when, but—’

  ‘Don’t be cross, darling, you misunderstand us,’ said Wendy. ‘We know you have a life in New York. And we know how busy you are. We’re just telling you that you’re welcome here, anytime.’

  Sylvie crumpled. ‘I’m sorry – of course that’s what you were saying . . .’ It felt like she was always putting her foot in it these days, never quite saying things properly and upsetting people as a consequence. She never used to be as clumsy as this. The counsellor had said it was a side-effect of her medication – feeling teary and reacting badly to things all the time – but weren’t the little white pills she’d been prescribed a couple of months ago meant to be making her feel better, not worse?

  Her father was consoling. ‘I know it must have been hard losing your business, Quicksilver.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘We still need to speak to Lizzie, of course, but I’m sure she’ll understand it’s the only way.’

  ‘The thing is, we don’t have much of a choice,’ said Wendy, grimacing.

  Looking at them both, Sylvie realised that they were well and truly decided upon selling Bledesford – Robin had a distinctly set look to his jaw, and her mother continued to look gloomy. She felt a flicker of pain at the thought of Lizzie having to leave her precious Bledesford behind, but relief on some level that they were finally doing what they should have done well over a decade ago.

  ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I won’t let on to Lizzie.’

  ‘Do you know what, if you are home for a while, darling, perhaps – do you think you could help us?’ asked Wendy.

  Her father forced a smile, his eyes sad. ‘What your mother means is, we were hoping you could help us with all that gumpf in the attic, Quicksilver. The linens and the old frocks and shoes and the whole bally mess of it . . . You know how much everything’s worth – it’s right up your alley. And besides, you know what your mother’s track record’s like, clearing things out,’ he said wryly, giving her mother a cheeky smirk.

  ‘Psht!’ Wendy poked him in the ribs, flushing red.

  Back around the time that Sylvie had started high school – at a local comprehensive with less than stunning A-levels results and a decidedly rough student populace, because there’d been no money to send her elsewhere – her mother had held a ‘garage’ sale and managed to sell off a bunch of priceless old crystal serving bowls, solid silver candlesticks and various other valuable items for a mere few hundred quid. The sale had shown up on Bargain Hunters, beaming Wendy’s blunder across the nation. The local butcher, George, had never let them live it down. ‘Keep your mother away from the antiques!’ he’d cry whenever they went in for their meat.

  ‘So you’d like me to help you sort it out?’ Sylvie asked, giving a slight wince at the thought of the grime, junk and general mess waiting for her upstairs in Bledesford’s attic. She’d come home needing peace and quiet – a place to lick her wounds, with her mother bringing her the occasional cup of tea and plate of fresh scones to buoy her spirits. Of course it wasn’t going to work like that. When was the last time, she thought bitterly, that things went according to plan?

  ‘Yes please. Get rid of it. Or sell it – whatever you think’s best.’

  ‘Okay, Dad,’ she said, drawing a deep breath and feeling a little dizzy – everything was changing so fast. ‘Anything you need.’

  She’d hardly let herself dream of selling Bledesford before, because she knew her parents wouldn’t even consider it. But she’d vaguely thought that over the years they’d been paying down the debt – not adding to it. The thought that they’d kept borrowing against the place over the years was faintly alarming. How much did they owe the bank?

  But if they sold, everyone would finally be free – her parents, particularly, and Gigi too. Free to move on and create new lives for themselves, get out from under the burden of this old house. The estate. Sylvie remembered as clearly as if it were yesterday, when she left Bledesford to go to live in London and study at St Martins she felt unencumbered, free and vividly alive, her hair blowing into her eyes as she hung out the train window, wildly waving goodbye to her parents at the railway station. She couldn’t wait to start a new life for herself outside the shadow of her family and their reputation, the demands of keeping up Bledesford.

  ‘When do you want me to start?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps Tabs could help you if she’s here for the next few days,’ suggested Wendy. ‘You’ll also need to check if there’s anything you’d like to keep, although I doubt we’ll have any room for storage where we’re going.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ Sylvie asked. She couldn’t imagine her parents anywhere other than Bledesford. It made her feel odd just to think about it.

  They hesitated. ‘Well, we think we’ve found a little flat in Wells, in a new complex, and a place for Lizzie in a home nearby,’ said Wendy. ‘It has excellent on-call care, and she’ll be closer to the hospital and her doctors.’

  ‘What about Gigi?’

  ‘We’re not sure what Gigi’s planning to do. She seems to change her mind every other minute, depending on which way the wind’s blowing – you know what she’s like.’

  ‘I imagine it’s all a bit of a relief, isn’t it, Sylv?’ asked Robin gently. ‘I know you’ve always worried about the old place, asking whether we could keep up with it.’ He gave Sylvie a squeeze, his smile crooked.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Sylvie, feeling a little bleak. Oddly, the prospect of selling didn’t make her feel anywhere near as excited as she’d always thought it would.

  9

  ‘Lizzie?’ Sylvie called, gently knocking on one of the ballroom’s large, ornately carved doors. She wasn’t sure if the old woman was sleeping. It was early evening, but her parents had warned her that Lizzie might not be awake.

  ‘She drops off at the oddest hours these days,’ said Wendy in the kitchen, ladling soup from the Aga and slathering thick wedges of homemade bread with freshly churned butter. Sylvie could feel her stomach growling and swiped a piece for herself. ‘She doesn’t seem to sleep too well through the night, poor love. I te
ll you what, darling, it’s not easy getting old. I do feel sorry for her.’

  Sylvie nodded, her mouth full, but couldn’t help thinking that her mother must be mistaken – Lizzie always seemed so healthy and vital over Skype.

  Walking down the corridor, she could hear the dreadful rattle of old plumbing as water emptied down the pipes – Tabs must be getting out of the bath. Sylvie grinned to herself. When they’d shared a student house, they’d often hopped into a bath together and would spend hours in there, until the water went cold and their fingers would wrinkle like prunes, gossiping about boys, clothes and designers.

  Balancing the tray on one arm, Sylvie paused at the door, waiting for her great-grandmother to respond.

  ‘Sylvie, can that possibly be you, darling?’ Lizzie called out, her voice warm and welcoming.

  Sylvie pushed the door inwards, stepping inside.

  The old ballroom was huge – for a few seconds she couldn’t locate her great-grandmother amongst all the faded gilt, mirrors and dusty furnishings. When Robin and Wendy had told her they’d relocated Lizzie from her bedroom into the ballroom, Sylvie had been horrified.

  ‘There was nowhere else, darling,’ Wendy had sighed. ‘She needed to be down on this floor, and it’s closer to the kitchen. The stairs were too much for her – and for us. There was just so much running up and down . . .’

  ‘I had no idea,’ said Sylvie blankly. ‘She never mentioned it.’

  Robin shrugged. ‘She spends so much time in bed, it probably doesn’t make much difference exactly where she is in the house. And she likes the view.’

  ‘Lizzie!’ called Sylvie, walking towards the bed. The parquet floors were scratched and worn, and the damp-ravaged walls were a mottled aqua, lined with faded yellow dado rails that skirted the room. The French doors were opened out to the Colm Valley behind the house’s main approach, letting in a crisp breeze and the view of rolling green hills.

  Lizzie was propped up against a battalion of pillows in her old bed, with a small bar heater giving off a feeble glow in the corner.

  ‘How’s Dearlove doing, darling? And how’s that man of yours? And where is he?’

  ‘Um . . . just a moment,’ said Sylvie awkwardly. ‘Let me put these down . . .’

  ‘What’s that? Not chicken soup again! Oh dear, I’m going to turn into a chicken one of these days. Your mother thinks it’s a cure for everything, but I am officially Sick. To. Death. Of. It.’ Lizzie pushed herself to sit up straighter in bed.

  ‘How are you feeling, dear one?’ Sylvie asked, placing the tray on a side table and leaning down to kiss her great-grandmother on both cheeks, then pausing to rest her forehead against Lizzie’s.

  Her great-grandmother touched her cheek, smiling back. ‘Oh – the same as usual, darling, fresh as a daisy.’

  Sylvie was a little taken aback; Lizzie looked so small and wizened amongst the pillows and blankets. The computer screen had a way of making her appear bigger and younger somehow, but Sylvie now realised it was an illusion. Of course, she told herself, her great-grandmama was knocking on ninety-two; it was hardly surprising that she looked old. And yet she couldn’t help feeling a little shocked by her appearance.

  ‘How are you doing down here?’ Sylvie glanced around. ‘Let me close those doors, it’s getting chilly. It’s a bit . . . cavernous down here, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t mind it. I like the view. I feel like I can see the whole estate from here.’

  It was very beautiful – as she shut the French doors, Sylvie could see the glass roof of the greenhouse glinting in the dying light, reflecting the sun’s golden glow, and the gentle roll of the lawns down towards the valley, much softer and less imposing than Bledesford’s entrance. But with paint peeling from the walls in great sheets and the gilt cornices chipped and ruined, the room looked more like a cross between an abandoned museum and a Victorian hospital ward than the neat, cosy bedroom she thought Lizzie should be in.

  As she turned back to the room, Sylvie noticed more details. A ventilator sat beside the bed, sharing space with a bookshelf crammed with Lizzie’s collection of mementos and books. An old Narnia-like cedar wardrobe had been pushed against the adjacent wall, with various clothes and shoes spilling out from its open doors.

  Sylvie smiled – even at her grand age, her great-grandmother still had taste. She might be bedridden, but her nightgown was picked out with a chic cross-hatching of embroidery stitches, and looked crisp and fresh against her cloud of thinning white hair, as if she’d just bathed and chosen to rest for a moment, rather than being virtually bed-bound for years. A French silk bathrobe was draped over the edge of the bed, palest pink and edged in lace.

  ‘Oh, how pretty,’ Sylvie exclaimed, her eyes caught by a Chinese silk cheongsam, the colour of rubies, hanging against the open wardrobe door. ‘Have I seen that before?’ There was also a white silk debutante’s gown on a hanger behind it, its long skirt trailing over the dusty parquetry, and what looked like a matching cream fur coat hanging in the far corner, appearing a little worse for wear, its lining slightly stained. Emerald-green satin pumps and shawls spilled out onto the floor and, hanging on the opposite door, there was a stunning crepe shift with bold forties-era shoulders in a shocking Schiaparelli pink. The wardrobe was topped with a small collection of hatboxes, ostrich feathers and sequinned scarves escaping from the unchecked lid of a leather-bound case.

  ‘They keep me company,’ Lizzie said, ‘and remind me of Victoria.’

  ‘They’re all so beautiful, Lizzie. How did they come to be down here?’

  ‘Your father brought them down from the attic a few years ago. I asked him for a few specific pieces . . . I was feeling lonely.’ Sylvie knew how much Lizzie missed her younger sister, but it seemed like she’d grown more nostalgic than she remembered.

  ‘Were they all Victoria’s?’ She ran her hand gently over the hanging clothes, from satins to silks to prickly tweeds and softest cashmere.

  ‘Most of them,’ Lizzie said. ‘She was an amazing seamstress. Very talented with needle and thread. Not the fur coat, of course – that was Mother’s. From Paris. The pink gown was mine; I wore it to a party not long before . . . well, before Gigi . . .’

  Lizzie’s body might be packing it in, as her parents had warned, but Sylvie couldn’t believe that her great-grandmother’s memory was failing – she’d always been so mentally agile.

  Sylvie flicked through the rails. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Of course not, darling – help yourself.’

  She pulled out a hand-painted circle skirt with a mid-calf hemline and a pretty peasant blouse with a bold design. The skirt was brown, red and black and looked vaguely South American – together, they made a beautiful combination. ‘Where are these from?’ she asked.

  ‘Patagonia in the 1920s,’ said Lizzie. ‘My Aunt Birdie brought back that outfit for me, and a matching one for Victoria, although I can’t think what happened to hers. I believe they were hand-blocked. Birdie was such an adventurer, you know. You would have liked her. She had your business acumen. Birdie used to bring something home with her every time she went away. Much later in life she started an importing company, bringing in trinkets and jewellery and clothes to sell. It did very well. Many of those pieces are still up there in the attic, you know, but this outfit was always one of my favourites – Birdie said it was for one of their religious celebrations. Not the Day of the Dead, but another festival . . . Oh, it’s bothering me now, I can’t quite remember which,’ she said, a little agitated. ‘It doesn’t matter, I suppose. You’ll have to go up to the attic and take a look. I imagine some of it will be quite inspiring for you.’

  ‘Yes, possibly,’ said Sylvie vaguely. The thought of venturing up into the attic – and what she might find there – filled her with a sudden dread. And then the thought of what had happened the last time she’d handled fabric came rushing back to her, and she abruptly shoved the skirt she was holding back into the wardrobe.

  It had been
different when she was very young. Although she was a solitary child without brothers and sisters, Sylvie had never really felt bored because she always had the Dearlove family’s collection of old steamer trunks upstairs to play with – a veritable treasure trove of generations of fabulous clothes and accessories, picked up from across the world: costumes for fancy-dress parties, christening outfits, day dresses, special party frocks, hats, old uniforms, they’d all gone into the old trunks or been tossed into boxes and thrown up into the attic fairly unceremoniously. Sylvie had rifled through the clothing to create extravagant costumes that she’d play games in by herself for hours.

  Later, when she was an impoverished student, she’d go up to the attic to find pieces to wear to fancy-dress parties or just something unusual that would go with her other vintage shop finds. She remembered one fantastic night out in London with her moody Dane – they were celebrating her twentieth birthday – with Sylvie wearing a ghostly 1930s dress made of the finest gossamer silk in palest spearmint green.

  She’d always wondered at the things those clothes had seen. Great parties between the wars, certainly, but also the insides of souks or palaces, or some clever dressmaker’s studio on the Left Bank in Paris. But it was more than that, Sylvie thought – a dress could be a beautiful thing but it also held something of what the wearer had experienced when they were wearing it – love, joy, sadness, desire, anger. A memory came back to her, of hiding up in the attic, tucked away in the folds of a man’s huge woollen grey greatcoat, breathing in the scent of cedar and the sharp, bitter tang of what she later realised was gun smoke.