The Dressmaker's Gift

by Valpy, Fiona

  When, at last, I emerge into the crisp autumnal day, I decide to walk back along the river rather than ducking underground into the Métro. The leaves are turning to gold along the riverside quais and the waters of the Seine glint with the same golden light until they are churned to pewter, in a kind of reverse alchemy, by the passing tourist boats.

  As I walk, transported back in time by the sight of those beautiful clothes in the Palais Galliera, I mull over what I’ve learned so far about my grandmother’s life during the war here in Paris.

  My feelings are mixed. Now that I know a little more, I’m impatient to know everything else that happened. But, at the same time, from what Simone’s told me, I’m wondering increasingly whether I would have liked my grandmother Claire if I’d met her. Compared with Mireille, she seems to have been a bit weak and overly preoccupied with the superficial world of Parisian glamour.

  She was young, of course, but then so was Mireille so that’s really no excuse. She’d clearly had a hard childhood, growing up motherless and in poverty in a household full of men where she was expected to be the housekeeper from an early age.

  So I can understand her longing for a life of luxury and elegance. I suppose that, in that way, she and I are not so different.

  And then it occurs to me that maybe it’s been passed down to me in the genes, this fascination with the world of fashion. Is that something I have inherited from Claire? Or is it simply a longing to escape from the reality of our situations in life into a world of fantasy and glamour? Either way, that thought brings with it a very strange mixture of emotions. Because I always thought I was forging my own path, that my ‘passion for fashion’ as my father sometimes disparagingly referred to it, was mine and mine alone. In fact, it became an important part of my identity, a part of my individuality that I clung to in a household where I felt I was scarcely noticed. But to realise, now, that perhaps it’s not unique to me, that maybe it’s one of those threads which run back through generations, makes me feel strangely unsettled.

  It’s a realisation that leads me, inevitably, to two further streams of thought and they tangle and knot themselves in the pit of my stomach. The first is reassuring, a sense of connection and continuity, a feeling that I am linked to my forebears in unknown ways; and the second is unsettling, a sense that I am trapped in a family history that I’m not sure I want to be a part of. Is this link to my ancestors a good thing or a bad thing? Who really were these people? And what other legacies have I inherited from them? From my grandmother? From my mother?

  My mother. Was that same legacy something that blighted her life with the depression that ultimately destroyed her? Was there some instability built into the foundations of her being that made her crumble and collapse? In my memories, she always had a fragility about her. I remember how she would play me tunes on her beloved piano, amusing me for hours on end with nursery rhymes and teaching me the words of carols at Christmas time; those were happy times, lit by the daylight which streamed in through the French doors leading to the garden. But then sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night and hear the strains of something else, the sad notes of a nocturne or the haunting melody of a sonata in a minor key, as she played in the darkness to while away the hours, getting herself through another lonely night.

  Thinking of the home where she and I lived, an image flits, unbidden, into my mind of flashing blue lights and hands holding me back as I try to run forward through a door that is slightly ajar. In my mind, I slam that door shut, not wanting to go there again. I’m too frightened. Not yet ready. I need the distraction of focusing on finding out Claire’s story first, before I can begin to revisit the more immediate past . . .

  Until now, my family’s history has been an enigma, a tattered tapestry filled with holes. My mother always seemed reluctant to talk about it. Was there some sense of shame that stopped her from doing so?

  Suddenly, it seems vital that I find out. Simone’s retelling of her grandmother’s recollections is helping me slowly piece some of my own story together. But lately I’ve been getting the impression that she’s a little reticent to continue the story – often too busy, or out with other friends. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I sense that there’s been a slight coolness between her and me since the evening in the bar when I spent those hours chatting with Thierry. I try to shrug it off – after all, she introduced him as just one of a group of her friends and hadn’t said that there was any particular closeness between the two of them. I tell myself that she probably doesn’t want to feel obliged to invite me along every time she goes out, and of course we are always under pressure in the office. And yet it niggles away at me, the distance that seems to have grown between us and the slight feeling of awkwardness when we are in the apartment together.

  But I want to hear more of the story which is mine as well as hers. I feel the need to know more about who my mother and my grandmother really were. What history has been passed through them to me? I need to know who I really am, too.

  There’s that programme on TV isn’t there, which I never really paid much attention to, but which my stepmother used to watch sometimes, about people finding out about their ancestors. I vaguely recall that they looked up the census and marriage records and death certificates online to trace the lines of family through the generations.

  Back in the apartment, after a moment’s hesitation, I open my laptop and I begin my own search . . .

  And I find it’s easy enough. I just have to register with the General Records Office website, fill in the details of the person I am looking for and they will send me the certificates in a couple of weeks’ time. I hesitate for a few moments, trying to recall my mother’s maiden name, and then I type ‘Claire Redman’ into the search form and ‘Meynardier’ into the field marked ‘Previous Name’. Then I check the boxes marked ‘Marriage Certificate’ and ‘Death Certificate’, before pressing ‘Submit Request’.

  1940

  ‘You look nice.’ Mireille watched from her bedroom doorway as Claire smoothed her hair, looking in the mirror in the hallway before pulling a coat over her dark blue dress. ‘Are you going somewhere special?’

  It was New Year’s Eve and Paris was in a party mood, in spite of the war. Claire shrugged and reached for her key to the apartment.

  ‘Wait!’ Mireille laid a hand on the sleeve of Claire’s coat, where the woollen twill was worn and fraying slightly at the cuff. ‘I’m sorry. I forgot to give you your present at Christmas. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. But I have something for you now. Here, take it.’ She thrust a small package into Claire’s hand. ‘It will look good against your dress.’

  ‘It’s alright, Mireille, you don’t have to give me anything,’ Claire replied.

  Her friend smiled at her. ‘I know I don’t have to give you anything, Claire, but I want to give you this. I love the necklet that you made for me – see, I’m wearing it tonight.’ Mireille stroked the narrow velvet ribbon around her neck which had a scattering of jet beads sewn on to it with invisible stitches and which fastened at the front with a silver filigree button.

  Claire unwrapped the paper from Mireille’s gift and stared in disbelief at the silver locket that lay in her hand.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ asked Mireille.

  ‘It’s not that.’ Claire shook her head. ‘But I can’t take it. Not your locket, Mireille. It’s too precious.’

  She tried to hand it back, but Mireille closed her fingers around Claire’s. ‘It’s yours. A present for a good friend. I want you to have it. And I’m sorry that I haven’t been better company of late. Here, let me fasten it for you.’

  Reluctantly, Claire lifted the hair from the back of her neck to allow Mireille to settle the locket in place and secure the clasp. Then, relenting, she hugged Mireille and said, ‘Well, thank you. It’s the most beautiful present I’ve ever had. And let us settle it that we will share it. As a token of our friendship. It can belong to us both.’

  ‘Alright then, if that
means you will accept at least a half share in it.’ Mireille smiled broadly and, for a moment, she almost looked like her old, vivacious self again.

  Impulsively, Claire seized her hand. ‘Come with me! Let’s go out dancing together. I know somewhere where the music and the company are good. There’s even a rumour that there’ll be champagne tonight, since it’s New Year’s Eve. Put on your red dress and come along. It’ll be fun!’

  Mireille withdrew her hand and shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Claire, I can’t. There’s someone I have to meet.’

  ‘Alright then, have it your own way.’ She shrugged. ‘Although I bet the people I’ll be meeting are a lot better company than whoever it is you’re hooking up with. Thanks for the locket. See you tomorrow.’

  Mireille watched sadly as her friend swept out of the apartment and off down the stairs. And then, after a few minutes, she pulled on her own coat and slipped out, silent as a shadow, to be swallowed up by the crowds in the busy streets below.

  At the entrance to the nightclub, Claire left her coat at the hat-check desk even though it meant she would have to put a few sous in the plate on the counter for the sour-faced woman who had given the threadbare garment a disdainful shake as she’d taken it away to hang it on the rail.

  My coat may be shabby, mademoiselle, Claire thought as she turned towards the powder room, but at least I’m not stuck behind the counter on New Year’s Eve with a scowl on my face. She took a cheap gilt compact from her evening bag and leaned towards the mirror as she blotted the shine from her nose and cheeks. The women alongside her glanced enviously at the drape of the midnight blue dress, which Claire had painstakingly made from remnants of crêpe de Chine left over from one of Monsieur Delavigne’s designs. It had taken her ages to piece the lengths together and she’d spent long evenings trying to get the seams to lie absolutely flat where she’d had to sew the offcuts side by side, so that the joins would be virtually invisible. She’d stitched a scattering of silver beads along the neckline to distract the eye from the patchwork nature of the gown, and draped the fabric on the bias so that it flowed over her slim hips. Her evening bag was made from the lining of an old skirt, and she’d borrowed a pair of shoes from one of her flatmates for the evening.

  In the mirror, she adjusted the locket on its fine silver chain so that it lay flat against the beaded neckline, just below the delicate wings of her collarbones.

  She rested a hand on her stomach for a moment, trying to calm the butterflies that seemed to flutter there. Would he be here? Would he have remembered the promise they’d made on Christmas Eve to meet up here again on 31 December? Had he really meant it?

  That evening, in the bar on the Rue de Rivoli, he’d sent drinks to their table, the waiter setting the glasses in front of her and her two friends and then pointing out the blonde German officer at the bar who had ordered them. The other girls had giggled and nodded, and the man had taken this as invitation enough to weave his way through the crowds of Christmas Eve revellers and pull up a chair. He had introduced two of his fellow officers and then turned to pay particular attention to Claire, fixing her with his ice blue eyes and complimenting her on her dress. He was fluent in French, although every now and then, as an aside, he would joke with his friends in German which she couldn’t understand. He was the senior officer in the group and seemed to be popular and convivial, ordering more drinks and insisting on paying for them all. At the end of the evening as he’d helped her on with her coat, he’d asked her to meet him here, tonight, to celebrate the end of the old year.

  ‘Have you ever tasted champagne?’ he’d asked. ‘No? A French sophisticate like yourself? I’m amazed. Well, we shall have to see if we can remedy that.’

  She had felt flattered that, of the three seamstresses, he had singled her out, and the other girls had teased her about it as they hurried back to the apartment before the curfew fell. She’d whispered his parting words to herself before she fell asleep on Christmas Eve: a French sophisticate. He was handsome and rich but the most seductive thing of all was the way he saw her and reflected that image back to herself as someone new, as someone grown-up and sophisticated, as the woman she longed to be.

  Nervously adjusting the locket at her throat one more time, she smoothed the gown over her hips. Then she pushed her way through the throng of revellers clustered at the top of the staircase, laughing and exclaiming as they met up with friends, and began to make her way down into the ballroom. She scanned the crowd, and then her face lit up with a shy smile as she caught sight of him, waving at her from beside the bar. She continued down the stairs, the skirt of her dress gathered in one hand, oblivious to the admiring glances that a number of men shot her way.

  ‘You came!’ he exclaimed, pulling her to him. ‘And may I say how proud I am to be keeping company tonight with the most beautiful girl in the room?’

  ‘Thank you, Ernst.’ Claire blushed, unused to receiving compliments. ‘You look very nice yourself. It took me a moment to recognise you without your uniform on.’ She ran her fingertips down the sleeve of his dinner jacket.

  He gave a little bow from the waist, bending over to kiss her hand in a mock-formal manner, his blue eyes gleaming with amusement. ‘Yes, a rare night off duty. It’s good to get the glad-rags out for once.’

  He turned to the barman with a wink and a nod and the man summoned a passing waiter, saying, ‘Take good care of this gentleman. Champagne. And a table near the band.’

  ‘Oui, m’sieur. Please, follow me.’

  Ernst and Claire picked their way between the crowded tables that skirted the dance floor, and the waiter pulled out chairs for them at one which sat in a section that had been cordoned off with a red velvet rope. They sat, and few moments later the waiter returned, smoothing the linen cloth as he set down an ice bucket and glasses. With a flourish of a white damask napkin, he opened the bottle of Krug and poured, pausing expertly to allow the foam to settle before topping the glasses up and then settling the bottle into its silver bucket and draping the damask cloth around its neck.

  Light as a bubble in a golden glass, Claire floated through that evening on a wave of euphoria. At last! This was the life she’d always dreamed of, and for a few hours she could forget the chill of the draughty atelier, the headaches and the hunger, as she danced beneath a gilded ceiling, held in the arms of a handsome young man, breathing air which was heady with the smell of perfume and cigarette smoke. They drank more champagne and ordered oysters and Ernst talked and joked with the other Germans who joined them at the nearby tables behind the red velvet rope while she sat and smiled and watched the other women watching her with envy.

  ‘Come,’ said Ernst at last, consulting his watch. ‘One last dance and then I must escort you home before the curfew.’

  On the way out, he retrieved her coat for her from the hat-check woman and casually tossed a couple of francs into the plate, causing the woman to crack a smile of thanks and wish them both a Happy New Year.

  They walked back across the river, and she felt as if her feet hardly touched the ground in her borrowed shoes as they joined the flow of revellers hurrying homewards now, even though midnight and the new year were still a few hours off. He held her hand as they walked beneath the soaring buttresses of Notre-Dame and then drew her to one side, down the steps to the riverside quai just before they crossed the Pont au Double to the rive gauche. There, where the dark waters of the river lapped at the stones by their feet, he took her in his arms and kissed her.

  Her eyes shone as she smiled at him, seeming to reflect the starlight above them, and he stroked back her fair hair, tucking a strand of it behind her ear and kissing her again.

  In that moment, on a dark night beside the Seine, she imagined what it would be like to fall in love with him. And suddenly she realised that all the things she’d thought she wanted before – the beautiful clothes, the champagne, the envy of others – didn’t matter after all. All that mattered was to be loved and to be able to love in return. That wa
s what she desired, more than anything else.

  On the Rue Cardinale he took his leave, kissing her again and whispering, ‘Happy New Year, Claire. I think it will be a good one for us both, don’t you?’

  Holding tight to that promise of a future involving ‘us both’, she ran up the stairs to the apartment.

  Humming a dance tune under her breath, she fished her key out of her evening bag and unlocked the door. Closing it quietly behind her, she slipped off her shoes – suddenly aware of the blisters where they had bitten into her heels – and tiptoed to her room, not wanting to dispel the sense of joy by having to share the details of her evening with any of her flatmates just yet.

  As she lay in her narrow bed under the eaves that night, Claire dreamed she was dancing on in Ernst’s arms beneath a gilded ceiling, borne on a tide of desire – a feeling to which she had been completely unaccustomed up until now – as the clocks of Paris struck twelve and the old year died.

  Harriet

  I look up from the newsletter I’m translating as Simone comes back into reception, having delivered coffees to one of the office’s meeting rooms.

  ‘Your phone rang,’ I say, nodding to where it sits at the end of the desk.

  She picks it up and listens to a message. Her expression is inscrutable. ‘That was Thierry,’ she says flatly. ‘He wants to know if I can let him have your number. Says he’s working at a concert next Saturday night and he thought you might enjoy it.’

  I shrug and nod. ‘That’s fine. Sounds good.’

  As she taps a text message into her phone by way of reply she says, without looking up, ‘He likes you, you know.’

  ‘I liked him too,’ I say, leafing through the large Larousse dictionary that I use whenever I need to look up a particular word. ‘Seemed like a nice guy.’

  ‘Yeah, he is,’ she agrees.