The Gown

by Jennifer Robson

  They stood at the top of yet another flight of steps. Beyond was a large, brightly lit workroom, the late morning sun from its bank of windows generously supplemented by hanging electric lights. Two rows of embroidery frames on trestles ran the length of the room, though most of the occupants were standing around a single frame in the far corner. One woman, very young, was crying softly into a balled-up handkerchief while another rubbed her back, consoling her with soft words. Most of the embroiderers seemed to be in their early twenties, more or less the same age as Miriam; a few were younger, and a very few were conspicuously older.

  Although those still seated got to their feet as soon as Monsieur Hartnell entered the workroom, and everyone waited patiently for him to explain his arrival, Miriam could discern no change in the temperature of the room. No current of anxiety rising to the surface.

  “As you were, as you were. I just came to have a quick word with Miss Duley.”

  A woman in her early fifties broke away from the group in the corner and approached, a look of bemusement on her face. Her hair was pulled back tightly, unforgivingly, and the black of her severely tailored frock was relieved only by a simple white collar.

  “So sorry to drag you down here, sir,” she said, speaking with the ease of long acquaintance. “We’ve had a tempest in a teapot. Pair of scissors left on a frame. Nicked one of the designs, but it’s easy enough to repair. The young lady responsible has assured me she won’t be so careless again.”

  “Good, good. Mistakes happen, of course. Not to worry.”

  “Who is this we have here?” Miss Duley asked.

  “Oh, yes. This is Miss Miriam Dassin, lately of Paris. She showed me some of her work just now, and it is very good. Very good indeed.”

  Miss Duley looked to Miriam, her gaze assessing but not in the least hostile, then back to Monsieur Hartnell. “We do have a few girls leaving to get married this summer, and I’ve been worrying as to how we’d replace them. How soon might you be able to start, Miss Dassin?”

  Was that it? Could it truly be that easy? “Perhaps Monday?” she ventured. “I have missed my work, you see, and—”

  “Monday it is. Come for half eight and we’ll get you set up with the girls in accounts. Just go to the staff entrance on Bruton Place and tell them you’re starting. Someone there will point you in the right direction.”

  “Monday morning at half-past eight, yes. Thank you.” She turned to Monsieur Hartnell, who now bore an expression of extreme satisfaction. “I thank you as well. Most sincerely. I hope you can forgive me for—”

  Shaking his head, he waved her apology away. “I was, and am, delighted to make your acquaintance. Welcome to Hartnell. Miss Duley, I’ll leave you to make the arrangements.”

  “Of course, sir.” They waited in silence for the few seconds it took for him to retreat through the fire door, and then Miss Duley turned her attention to her staff, none of whom had returned to their frames. “We’re only a few minutes shy of half twelve. Why don’t you go on and have your dinner now? Ann—if I could ask you to stay for a minute?”

  The same woman who had been consoling the younger girl earlier now came over. Her pretty red-gold hair was pinned back severely, and like Miss Duley she wore a well-tailored frock. Its dark brown color did nothing for her, however, deadening her complexion and making her fading freckles rather too noticeable.

  “Miss Dassin, this is Miss Hughes. Ann Hughes. One of my senior hands. I think we’ll have you work with her to begin.”

  Ann’s smile was wide and unaffected. “Welcome to Hartnell, Miss Dassin.”

  “Thank you. I wonder, Miss Duley, if perhaps you would like to see my samples?”

  “I don’t see why not. Although you must be good if Mr. Hartnell is keen.” Taking the bound samples from Miriam, she set them on the edge of the nearest embroidery frame. “Ann. Come and look,” she said only a few seconds later, her voice almost reverent. “Look at these designs.”

  “These are beautiful. Really, they are. Where did you do your training?” Ann asked.

  “At Maison Lesage.”

  Miss Duley nodded, her attention still fixed on the samples. “And, ah, during the war . . . ?”

  “I was at Maison Rébé. The atelier stayed open. It was a difficult time,” she said, hoping against hope that Miss Duley would not question her further. It was hard enough to merely think of those years, let alone speak of them. Hiding in plain sight, lying to everyone she knew, holding her breath whenever she had to cross a checkpoint or queue up for bread.

  She was holding her breath now.

  “I’m sure it was terribly difficult,” Miss Duley agreed. “We like to go on about how bad things were during the war, but we never had to live with Nazis lording it over us. Such a relief that it’s all over now.”

  Miriam nodded. Swallowed. Tried to think of how to respond in a fashion that wouldn’t provoke further questions.

  “Now, wages. Most girls come in as assistants, but your skills are well above that level. I think . . . well, why don’t we start you as a junior hand? Pay is thirty-five shillings per week.”

  “Thank you. That is most generous.”

  “We start at half eight each day, Monday to Friday, and finish at five. From time to time we might ask you to work longer hours, say if we’ve a last-minute commission and are hard put to finish on time. We’ve a canteen in the cellar, and we break for tea midmorning, for dinner at half twelve, and again for tea in the afternoon. No smoking in the workrooms, no lipstick or rouge, fingernails kept short. You can wear a coverall if you have one, but street clothes are fine. I’d tell you to keep a smart appearance, but”—and here she waved a hand at Miriam—“just look at you. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were here to be fitted for a gown.”

  “You are very kind.”

  “It was smart, you know. Going to see Mr. Hartnell straight off. Mrs. Price told me when she called down.”

  “I assure you, I meant no offense by it.” She waited for the woman to remonstrate with her, or tell her she would be sacked for further acts of insubordination. Instead Miss Duley smiled, a true smile that went all the way to her bright blue eyes.

  “None taken. Now I’d best get my dinner in before the girls come back. Ann, can you show Miss Dassin the way out?”

  “Of course.”

  Back they went through the warren of corridors, finally emerging onto the mews at the back of the premises. “Here we are,” Ann said. “Where are you heading?”

  “I am returning to Ealing. On the Central line.”

  “Not so far, then. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  They shook hands, and then Miriam was walking away, through the warm midday sun, her eyes stinging in the light, her every limb shaking from relief and an unexpected and unfamiliar surge of joy. The clouds had cleared, the sky was the most beautiful shade of bleu azur, and spring was in the air.

  At long last, and against all hope, spring had come again.

  Chapter Six

  Heather

  May 14, 2016

  To the consternation of their friends and neighbors, Heather’s parents had shunned tradition when planning a memorial service for Nan. There’d been no visitation, no wake, and no funeral.

  “She said she couldn’t stand the idea of me and Jim spending a penny more than we had to on seeing her off,” her mom explained when people asked. “When I asked her what she wanted, she told me to toss her on the compost heap.”

  Since the authorities frowned on such unorthodox burial practices, they’d chosen the simplest and cheapest option: a straightforward cremation, with the ashes returned in a plain wooden box. “She’d have preferred a cardboard one, but when I asked the undertaker if that was possible he looked like he was going to pass out.”

  So a pine box it was, and they’d set it on the fireplace mantel for the time being. “As soon as the peonies are in bloom, we’ll scatter her ashes in the garden.”

  Instead of a funeral, Heather’s parents h
ad hosted a gathering at their house. There’d been a bakery’s worth of scones and squares and cookies on the dining room table, and pots of tea and coffee besides. Heather’s mom had thanked everyone for coming, and her dad had recited that poem about the dead person simply being in the next room, and though people had smiled and wiped away tears and nodded their approval, Heather had been strangely unmoved. She suspected her grandmother would have reacted the same way.

  The best part of the gathering had been the stories people told about Nan, who’d always been the first to come by with food and flowers from her garden when a baby was born or a loved one died. She’d been an ESL tutor, a Meals on Wheels driver, a hospital visitor, a volunteer at the food bank, and back in the late 1970s she’d quietly taken in an entire family of Vietnamese refugees.

  The Nguyens had moved on before Heather was even born, but she knew Nan had kept in touch with them over the years. Their youngest son, a doctor, had driven all the way from Montreal to pay his respects.

  “Whenever we tried to thank her,” he told Heather and her parents, “she said she knew what it was like to move to a new country and start over.”

  Dr. Nguyen’s words had come back to her later, when she was washing the dishes, for the idea of Nan having to start over had given her pause. Of course they all knew that Nan was English, from somewhere near London, and had moved to Canada after the war. Even if she’d never told them, her accent would have given her away.

  Growing up, living just around the corner from Nan, she’d never seen a photograph of her grandfather, nor any other pictures of her grandmother’s life in England. She’d asked a few times, when she was little, but Nan had always changed the subject.

  Her mother hadn’t been able to answer any of her questions either. “They’re all like that, you know. The ones who lived through the war.”

  “Because things were so awful?” Heather had been in high school, and they’d been talking about the world wars in history class.

  “I suppose. And because they came here to make a fresh start. Away from the memories of everything they’d lost. So you can’t blame them for not wanting to talk about it.”

  As she dried the last of the good china, Heather stole a glance at her mother. She seemed to be holding up well in spite of everything, but her mom had always been good at putting on a brave face.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? I can finish this off on my own. You should sit down for a bit.”

  “I’m fine, honey. I’d known it was coming for a while. And you know, part of me is grateful—not that she’s gone, of course. Only that she stayed herself right to the end. She’d seen so many of her friends fade away, and I know she dreaded it.”

  “Like Mrs. Jackson from across the street.”

  “Yes, exactly. After that funeral, you know, Mum turned to me and made me promise to put a pillow over her face if she ever went dotty like poor Martha Jackson. Of course I’d never have done such a thing, but I knew what she meant. That’s why we didn’t have the doctors jump in when she got so sick. You seemed upset about it, when I talked to you the morning she died, but—”

  “I understand, Mom. Honestly I do. You absolutely did the right thing.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Oh—I keep forgetting to tell you. I found something when I was going through Nan’s things. All the overflow from her house that we’d been keeping in the basement.”

  “What kind of something?” Heather asked, her interest piqued. “Please tell me it isn’t another box of stuff from Nan’s shop. Sunita’s the only one of my friends who knits, and she’s neck-deep in yarn already.”

  “No, nothing like that. Just some pieces of beaded fabric, but she’d written your name on the box, so she must have wanted you to have them. Hold on—they’re in the spare room.”

  Heather sank into the nearest chair, her feet aching, and closed her eyes. She’d get up and wipe down the counters in a minute.

  “Here we go,” her mom said, depositing a large plastic box on the kitchen table. On its lid, in black Sharpie marker, were the words For Heather in Nan’s handwriting. “I’ll let you do the honors.”

  Heather pulled the box toward her and pried off the lid. Inside was a single, tissue-wrapped bundle. Suddenly tentative, she looked at her mother for reassurance, then folded back the top layer of fabric to reveal a rose.

  Not a real rose, of course, but rather an embroidered rose, its petals made of stiff white satin, each attached separately to a backing of fine, nearly translucent fabric. Each petal was edged with tiny pearls and even tinier glass beads, all of them sparkling merrily under the harsh fluorescent lights of her mother’s kitchen.

  She wiped her trembling hands on the fabric of her yoga pants, suddenly remembering that Nan had always insisted on clean hands when handling precious things. The edge of the fabric had been rolled under, a bit like an expensive scarf, and the stitches were so fine she had to squint to see them. In the bottom corner was a monogram worked in thread that was only a shade darker than the fabric.

  “EP,” she whispered. “At least I think it says ‘EP.’”

  Holding her breath, she lifted it up, really so she could look at the embroidery better, and saw there was something underneath. It was another layer of thin cotton fabric, the same as the wrapping. This she drew aside to reveal a second piece of embroidery: three star-shaped satin flowers, also decorated with pearls and crystals. Beneath that was a third design, this time of three curving ears of wheat, their grains made of rice-shaped seed pearls. And beneath that was a photograph.

  “Hold on,” her mom said. “I didn’t notice that before.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure. There’s some writing here on the back. I think it might be Mum’s handwriting. ‘London. Oct. 1947. Waiting for HM.’”

  It was of a group of women, most of them seated around one of four long, narrow tables in a large, bright, high-ceilinged room. Heather counted twenty-two women in total, most of them wearing white coats or aprons over vintage-style dresses. Not vintage when the photo was taken, she realized.

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  “I think they’re seamstresses. Embroiderers, actually. Look at those tables. They’re actually frames. Just like the ones we use at my quilting circle,” her mother explained. “The fabric is stretched on the frames before they start adding the beads and sequins and what-have-you.”

  Heather examined the photograph minutely, searching for something familiar, something known, among the faces in the group. Her attention was caught by one woman, her fair hair clipped to the side, her expression solemn and unsmiling. She seemed wary, Heather thought, as if she was afraid of what the photographer might see.

  “That woman by the window—” she began.

  “I know. I think that’s Mum. Younger than I remember her, but I think it’s her. I just . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just that it doesn’t fit. I mean, Mum was good with her hands, and you know how she loved to knit, but she was never one for sewing or embroidery or anything like that. I don’t think I ever saw her sew on so much as a button.”

  “Didn’t everyone learn to sew in those days?”

  “Yes, but even then it was pretty basic stuff. Mending and darning and how to knit a scarf. This kind of work,” and here she nodded at the embroideries, “is another story. Embroidery like this takes years to learn.”

  “So you don’t think Nan made these?”

  “I honestly don’t know. She definitely never said anything to me about it. On the other hand, there she is in the picture.”

  Heather couldn’t tear her eyes away from the young Nan in the photograph. “So why did she stop? Why did she come here?”

  “I always assumed it was sadness that sent her across the ocean. Grief over losing my dad, and before him her brother. And I think I remember her saying that both her parents had died before the war. That would have left her more or less alone in the world, apart from Mill
y, her sister-in-law. And she’s the one who had already moved to Canada.”

  It made a strange sort of sense. Nan had decided to make a fresh start, away from the death and destruction of the war, and that’s why she’d emigrated. That’s why she hadn’t ever talked about England—it had been too painful. And yet . . .

  “If she wanted to leave everything behind, then why did she bring these embroideries with her?” Heather asked. “Why didn’t she ever show them to us? And why did she put my name on the box?”

  “I’ve no idea. Perhaps she meant to give them to you, one day, and then never got around to it.”

  “What do you think I should do with them?”

  “I was hoping you could find out more. When you’re not so busy at work. One rainy afternoon in front of your computer and you’ll have it all figured out.”

  “I guess I could try.”

  And yet. For all that Nan had never shared the details of her life before she came to Canada, she hadn’t seemed like the sort of person whose past was brimming over with secrets. She’d been Nan, honest and kind and generous, a good neighbor and friend. The sort of person you tended to take for granted until she was gone.

  If Nan had kept secrets, it had been for a reason. What point was there in unearthing them now? What if, in searching for answers, she discovered something unsettling, even disturbing?

  “I can see the wheels turning in your head,” her mother said. “Let’s put these away, now, and get to bed.”

  “Okay. It’s just . . . what do you think she would want me to do?”

  “Oh, honey. I wish I could say for sure. Maybe she did want you to know, and putting your name on the box was her way of telling. Of asking, in a way.”

  “Maybe.”

  Nan had never been one for answering questions; that was a given. But perhaps, just perhaps, she wouldn’t mind if Heather went looking for answers.