The Gown

by Jennifer Robson

  “I think your Milly would do a great deal to help you. And her letters make Canada sound like a wonderful place. Cold, yes, but with many consolations.”

  There was just enough time, on their drive to the house in Edenbridge, for Walter to explain to Miriam, with Ann’s help, some of the rituals of a traditional English Christmas. Caroling and wassailing and paper hats, the king’s message on the wireless, the tree with its paper chains and treasured ornaments, and the spectacle of the pudding, already sodden with brandy, being set afire with even more spirits.

  She and Miriam were given a room to share, and she spent ages holding baby Victoria, and in the morning there were stockings laden with little gifts that Ruby had painstakingly amassed for everyone, even Ann. And there were moments when she forgot to be sad and was able to let herself be buoyed along by the others’ happiness. Only for an instant, but it was enough. It would have to be enough.

  ON DECEMBER 29 SHE booked her passage to Canada, all but emptying her modest savings account in the process. On December 30 she told Miss Duley.

  Ann waited until the end of the day, after everyone had left for home, and then she sat the other woman down and told her that she was emigrating to Canada. Not as baldly as that, of course, for she tried to couch it in terms that would make it rather less of a shock. She explained that she missed her sister-in-law very much. She said she wished to see more of the world. She claimed to believe that Canada was the sort of place where a hardworking young woman like herself might better herself.

  Miss Duley didn’t believe a word of it. “The truth, Ann. This has something to do with that young man, doesn’t it?”

  “Please, Miss Duley. Please.”

  “I don’t blame you one bit for leaving, my dear. Only I will miss you. I hope you know that.”

  “I do. I love it here. I always have, and I don’t want to go. I truly don’t. But everyone here knows I’m not married. All the other girls. Mr. Hartnell, too. I can’t bear the thought of everyone knowing, and thinking the worst of me. I just can’t.”

  “Could you go away? Have the baby and give it up? There are so many families who’d be grateful—”

  “I would, only I want this baby. I never saw myself getting married, you know, not really, but I did want to be a mum. Now I have the chance.”

  “I see, and I don’t disagree. But why go so far away? Why the other end of the world?”

  “He doesn’t know, and I don’t want him to find out. Not ever. He might try to take the baby from me. Don’t you see? I can’t take that chance.”

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about him. Mr. Hartnell did confide in me, not so very long ago, that he had put a word in the ear of someone at the palace, just a quiet word, and naturally the wretch was given the sack straightaway. It then came out that he’d run up a number of debts. Very large, I gather, and when they came to light he did a midnight flit.”

  “He . . . he did what?” Ann asked, not quite able to believe her own ears.

  “He vanished. Made for somewhere in the Far East? Or perhaps it was Australia.”

  “How did Mr. Hartnell know who he was? I never told him.”

  “Nor did I. I don’t suppose it matters, does it? The scoundrel is gone, and is in no position to be a threat to you ever again. Surely that must be a relief. Now—tell me when you are leaving. I know Mr. Hartnell will be very sad to hear of it.”

  “My ship leaves on January fifth,” she answered, though saying it out loud didn’t make it feel any more real. Not until the coast of England had faded from view would it truly feel real to her.

  “Then you’ll just miss him. He won’t be back from the south of France for another week after that. Oh, well. I’ll write you a splendid reference, of course, which will certainly carry some weight with the Canadians. Presumably they have one or two decent dressmakers there.”

  “Thank you, Miss Duley. I’ve never said so before, but I’m very grateful for all you taught me.”

  “And I’m every bit as grateful for your many years of hard work. I’m also rather concerned that if we continue on in this vein we’ll both end up in a puddle of tears. So why don’t you let me treat you to supper at Lyons? Only a small token of my esteem, but no less sincere for all that.”

  ANN WAS ABLE to put a few more pounds in her savings account by selling the wireless and some of the better pieces of furniture, and as she’d always been a tidy and frugal sort of person she hadn’t much in the way of smaller things to pack. Photographs of her parents and brother, her nan’s Royal Worcester cup and saucer, the rose-patterned china that had been her mum’s.

  The sketchbook would not be coming to Canada. She had only used up a third of the pages; these she ripped out and burned in a small but satisfying bonfire in her garden. The rest of it, still perfectly serviceable, she left on a shelf in the pantry for the next tenants of her house to find. There would be children, like as not, and they could use it for their schoolwork.

  It took much longer for her to decide on what to do with the samples of embroidery Mr. Hartnell had given her. After the shock of seeing Jeremy on the day of the royal ladies’ visit, she’d taken the box of samples back to the embroidery workroom and promptly forgotten about them. It was only after the wedding, when Miss Duley had insisted on a long-overdue tidying up of the room, that Ann had remembered the samples.

  “I can’t believe I forgot to take them back, Miss Duley. I’m so sorry.”

  “No need. And besides, Mr. Hartnell wants for you and Miriam to keep a few each of the ones you worked. A memento of the day, he told me.”

  In the end Ann had chosen three—the single York rose, the star flowers, and the ears of wheat—and when Miriam had hesitated, Ann had encouraged her to keep the smaller sample of white heather. “For good luck,” she had explained.

  Now she sat on the floor of her empty sitting room, the samples in her lap, and tried to decide what she wanted to do with them. Not what she ought to do, which was to quietly return them to Mr. Hartnell or pass them on to Miriam. Certainly she wouldn’t destroy them as she’d done her sketchbook. It had been tainted by Jeremy, but the samples held no such poisonous associations for her. She had been happy when she had made them. She had been so full of hope.

  One day, far in the future, she would give the samples to her son or daughter, or even a beloved grandchild, and by then she would know what to say. One day, if she were very lucky, there might be someone who would understand.

  Ann packed the embroideries among her other precious things, and that was the last difficult decision she had to make. All that remained, now, was the queen’s heather from Balmoral. She would dig it up tomorrow, and she would coddle it all the way across the ocean to Canada, and there, come spring, the white heather would be the first thing she planted in her garden.

  IT HAD BEEN hard to say good-bye to Miss Duley and her friends from work, hard to turn the key in the door of her little house and walk away, hard to visit her parents’ and Frank’s graves for the last time. But hardest of all was her farewell to Miriam.

  Ann tried to remain composed when Miriam and Walter took her to Euston Station. Miriam was fretful, asking her to check that she had her train ticket to Liverpool and her steamship ticket to Halifax, and of course her passport, and that her purse was tucked safely into the inside pocket of her coat, and eventually Ann hugged her tight and told her she must stop worrying.

  “You know I’ll land on my feet, just the same as you did when you first came here. You know I will, so you aren’t to fuss.”

  “Very well,” Miriam agreed. “Only—”

  “I will be fine. But I want you to promise one thing in return. You must keep working on your embroideries. No matter how long they take, and no matter what else happens in your life, you must never abandon them. Do you promise? It’s that important to me.”

  “I know it is. I swear I will never set them aside.”

  A whistle sounded, and Walter came forward, clearly reluctant to interrupt, but
mindful of the need for Ann to board her train.

  “Miriam, my dear. Ann must go or she’ll miss her train.” He bent down to kiss Ann’s cheek. “Good-bye, Ann, and good luck.”

  “Thank you, Walter.” She’d never dared to call him by his first name before. “You will take care of my friend?”

  “I will.”

  There was so much more she wished to say, but she was out of time, and what would it change? Miriam knew already. She had to know this was their farewell.

  “Adieu, Ann. Adieu, ma chère amie.”

  They embraced, one last, heartfelt hug, and she fixed the memory of it deep in her heart. She stepped away from her friend. She turned around, and she made herself walk, one deliberate step after another, all the way to the far end of the platform, to the open door of the third-class carriages, and to the new life that awaited her half a world away.

  She had cut the final thread. She did not look back.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Miriam

  March 3, 1948

  Miriam finished work at half-past five, another quiet day in a succession of quiet weeks at Hartnell. Rather than take the bus or Underground, she walked to Walter’s flat, glad of a chance to stretch her legs and make the most of a mild and clear evening. Winter was over, or inching near to being over, and only that morning she’d seen snowdrops in the gardens at Bloomsbury Square. Flowers were blooming once more, and spring had come again.

  She hadn’t thought to ask Walter what they would have for supper. They could go out to one of their usual haunts, but part of her fancied the idea of staying in, never mind that she would need to work some magic to transform his bachelor’s provisions into something edible. The other night his pantry had yielded nothing more promising than a can of baked beans and half a loaf of that ghastly brown bread everyone hated but had long since resigned themselves to eating. So she’d turned to him and raised a single, questioning eyebrow, and he’d put on his coat and taken her to eat at the Blue Lion around the corner.

  In recent weeks his flat had become her favorite place in the world. She loved its high ceilings and tall windows with no view to speak of, its walls blanketed with overflowing bookshelves and, where they left off, dozens of paintings and prints and photographs he had collected over the years, none very valuable but all significant to him in some way. Most of all, she loved Walter’s flat because it was so close to her own, new home.

  When Ann had decided to emigrate, there had been no question of Miriam staying on in the council house, not least because she didn’t relish being evicted when, inevitably, the council realized only one woman—and a foreigner at that—was living in a house meant for a family of five or more. She had told Ann that she would be fine and she’d never been truly worried, but she had been anxious. None of the other women at work needed a flatmate, and the prospect of moving to a boardinghouse again was distinctly unappealing. Even after almost a year her memories of those dispiriting weeks in Ealing had not faded.

  Walter had been just as concerned, and for a while she’d lived in fear of his suggesting she come to live with him in true bohemian style, or even that he might propose they get married and solve the problem in that fashion.

  Instead he had come out to the house in Barking and, over a cup of tea in the kitchen, surrounded by packing crates, he had made a confession.

  “I got to talking with Ruby the other day. She’s worried about their flat, for she and Bennett are thinking of living in Edenbridge full-time until the baby gets a bit older. She’s been losing sleep worrying about what will become of the place when they’re away, she told me. Mice in the pantry and silverfish in the linen cupboard, and burglars noticing the lights are off and ransacking the place. That sort of thing.

  “I asked if she and Bennett had considered getting a lodger to stay in the spare room and keep an eye on the flat while they were away. She admitted it had occurred to her but she’d been too tired to do anything about it.

  “So I then asked if she might consider having you to stay, and I reminded her that Ann was emigrating to Canada, which means you need somewhere to live.”

  “Oh, Walter—”

  “Hear me out. She was delighted. I wish you could have heard her reaction. And Bennett is in full accord.”

  “Are you sure they aren’t trying to please you?”

  “Quite sure. You would be helping them, and although I doubt they intend to ask you for anything by way of rent, you might be able to induce them to accept a token amount. But only if you truly feel it’s necessary.”

  “But why should they do such a thing for me?”

  Her question appeared to baffle him. “Why shouldn’t they? That’s what friends do for one another. I do know that if you refuse their offer and move into some grubby boardinghouse it won’t be a week before Ruby lands at your front door with baby Victoria in her arms, and she’ll be begging you to move into their flat. You could also lodge with Bennett’s godmother in south Kensington, as Ruby once did, but it’s all the way on the other side of London. And I’m not certain I wish for you to be so far away.”

  “Far away?”

  “From my flat. It’s the next street over from Ruby and Bennett’s. Just so you know.”

  He wasn’t giving her any room to think, let alone form a coherent objection to his plans. “Where shall I go when they return? I cannot live there once they are back in London.”

  “That’s a worry we’ll save for another day. Until then, you’ll have a roof over your head and friends nearby.”

  That had been a little more than two months ago, and in the weeks that followed Miriam’s evenings had fallen into a pleasant sort of pattern. On the nights Walter wasn’t working, she would go to his flat for supper, and when he was busy or she was tired, or when she wished to work on her embroideries or have some time to herself, she remained at Ruby and Bennett’s flat for the evening. She had yet to spend the night with him, and he had yet to ask her.

  She knocked softly at his door, for it wasn’t her home, after all, and it would be rude to simply barge in. It was unlocked, as usual, and as soon as she entered she was struck by the wonderful smells coming from his kitchen. Without even bothering to wipe her feet she hurried down the hall to investigate.

  The kitchen door was open. He had his back to her, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and was preoccupied with the contents of the frying pan before him. Garlic and shallots, she guessed from the smell, and he was cooking them in the fat from a heap of browned chicken pieces that now sat on a plate by the cooker.

  He peered at a note he’d tacked to the cupboard door next to the cooker, then uncorked a bottle of vermouth, added a splash to the pan, and jumped back when the drippings hissed at him. She stood at the kitchen door and watched him cook and let her heart grow full at the sight.

  “Walter,” she said.

  He turned his head a little, just so she could see he was smiling. “Hello, there.”

  “Will you turn off the cooker? Just for a moment.”

  He did so, and then he turned around to face her properly. She took the spoon from his hand, set it on the counter, and hugged him close.

  “How?” she asked wonderingly.

  “I’ve watched you make it often enough.” His arms came around her, returning her embrace. “I even remembered your wishing for vermouth that one time, and how it would make the entire dish taste better.”

  “That is why you had all those questions for me. I thought you were simply being a journalist.”

  “I was. But I was also learning.”

  “Why tonight? Why not wait for Friday? I usually make it on Friday.”

  “I know, but today is March third.”

  “And?” she asked, puzzled.

  “You told me once that you came to England on March third. That’s a year ago today. I thought we ought to mark the occasion in some way.” And then, his voice a little uncertain, “What do you think?”

  “It looks and smells wonderful. Where d
id you get the olives and—”

  “Prunes and fennel seeds? From Marcel Normand in Shoreditch. He even sold me an orange. It was a little dried out, so he decided to bend the rules.”

  Looking around him, she spied a small bottle next to the cooker. “Is that olive oil?”

  “It is. According to Monsieur Normand, the stuff from the chemist’s is fit only for the greasing of motorcar engines.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  “Not in here. I’ve come this far—I want to see if I can turn out something worth eating. But would you mind setting the table? Just push all the papers and books down to the far end. There’s no rhyme or reason to them. Oh—and there’s one more thing.”

  She tilted her head back, curious about what he meant, and he bent down and kissed her until she was deliciously dizzy.

  After supper they did the washing up together, and then they sat on his big, comfortable sofa, drank the black coffee he had made in his little espresso pot, and they told each other of their respective days. It was getting late, and she would ask him to walk her home before too long, but it had become their habit to listen to Walter’s favorite pieces of music on his gramophone after supper. He had strong opinions about music, and some of the pieces he played were not at all to her taste, but one concerto had been echoing through her mind for days.

  “The music with the cello—you played it several times last week. What was the name of the composer? You told me but I have forgotten.”

  “Edward Elgar.”

  He found the record, set the needle arm onto the spinning disc, and a swell of music filled the room. The melody was plaintive and swooning, the chords insistent, haunting, mournful. Miriam held her breath, waiting for her favorite part, a rising thread of sound so anguished and expressive that tears always sprang to her eyes.

  Normally she was able to blink them back, but now they overflowed, cascading down her cheeks, and though she knew she ought to wipe them away, she did nothing. This time she wept and let him see. She could hide nothing from him.