The Wardrobe Mistress

by Natalie Meg Evans

  ‘But the neckline is so low you’d be in danger of giving Mr Blandford an eyeful he hasn’t seen in a month of Sundays. It was a good idea, but sadly, it’s not to be. Miss Abbott?’ The actress was regarding Vanessa keenly. ‘I won’t sell you my perfume. I want you to take it as a gift.’

  The gleam in Miss Abbott’s eye filmed over with suspicion. ‘And in return?’

  ‘Prove you can achieve a sixteen-inch waist.’

  Clemency laughed, saying, ‘Play Lady Windermere? Deal!’

  Rosa pretended to fan herself in relief. ‘I’ve volunteered to play the piano,’ she said, ‘to bring up the scene. I’ll go down now and give you a nice, long lead-in.’

  At eleven fifty-one Vanessa and Tanith stood in the wings as Clemency took her position behind a circular table draped with lace. A delightful set had been put together. On the table was a blue rose bowl and a basket of roses – artificial ones, as real flowers on stage were considered by some to be ill-fated. The fan Vanessa had hired was propped against the rose bowl. The placing wasn’t in the script, but it was a nod to the play’s title.

  Peter Switt faded the lights to darkness.

  ‘Good luck,’ Vanessa whispered as Clemency picked up a rose and presented a demure and thoughtful face.

  Tanith poked Vanessa. ‘Never say “good luck” in the theatre! You say “break a leg”. Now you have to turn round three times and shout something rude. You have to!’

  With a disdainful huff, Vanessa did so, finishing with ‘Kiss my ass,’ learned from Canadian pilots. Rosa played ‘Comes the Broken Flower’ from the operetta ‘Trial by Jury’. The curtains opened to a ripple of applause and the lights flooded Lady Windermere’s London drawing room with the impression of sunshine. Alistair, Miss Bovary and Mr and Mrs Rolf sat in the sixth row back, alongside an elderly couple. The lady – who must be Mrs Blandford – was peering through a lorgnette. Her husband ogled Clemency Abbott through a monocle. They looked so much like characters from comic opera that Vanessa had to smother giggles. Clemency arranged her roses, the model of a domestic angel circa 1895. Beside Vanessa in the wings, James Harnett straightened his neck tie and rolled his jaw to loosen the muscles. Ronnie Gainsborough, in the wings opposite, regarded Clemency Abbott as if lightning had struck him.

  Chapter 23

  Afterwards, Vanessa locked herself into her room and washed with carbolic soap to banish the cat fleas. That done, she sent out for buns and made tea for Rosa, Tanith and herself. Clemency and the male actors had been invited into the green room for a champagne reception with the Blandfords.

  ‘Up the Workers,’ Rosa said, lifting her tin mug. They pulled chairs from the table and sat in line like factory workers on a break. ‘Victory wrestled from the jaws of defeat. Or should I say, “the drawers of defeat”. Is it your job to wash underwear before you send it back to Stage-Stock?’

  ‘I rather think so. Thank you, Rosa, thank you, Tanith. Day saved.’

  ‘Commander Redenhall was smiling,’ Rosa said thoughtfully. ‘And even Miss Bovary acknowledged you’d done a good job, though I had the impression she wished you’re flunked it. I like Alistair. I feel, if I closed my eyes and fell backwards off stage, he’d catch me.’

  A knock at the door brought Peter Switt with roses. Real ones. Red for Rosa, ice-white for Vanessa and pink for Tanith.

  Rosa cooed, ‘Six stems each – Doyle must have bribed somebody at the market, or else some West End hotel has been robbed of its table decorations.’

  After her friends left, Vanessa put her roses in water, burying her nose in petals that smelled of tea and bergamot. How did Alistair know her love of white roses? She’d spent two months at the RAF command centre at Bawtry, south Yorkshire. A gracious country house, its surviving gardens had held a ravishing display of white, Yorkist roses and she’d loved to walk among them.

  That June and July of 1943 had been a time of healing for her. Two and a half years on from Leo’s death, long enough for hope to poke up its shoots. And life was hopeful. The story of the Worth gown would ricochet off every wall of the theatre. Actresses would knock at her door, demanding to know what wonders were in store for them. Five-and-a-half weeks to go before the opening night. She had to appoint a costume maker. Today.

  She took Eva St Clair’s personnel card from her bag and words leapt out, in Miss Bovary’s voice. ‘Accomplished. Scandalous. Child small and frail. Eva dead.’

  Lighting a candle, she held the card in the flame’s heart until Miss Bovary’s judgments returned to the universe as wispy smoke. The ashes went down the plug hole. ‘I wish I could have seen you again, Eva. You might have told me who I am.’

  You already know. A voice, inside her head. She quelled it. Having failed abysmally with Mrs Farrah-Digby, who now would she call on to make her costumes? Turning, she saw that her roses had responded to the winter sunshine streaming through the window, opening another fraction of an inch. White roses. Yorkist roses.

  Mrs Yorke had costumed past Farren productions. If she’d agree to do so again – well, even Miss Bovary would approve, having recommended her. Vanessa couldn’t wait to talk to Alistair.

  She found him on stage, Macduff at his feet. The actors had all gone and the theatre was showing its abandoned soul, though from the fly tower, a vocal duet told her that Tom Cottrill was overseeing the riggers returning the lights to their Friday positions. Alistair was staring into the theatre’s unlit depths.

  ‘Those roses are lovely,’ she said, emerging from the OP wings. Macduff levered himself to his feet and put his head under her hand.

  ‘You earned them.’ Alistair kept his gaze straight ahead. ‘Rosa tells me the first dress was given a flying lesson.’

  ‘I was done. Turned over. Cheated. I’ve decided to call in – ’

  His glance cut her off. ‘Cheated. I know the feeling.’

  Was that disappointment in his voice? ‘Did the Blandfords . . . I mean, are they going to . . .’

  ‘Invest? They liked what they saw. Who wouldn’t? They intend to honour half their promise, pay fifty per cent of what they agreed. I can get no more. Once they’ve made up their conjoined minds, it seems they cannot change them.’ He smiled, mocking himself. ‘Don’t you hate those rigid types? The immovable fence posts, stuck fast in the clay?’

  Vanessa placed her fingertips against his chest.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Seeing if you’re capable of moving. Often, people think they’re stuck when really, they just need a good shove.’ He covered her hand so she felt the rise and fall of his ribs, the beating of his heart.

  He said, ‘I might fall, and take you with me.’ Their eyes met and the warmth in his was like winter sun sweeping a glacier. Vanessa knew then what power she had, what she might unlock.

  She freed her hand. ‘Don’t flirt, Alistair. People will mutter that I’m more than just the Wardrobe Mistress.’

  ‘That will happen anyway. Fern won’t waste what she saw.’

  ‘There was no film in the camera, she said.’

  ‘Of course. Vanessa.’ He threw her name into the auditorium. ‘What else can you summon up? See, over there?’

  She discerned a figure. Greyish-black, seated in the middle row of the auditorium. ‘Who is it?’

  Alistair called out, ‘Excuse me, Madam, are you waiting for somebody?’

  Macduff’s hackles rose. Tom Cottrill was just coming down from his ladder and stumbled on to the stage, his face bloodless.

  ‘It’s her, there, look!’ His voice caught like a double violin note. Peter Switt followed and stood beside Cottrill, open-mouthed.

  ‘If it’s Back Row Flo, somebody really should give her a geography lesson.’ Alistair sad drily.

  The figure rose and side-stepped to the end of the row. As it reached the point where the stage lights cut into the darkness, Vanessa saw that it was female, wearing a grey, belted coat and a felt hat. A hat to keep out ill weather and for bending over graves. Vanessa went to the
foot of the stage. ‘I didn’t expect to see you. Nobody told me you were coming.’

  ‘So this is where you work.’ Ruth Quinnell’s eyes outlined the stage, and briefly wandered up to the seascape ceiling. ‘This is what lured Clive away.’

  Vanessa stared down at her mother in dismay. Ruth was not a woman on whom clothes hung smartly. The best that could ever be said of her was that she was tidy. But today, her coat was buttoned up wrongly. She’d screwed her hair up under her hat, and her face, hollow with anger and misery, had more of the grave than good health about it. She stared unblinking at Vanessa. A no-sleep blankness in her eyes spoke of grief or terrible shock. By contrast, her mouth did double duty, twitching, jerking.

  The best thing would be to take her up to the wardrobe room. Vanessa made for the pass-door beside the prompt box but Ruth moved surprisingly fast and a moment later joined them on stage.

  ‘Is that him? Is that Commander Redenhall?’ Ruth pointed at Tom Cottrill, who laughed. A disturbing sound.

  ‘No, Mum. This is the Commander.’

  Ruth turned her gaze. ‘Yes, of course. You are the rude one who came to my door looking for my daughter.’

  Alistair said, ‘How do you do, Mrs Quinnell?’

  ‘I do badly. Badly.’ Ruth undid her coat and something spilled out, making a pattern of shiny, monochrome squares over the stage boards. Photographs. Small. Six in number.

  Peter Switt picked up one. He snickered, looked at Alistair and dropped it. Alistair glanced at another before handing it to Vanessa.

  The camera had captured a slice of unveiled intimacy. She in bed, he leaning across, his handsome, honed face in profile. ‘Fern promised – ’

  ‘She didn’t promise,’ Alistair said gravely. ‘She only implied there was no film. One might call it “lying”.’ He gathered up the prints and held them out to Ruth. ‘Are they intended as keepsakes?’

  Ruth looked flummoxed by Alistair’s calm. ‘I don’t want them, dirty objects.’ Clasping her hands behind her back, she faced Vanessa. ‘Miss Fern brought them to me. What will her father say? What will Lord Stanshurst think of you, like that, with his daughter’s husband? He’ll say I’ve brought you up wrong. It’ll be all over the village. I’ll be a laughing stock. It’s been hard, Vanessa, winning back respect.’

  ‘I know. Let me explain, Mum – ’

  ‘Don’t call me that. You’ve broken up Miss Fern’s marriage. You, who fed from that family’s hand all your life. You can’t keep a man, so you took another woman’s.’

  Alistair was watching Ruth Quinnell; his look was cold, a little contemptuous and even pitying. He said, ‘Your daughter cannot be blamed for a situation that is private to myself and Fern.’

  Ruth hissed in contempt. ‘She’ll be named as the “other party” when Miss Fern brings divorce proceedings.’

  ‘That won’t happen, Mrs Quinnell.’

  ‘It’ll be in the newspapers, every disgusting detail. How will I walk up to the church, with my head high?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mum.’ It flashed through her mind that after today, she might never call this woman ‘Mum’ again.

  ‘Sorry? It’s over, Vanessa.’ Ruth left the stage, striding towards the foyer.

  Vanessa shouted after her, ‘You may hate me, but you can’t stop being my mother.’ It was a test and she waited, breath held, to see how Ruth would react.

  Ruth marched back towards the stage. ‘Stop? I never started. I’m not your mother, Vanessa. You aren’t mine. Your father paid the bills and your mother was a whore.’

  Part Three

  I am not your mother

  Chapter 24

  In the days that followed, Vanessa avoided company, and Alistair in particular. Then, on Monday, October 28th, she woke up from a dream in which she was flying naked above The Farren’s stage, suspended from a wire. The audience was throwing stale Chelsea buns at her. That same morning, she made contact with Mrs Yorke of Mayfair. Costumes must and would be made.

  Far from being the snooty dragon Vanessa was expecting, Daphne Yorke was gracious. More than that, she was kind. She’d always had an affection for the Farren, she said. Was anything ever heard of Eva? Ah, how very sad, such a loss. How was dear Barbara? Still thin from the shock of her brother’s passing? And what of naughty Hugo? In Paris . . . ah, well, genius cannot be chained. Costuming Lady Windermere would not be cheap, warned Mrs Yorke. Gowns for an entire female cast, under current restrictions . . . then again, designs by Hugo Brennan did not slip under the door every day.

  Work-hands could be hired. Women released from war duties were queuing to get back to their old trades. But where to accommodate them? Her own workroom was bursting like an overcooked sausage.

  ‘What about Great Portland Street, Hugo’s atelier?’ Vanessa suggested.

  Mrs Yorke clapped her hands in delight. ‘Yes, why not. Though do call it a “workroom”, or the girls will get French delusions. They’ll expect commission and to be allowed to parade on St Catherine’s day.’

  Mrs Yorke could not personally oversee the project, sadly. Her private commissions were overwhelming now that the diplomatic set was back in town. Christmas parties galore this year in Mayfair and Kensington. But . . . her niece had recently joined her business. Miss Penny Yorke had served a New York couture apprenticeship before the war and knew how to block a pattern. She perfectly understood how to set a sleeve. Facings, darting, seam allowances, kick-pleats and closures were no mystery to Penny.

  Miss Yorke called at The Farren two days later, bringing notebook and pencils. A chic young woman with a slight transatlantic accent, she listened while Vanessa presented Hugo’s drawings. Vanessa watched for signs of dismay, but Miss Yorke remained unruffled.

  ‘Exquisite,’ she said, then reminded Vanessa that period costume began with corsetry. ‘Your Mr Brennan has put the emphasis on the waistline. Spot on for the era, though I guess he’d have done it differently if he had to wear the corsets himself! If the hire companies can’t provide the correct underpinnings, we’ll have to— what have I said?’

  ‘I feel that a concrete rucksack has been cut from my shoulders, Miss Yorke.’

  ‘Penny, please. And if I may –?’

  ‘Yes, call me Vanessa.’

  ‘I’ll introduce you to our Mr Stanley. He’s been in corsets all his life, so to speak. Getting the materials will be the fiendish part. Seen any whale baleen lately?’

  Busy days followed, decisions made, costings worked out. ‘Operation Windermere’ was born on messy tables, lines drawn on cardboard and rolls of toile muslin. A couple of the stage crew paid Mrs Farrah-Digby a visit and – using the power of polite conversation – reclaimed most of Vanessa’s lost materials. As Penny took on new staff, Vanessa formalised a year’s rental of Hugo’s premises with Mr Doll. Her mind then returned to other obsessions. She’d come to London in search of a father, and now she must search for a mother as well. Eva St Clair, whore? That vile word had one positive effect: after a lifetime of tip-toeing around Ruth’s unpredictable temper, Vanessa now felt no compunction in asking for clarification on one vital point. On the evening of November 2nd, she sat down to a supper of onion soup and wrote a short letter.

  Dear Ruth,

  If you intend to end contact between us, then this will be my last letter to you, though I hope you can forgive the pain I have caused you. I have a request: allow me to know who my real mother is and please explain the circumstances of my birth.

  Yours,

  Vanessa

  The Monday following as she left home to meet Penny Yorke’s corset maker, Mr Stanley of Berwick Street, the postman hailed her.

  It was early and cold, and too dark to read the handwriting on the dog-eared envelope the postman gave her. Its stale smell gave away its origins, however. She recognised the musty stink of Peach Cottage’s under-stairs cupboard where Ruth kept her stationery supplies. Deciding that Mr Stanley and his corsets could wait half an hour, Vanessa ducked into a café whose
blinds were being pulled up. While her coffee was brewing, she slid out the contents of the letter. There was only one item. Her birth certificate.

  Her pulse skidded as she read the ‘who, when and where’ of her entry into the world.

  Who: Girl, Vanessa Elizabeth

  Where: The Farren Theatre, Farren Court, London

  When: 29th of May, 1920

  Father: Clive John Quinnell. Profession, Actor

  Mother: Eva Elizabeth St Clair. Profession, Theatre employee

  So now she knew. She couldn’t put a name to feelings that were a tangle of hooks in her throat.

  The cheery waitress poured black coffee into Vanessa’s cup. ‘That’ll hit the spot.’

  Vanessa declined the breakfast, which was scrambled powdered egg and reconstituted mushrooms. Sipping the bitter liquid, a question towered over her. Why had Eva let her go? Why had Johnny returned to Ruth taking her along with him?

  Eva was loving, a natural mother, while Ruth . . . Vanessa pressed the gold key against her breast bone. There must be somebody in this world who knew why Eva had given her child away.

  She called for the bill. Mr Stanley wouldn’t expire if she missed her appointment with him. She was going to church.

  At the Church of the Blessed Robert Drewrie, she learned that Father Mannion was visiting a sick parishioner. A nun working in the church office invited Vanessa to wait in the sanctuary. ‘Would you be here to request a wedding?’

  ‘No.’ Vanessa had her birth certificate ready, but didn’t immediately show it. ‘I’m hoping – I mean, I’m seeking – more information about Miss Eva St Clair.’

  ‘Ah. Sister to our own Father Joseph, God rest him. God rest her soul too.’

  ‘So it’s true she’s dead?’

  The nun inclined her head. Her lined face was framed by a linen coif and veil, the white not quite white, the grey worn shiny. Her brows were faded but the eyes fixed on Vanessa with guarded concentration. ‘Miss St Clair passed away on the last day of August, this year, in an alms house run by my own order. It was a release.’