by Isabel Wolff
‘Here we are …’ I heard Mrs Bell say. I went to help her with the tray.
‘No – thank you,’ she said, almost fiercely, as I tried to take it from her. ‘I may be somewhat antique, but I can still manage quite well. Now, how do you take your tea?’ I told her. ‘Black with no sugar?’ She picked up the silver tea strainer. ‘That’s easy then …’
She handed me my tea then lowered herself on to a little brocade chair by the fire while I sat on the sofa opposite her.
‘Have you lived here long, Mrs Bell?’
‘Long enough.’ She sighed. ‘Eighteen years.’
‘So are you hoping to move to ground-floor accommodation?’ It had crossed my mind that she might be moving to one of the sheltered housing flats just down the road.
‘I’m not sure where I’m going,’ she replied after a moment. ‘I will have a clearer idea next week. But whatever happens, I am … how can I put it …?’
‘Downsizing?’ I suggested after a moment.
‘Downsizing?’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Yes.’ There was an odd little silence, which I filled by telling Mrs Bell about my piano lessons, though I decided not to mention the ruler.
‘And were you a good pianist?’
I shook my head. ‘I only got up to Grade 3. I didn’t practise enough, and then after Mr Long died I didn’t want to continue with it. My mother wanted me to, but I guess I wasn’t that interested …’ From outside came the silvery laughter of the two girls. ‘Unlike my best friend Emma,’ I heard myself say. ‘She was brilliant at the piano.’ I picked up my teaspoon. ‘She got Grade 8 when she was only fourteen – with Distinction. It was announced in school at assembly.’
‘Really?’
I began stirring my tea. ‘The headmistress asked Emma to come up on stage and play something, so she played this lovely piece from Schumann’s Scenes from Childhood. It was called “Träumerei” – Dreaming …’
‘What a gifted girl,’ said Mrs Bell with a faintly puzzled expression. ‘And are you still friends with this… paragon?’ she added wryly.
‘No.’ I noticed a solitary tea leaf at the bottom of the cup. ‘She’s dead. She died earlier this year, on the fifteenth of February, at about ten to four in the morning. At least, that’s when they think it happened, although they couldn’t be sure; but I suppose they have to put something down, don’t they …’
‘How terrible,’ Mrs Bell murmured after a moment. ‘What age was she?’
‘Thirty-three.’ I continued to stir my tea, gazing into its topaz depths. ‘She would have been thirty-four today.’ The spoon gently chinked against the cup. I looked at Mrs Bell. ‘Emma was very talented in other ways, too. She was a wonderful tennis player – although …’ I felt myself smile. ‘She had this peculiar serve. She looked as though she was tossing pancakes. It worked, mind you – they were un-returnable.’
‘Really …’
‘She was a terrific swimmer – and a brilliant artist.’
‘What an accomplished young woman.’
‘Oh yes. But she wasn’t in the least bit conceited – quite the opposite, actually. She was full of self-doubt.’
I suddenly realised that my tea, being black and sugarless, didn’t need stirring. I laid my spoon in the saucer.
‘And she was your best friend?’
I nodded. ‘She was. But I wasn’t really a “best” friend to her or even a good friend, come to that.’ The cup had blurred. ‘In fact, when the chips were down, I was a terrible friend.’ I was aware of the steady sound of the gas fire, like an unending exhalation. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. I put down my cup. ‘I came here to look at your clothes. I think I’ll get on with that now, if you don’t mind. But thank you for the tea – it was just the ticket.’
Mrs Bell hesitated for a moment, then she stood up and I followed her across the corridor into the bedroom. Like the rest of the flat it seemed not to have been touched for years. It was decorated in yellow and white, with a glossy yellow eiderdown on the small double bed, and yellow Provençal curtains and matching panels set into the doors of the white built-in cupboards that lined the far wall. There was a cream alabaster lamp on the bedside table and next to it a black-and-white photo of a handsome, dark-haired man in his mid forties. On the dressing table was a studio portrait of Mrs Bell as a young woman. She had been striking rather than beautiful, with her high forehead, Roman nose and wide mouth.
Ranged against the nearest wall were four cardboard boxes, all spilling over with gloves, bags and scarves. While Mrs Bell sat on the bed, I knelt on the floor and quickly went through them.
‘These are all lovely,’ I said. ‘Especially these silk squares here – I adore this Liberty one with the fuchsia pattern. This is smart …’ I pulled out a boxy little Gucci handbag with bamboo handles. ‘And I like these two hats. What a pretty hatbox,’ I added, looking at the hexagonal box the hats were stored in, with its pattern of spring flowers on a black background. ‘What I’ll do today,’ I went on as Mrs Bell walked, with visible effort, towards the wardrobe, ‘is to offer you a price for those clothes I’d like to buy. If you’re happy with it, I’ll write you a cheque now, but I won’t take anything until it’s cleared. Does that sound all right?’
‘It sounds fine,’ Mrs Bell replied. ‘So …’ She opened the wardrobe and I caught the scent of Ma Griffe. ‘Please go ahead. The clothes for consideration are in the left-hand section here, but please don’t touch anything beyond this yellow evening dress.’
I nodded then began to pull out the clothes on their pretty satin hangers, laying them in ‘yes’ and ‘no’ piles on the bed. For the most part, the things were in very good condition. There were nipped-in suits from the fifties, geometric coats and shifts from the sixties – including a Thea Porter orange velvet tunic and a wonderful candy pink raw silk Guy Laroche ‘cocoon’ coat with elbow-length sleeves. There were romantic smocked dresses from the seventies and a number of shoulder-padded suits from the 1980s. There were some labels – Norman Hartnell, Jean Muir, Pierre Cardin, Missoni and Hardy Amies ‘Boutique’.
‘You have some lovely evening wear,’ I remarked as I looked at a Chanel sapphire blue silk faille evening coat from the mid sixties. ‘This is wonderful.’
‘I wore that to the premiere of You Only Live Twice,’ said Mrs Bell. ‘Alastair’s agency had done some of the advertising for the film.’
‘Did you meet Sean Connery?’
Mrs Bell’s face lit up. ‘Not only did I meet him – I danced with him at the after-film party.’
‘Wow … And this is gorgeous.’ I pulled out an Ossie Clark chiffon maxi dress with a pattern of cream-and-pink florets.
‘I adore that dress,’ Mrs Bell said dreamily. ‘I have many happy memories of it.’
I felt in the left-hand seam. ‘And here’s the tiny trademark pocket that Ossie Clark put in each one. Just big enough for a five-pound note –’
‘– and a key,’ Mrs Bell concluded. ‘A charming idea.’
There was also quite a bit of Jaeger, which I told her I wouldn’t be taking.
‘I’ve hardly worn it.’
‘It’s not that – it’s because it’s not old enough to qualify as vintage. I don’t have anything in the shop that’s later than the early eighties.’
Mrs Bell fingered the sleeve of an aquamarine wool suit. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do with it, then.’
‘They’re lovely things – surely you could still wear them?’
She gave a little shrug. ‘I rather doubt it.’
I looked at the labels – size 14 – and realised that Mrs Bell was at least two sizes smaller than when she’d bought these clothes, but then people often shrink in old age.
‘If you’d like any of them altered, I could take them to my seamstress for you,’ I suggested. ‘She’s very good, and her charges are fair. In fact, I have to go there tomorrow, so –’
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Bell interjected, shaking her head, ‘but I have enough to wear. I no longer n
eed very much. They can go to the charity shop.’
Now I pulled out a chocolate brown crepe de Chine evening dress with shoe-string straps, edged in copper sequins. ‘This is by Ted Lapidus, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. My husband bought it for me in Paris.’
I looked at her. ‘Is that where you’re from?’
She shook her head. ‘I grew up in Avignon.’ So that explained the lavender field painting and the Provençal curtains. ‘It said in that newspaper interview that you go to Avignon sometimes.’
‘I do. I buy things from the weekend markets in the area.’
‘I think that’s why I decided to phone you,’ said Mrs Bell. ‘I was somehow drawn to that connection. What sort of things do you buy?’
‘Old French linen, cotton dresses and nighties, broderie anglaise vests – they’re popular with young women here. I love going to Avignon – in fact, I’ll need to go again soon.’ I pulled out a black-and-gold silk moiré evening gown by Janice Wainwright. ‘And how long have you lived in London?’
‘Almost sixty-one years.’
I looked at Mrs Bell. ‘You must have been so young when you came here.’
She nodded wistfully.’ I was nineteen. And now I am seventy-nine. How did that happen …?’ She looked at me as though she genuinely thought I might know, then shook her head and sighed.
‘And what brought you to the UK?’ I asked as I began looking through a box of Mrs Bell’s shoes. She had neat little feet, and the shoes, mostly by Rayne and Gina Fratini, were in excellent condition.
‘What brought me to the UK?’ Mrs Bell smiled wistfully. ‘A man – or more precisely an Englishman.’
‘And how did you meet him?’
‘In Avignon – not quite “sur le pont”, but close by. I had just left school and was working as a waitress in a smart café on the Place Crillon. And this attractive man a few years older than me called me over to his table and said, in atrocious French, that he was desperate for a proper cup of English tea and could I please make him one? So I did – to his satisfaction, evidently, because three months later we were engaged.’ She nodded at the photo on the bedside table. ‘That’s Alastair. He was a lovely man.’
‘He was very good looking.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘He was un bel homme.’
‘But didn’t you mind leaving your home?’
There was a little pause. ‘Not really,’ Mrs Bell replied.
‘Nothing felt the same after the war. Avignon had suffered occupation and bombing – I had lost …’ She fiddled with her gold watch. ‘Friends. I was in need of a new start – and then I met Alistair …’ She ran her hand over the skirt of a damson-coloured gabardine two-piece. ‘I adore this suit,’ she murmured. ‘It reminds me so much of my early life with him.’
‘How long were you married?’
‘Forty-two years. But that is why I moved to this flat. We’d had a very nice house on the other side of the Heath, but I couldn’t bear to stay there after he …’ Mrs Bell paused for a moment to collect herself.
‘And what did he do?’
‘Alastair started his own advertising agency – one of the first. It was an exciting time; he did a lot of business entertaining, so I had to look … presentable.’
‘You must have looked fantastic.’ She smiled. ‘And did you – do you – have a family?’
‘Children?’ Mrs Bell fiddled with her wedding ring, which was loose on her finger. ‘We were rather unfortunate.’
As the subject was clearly painful, I steered the conversation back to her clothes, indicating the ones I wished to buy. ‘But you must only sell them if you’re truly happy to do so,’ I added. ‘I don’t want you to have any regrets.’
‘Regrets?’ Mrs Bell echoed. She placed her hands on her knees. ‘I have many. But I will not regret parting with these garments. I would like them to go on and – how did you put it in that newspaper article – have a new life …’
Now I began to go through my suggested prices for each piece.
‘Excuse me,’ Mrs Bell suddenly said, and from her hesitant demeanour I thought she was about to query one of my valuations. ‘Please forgive me for asking,’ she said, ‘but …’ I looked at her enquiringly. ‘Your friend … Emma. I hope you don’t mind …’
‘No,’ I murmured, aware that, for some reason, I didn’t mind.
‘What happened to her?’ Mrs Bell asked. ‘Why did she …?’ Her voice trailed away.
I lowered the dress I was holding, my heart thudding, as it always does when I recall the events of that night. ‘She’d become ill,’ I replied carefully. ‘No one realised quite how ill she was, and by the time any of us did realise, it was too late.’ I looked out of the window. ‘So I spend a large part of each day wishing that I could turn back the clock.’ Mrs Bell was shaking her head with an expression of intense sympathy, as though she was somehow involved in my sadness. ‘As I can’t do that,’ I went on, ‘I have to find a way of living with what happened. But it’s hard.’ I stood up. ‘I’ve seen all the clothes now, Mrs Bell – there’s just that one last dress there.’
From down the corridor I could hear the telephone ringing. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said.
As I heard her retreating footsteps I went to the wardrobe and took out the final garment – the yellow evening dress. The sleeveless bodice was of a lemon-coloured raw silk and the skirt was of knife-pleated chiffon. But as I pulled it out I found my eye drawn to the garment hanging alongside it – a blue woollen coat. As I peered at it through its protective cover, I saw that it wasn’t an adult’s coat but a child’s. It would have fitted a girl of about twelve.
‘Thank you for letting me know,’ I heard Mrs Bell say as she concluded her phone call. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until next week … I saw Mr Tate this morning … Yes – that remains my decision … I do understand, perfectly … Thank you for calling …’
As Mrs Bell’s voice carried down the hall, I wondered why she would have a girl’s coat hanging in her wardrobe. It had clearly been cherished. A tragic explanation flashed into my mind. Mrs Bell had had a child – a girl, and this coat had been hers; something awful had happened to her and Mrs Bell couldn’t bear to part with it. She hadn’t said that she hadn’t had any children – only that she and her husband had been ‘rather unfortunate’ – very likely an understatement. I felt a wave of sympathy for Mrs Bell. But then, as I furtively unzipped the clear plastic cover to look at the coat more closely, I realised that it was much too old to fit my scenario. As I pulled it out, I could see that it was from the 1940s and was of woollen worsted with a re-used silk lining. It had been hand made with considerable skill.
I heard Mrs Bell’s returning steps and quickly zipped up the cover, but too late: she saw me holding the coat and flinched.
‘I am not disposing of that particular garment. Kindly put it back.’ Taken aback by her tone, I did. ‘I did ask you not to look at anything beyond the yellow evening dress,’ she added as she stood in the doorway.
‘I’m sorry.’ My face went hot with shame. ‘Was the coat yours?’ I added quietly.
Mrs Bell hesitated for a moment, then came back into the room. I heard her sigh. ‘My mother made it for me. It was in February 1943. I was thirteen. She had queued for five hours to buy the fabric and it took her two weeks to make. She was rather proud of it,’ Mrs Bell added as she sat on the bed again.
‘I’m not surprised – it’s beautifully made. But you’ve kept it for … sixty-five years?’ What had motivated her to do so? I wondered – pure sentimentality, because it had been made by her mother?
‘I have kept it for sixty-five years,’ Mrs Bell reiterated quietly. ‘And I will keep it until I die.’
I glanced at it again. ‘It’s in amazing condition – it looks almost unworn.’
‘That’s because it is almost unworn. I told my mother that I had lost it. But I hadn’t – I had only hidden it.’
I looked at her. ‘You hid
your winter coat? During the war? But … why?’
Mrs Bell looked out of the window. ‘Because there was someone who needed it far more than I did. I kept it for that person, and I have been keeping it for her ever since.’ She heaved another profound sigh; it seemed to come from her very depths. ‘It’s a story I have never told anyone – not even my husband.’ She glanced at me. ‘But lately I have felt the need to tell it … just to one person. If just one person in this world could hear my story, and tell me that they understand – then I would feel … But now …’ Mrs Bell lifted her hand to her temple, pressed it, then closed her eyes. ‘I am tired.’
‘Of course.’ I stood up. ‘I’ll go.’ I heard the carriage clock chime five thirty. ‘I didn’t mean to stay for so long – I’ve enjoyed talking to you. I’ll just put everything back in the wardrobe.’
I hung up on the left side the clothes that I intended to buy, then I wrote Mrs Bell a cheque for £800. As I gave it to her, she shrugged as though it were of no interest.
‘Thank you for letting me see your things, Mrs Bell.’ I picked up my bag. ‘They’re lovely. I’ll phone you next Monday, to arrange a time for me to collect everything.’ She nodded. ‘And can I do anything for you before I go?’
‘No. Thank you, my dear. But I would be grateful if you could let yourself out.’
‘Of course. So …’ I held out my hand. ‘I’ll see you next week then, Mrs Bell.’
‘Next week,’ she echoed. She looked at me then suddenly clasped my hand in both hers. ‘I already look forward to it – very much.’
