The Wardrobe Mistress_A heart-wrenching wartime love story

by Natalie Meg Evans

  ‘“Had”, I think.’

  ‘One is Mrs Rolf. She and her husband are big names in the theatre world. You can blame them for Edwin. Remember Edwin, at the funeral?’

  She did, the rude young man wearing a cloak very like her father’s. Cut-price burials that way.

  Edwin was the Rolfs’ son, Alistair told her, and an actor. He had assumed ‘Bovary’ as his stage name.

  ‘The other sister, Barbara – or Miss Bovary as she chooses to be known – is the administrator here. Highly efficient, yet blisteringly angry. Should I be telling you this?’

  ‘Of course you shouldn’t. Is Mrs Rolf the nicer one? There’s usually a good sister and a bad one. A Good Fairy and a Bad.’

  ‘Yes, Sylvia’s the softer of the two. They fought bitterly after their brother died, over who should run this place.’

  Vanessa remembered snotty Edwin’s challenge to Commander Redenhall: I’m Wilton Bovary’s heir. What are you, exactly? ‘I’d like to have been a fly on the wall at the will reading.’

  ‘Me too. I inherited everything but my godfather’s money, and decided I should like to run The Farren myself.’

  ‘And instantly, they all became allies against you.’

  ‘There you have it. The Wars of the Roses in a few lines.’

  ‘I bet you have the best office and the biggest chair,’ she said. ‘And the dog. Who gets the money?’

  A smile cut across his lips, though it had been an impudent question. ‘Nobody. It’s in trust. I’ve installed Miss Bovary in the room next to this. She knows everything about this theatre, every cobweb and heartbeat.’

  ‘And the name of everyone who ever worked within it?’

  He gave her an inquiring look. ‘Probably. But she has two incurable failings: Miss Bovary dislikes dogs and Wardrobe Mistresses.’

  ‘That’s why you advertised for a man?’

  ‘That was an error. But I won’t deny, a man with military service behind him will be better able to stand up to her.’

  ‘What do you think, Macduff?’ The dog’s eyes met hers with gentle entreaty. She bent to stroke his nose and he strained forward to lick the flesh around her sandal straps. She tucked her feet back as far as she could. ‘Why put Macduff’s name on the advertisement?’

  She fancied Alistair’s expression had softened but it was a fleeting impression. He gave his explanation tersely.

  ‘“Redenhall” isn’t a common name and many of my former colleagues don’t yet know I’ve left the Navy. I didn’t want anybody seeing my name in The Stage, and setting off a chain of telephone calls. Not before I’ve written to them all individually – a job I keep putting off.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like being tricked into writing to a dog.’

  Macduff eased forward. Something about her legs attracted him.

  ‘The alternative would have been to put Miss Bovary’s name, but “LACW”, being a WAAF-only rank, would have set the sirens off. Miss Bovary knows her aircraftmen from her aircraftwomen.’

  It crossed Vanessa’s mind that Miss Bovary knew too darn much. ‘She hates women?’

  ‘Just Wardrobe Mistresses. She believes they wield too much power behind the scenes and don’t die when they ought. So – would you like to tell me why you feel you’re qualified for the job?’

  Vanessa laid down her strongest card, two years’ study at Fressenden Art School. She’d ended both years with high marks. Nobody could argue with her reasons for cutting her studies short.

  ‘Any experience in period costume making? The Farren is famous for its eighteenth and nineteenth century productions.’

  ‘None, I’m afraid. But life isn’t all about getting from A to B in a straight line, is it? I never imagined I’d end up enrolling in the WAAF, or getting involved in a war.’

  Fair point, said his sparing smile, but not quite good enough. ‘We’re looking for someone who knows their way around costume, and around a theatre.’

  What could she say? ‘I know nothing, but I’m willing to learn’? If I were him, she acknowledged, I’d want somebody who already knows the ropes. He was waiting for her answer. In defeat, she said, ‘Years ago, my dad brought me here to see a pantomime and afterwards, he took me backstage. I met the then-wardrobe lady; she smelled of roses. Her name was Eva. She told me I’d come back one day. I suppose I’ve always believed it.’

  ‘Eva St Clair? That’s going back to . . .’

  ‘1925. Christmas.’

  ‘Sleeping Beauty?’

  ‘Yes!’ Her excitement started Macduff barking. The dog planted himself by her right leg and began licking her foot. This time, when she moved, he moved too.

  Alistair folded his arms. ‘I was staying with my Uncle Bo that Christmas, and I saw the run of Sleeping Beauty from dress rehearsal to its final performance. We were probably here on the same night.’

  ‘If you imbibed this place as a child it explains why you came back.’

  ‘I’m not sure. I didn’t approve of Sleeping Beauty. At the time, I was far too sophisticated for fairy tales. You, I suppose, were enchanted.’

  ‘I was terrified! The Dame! She – he – looked straight at me and told me off for not shouting loudly enough.’

  ‘He did that every night. Always looked towards the mid-right-hand stalls.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was where his boyfriend always sat.’

  Her hand shot up to her mouth. ‘I didn’t realise – ’

  ‘One would hardly expect you to. You couldn’t have been more than six or seven.’

  ‘I was five.’

  ‘Then your lack of worldly knowledge is forgiven, but you need to broaden your outlook if you’re to survive in this world. May I be blunt? An assistant wardrobe post would be more up your street. That requires somebody well-organised to curate the costumes. Cleaning them, ironing, hanging them – ’

  She butted in. ‘Look at me – do you see a laundress? A woman good only for folding clothes? Good thing the WAAF saw more in me than that.’

  He continued as if she’d not spoken. ‘The person we’re looking for needs pattern cutting and tailoring skills. You haven’t.’

  ‘Neither have you. And frankly’ – she carried on because her only chance of surviving five minutes more in his company lay in making an unarguable point – ‘you must have been out of your depth as the war progressed. They threw new devices at you all the time, I should think. Radar, better sonar, bigger guns. You must have learned to use them as you went along. You got on with it.’

  ‘True, but I had engineers, specially-trained officers and gunners.’ Don’t push me, said his unbending mouth.

  ‘I would need engineers too, in the form of cutters and seamstresses.’ Macduff started on her left ankle, his muzzle like whiskery velvet. She had to admire the dog. He embodied triumph over adversity. ‘As for bustles, bodices and guss—’ for some unearthly reason, she’d been about to say ‘gussets’ – ‘galligaskins and suchlike, I’d find an old theatre-hand to show me how.’

  ‘How many assistants is that so far?’

  ‘As many as I’d need, no more.’

  ‘Mrs Kingcourt, have you never heard of “tactical retreat”? Consider a lesser post and you might learn all these amazing arts yourself.’

  Put simply, an assistant’s wages wouldn’t allow her to live in London. She rose, pulling her jacket off the chair, struggling to get her arm into the sleeve. Looking down, she saw that Macduff had licked all the liquid stocking from her feet and ankles. Her legs were luminous white below the shin. She burst out, ‘Fern didn’t say her leg-mix was irresistible to dogs!’

  ‘Her given name is Frances. Did you know that? Her father called her Fern after she played an elf dressed only in fern fronds in one of Bo’s Stanshurst productions. The name stuck. And if you’re talking about the liquid stockings my wife mixes up, she puts cocoa powder in with it.’

  Alistair held her jacket for her. Vanessa couldn’t stop herself saying, ‘We didn’t talk about yo
u, if you’re wondering. No private stuff.’

  ‘Well, that’s good to know.’ It was said with deadly lightness. ‘How much do you understand about my marital situation, Mrs Kingcourt?’

  ‘Only that you’re living apart.’

  ‘Only.’ Cynicism spun off the word. ‘If a couple live apart, where’s the point in remaining married?’

  ‘None, I suppose, if there are no children.’

  ‘We haven’t been blessed. And yet I would give my eyes and half my soul to have her back. I’ll let you know tonight what I’ve decided.’

  ‘Look, I already know – ’

  ‘You know a great deal less than you imagine. I’ll call you. The Ledbury Terrace number?’

  She nodded, and told him she’d see herself out.

  Joanne Sayer had kept in touch since their demob, so Vanessa knew that her friend was in rehearsal at The Rondo, a theatre in nearby Shaftsbury Avenue, for a production called High Jinx. Joanne knew nothing about her interview today, or even that she’d left Stanshurst, and Vanessa was looking forward to seeing her friend’s expression.

  The Rondo’s doorkeeper directed her into the auditorium. ‘Creep into the back row,’ he told her, ‘they’ll be breaking for lunch soon.’

  She watched a strenuous dance routine conducted by a man whose trousers were held up by scarlet braces over a tight vest. Some of the girls kept breaking time, and he was losing patience. Joanne was one of the more confident ones, Vanessa noticed.

  After twenty minutes or so, the man in red braces clapped his hands and informed the troupe that they were an utter shower and to be back in forty minutes. Vanessa hurried forward and hissed, ‘Joanne, it’s me!’ Her friend spun round.

  ‘Nessie? Glory be, I’d have walked past you on the street. Which magician did your hair?’

  ‘Mr Stephen of Hans Crescent.’

  Joanne’s eyes boggled. ‘Found yourself a sugar daddy? He costs a fortune.’

  ‘My friend Fern paid. But you should try him out.’

  ‘He’s already my stylist, but I have to practically sell myself to pay his prices. Have you time for lunch? I could use a break away from this mob. ENSA rejects calling themselves dancers . . . let’s go.’ Changing her tap shoes for flat pumps and throwing a coat over her cropped jersey and shorts, Joanne hurried Vanessa along Shaftsbury Avenue to the junction with Coventry Street, to the famous Corner House. They ordered grapefruit followed by fish and salad, which cost one shilling and sixpence. Vanessa related her morning’s experiences, beginning with Tom Cottrill.

  Joanne laughed. ‘Pin on some medals, that’ll show him.’

  Vanessa then tried to sum up her meeting: ‘The interview could hardly have gone worse. For a start, I pretended to be a man just to get my foot in the door, only he knew all along . . . it’s rather complicated. Also I got lost and blundered on stage in wooden-soled sandals.’ She swung her foot out for Joanne to see.

  Joanne made a pained face. ‘A hanging offence. Get some rubber soles.’

  Glossing over her reaction to Alistair in his rating’s uniform, Vanessa described the safety curtain smashing down. ‘Like a giant guillotine.’

  Joanne gaped, a forkful of salad paralysed by her mouth. ‘It could have decapitated you both! Those things weigh tons.’

  ‘I can still feel the noise in my spine.’ Vanessa then sketched her interview replies, noting every grimace on her friend’s face, and finished with the story of Macduff and the liquid stocking.

  By this time, Joanne was in creases. ‘Most of us make do with Bisto gravy powder in our leg makeup. Mind you, a Labrador would be just as happy with that.’

  ‘Fern promised me it was artists’ pigment.’

  Joanne turned serious. ‘Probably for the best you don’t get the job. I’ve heard things about your Commander Redenhall.’

  ‘He isn’t mine. What have you heard?’

  ‘NSIT.’

  Vanessa shook her head.

  ‘Not Safe In Taxis. A womaniser. Threw off his wife and abandoned the Navy in much the same fashion. There are worse rumours, too.’ Joanne lowered her voice, making Vanessa crane closer. ‘He was on convoy protection, and a ship in his group was hit by a torpedo. It went down within sight of him, but he turned away his own vessel and left the other crew to drown.’

  The words unleashed cold spiders but also angered Vanessa. The entire war had felt like an exercise in mass murder. ‘Eleven convoy ships a day were being lost in the middle years of the war. Every captain made horrible choices.’

  Joanne shrugged. ‘Rumours start somewhere.’

  ‘With malicious people. Alistair Redenhall was awarded the DSO, the Distinguished Service Order. They don’t hand those out for being an idiot.’ Though they might hand them out to men who were not safe in taxis. And to men who intimidated their wives. Fern had looked terrified in the churchyard at Stanshurst – but the blood had been on his face.

  ‘Vanessa, everyone in the business says The Farren will fall flat on its backside. Redenhall’s out of his depth and will get his fingers burned.’

  ‘That’s a criminal mixing of metaphors.’

  ‘You’re defending him, which means you like him.’

  ‘In a way. I’m not sure.’

  ‘People say The Farren’s a creepy place.’

  ‘It’s empty and dark. Even aircraft hangers are creepy when the lights are out.’ Vanessa was glad when Joanne glanced at the wall clock and gasped, ‘I have to run. If we’re a second late, we get sacked.’ The meeting had left her deflated, making her wonder if the shared hardships of camp life had been the glue in their friendship. Still, outside the restaurant Joanne assured Vanessa, ‘My sofa’s yours, if your posh friend gets tired of you.’

  Vanessa was tempted to take a taxi to Ledbury Terrace, but mindful of economy, rode buses instead. Leaving Lord Stanshurst’s employment had been a leap, minus parachute. In two weeks’ time, she’d be unemployed. She hoped Fern hadn’t gone to the trouble of finding champagne. There was nothing to celebrate and there was the matter of the flattened hat. If she could find the words, she intended to ask Fern, ‘Do you have any idea just how much your husband adores you?’

  In the event, Vanessa was spared both pains. A note wedged under the front door knocker informed her, ‘Had to leave, so sorry, darling. My brother’s secretary rang from Paris. Chris broke his ankle falling down some museum steps yesterday. He’s in agony. The key is at number fourteen. Help yourself to anything you like. Went the day well? Leave your news on the hall table for when I come back.’

  The house telephone rang as Vanessa boiled the kettle for tea. Running up from the basement kitchen, expecting Fern, she snatched up the receiver and said, ‘If I sneak a half-bottle of wine from the cellar and leave the money on the table, will your husband mind?’

  ‘Not so long as you appreciate what you’re drinking,’ said a firm, male voice. ‘And by the way, I’ve come to a decision.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘You have the job.’

  Her thoughts split like atoms, creating a hundred simultaneous responses. The Farren wanted her. Alistair Redenhall wanted her. What she said was, ‘Oh, damn it.’

  ‘You don’t want the position?’

  ‘Oh, I do! The “oh damn” is because I have to serve my notice at Stanshurst when all I want to be doing is spring-cleaning the wardrobe room. Can I come in and see it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother, it’s smothered in dust sheets for painting. Can you be back at The Farren on the sixteenth? Be here at ten sharp and you’ll meet your new colleagues. What about lodgings?’

  ‘I’ll sort something.’

  ‘Good. Could you fetch Fern, please?’

  The vocal alteration had been minimal but Vanessa had spent years interpreting scratchy radio transmissions. She knew the subtle cadences of elation, frustration, fear. In Alistair she detected a guarded hurt.

  ‘Sorry, she’s not here.’

  ‘D’you know when she’ll be back?’r />
  ‘Um, no. She left a note saying she was on her way to Paris. Her brother had an accident yesterday. It sounds serious.’

  ‘And she’s gone to his bedside . . . how did she hear about Chris?’

  ‘His secretary called.’

  ‘What time?’

  This was coming close to interrogation. ‘It must have been while I was with you. The neighbour said a taxi came at about midday.’

  ‘I wonder why Chris’ secretary didn’t send a telegram. Placing a call from Paris to London can take days and if the other party won’t pick up, you’ve wasted all that time.’

  His obvious scepticism nudged her to a foolish lie. ‘The call came from the British Embassy, actually. They get put through pretty fast.’

  ‘Ah, of course. What has Chris done to himself?’

  ‘He broke his ankle tumbling down museum steps.’

  ‘Wasn’t yesterday Monday?’

  Vanessa sensed she was being backed into a corner, but couldn’t locate which one. ‘Um . . .’

  ‘I always understood Parisian museums closed Mondays,’ Alistair said. ‘Well, thank you for passing on the details, Mrs Kingcourt.’ He hung up.

  Vanessa stood holding the receiver for a long time. She reckoned he’d detected her lie from the moment she’d said ‘British Embassy’. Far from helping Fern, she might have widened the rift – and lost Alistair’s respect.

  From the console drawer she took the wedding picture. Shattered glass formed a lethal rosette around the good-looking couple. ‘Damn,’ she said again.

  Alistair took Macduff for a walk. He’d clung for months to the belief that there was hope for him and Fern. One bloody telephone call too many, and he finally knew that his marriage was over. He’d have liked to walk ten miles, getting up a sweat, but Macduff had limitations. They made it only as far as Trafalgar Square, where the dog had a fine time scattering the pigeons.

  ‘Let’s take you home.’ Alistair could see a familiar stiffness developing in Macduff’s shoulders. He led the dog slowly past the National and Portrait Galleries. The grand steps were peppered with visitors entering and leaving. Lights glowed within. The art collections had been shipped out before the bombing began, and were being brought back in dribs and drabs. London’s cultural life was rising, an exhausted phoenix from deep ashes.