The Wardrobe Mistress_A heart-wrenching wartime love story

by Natalie Meg Evans

  Hugo was still harping on about her move to the Calford Press Building. ‘It’s been derelict since they stopped printing magazines there.’

  ‘It’s my nest. Now let’s talk about the dwindling number of days before the director wants your ideas.’

  ‘Toads and rats have nests. Respectable Wardrobe Mistresses live in mansion blocks on Dolphin Square. The world will call you eccentric and raffish.’

  ‘You live on Old Compton Street, which is decidedly raffish.’

  ‘But I’m not a single, young woman. Damn it, is that rain again?’ A squall pattered against the window. ‘Why must you slum it? Ask the Captain for a pay rise.’

  ‘Commander, not Captain.’ That wasn’t Vanessa. They hadn’t heard the door click open and shut.

  ‘Is this an official visit?’ she asked Alistair as he shook raindrops off his hat.

  ‘Official, yet friendly. Like a bank manager who happens to be your uncle.’ Alistair peeled off his mac and put it over the back of a chair. He looked around, his eye alighting on sheets of newsprint pinned to the wall on which Vanessa had written a list of the play’s characters. She’d used a different sheet for each act to help Hugo navigate the task ahead. She’d been reading her copy of Lady Windermere each night before going to sleep.

  Alistair studied her work. ‘I take it you’ve seen the cast-list?’

  ‘Not yet. Is it true that four characters have been cut, and two roles are doubling up?’

  ‘If I have my way,’ Alistair answered. ‘Wilde must have had lots of friends to whom he promised walk-on parts. The play’s almost fully cast, and I’ll have the list copied out for you.’ He reviewed her plan again. ‘It helps, seeing all four acts mapped out like this. Would you make me one? In fact, do one for the director, too.’

  ‘Right-o,’ she said. Right-o. Alistair scrambled her brain and Vanessa was never quite sure what would spring from her mouth. This afternoon, it seemed, she was sounding like a netball captain. Alistair looked the model of a wealthy theatre manager in another stylishly-cut suit. So handsome, it felt like a punch in the ribs.

  Alistair asked, ‘Would you two like to come for dinner tonight? I’m celebrating. I’ve been reunited with my first love.’

  ‘You mean Fern?’ Seeing his reaction, Vanessa exclaimed, ‘Sorry! But you said your first love. I assumed . . . heck, have I –?’

  ‘Fired the guns and sunk the wrong ship? Yes. As far as I know, Fern is still in Paris.’ Alistair turned abruptly. He strode to the lobby and Vanessa assumed he was leaving until she heard him saying to somebody at the front door, ‘What are you doing here? Well, don’t huddle there getting soaked. Come in.’

  When he returned, he was followed by a stocky figure in a cape and rain hood, bringing Macduff on a lead. The dog slithered on the lino before shaking himself, projecting raindrops at the wall.

  ‘There is a reason dogs are not allowed in workrooms,’ Hugo said menacingly. ‘Had I left muslin toiles draped about the place, I would want to kill you both. Who are you, oh Caped Stranger?’

  When Tanith Stacey appeared from under the waterproofs, he demanded, ‘You didn’t walk the poor mutt all this way?’

  Blue eyes opened wide. ‘We came in a taxi. You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Hugo said. ‘We’re working then going out to dinner.’

  Earlier in the day, Tanith had been wearing her siren suit, hair bundled up as usual. Since then, she’d changed into a skirt and jumper similar to Vanessa’s. A short skirt, half-an-inch below the knee. The legs she’d described as resembling sea defences were clad in silk stockings and rather shapely.

  Alistair asked, ‘Did Tom Cottrill send you?’

  Tanith shook her head. ‘Macduff saw you leave and was desperate to go after you, so I thought it would be safer to bring him. Imagine him following your scent through the traffic.’

  ‘Imagine. Did you let anybody know? Otherwise someone will organise a search party. For the dog, not for you.’

  ‘Doyle knows. He gave me Macduff’s spare lead.’

  ‘Did you ask Mr Cottrill’s permission?’

  ‘He’s having a meeting with lighting and props.’ Tanith’s hair was set in a lush configuration of back-swept curl, though the rain and a hat made from a remnant of barrage balloon had somewhat flattened the effect. ‘Cottrill doesn’t need me.’

  ‘Mr Cottrill.’

  ‘Whenever he wants an assistant, he asks Pete.’ Peter Switt was the ASM, assistant stage manager, subordinate to Tanith.

  Alistair sighed. ‘And you think absconding will improve your standing? Never walk out, unless you want another person to do your job.’

  Tanith cast down her eyes. ‘Can I come to dinner too?’

  She looked so dejected, Vanessa said, ‘Take her along. I need to go home.’

  Alistair wasn’t having it. ‘We all go, or none. Tanith, you must ask your mother’s permission. You live at home, don’t you? May she use your telephone, Hugo?’

  Hugo jerked a thumb towards a door at the far end.

  ‘I’ll make tea,’ Vanessa said. Tanith was shivering. From the kitchen, as she filled the kettle and put a match to the gas ring, she heard Tanith close the office door; closing it twice as if she needed to be sure it was firmly shut. Fibreboard walls divided the two rooms and the purr of dialling was audible. As was Tanith’s request to be put through to a Whitehall number.

  Whitehall? Tanith had told Vanessa that she lived with her mother in a flat in Pimlico. They’d had a sandwich together a couple of days ago and had compared travel times to the theatre. Perhaps she was ringing her mother at work; apparently, Mrs Stacey ran a shoe shop somewhere near the river.

  As Vanessa warmed the pot and spooned in leaves, she overheard snatches of Tanith’s conversation.

  ‘. . . out tonight. Yes, with Commander Redenhall.’ A pause. ‘No, not alone. A party of four, to a restaurant. I don’t know which one. Yes, another girl’s coming. Very respectable. Much older than me.’

  Much? Thanks!

  Tanith concluded her call with, ‘I will. Yes, tomorrow. Goodbye.’

  Not a cuddly mother-and-daughter relationship, Vanessa reflected. Loading her tray, hooking the door open with her foot, she nearly collided with Tanith, who emerged at the same time.

  ‘Mum happy?’ Vanessa asked.

  ‘Oh, er, yes. She fusses dreadfully. Tea, how lovely. Is there sugar?’

  ‘Saccharine only because Hugo forgets to buy his ration, but the milk’s real.’

  While Vanessa had been out of the room, Hugo’s creative logjam had freed itself. She found him regaling Alistair with ideas while pouring tawny liquor into tumblers. He was saying, ‘I visualise the gradual evolution from polite formality – the Windermeres’ loving but untested marriage – through the chaos of betrayal as the marriage comes under attack, to the finale of love reaffirmed. To my mind, Lady Windermere has one of Wilde’s less conclusive endings. Questions remain, nothing will ever be quite the same again. The mis en scène must delight, yet inspire unease.’

  He handed Alistair a whisky. ‘I need to find a single, powerful idea. I call it the “tap-root”.’

  When, after a mouthful of whisky, Alistair said, ‘I can’t get excited until I see something. It’s one of my limitations,’ Hugo looked deflated. Alistair shrugged. ‘Whatever’s brewing, get it out of your head and on to paper. Our first meeting with Aubrey Hinshaw is a week today.’

  At the mention of the director’s name, Hugo gulped whisky. He then noticed Vanessa pouring tea. ‘Fancy a tot, Nessie? It’s Old Dublin.’

  ‘Bit early for me.’

  ‘The sun’s over the yard arm, isn’t it, Commander?’

  ‘The sun’s always over a yard arm somewhere in the world.’ Alistair went to stand beside Vanessa, holding his whisky in her eye line.

  ‘What?’ she demanded, stirring sweetener into her tea.

  ‘You evidently think me a drunkard, unable to get through the day without stim
ulant.’

  ‘I’ve formed no such opinion. Nor do I have moral issues with alcohol. I just hate what it does to some people.’

  ‘I was half-cut that day at my house, I confess. Did I apologise?’

  ‘In your fashion.’

  ‘Ah, “my fashion”. I was insulted at being lied to. What you don’t know is that after you left the theatre following your interview with me, I telephoned Fern at home. I was sure she’d be in because she was expecting you later. To misquote Jane Austen, “I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of the telephone in driving away love!”’

  ‘She answered?’

  ‘A man did. And it wasn’t the first time. Last year, just after VE Day, I docked at Liverpool and put a call through from the Admiralty office there. The same man picked up then, too. He said, “Fern Redenhall’s residence?” and I knew.’

  ‘Knew that – ’

  ‘He was her lover. Of course, she later explained that it was just a friend passing through.’

  ‘It could have been.’

  ‘At seven-fifty in the morning? It was the way he answered, with a growl of triumph. He knew I was miles away, unable to do a damn thing. “Fern Redenhall’s residence.” Not, “Commander and Mrs Redenhall’s residence”, which any well-bred friend would have said. Sometimes, you just know.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea. But I know that on both occasions, it was the same man.’

  Vanessa remembered Fern watching her walk away on the morning of her interview. What Vanessa had taken as a projection of good wishes might have been Fern, heady with Arpège, looking out for her lover. Hoping there wasn’t going to be an embarrassing overlap. Fern, unfaithful?

  Alistair said, ‘When the mind can’t encompass the next move, the hand often reaches for the bottle, though it may interest you to know that I didn’t touch alcohol all the time I was Commander of the Quarrel. It’s not easy to refuse the daily rum ration, nor the wardroom gin decanter, and some of my officers thought they had a moral reformer for a captain.’

  He put down his tumbler and raised a teacup in a sardonic toast. ‘I heard Brennan talking about your salary as I came in. I instructed Miss Bovary to pay you the man’s rate.’

  ‘I’m happy with what I’m paid but I send half my wages to my mother.’ Ruth had accepted the provision with the curt comment, ‘That’s as it should be.’ Vanessa had asked if the ex gratia seven pounds, four shillings still arrived monthly to which Ruth had replied, ‘Yes, until his Lordship passes away. After that, heaven help me.’

  Alistair was looking thoughtful. ‘You have a widow’s pension as well.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Why not? Your husband was killed in action, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but . . . well, I don’t have one.’

  ‘Why? Did they fob you off? Do you need somebody to rattle doors at the War Office? I’m trying to understand why you might “slum it”.’

  ‘I’m not slumming. Compared with some of the rat-infested quarters I’ve lived in, my new place is quite swanky.’ She raced to change the subject. ‘Should we get an early dinner? I have a feeling Tanith’s mother is quite strict.’

  Darkness had fallen, and it was now just gone five. Once, the idea of dining before eight or nine o’clock would have seemed outlandish, but war had changed social habits. Early dinner, early bed.

  Twenty yards along Great Portland Street, Alistair stopped beside a mint green saloon car.

  Hugo whistled. ‘Bellissima, an Alfa Romeo. Doyle mentioned that you went into the country last Sunday to fetch something.’ He stopped Vanessa and Tanith getting ahead of him. ‘As the senior creative talent, I sit in the front.’

  Vanessa was happy for him to do so. She let Tanith slide into the back, then helped Macduff in. The dog arranged himself in the footwell with a familiarity that suggested he was a seasoned passenger. Alistair held the door as Vanessa adjusted her coat and skirt so that she wouldn’t flash any leg when she climbed in. He said, ‘I did say the first love of my life. Wilton Bovary bought this car long before I laid eyes on Fern. It became the focus of my passion and envy. All in? We’ll drop by The Farren first and offload Macduff.’

  From the theatre, Alistair drove to Soho and drew up on Wardour Street, a lane as narrow as a strip of ciné film. Appropriately so, as film company headquarters did business above restaurants with foreign names, basement bars, and jazz clubs. There were also establishments of a more dubious nature. Here, as everywhere, buildings were buttressed by wood cladding, windows latticed with heavy-duty tape. Alistair took them to number seventeen, Pinoli’s, which advertised ‘Parisian dinners’ while a hand-written sign assured ‘All for five shillings’, a reference to the price cap on restaurant meals. Inside, art nouveau mirrors reflected candlelight, snowy tablecloths and napkins. Vanessa stood in the doorway, dazzled. ‘I’d forgotten places like this exist.’

  ‘Pinoli’s was one of the first Italian restaurants in London.’

  ‘It says “Parisian” outside.’

  ‘Probably as well. I’d be surprised if some of the staff weren’t interned during hostilities. I dined here in 1940 when –’ Alistair said no more as the maître d’ bowed them to a table.

  They started with a rich tomato soup, and then Vanessa and Alistair went for rabbit casserole. Rabbit was an off-ration meat and the portions were generous. Hugo had fried sole and Tanith, whose tastes were conservative, chose roast chicken. Pinoli’s was famous for its wines and Alistair ordered French Chablis for the table. Italian wines were off the menu, mired in post-conflict embargos. Vanessa lifted her glass to the light to embellish its bloom. The wine was pale straw with a hint of green. Bottled beer had been the staple at RAF dances. Her ‘safe’ resort had always been a medium sherry, though she’d tasted champagne once, in the company a well-off RAF officer. A nice man, with whom she had not fallen in love, and who had not subsequently been shot down in flames. Joanne’s mockery still rankled.

  ‘Just an inch or two,’ Alistair instructed as the waiter hovered the bottle over Tanith’s glass, adding, ‘On your next birthday, you can have a glass full.’

  Tanith pouted prettily. ‘Could I have a Coca-Cola instead?’

  ‘With tomato soup, you savage? Would you bring water,’ he asked the waiter.

  Alistair knows how to soften the edge, Vanessa thought. He’ll make sure Tanith gets home sober and safe. I wonder if he’ll do the same for me.

  Hugo drank fast and dominated the conversation. Ideas for the play were fruiting in his brain, crowding each other out. His fixed fear, they discovered, was how to source cloth.

  ‘Act Two, Lady Windermere’s Ball – one cannot conceive of a ball without sweeping skirts, necklines vomiting lace, brutally throttled waistlines and bulbous, elephant sleeves.’ He sketched with his hands. ‘Underpinnings, corsets – where will I find the acres of fabric?’

  ‘Borovick in Berwick Street,’ Tanith said pertly. ‘Everyone goes there.’

  ‘Ninny. You suppose they have bales of silk and satin lying about in the quantities I require? I shall need . . .’ Hugo worked out roughly on his fingers, ‘one hundred and twenty yards for the ball scene alone. And where do I start with whalebone?’

  ‘You’d better hire from Angels or one of the other costumiers,’ Alistair said. ‘Miss Bovary will understand if you take her to see Borovick’s empty shelves.’

  Hugo’s mouth thinned. ‘If I do that, what’s the point of me? You’d as well sack me, let Nessie take my job.’

  ‘You should let Vanessa help.’

  Hugo’s face tightened. ‘Like Mr Terence Rolf, I too have been in this business a while.’ He piled spinach on his plate and used the salt-pot aggressively. ‘Vanessa can’t cut through to the critical problem.’

  ‘Which is?’ Alistair asked.

  ‘If I knew that, would we be having this conversation?’ Hugo was heating up. Vanessa, learning to predict his sudden emotional shifts, wasn’t surprised
when he reached for his glass and drained it in one.

  ‘Vanessa did two years at Art College. A fresh pair of eyes isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity. I want drawings by next Monday, and not back-of-a-fag-packet sketches.’

  Hugo turned with glowering formality to Vanessa. ‘Madam, will you lend your talents and help a poor struggler?’

  ‘’Course. I’m flattered to be asked.’

  Hugo made a sound of disgust. He made it again when he shovelled the spinach into his mouth, remembering too late that he’d doused it in salt.

  When the waiter removed their plates and brought the sweet menu, Hugo rose, saying, ‘This was generous of you, Alistair, and probably exceeds the first meal I will taste on reaching heaven. If you’ll all excuse me, I’m cutting along to a club round the corner.’

  ‘Can I come?’ Tanith asked.

  Hugo laughed. ‘Not on your life.’ His easy nature had reasserted itself. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Nessie-darling.’

  ‘Eight o’clock sharp at your studio,’ she agreed.

  ‘You’ll be all alone, then. I don’t crack an eyelid till ten at the earliest. Goodnight all.’

  With Hugo gone, the atmosphere settled. They ordered crème caramels, which arrived as a sensual wobble in a sea of coffee-dark liquor. Vanessa held her spoon over hers, afraid to make the first plunge. ‘It’s years since I’ve tasted anything this good. This is a fabulous place, Alistair.’

  ‘Six years for me.’

  ‘Since you came here last?’

  He looked right into her eyes, his own coming alive. ‘Six years of pleasure deferred. Six years since I gave love and got it back.’ The comment shivered between them. Tanith, scraping caramel sauce from her plate, looked up, oblivious to the undercurrents.