[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris

by Fliss Chester

  The other two women murmured their agreement over the prettiness of the fabric and Fen, her natural curiosity still burning, willed Simone to continue. She wasn’t in luck, however, as Simone walked them out of the fabric room and back through the cutting room to the salon where smart Parisiennes would come to watch girls such as Simone model the latest fashions.

  ‘Here, I have a gift for you both.’ Simone slipped down behind the raised walkway and pulled out two neatly tied packages. She handed one each to Fen and Magda. ‘Pop them in your handbags, quick. Don’t let anyone see on the way out,’ she winked at Fen. ‘They keep these scarves here for important clients. A little sweetener to encourage les madames to buy the clothes.’

  Fen couldn’t help but have a quick peek and peeled open one end of the brown paper and gasped. Magda had done the same but couldn’t even manage to make a sound. Fen quickly closed the paper up and offered the parcel back to Simone.

  ‘Oh Simone, I can’t possibly take this.’

  Simone pushed the parcel back into her hands. ‘Honestly, it’s not a big deal to us. I have two or three of these scarves in the new patterns. Take them, take them.’

  ‘This is too much,’ Magda had found her voice. ‘I… I don’t know what to say.’

  Fen could see that Magda very much wanted to keep the pretty silk scarf that was wrapped up in the brown paper, but was torn, like her, by the morality of accepting such an expensive and luxurious gift from a near stranger.

  But Simone all but forced them on to the women. ‘Catherine says I have an eye for design,’ she explained. ‘I cut the fabric for these scarves myself. To me, fashion is a disguise, you know, like a mask. You can wear something beautiful now and for a moment you can forget your past.’ Simone ran a finger down the sleeve of her own blouse, which Fen noticed was pure silk and utterly divine. Simone looked up again, awakened from her own reverie. ‘Please, have them. I am glad to be able to bring a little joy, especially to you, Madame Bernheim.’

  ‘Thank you, Simone,’ Fen touched her arm, careful not to snag the silk, while Magda gathered Simone into an impromptu hug.

  Simone smiled at them both. ‘I will do anything, you see, anything to not go back to the poverty of my childhood. But I know I am the lucky one now, being here among this luxury. You’ve both suffered too, and sharing a bit of this good fortune, well, it’s the least I can do.’

  ‘Thank you, again.’ Fen said, feeling the softness of the silk inside the packet. ‘And, well, yes, you’ve landed on your feet here, I think. Pierre and Christian obviously think very highly of you and—’

  ‘And maybe I can marry well now the war is behind us and I look so smart, yes?’ Simone winked at Fen, who smiled back at her, finally realising what she meant about not being in Paris much longer.

  Oh you’ll marry well, all right, she thought, knowing exactly who she had her sights on. I think I may know just the chap…

  Sixteen

  ‘She’s right, I suppose,’ Magda said to Fen as they stood at the northern end of the Pont des Arts. Magda and Joseph had found a reasonably priced apartment to rent in the Marais district, which was on the northern, or Right Bank, of the Seine, while Rose’s apartment was over the river in Saint Germain.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Fen asked her, unlinking her arm from that of her old friend.

  ‘Just that fashion is a type of disguise. I mean, even before the war when we dressed up for occasions, well, what did we mean by it?’

  Fen thought for a moment. ‘It was different then though, wasn’t it? We just followed conventions. I would never have worn trousers or work overalls before the war, but now I feel rather useless in a skirt. And somewhat exposed in a way!’

  The women both laughed as Fen juggled her handbag and the bag of patisserie they had stopped to pick up, so she could keep her dress from floating up thanks to a stiff autumnal breeze.

  ‘Here, you take these.’ She passed the brown paper bag of bread and strawberry tarts to Magda. ‘I know for a fact that Rose has more than enough bread in the apartment. I think the boulanger at the end of the road has a soft spot for her. Maybe she painted him a nice picture of a croissant or something?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Magda asked, ignoring Fen’s little joke. She sounded as serious as if Fen had offered her the use of a diamond tiara.

  ‘Of course. And send my best to Joseph, tell him the tarts are particularly good.’

  The two women embraced and Fen was able to walk across the bridge with one hand free now to keep her billowing skirt at bay. She was pleased that Magda had accepted the bread and tarts, as she knew they were struggling to make ends meet from what Magda had said as they queued up in the patisserie for the treats.

  Fen thought about it as she walked over the bridge. She had wanted to visit one of her favourite patisseries, which she knew lay only a few streets from the atelier.

  Her mother had taken her to Patisserie Cambon on the occasions that Fen had had to wait patiently for her to be fitted for whatever dress she had ordered, and worse, sometimes Fen herself had had to stand on the funny little box in her underwear as the long tickling tape measure had dangled down from shoulder to ankle. Even now its red awning and window, filled with sugary pastries and tempting glazed tarts, had made her eyes much bigger than her stomach. She had asked Magda if she didn’t mind the diversion from their way home and both ladies had feasted their eyes on what the talented pastry chef had put in the window.

  There had been cream-filled religieuses, their choux pastry tops daubed with chocolate and nuts, delicate pale green macarons and elegant slices of chocolate gâteaux, but it was the bright-pink strawberry tarts, their glaze almost dazzling in the sunlight, that had caught Fen’s eye. They were at least affordable; food shortages and rocketing inflation making the other treats most expensive. Magda had pointed out as much and Fen had remembered that her friend had lost everything and cakes that would have once been part of life were now an almost impossible luxury. She hadn’t really wanted a loaf of bread or those strawberry tarts for herself, and was pleased to be able to send Magda home with them.

  Fen carried on across the bridge, her thoughts mostly occupied by how she would wear the jazzy new scarf that Simone had given her, when she noticed a very familiar person on the quayside, no more than thirty feet or so away from her, talking to a man. She was about to call out to Rose when something made her stop. There was something about Rose’s countenance, the way she was talking to the man, that made Fen pause and take note. Were they arguing?

  Fen sidestepped a mother who was dragging a querulous child along by his hand and leaned against the rail of the bridge, hiding herself behind a lamp post, hoping Rose wouldn’t look over and see her.

  They were definitely arguing. The man was waving his hands around, while Rose stood her ground and occasionally pointed a finger at him, jabbing it towards his chest as she seemed to make a point. Fen was unsure as to whether she should go and help Rose, but she looked very much to be in control of the situation.

  The breeze that was still trying its best to embarrass Fen was blowing Rose’s velvet coat large behind her, helping make her look authoritative, while today’s choice in coloured turban elevated her height by another few inches. The man she was arguing with, however, seemed small in stature and smartly dressed. Fen could make out what looked like a blazer and light-coloured slacks. Maybe not the right clothes for the season, but smart in their own way nonetheless. Something about his slicked-back hair and slightly receding hairline reminded her of the portrait of Napoleon she had seen in the Louvre only the day before, and Fen suddenly worried that this Frenchman might be just as aggressive.

  Fen was about to grit her teeth and enter the fray when the conversation between the two combatants ended, each turning on their heel and heading off in separate directions from the end of the bridge. Fen trotted across the rest of the wooden slats, but by the time she’d got to where they had both been standing, there was no sign of either of them. The tempt
ation to follow Rose’s Napoleonic adversary was strong, but Fen knew finding him down the many and varied routes he could have taken from the river would be a fool’s errand – plus, what would she say to him if she found him?

  Instead, she carried on her way back to Rose’s apartment, wondering as she did how she might bring up the subject of this mystery man with her old friend, and if there was a story to be heard behind it all.

  ‘Nothing of the sort,’ Rose snorted as Fen questioned her on him later that afternoon. She had walked the few streets back to the Rue des Beaux-Arts and climbed the stairs up to the apartment, all the while posing theories in her head as to who the man might be. A rogue supplier who wanted his bill paid? A spurned lover of Simone’s wanting Rose to pass on a message? Possibly even one of those duped buyers wanting his money back?

  Fen had rather tumbled all of these theories out over a cup of tea and now Rose was laughing it off.

  ‘He was just my art dealer, Fenella, dear. Michel Lazard.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fen thought back to what Magda had been saying earlier about Rose’s dubious links to the less salubrious art dealers. ‘What did he want from you? You seemed quite peeved with him, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  Rose looked at her and Fen got the impression that perhaps Rose did mind, just a little, what she was saying. ‘Michel is a rough diamond. You know my art falls between genres, not elevated enough to be taken seriously by Henri, yet too good for those roadside tinkers. Michel fills that space, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I see.’ It still didn’t explain to Fen why he and Rose had been arguing and she said as much.

  ‘Oh, he’s a weaselly fellow all right, wanted more commission. As if everything in this life comes down to grubby francs. If only Valreas hadn’t stopped dealing with him.’ Rose huffed out a sigh. ‘Didn’t use to all be about money, of course, not when Michel still had hold of his moral compass. Used to hide all sorts of paintings for us, from the Germans, you see? Quite the daring chap. Probably sold his morals for a few francs now. Wouldn’t trust him with his own grandmother, but he does get things sold.’

  ‘What changed for Michel?’ Fen asked, intrigued.

  Rose sucked in her teeth. ‘Enough now, let’s talk of more erudite things. Did you perchance see the Roman galleries when you and Captain Lancaster perused the Louvre yesterday?’

  Fen let Rose talk as she listened, though admittedly with only half an ear. Her mind was gnawing over something and it was only as Rose was describing the great sarcophagus from the mausoleum of Anicii that Fen realised what it was. Michel Lazard… what a name. And only one small vowel away from Lizard… Had perhaps that moral compass of his been sold not after the war, but during, enabling him to become The Chameleon?

  Seventeen

  Apartment 5,

  15 Rue des Beaux-Arts,

  Paris, October 1945

  Dear Mrs B, Kitty and Dilly,

  A few days have passed now since I arrived in Paris and, boy, do I have some stories to tell you. Kitty, you would never believe it, but I have been to a bona fide fashion house and met some real designers. I’d watch out for names such as Christian Dior and Pierre Balmain – both lovely chaps, who I met at their drawing boards at the atelier my new friend Simone works in. Such beautiful fabrics too – if I can, I’ll see if I can get hold of some of Simone’s hand-me-downs for you all. I’m afraid I’m keeping the rather jazzy silk scarf Simone gave me for myself!

  Paris is alive, though perhaps not totally ‘well’. At every turn, it seems you meet some brave person who was in the Resistance, but equally there are stories too sad to tell of loss and hardship. Still, I plan to see and do all that I can and I’m really trying very hard not to miss my dear Arthur too much.

  Simone and James took me out last night and tonight we’re off again to see the marvellous Josephine Baker in revue. She’s recently back from North Africa and I daresay as fabulous as ever! I’ll write again soon and tell you all about it.

  Kitty – did you get the answer to the clue? It was a play on words you see, a Pullman is part of a train, while ‘t’ or ‘tea’ fits in just before a shower, i.e. a rain shower! TRAIN. How about this one, it’s called a letter clue – so look to the starts of the words (initially, see?) to help solve it. Here goes: I watched it dry initially, perhaps an idler notes time? (5). Let me know how you get on.

  Much love, etc.,

  Fen xx

  Fen hurriedly sealed up the envelope and caught up with James and Simone as they trotted (in James’s case; more of a glide in Simone’s) down the cantilevered staircase of the apartment building. They were indeed off to see the marvellous Josephine Baker, the American singer and dancer who had made her home in Paris many years ago. Fen felt a little as if she were just ‘hanging on’ as she had done when she was seventeen and snuck along to see Miss Baker at the Théâtre Marigny with her brother in those heady days just before they left Paris to return to Oxford.

  Josephine Baker had been something of a favourite among Fen’s school friends, who all collected pictures of her extraordinary menagerie in their scrapbooks. And that night at the theatre back in 1934 had been an eye-opener, to say the least, not only because Miss Baker was really quite daring in her dancing, but also because Fen had never seen her nineteen-year-old brother blush such a deep shade of crimson when she was on stage. The memory made her smile and James asked her why she was grinning to herself quite so much as she closed one of the big grey doors behind them all.

  ‘I think sneaking out to see Josephine Baker when I was seventeen was quite possibly the naughtiest thing I ever did.’ Fen shook her head, ‘It was a blast though. That dancing!’

  ‘If you think that’s naughty,’ Simone emphasised the last word, ‘you should see what I had to do as a seventeen-year-old!’

  ‘Speaking of naughty,’ James said rather quickly, and Fen wondered if Simone had told him what she’d had to do as part of the Resistance, and if he disapproved. ‘I had a shirt stolen in the hotel.’

  ‘Really? Have you asked the laundry?’ Fen asked.

  ‘Well, that’s the darnedest thing, I don’t remember leaving it out for the maid. I’m sure it’ll turn up. Aha,’ he raised a hand and called out to the man walking towards them. ‘Ahoy there, Gervais!’

  ‘I didn’t know he was coming too.’ Fen pulled her coat tight around her, the chill autumn air of the evening cutting right through to the blue, flowery tea dress she was still wearing, with Rose’s blessing, from the outing to Atelier Lelong today.

  ‘We thought it might be nice for you to have some company, Fenella,’ Simone trilled as she slipped her arm into James’s. The slight shrug to her shoulders gave Fen just the message Simone intended and Fen opened and closed her mouth like a goldfish a few times as she tried to think of what to say to put Simone off trying to matchmake her. Arthur was barely cold in his grave – the thought of replacing him with someone else was as far from her mind as it was possible to be.

  Still, Fen thought, manners maketh man, or in this case woman, and she waved a cheery greeting to the chubby Frenchman.

  Miss Baker was astounding. Though not in her first flush of youth, she was as dynamic and as dazzling as ever before, if perhaps slightly less flamboyant. She held the audience in the palm of her hand, her beautiful voice filling the theatre as she sang songs by Cole Porter and Vincent Scotto. Her dress was covered in gems and sparkled under the stage lights.

  Fen was transfixed and loved every second of the virtuoso performance. She would have enjoyed it even more if Gervais had stopped trying to talk to her throughout it all.

  ‘So you’ve known Madame Rose Coillard for many years, you say?’ was one such question.

  ‘Yes, since I was a girl,’ Fen had turned her face back towards the stage as soon as she’d spoken, hoping that she hadn’t missed a beat of the show. But still Gervais persisted.

  ‘She is a proper bourgeoisie, you know. Society connections. But even I, Gervais Arnault, have met her a few
times.’

  Fen had smiled at Gervais, acknowledging his slight brag, and then turned her attention back to the stage, bobbing her head around to try and see past the annoyingly tall man sitting in front of her.

  ‘A good lady though, you think?’ Gervais had continued.

  ‘Oh the best, absolutely. Why?’

  ‘No reason, no reason.’ Gervais had raised his hands off his lap in mock defence. Fen had given him another quick smile and then faced back towards the stage, hoping that would be the last of his chit-chat.

  Gervais did indeed stay relatively quiet for the rest of the show, but afterwards as the four of them retired to the bar of Deux Magots, he asked Fen again what she thought of Rose and if she knew Henri Renaud at all. Henri had been a particular hook of Gervais’s to hang his conversation from and Fen had barely sat down at the small round table in the Deux Magots bar that James had found for them all when Gervais enquired all about him.

  ‘You’d not think that a lowly mechanic like myself would know such grand people, eh?’

  ‘I thought you said you had a fleet of vehicles?’ Fen had cheekily reminded him.

  ‘Well, fleet, you know it is a wide definition…’

  ‘I’m only teasing,’ Fen had unconsciously reached over and touched the mechanic’s arm as she said that, as a way to reassure him, but withdrew it quickly as she saw his cheeks redden. He had carried on talking, though, regardless.

  ‘Yes, yes, well you see, just like in the old days when everyone needed a farrier or stable boy, well now, you see, everyone needs a mechanic, or driver.’

  ‘I do see, yes.’