by Paul Gallico
The story of the dilemma ran like wildfire through the building. Experts appeared from all sides to give advice, including that there be a petition directed to the British Ambassador, until it was pointed out that so stern was the British regard for the law that not even the Ambassador or the Queen herself could intervene to have them set aside, even in so worthy a cause—
It was the Patron himself, familiar with Mrs Harris’s story who solved the dilemma, severing the Gordian knot with one swift, generous stroke - or thought he had. ‘Reduce the price of the dress to this good woman,’ he ordered accountant Fauvel, ‘and give her the balance in cash to pay the duty.’
‘But sir,’ protested the horrified Fauvel, who now for the first time himself saw the trap into which his benefactress had fallen, ‘it is impossible!’
They all stared at him as though he were a poisonous reptile. ‘Do you not see? Madame had already unwittingly broken British law by exporting the one thousand four hundred dollars, illegally exchanged by her American friend in the United Kingdom. If now she, poor woman, appears at the British customs at the airport declaring a dress worth five hundred pounds and offered a further hundred and fifty pounds in cash to pay the duty, there would be inquiries how she, a British subject, had come by these monies: there would be a scandal—’
They continued to look at the unfortunate accountant as though he were a king cobra, but they also knew that he was right. ‘Let me go ’ome and die,’ wailed Mrs Harris.
Natasha was at her side, her arms about her. Voices rose in a babel of sympathy. Mme Colbert had an inspiration. ‘Wait,’ she cried, ‘I have it.’ She, too, dropped to her knees at Mrs Harris’s side - ‘My dear, will you listen to me? I can help you. I shall be lucky for you, as you have been for me—’
Mrs Harris removed her hands to reveal the face of an old and frightened Capucin monkey. ‘I won’t do nuffink dishonest - or tell no lies.’
‘No, no. Trust me. You shall say nothing but the absolute truth. But you must do exactly how and what I say for, my dear, we ALL wish you to have your beautiful dress to take home. Now listen.’ And Mme Colbert, placing her lips close to Mrs Harris’s monkey ear so that no one else might hear, whispered her instructions.
As she stood in the customs hall of London Airport, Mrs Harris felt sure that her thumping heart must be audible to all, yet by the time the pleasant-looking young customs officer reached her, her native-born courage and cheerfulness buoyed her up, and her naughty eyes were even twinkling with an odd kind of anticipatory pleasure.
On the counter before her rested, not the glamorous Dior box, but a large and well-worn plastic suitcase of the cheapest kind. The officer handed her a card on which was printed the list of dutiable articles purchased abroad.
‘You read it to me, duckie,’ Mrs Harris grinned impudently, ‘I left me specs at ’ome.’
The inspector glanced at her sharply once to see whether he was being had; the pink rose on the green hat bobbed at him; he recognised the breed at once. ‘Hullo,’ he smiled. ‘What have you been doing over in Paris?’
‘ ’Aving a bit of a ’oliday on me own.’
The customs man grinned. This was a new one on him. The British char abroad. The mop and broom business must be good, he reflected, then inquired routinely: ‘Bring anything back with you?’
Mrs Harris grinned at him. ‘ ’Aven’t I just? A genuine Dior dress called “Temptytion” in me bag ’ere. Five ’undred quid it cost. ’Ow’s that?’
The inspector laughed. It was not the first time he had encountered the London char’s sense of humour. ‘You’ll be the belle of the ball with it, I’ll wager,’ he said, and made a mark with a piece of chalk on the side of the case. Then he sauntered off and presented his card to the next passenger whose luggage was ready.
Mrs Harris picked up her bag and walked - not ran, though it was a great effort not to bolt - to the exit and down the escalator to freedom. She was filled not only with a sense of relief, but righteousness as well. She had told the truth. If, as Mme Colbert had said, the customs officer chose not to believe her, that was not her fault.
THUS it was that at four o’clock in the afternoon of a lovely London spring day, the last obstacle hurdled, and with ‘Temptation’ safe and sound in her possession, Mrs Harris found herself standing outside Waterloo Air Station, home at last. And but one thing was troubling her conscience. It was the little matter of Miss Pamela Penrose, the actress, and her flat.
Her other clients were all wealthy, but Miss Penrose was poor and struggling. What if Mrs Butterfield hadn’t coped properly? It was yet early. The keys to the flat were in her new crocodile handbag, now emerged from the suitcase. Mrs Harris said to herself: ‘Lord love the poor dear. It’s early yet. Maybe she’s got to entertyne some nobs. I’ll just drop by ’er flat and surprise ’er by tidying up a bit.’ She caught the proper bus and shortly afterwards was in the mews, inserting her key in the door.
No sooner had she the street door open, when the sound of the girl’s sobs reached to her, causing Mrs Harris to hurry up the stairs and into the tiny living room, where she came upon Miss Penrose lying face down upon her couch crying her eyes out.
Mrs Harris went to her, laid a sympathetic hand upon a shaking shoulder and said: ‘Now, now, dearie, what’s the matter? It can’t be as bad as all that. If you’re in trouble maybe I can help you.’
Miss Penrose sat up. ‘YOU help me!’ she repeated, looking through tear-swollen eyes. Then in a more kindly tone she said: ‘Oh, it’s you, Mrs Harris. Nobody in the whole world could help me. Oh, I could die. If you must know, I’ve been invited to dine at the Caprice with Mr Korngold the producer. It’s my one and only chance to impress him and get ahead. Nearly ALL of Mr Korngold’s girls - I mean friends - have become stars— ’
‘Well, now I don’t see anything to cry about there,’ declared Mrs Harris. ‘You ought to be a star, I’m sure.’
Miss Penrose’s heartrending grief turned momentarily to rage: ‘Oh, don’t be STUPID!’ she stormed. ‘Don’t you see? I can’t go. I haven’t anything to wear. My one good dress is at the cleaners and my other one has a stain. Mr Korngold is frightfully particular about what the girls he takes out wear.’
Could you, had you been Mrs Harris, with what she had in her plastic suitcase on the landing, have been able to resist the temptation to play fairy godmother? Particularly if you were still under the spell of the sweet gentleness and simplicity of Natasha, and the crusted kindness of Mme Colbert and all their people, and knew what it was like to want something dreadfully, something you did not think you were ever going to get?
Before Mrs Harris quite realised what she was saying, the words popped out - ‘See ’ere. Maybe I can ’elp you after all. I could lend you me Dior dress.’
‘Your WHAT? Oh, you - you odious creature. How DARE you make fun of me?’ Miss Penrose’s small mouth was twisted and her eyes cloudy with rage.
‘But I ain’t. ’Strewth, so ’elp me, I’ve just come back from Paris where I bought me a Dior dress. I’d let you wear it tonight if it would ’elp you with Mr Korngold.’
Somehow Miss Penrose, née Snite, brought herself under control as some guardian instinct warned her that with these charwomen one never really knew what to expect. She said: ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean - but of course you couldn’t - where is it?’
‘ ’Ere,’ said Mrs Harris, and opened the suitcase. The intense gasp of wonder and excitement and the joy that came into the girl’s eyes made it worth the gesture. ‘Oh - oh - oh!’ she cried, ‘I can’t believe it.’ In an instant she had the dress out of its tissue wrappings, holding it up, then hugging it to her she searched out the label with greedy fingers - ‘Oh! It really IS a Dior. May I try it on right away, Mrs Harris? We are about the same size, aren’t we? Oh, I could die with excitement.’
In a moment she was stripping off her clothes, Mrs Harris was helping her into the dress, and a few minutes later it was again fulfilling the destiny for which it had be
en designed. With her lovely bare shoulders and blonde head rising from the chiffon and tulle, Miss Penrose was both Venus appearing from the sea and Miss Snite emerging from the bedclothes.
Mrs Harris and the girl gazed raptly at the image reflected from the full-length mirror in the closet door. The actress said: ‘Oh, you are a dear to let me wear it. I’ll be ever so careful. You don’t KNOW what it means to me.’
But Mrs Harris knew very well. And it seemed almost as though fate wished this beautiful creation to be worn and shown off and not hung away in a closet. This perhaps being so, she had a request: ‘Would you mind very much if I came to the restaurant where you are ’aving dinner and stood outside to watch you go in? Of course, I wouldn’t speak to you or anything— ’
Miss Penrose said graciously: ‘Of course I wouldn’t mind. If you’ll be standing at the right side of the door as I get out of Mr Korngold’s Rolls-Royce, I can sort of turn to you so that you can see me better.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Harris. ‘You are kind, dearie.’ And meant it.
Miss Penrose kept her promise, or half of it, for a storm came up and suddenly it was a thundery, blustery, rain-swept night when at half-past nine Mr Korngold’s Rolls-Royce drew up at the entrance to the Caprice. Mrs Harris was standing to the right of the door, somewhat protected from the rain by the canopy.
A rumble of thunder and a swooping wind accompanied the arrival; Miss Penrose paused for one instant, turning towards Mrs Harris, her head graciously inclined, her evening wrap parted. Then with a toss of her golden hair she ran swiftly into the doorway. Mrs Harris had had no more than a glimpse of jet beads beneath an evening wrap, a flash of foamy-pink, white, cream, chiffon, and tulle, and then it was over.
But she was quite happy and remained there a little longer, contented and lost in imaginings. For now the head waiter would be bowing low to her dress and leading IT to a favoured and conspicuous table. Every woman in the room would recognise it at once as one from Dior; all heads would be turning as the creation moved through the aisles of tables, the velvet skirt, heavy with jet beads swinging enticingly, while above, the sweet, young bosom, shoulders, arms, and pink and white face emerged from the lovely bodice. Mr Korngold would be pleased and proud and would surely decide to give so well dressed and beautiful a girl an important part in his next production.
And no one there, not a single, solitary soul outside the girl herself would know that the exquisite gown which had done it all and had made every eye brighten with envy or admiration was the sole and exclusive property of Mrs Ada Harris, char, of Number 5 Willis Gardens, Battersea.
And thither she went now smiling to herself all the way during the long bus ride home. There remained only the problem of Mrs Butterfield, who would be anxiously awaiting her, to be dealt with. She would wish to see the dress, of course, and hear all about it. For some reason she could not fathom, Mrs Harris felt that she did not care for Mrs Butterfield to know that she had loaned her dress to the actress.
But by the time she had arrived at her destination she had the solution. A little fib and the fatigue that had collected in her bones would serve to put her off.
‘Lor’!’ she said from the depths of Mrs Butterfield’s billowy bosom where she found herself enveloped, ‘I’m that fagged I’ve got to ’old me eyelids open with me fingers. It’s so late, I won’t even stay for a cup o’ tea.’
‘You poor dear,’ sympathised Mrs Butterfield, ‘I won’t Keep you. You can show me the dress—’
It’s coming tomorrow,’ Mrs Harris demi-fibbed. ‘I’ll tell you all about it then.’
Once more in her own bed, she gave herself up to the sweet, delicious sense of accomplishment and with not so much as a single foreboding as to what the morrow might bring was soon fast asleep.
THE hour that Mrs Harris devoted to Miss Penrose was from five to six, and all the next day, as she worked in the various homes and made her peace with her clients who were too happy to see her back to grouse about her prolonged absence, she lived in tingling anticipation of that moment. At last it came and she hurried to the little flat that had once been a stable behind the great house in the square and opening the door stood for a moment at the foot of the narrow staircase.
At first it was only disappointment that she experienced for the place was dark and silent. Mrs Harris would have liked to have heard from the girl’s own lips the story of the triumph scored by the Dior dress and its effect upon Mr Korngold.
But it was the strange, unfamiliar smell that assailed her nostrils that turned her cold with alarm and set the skin of her scalp to pricking with terror. And yet, on second thought the smell was not unfamiliar. Why did it awaken memories of the war she had lived through in London - the rain of high explosives and the deluge of fire— ?
At the top of the stairs, Mrs Harris turned on the lights in the vestibule and the living room and went in. The next instant she was staring down, frozen with horror at the ruins of her dress. And then she knew what the odour was that had assailed her nostrils and made her think of the nights when the incendiaries had poured down upon London.
The Dior dress had been tossed carelessly upon the disordered couch with the burned-out velvet panel where the fire had eaten into it showing shockingly in a fearful gap of melted beadwork, burned and singed cloth.
Beside it lay a pound and a hastily scrawled note. Mrs Harris’s fingers were trembling so that she could hardly read it at first, but at last its contents became clear.
Dear Mrs Harris, I am terribly sorry I could not stay to explain in person, but I have to go away for a little while. I am most awfully sorry about what happened to the dress, but it wasn’t my fault and if Mr Korngold had not been so quick I might have burned to death. He said I had a very narrow escape. After dinner we went to the ‘30’ Club where I stopped to comb my hair in front of a mirror and there was an electric fire right underneath, and all of a sudden I was burning - I mean the dress, and I could have burned to death. I am sure they will be able to repair it and your insurance will take care of the damage, which is not as bad as it looks as it is only the one panel. I am going away for the week. Please look after the flat as usual. I am leaving a pound for your wages in the meantime.
It was astonishing that when Mrs Harris had finished reading the letter she did not cry out, or even murmur, or say anything at all. Instead she took up the damaged garment and, folding it carefully, packed it once more into the old plastic suitcase Mme Colbert had given her and which she retrieved from the closet where she had stowed it the night before. She left the letter and the money lying on the couch, went downstairs and into the street.
When she had closed the outside door, she paused only long enough to remove the key to the flat from her chain, since she would not be needing it any more, and push it through the slot of the letter box. Then she walked the five minutes to Sloane Square where she caught a bus for home.
It was damp and chilly in her flat. She put the kettle on for tea and then, guided by habit, she did all of the things she was used to doing, even to eating, though she hardly knew what food she tasted. She washed up the dishes and put everything away. But there the mechanism ended and she turned to the unpacking of the ruins of the Dior dress.
She fingered the charred edges of the velvet and the burned and melted jet. She knew night clubs, for she had cleaned in them. She thought she could see it happening - the girl, half-drunk, coming down the stairs from without, on the arm of her escort, thoughtless, heedless of all but that which concerned herself, pausing before the first mirror to study herself and apply a comb.
Then the sudden ascent of smoke from her feet, the little shriek of fright, perhaps an orange line of fire in the dress and the man beating at it with his hands until it was extinguished and only the smouldering wreck of the most beautiful and expensive frock in the world remained.
And here it was in her hands now, still with the stink of charred cloth rising from it and which all the perfume given to her by Natasha would not
suffice to blot out. A thing, once as perfect and beautiful as human hands could make it, was destroyed.
She tried to tell herself that it was not the fault of the girl, that it had been an accident and that only she herself was to blame for trying to play fairy godmother to this spoiled brat of a bad actress who had not even the grace to be grateful to her for her foolish gesture.
Mrs Harris was a sensible person, a realist who had lived an unexciting life and was not given to self-delusion. Looking now upon this singed and tragic wreck of her desires she was well aware of her own foolish pride and vanity, not only involved in the possession of such a treasure, but in the displaying of it.
She had savoured the casual way she might say to her landlady, when queried as to where she had been: ‘Oh, I was only over in Paris, dearie, to look at the collection and buy me a Dior dress. It’s called “Temptytion”.’ And, of course, she had visualised a hundred times the reaction of Mrs Butterfield when she unveiled her prize. There would be no calling in of her friend now - or anyone else - for she would only croak: ‘Didn’t I tell yer something orful would ’appen? Things like that ain’t for the likes of us! What was you going to do with it, anyway?’
What indeed had she been meaning to do with it? Hang it away in an old, stale cupboard next to her aprons, overalls, and one poor Sunday frock, secretly to gloat over when she came home at night? The dress had not been designed and created to languish in the dark of a cupboard. It was meant to be out where there was gaiety, lights, music, and admiring eyes.
Quite suddenly she could not bear to look upon it any longer. She was at the end of her resistance to grief. She reinterred it in the plastic suitcase, hurriedly blotting out the sight of it with the crumpled tissue paper and then flinging herself upon her bed, buried her face in her pillow and commenced to cry. She wept silently, inconsolably, and interminably, after the fashion of women whose hearts have been broken.
