Dressing the Dearloves

by Kelly Doust

  14

  Sylvie and Wendy stepped up the ladder through the trapdoor opening and emerged into a large dim, dusty space. Sylvie could barely see for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the change in light. Then Wendy, just a few steps ahead, fumbled for the light switch, and bare bulbs lit up the cavernous space, revealing a huge, low-ceilinged room set into the eaves of Bledesford Manor.

  ‘Here we are . . . Oh my goodness, what a mess!’

  Long and thin, the attic ran the length of the manor, with teetering stacks of cardboard boxes and old pine tea chests obscuring a good portion of it from where they stood. Sylvie was overwhelmed by the ammonic reek of mothballs.

  Stepping around the bank of boxes piled up in front of her and avoiding several broken old chairs, Sylvie saw a row of shelves lining one side of the attic, full of dusty hatboxes and shoeboxes. Old steamer trunks festooned with ancient hotel and travel stickers were pushed beneath them. The other wall boasted a long, purpose-built rail running from east to west, with a few groupings of plastic sheaths hanging forlornly from the rail. A heavy timber dressmakers’ table, surrounded by stools and holding a large, industrial-style sewing machine on its scarred surface, sat at one end, taking up the centre of the room.

  They heard a squeak, as something small scuttled along the floor. Sylvie jumped, narrowly avoiding knocking her head against an old standard lamp leaning rakishly at an angle.

  ‘I don’t remember it being like this, Mum. Have you come up here recently?’

  ‘What? Oh yes . . . I had a go at it a few years ago, it took me months,’ puffed Wendy, pushing aside a pile of suitcases. ‘I started putting some of the frocks into plastic bags, with mothballs . . . There’s a whole pile of spare plastic bags over there.’ She waved her hand at the corner. ‘I was worried by the state of the roof. But it was such a massive job, and I ran out of energy.’ Wendy gestured hopelessly. ‘There was too much to sort out . . . Seeing it now, I think we should just throw the whole mess out. Surely no one could want any of it?’

  Sylvie reached down to lift up the flap of a nearby box and pulled out a red fez with a metallic gold tassel. It looked – apart from a little discolouration on the inside headband – richly dyed and almost new. Digging deeper into the box, she pulled out something made from rainbow-coloured silk, covered in little silver coins, all sewn on painstakingly by hand – a bellydancer’s costume, by the look of it, with numerous straps and cut-outs, as well as a pair of matching harem-style pants jingling with more coins. From the look of the metallic thread and fine handiwork, Sylvie judged it to be eighty or ninety years old.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mum, of course we shouldn’t. There’s some amazing stuff in here . . .’

  Ducking down to avoid a grime-covered bulb, her mother went a little further into the attic, before placing her hands on her hips and looking around at the vast array of trunks and suitcases. She sighed, shaking her head. ‘There’s just so much . . .’

  Sylvie opened another box; this one appeared to be full of shoes, all jumbled in together, and what looked like old satin pumps in delicious ice-cream shades of pink, blue and white, some creased and cracked, others seemingly almost brand new, with delicate silk-covered buttons. Still more shoes, stored in their original boxes, were teetering haphazardly along one part of the wall. Sylvie squatted down to open a tea chest, which seemed to be full of old jewellery cases. She cracked one open and found an old string of faux pearls coiled up inside.

  ‘I completely forgot how much is tucked away up here.’

  Sylvie reached out to lift up one of the plastic sheaths hanging on the railing – the sort dry cleaners used – and was charmed to find it contained a bejewelled, periwinkle-blue gown, probably from the fifties. Sylvie loved the way it rustled against her fingertips, and she fancied herself for a moment listening as it whispered something, a trace memory of dances in the ballroom, to the strain of orchestral music . . . Bledesford back in its heyday.

  A makeshift tarpaulin stretched across part of the room had come loose at one corner and Sylvie could hear it gently flapping in the wind. Rays of weak light streamed through the gaping hole, which was admitting a fine drizzle of rain collecting in a tiny pool on the floor.

  ‘Oh no!’ Sylvie exclaimed, rushing to pull a soggy-looking box out of the way. ‘Cripes, everything in this chest is ruined. We’ll have to toss it out. How long’s the roof been leaking, Mum?’

  ‘Since last summer – we’ve been trying to get the money together for a roofer to do a quick patch, but they cost an absolute bloody fortune.’ Wendy chewed on a ragged fingernail. ‘Your father put up a temporary fix, but it doesn’t appear to be working.’

  ‘Can’t you just patch it up yourselves?’ Sylvie groaned, moving a rail of clothes perched on rusted wheels nearby.

  ‘We tried last winter but it’s just too big a job, darling – too dangerous. It’s almost a hundred feet to the ground. I was worried we might fall and break our necks. We may as well try getting to it before we sell . . . just another thing to add to the list,’ she sighed. ‘So, what do you reckon, darling? Do you think it’s worth selling any of this? Is anyone going to want it? Gigi thinks so, but she hasn’t been up here for decades. And to be honest, who’d fancy wearing such horrible old things? Like this?’ Opening a box at random, she picked up a tatty corset covered in tartan fabric and frayed damask, holding it out to Sylvie. It was just like her mother, Sylvie thought, to single out one of the least promising pieces in the attic to make a point.

  Taking the corset and having a closer look, Sylvie thought it must have been Gigi’s, from the eighties – it looked like a rip-off of Vivienne Westwood, from one of her later collections with Malcolm McLaren, just before they parted ways. Hang on a minute, Sylvie thought, her heart rate quickening as she spied its label. ‘No, look, this is early Vivienne Westwood,’ she said, pointing out the label to her mother, who shrugged.

  ‘Vivienne who?’

  ‘Oh, Mum, sometimes I really don’t believe you.’ Sylvie sank down onto a tapestry-covered stool, causing a little puff of dust to rise up in the air, clutching the Westwood corset to her. She looked around the room wonderingly. What other treasures were in these boxes? She felt a little shiver of excitement.

  ‘We could just drop it off to the Dorothy House charity store in Frome,’ Wendy was saying.

  ‘God, you’re insane . . . of course not!’ Sylvie laughed. ‘Look, if you don’t believe me, ask Tabs. She’ll tell you. Actually,’ she paused, thinking. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Tabs might be able to convince you. And give us a hand. Let me call her up. She’s bound to know what to do, and she has more local contacts in the industry than I do these days.’

  Sylvie moved over to the entry and called down the stairs. ‘Tabs! Tabs, can you hear me?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ came the faintest response.

  ‘Can you come up to the attic? I’m here with Mum – we need help!’

  A few minutes later Tabs could be heard clomping up the ladder in her red wooden clogs.

  ‘Oooh – what’s all this?’ she asked, appearing around the nest of tea chests, cheeks aglow. ‘My God, love, but isn’t this totally amazeballs . . . What’s in all these boxes? And how long’s it been here?’ She gave out a huge sneeze, then vigorously rubbed her nose.

  ‘I know, right? That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her,’ Sylvie said, poking a thumb at Wendy. ‘Can you please explain to Mum how good this all is, and how valuable some of it might be.’ She held out the corset to Tabs, who seized on it.

  ‘Oh my God. It’s sen-sa-tional! Utterly . . . I’m actually speechless . . .’

  ‘Really – do you think so?’ Wendy asked hopefully.

  Why did her mother never seem to listen to her? Sylvie wondered, sighing internally.

  Pouncing on one of the plastic sheaths hanging on the rail, Tabs uncovered a beautiful pale pink evening dress, bias cut, its skirt flaring out gently. She pulled it out with a little gasp. ‘Oh my God, this is gorg
eous!’

  ‘Have it!’ Wendy said, pushing it towards her.

  ‘No, no, I couldn’t,’ Tabs said, waving her away with alarm. ‘Do you have any idea how much this is worth!? I mean, this must be original 1930s . . . besides, I couldn’t go near it. Not with my hips.’

  ‘Tabs, what do you think we should do, you know, if we’d like to make some cash,’ Sylvie asked awkwardly, gulping down her pride. She hated – absolutely loathed – talking about money. ‘Would it be worth selling at auction, do you think?’

  ‘Possibly, but it’ll get snapped up for far too little, and surely you’ll want to keep some of it together, won’t you? It’d be such a shame to break it all up – there’s some really significant pieces, from what I can see,’ Tabs said. ‘I mean, look at this.’ She’d been working her way down the clothes rail, uncovering a sable coat, followed by a long lace cape, which looked to be from the belle époque era.

  ‘You know all the big designers buy stuff like this for their archives, don’t you?’ Tabs said to Sylvie. ‘We’re always using vintage things as reference points. They sure knew how to construct clothing back then – the pattern makers from the forties are my heroes! They made clothes which were just so structured and flattering. Not like all the high street stores now, where one size fits most and they couldn’t care less if you wear it once and throw it away.’ Tabs’s expression suddenly darkened. ‘That’s why I moved to couture.’

  ‘Exactly! But – what are our options then, if not auction? I was thinking of consignment stores, but there’s just so much of it,’ Sylvie mused.

  ‘Well, you know how McQueen has been talking with the V&A, about a retrospective . . . remember, I was telling you? We’ve been compiling all the key pieces from our archives recently, the ones Lee designed before he died. Well, I met someone there recently who was really lovely. She’s a vintage expert. We were talking about quality and workmanship and how so few people care about that any more, even some of the big luxury labels . . . honestly, they take us for fools! Anyway, she works in their textiles department, buying pieces for their permanent collection . . . I can ask if she’d be interested, what do you think? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind taking a look for us, even if she doesn’t do the fashion stuff – you could take some photos yourself and go see her in London? Hell, I’ll come with you if you like.’

  ‘Really? That would be amazing.’

  While the interest in vintage clothing always seemed to wax and wane, Sylvie knew the racks of velvet frock coats, exotic costumes and exquisite evening gowns would be highly regarded by the Victoria and Albert Museum, but what would they pay for them? There was also a fashion museum in Bath, and there must be more across the country.

  And surely the clothing’s provenance must count for something? Sylvie thought. Gigi had been famous for her wild taste in men and clothes; all her old stuff from the sixties right through to the late eighties was here, from Mary Quant and Biba dresses to Versace – all highly collectible and most of it in good condition. Not to mention the pieces once owned by Rose, Lizzie, Aunt Birdie and the rest of them. Rose had been the most famous Dearlove woman, but Aunt Birdie had had her moment in the spotlight too. There had been a book written about her in the late nineties, Sylvie remembered, which extolled her as one of the original English female adventurers, like Gertrude Bell, with a roll call of famous friends to rival the best.

  ‘It’s a shame we have to get rid of it all,’ she said, looking around. The collection represented a significant slice of Dearlove history. But how on earth could they keep it? Where could they possibly store it? It was a ridiculous thought, she scolded herself.

  ‘If you pitch it to the V&A as a sort of national treasure, they might just go for it,’ Tabs mused, interrupting Sylvie’s thoughts. ‘Why don’t I go call my contact now, see what she says?’

  As Tabs clomped back down the ladder, Sylvie sat and looked around her. For years she had dreamed of plundering the attic – especially when she was designing her first few collections – but there never seemed to be enough time to make the trip home, and when she was here, it was honestly the last thing she felt like doing. Something about the estate always rubbed off on her – a peculiar ennui, thickening the blood in her veins, making her feel sluggish and overwhelmingly that she couldn’t wait to leave. Yet something felt different this time. Despite all her misgivings, it felt good to be here – comforting, almost. Considering the estate was about to be sold, it was disquieting to know the feeling would be short-lived.

  ‘Maybe we should drag everything down to the ballroom?’ she asked, thinking out loud.

  ‘No, no, that’s a terrible idea,’ said Wendy quickly. ‘You know Lizzie would never let us part with a thing! No, it’s best she doesn’t know yet. I think it might be quite traumatic for her, poor dear.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell her sometime, Mum.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Just not yet.’

  Sylvie pulled out a shoe from the boxes on display – a bright red, high-heeled slipper encrusted with sequins and semiprecious stones. The shoes of a jazz singer from the 1930s, or Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. ‘There’s no place like home,’ she said, waggling it at her mother.

  Wendy looked at her oddly, her face crumpling suddenly into an anguished grimace as she sat down abruptly on one of the tea chests.

  ‘Oh, Mum, don’t start,’ Sylvie said awkwardly. ‘There’s no point, is there? We can’t keep it – you know that.’

  ‘I know,’ Wendy sighed, her eyes glittering. ‘But aren’t you even just a little sad, darling? You did grow up here, after all.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Sylvie said, sitting down beside her, ‘but I really do think you’re doing the right thing. You and Dad, you don’t have many alternatives, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Wendy reluctantly. ‘Oh, lord, is that the time?’ She struggled to her feet. ‘I’ll be late.’

  ‘Late for what?’ Sylvie asked.

  ‘Oh, this chap I have to talk to,’ Wendy said, a little shiftily.

  ‘Who?’ Sylvie asked, narrowing her eyes. Why did her mother always have to be so bloody obtuse?

  ‘Um . . . well, apparently this man wants to make a documentary about the Dearlove family – you know, between the wars. The salons, Rose’s death, doomed glamour, all of that. He’s a director, the one who did the program last year about Nancy Astor. I think we saved it, I could show you . . . So it’s all above board, and there might even be some money in it for us. It’s just a preparatory chat today.’ She stopped, just by the ladder. ‘But whatever you do, Sylvie, don’t say anything to Lizzie. Your father and I mentioned something to her a while back and she went absolutely ballistic.’

  Looking back down at the tea chest she was perched upon, Sylvie saw a length of blue woollen fabric poking out from under the lid. She stood up and pulled out a jacket. Bending further, she retrieved something else, then unfolded the items and held them up towards the light. The pieces revealed themselves to be a woman’s suit, consisting of a blue woollen jacket in a fine knit and a matching skirt.

  ‘What’s this?’ Sylvie asked, inspecting the breast pocket of the jacket, which was embroidered with a panel of red, white and blue.

  Wendy peered over at her as she manoeuvred herself onto the ladder and down through the manhole. ‘I think it’s an old Wren uniform. It must have been Victoria’s during the war. She worked for the Home Office, I think.’

  As her mother disappeared down the ladder, Sylvie let the jacket fall back into the tea chest and looked around herself.

  There is just so much about my family that I don’t know, she thought with a sigh.

  15

  Victoria: London, 1940

  It was a cold grey morning and Lizzie and Victoria were walking down Baker Street. Lizzie was wearing a fox fur coat and Victoria looked neatly turned out in her blue Wren uniform. She’d altered it herself to make it look more stylish and, as Birdie would say, chic, tailoring the waist for a slim, flattering fit. O
ther women and the occasional man (always much older than either of them) passed them by. There were mothers with small children, and the infirm or elderly, but no young men to speak of.

  The trees were bare, as though they were too afraid to unfurl their green shoots or leaves. Piles of rubble lay swept in mounds to the side of the footpath after a clean-up attempt, and there were gaping holes like broken teeth between the buildings where bombs had recently hit. Victoria paused for a moment where her favourite cinema had been. Apart from the park in the square outside Lizzie’s house, it had been the only place she had really felt herself, here in London, since the war began. The Germans’ blitzkrieg had put paid to that.

  It was so odd. She wondered at how things could go on in such an orderly fashion – with tea and milk needing to be bought, people needing to be fed, shops opening and closing, buses running and letters continuing to be delivered – when all the while, the world seemed to be falling down around their ears. Victoria missed seeing more young children in the city, but so many of them had left for the countryside already. She wished for the umpteenth time she could be there as well. Home. Bledesford.

  ‘I’ve spoken with Cousin Felicia and she says we can have the house at Chatham Square for the engagement party,’ Lizzie said, striding ahead. ‘I’m organising all the details, so you needn’t worry about a thing, darling. And Oswald only needs to turn up. Let’s show his people how it’s done, shall we?’ Her older sister turned back towards her with a grin. ‘Oh, do keep up, darling.’

  Victoria smiled back and hurried to keep up with her sister, trying to hide the tumult she was feeling inside.

  She took Lizzie’s arm and blurted out impulsively, ‘When I get married, and the war is over, promise me you’ll come and stay? You could bring Reggie . . . I can’t imagine what life will be like without you around.’ Victoria hated how small and pleading her voice sounded but she felt so helpless, as though everything was out of her control.