The Dress Thief

by Natalie Meg Evans

  *

  They touched down at Marseille-Marignane at sunset that same day, Tuesday, 4th May. Verrian gave Phipps most of the French francs in his wallet on the understanding his friend would come back in two days to pick up four passengers.

  ‘Four?’

  ‘A woman, a boy, the woman’s husband – God willing – and myself. You can tip me out in Paris, then take the others to Croydon and put them in a cab to London.’ Where Jack could emerge from his ivory tower and sort them out with visas. Now all he had to do was find a Spanish refugee and child in the chaos of the Marseille docks.

  It took him six hours. From her doorway in a malodorous tenement, Celestia García y Rojas stared at Verrian before bursting into tears. Her cotton frock was a rag, a fitting companion to the draggled cardigan over her shoulders. Legs and feet were bare, her hair tied in a lank ponytail. At first he thought he’d got the wrong woman. Was this really the sophisticate he’d met two or three times in Madrid back in the days when couples still entertained? He asked tentatively, ‘Where’s Miguel?’

  ‘Not here.’ She used her cardigan sleeve to stifle her sobs until a child’s wail of misery behind her claimed her attention.

  Verrian followed her into a filthy room furnished with a mattress and two crates. No food, so he went out again foraging and found a café willing to fill a box with brioche and bread and lend a jug of coffee. They ate in silence at first, then Celestia began to talk. She told him that after his punishment shooting, Miguel had been taken to a prison on the outskirts of Madrid. The authorities had allowed no contact. Then, a couple of weeks later he’d been as abruptly released. All three of them had been given safe-conduct passes into France and some money so they could take a South America-bound ship here at Marseille. Crossing into France was easier than getting through a war zone to one of Spain’s Atlantic ports, they’d been advised.

  Thus far, Verrian thought, Jack had delivered.

  Though Miguel was feverish from his wounds, he’d begun the journey in good spirits. Then, fifty miles from the border, he refused to go further, saying he would not leave Spain as a coward. He would go to his mother’s native Basque country and fight there for the People’s Army – fight for an independent Pais Vasco. Celestia and the child should go to Marseille, he said, and use their tickets. He would join them later.

  ‘I knew we’d never see him again if we went to South America,’ Celestia explained in her quick Castilian Spanish. So, agreeing to stay together, they’d found an abandoned truck which Celestia drove north on bomb-pitted roads, knowing every corner might conceal an ambush, every cloud a fighter plane. Miguel had lain in the back, dosed with aspirin, sweating and moaning. At the border with the Basque country, the truck’s engine blew up. ‘We begged lifts in farmers’ trucks and in a few days arrived at the place where Miguel was born.’

  Guernica.

  By this time Miguel’s fever was raging and he was admitted into the town’s hospital. Celestia spent her last pesetas on a cheap hotel room. The next afternoon, the Condor Legion came.

  They finished their breakfast. Celestia, who’d watched Verrian struggle with his injured hand, helped him take off the stiff bandage. The little boy, Pepe, watched silently, flinching neither at the sight of the bloody dressing nor the jagged fissure beneath.

  ‘You’re injured in the same place as Miguel,’ Celestia told Verrian. ‘They shot off two fingers of his left hand. The hand that held the censor’s stamp. They said he approved journalists’ lies.’

  ‘I was there, Señora.’

  She flung a strand of hair off her face, then fetched a road-stained bag and extracted a handkerchief, which she tore into strips for fresh bandage. ‘This is a sign, I think. You, same place, same hand.’

  ‘Except I’m right-handed.’

  She brushed this aside and moved on, to another thought – ‘The girls downstairs gave me food and this.’ She tugged at the limp cardigan. ‘Strange, I need to come to a slum to find kindness. When I ran to the hospital in Guernica to search for Miguel, the planes were low overhead. I had left Pepe alone in the hotel. One plane swooped so low over my head I could see the …’ She waved a hand, trying to summon the words.

  ‘The rivets? The panels?’

  ‘Guns, spitting white fire into the street. Everyone was dying – old ladies, a nun, even the dogs. They were shooting everything. Infierno.’ Hell. ‘The noise …’ She clapped her hands to her ears, either to show him or because she was reliving it. ‘I couldn’t go forward, I couldn’t get back to Pepe. Everything was smoke and fire, people dying on the ground … in cellars, in the shelters. And the hospital. I howled for my husband because I knew he was dead. I turned my back to it and went to find my child.’

  She sobbed for several long minutes. Verrian stared at his hand, knowing how it felt to close your eyes and re-experience a cinematic show of your worst nightmares. He couldn’t enter hers, but his was a khaki-green vehicle engulfed in a ball of heat no human could penetrate. And from its heart, screaming.

  He asked how she’d reached Marseille, a journey of more than three hundred miles. She’d got a lift to Pamplona with a truck-load of freedom fighters, she said. Then somebody flagged down a French lorry heading for Marseille. She’d been determined to get on that boat for Venezuela. Only, presenting herself at the docks, she’d learned that the boat had sailed.

  ‘I prayed to Our Lady – please help. I met a woman downstairs who works in a big house some mornings. She goes at dawn to do the laundry and she let me in when her mistress was still in bed. I was allowed one telephone call. I prayed as I dialled that you would still be in Paris, that you would come.’

  He nodded. ‘Señora, do you have Miguel’s papers? His travel permits, his passport?’

  Her eyes flashed as she understood. ‘You love Spain that much, Señor?’

  ‘I don’t think I do. Not now. But I loved …’ He cleared his throat. ‘There’s a song we used to sing, “Lady of Spain”. I loved a lady of Spain.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Mrs Haviland, briefly.’

  *

  On the evening of 6th May, he settled Celestia and Pepe in the Avro Anson’s cabin. Pepe wore a new corduroy suit and jersey. Verrian had bought Celestia a coat, hat, gloves and decent shoes. It wasn’t charity; it was polishing them up because he felt a refugee must be able to look a new country squarely in the eye. She’d refused to go to London. ‘I speak English so badly, and England is heathen, no?’ She would stay in Paris. Paris had Catholic churches. Paris felt closer to Spain.

  Ron Phipps, sheepskin jacket hanging loose, grinned under his flying helmet and said in a side whisper, ‘Nice-looking lass. Sad story?’

  ‘Awful. Phipps, stay with them at Le Bourget until they’re safely in a taxi.’ He handed his friend a letter. It was for Laurentin, the hotel owner who’d seen Verrian through his fever, and it contained the last high-denomination note from Verrian’s wallet. The money would cover a couple of weeks’ stay for Celestia and Pepe. The letter asked Laurentin to apply to ‘Mme Theakston at the News Monitor’ for further funds to cover their accommodation until he returned. If he returned. Verrian handed over a second letter. ‘Give this to Beryl Theakston in person,’ he told Phipps. ‘She must take this one to Maison Javier, the fashion house. It’s for Alix Gower – tall, dark-haired, slim. Got it?’

  Phipps squinted at the letters, then at Verrian. ‘You’re coming back to Paris with me, aren’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  Then Phipps really looked at him, taking note of the trench coat Verrian had slung on top of his suitcase. Then at Verrian’s growth of beard. ‘What’s occurring, old chap?’

  ‘I’m going back.’

  ‘To Paris? Absolutely.’

  ‘Into Spain.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Phipps glanced up at the Avro’s cabin, where a small face peered out. ‘You got chucked out, remember? Re-entry strictly denied. Blotted the old copybook.’

  ‘I’m not going back as
a journalist. I’m joining the International Brigades. I’m going to fight.’

  Phipps’s good-natured face sagged. ‘Listen, the French won’t let you across. They’re sending all deluded do-gooders back at the border, won’t have their country used as a military recruiting office. Bloody hell, Verrian, get on board.’

  ‘I won’t get stopped.’ Verrian took a passport from his pocket, flipping it open at the bearer’s photograph. The face was part-obscured by the official stamp of Pais Vasco, Basque region, and showed a man maybe five years older than Verrian. Sculpted cheeks and a beard gave the air of a scholar.

  Phipps groaned in comprehension. ‘You’re going to fight as Miguel Rojas Ibarra? Why?’

  ‘Seems only fair.’ Sensing Phipps needed more, he added, ‘Someone I cared for in Spain burned. Nothing to be done, but I must pay the debt because until I do I’m not free to offer myself to anyone else.’

  ‘I hope you have something worth surviving for.’

  Verrian answered, ‘If I do, she’s in Paris.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Alsace, Eastern France. Saturday, 22nd May

  Jean-Yves gazed out at the countryside. They’d travelled almost an hour through beech forest speared by sunlight. It was hypnotic. The Panhard-Levassor’s suspension coasted over potholes and swallowed hairpin corners with ease. They’d just crossed the river that would accompany them all the way to Kirchwiller.

  He was going home. To prepare for Christine’s wedding, to ensure his castle was ready for a duc and duchesse. And to talk with his land manager about selling off a parcel of the land that had once been his family’s hunting estate.

  Most difficult of all, he was going home to face a dying woman. His steward had written warning him that his mother’s former housekeeper might not make it through the week. Jean-Yves knew that if he didn’t ask Célie Haupmann a certain question on this visit, it would be too late.

  The road grew steeper and soon they were carving through orchards, sunshine flickering on slipper-satin bark. In a week or so, these trees would be blizzards of crimson, the slopes crammed with workers and baskets. Fragrant cherries would dominate the markets all June and July, the spare sent off to produce the regional speciality, Kirsch liquor. The air would taste bittersweet for the whole season.

  In spite of the beauty around him, Jean-Yves hadn’t enjoyed the drive from Paris. His mistake had been to bring Ninette and Jolyan Ferryman. His daughter, chattering away beside him on the rear seat, and his secretary’s obsequious attentions, intruded on his thoughts. Ferryman sat up front beside the chauffeur and Jean-Yves was sick of the sight of the back of his head. The boy used so much hair oil, you could see the tracks of his comb and the scalp beneath.

  They reached the point where the river plunged into a gorge thick with spruce and mountain ash. Rising from a dark forest was the plateau of Kirchwiller, his castle crowning it. The Panhard’s windows filled with a panorama of treetops and wheeling hawks. Thinking out loud, Jean-Yves said, ‘The windows of my castle look into France, the arrow slits towards Germany.’ Then, to Ninette, who had stopped talking in order to sulk because he’d refused to let her take Pépin’s place at the wheel and show off her nascent driving skills, ‘Imagine your medieval ancestors riding this final league and seeing their stronghold before them.’

  It was Ferryman who answered. ‘You’re proud of the place, Monsieur?’

  ‘To love the lands and forests of Kirchwiller is a birthright. My father changed national allegiance for it. I fought a war to get it back.’ Jean-Yves added silently, And, if I don’t find the answers I’m searching for soon, a blackmailer will take it from me.

  *

  That evening, leaving Ferryman and Ninette playing chess in the drawing room, Jean-Yves went to pay the call that mustn’t be delayed.

  Célie Haupmann had been at Kirchwiller all his life and most of her own. She’d arrived as the kitchen dogsbody, rising to become his late mother’s most trusted assistant. On Marie-Christine de Charembourg’s death three years ago, an apartment had been made for Célie in one of the gatehouses. These days she retained the title ‘housekeeper’, but it was a courtesy.

  Jean-Yves knocked at her apartment door and was let in by a nurse, who, from her grey tunic and white coif, had been recruited from a nearby convent. The nurse informed him that Mme Haupmann was expecting him, though she may have nodded off, and that a maid had been in to lay out refreshments. She ushered him to a sitting room and withdrew.

  Jean-Yves took a moment to inspect his surroundings and was glad to see that his steward had provided comfortable accommodation for the old servant. Clearly, Haupmann liked her knick-knacks. His eye fell on candlesticks, clocks, china animals – some he recognised as having belonged to his mother. All very pretty and neat … unlike Haupmann herself.

  Once she’d been full-lipped and comely, her face ringed by butter-blonde plaits. Now she filled her armchair like bloated dough, a yellowed complexion hinting at failing organs. When he coughed politely, she opened her eyes and muttered in her native Alsatian.

  Jean-Yves greeted her in French and waited for a gruff reply. She’d liked him as a child but had grown cold as he grew taller and lost his chubby appeal. He suspected she’d never forgiven him for ‘joining the enemy’ – that is, becoming a man. Or perhaps she’d been jealous of the intensity of his mother’s love for him. Their infrequent meetings were always a bit of a tap dance.

  No gruff response today, but a weak attempt at a handshake. She invited him to sit and indicated the refreshment table, the slices of Kugelhopf, a speciality of the region, and a decanter of Kirsch. Would he kindly pour? Was dear Christine here, had she come?

  No, the future duchesse was in Paris with her mother, where her dress and trousseau were being finished.

  But of course. What was the wedding dress like?

  ‘I’ve not been allowed to see, Madame.’

  Was the bridegroom handsome? Where was his property … the Haute-Loire? Goodness. She’d never been so far in her life.

  Jean-Yves poured Kirsch and answered her questions. If she wanted gossip, she could have it. He doubted she got much company. Only when a cuckoo popped out on its springs to brandish the hour did he finally ask his question. ‘Madame, has anybody contacted you in recent months probing the death of the artist Alfred Lutzman?’

  Colour flooded Célie Haupmann’s cheeks. The old hostility returned. ‘Why dig that up? It’s not decent.’

  ‘While my mother was alive I never referred to it, but you and I can be open. Have you spoken to anybody? Answered a letter? Passed on details of that time?’

  Contempt thickened her expression. ‘So much fuss over one stupid Jew. Who cares if there’s one less in Kirchwiller? They take our trade, make themselves rich and never spend their money here. It sits in banks in Germany while we go hungry.’

  Never had anyone looked less hungry. ‘You were my mother’s confidante,’ Jean-Yves continued patiently. ‘She told you things she otherwise kept for her father-confessor. If you revealed the events of that December day in 1903,’ he moved his chair nearer in a gesture of intimacy, ‘be assured I am not angry, but I must know.’

  Célie lifted her Kirsch glass unsteadily. ‘She talked of you all the time, your mother, how she missed you. Her only child – who abandoned her.’

  ‘So you say every time we meet, though it was she who insisted I leave here. My mother was only at peace when I was out of the country. She feared my past might catch up with me if I stayed.’

  ‘Bah! She had no peace. Her marriage was misery. I saw new bruises every morning when I went to her for my orders.’

  He stood, turning his back, counting down to quell his sudden anger. Célie was referring to the ‘marital battery’ inflicted on his mother, which had only stopped with his father’s death in 1902. Jean-Yves had been victim of his father’s violence too, but he’d learned very young that it was never to be mentioned. He and his mother had shared their experience through g
lances alone – a touch here, a quick hug there. ‘You forget your place,’ he said coldly to Célie.

  ‘I’m dying. It gives me the right. Your father was a brute. His greatest pleasure was beating your mother. I hope you are not the same.’

  ‘Good God, Madame!’ He couldn’t help adding, ‘You speak as if I should have stopped him. I was a child.’

  ‘You were not always a child, but it’s over now. She is at peace and he is … roasting in hell, I hope. Pray your daughters marry good men, mm?’ Célie tilted her head, forcing a last familiarity between them. ‘As for your big question, I told nobody what you did to that Jew. Why should I? We should get rid of them all.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Paris, 28th May

  Flower-figured chiffon over silk satin, six sunray darts from neckline to bust, medieval-style sleaves. Alix tallied the myriad details that made Christine de Charembourg’s wedding gown unique. Yesterday – or the day before; the weary hours were merging – she’d sewn hundreds of lead pellets into the hem so that if the wedding day turned breezy, Christine’s dress wouldn’t end up over her head.

  They were in Javier’s salon, Christine on a low, wooden stage, Alix on her knees arranging the Chantilly cream skirts over the steps. This was the dress’s first public appearance. After today, it would be carefully packed and taken to Alsace for the wedding day scheduled for just over two weeks’ time. A tear slipped from Alix’s eye and she dashed it away, angry with herself for being silly. The feel of wedding chiffon in her hands brought back Verrian’s voice: ‘I’m falling for you …’ At some point in his descent, he’d obviously had second thoughts, because he’d disappeared. He’d been gone for more than three weeks, and this time even his newspaper office didn’t know where he was. Rosa, in whose home Alix was now a permanent lodger, insisted he’d be back. ‘I know men, ducks, and he isn’t the runaway type.’