The Dressmaker's Gift

by Valpy, Fiona

  ‘It’ll be fun showing them round the museum,’ I say – and I find that I mean it. I actually quite miss them.

  I’ve been asleep for five days, apparently, in a medically induced coma. And my father has sat at my bedside on every single one of those days and read from the book my stepmother put into his hastily packed suitcase. ‘Take this to her,’ he tells me she said. ‘It was always Harriet’s favourite.’

  Thierry visits often and the nurses have all fallen in love with him, they tell me. ‘Not that he ever notices us. When you were in the coma, he wouldn’t leave your side,’ they say. ‘Such a romantic!’

  My mind is a blank when it comes to remembering the accident, so Thierry fills in the missing parts of the jigsaw for me. ‘The police were chasing a suspect. And the tip-off they’d been given was right – they found bomb-making materials in the back of the van. The driver was part of a terrorist cell. There’ve been several arrests.’

  He takes my hand, and strokes it, carefully avoiding the tape covering the needle which connects me to the drip at my bedside. ‘You pushed Simone to safety – without a doubt, you saved her life. The van would have flattened her. But when you ran towards her, the wing mirror caught your head, a real crack, it knocked you out cold. I thought you were dead. Those were some of the worst moments of my life. The police wouldn’t let me hold you – you had a severe head injury and they were worried that your neck might be damaged too, so we couldn’t move you. At last the ambulance arrived and they brought you here. They did a scan and then operated straight away, to relieve the pressure on your brain. You were put into a coma to allow the swelling to go down. It was touch and go, they said. They told me to call your father and ask him to come as quickly as he could. Simone and I were beside ourselves. She was in shock at the time too, of course. She’s been here every day as well, but they only allow two people in at a time.’

  Thierry phones Simone to let her know that I’ve woken up and she demands to speak to me. We don’t have much of a conversation, what with my drowsiness and her crying as she thanks me, over and over, for saving her life. But through her tears, she promises she’ll be in first thing tomorrow morning.

  I feel exhausted. My head is still heavy, my brain thick with drugs and concussive shock, so Dad kisses me on the forehead, just below the line of the crepe bandage, and heads back to his hotel for the night. After he’s gone, Thierry kicks off his boots and climbs on to the bed beside me, gently wrapping me in his arms.

  ‘I have something for you,’ he says. He reaches into his pocket and brings out my charm bracelet. ‘They had to take this off you before you went into the scanner and the nurse gave it to me for safe-keeping. I know how much it means to you.’

  ‘Thank you. Can you help me put it on, please?’

  He fastens the catch. And then he fishes something else out of his pocket. A little square box. He helps me to open it and inside is a tiny golden heart, engraved with the letter ‘H’.

  ‘I thought maybe your bracelet might have room for one more charm,’ he says.

  Smiling, I rest my throbbing head on his shoulder, which feels more comfortable than any pillow. And then, still holding the little box, I drift off into another deep, deep sleep.

  Simone arrives as I’m finishing my breakfast the next morning. It’s a plastic-wrapped croissant and a cup of coffee but, given that it’s the first proper food I’ve eaten in almost a week, it tastes pretty good to me and certainly a lot more satisfying than an intravenous drip.

  After she’s hugged me so hard that I can hardly breathe, Simone wrinkles up her nose at the remnants on my tray. ‘Ugh, that looks inedible,’ she says, picking it up and moving it to an empty table at the bed opposite mine. She fishes in her handbag and draws out a punnet of sweetly perfumed strawberries, a freshly made drink from the juice bar around the corner from the apartment in the Rue Jacob, a box of macaroons from Ladurée and two bars of Côte d’Or chocolate.

  ‘Here,’ she says, handing me the juice, ‘drink this first. You need your vitamins. And then you can eat the rest.’

  The juice is slightly sludgy khaki colour, but whatever is in it tastes absolutely delicious.

  Simone kicks off her shoes and props her feet on my bed and we spend a happy hour or so eating chocolate and chatting. She fills me in on the news from Agence Guillemet and tells me that everyone sends their love.

  A nurse comes to shoo her out at last, saying that I need to rest, and Simone gathers up her things. Then she hugs me again, a gesture of solidarity, and sisterhood, and friendship. And, as she stands up and heads for the door, she pauses, turning back to say, ‘By the way, my whole family are demanding that I come home and that I bring you with me. They all want to meet you. To thank you in person for saving me. Especially my grandmother, Mireille. She says she wants to tell you more about Claire . . . about what happened afterwards. And she has something for you.’

  My father comes in at lunchtime, bringing me some little savoury pastries from a charcuterie that he passed on the way to the hospital from his hotel. We share them as he tells me how excited my sisters are to be coming to visit at the end of October. My stepmother’s already booked the Eurostar tickets. ‘They miss you, you know, Harriet. They’re looking forward to spending some time with you. We all are.’

  He takes my hand in his and holds it tightly. ‘I owe you an apology,’ he says.

  ‘What for?’ I ask, genuinely taken aback.

  ‘For not handling anything very well when you most needed me to. I’m so sorry, I could see how badly you were grieving when Felicity . . . well, when she died. I was so consumed by my own sense of guilt, of having failed you, that I just couldn’t find the words that needed to be said to help you get through it. I should have reassured you, kept you with us instead of sending you away to boarding school. I thought it was the right thing to do at the time, giving you your space, not forcing a new family and a new home on you. But now I think it was probably the last thing you needed. We should have stuck together and muddled through. Worked things out a bit better. I should have been there for you.’

  I give his hand a squeeze. ‘It’s okay, Dad. I think we were all trying to make the best of a horrific situation. I know you wanted what was best for me – I just don’t think any of us knew what that was, though. I can see, now, how hard it was for you as well. For all of us. But we’ve come through it. Older and wiser, eh? And I think we’re all ready for a new beginning.’

  I can see now, with the benefit of hindsight and a large pinch of perspective, that it really was tough for him as well as for me. It must have been hard for my stepmother, too, but now I realise how hard she tried to care for me and to make me a part of the new family into which I’d been catapulted.

  Dad gently touches the charms on the bracelet around my wrist. ‘Felicity always loved that bracelet, wore it all the time. It was her link to her own mother. It’s good to see you wearing it too. She would have been happy to know you’ve carried on the tradition.’

  Then his eyes fill with tears and I pull him closer so that we can hug each other. He strokes my hair, like he used to do when I was a little girl and, through his tears, he smiles. ‘I couldn’t bear to lose you, you know, Harriet. It would have been too much. I love you and I’m so proud that you’re my daughter.’

  After he’s gone, I reflect on what I’ve learnt about the paradox of love: when the price of losing it is too high a risk to take, we draw back and protect ourselves from that loss, even though that means we stop ourselves from loving wholeheartedly. After Mum died, I think Dad and I were protecting ourselves from ever feeling that way again. But maybe now, at last, we can both put the burden of our grief aside and walk on, together. Bringing comfort to one another.

  The father and daughter who were left behind.

  Harriet

  Staying in south-west France with Simone’s family is like being swept into a fast-flowing river of noise and love and laughter. Her parents envelop me in hugs that last almo
st as long as those they bestow on their daughter. Her mother, Josiane, weeps tears of joy and relief over us both and thanks me over and over again for saving Simone’s life. Her father, Florian, is a man of few words, a stonemason like his father before him, who works in the family firm with his three brothers. But he, too, enfolds me in a bear-hug which speaks volumes and leaves me gasping for breath.

  Simone’s older sisters are a little shy at first, but quickly relax over the supper that gathers us all around a long table outside under an arched trellis hung with jasmine and fairy lights. At first the evening is filled with laughter and chatter as the family catches up with local news. Later, though, we talk more sombrely about the accident and how lucky we both were.

  By the time I fall into bed in the Thibaults’ spare room, I scarcely have time to turn out the light before I sink into one of the deepest sleeps I’ve ever enjoyed.

  Next morning, I join Simone at the breakfast table. She’s been up a while already, I can tell, eager to spend time with her family, and has picked a bunch of autumn flowers to take to her mamie, Mireille. The fresh bread which Josiane puts on my plate is the perfect combination of soft and crusty, and I slather it with white butter and a generous helping of amber apricot jam. It tastes better than any creation from the finest of patisseries in Paris ever could.

  As Simone and I walk up the hill to the little cottage where Mireille lives, we’re accompanied by half a dozen swifts who swoop and soar overhead, filling the perfect blue dome of the sky above us with their complex, never-ending dance. This far south the season is slower in turning, the last days of summer lingering longer here than in Paris. The sun warms my back, but at the same time there’s a mellow softness to the light and a sense that the swifts are flexing their wings, preparing to make their long journey south for the winter.

  We turn into a lane and pass the end of a driveway lined with tall oak trees. A large black cat, which has been dozing in the shade, gets to its feet as we draw near and stretches luxuriantly. Simone bends down to scratch behind his ears and he purrs loudly, butting her hand rapturously with his broad head. ‘Hello, Lafitte,’ she says. ‘Where are my little cousins today?’ She explains that one of her uncles – another of Mireille’s stonemason sons – lives in the house with his English wife and their children, and that the old cat is very much a part of the family.

  We carry on up the lane, escorted by the cat as far as Mireille’s house. He watches as we turn in at the gate and then, tail held high, makes his way back down the lane to his lookout post under the oaks once more.

  Mireille’s cottage is surrounded by vineyards hung with grapes which, Simone tells me, will be harvested in a few weeks’ time. Bright geraniums blaze in pots at every window. Simone knocks and then pushes the front door open, calling, ‘Coucou!’

  ‘Come in!’ The voice that replies is cracked and softened with age. ‘I’m in the kitchen.’

  Although she will shortly be celebrating her one hundredth birthday, I would still recognise Mireille from the photograph of the three girls on the Rue Cardinale. Her hair is pure white now, but a few unruly curls still make their escape from the bun at the nape of her neck, refusing to be constrained. Her deep brown eyes are still bright, her gaze birdlike as she smiles up at us. She’s sitting in an old armchair which dwarfs her diminutive figure, and has a bowl of peas on her lap which she’s been shelling into a colander, her claw-like fingers still deft in their work despite being gnarled with arthritis. I picture those same fingers in years gone by, flying over fine fabrics, a needle flashing as it laid down one tiny stitch after another.

  She sets aside the bowl, smoothing down the apron she wears, and hauls herself to her feet, embracing her granddaughter. ‘Simone, ma chérie,’ she murmurs, cupping her face between those gnarled hands, letting her know how much she is treasured.

  Then she turns to look at me. ‘Harriette.’ She pronounces my name as though it were French. ‘Here at last.’ She nods, as if listening to internal voices that we cannot hear. ‘You have a lot of your grandmother in you. But your eyes are those of your grandfather. And, of course, your great-aunt too.’ She pulls me close, with a surprising amount of strength for such a diminutive and elderly lady, peering into my face as if she is reading all that is written there. Her bright eyes seem to pierce to the very core of my being. She nods again, apparently approving of what she has seen there.

  Then she clasps me in an embrace that is tender and loving, and for a moment I am overcome with the feeling that there are three people holding me, not just one. It is as if she is the keeper of their spirits: Claire and Vivi are here, holding me as well.

  ‘Bring the tea things,’ she says to Simone, gesturing towards a tray. ‘We will sit in the garden.’

  She takes my arm and I help her outside. To one side there’s a neat bed of vegetables, the well-worked soil as dark as chocolate, nourishing a rich treasure trove of ruby tomatoes, emerald green courgettes and the amethyst and silver thistle-like heads of artichokes. Pea plants scramble up a bamboo wigwam, the last of the summer stems clinging on with their thread-like fingers. We make our way to the shade of a lime tree whose leaves are just beginning to be edged with gold, and sit down on a bench beside a little tin table.

  Mireille reaches for a thick, leather-bound photo album which sits on the table, moving it to make space for Simone to set down the tea tray. ‘As you can see I like a proper pot of tea, in the English style.’ Mireille smiles. ‘I had an English neighbour who taught me to appreciate such things.’ She gestures towards the sprawling stone house that we passed on our way here, where Simone’s cousins live, just visible beyond the oak trees that surround it. ‘My friend is gone now, alas. But her niece is married to my second-youngest son and they live in the house these days, so happily I can still visit for tea sometimes. It’s funny, isn’t it, how the strands of our lives interweave themselves in unexpected ways?’ She tilts her head to one side, her bright eyes shooting me another piercing glance.

  ‘Fate is a strangely complicated thing, is it not?’ she continues. ‘But I have lived so long now that very little surprises me. When Simone told me that Claire’s granddaughter was sharing the apartment with her in the Rue Cardinale, I had a premonition that you would come here one day. Although I had no idea that you would do so having saved my granddaughter’s life. And so we come full circle, n’est-ce pas? If I hadn’t gone to save Claire that night when Billancourt was bombed, you would not have been there to save my Simone all these years later. So it seems that fate still has a few surprises up its sleeve, even for someone of my advanced age. Which is just as it should be.’ She chuckles and pats my hand.

  ‘Pour the tea for us, Simone. And I will show Harriet the pictures of her beautiful grandmother.’

  She heaves the album on to her lap and begins to turn the pages until she comes to the pictures she’s looking for. It takes me a moment to understand what I’m looking at. There’s a bride, in a beautiful dress whose full skirt emphasises her tiny waist. Her dark curls are tied back loosely and woven with starry flowers. The lines of the dress are breathtaking. It’s a perfect example of Dior’s New Look, the style that made him world-famous in the post-war years.

  And then I look at the figure standing next to the bride: her maid of honour. Her white-blonde hair is caught up in a smooth chignon and she holds a posy of pale flowers which match the bride’s more lavish bouquet. There’s something fragile about her, something almost other-worldly. But it’s her dress that makes me gasp. It’s midnight blue, cut on the bias, draping softly over the thin lines of the young woman’s body. And just visible where the light catches them, I can make out a scattering of tiny silver beads along the neckline which sits beneath the sharp wings of her collarbones.

  ‘Wasn’t she beautiful?’ Mireille turns the page, showing me more photographs from her wedding day. ‘Your grandmother Claire . . . and that’s Larry, your grandfather, of course. A very handsome couple they made. Do you recognise the dress, Harriet?�
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  I nod, unable to speak, my eyes shining with tears of joy and sadness. ‘It’s the one she made,’ I whisper at last. ‘The one pieced together from scraps.’

  ‘When I moved out of the apartment in the Rue Cardinale, I found the dress in Claire’s wardrobe. I packed it up and brought it home with me. I told her I had it but when she came for my wedding she didn’t want to look at it at first, wanted to tear it to pieces and throw it away. She said it was a reminder of her vanity and naivety, and she’d prefer to forget. But I told her she was wrong to think that way. That it was a triumph. A thing of beauty that she’d created from those off-cuts, a manifestation of the way she managed to create something so beautiful in a time of hardship and danger. I made her promise not to throw it away and asked her to wear it to be my maid of honour. That way, from then on it would also be associated with something joyous. I wanted to turn it into an emblem of survival and of the triumph of good over evil, you see.’

  ‘It’s so beautiful,’ I agree. ‘And so is your wedding dress, Mireille. Did Monsieur Dior design it for you?’

  She laughs. ‘He did. Well spotted. You really do have an eye for fashion, just as Simone told me. Can you guess what it is made from?’

  I peer closely at the photograph. The fabric is a creamy white, so fine that it looks almost translucent. ‘From the way the skirt falls in those folds, I’d guess it was silk.’ I look up at her. ‘But where did you get such fine material so soon after the war?’

  ‘My husband, of course.’ Her eyes twinkle with amusement. ‘When Philippe came to find me in Paris at the end of the war, he had with him a large kit bag. There were almost no personal belongings in it. But it did contain one large army-issue parachute. This time, he hadn’t buried it in a turnip field. He kept his promise to me and saved it for me to make something from. As it turned out, what I made was my wedding dress!’