The Gown(18)

“Miss Dassin, this is Miss Hughes. Ann Hughes. One of my senior hands. I think we’ll have you work with her to begin.”

Ann’s smile was wide and unaffected. “Welcome to Hartnell, Miss Dassin.”

“Thank you. I wonder, Miss Duley, if perhaps you would like to see my samples?”

“I don’t see why not. Although you must be good if Mr. Hartnell is keen.” Taking the bound samples from Miriam, she set them on the edge of the nearest embroidery frame. “Ann. Come and look,” she said only a few seconds later, her voice almost reverent. “Look at these designs.”

“These are beautiful. Really, they are. Where did you do your training?” Ann asked.

“At Maison Lesage.”

Miss Duley nodded, her attention still fixed on the samples. “And, ah, during the war . . . ?”

“I was at Maison Rébé. The atelier stayed open. It was a difficult time,” she said, hoping against hope that Miss Duley would not question her further. It was hard enough to merely think of those years, let alone speak of them. Hiding in plain sight, lying to everyone she knew, holding her breath whenever she had to cross a checkpoint or queue up for bread.

She was holding her breath now.

“I’m sure it was terribly difficult,” Miss Duley agreed. “We like to go on about how bad things were during the war, but we never had to live with Nazis lording it over us. Such a relief that it’s all over now.”

Miriam nodded. Swallowed. Tried to think of how to respond in a fashion that wouldn’t provoke further questions.

“Now, wages. Most girls come in as assistants, but your skills are well above that level. I think . . . well, why don’t we start you as a junior hand? Pay is thirty-five shillings per week.”

“Thank you. That is most generous.”

“We start at half eight each day, Monday to Friday, and finish at five. From time to time we might ask you to work longer hours, say if we’ve a last-minute commission and are hard put to finish on time. We’ve a canteen in the cellar, and we break for tea midmorning, for dinner at half twelve, and again for tea in the afternoon. No smoking in the workrooms, no lipstick or rouge, fingernails kept short. You can wear a coverall if you have one, but street clothes are fine. I’d tell you to keep a smart appearance, but”—and here she waved a hand at Miriam—“just look at you. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were here to be fitted for a gown.”

“You are very kind.”

“It was smart, you know. Going to see Mr. Hartnell straight off. Mrs. Price told me when she called down.”

“I assure you, I meant no offense by it.” She waited for the woman to remonstrate with her, or tell her she would be sacked for further acts of insubordination. Instead Miss Duley smiled, a true smile that went all the way to her bright blue eyes.

“None taken. Now I’d best get my dinner in before the girls come back. Ann, can you show Miss Dassin the way out?”

“Of course.”

Back they went through the warren of corridors, finally emerging onto the mews at the back of the premises. “Here we are,” Ann said. “Where are you heading?”

“I am returning to Ealing. On the Central line.”

“Not so far, then. I’ll see you on Monday.”

They shook hands, and then Miriam was walking away, through the warm midday sun, her eyes stinging in the light, her every limb shaking from relief and an unexpected and unfamiliar surge of joy. The clouds had cleared, the sky was the most beautiful shade of bleu azur, and spring was in the air.

At long last, and against all hope, spring had come again.





Chapter Six


Heather


May 14, 2016

To the consternation of their friends and neighbors, Heather’s parents had shunned tradition when planning a memorial service for Nan. There’d been no visitation, no wake, and no funeral.

“She said she couldn’t stand the idea of me and Jim spending a penny more than we had to on seeing her off,” her mom explained when people asked. “When I asked her what she wanted, she told me to toss her on the compost heap.”

Since the authorities frowned on such unorthodox burial practices, they’d chosen the simplest and cheapest option: a straightforward cremation, with the ashes returned in a plain wooden box. “She’d have preferred a cardboard one, but when I asked the undertaker if that was possible he looked like he was going to pass out.”

So a pine box it was, and they’d set it on the fireplace mantel for the time being. “As soon as the peonies are in bloom, we’ll scatter her ashes in the garden.”

Instead of a funeral, Heather’s parents had hosted a gathering at their house. There’d been a bakery’s worth of scones and squares and cookies on the dining room table, and pots of tea and coffee besides. Heather’s mom had thanked everyone for coming, and her dad had recited that poem about the dead person simply being in the next room, and though people had smiled and wiped away tears and nodded their approval, Heather had been strangely unmoved. She suspected her grandmother would have reacted the same way.

The best part of the gathering had been the stories people told about Nan, who’d always been the first to come by with food and flowers from her garden when a baby was born or a loved one died. She’d been an ESL tutor, a Meals on Wheels driver, a hospital visitor, a volunteer at the food bank, and back in the late 1970s she’d quietly taken in an entire family of Vietnamese refugees.