The Gown(20)

“Who are they?” she asked.

“I think they’re seamstresses. Embroiderers, actually. Look at those tables. They’re actually frames. Just like the ones we use at my quilting circle,” her mother explained. “The fabric is stretched on the frames before they start adding the beads and sequins and what-have-you.”

Heather examined the photograph minutely, searching for something familiar, something known, among the faces in the group. Her attention was caught by one woman, her fair hair clipped to the side, her expression solemn and unsmiling. She seemed wary, Heather thought, as if she was afraid of what the photographer might see.

“That woman by the window—” she began.

“I know. I think that’s Mum. Younger than I remember her, but I think it’s her. I just . . .”

“What is it?”

“It’s just that it doesn’t fit. I mean, Mum was good with her hands, and you know how she loved to knit, but she was never one for sewing or embroidery or anything like that. I don’t think I ever saw her sew on so much as a button.”

“Didn’t everyone learn to sew in those days?”

“Yes, but even then it was pretty basic stuff. Mending and darning and how to knit a scarf. This kind of work,” and here she nodded at the embroideries, “is another story. Embroidery like this takes years to learn.”

“So you don’t think Nan made these?”

“I honestly don’t know. She definitely never said anything to me about it. On the other hand, there she is in the picture.”

Heather couldn’t tear her eyes away from the young Nan in the photograph. “So why did she stop? Why did she come here?”

“I always assumed it was sadness that sent her across the ocean. Grief over losing my dad, and before him her brother. And I think I remember her saying that both her parents had died before the war. That would have left her more or less alone in the world, apart from Milly, her sister-in-law. And she’s the one who had already moved to Canada.”

It made a strange sort of sense. Nan had decided to make a fresh start, away from the death and destruction of the war, and that’s why she’d emigrated. That’s why she hadn’t ever talked about England—it had been too painful. And yet . . .

“If she wanted to leave everything behind, then why did she bring these embroideries with her?” Heather asked. “Why didn’t she ever show them to us? And why did she put my name on the box?”

“I’ve no idea. Perhaps she meant to give them to you, one day, and then never got around to it.”

“What do you think I should do with them?”

“I was hoping you could find out more. When you’re not so busy at work. One rainy afternoon in front of your computer and you’ll have it all figured out.”

“I guess I could try.”

And yet. For all that Nan had never shared the details of her life before she came to Canada, she hadn’t seemed like the sort of person whose past was brimming over with secrets. She’d been Nan, honest and kind and generous, a good neighbor and friend. The sort of person you tended to take for granted until she was gone.

If Nan had kept secrets, it had been for a reason. What point was there in unearthing them now? What if, in searching for answers, she discovered something unsettling, even disturbing?

“I can see the wheels turning in your head,” her mother said. “Let’s put these away, now, and get to bed.”

“Okay. It’s just . . . what do you think she would want me to do?”

“Oh, honey. I wish I could say for sure. Maybe she did want you to know, and putting your name on the box was her way of telling. Of asking, in a way.”

“Maybe.”

Nan had never been one for answering questions; that was a given. But perhaps, just perhaps, she wouldn’t mind if Heather went looking for answers.





Chapter Seven


Ann


July 10, 1947

Milly had left for Canada a month ago, but it had only taken a few days for Ann to decide she hated living alone. It wasn’t as if she needed someone glued to her side every hour of the day, for she’d always been an independent sort of person. But this was different.

Without Milly, the house was empty. Hollowed out. Ann was lonely, with no one to share the little details of life, things that weren’t important on their own but, added together, made up the warp and weft of her life: an interesting person she’d noticed on the Tube, a conversation she’d had with Mr. Booth about his prize sweet peas and how they were suffering in the near-tropical summer heat, a new song she’d heard on the wireless.

She was lonely and getting poorer by the day, because the rent on the house was more than she could manage without help. After Milly had fixed a departure date, Ann had asked around at work, but the few girls who were interested in lodging with her had balked at the commute out to Barking. Never mind that it might easily take just as long to travel from Mayfair to their current lodgings in London; it was the idea of living in the suburbs, far away from the lights and fun and glamour of the city, that put them off.

All she had to do was write up a notice and post it in the newsagent’s.

Female lodger required. Rent 15/- p.w. Private bedroom. Furnished. Friendly accommodations. Reply to A. Hughes, 109 Morley Road, Barking.