The Gown(23)

“Didn’t we all?”

Ann lowered her voice to the merest whisper. “Not like she did. I may be wrong, of course. It’s just a feeling. Nothing she’s said.”

She wasn’t wrong. If there was anything she had learned during the war, it was how to recognize the marks of grief on another.

“Well, keep an eye on her. Make sure she isn’t left to herself when you’re all sitting in the canteen. And if she’s struggling, do let me know.”

“I will.”

“How long until you’re finished with this lace, do you think?”

“Not long at all. By midday tomorrow at the latest.”

“Good.” Miss Duley nodded decisively, then moved on to the next frame to advise, to steady nerves, to caution anyone who was working too quickly or, conversely, was dawdling over a simple task.

Ann returned her attention to her own work, not pausing until it was time for their morning break. As she rose from her chair, already one of the last to head to the canteen, she noticed that Miriam was still intent on her work.

“You’ll wear yourself out,” she said. “Come on downstairs with me. I’m sure we can both use a few minutes away from our frames.”

The other woman looked up and noticed the empty workroom. “Oh. Do excuse me. I had not realized—”

“That’s a sign of a dedicated embroiderer. Come on, now, otherwise Miss Duley will be calling us back before we make it to the front of the queue.”

Mugs of tea in hand, they found a quiet table in the corner. Ann was the first to speak. “When I first started here, we didn’t have a canteen. I’d bring a flask of tea with me. It was fine in the morning but was always stone cold by the afternoon.”

“Where did you have your break? Not in the workrooms?”

“Heavens, no. In the cloakroom, sitting in between everyone’s raincoats and muddy boots. This is much nicer.”

Miriam’s smile was shy, a little hesitant, and Ann wished, now, that she had made more of an effort to get to know the other woman. This was the first time they’d talked about anything other than work, even though Miriam had been at Hartnell for more than two months.

Ann hadn’t wanted to push her; had thought to give her a while to settle in. But she’d waited too long. Miss Duley had asked her to keep an eye on Miriam, but instead she’d been so wrapped up with her worries about Milly leaving that—

“How long have you worked here? At Hartnell, I mean to say.”

Well, then. Perhaps Miriam wasn’t all that shy. Perhaps she just needed a quiet corner and someone who was prepared to listen.

“Would you believe it’s been eleven years? Feels like forever. I started as an apprentice, straight out of school. Could barely thread a needle. At first I swept the floor, fetched things for the junior and senior hands, things like that. Then they let me sort the beads and sequins, make sure they had what they needed. It was months before Miss Duley let me sew on so much as a spangle.”

“But you learned.”

“I did. Bit by bit, I learned.”

“And you have been here all that time?”

Ann nodded. “All that time. Even during the war, when we weren’t allowed to use embroidery on anything being sold here in England. Austerity regulations, you see. But we kept on making clothes for export, mostly to America, and quite often there were things to do up for the queen and other royals. And we did a lot of work for the London theaters. All in the interests of boosting morale, I suppose. Were you . . . were you able to keep working as an embroiderer during the war?”

The hovering smile faded from Miriam’s face. Looking down, she focused her gaze on her untouched mug of tea. “Yes. During the Occupation there was talk of the Germans shutting the couture houses, or of moving them to Germany, but the couturiers convinced them, the Nazis, to keep things as they were.”

“I remember reading about them. The Nazis at the fashion shows, with their wives and, well, their . . .”

“Mistresses.”

“Yes. And how they wore the latest fashions while everyone else in France was starving.”

“It is true. They did. Yet most of the women at the défilés were French. Can you believe it? Those with wealth kept their riches. They had little to fear as long as they behaved themselves.”

“It must have been awful. Working on clothes for the enemy.”

“It was, and yet I was grateful for it. For the work, I mean. It kept me alive.”

“Of course,” Ann hastened to agree. “I expect I would have done the same. It’s not as if we were invaded. We never had to live under their thumb as you did.”

“You had the bombing. That is something. Until I came here and saw the holes—I mean the open spaces where the bombs fell—I did not understand how bad it was. I had no notion of how much was destroyed.”

“It was bad. Although I’m not sure I should complain after what you’ve been through.”

Ann had meant only to commiserate. To show that she truly sympathized. But something in her words had struck at the other woman, as sharp and painful as a slap. Every vestige of color had faded from Miriam’s face, and her hands, clasped tight around her mug of tea, had begun to tremble.

Ann reached across the table and touched her hands to Miriam’s. Only for an instant. She didn’t want to presume, or make the other woman feel worse. But how else to react in the face of such distress?