The Gown(32)

She’d taken the parcels from him, one after the other, and had carried them into the kitchen. They were identical, each about a foot square and half as deep again, wrapped in brown paper and webbed round with string. One whole corner of each had been tiled with Canadian postage stamps. Miriam had helped her untie the knots in the string, and then they’d removed the paper and folded it neatly. Beneath was a layer of waxed muslin, still pristine; it would be perfect for storing things like cheese.

One of the boxes—actually metal tins, a bit like the ones biscuits came in, only without any lettering—had a letter on top.

June 17, 1947

Dearest Ann,

By now you’ll have had airmail letters from me with news of Toronto, so I won’t go on about that now. I’m sure I’ll have told you all about the shops and how nothing is rationed and everything is so cheap compared to home—people here have no idea of what it’s like in England right now. You can just go into any shop and buy what you want as long as you have the cash to pay for it.

So that’s what I’ve done. My train from Halifax arrived on Sunday and on Monday morning—that’s yesterday—I went out shopping. When I was on the ship and feeling bored to death I made up a list of everything you can’t get at home right now. Things that are rationed or just aren’t in the shops or are so dear only the queen herself can afford them. I found nearly everything and I bundled it all into these five tins and we weighed them to make sure they aren’t more than five pounds each. The man at the post office here says you won’t get points taken off your rations that way.

You must let me know if I’ve missed anything you want or need. There’s nothing for winter in the shops yet but I’ll send boots and woolies before it gets too cold.

It was such fun filling these tins. I felt like Father Christmas and I hope it feels like an early Christmas for you, too.

With much love from your friend and sister,

Milly

“I don’t know how they got here so fast,” Ann said. “It usually takes months for parcels to get here. That’s what Mrs. Turner down the street always says. Her daughter lives in Vancouver.”

“Yes, but is not Vancouver very much farther away than Toronto? And what does it matter? The parcels are here. Go on. Open them,” Miriam urged.

Ann’s hands were trembling by the time the last tin had been emptied and its contents arranged upon the table. Milly hadn’t exaggerated when she’d compared herself to Father Christmas.

There were tins of corned beef, salmon, evaporated milk, and peaches in syrup. Dried apricots and raisins. A big jar of strawberry jam. Packets of powdered milk, cocoa, tea, sugar, and rice. Yards of heavy woolen suiting, finely woven tartan, and two bolts of silky printed rayon, one of pale blue and the other a smoky purple, all with thread and buttons to match. Half a dozen pairs of stockings, and, taking up almost one entire tin, a brand-new pair of high-heeled shoes.

“I thought Milly might send a few bits and pieces at Christmas. A plum pudding in a tin, or something like that. But not this . . .”

“She is a very kind person, your Milly.”

“She is. There’s just so much . . . I want you to have some of the fabric. You can have a new dress. And the shoes—”

“No,” Miriam said. “Absolutely not. Those shoes are for you. Nothing could induce me to wear them. And you must make yourself a new dress. This blue, the color of the sky—this will be perfect for you.”

“Then you must have the other length of rayon. I insist.”

“Your Milly sent the fabric for you.”

“Yes, but she seems to have forgotten that I have ginger hair. I look a fright in purple. If you don’t use it, the fabric will just sit there.”

Once Miriam had agreed to a dress, Ann borrowed a pattern from Miss Holliday in the sewing workroom, which Mr. Hartnell allowed as long as they were making garments for their own use. They’d worked on the dresses after hours, first sewing up the long seams with the help of Miss Ireland, one of the machinists. At home, they did the finer work of finishing and fitting in the sitting room, the wireless singing in the background. There was no mirror in the house, apart from a small one over the sink in the washroom, so she’d had to trust Miriam’s assessment that the completed frock fit her perfectly.

They’d finished their frocks and then, a day or two later, Ethel had suggested a night out to say farewell to Doris, whose wedding was fast approaching.

“We’ll have supper at the Corner House, and then we’ll go dancing. At the Paramount, or maybe the Astoria. That’s closer. Bring your best frocks and your dancing shoes in the morning, and we’ll get gussied up in the cloakroom.”

At first Miriam was the reluctant one. “I don’t know how to dance,” she’d protested.

“You must come,” Ann had insisted. “Doris will be hurt if I don’t go, but I’m nervous as it is. And we don’t even have to dance. We can stand there and hold up the wall together.”

There were nine of them all told: herself, Miriam, Doris, Ruthie and Ethel; Betty and Dorothy from sewing; Jessie from the millinery workroom; and Carmen, one of the Hartnell house models and so beautiful it was like having a film star in their midst. They’d shared round powder and lipstick, admired one another’s frocks and hairstyles, and just like that another hour had passed and they still hadn’t left the cloakroom.