A Vintage Affair (11 page)

I showed her a Horrocks polished cotton sundress from the mid fifties with a pattern of cornflowers. She fingered the skirt. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘Horrocks made gorgeous cotton dresses – they used to cost a week’s wages. And have you seen those?’ I nodded at the cupcakes.

‘
Oh
.’ The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Those are
fabulous
. Can I try on the pink one?’ she asked, like a child, almost. ‘I’d like to try the pink one!’

‘Of course.’ I took it down. ‘It’s a 12.’

‘It’s wonderful,’ she enthused as I hung it in the changing room. She went inside and pulled round the linen curtain. I heard her unzipping her skirt, then the soft rustle of the net petticoats as she stepped into the dress. ‘It looks so … joyful,’ I heard her say. ‘I adore the tutu skirts – I feel like a flower fairy.’ She poked her head through the curtain. ‘Could you pull up the zip for me? I can’t quite manage … Thanks.’

‘You look gorgeous,’ I said. ‘It’s a perfect fit.’

‘It really is.’ She gazed at herself in the mirror. ‘It’s just what I had in mind – a lovely,
happy
dress.’

‘Are you celebrating something?’ I asked.

‘Well …’ She fluffed up the
mille-feuille
of stiffened tulle. ‘I’ve been trying for a baby.’ I nodded politely, unsure what to say. ‘And I wasn’t getting pregnant naturally so after two and a half years we went for IVF – a ghastly business,’ she added over her shoulder.

‘You don’t have to tell me this,’ I protested. ‘Really …’

The woman stepped back and appraised her reflection. ‘Anyway, I took my temperature ten times a day and I sniffed all these chemicals, and I injected myself until my hip was like a pin cushion. And I went through this hell
five times
– bankrupting myself in the process, incidentally: and then a fortnight ago it came to the sixth cycle, which was to be the last ever attempt because my husband had told me that he wasn’t prepared to go through it again.’ She paused for breath. ‘So it was the very last throw of the dice …’ She stepped out of the cubicle and gazed at herself in the side mirror. ‘And I got the results this morning. My gynaecologist phoned me to tell me that …’ She patted her tummy. ‘It hadn’t worked.’

‘
Oh
,’ I murmured. ‘I’m sorry.’ Of course. Why would she be buying a prom dress if she were pregnant?

‘So just for today I’ve pulled a sickie and I’m looking for ways to cheer myself up.’ She smiled at her reflection. ‘And this dress is the perfect start. It’s wonderful,’ she enthused as she turned to face me. ‘I mean, how could anyone feel sad in a dress like this? It would be impossible, wouldn’t it?’ Her eyes were shimmering. ‘Quite impossible …’ The girl sank on to the changing-room chair, her features distorted with distress.

I ran to the door and turned over the sign.

‘I’m sorry …’ the woman wept. ‘I shouldn’t have come in. I’m feeling … fragile.’

‘It’s totally understandable,’ I said quietly. I handed her some tissues.

She looked up at me. ‘I’m thirty-seven.’ A fat tear rolled down her cheek. ‘Women a lot older than me have babies, don’t they, so why can’t
I
have one? Just
one
,’ she sobbed. ‘Is that too greedy?’

I pulled the curtain round her so that she could change.

A couple of minutes later the woman brought the dress to the counter. She was calm now, though her eyes were red veined.

‘You don’t have to buy it,’ I said.

‘I want to,’ she protested gently. ‘Then whenever I’m feeling down, I’ll just put it on, or I could hang it on the wall like you’ve done here, and just looking at it will make me feel positive again.’

‘Well, I hope it has the desired effect, but if you change your mind just bring it back. You need to be sure.’

‘I
am
sure,’ she protested. ‘But thanks.’

‘Well …’ I smiled at her impotently. ‘I wish you the very best.’ Then I handed her the ‘happy’ dress in its bag.

Annie came back from her audition at eleven. ‘The director was vile,’ she exclaimed. ‘He actually asked me to turn round – like a piece of meat!’

I remembered the ghastly Keith making his girlfriend turn round for him. ‘I hope you didn’t.’

‘Of course I didn’t – I walked out! I should report him to Equity,’ she muttered as she took off her jacket. ‘Anyway, after that experience it’s very nice to be back in your shop.’

Feeling guiltily happy that Annie’s audition hadn’t been a success, I told her about the girl who’d bought the pink cupcake.

‘Poor kid,’ she murmured, calm again now. ‘Do
you
want children?’ she added as she quickly glossed her lips.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Babies are not on my radar.’ Except for my father’s baby, I thought wryly.

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Annie asked as she zipped up her bag. ‘Not that it’s any of my business.’

‘No. I’m single – bar the odd date.’ I thought of my forthcoming dinner with Miles. ‘My priority now is my work. How about you?’

‘I’ve been seeing this chap Tim for a few months,’ Annie replied. ‘He’s a painter – he lives down in Brighton. But I’m still too focused on my career to want to settle down, plus I’m only thirty-two – I’ve got time.’ She shrugged. ‘You’ve got time.’

I looked at my watch. ‘No, I haven’t – I’m going to be late. I’m collecting the clothes I’ve bought from Mrs Bell.’ Leaving Annie in charge, I walked home then got two suitcases and drove up to The Paragon.

In the week since I’d last been there the catch on the front door of number 8 had been mended, so Mrs Bell didn’t have to come down; which was just as well I thought when she opened her own door, since she seemed a little frailer even than when I’d last seen her.

She greeted me warmly as I stepped inside, laying her thin, freckled hand on my arm. ‘Now go and collect the clothes together – and I do hope you’ll stay and have a cup of coffee with me?’

‘Thank you – I’d love to.’

I went into the bedroom with the cases and put the bags, shoes and gloves in one of them, then I opened the wardrobe to take out the garments. As I did so, I caught a glimpse of the little blue coat and wondered again about its history.

I heard Mrs Bell’s footsteps behind me. ‘Are you all done now, Phoebe?’ She fiddled with the waistband of her green-and-red plaid skirt, which was slipping a little.

‘Almost,’ I replied. I put the two hats into the lovely old hatbox that Mrs Bell was including; then I folded the Ossie Clark maxi dress into the second suitcase.

‘The Jaeger …’ said Mrs Bell as I snapped shut the clasps. ‘I would like to give it all to a charity shop as I want to get rid of as much as I can while I’m in the mood to do so. I would ask my home-help, Paola, but she is away. Is there any chance that you could do it for me, Phoebe?’

‘Of course.’ I put the clothes in a large carrier bag. ‘There’s the Oxfam shop – shall I take them there?’

‘Please,’ said Mrs Bell. ‘Thank you. Now, go and make yourself comfortable while I make the coffee.’

In the sitting room, the gas fire emitted its low hiss. The sun shone through the small square panes of the bow window, casting a grid of shadows across the room like the bars of a cage.

Mrs Bell came in with the tray and with a shaking hand poured us both a cup of coffee from the silver pot. As we drank it she asked me about the shop, and about how I’d started it. I told her some more about myself and my background. I then discovered that she had a nephew by marriage who lived in Dorset who sometimes visited her, and a niece in Lyon who didn’t.

‘But it’s difficult for her as she has to look after her two young grandchildren, but she phones me from time to time. She is my closest relative – the daughter of my late brother, Marcel.’

We chatted for a few more minutes, then the carriage clock chimed half past twelve.

I put down my cup. ‘I ought to get going. But thank you for the coffee, Mrs Bell. It’s been lovely to see you again.’

A look of regret crossed her face. ‘I have so enjoyed seeing you, Phoebe. I am rather hoping you will stay in touch,’ she added. ‘But you are a very busy young woman. Why ever would you want to bother …?’

‘I’d love to stay in touch,’ I interjected. ‘But for now I should get back to the shop – plus I don’t want to tire you.’

‘I am not tired,’ Mrs Bell said. ‘For once I have a strange kind of energy.’

‘Well … can I do anything for you before I go?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘But thank you.’

‘I’ll say goodbye then – for now.’ I stood up.

Mrs Bell was staring at me, as though weighing something in her mind. ‘Stay a little longer,’ she said suddenly. ‘Please.’ My heart filled with pity. The poor woman was lonely and needed company. And I was about to tell
her that I could stay for another twenty minutes or so when Mrs Bell disappeared, crossing the corridor into the bedroom, where I heard the wardrobe door being opened. When she returned she was holding the blue coat.

She looked at me, her eyes shining with a strange intensity. ‘You wanted to know about this …’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘It’s … none of my business.’

‘You were curious.’

I stared at her, aghast. ‘A … little,’ I conceded. ‘But it’s not my concern, Mrs Bell. I shouldn’t have touched it.’

‘But I
want
to tell you about it,’ she said. ‘I
want
to tell you about this little coat, and why I hid it. More than anything else, Phoebe, I want to tell you why I have kept it for so long.’

‘You don’t have to tell me anything,’ I protested weakly. ‘You barely know me.’

Mrs Bell sighed. ‘That’s true. But, lately, I have felt a great need to tell someone the story – the story that I have kept inside all these years – here – right
here
.’ She jabbed at her chest, hard, with the fingers of her left hand. ‘And for some reason I feel that if I were to tell anyone – it would be
you
.’

I stared at her. ‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she replied carefully. ‘I only know that I feel some … affinity with you, Phoebe – some connection that I can’t explain.’

‘Oh. But … in any case, why would you want to talk about it
now
?’ I asked weakly. ‘After so long?’

‘Because …’ Mrs Bell sank on to the sofa, anxiety etched on her face. ‘Last week – in fact, while you were
here – I received the results of some medical tests. They do not exactly augur well for my future,’ she went on calmly. ‘I had already guessed that the news would not be positive from the way my weight has been falling lately.’ Now I understood Mrs Bell’s odd reaction when I’d suggested that she was ‘downsizing’. ‘I have been offered treatment, but have declined. It would be very unpleasant, it would only buy me a little extra time, and at my age …’ She held up her hands, as if in surrender. ‘I am almost eighty years old, Phoebe. That is a longer life than many – as you know only too well.’ I thought of Emma. ‘But now, with this acute sense I have of life retreating, the anguish I’ve felt for so long has only got worse.’ She looked imploringly at me. ‘I
need
to tell just one person about this coat, now, while I am still clear in my mind. I need that one person just to listen, and perhaps to understand what I did, and why.’ She looked towards the garden, the shadows from the window frames bisecting her face. ‘I suppose the truth is I need to confess. If I believed in God I would go to a priest.’ She turned her gaze back to me. ‘Could I tell
you
, Phoebe? Please? It will not take long, I promise – no more than a few minutes.’

I nodded, bemused, then sat down. Mrs Bell leaned forward on her chair, fingering the coat, which was laid across her lap, lifelessly. She took a deep breath, her eyes narrowing as she now looked past me, through the window, as though it were a portal to the past.

‘I come from Avignon,’ she began. ‘You know that.’ I nodded. ‘I grew up in a large village about three miles from the city centre. It was a sleepy sort of place, with narrow streets leading on to a large square which was
shaded by plane trees, with a few shops and a pleasant bar. On the north side of the square was the church, over the door of which was carved, in huge Roman letters,
Liberté, Égalité et Fraternité
.’ At that a sardonic smile flickered across Mrs Bell’s face. ‘The village bordered open countryside,’ she went on, ‘and was skirted by a railway line. My father worked in the centre of Avignon, where he managed a hardware store. He also had a little vineyard not far from the house. My mother was
maîtresse de maison
, looking after my father, me, and my younger brother, Marcel. To make a little extra money she took in sewing.’

Mrs Bell tucked a stray wisp of white hair behind her ear. ‘Marcel and I went to the local school. It was very small – there were no more than a hundred children, many of them descended from families who had lived in the village for generations – the same names would come up again and again – Caron, Paget, Marigny – and Aumage.’ It was clear that this last name was to be of particular significance. Mrs Bell shifted a little on her seat. ‘In September 1940, when I was eleven, a new girl joined my class. I had seen her once or twice over the summer, but I hadn’t known who she was. My mother said that she’d heard that the girl and her family had moved to our village from Paris. My mother had added that, after the Occupation, many such families had fled to the south.’ Mrs Bell looked at me. ‘I could not know it at the time, but that little word “such” was to prove of immense significance. Anyway, this girl’s name was …’ Mrs Bell’s voice caught ‘… Monique,’ she whispered after a moment. ‘Her name was Monique … Richelieu – and I was assigned to look after her.’ At this Mrs Bell
began to stroke the coat, consolingly almost, then she looked through the window again.

‘Monique was a sweet, friendly girl. She was clever and hard-working; she was also very pretty with lovely cheekbones, a quick expression in her dark eyes, and hair so black that in certain lights it looked blue. And, however much she tried to disguise it, she had a foreign inflexion to her voice that stood out all the more amongst the Provençal accents that were spoken around her.’ Mrs Bell looked at me. ‘Whenever Monique was teased about this at school, she would say that her accent was Parisian. But my parents said that it wasn’t Parisian – it was German.’