A Vintage Affair (35 page)
‘
I
know what you should do,’ said Mum. ‘You should have a vintage fashion show – with Phoebe giving a short commentary about each outfit; I thought of it when I heard you on the radio. You could talk about the style of each garment, the social context of the era, a bit about the designer – you’re very knowledgeable, after all, darling.’
‘So I should be, after twelve years at it.’ I looked at Mum. ‘But I like that idea.’
‘You could charge ten pounds a head, to include a
glass of wine,’ Annie said, ‘with the ticket price redeemable against anything bought in the shop. It would get coverage in the local press. You could have it at Blackheath Halls.’
I thought of the wooden-panelled Great Hall with its barrel-vaulted ceiling and wide stage. ‘It’s a big venue.’
Annie shrugged. ‘I’m sure you could fill it. It would be an opportunity to learn a bit about the history of fashion in a fun way.’
‘I’d have to hire models – that would cost.’
‘You could get your customers to do it,’ Annie suggested. ‘They’d probably feel flattered – and it’d be fun. They could wear the things they’d already bought from you as well as current stock.’
I looked at Annie. ‘They could.’ I had a vision of the four cupcake dresses flouncing down the catwalk. ‘And the profits could go to charity.’
‘Do it, Phoebe,’ Mum said, ‘we’ll all help you.’ Then with a wave at Annie and me she left.
I had started to make notes about it all and had called someone at Blackheath Halls to find out how much it cost to hire the Great Hall when the phone rang.
I picked up. ‘Village Vintage?’
‘Is that Phoebe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Phoebe – this is Sue Rix. I’m the Macmillan nurse who looks after Mrs Bell. I’m with her this morning and she asked me to call you …’
‘Is she all right?’ I said quickly.
‘Well … that’s a difficult question to answer. She’s extremely agitated. She keeps saying that she wants you to come – right away. I’ve warned her that you might not be able to.’
I glanced at Annie. ‘Actually I have help today, so I can – I’ll come up now.’ As I picked up my bag I felt a shiver of apprehension. ‘I’ll be a while, Annie.’ She nodded. Then I left the shop and walked up to The Paragon, my heart thudding with anticipation.
When I got there Sue opened the door.
‘How is Mrs Bell?’ I asked her as I went in.
‘Bewildered,’ Sue replied. ‘And very emotional. It started about an hour ago.’
I went to go into the sitting room, but Sue pointed to the bedroom.
Mrs Bell was lying in bed, her head on the pillow. I hadn’t seen her in bed before and although I knew how ill she was, it shocked me to see how thin she was beneath the blankets.
‘Phoebe … at
last
.’ Mrs Bell smiled with relief. In her hand was a sheet of paper – a letter. I stared at it, my pulse racing. ‘I need you to read this for me. Sue offered to do so, but it must be no one but you.’
I pulled up a chair. ‘Can’t you read it then, Mrs Bell? Is it your eyes?’
‘No, no – I
can
read it, and I have already done so perhaps twenty times since it arrived a short time ago. But now
you
must read it, Phoebe.
Please
…’ Mrs Bell handed me the cream-coloured sheet which was closely typed on both sides. It was from an address in Pasadena, California.
Dear Thérèse,
I read.
I hope you will excuse this letter
from a stranger – although I am not quite a stranger.
My name is Lena Sands and I am the daughter of
your friend Monique Richelieu
…
I glanced at Mrs Bell – her pale blue eyes were shining with tears – then I returned my gaze to the letter.
I know that you and my mother were friends, in
Avignon, all those years ago. I know that you knew
that she’d been transported, and I know that you
searched for her after the war and discovered that she
had been in Auschwitz. I also know that you thought
she must have died – a fair assumption. The purpose
of this letter is to tell you that, as my existence attests,
my mother survived
.
‘You were right,’ I heard Mrs Bell murmur. ‘You were
right
, Phoebe …’
Thérèse, I would like you at last to know what
happened to my mother. The reason why I am able
to write to you like this is because your friend Phoebe
Swift contacted my mother’s lifelong friend, Miriam
Lipietzka, and Miriam called me earlier today
.
‘But
how
could you have contacted Miriam?’ Mrs Bell asked me. ‘How could that be
possible
? I don’t understand.’ I told Mrs Bell about the concert programme that I’d found in the ostrich-skin bag. She stared at me, her mouth agape. ‘Phoebe,’ she whispered after a few moments, ‘not long ago I told you that I didn’t believe in God. I think, now, that I
do
.’
I turned back to the letter.
My mother rarely talked about her time in Avignon
– the associations were too painful: but whenever she
did have reason to mention it, Thérèse, your name
would come up. She spoke of you only with affection.
She remembered that you had helped her when
she had to hide. She said that you were a good friend
to her
.
I looked at Mrs Bell. She was shaking her head as she looked towards the window, clearly going over the letter in her own mind. I saw a tear slide down her cheek.
My mother died in 1987, aged fifty-eight. I once told
her that I felt she’d been short-changed. She said that,
on the contrary, she’d had the most wonderful windfall
of forty-three years
.
Now I read about the incident that Miriam had recounted to me over the phone, when Monique was dragged away by the female guard.
This woman – she was known as ‘the beast’ – put my
mother on the list for the next ‘selection’. But on the
appointed day, while my mother was on the back of
the truck with the others, waiting to be taken – and I
can barely write these words – to the crematorium, she
was recognised by the young SS guard who had registered
her admission. At that time, hearing that she spoke
native German, he had asked her where she came from
and she answered, ‘Mannheim’. He had smiled and said
that he was from Mannheim too, and on those occasions
afterwards when he saw my mother he would
take a moment to chat to her about the city. When he
saw her sitting on the truck that morning he told the
driver that there had been a mistake and ordered my
mother to get down. She always said to me that that
day – March 1st, 1944 – was her second birthday
.
Lena’s letter now described how this SS guard had had Monique moved to work in the camp kitchen, scrubbing floors; this meant that she was working indoors and, more importantly, was able to eat potato peelings, a little meat even. She began to gain just enough weight to survive. After a few weeks of this, the letter went on, Monique had become a kitchen ‘assistant’, doing some cooking, although she said it was difficult as the only ingredients were potatoes, cabbage, margarine and farina – sometimes a little salami – and ‘coffee’ made of ground-up acorns. She did this work for three months.
My mother was then assigned, with two other girls,
to cook for some of the female wardens, in their
barracks. Because my mother had had to learn to cook
after her twin brothers were born, she did a very good
job and the wardens enjoyed her potato pancakes and
her sauerkraut and strudel. This success ensured my
mother’s survival. She used to say that what her mother
had taught her had saved her life
.
Now I understood Miriam’s remark about the true gift that Monique’s mother had imparted to her daughter. I turned the letter over.
In the winter of 1944, with the Russians closing in
from the east, Auschwitz was evacuated. Those inmates
who could still stand were forced to march through
the snow to other camps further inside Germany; these
were death marches, and any prisoner who collapsed
or stopped to rest was shot. Having walked for ten
days, 20,000 prisoners made it to Bergen-Belsen –
amongst them my mother. She said that here was hell
on earth too, with virtually no food, and with thousands
of the inmates suffering from typhus. The
Women’s Orchestra had also been sent there and so
my mother was able to see Miriam. But in April,
Bergen-Belsen was liberated. Miriam was reunited with
her mother and sister, and not long afterwards they
emigrated to Canada where they had family. My mother
stayed in a Displaced Persons camp for eight months,
waiting for news of her parents and her brothers; she
was distraught to be told that they had not survived.
But through the Red Cross her father’s brother made
contact with her and offered her a home with his family
in California. So my mother came here, to Pasadena
in March 1946
.
‘You
did
know,’ Mrs Bell murmured again. She looked at me. Tears had gathered in her eyes. ‘You
did
know, Phoebe. That strange conviction that you had … it was right. It was
right
,’ she repeated wonderingly.
I turned back to the letter.
Although my mother had a ‘normal’ existence afterwards,
in that she worked, married and had a child,
she never ‘recovered’ from what she’d been through.
For years afterwards, apparently, she walked with her
eyes cast down. She hated it when someone said ‘after
you’ to her, because in the camp an inmate always
had to walk in front of the escorting guard. She would
become distressed if she saw striped fabric and would
not tolerate any in the house. And she was obsessed
with food, forever making cakes which she would give
away
.
Mom started high school, but had difficulty
applying herself to her studies. One day her teacher
told her that she wasn’t concentrating. My mother
retorted that she knew all about ‘concentration’, and
angrily pulled up her sleeve to show the number
tattooed on her left forearm. Not long after that she
left school, and, although she was clever, she gave up
the idea of going to college. She said that all she
wanted to do was to feed people. So she got a job
with a state-run program for the homeless, and
through this she met my father Stan, a baker, who
donated bread to the charity’s two shelters here in
Pasadena. She and Stan gradually fell in love, marrying
in 1952 and working together in his bakery: he made
the bread, and my mother made cakes, coming to
specialise in cupcakes. Their bakery grew into a large
concern and in the 1970s it became the Pasadena
Cupcake Company, and I’ve been its CEO for the
past few years
.
‘But I don’t understand, Phoebe,’ I heard Mrs Bell say. ‘I don’t understand how you could
know
this and not have
told
me? How could you
sit
with me, Phoebe, a few days ago, and
talk
to me and not
tell
me what you knew?’ I glanced at the letter again. Then I read the last paragraph aloud.
When Miriam phoned me today she said that she had
already told Phoebe everything. Thérèse, Phoebe felt
that you should hear what had happened not from
her, but from me, as I am the nearest thing to Monique
herself. So she arranged with me that I would write
to you, and tell you my mother’s story. I am very glad
to have had the opportunity to do so
.
Yours in friendship
,
Lena Sands
I looked at Mrs Bell. ‘I’m sorry you had to wait. But it wasn’t my story to tell – and I knew that Lena would write immediately.’
Mrs Bell heaved a sigh, then her eyes filled with tears again. ‘I’m so happy,’ she murmured. ‘And so
sad
.’
‘Why?’ I whispered. ‘Because Monique was alive, but you didn’t hear from her?’ Mrs Bell nodded, then another tear slid down her cheek. ‘But Lena says that Monique didn’t like talking about Avignon – it’s understandable, given what happened there; she probably wanted to draw a veil over that part of her life. Plus she may not have known if
you
had survived the war – or where you were.’ Mrs Bell nodded. ‘And then you’d moved to London, and she was in America. Today, with modern communications, you’d have found each other again. But in a way you have found each other now.’
Mrs Bell reached for my hand. ‘You have done so much for me, Phoebe – more, possibly, than anyone – but I am going to ask you to do one thing more … Perhaps you have guessed what it is.’
I nodded then I re-read Lena’s PS:
Thérèse,
I will be in London in late February. I do
hope I may have the chance to see you then as I know
that that would have made my mother very happy
.
I gave Mrs Bell back the letter, then I went to the wardrobe and took out the blue coat in its protective cover. I turned to her.
‘Of course I will,’ I said.
Christmas had almost arrived. The shop was very busy so I had Katie coming in to help me on Saturdays, and Mum was back at work, feeling happy, and looking forward to seeing Louis again with Dad on Christmas Eve. She decided that she ought to have some sort of party for her birthday on January 10th and joked that she was going to have it on a bus.
I began to plan the fashion show, which was to be held at Blackheath Halls – luckily there’d been a cancellation for the Great Hall on February 1st.
I saw Mrs Bell twice more. The first time she knew I was there, though she was very sleepy with the drugs. The second time, on December 21st, she seemed unaware of my presence. By then she was being given morphine twenty-four hours a day. So I just sat and held her hand and told her how glad I was that I’d known her and that I wouldn’t forget her, and that I even felt a bit stronger now when I thought about Emma. At that, I felt a slight pressure from Mrs Bell’s fingers. Then I
kissed her goodbye. As I walked home in the gathering dusk I looked at the cloud-streaked sky and realised that it was the shortest day and that the light would soon be returning.
As I arrived home my phone rang. It was Sue. ‘Phoebe – I’m sorry, but I’m calling to say that Mrs Bell died at ten to four – a few minutes after you’d left.’
‘I see.’
‘She was very peaceful, as you saw.’ I felt my eyes fill. ‘She obviously felt very close to you,’ I heard Sue add as I sat on the hall chair. ‘I assume you must have known her for a long time.’
‘No.’ I reached into my pocket for a tissue. ‘Less than four months. But it feels like a lifetime.’
I waited a few minutes then I phoned Annie, who sounded surprised to be hearing from me on a Sunday evening. ‘Are you all right, Phoebe?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine.’ I swallowed. ‘But, do you have a few minutes, Annie? Because there’s a story I want to tell you …’
The next couple of days were busy, then on Christmas Eve the shop went quiet. I watched people walking past the windows laden with bags and I looked across the Heath towards The Paragon and thought about Mrs Bell and about how glad I was that I’d met her. I felt that in helping her I’d perhaps healed some small part of myself.
At five o’clock I was upstairs in the stockroom, sorting things for the sale, putting gloves, hats and belts in boxes – when I heard the door bell ring, then footsteps. I went downstairs, expecting to see a customer in search of a last-minute Christmas present; instead, there was Miles,
looking suave in a beige winter coat with a brown velvet collar.
‘Hello, Phoebe,’ he said quietly.
I stared at him, my heart banging in my ribcage, then I came down the rest of the stairs. ‘I was … about to close.’
‘Well … I just … wanted to talk to you.’ I noticed again the huskiness in Miles’ voice that had always tugged at my heartstrings. ‘It won’t take long.’
I turned the sign to ‘Closed’, then went behind the counter, pretending that I needed to do something there.
‘Have you been well?’ I asked him, for want of anything else to say.
‘I’ve been … fine,’ he replied soberly. ‘Quite busy, but …’ He put his hand into his coat pocket. ‘I just wanted to bring you this.’ He stepped forward and put a small green box down on the counter. I opened it then shut my eyes with relief. Inside was the emerald ring that had been my grandmother’s, then my mother’s and then mine, and which might one day, it now occurred to me, be my daughter’s, if I was lucky enough to have one. I closed my fingers around it for a moment then slipped it on my right hand. I looked at Miles. ‘I’m very happy to have this back.’
‘Of course. You must be.’ A red stain had crept up his neck. ‘I brought it as soon as I could.’
‘So you’ve only just found it?’
He nodded. ‘Last night.’
‘So … where?’
I saw a muscle at the corner of Miles’ mouth flex. ‘In Roxy’s bedside table.’ He shook his head. ‘She’d left the drawer open, and I caught a glimpse of it.’
I exhaled slowly. ‘What did you say?’
‘I was livid with her, of course – not just for taking it, but for the lies she told. I said that we were going to get counselling for her about this, because – and this is hard for me to admit – she needs it.’ He gave a resigned shrug. ‘I suppose I’ve known that for some time but didn’t want to face up to it. But Roxy seems to have this sense of, of not having … of …’
‘Deprivation?’
‘Yes. That’s it.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Deprivation.’ I resisted the urge to tell Miles that perhaps he should have counselling too. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry, Phoebe.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry in every way, actually, because you meant a lot to me.’
‘Well … thank you for bringing the ring back. It can’t have been easy.’
‘No. I … Anyway …’ He heaved a sigh. ‘There it is. But I hope you have a happy Christmas.’ He gave me a bleak smile.
‘Thanks, Miles – I hope you do too.’ Now, with nothing left to say to each other, I unlocked the door and Miles left, and I watched him walk down the street until he was quite out of sight. Then I turned the sign to ‘Closed’ and went back upstairs.
Despite my relief over the ring, the encounter with Miles had left me upset and disturbed. I was moving some dresses from one rail to another and one of the hangers got caught on its neighbour and I was unable to release it; I was tugging at it, trying to unhook it, but I couldn’t so I ended up just pulling the garment, a Dior blouse, off the hanger – but so roughly that I ripped the silk. I sank on to the floor and burst into tears. I stayed
there for a few minutes, then, as I heard All Saints Church strike six o’clock, I pushed myself to my feet. As I went wearily downstairs my mobile phone rang. It was Dan, which raised my spirits again because the sound of his voice always does. He wanted to know if I’d be interested in going round later for a ‘private screening’ of a ‘particularly seductive’ classic.
‘Not
Emmanuelle
3
?’ I said, suddenly smiling.
‘No, but close. It’s
Godzilla vs King Kong
. I managed to get a 16mm copy on eBay last week. But I do have
Emmanuelle
3
, if you’re interested for another time.’
‘Hm – I might be actually.’
‘Come round any time from seven – I’ll cook a risotto.’ I found myself longing to sit with Dan, big and solid and comforting and cheerful, watching a schlocky old classic in his wonderful shed.
Feeling happier now, I got the
Sale!
banners out of their box, ready to plaster over the windows on Boxing Day to announce the first day of the sale on the 27th. Annie was going to be away until early January as she wanted to take advantage of this quiet time of year to write, so I’d got Katie to stand in for her, and then from mid January onwards Katie was going to work for me every Saturday. I got my coat and bag and locked up.
As I walked home, the sharp wind stinging my cheeks, I allowed myself to look forward, if only cautiously, to the New Year. There’d be the sale, then my mother’s big birthday, then the fashion show – that was going to take a lot of organising. Later there’d be Emma’s anniversary to get through, but I was trying not to think of that now.
I turned up Bennett Street, unlocked my front door
and went inside. I picked the mail off the mat – a few late Christmas cards including one from Daphne; then I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine. From outside I could hear singing, then the bell rang. I opened the door.
Silent night, Holy night
…
There were four children, with an adult, collecting for Crisis.
All is calm. All is bright
…
I put some money in the tin, listened to the end of the carol, then closed the door and went upstairs to get ready to meet Dan. At seven I heard the bell again. I ran down and picked up my purse from the hall table, assuming it to be more carol singers as I wasn’t expecting anyone.
As I opened the door I felt as though I’d been plunged into ice-water.
‘Hello, Phoebe,’ said Guy.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked after a moment.
‘Oh. Yes.’ I thought my legs would give way. ‘I … wasn’t expecting you.’
‘No. Sorry – I just thought I’d drop by, as I’m on my way to Chislehurst.’
‘To see your parents?’
Guy nodded. He was wearing the white skiing jacket that he’d bought in Val d’Isère: I remembered that he’d only chosen it because I’d liked it. ‘So you survived the banking crisis?’ I said as we went into the kitchen.
‘I did.’ Guy drew in his breath. ‘Just. But … can I sit down for a minute or two, Phoebe?’
‘Of course,’ I said nervously. As he sat at the table I looked at Guy’s handsome, open face and his blue eyes,
and his short dark hair which was longer than I remembered him wearing it, and visibly greying now at the temples. ‘Can I get you anything? A drink? A cup of coffee?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Nothing, thanks – I can’t stay long.’
I leaned against the worktop, my heart racing. ‘So … what brings you here?’
‘Phoebe,’ Guy replied patiently, ‘you
know
.’
I gave him a quizzical look. ‘I do?’
‘Yes. You know that I’m here because for months now I’ve been trying to talk to you but you’ve ignored all my letters and e-mails and calls.’ He began fiddling with some holly I’d put around the base of a big white candle. ‘Your attitude has been completely … implacable.’ He looked at me. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I knew that if I tried to arrange a meeting with you, you’d refuse to come.’ That was true, I reflected. I would have refused. ‘But tonight, knowing that I’d be almost passing your door, I thought I’d just see if you were here … because …’ Guy heaved a painful sigh, ‘… there’s this unfinished … issue between us, Phoebe.’
‘It’s finished for me.’
‘But it isn’t for
me
,’ he countered, ‘and I’d like to resolve it.’
I felt my breathing increase. ‘I’m sorry, Guy, but there’s nothing to resolve.’
‘There
is
,’ he insisted wearily. ‘And I need to start the New Year feeling that I’ve finally laid it to rest.’
I folded my arms. ‘Guy – if you didn’t like what I said to you nine months ago, then why can’t you just … forget about it?’
He stared at me. ‘Because it’s far too serious to be forgotten – as you very well know. And as I’ve tried to live my life decently I can’t bear the idea that I would stand accused of something so … terrible.’ I suddenly realised that I hadn’t emptied the dishwasher. ‘Phoebe,’ I heard Guy say as I turned away from him, ‘I need to discuss what happened that night just once – and then never again. That’s why I’m here.’
I pulled out two plates. ‘But I don’t
want
to discuss it. Plus I’m going out soon.’
‘Well, would you please hear me out – just for a minute or two.’ Guy clasped his hands on the table in front of him. He looked as though he was praying, I reflected, as I put the plates in the cupboard. But I did not want to have this conversation. I felt trapped, and angry. ‘First of all I’d like to say that I’m sorry.’ I turned and stared at Guy. ‘I’m truly sorry if I did or said anything that night that might have contributed, however inadvertently, to what happened to Emma. Please forgive me, Phoebe.’ I hadn’t expected this. I felt my resentment subside. ‘But I need you to acknowledge that the charge
you
levelled at me was completely unfair.’
I took two glass tumblers out of the dishwasher. ‘No, I won’t – because it was
true
.’
Guy shook his head. ‘Phoebe, it was
un
true – and you knew that then just as you know it now.’ I put a tumbler on the shelf. ‘You were obviously very distressed …’
‘Yes. I was distraught.’ I put the second tumbler on the shelf, so hard that I almost cracked it.
‘And when people are in that state they can say terrible things.’
If it weren’t for you – she’d still be alive!
‘But you blamed
me
for Emma’s death, and I’ve been unable to bear the accusation. It’s haunted me, all this time. You said that I’d persuaded you not to go and see Emma.’
Now I faced him. ‘You
did
do that! You said that she was that “mad milliner” remember, who “exaggerated” everything.’ I took the cutlery basket out of the dishwasher and began flinging the knives into the drawer.
‘I
did
say that,’ I heard Guy say. ‘I was pretty fed up with Emma by then – I don’t deny it – and she did make a drama out of everything. But I only said that this was something you needed to bear in mind before rushing round to see her.’
I threw in the spoons and forks. ‘Then you said that we should go to the Bluebird, as planned, and have dinner because you’d booked it and didn’t want to miss it.’
Guy nodded. ‘I admit that I said that too. But I
added
that if you really didn’t want to come then I’d cancel the table. I said that it was
your
call.’ I stared at Guy, the blood rushing in my ears now, then turned back to the dishwasher and took out a milk jug. ‘Phoebe,
you
then said that we
should
go out to dinner. You said that you’d phone Emma again when we got back.’
‘No.’ I put the jug down on the counter. ‘That was
your
suggestion –
your
compromise.’
Guy was shaking his head. ‘It was yours.’ I felt the familiar sliding sensation. ‘I remember being surprised, but I said that Emma was your friend and that I’d go with your judgement on the matter.’
I was suddenly filled with dismay. ‘Okay …’ I
did
say that we should have dinner – but only because I
didn’t want to disappoint you, and because it was Valentine’s Day so it was going to be a bit special.’
‘You said we wouldn’t be out for long.’
‘Well, that’s right,’ I said. ‘And we weren’t: then when we got back I
did
phone Emma – I phoned her straight away; and I
was
going to go round to her house then, right
then
–’ I stared at Guy. ‘But you
dissuaded
me. You said that I was probably over the limit to drive. You were making these drinking-and-driving gestures at me while I was on the phone to her.’
‘I
did
do that, yes – because I knew you almost certainly
were
over the limit.’
