A Vintage Affair (37 page)

At 6.30 p.m. the doors opened, and an hour later every seat was full. As a hush descended Dan dimmed the lights and gave me the nod. I went up on stage and lifted the mic off its stand, nervously surveying the sea of upturned faces.

‘I’m Phoebe Swift,’ I began. ‘I’d like to welcome you tonight and to thank you all for coming. We’re going to enjoy ourselves, look at some beautiful old clothes, and raise money for a very worthwhile cause. I’d also like to say …’ I felt my fingers tighten around the mic ‘… that this event is dedicated to the memory of my friend, Emma Kitts.’ Now the soundtrack started, Dan brought up the lights, and the first models walked out …

It was a day I’d dreaded for so long. Now here it was. No anniversary would be as hard as this one, I realised as I got in the car and drove to Greenwich Cemetery. As I walked down the gravelled path past graves recent and graves so old that you could barely read the names carved on to them, I looked up and saw Daphne and Derek, who appeared calm and composed. Next to them were Emma’s uncle and aunt and her two cousins, and Emma’s photographer friend Charlie who was chatting quietly to her assistant, Sian, who was clutching a hanky. Finally, there was Father Bernard, who had conducted Emma’s funeral.

I hadn’t been to the cemetery since that day – I’d been unable to face it – and so this was the first time that I’d seen Emma’s headstone. The sight of it gave me a shock – the awful, emphatic, irrefutability of it.

Clumps of snowdrops hung their dainty heads at the foot of the grave while crocus spears pushed through the cold ground, unfurling their purple flowers. I’d brought a posy of tulips, daffodils and bluebells, and as I laid it down on the black granite it made me think of Mrs Bell’s hatbox. As I straightened up the early spring sunlight stung my eyes.

Father Bernard now said a few words of welcome, then he asked Derek to speak. Derek said that he and Daphne had called Emma ‘Mandisa’ because that meant ‘sweet’ in Xhosa and she was a sweet person; he spoke of his hat collection, and of how Emma’s fascination
with it as a child was what led to her becoming a milliner. Daphne talked of how talented Emma was, of how modest she’d always been, and of how much they missed her. I heard Sian stifle a sob and saw Charlie put his arm round her. Then Father Bernard said a prayer, gave a blessing and it was over. As we all drifted back along the path I wished that the anniversary hadn’t fallen on a Sunday – I would have been grateful for the distraction of work. As we reached the cemetery gates, Daphne and Derek invited everyone back to the house.

It was years since I’d been there. In the sitting room I chatted to Sian and Charlie, then to Emma’s uncle and aunt; then I went into the kitchen, through the utility room and out into the garden. I stood by the plane tree.

I really fooled you there, didn’t I?

‘Yes, you really did,’ I murmured.

You thought I was dead!

‘No. I thought you were sleeping …’

Now I looked up and saw Daphne at the kitchen window. She lifted her hand in greeting – then disappeared, and now she was walking across the grass towards me. I noticed how grey her hair had become. Who could blame her?

‘Phoebe,’ she said softly. She reached for my hand. ‘I hope you’re okay.’

I swallowed. ‘I’m… fine, thanks, Daphne. I’m … well, I keep myself busy.’

She nodded. ‘That’s a good thing. You’ve made such a success of the shop – and I saw in the local paper that your fashion show was a great hit.’

‘It was. We raised just over three thousand pounds –
enough to buy twelve hundred mosquito nets and so … well …’ I shrugged. ‘It’s something, isn’t it?’

‘It is. We’re really proud of you, Phoebe,’ Daphne said. ‘And Emma would have been, too. But I just wanted to tell you that Derek and I recently went through her things.’

I felt my insides coil. ‘Then you must have found her diary,’ I interjected, anxious to get the awful moment over.

‘I did find it,’ Daphne said. ‘I knew that I should burn it without even opening it – but I couldn’t bear to deprive myself of any part of Emma. So I’m afraid I did read it.’ I looked at Daphne, searching her face for the resentment that she must surely feel. ‘It made me very sad to think that Emma had been so unhappy in the last months of her life.’

‘She
was
unhappy,’ I agreed quietly. ‘And, as you’ll now know, it was my fault. I fell in love with someone that Emma liked and she was terribly upset about it and I feel awful at the thought that I caused her any distress whatsoever. I didn’t mean to.’ My confession over, I braced myself for Daphne’s censure.

‘Phoebe,’ said Daphne. ‘In her diary, Emma expressed no anger with you at all: on the contrary; she said you’d done nothing wrong – she said that almost made it worse for her – that she couldn’t blame you. She was angry with herself for not being more … grown-up, I suppose, about the situation. She admitted that she was unable to conquer her negative feelings, but she acknowledged that she’d get over it in time.’

Time she didn’t have. I put my hands in my pockets. ‘I wish none of it had ever happened, Daphne.’

Daphne was shaking her head. ‘But that’s like saying you wish “life” had never happened. This was just life, Phoebe. Don’t reproach yourself. You were such a good friend to Emma.’

‘No. I wasn’t always. You see …’ I wasn’t going to torment Daphne with the thought that I might have saved Emma. ‘I feel I let Emma down,’ I said quietly. ‘I could have done more. That night. I’m …’

‘Phoebe, none of us knew how ill she was.’ Daphne interjected. ‘Imagine how
I
feel knowing that I was on holiday, and uncontactable…’ Tears had pooled in her eyes. ‘Phoebe, Emma made an awful… mistake. It cost her her life – but we all have to go on. And you must try to be happy now, Phoebe – otherwise two lives will have been spoilt. You’ll never forget Emma; she was your best friend and she’ll always be a part of who you are, but you must live your life
well
.’ I nodded, then reached into my pocket for my hanky. ‘Now.’ Daphne swallowed. ‘I wanted to give you a couple of things of Emma’s as a keepsake. Come with me.’ I followed Daphne back into the kitchen where she picked up a red box. Inside was the gold Krugerrand. ‘Emma’s grandparents gave this to her when she was born. I’d like you to have it.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Emma treasured this, and I will too.’

‘Then there’s this –’ Daphne gave me the ammonite.

I placed it in the palm of my hand. It felt warm. ‘I was with Emma when she found this on the beach at Lyme Regis. That’s a very happy memory. Thank you, Daphne. But …’ I gave her a half smile. ‘I think I’ll go now.’

‘But you will keep in touch with Derek and me, won’t
you, Phoebe? The door will always be open, so please walk through it sometimes, and let us know how you are.’

Daphne put her arms round me, and I nodded. ‘I will.’ 

A few minutes after I’d got home, Dan called. He asked me about my visit to the cemetery – he knows about Emma now. Then he wondered if I’d look at yet another possible site for his cinema – a Victorian warehouse in Lewisham. 

‘I’ve just seen it in the property section of the
Observer
,’ he explained. ‘Will you come with me while I check out the exterior? Can I pick you up in twenty minutes?’

‘Sure.’ I welcomed the distraction, apart from anything else.

Dan and I had already looked at a biscuit factory in Charlton, a disused library in Kidbrooke and an old bingo hall in Catford.

‘The location’s
got
to be right,’ he said as we drove up Belmont Hill half an hour later. ‘I need to find something in an area where there isn’t already a cinema within two miles.’

‘And when do you hope to open?’

Dan slowed his black Golf and turned left. ‘Ideally I’d like it to be up and running by this time next year.’

‘And what will you call it?’

‘I was wondering about “Cine Qua Non”.’

‘Hmm … not quite popular enough.’

‘All right, then – the Lewisham Lux.’

Dan drove down Roxborough Way then parked outside a brown brick warehouse. He opened the car door. ‘This is it.’ As I didn’t want to follow him over the locked gate in my silk skirt I told him I’d go for a stroll. I walked onto Lewisham High Street, passing Nat West, a curtain
shop, Argos and a British Red Cross charity shop. Then I came to Dixons, in the window of which were a number of plasma TV’s. As I walked past I suddenly stopped. On the biggest screen was Mags, standing in front of a studio audience, in a scarlet trouser suit and black stil ettos. She was holding her fingers to her temples and now she began to pace up and down. As the audio text was on, I could see what she was saying. ‘
I’m getting a
military man. A straight backed sort of fellow. Liked a
nice cigar
…’ She looked up.
Does that mean anything
to anyone
? As the audience looked blank I rolled my eyes then was suddenly aware of Dan standing next to me.

‘That was quick,’ I said, glancing at his lovely profile. ‘How was it?’

‘Well I liked the look of it so I’ll call the agent first thing. The fabric of the building seems fine and the size is perfect.’ Now, noticing me staring at Mags he followed my gaze. ‘Why are you looking at that, sweetheart?’ He peered at the screen. ‘Is she a psychic?’

‘That’s what she says.’

Just think of me as your switchboard operator
…

I told Dan how I’d met Mags.

‘So are you interested in spiritualism then?’

‘No. Not really.’ I said, as we walked away.

‘By the way my mum just phoned,’ Dan added as we strolled back to the car, hand in hand. ‘She was wondering if we’d like to go over to them for tea next Sunday.’

‘Next Sunday?’ I echoed. ‘I would have loved to, but I can’t – there’s something I have to do. Something important.’

As we drove away I explained what it was.

‘Well … that
is
important,’ Dan said.

Sunday 22nd February, 2009

I am walking down Marylebone High Street, not as I so often do, in my dreams but for real, to meet a woman I have never met before. In my hand, is a carrier bag that I clutch as tightly as if it held the crown jewels.

It was my fantasy that I would one day give Monique
the coat
…

I pass the ribbon and trimming shop.

…
and can you believe, it still is?

When Lena phoned me to say that her hotel was in the heart of Marylebone my heart had lurched. ‘I’ve found a great little café close to the bookshop,’ she’d said. ‘I thought we might meet there – it’s called “Amici’s”. Would that be all right?’ And I was about to say that I’d rather go anywhere else because of the painful associations that that particular café has for me, when I suddenly changed my mind. The last time I’d been there something sad had happened. Now a positive thing would take place there instead …

As I push on the door, the owner, Carlo, sees me and gives me a sympathetic wave, and now, I see a slim, smartly dressed woman in her early fifties leave her table and come towards me, smiling tentatively.

‘Phoebe?’

‘Lena,’ I say warmly. As we shake hands I take in the lively expression, high cheekbones, and dark hair. ‘You’re like my mother.’

She seems astonished. ‘But how would you know?’

‘You’ll see in a moment,’ I say. I get the coffees, exchanging a few words with Carlo, then I take them to the table. In her soft Californian accent Lena tells me about her trip to London, to attend the wedding of an old friend the next day at Marylebone Register Office. She says she’s looking forward to it, but is very jet-lagged.

Now, with the social pleasantries out of the way we come to the purpose of our meeting. I open the carrier and I hand Lena the coat, the story of which she mostly knows.

She fingers the sky blue cloth, stroking the nap of the wool, the silk lining and the fine hand stitching. ‘It’s lovely. So Therese’s mother made this…’ She looks at me with a surprised smile. ‘She was
good
.’

‘She
was
good. It’s beautifully made.’

Lena strokes the collar. ‘But how amazing to think that Therese
never
gave up on the idea of giving it to Mom.’

I have kept it for sixty five years, and I will keep it
until I die
.

‘She just wanted to keep her promise to her,’ I say. ‘And now, in a way, she has.’

Lena’s face fills with sadness. ‘Poor girl, though – not knowing what happened all these years. Never putting it to rest … until the end.’

Now as we sip our coffee I tell Lena more about what happened, and about how Therese had been distracted that fatal night by Jean-Luc and how she had never forgiven herself for revealing Monique’s hiding place.

‘My mother might well have been discovered anyway,’ Lena says. She lowers her cup. ‘She used to say that it was so hard staying in that barn, in silence and solitude, all day – she used to comfort herself by remembering the songs her mother used to sing to her – that it was almost a relief when she was found. Of course she had no idea what awaited her,’ Lena added darkly.

‘She was
so
lucky,’ I murmur.

‘Yes.’ Lena stares at her coffee, lost in her own thoughts for a few seconds. ‘My mother’s survival was … a miracle. Which makes my existence one too – I never forget that. And I think of that young German officer who saved her that day.’

Now I give Lena the padded envelope. She opens it and takes out the necklace. ‘It’s lovely,’ she says as she holds it to the light. She fingers the pink and bronze glass beads. ‘My mother never mentioned this.’ She looks at me. ‘How does it fit into the story?’

As I explain I imagine Therese desperately searching for the beads amongst the straw. She must have picked up every one. ‘I think the clasp is fine,’ I say as Lena opens it. ‘Therese said she had it re-strung some years ago.’ Lena puts the necklace on and the beads glimmer and sparkle against her black sweater. ‘And this is the last thing.’ I hand her the ochre envelope.

Lena slides out the photo, searches the sea of faces, then her finger goes straight to Monique. She looks at me. ‘So that’s how you knew what my mom looked like.’

I nod. ‘And that’s Therese, standing next to her, there.’ Now I point to Jean-Luc and Lena’s face clouds.

‘Mom was very bitter about that boy,’ she says. ‘She could never get over the fact that he’d been her school mate and had betrayed her.’ Now I tell Lena about the good thing that Jean-Luc did a decade later. She shakes her head in wonderment. ‘How I wish my mother had known. But she cut off all contact with Rochemare though she said she often dreamed about the house. She would dream that she was running through its rooms, looking for her parents and her brothers, and calling out for someone, anyone, to help her.’

I feel a tiny shiver run through me.

‘Well …’ Lena hugs the coat, then folds it. ‘I’ll treasure this, Phoebe, and in due course I’ll pass it on to my daughter Monica. She’s twenty six now – so she was only four when Mom died. She remembers her and she sometimes asks me about her life so this will help her know the story.

I pick up a paper napkin. It has ‘Amici’s’ printed on it. ‘There’s something else that’ll help her know the story,’ I say. Now I tell Lena about Annie, and about the play.

Lena’s face lights up. ‘But that’s wonderful. So it’s been written by a friend of yours?’

I think of how much I’ve come to like Annie in the six months since I’ve known her. ‘Yes. She’s a good friend.’

‘Perhaps I’ll come back and see it,’ Lena says. ‘With Monica – if we can, we will. But for now …’ She puts
the coat and photo carefully into the bag. ‘It’s been so good to see you Phoebe.’ She smiles. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m glad I’ve met you,’ I say. We stand up.

‘So … is there anything else?’ Lena says.

‘No.’ I reply happily. ‘There’s nothing else.’ Then we say our goodbyes, and promise to keep in touch. As I walk away my phone rings. It’s Dan.