Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris & Mrs. Harris Goes to New York (15 page)

What indeed had she been meaning to do with it? Hang it away in an old, stale cupboard next to her aprons, overalls, and one poor Sunday frock, secretly to gloat over when she came home at night? The dress had not been designed and created to languish in the dark of a cupboard. It was meant to be out where there was gaiety, lights, music, and admiring eyes.

Quite suddenly she could not bear to look upon it any longer. She was at the end of her resistance to grief. She reinterred it in the plastic suitcase, hurriedly blotting out the sight of it with the crumpled tissue paper and then flinging herself upon her bed, buried her face in her pillow and commenced to cry. She wept silently, inconsolably, and interminably, after the fashion of women whose hearts have been broken.

She wept for her own foolishness, and too for her self-acknowledged guilt of the sin of pride, and the swift, sure punishment that had followed upon its heels, but mostly she wept simply and miserably for her lost dress and the destruction of this so dear possession.

She might have wept thus into eternity, but for the insistent ringing of her doorbell which at last penetrated grief and into her consciousness. She raised her tear-swollen face momentarily and then decided to ignore it. It could be none other than Mrs Butterfield, eager to see and discuss her Paris dress and hear of her adventures amongst the heathen. What was there to show her now for the long wait, the hard work, the sacrifice, and the foolish determination? A burned-out rag. Worse than Mrs Butterfield’s croakings of ‘I told you so’ would be the sympathy that would follow, the tuttings and cluckings and the warm but clumsy attempts to comfort her and which Mrs Harris felt she could not bear. She wanted only to get on with her crying - to be allowed to weep alone until she died.

She pulled the damp pillow about her ears to shut out the sound of the ringing, but now, somewhat to her alarm, heard it replaced by a loud knocking and thumping on the door, something rather more strenuous and imperative than she could connect with Mrs Butterfield. Perhaps there was something wrong somewhere, an emergency, and she was needed. She arose quickly, brushed the wisps of dishevelled hair out of her eyes and opened the door to reveal a BEA messenger standing there goggling at her as though he had seen a ghost.

He croaked forth a kind of bilious: ‘Mrs ’Arris, is it?’

‘ ’Oo else did you expect? Princess Margaret? Bangin’ and thumpin’ like the ’ouse was afire …’

‘Phew!’ he said, mopping his brow with relief, ‘you didn’t arf give me a turn, you did. I thought maybe you was dead. You not answering the doorbell, and these flowers to deliver. I thought they might be for the corpse.’

‘Eh?’ Mrs Harris asked. ‘Wot flowers?’

The postman grinned. ‘Flown over special from France, and express delivery. ’Ere now. Leave the door open while I bring ’em in.’

Swinging wide the rear doors of the van he began to produce them, white box, upon long white box marked: ‘
AIR EXPRESS
-
FRAGILE
-
PERISHABLE
’, looming shapes of objects packed first in straw, then in cartons, then in paper - it seemed to the mystified Mrs Harris that he would never end his trips from the van to her living room and that there must be some mistake.

But there was none. ‘Sign ’ere,’ he said, his task at last ended, and shoved his book under her nose. It was her name and address right enough - Madame Ada Harris, 5 Willis Gardens, Battersea.

He left and she was alone again. Then she turned to opening her boxes and packages and in an instant found herself transported back to Paris again, for the dingy little room suddenly vanished beneath the garden bower of flowers that overwhelmed it, dark, deep red roses by the dozen, cream white lilies, bunches of pink and yellow carnations, and sheaves of gladioli ready to burst into every colour from deep mauve to palest lemon. There were azaleas, salmon coloured, white, and crimson, geraniums, bundles of sweet-smelling freesias, and one great bouquet of violets a foot in span with six white gardenias centred.

In an instant, her dwelling seemed changed into a stall of the Marché aux Fleurs, for market fresh, the crisp, smooth petals were still dewed with pearls of water.

Was this coincidence, or some magic foresight that this sweet, healing gift should reach her in her moment of deepest anguish? She detached the cards from the blossoms and read the messages thereon. They were a welcome home, a simultaneous outpouring of remembrance and affection from her friends, laced with good news.

‘Welcome home. We could not wait. André and I were married today. God bless you. Natasha.’

‘I am the happiest man in the world thanks to you. André Fauvel.’

‘A welcome back to the lady who loves geraniums. I have not forgotten the copper penny. Hypolite de Chassagne.’

‘Compliments of M. Christian Dior’ (this with the violets).

‘Greetings on your return. The staff of Christian Dior.’

‘Good luck to you. Cutters, Fitters, and Seamstresses, Maison Christian Dior.’

And finally: ‘Jules was named First Secretary of the Department for Anglo-Saxon Relations at the Quai d’Orsay today. What can I say, my dear, but thank you. Claudine Colbert.’

Her knees trembling beneath her, Mrs Harris sank to the floor, leaned her cheek against the tight, smooth, cool, heavily fragrant petals of the roses Mme Colbert had sent her, tears filling her eyes again, her mind thrown into a turmoil of memories by the messages, the colours and the fragrance of the flowers that filled her little living room.

Once again she saw the understanding, womanly Mme Colbert, with her dark, glossy, perfectly groomed hair and pure skin, the lithe, exquisite, laughing Natasha and the blond, serious-minded, grave-faced and scarred M. Fauvel who overnight had changed from an adding machine into a boy and a lover.

All manner of memories and isolated pictures crowded into her thoughts. For an instant she saw the furrowed brows and concentrated expressions of the fitters kneeling before her, their mouths bristling with pins. She felt once more the pile of the thick grey carpet beneath her feet and smelled the sweet, thrilling scent of the interior of the House of Dior.

The hubbub and murmur of the voices of the audience and patrons in the grey and white salon seemed to come back to her, and immediately, blinking through her tears she was there again as each model more beautiful than the last clad in the loveliest frocks, suits, ensembles, gowns, and furs came thrusting, swaying, or gliding into the room - three steps and a twirl - three more steps and another twirl - then off with the pastel mink or dark marten coat to be dragged behind on the soft carpet, off with the jacket - a toss of the head, another twirl and she was gone to be replaced by yet another.

From there it was but a flash for her to be back in the hive of the cubicles, a part of the delicious atmosphere of woman world compounded of the rustle of silks and satins, the variegated perfumes carried thither by the clients, the murmuring voices of sales women and dressmakers like the droning of bees, and the sound of whispering from neighbouring booths, and smothered laughter.

Then she was sitting in the sunlight beneath a sky of a peculiar blue, on a bench in the Flower Market surrounded by nature’s own fashion creations, flowers in their matchless shapes and colours and emanating perfumes of their own. And next to her was a handsome aristocratic old gentleman who had understood her and treated her as an equal.

But it was the people she had met who kept returning to her thoughts and she remembered the expressions on
the faces of Fauvel and Natasha as they had embraced her the night of the ‘Pré Catalan’ and seemed to feel once again the warm pressure of Mme Colbert’s arms about her as she had kissed her before her departure and whispered: ‘You have been very lucky for me, my dear— ’

Reflecting now upon Mme Colbert, Mrs Harris thought how the French woman had worked and schemed to help her to realize her vain, foolish wish to possess a Dior dress. Had it not been for her and her clever plan at the end it would never have reached England. And Mrs Harris thought that even the damage to ‘Temptation’ might not be irreparable. A letter to Mme Colbert would result in the immediate dispatch of another beaded panel such as had been destroyed. A clever seamstress could insert it so that the dress would be as good as new. And yet, would it ever be the same again?

This ephemeral question had a most curious effect upon Mrs Harris. It stopped the flow of tears from her eyes and brought her to her feet once more as she looked about the flower-laden room and the answer came to her in one shrewd, inspired burst of insight.

It would not. It would never be the same again. But then neither would she.

For it had not been a dress she had bought so much as an adventure and an experience that would last her to the end of her days. She would never again feel lonely, or unwanted. She had ventured into a foreign country and a foreign people whom she had been taught to suspect and despise. She had found them to be warm and human, men and women to whom human love and understanding was a mainspring of life. They had made her feel that they loved her for herself.

Mrs Harris opened the suitcase and took out ‘Temptation’. Once more she fingered the burnt place and saw how easily
the panel could be replaced and the damage repaired. But she would not have it so. She would keep it as it was, untouched by any other fingers but those which had expedited every stitch because of love and feeling for another woman’s heart.

Mrs Harris hugged the dress to her thin bosom, hugged it hard as though it were alive and human, nestling her face to the soft folds of the material. Tears flowed again from the small, shrewd blue eyes and furrowed down the apple cheeks, but they were no longer tears of misery.

She stood there rocking back and forth, holding and embracing her dress, and with it she was hugging them all, Madame Colbert, Natasha, André Fauvel, down to the last anonymous worker, seamstress, and cutter, as well as the city that had bestowed upon her such a priceless memory, treasure of understanding, friendship, and humanity.

To Ginnie

The Marquis Hypolite de Chassagne is of course not the Ambassador of France to the United States. He is only the benevolent genie of a latter-day fairy tale. Nor will you find Mrs Harris, Mrs Butterfield, or the Schreibers at the addresses given, for every one and every thing in this story is fictitious. If, however, the characters herein do not resemble someone you have encountered somewhere sometime, then the author has failed to hold up a small mirror to life and extends his regrets to one and all.

P. W. G.

M
RS ADA HARRIS
and Mrs Violet Butterfield, of Numbers 5 and 9 Willis Gardens, Battersea, London, respectively, were having their nightly cup of tea in Mrs Harris’s neat and flower-decorated little flat in the basement of number five.

Mrs Harris was a charwoman of that sturdy London breed that fares forth daily to tidy up the largest city in the world, and her lifelong friend and bosom companion, Mrs Butterfield, was a part-time cook and char as well. Both looked after a fashionable clientele in Belgravia, where they met varying adventures during the day, picking up stray and interesting pieces of gossip from the odd bods for whom they worked. At night they visited one another for a final cup of tea to exchange these titbits.

Mrs Harris was sixtyish, small and wiry, with cheeks like frosted apples, and naughty little eyes. She had a very efficient and practical side, was inclined to be romantic, an optimist, and see life in rather simplified divisions of either black or white. Mrs Butterfield, likewise sixtyish, was stout, billowy, a kindly, timorous woman, the complete pessimist, who
visualised everyone, including herself, as living constantly on the brink of imminent disaster.

Both of these good ladies were widows of long standing. Mrs Butterfield had two married sons, neither of whom contributed to her support, which did not surprise her. It would have astonished her if they had. Mrs Harris had a married daughter who lived in Nottingham and wrote to her every Thursday night. The two women lived useful, busy, and interesting lives, supported one another physically and spiritually, and comforted one another in their loneliness. It had been Mrs Butterfield who by taking over Mrs Harris’s clients temporarily had enabled her a year or so ago to make a flying trip to Paris for the exciting and romantic purpose of buying a Dior dress, which same trophy now hung in Mrs Harris’s wardrobe as a daily reminder of how wonderful and adventurous life can be to one who has a little energy, stick-to-it-iveness, and imagination to make it so.

Snug and cosy in Mrs Harris’s neat flat, by the glow of shaded lamplight, the teapot hot and fragrant beneath the yellow flowered tea-cosy Mrs Butterfield had knitted Mrs Harris for Christmas, the two women sat and exchanged the events of the day.

The wireless was turned on and from it issued a series of dismal sounds attributed to a recording made by one Kentucky Claiborne, an American hillbilly singer.