August 31, 2016
The rain made everything look so pretty. The sun was winking out from behind the clouds, conjuring rainbows from puddles and burnishing the pavement until it gleamed. If there’d been time she’d have stopped to take a picture, but she was running late already. Her little umbrella had vanished, or maybe she hadn’t remembered to pack it after all, and if she paused even for a second she’d end up soaked through.
Fortunately, the French House was just around the corner from her hotel. It was impossible to miss, with a marine-blue exterior, jauntily striped awnings, and a tricolor flag above the entrance. She paused just inside, patting her face dry with a crumpled tissue and tucking her hair, now frizzing madly, behind her ears. So much for making a polished first impression.
The interior was cramped and dark, with little in the way of Gallic flair to enliven its decor. A few men stood at the bar, their conversation subdued, and most of the tables ringing the room were empty. She glanced at their occupants: a man and a woman, their hands clasped, their conversation earnest, and just beyond them was a man on his own, not much older than her, his attention fixed on a book. A Country Road, A Tree. It had been ages since she’d seen someone reading a book in a bar or restaurant; most people pulled out their phones to pass the time.
“Miss Mackenzie? Heather?” The man with the book was coming toward her. “I’m Daniel Friedman.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I saw you, but I thought—I mean, I was imagining someone, um—”
“Older? Tweedier?” he asked with a disarmingly boyish grin. He was dressed casually, in worn-out jeans and an oxford-cloth button-down shirt, its sleeves rolled back untidily. A braided leather bracelet, the sort of thing you might buy on holiday, circled his left wrist, and half-hidden beneath it were a few lines of script. Whether they were a reminder scribbled in ink, or an actual tattoo, she couldn’t be sure.
“You’re not the slightest bit tweedy,” she said honestly, and shook his outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Friedman.”
“Daniel. Please. Why don’t you give me your coat and I’ll hang it next to mine?”
He took care of her coat and then came around to pull out her chair. No one, apart from her father, had ever done that for her. Maybe it was an English thing.
“I’m sorry I was late,” she said, still a little unnerved by how far he differed from the middle-aged, rumpled, and somewhat nerdy stereotype she’d concocted in the hours since they’d exchanged emails.
“Now I know you’re Canadian. I only just arrived myself, and it’s raining like stink. That buys you at least a quarter hour’s grace. Why don’t I fetch us something from the bar, and I’ll bring back a menu while I’m at it. What would you like to drink?”
“A cider, please. Any kind is fine.”
He returned with a half-pint of dark beer for himself and a glass of Breton cider for Heather. “They don’t serve drinks in pint measures here. Can’t remember why, but it’s probably for the best. Otherwise I’d be sure to fall asleep at my desk this afternoon.”
Heather took a sip of her cider, which was deliciously tart, and tried to focus on the menu. Soup, salads, sandwiches . . . she couldn’t decide. Not when she was sitting across the table from a man who might be able to lead her closer to Nan.
“So? What do you think?” he asked. “I’m having the charcuterie board.”
“I’ll have the carrot and parsnip soup. And a garden salad.”
At a nod from Daniel, their waitress approached and they relayed their orders. As soon as she’d walked away, he turned his attention to Heather once more, and she waited, hoping, wondering—
“So. Ann Hughes was your grandmother.”
“She was. In your email, you said that she and Miriam Dassin were friends.”
“They were. According to Mimi, they were very close.”
Now she really was feeling confused. “Who is Mimi?”
“I’m sorry. That’s the name I call her.”
“You know Miriam Dassin? I thought . . . I mean, I assumed you were some kind of art history professor. That you had studied her work or something.”
“I do know her.” He took a sip of his beer, his gaze never leaving her face. His eyes were beautiful, with glacier-blue irises that faded to silver at their perimeter. In all her life she’d never seen anyone with such unusual eyes. “She’s my grandmother.”
His grandmother. “I don’t . . . I mean, I sent an email to her gallery a while ago, but they told me she was retired and they couldn’t pass anything on. And she didn’t seem to have a website or email address or anything like that.”
“I know. I’ve tried to persuade her. But she’s always been a rather shy, rather private person. Even with me. Even though my work, as an academic, has focused on the experiences of French Jews during and after the war.”
“You never talked with her about it?”
“I have, many times. But as her grandson. Never with the idea that I’d be recording her words for posterity.”
Heather’s laugh rang hollow, even to her own ears. “That’s more than Nan ever did with me or my mom. She never told us anything. Until I read your email last night, I’d pretty much given up hope that I’d ever learn more.”
“I think—I hope—I may be able to help. There’s a retrospective of my grandmother’s work coming up at the Tate, and the curators asked me to write an introduction to the official catalog. She agreed to answer my questions, and we spent a day or two looking through old photos and some scrapbooks she’d kept. At one point I asked her about the genesis of the Vél d’Hiv embroideries, and she said she began to work on them when she was living with your grandmother. It was Ann who first encouraged Miriam to think of herself as an artist.”
The idea that Nan had been friends with an acclaimed artist like Miriam Dassin, had helped her, and then had never told anyone of that friendship . . . it was almost too much to believe.
“I don’t know what to say,” Heather admitted. “It’s a lot to take in.” Her voice, embarrassingly, had gone all shaky. If she didn’t pull herself together he’d be sure to notice.
“I had known, from earlier conversations with Mimi, that she’d lived with another Hartnell embroiderer when she first came to England, but the friend had emigrated to Canada and they lost touch with one another. Does that square with what you know?”
“I guess. All I know, really, is that Nan came to Canada after the war. At first she lived with Milly, her sister-in-law, but later on, I think after Milly died, she bought a little shop, and eventually a house, too.”
“Your mother was born in Canada?”
“Yes, in the summer of 1948. She wasn’t able to add much to what I’ve told you, although she did give me some photos.” Heather pulled her bag onto her lap and dug out a small folder. “These aren’t the best quality. Just printouts from scans that my mom sent me. This picture is Nan on her own, and this next one is her with Milly. And this one—”
“Is Mimi and Ann together.”
“I also have this picture of her and Nan with some other women. Do you think they might have been at work? My mom thinks they’re sitting around embroidery frames.”
He nodded decisively. “They are. That woman in the corner, with the dark dress and white collar, is Miss Duley. She was the head of embroidery at Hartnell.” Daniel turned over the photo. “This handwriting on the inscription—is it Ann’s?”
“My mom thinks it is. I just wish I could figure out what it means. The London and date bits are easy enough. But Waiting for HM? Who was HM?”
“‘Her Majesty.’ The queen. Today we’re more likely to think of her as the Queen Mum. But this was 1947, before Princess Elizabeth became queen in her own right.”
Of course. “Well, duh. Now I feel stupid.”
“Don’t,” he said, leavening the command with a smile. “It helps that I recognize the photograph. My grandmother has a copy, and she showed it to me not so long ago. They were, as the inscription says, waiting for the queen to arrive. Apparently, such visits were rare, so everyone was on pins and needles. I suppose that’s why they all look so grim.”
Their food arrived just then, so she put the photographs away. If there was time after lunch she’d show him the pictures of the embroidered flowers. Perhaps he might know why they’d been created, and by whom. If Miriam had embroidered the flowers, for that matter, it would only be right to return them to her. Never mind that they would probably be worth a fortune.
“When did you arrive in England?” Daniel asked.
Of course she had just taken a huge mouthful of salad. She chewed and chewed, finally managed to swallow, and then ran her tongue over her teeth to make sure they weren’t painted with bits of baby spinach. “On Monday morning. I didn’t do much—just walked around Soho and did my best to shake off my jet lag. Then, yesterday, I went out to Barking, where Nan used to live. I had this silly idea that someone there might remember her, but all the houses on her part of the street were torn down years and years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear of it.”
“After that I went to the V and A. I wanted to see the Vél d’Hiv embroideries, but . . .”
“But they’re en route to the Tate for Mimi’s retrospective.”
“Yes. It was my fault, really. I should have checked the museum’s website before I went. I did get to meet Zahra, though, and without her help I wouldn’t be sitting here with you now.”
“There is that. So what now?”
She ate another bite of salad as she considered her response. “I’m not sure. I thought of trying to visit the Hartnell workrooms, but what’s the point, really? They closed years and years ago. The building probably looks totally different inside.”
“It’s actually been preserved quite well. Would you like to go? The current tenants are happy to let people visit as long as they have a bit of warning.”
“Really? That would be amazing.” Heather was tempted to reach beneath the table and pinch her leg, hard, just to make sure she wasn’t having an incredibly detailed dream.
“We can go today if you like. I’ll ring them up as soon as we finish lunch.”
He made it sound like it was nothing. As if he honestly didn’t mind spending almost the entire day listening to a near stranger and showing her around London. If he had come to her in search of answers, would she have been so accommodating?
“Why are you going to so much trouble? And don’t say you didn’t have anything better to do. One of my best friends is a university professor, and she’s always researching or writing or marking essays. Sunita hardly ever takes a day off.”
His answering smile was understanding. “I know I said that Mimi can be reticent, and she is. All the same, she’s told me most of her story, and to my knowledge she hasn’t kept any great secrets in regard to her past. But you have so little of your nan. Only a few fragments, really, compared to what Mimi has shared with me. Why wouldn’t I want to help you?”
With that, he rose from the table and went over to the bar. To pay for their lunch, she realized belatedly.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said when he returned. “I asked you to lunch. If you like, you can stand me a coffee when we’re finished at Hartnell.” He lifted their raincoats from the hook behind their table, folded them over his arm, and together they ventured out into the afternoon sun.
“If you don’t mind standing here a minute I’ll ring up the boutique. Just to make sure someone is in.”
Heather waited as he talked to someone called Belinda, and she tried, not very successfully, to avoid staring at him. She’d met men who were arguably better-looking than Daniel, but they were never as interesting or nice or funny. And his eyes. It was hard to think straight when he was looking at her with those silver-blue eyes.
“There. That’s sorted,” he finally said. “The boutique manager is in and we can wander around upstairs as much as we like. You don’t mind walking there, do you? It’s not very far.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
The streets were narrow, with equally modest sidewalks, and again and again Heather found herself brushing against Daniel’s side as she tried to avoid other pedestrians. He didn’t seem to object, and at one point, when she was about to step off the curb into oncoming traffic, he swiftly reached across her back and took hold of her in a sort of sideways hug.
“Not just yet,” he cautioned. “What would I tell Mimi if I let you get run down?”
Once the way was clear he let his arm fall away, but the echo of his touch lingered, and she couldn’t be sure if she welcomed or deplored the current of sensation that continued to hum so distractingly just under her skin.
He kept the conversation going as they walked, at first by recounting some of the history of Soho and its surrounding neighborhoods, and then by asking her about her flight and the hotel on Frith Street. And then, though she’d have happily kept walking for another hour, they were turning onto the ungainly assortment of old and new buildings that was Bruton Street. When they were about halfway along the block, Daniel stopped and motioned for her to look up. Just opposite, at number 26, was the main entrance for Hartnell. It was a grand sort of art deco affair, faced with dark green stone that looked a bit like marble, and both above the entrance and high on the white-painted façade the designer’s surname was displayed in large capital letters.
“Where do we go in?” Heather asked, seeing how the main floor of the building was taken up by an antiques dealer. Hadn’t Daniel said something about a boutique?
“One door along. Their offices stretch between the two buildings.”
A tall, thin, and alarmingly chic young woman was waiting by the door of the boutique as they entered. The fair Belinda, Heather supposed, and wasn’t at all surprised when Daniel was greeted as if he’d been dipped in chocolate.
“Thanks for letting me prevail upon you again, Belinda. This is my friend Heather Mackenzie. Turns out her grandmother also worked at Hartnell.”
“How super. Well, you’ve come on a good day. Nearly everyone upstairs is on holiday, so you’ve got the place to yourselves. You know the way, right?”
“That I do. Thanks again.”
With Heather trailing behind, Daniel set off up the stairs, along a long hallway, and into a sunny room with tall windows and improbably high ceilings. The walls and much of the trim were painted in a pretty sort of grayish green, there were mirrors hanging everywhere, and several enormous crystal chandeliers further illuminated the space.
“This was one of the salesrooms,” Daniel explained. “Rather a miracle that it survived, when you think of it. So many of these buildings were stripped bare in the seventies and eighties.”
“It stayed this way the whole time Mr. Hartnell was a designer?”
“It must have done. Mimi remembers that everything seemed to glitter. It reminded her of Versailles, she says.”
“And what about the workrooms? I can’t imagine they had chandeliers hanging from their ceilings.”
“You’re right about that. Let me show you—they’re tucked away at the back.” Heather followed him through a part of the building that had definitely not been restored, for its decor, in contrast, was little more than peeling paint and dust-laden cobwebs. Along a narrow corridor, up and down several short flights of stairs, until finally they stood before a battered metal door.
Daniel hauled it open and ushered her through. “This is it.”
They were on a landing. A rickety run of steps led down to the workroom floor, which was largely obscured by stacks of folding tables and chairs and a hodgepodge of boxes. The far wall was nearly all windows, though they were so dusty they didn’t let in much light. In spite of the changes, Heather recognized it as the room where Nan and Miriam had posed for the picture as they waited for the queen.
Deciding not to think about the relative safety of the steps, she hurried down and strode across the room to the windows. Pulling a tissue from her bag, she wiped clean one pane of glass so she could look out on the street below.
“This is the mews that runs parallel to Bruton Street,” Daniel said, coming to stand next to her. “The big entrance was only for Hartnell and his customers. The only time Mimi ever walked through it was when she first came to London and needed a job. She was desperate, and certain she’d be turned away if she went to the staff entrance, so she pretended to be a client.”
“She never came back, later on, to have clothes made?”
“No. Her work has grown in value, but my grandparents were never wealthy people.”
Heather turned to look at the workroom again, then closed her eyes and tried to imagine the space as it had once been. Busy, so busy, and full of life and color and beauty. She tried to imagine Nan in the room, a Nan who had been young and pretty and full of hope. A Nan who had loved her work and was happy with her life.
What had happened? What had driven her away?
“This is the closest I’ve felt to her since she died,” Heather whispered. “As if I open my eyes she’ll be here, and she’ll be ready to tell me everything.” She blinked away the tears that were trying to embarrass her in front of Daniel. Nan was gone. Of course she was gone.
“I just don’t understand why she never told us. It doesn’t make any sense. I was close to her, really close, and so was my mom. I told Nan everything. And then to find out about all of this, and to know she kept it all locked away.”
“Nothing?” he asked softly.
“Nothing. Not one word.”
“You said she had a shop?”
“Yes. Ann’s Knitting and Notions. She sold yarn and knitting needles and buttons and things. She loved to knit. Liked keeping her hands busy, she always said.”
“And you never saw her do any embroidery?”
“Never. I can ask my mom, but I’m pretty sure she never did.”
“Mimi might know why,” he said.
Heather turned to face him, not quite willing to believe her ears. He smiled, his pale eyes warm, and she knew she hadn’t mistaken him. “Would you ask her for me?”
“You can ask her yourself. I’m sorry I didn’t offer to introduce you straightaway. I’m a little protective of her, for reasons that . . . well, let’s just say I try to err on the side of caution.”
“What made you decide I’m a safe bet?”
“It’s simple. Your grandmother was kind to Mimi at a time when she badly needed a friend. Now it’s my turn to do the same for you.”