nodded at the photo on the bedside table. ‘That’s Alastair. He was a lovely man.’
‘He was very good looking.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘He was un bel homme.’
‘But didn’t you mind leaving your home?’
There was a little pause. ‘Not really,’ Mrs Bell replied.
‘Nothing felt the same after the war. Avignon had suffered occupation and bombing – I had lost …’ She fiddled with her gold watch. ‘Friends. I was in need of a new start – and then I met Alistair …’ She ran her hand over the skirt of a damson-coloured gabardine two-piece. ‘I adore this suit,’ she murmured. ‘It reminds me so much of my early life with him.’
‘How long were you married?’
‘Forty-two years. But that is why I moved to this flat. We’d had a very nice house on the other side of the Heath, but I couldn’t bear to stay there after he …’ Mrs Bell paused for a moment to collect herself.
‘And what did he do?’
‘Alastair started his own advertising agency – one of the first. It was an exciting time; he did a lot of business entertaining, so I had to look … presentable.’
‘You must have looked fantastic.’ She smiled. ‘And did you – do you – have a family?’
‘Children?’ Mrs Bell fiddled with her wedding ring, which was loose on her finger. ‘We were rather unfortunate.’
As the subject was clearly painful, I steered the conversation back to her clothes, indicating the ones I wished to buy. ‘But you must only sell them if you’re truly happy to do so,’ I added. ‘I don’t want you to have any regrets.’
‘Regrets?’ Mrs Bell echoed. She placed her hands on her knees. ‘I have many. But I will not regret parting with these garments. I would like them to go on and – how did you put it in that newspaper article – have a new life …’
Now I began to go through my suggested prices for each piece.
‘Excuse me,’ Mrs Bell suddenly said, and from her hesitant demeanour I thought she was about to query one of my valuations. ‘Please forgive me for asking,’ she said, ‘but …’ I looked at her enquiringly. ‘Your friend … Emma. I hope you don’t mind …’
‘No,’ I murmured, aware that, for some reason, I didn’t mind.
‘What happened to her?’ Mrs Bell asked. ‘Why did she …?’ Her voice trailed away.
I lowered the dress I was holding, my heart thudding, as it always does when I recall the events of that night. ‘She’d become ill,’ I replied carefully. ‘No one realised quite how ill she was, and by the time any of us did realise, it was too late.’ I looked out of the window. ‘So I spend a large part of each day wishing that I could turn back the clock.’ Mrs Bell was shaking her head with an expression of intense sympathy, as though she was somehow involved in my sadness. ‘As I can’t do that,’ I went on, ‘I have to find a way of living with what happened. But it’s hard.’ I stood up. ‘I’ve seen all the clothes now, Mrs Bell – there’s just that one last dress there.’
From down the corridor I could hear the telephone ringing. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said.
As I heard her retreating footsteps I went to the wardrobe and took out the final garment – the yellow evening dress. The sleeveless bodice was of a lemon-coloured raw silk and the skirt was of knife-pleated chiffon. But as I pulled it out I found my eye drawn to the garment hanging alongside it – a blue woollen coat. As I peered at it through its protective cover, I saw that it wasn’t an adult’s coat but a child’s. It would have fitted a girl of about twelve.
‘Thank you for letting me know,’ I heard Mrs Bell say as she concluded her phone call. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until next week … I saw Mr Tate this morning … Yes – that remains my decision … I do understand, perfectly … Thank you for calling …’
As Mrs Bell’s voice carried down the hall, I wondered why she would have a girl’s coat hanging in her wardrobe. It had clearly been cherished. A tragic explanation flashed into my mind. Mrs Bell had had a child – a girl, and this coat had been hers; something awful had happened to her and Mrs Bell couldn’t bear to part with it. She hadn’t said that she hadn’t had any children – only that she and her husband had been ‘rather unfortunate’ – very likely an understatement. I felt a wave of sympathy for Mrs Bell. But then, as I furtively unzipped the clear plastic cover to look at the coat more closely, I realised that it was much too old to fit my scenario. As I pulled it out, I could see that it was from the 1940s and was of woollen worsted with a re-used silk lining. It had been hand made with considerable skill.
I heard Mrs Bell’s returning steps and quickly zipped up the cover, but too late: she saw me holding the coat and flinched.
‘I am not disposing of that particular garment. Kindly put it back.’ Taken aback by her tone, I did. ‘I did ask you not to look at anything beyond the yellow evening dress,’ she added as she stood in the doorway.
‘I’m sorry.’ My face went hot with shame. ‘Was the coat yours?’ I added quietly.
Mrs Bell hesitated for a moment, then came back into the room. I heard her sigh. ‘My mother made it for me. It was in February 1943. I was thirteen. She had queued for five hours to buy the fabric and it took her two weeks to make. She was rather proud of it,’ Mrs Bell added as she sat on the bed again.
‘I’m not surprised – it’s beautifully made. But you’ve kept it for … sixty-five years?’ What had motivated her to do so? I wondered – pure sentimentality, because it had been made by her mother?
‘I have kept it for sixty-five years,’ Mrs Bell reiterated quietly. ‘And I will keep it until I die.’
I glanced at it again. ‘It’s in amazing condition – it looks almost unworn.’
‘That’s because it is almost unworn. I told my mother that I had lost it. But I hadn’t – I had only hidden it.’
I looked at her. ‘You hid your winter coat? During the war? But … why?’
Mrs Bell looked out of the window. ‘Because there was someone who needed it far more than I did. I kept it for that person, and I have been keeping it for her ever since.’ She heaved another profound sigh; it seemed to come from her very depths. ‘It’s a story I have never told anyone – not even my husband.’ She glanced at me. ‘But lately I have felt the need to tell it … just to one person. If just one person in this world could hear my story, and tell me that they understand – then I would feel … But now …’ Mrs Bell lifted her hand to her temple, pressed it, then closed her eyes. ‘I am tired.’
‘Of course.’ I stood up. ‘I’ll go.’ I heard the carriage clock chime five thirty. ‘I didn’t mean to stay for so long – I’ve enjoyed talking to you. I’ll just put everything back in the wardrobe.’
I hung up on the left side the clothes that I intended to buy, then I wrote Mrs Bell a cheque for £800. As I gave it to her, she shrugged as though it were of no interest.
‘Thank
