Barbara Cleverly - Tug of War

‘Now, if you’re prepared, I think you could well accompany me to the rue Baudricourt to meet Mademoiselle Desforges who turns out to be the entirely respectable owner of a tailoring and design establishment. Another example of post-war female enterprise.’

Dorcas grinned. ‘Men had better watch out. Soon all that’ll be left for you to do is fight each other.’

Gold lettering on the dark blue fascia of a renovated shop announced her business: Desforges, Tailleur. Confection de Dames. Paris Reims. As an illustration, one window showed a single gown discreetly lit. A carved mannequin turned its back with insouciance on the window-shopper, showing off a black cocktail dress in mousseline de soie. The low-cut neckline dipped almost to the waist, silk ribbons floated from the shoulders and a long rope of pearls swung teasingly down the back. Dorcas stared in fascination.

The elderly servant who answered the bell was resentful of their presence on the doorstep. She greeted them, grudgingly acknowledging that Mademoiselle was expecting them. ‘She is very busy and can only afford you a short interview,’ she added.

‘Thank you, Marie. I’ll take our guests through to my office. You must be the Scottish policeman but I had no idea you had an assistant. Ah? Your niece. I’m delighted to meet you, mademoiselle.’ The voice was low and musical, the figure they followed along a corridor was youthful and slim, charming in its navy linen dress and white collar. She paused before a door and turned to them, a finger raised in warning. ‘Here I must ask you to step with care — we’re about to pass through the machine room. The girls are busy with a rush order for a Paris nightclub. They are always rush orders! And it all moves so quickly these days. Every week a new cabaret opens and we’ll have barely filled their first order before they’ve changed their star and the new prima donna demands an entirely different set of costumes.’

To Joe’s amusement the ten girls pedalling on treadle sewing machines were churning out a series of extremely short skirts in yellow and green. Mademoiselle Desforges laughed and picked up one of the outfits.

‘This week it’s bananas — with the odd discreetly placed green leaf, of course. Suddenly everyone wants tropical fruit. Next week. . who knows?’

‘Surely that’s. .?’ Joe began.

‘The divine Miss Baker. Yes. Costumes for her new show. Josephine designed the original — bananas threaded on to a string — but you can imagine the dangers! Energetic dancer that she is, that delicious derrière is in danger of exposure at any moment. And perhaps that’s the point, but we are engaged to kit out a whole chorus line with something a little more substantial and durable.’ She tugged at the waistband to demonstrate the strength. ‘You see? We wouldn’t want an unforeseen event on the front row stealing the limelight from the leading lady!’

A further room was crossed, this one crowded with racks and rails of colourful garments, an Aladdin’s cave for Dorcas who managed, by loitering, to finger some of the satins and furs as they passed by. Catching her interest, Mireille loitered alongside identifying some of the costumes. ‘. . and this one, all diamanté and red feathers, is a commission from Max for the Folies Bergères and these will be worn by Mistinguett. . she opens in Ça c’est Paris at the Moulin Rouge later this year. Ah! Those are for the Dolly Sisters at the Casino de Paris. .’

Joe’s impatient throat-clearing and foot-tapping went unregarded and it seemed an eternity before they broke free of the frou-frous and entered her office.

The room was small and, in contrast with the previous display, spartan in appearance. Two of the walls were lined with shelves of ledgers. A third wall was covered with tacked-up music hall posters of a style and radiance that caught Joe’s eye. Mistinguett, Barbette, Doriane flaunted extravagant confections of feathers and chiffon revealing tempting glimpses of long performers’ limbs and bold eyes. ‘Your designs, mademoiselle?’ he asked.

‘I wish I could say so. No. I pin them there for inspiration. The artist is Charles Gesmar. Have you heard of him? He is depressingly young but a genius, I think.’

The desk taking up most of the floor space was polished and clear but for a note pad and an elaborate black and gold telephone. An open french window gave on to a small courtyard bright with flowers. Joe settled to take his first steady look at Mademoiselle Desforges. Older than her silhouette suggested, she must have been about his own age. Her fine skin was beginning to line but the high cheekbones, the well-shaped mouth and the tilted hazel eyes would ensure that she remained a beautiful woman. Her gaze was intelligent, her gestures responsive. An actress. Yes, that expressive face, those controlled but slightly exaggerated movements were those of an actress. He was on his guard.

Most people he interviewed automatically put on a mask for the occasion even if they had nothing to hide. Nine times out of ten he would patiently prise away the mask only to find the same innocent features hiding underneath. On the tenth occasion something dark and hideous would be exposed.

But he thought he had never spoken to anyone less bent on concealment than this woman. ‘You will, of course, want to know the truth of my relationship with Dominique. Yes, that is his name. He is Dominique de Villancourt. A cavalry officer with the Dragoons. A Parisian. Graduate of the Academy at St Cyr. He was my lover throughout the war years. He told me that he had a wife in Paris and that he did not love her. I can only assume he was telling me the truth of this because he spent every available leave with me. When the German army invaded Champagne in 1914 he managed to reach me and put me on the last evacuation train into Paris. He pushed an address into my hand and told me to go there. It was an apartment overlooking the Bois de Boulogne. I spent the more dangerous periods of the war years there and he came whenever he could. Sometimes we met here when things calmed down. We were lucky — this house escaped the shelling, you see.

‘His wife, he said, knew nothing of the arrangement. The Paris apartment was in my name. He transferred the deeds from his name to mine. I kept all the documents and handed them to Inspector Bonnefoye for verification. He has, I understand, successfully authenticated Dominique’s signature. After the war when he did not return I sold it and invested the money in reinvigorating my father’s business here in Reims. I learned much in Paris. I was not a “kept woman”, monsieur. Oh, no! I earned wages by working in the theatres. Starvation wages! But it was the knowledge and skills I was building to say nothing of the contacts I was making that have stood me in good stead.’ She waved a hand around her office. ‘I am doing rather well, you see.

‘But I owe it all to Dominique. I still work — ludicrous, I know, but it’s how I feel — for him. For a future together. I have never accepted his death. .’ She gave them both a challenging look. ‘It’s pathetic, I understand that, and I see the embarrassed pity in your eyes before you look politely away, but the conviction that he is alive and will one day come back to me has always been so strong that it is quite useless to fight it.’

‘How did you meet this officer?’ Dorcas asked, enchanted by the story. ‘Oh, I say, I’m sorry. . excuse me. . it’s none of my business. .. Sorry, Uncle Joe.’

Mireille turned and smiled at her. A smile to match Thibaud’s, Joe thought.

‘It was very romantic! I was working here — in the old shop, that is — helping my father with his tailoring when a dashing young officer came in. Literally dashing! He was in a hurry — his regiment was being sent north to harry the Germans and the sleeve of his tunic was hanging off. A respectable dragoon does not harry Germans looking like a scarecrow! He needed attention on the spot. The standard of tailoring in those days was appalling but so much to do in so little time. . My father was away so I did the work myself. He stood in his shirtsleeves and watched me while I sewed. We talked. We flirted. We fell in love. He said he would return. I knew he would and he did. And I know he will again.’ She looked at them with speculation and came to a decision. ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’