from those off-cuts, a manifestation of the way she managed to create something so beautiful in a time of hardship and danger. I made her promise not to throw it away and asked her to wear it to be my maid of honour. That way, from then on it would also be associated with something joyous. I wanted to turn it into an emblem of survival and of the triumph of good over evil, you see.’
‘It’s so beautiful,’ I agree. ‘And so is your wedding dress, Mireille. Did Monsieur Dior design it for you?’
She laughs. ‘He did. Well spotted. You really do have an eye for fashion, just as Simone told me. Can you guess what it is made from?’
I peer closely at the photograph. The fabric is a creamy white, so fine that it looks almost translucent. ‘From the way the skirt falls in those folds, I’d guess it was silk.’ I look up at her. ‘But where did you get such fine material so soon after the war?’
‘My husband, of course.’ Her eyes twinkle with amusement. ‘When Philippe came to find me in Paris at the end of the war, he had with him a large kit bag. There were almost no personal belongings in it. But it did contain one large army-issue parachute. This time, he hadn’t buried it in a turnip field. He kept his promise to me and saved it for me to make something from. As it turned out, what I made was my wedding dress!’
As I hand the photo album back to her, she catches sight of the gold charm bracelet on my wrist. ‘But how wonderful to see this being worn still!’ she exclaims. ‘I gave it to Claire on my wedding day as a gift for being my maid of honour and my friend. Knowing that she was going to make a new life in England, with Larry, I wanted her to take a little bit of France with her. It had just the one charm on it – la Tour Eiffel. She wrote and told me that your grandfather gave her a charm each year on their wedding anniversary.’
She peers closely at the bracelet, separating the charms with the tip of her gnarled finger so that she can see them more clearly: the bobbin of thread, the scissors, the shoe, the tiny thimble. When she comes to the heart that Thierry gave me, she pauses. ‘This one looks brand new.’ She smiles.
‘It is,’ I say. ‘Perhaps Thierry and I will keep the tradition going. Or maybe start a new one of our own.’
We sit for over an hour, sipping tea and poring over the album of photographs. At last, Mireille sets the book aside. ‘It’s nearly time for you to go home for lunch,’ she says to Simone. ‘But before you do, help me to my feet. There is something else I want to show Harriet.’
Back inside the cottage, she leads the way down the hall to a formal sitting room. The shutters have been closed to keep out the bright sunlight and she instructs us to open them. Two long, ghostly shapes hang from a shelf on one wall and Mireille shuffles over to them. They are sheets, covering two garments on coat-hangers and, very carefully, she begins to un-pin the first one. Simone moves to help her and, as I watch, the Dior wedding dress emerges from its wrappings. In real life it’s even more beautiful than it was in the photograph. The bodice of the dress is embroidered with cream flowers and the centre of each is picked out with a tiny seed pearl. Mireille gently runs the tip of her bent forefinger over the tiny stitches. ‘Claire’s work,’ she says. ‘I made my dress and she did the embroidery for me. She was always the best at that.’
Then she turns to the second draped sheet. ‘And this is for you, Harriet.’ She undoes the pins that hold the sheet in place and as it falls to the floor it reveals an evening gown of midnight blue crêpe de Chine, whose neckline sparkles where the sunshine that floods the room catches the constellation of tiny silver beads scattered across it. It’s only when you look closely that you can see that the body of the dress has been pieced together from offcuts and scraps, with stitches so tiny and perfect that they are almost invisible.
‘Claire’s dress,’ I gasp.
Mireille nods. ‘When she left after my wedding, to start