Precious Things (36 page)

PEARL: London, 2016

Pearl stood in her room, hands on hips, tongue sticking out from the corner of her mouth in concentration.

The bulky leather trunk bound by wooden bands sat in the corner of her bedroom. Vaguely boat-like, it looked as if it were about to set sail on some fantastic sea voyage. Pearl imagined the trunk on stormy seas. Vikings and pussycats and owls ran through her fantasies. She carefully put her doll to one side, propping her against a mirror. ‘Stay there, Lucy,' she instructed. ‘We're going on a 'dventure.' She shuffled the heavy trunk from under the window and heaved open its lid.

Hunting around in its depths, Pearl tossed aside the feathered masks, old fedoras and a long pink taffeta dress. There it was, hiding at the bottom – her mermaid costume. She pulled at it now, catching the tip of a glittering tail on a clasp, and sending a few fish scales flying across the polished wooden floor. Tugging the top part over her head, Pearl settled the sequinned bodice against her chest and shimmied, admiring herself in the full-length mirror.

She dug into a corner of the trunk and grabbed and cast to the ground a paper fan and single glove, unearthing the last piece she was looking for. Ah, there it was. Her secret, the one that Mummy didn't know about. Her outfit was complete.

‘Mine,' Pearl muttered.

Wrapping the beaded coronet around her doll, Pearl rocked Lucy back and forth in her arms. ‘I'll be the moon queen, you be my baby princess,' she said. Settling her down on the fluffy duvet, she fumbled to tie the coronet's ribbons into knots with her small fingers. Tighter
and tighter they grew, until only a small tail remained. Eventually, one ribbon came away in her hand, ripped from the side with the pressure. She wrapped it around Lucy's small wrist. Noticing the small hole left by the torn ribbon, Pearl poked her thumb inside the coronet and pulled. The noise of snapping stitches sounded out with a satisfying
riiiiippppp
!

Jamming her finger further in, she tore at the fabric, the brittle cotton stitches coming away in her hands, disintegrating into dust. A diamond slipped out from between the layers and fell on the duvet, bouncing towards the wall, unseen by Pearl. It slipped and rolled down under a gap in the skirting board, finally coming to a stop. There it sat, lodged between the wooden floor and ragged plaster edge, sending out a last dull wink.

Still working her fingers at the seams, Pearl felt them satisfyingly loosen, until she could fit her entire hand in between two layers. As she felt the bumpy back of the coronet she pulled at the threads, until beads suddenly tumbled through her fingers. Falling, they scattered across the bedspread.
This is fun
, she thought, forgetting her plans for a boat trip.

Ten minutes later, the coronet was a ruined, crumpled mess. Feeling abashed all of a sudden, Pearl stopped, looking down at what she'd done.

‘What's that you've got there, darling?' her mother asked, entering the room and sitting on the edge of her bed. Pearl whipped the coronet behind her back but it was too late – her mother gave a little gasp when she saw it.

‘Sorry, Mummy,' Pearl said, suddenly remorseful, and wondering if she was in trouble.

Her mother frowned. ‘Oh, Pearl. It's a precious thing. What do I say? When something's old and delicate, we've got to be extra-specially careful, don't we?' She had her cross face on.

Pearl could feel her bottom lip start to tremble. ‘Sorry, Mummy.'

Her mother sighed and gave her a hug. ‘It's all right, darling – lucky it's not too bad. We can fix it.'

Maggie turned the coronet over slowly in her hands, trying to assess the damage. Stopping abruptly, she smoothed the coronet open
on her knees, then peered in closer, taking a sharp breath. Pearl leaned over to see.

‘Is that writing in there, Mummy? Secret writing?' Pearl bounced on the bed, excited. ‘Is it like a clue? What does it say?'

‘Not writing,' her mother said, brow furrowing in concentration. ‘Embroidery. That's like writing with a needle and thread . . . It says, um, let me see,
Eat Me, Drink Me, Love Me . . .
That's what it says.' There was a strange look on Maggie's face as she looked closely at the scrawled writing.

‘Like Alice, Alice in Wonderland!'

Surprising her, Maggie picked Pearl up and placed her on her lap, hugging her close. ‘What's wrong, Mummy?' Pearl asked, not understanding.

‘Nothing, darling,' said her mother, smiling. ‘It's someone's secret wish,' she said, her fingers tracing the letters, ‘and I don't know if it came true . . . I hope it did. But it was there all along, hidden.
Love me . . .
'

Pearl let herself be rocked – she loved being cradled. Although she felt confused.
Mummy's silly
, she told herself, smiling into Maggie's eyes
.
‘Mummy, why are you crying?'

Secrets weren't good – even she knew that – but wishes could be. Pearl was just glad she wasn't in trouble. If it was all right to take this, maybe Mummy wouldn't mind sharing other things with her. Pearl grabbed at the locket hanging against Maggie's chest, right in the centre of her dress. Pearl liked the new tiny picture inside, with her and Daddy and Stella. It was like a good secret.

‘Can I have this, Mummy?'

‘No, darling,' her mother smiled. ‘That's mine.'

‘But, but . . .' Pearl objected.

‘When you're older,' her mother said. ‘I promise, darling girl. Just not today. Come on, time for lunch.' And she stood up and held out her hand.

Pearl took it, thinking now about how hungry she was.
Maybe I can be a pirate
, she thought,
but I'll have my lunch first . . . then I'll sail the seven seas, and be queen of the world.

This novel simply would not exist without the encouragement, support and talent of my wonderful publisher, Catherine Milne. Thank you doesn't cover it, dear friend!

Thanks as well go to my brilliant agent, Jane Gregory, Stephanie Glencross, Claire Morris and everyone else at Gregory & Company for believing in
Precious Things
and making it a better book.

Thank you to Shona Martyn, Julia Stiles, Madeleine James, Pamela Dunne and the rest of the HarperCollins team for your efforts – I appreciate it immensely.

To Annette Barlow, thank you for taking a throwaway comment seriously and for urging me to write fiction, and to Emily Maguire and the other writers I met on the Faber Academy at Allen & Unwin writing course – thank you for your insight and encouragement.

Thank you to Shauna Farren-Price for inspiring me to write about an auction house, and to Amanda Prior for my lovely author photos.

Jessica Guthrie, thank you so much for your stunning illustrations! Your enthusiasm and talent always blow me away – you're my ultimate reader. And to Olivier Dupon, Edwina Johnson, Hannah Richell, Charlotte Smith, Jenny Valentish and Colette Vella, thank you for being such willing readers and vital parts of my writing network.

To the friends and family who encouraged and listened along the way: Kristy Allen, Pia Jane Bijkerk, Darcy Byrne, Katrina Collett & James Diessl, Lisa Cosco, Steven & Christine Foulkes, Maggie Hamilton & Derek Dryden, Rebecca Huntley, Nicolle Jenkins, Lou
Johnson, Adam Jones, April Murdoch, Anna Murray & David Lowe, Levi Tuhetoka, Jacinta Tynan, Cynthia White, Mark Wilsher and my in-laws, the Dousts –
molte grazie!

And to the
Crafty Minx
,
Vogue
and
Australian Women's Weekly
readers who supported me during my years of writing about craft, fashion and vintage.

And lastly to my husband, James, and daughter, Olive, who make everything possible.

The Making of
Precious Things

Coronet:
noun.
A small or relatively simple crown, especially as worn by lesser royalty and peers or peeresses.

Falling into fiction

Like many of the best discoveries, the idea for
Precious Things
came to me as a happy accident and evolved into something much more than I first imagined.

My family and I live in a tiny Victorian-era cottage that is bursting at the seams. I'm usually good at editing my pieces – passing on items that I no longer use or love and bringing in newer ones to keep things fresh – but it does get cluttered at times. I am a huge fan of flea markets, so one day I decided to hold a stall of my own to sort out our overflowing wardrobes.

I love the vibe and excitement of a proper flea market, the unique thrill of getting up at dawn and hustling out of the house early, shopping basket at the ready. I can feel panicky at the thought of missing out, so always aim to be there first thing to carefully sift through all the stalls and make sure I haven't overlooked anything. Sometimes I leave empty-handed, but more often than not I'm rewarded with some treasure to bring home with me – maybe just the item I've been looking for, or an essential object I never knew I needed.

On the day I held my stall with a good friend, it was entertaining to watch our preloved things walk away with new people. I found myself wondering about the new lives our old clothes might lead. That afternoon, I posted a throwaway comment on my blog:
‘One day I'll write a book just like Annie Proulx's
Accordion Crimes
, or the film
The Red Violin
, about a cheeky little frock who gets about and lives in more cities than I ever will. Wouldn't that be fun?'

A few weeks later, I received an email from a publisher asking me if I'd really be interested in such a project: ‘If you are, could we please talk about it?' she said. I hadn't really considered it seriously, but it got me thinking about what stories I could create about the women who'd owned my vintage frocks before me, and how I could share my love for reinventing clothing in a fictional setting.

I've written many books and magazine articles about my love for fashion, craft and recycling, and have been lucky enough to have two bestsellers with
A Life in Frocks: A memoir
and
The Crafty Minx: Creative recycling and handmade treasures
. But I've always harboured a secret desire to write fiction, even when I knew it was a notoriously tricky thing to do. It wasn't until my publisher friend made the suggestion, that I realised the idea could give me the confidence to start writing a novel.

Unearthing treasures

Clothes – particularly vintage and antique ones – are my weakness. I've always been intrigued by the history of these pieces, and find myself constantly fascinated by what we wear and why; how the right outfit can change our mood in an instant, and why we're drawn to wearing certain pieces at different times in our lives. The true reason I've been collecting old frocks and accessories since forever (when I was twelve or thirteen, at least) is because I love their gift for reinvention and have always wondered this: what amazing tales are they hiding, and what could they tell us about their past?

An antique travel trunk covered in peeling labels looking worn and scuffed around the edges isn't just a rusty, damaged item that's seen better days. To me it brings to mind tumultuous sea journeys, the smell of salt and the sound of gulls cawing, as well as the image of a fetching skirt suit worn to stroll a cruise ship's upper decks. Or a stiff snakeskin purse with a long-ago tram ticket tucked inside its inner pocket – where was the woman who owned it going that day? Did she meet her lover for lunch, visit a gallery, or take that first, nerve-wracking job interview after having children? I love these old things. They give us such a tantalising glimpse into other people's lives – lives we are only able to dream of.

When I was living and travelling overseas in my twenties, I adored collecting unusual and unique pieces in the various places I visited, and could not resist bringing my souvenirs home. I always wondered what events they'd witnessed, and what sort of women had worn them before me. What new adventures would I, in time, add to their history?

Who first wore my sixties-era silk kaftan, for instance, the one with the intricate blue and gold needlework? I picked it up from the Parisian
puces
on holiday with a man I was falling out of love with, who I would go on to leave with the uncharacteristic insouciance I supposed the previous owner had in spades . . .

Wearing my kaftan in a shoot for
Minxy Vintage
(image by Anthony Ong, courtesy of Murdoch Books)

And a paillette-encrusted beret, which looked plain in low light but shimmered like a peacock in the lights of a nightclub – what of its past? Perhaps the beret had been bought by a beautiful Russian spy in the 1940s, and was then inherited by her daughter and worn to New York's Studio 54 in the 1970s, whereafter I bought it at the Chelsea flea market … I felt like the back stories I invented for these pieces had the effect of making
me
feel more glamorous when I wore them, as if their interesting and mysterious past had somehow rubbed off on me.

Some of my favourite vintage fashion finds are those exotic pieces that transport me to other worlds. Like the faded pink silk kimono I imagine a geisha wearing in her
hanamachi
(the ‘flower towns' where geisha women live during their apprenticeships), or the traditional Kazakh peasant vest that somehow looks perfect over a simple white tank and ripped jeans with a pair of vertiginous peep-toe booties. I adore the layering of these foreign influences in my everyday look, and often concoct a little story in my head which goes something like ‘hippie luxe traveller meets New York chic'. Silly, I know, but it keeps me amused and feeling fresh rather than enslaved by the latest fashions.

My seven-year-old daughter has inherited the gene and dreams up stories for her toys. Just last week we found a threadbare teddy at our local flea market and she christened him Periwinkle. I urged her to write a story about his past, and predictably it began with Periwinkle's parents dying horribly, and a long, dark journey into the forest …

From little things . . .

My dream of writing a novel came from the idea of exploring the history of one piece of clothing. As I started thinking about it more carefully, I realised I wanted to write a sweeping, romantic story that took in many generations of women and covered the significant eras of the twentieth century.

Through research I'd done for my previous book,
Minxy Vintage: How to customise and wear vintage clothing
, I'd already learned how intrinsic the link is between fashion and social change, and wanted to explore this further. It's far more than just hemlines lowering or raising with the economy – the women of the 1920s chose to cast off the restrictive, corseted styles of the Belle Époque in favour of a sportier aesthetic. This was championed by Coco Chanel in Paris fashion, but only occurred in the mainstream because women were finally entering the workplace and taking on men's work. It also seemed ridiculous (to a generation familiar with tending the wounded, often naked bodies of soldiers) that they should worry too much about a well-turned ankle or décolletage on display. Similarly, the rich, ample fabrics of the 1950s were a response to the harsher restrictions of the Second World War. Frivolity and excess entered fashion once again after an era of horrible rationing and misery. Women wanted to forget the war and move on – the same could be said for the world at large.

I knew that I couldn't write such a far-reaching story with just one pair of shoes or a dress alone – those pieces wouldn't last the distance, and would probably be squirrelled away by one owner for decades. That's when I hit upon the idea of the collar, via a few serendipitous detours. A carefully embroidered and beaded collar would be much hardier, for a start, and also have the capacity to be reinvented many times over. It was also something I felt familiar with.

For years I'd been collecting really special pieces of my own: beaded, sequinned and pearl-encrusted beauties that seemed to have had many different uses. Some were unpicked from a dress's neckline or bodice, others had a few ribbons tacked to the sides so they could be used as a choker or a headpiece. Still others were fished out of charity store bins but showed no signs of discernible use. I repurposed many of these pieces over the years on new items of clothing or headbands, and also kept others in a rose-painted biscuit tin, waiting for the right moment to reinvent them. I even stored some in a bell jar that's on display in my home.

Finding my ‘hero' piece

During my early thinking and research stage, I visited a friend's house, artist Jessica Guthrie (illustrator of the beautiful line drawings throughout
Precious Things,
but more on that later). Jess used to own a vintage clothing store, Coco Repose, and we first met when I was sourcing some of the clothes for
Minxy Vintage.
She invited me into her studio and showed me a wonderful beaded item that she had collected to use for a still life artwork. Here it is:

I couldn't stop thinking about the headpiece in particular – it enchanted and inspired me. How many different adventures had it seen in its lifetime? It might have originally been a collar on a wedding gown, but then refashioned into a crown or a choker. It could have been worn as a bracelet wrapped around a girl's wrist or added as a bodice detail to a latter-day dress. Or displayed as art upon the wall.

With all the other ideas bubbling away inside my head, I finally felt like I'd found the star of my novel. In my imagination, the story of the collar immediately started coming together. I saw that it would be created by a young woman in Normandy in 1890s France for her wedding dress, and then later it would be repurposed as a headpiece in the 1920s by a flamboyant circus performer. After that it would find itself with a wily dancer in the 1930s, an artist's muse in the 1950s and so on … In my mind, I started calling the collar the ‘coronet'. Of course, the coronet described in
Precious Things
is not meant to be identical to the one I fell in love with in Jess's studio, but it comes close enough.

Meeting Maggie

Finding the coronet was a big step in linking the historical strands of the narrative, but I also knew I needed a real and relatable protagonist to anchor the story in a modern context.

Auction houses have always held an allure for me. I had an auctioneer friend who used to share all sorts of stories with me about the people she came across through her work. I loved listening to her stories, and would often visit her at work to check out the collections. These were amazingly varied and changed from week to week. One month, they would be selling fine wines and jewellery. For another period, they were passing on old collections of domestic objects such as irons and trivets. And once an avid natural history collector liquidated his entire collection and there were fossils, crystals, taxidermy and even dinosaur bones up for grabs.