Short Story: The Hat Box

Short Story: The Hat Box

A tempting array of hats were stored in a dressing room, where hat boxes sat perched on high shelves looking resplendent with their striped outer wrapper or silk bow. Some constructed of stiffened card and some made from an exotic mixture like zebra or giraffe, produced long before the present embargo. The ones that seemed to offer promise were leather bound in alligator or crocodile skin and these were emblazoned with clasps of silver or gold that shone purposefully.

“One can never wear a hat more than once,” Miss Lawrence oozed, using that posh tone whenever discussing the old days (the very old days), while allowing that us kids might be permitted to try on an example or two to parade in our very own fashion show.

Miss Lawrence had a floor length mirror, one of those large devices pivoted to swivel through 90 degrees allowing the viewer a complete picture from head to toe and incorporating scuffed trainers through scruffy denims, overlooking stained tee shirts and leading to whatever exotic concoction we had chosen to wear. Mine contained feathers with a kind of tassel effect that fell to one side coquettishly; my sister’s choice was feathery too, incorporating ostrich and peacock in a colourful array of autumnal chic. There was another I quite liked that had a trail of be-jewelled ladybirds forming a border; this was quite small and narrow, and something Miss Lawrence termed a Fascinator. She added colourfully it would need to be held in place with a large pin that speared it to the hair, but as the pin was ‘far too precious’ it remained secreted into a drawer of the roll top desk she kept her valuables hidden inside. Mostly we were allowed to do as we pleased whenever we visited, and she rarely fretted over what we chose to play with or try on. Her only insistence was that we replace whatever we had discovered into the same place, and sometimes this wasn’t as easy as it seemed – the house was a bit of a jumble (a jungle Mum described it as wearily), but we enjoyed our visits.

Miss Lawrence had been a ‘society lady’ when she was younger, which meant she didn’t need to work or do much more than look pretty, act charming and talk to other ‘society’ people while leading a dreamy existence. She told us the war gave her the opportunity to do voluntary work where she met ‘ordinary’ people as she sat beside the beds of injured warriors or sang to groups of soldiers at impromptu concerts; sometimes she read, or danced at places she described as ‘canteens’ which had nothing to do with where people ate but allowed her to meet a great many young men in uniform. It sounded exciting the way she described it but she had lost a number of friends during the conflict, and afterwards things weren’t the same anymore. ‘Society’ ladies weren’t tolerated in the way it had been previously and she was expected to find a husband but despite various offers, there was no one she deemed worthy to marry. She was certainly a modern woman for her time but that didn’t mean she had the support of her family and had fallen out with her father because of it.

We listened to Mum and Miss Lawrence chat, much taken with the dressmaker’s dummy Miss Lawrence kept close by that was fitted with a pearl encrusted dress from the early twenties. She beamed proudly as we examined its glittering texture with inquisitive fingers. “Something of a trophy. My mother was a flapper you see.”

My sister and I remained mystified until Mum explained. “A flapper was a….young woman that liked to party and dance.”

Miss Lawrence nodded, producing a photograph album from the period with pictures of elegant and graceful ladies and gentlemen in evening clothes posed against a period background, picking them off by name before lifting her head.

“I suppose in many ways I was a product of the period – my mother’s child,” she smiled. “We enjoyed so many of the same things.” She returned to the album, contemplating the content. “Dead now of course,” she sighed. “All dead and gone, but that was the way life was lived in certain circles. Mother loved to dance, and I still recall her attending some ball when I was small. She sat on my bed in her glittering outfit clasping my hand to whisper into my ear which dance she’d be undertaking and with whom. She was so glamorous – so carefree. Father by comparison always seemed rather two footed…. I’m sure he was happy to sit these things out, but he never said.”

Miss Lawrence smiled as she closed the photograph album but it remained nestled in her lap like a warm memory.

“Another slice of cake Miss Lawrence?” Mum asked, disturbing the calm that had ensued.

Miss Lawrence declined. “I have to watch my figure or no one will watch it for me.”

It was impossible to estimate Miss Lawrence’s age as she refused to say, but we guessed she was in her eighties and had grown frail. Mum called on her twice a week and sometimes we went along; sometimes we preferred to do other things, but the hats always drew us back. We loved dressing up and there was always such a variety of clothes and hats in Miss Lawrence’s closets.

“Do you know where I last wore that hat?” she asked my sister. “Ascot. The races – with Colonel Stewart and his wife, the actress Annabel Scott. Do you remember her?” Mum alone nodded. “It was a cloudy day, threatening rain. Annabel and I talked the whole time about Paris fashions – quite annoyed her husband who took racing a bit too seriously.” She smiled conspiratorially. “That was the day we met the Aga Khan and his Lady in the paddock; it was Annabel he was interested in, but I shook hands. So you see the hats been presented to royalty.”

No one was certain who the Aga Khan was and my sister removed the hat self-consciously, pulling fingers through tangled hair as if to remove any germ that might force her into curtsying which she saw as being far too girly. Miss Lawrence turned her attention to the head piece I had selected.

“And that,” she grinned. “That got me into a great deal of trouble.”

We gazed at her expectantly before Mum spoke up. “Do tell.”

Miss Lawrence lifted the tea cup to her lips, stretching her little finger impishly. “It’s not for young ears. I’ll tell you another time if I can bear to remember the detail.”

My mother is one of those people that can’t abide a mystery, and I expect I’ve grown to be the same. I saw her squirming to be told the story. Needless to say we children never heard a thing then or later.

“I don’t know who I’m going to leave it all to – after I’m dead,” Miss Lawrence pronounced one afternoon. “I should never have kept so much. It’s just an old woman’s vanity I expect.”

“They’re treasures,” Mother soothed.

The old lady remained vacant eyed. “That’s the trouble you see. You live too long and then it’s far too late to do the things you should have done, and now – what arrangements can I make?”

Mother made a suggestion concerning charity shops but even she knew it was unlikely that the vast majority of the stuff would find another home. “Really, it belongs in a collection. A museum possibly or a fashion college.”

Miss Lawrence perked up at the latter suggestion. “Yes, but which?”

Mother appeared perplexed. “I’ve no idea. Do you want me to talk to someone?”

“Would you,” Miss Lawrence responded. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Mother promised, but it was plain her heart wasn’t in it and later as we were put to bed I asked.

“Is Miss Lawrence going to die?”

“One day,” Mum answered after a couple of seconds. “But she’s a tough old bird.”

I was twelve when Miss Lawrence died and my sister ten, with Mum named as Executor – so she got to sort out the Will and to try and locate any living relatives to pass on whatever was left. My sister and I were given the pick of any hat or hatbox that we wanted. We went round after school to discover Mum and the man that was helping her to clear the house stoking a bonfire in the garden. There were heaps they had removed from which they fed the flames, and I tried not to look in case I discovered something that might prove upsetting.

“Oh Mum, does it all have to be burned?”

Mum gave me a weary look, answering impatiently. “What else are we to do with it – I’m sorry, but no one in their right mind is going to want this stuff. We’ve already given a van load away to charity shops, and the fashion college are coming tomorrow to pick over what they can use. I’ve done my best but really there’s very little of any real value beyond the sentimental. I’d go upstairs now and choose something before it all disappears.”

Miss Lawrence’s house had been systematically cleared of content and now felt desperately empty compared to the way it had appeared during my last visit. The old lady had been ill the last few months of her life and I hadn’t visited, and now felt tearful and guilty.

I turned to my sister. “Do you know what you want?”

“Something pretty,” She said in disarming fashion, but it’s a tone she uses to disguise the fact she knows very well what she wants and isn’t prepared to admit until it’s in her hands.

I suppose I had a pretty clear idea of what I wanted, but even so it felt awful handling Miss Lawrence’s hat boxes without her being present to supervise. There was a beautiful example I headed towards, made from white leather which had been tooled and embedded with tiny freshwater pearls. I always loved the box even when it contained the most frightful hat that resembled a swan in full sail. I heard my sister snigger as I took it out and told her to shut up.

“You cannot possibly be serious…..” she grinned.

I replaced the hat into the box and closed the lid determinedly. “This is the one.”

My sister chose a leopard print hat swapping the box it came in with another so she could have a pink one that resembled an old fashioned make-up case. I knew I should have done the same, but it was the box I wanted; I never wore hats, indeed no one in our family did, but there it was. I found a rag to wipe away a smattering of dust, offering it to my sister to do the same. It was then I noticed my sister quake slightly.

“What’s the matter?”

“Do you think Miss Lawrence can see us?” my sister asked.

“Of course,” I answered. “Why ever not? We’re in her house and breaking up her prized collection.” I hoped by speaking loudly to keep my own fears at bay as I led my sister away to re-join Mum. No one spoke for a long time until Mum glanced at the two hat boxes we were carrying.

“You’ve made your choice? Good. Put them at the back of the big wardrobe if you like – there’s room.”

I wondered why she preferred for them to remain out of sight, but could guess she didn’t want any reminders herself after she was being forced to destroy so much. I never did wear the hat and it wasn’t simply because I felt stupid or self- conscious, or any of those things. I didn’t wear it because every time I took it out I saw an image of Miss Lawrence and told myself it wasn’t mine to wear, it belonged to Miss Lawrence and I only had custody of it. That’s how it felt; the hat box was different. I loved that box and later when I went to Uni took it with me to keep my treasures in. My sister wore the leopard print a couple of times to parties and later swapped it for a pair of heels, but that’s what she’s like. The pink hat box was shoved beneath her bed and used to hide whatever she didn’t want our parents to discover. I don’t know if Miss Lawrence would have approved the way things turned out but might have been glad we discovered a better use for the hat boxes than simply gathering dust on a high shelf. If I met her today that’s the difference I’d try to explain, that no one minds if things are used more than once or an alternative use is found for a well-crafted design. Wherever she is I hope Miss Lawrence doesn’t mind and is able to understand, and wouldn’t accuse us of being pagans and fashion pillagers. She wouldn’t, would she?