The wedding dress stayed in the attic.
The marriage, however, did not.
What remained was a story that felt entirely genuine.
When the walkin wardrobe of our new cottage began to groan under the weight of too many garments, Eleanor Whitford swore to her husband, Thomas Clarke, that she would sort it all out: toss the rubbish, hand over or sell what we no longer needed (as recalled in her earlier tale The Fashion Sacrifice).
So she spent an hour in the middle of the room, shuffling coats from one hanger to another, justifying each piece to herself: This will be useful, this for a walk with the terrier, that one for a charity ball. The pile destined for the bin was pitifully small. Everything seemed important, necessary, almost dear.
Then, from the depths of the closet, a fabriccovered box emerged.
What on earth is this? she muttered, brow furrowing. Heavens! Its my wedding dress!
Not the sleek navy Chanelstyle suit she had remarried in the town hall a second time, but the gown from her first weddingthe very dress that had crossed oceans and years with her, a relic of a life long past.
Eleanor had first wed at twentyoneby todays standards barely out of adolescence, but by the standards of the 1950s already a nearold maid. She caught bewildered, judging glances from acquaintances, sympathetic looks from married friends, and worried eyes from her mother and grandmother.
Then came a suitor: a respectable young man from a decent family, almost selfsufficient, a year older and finishing his degree at university. She agreed. He was handsome, in love, liked by her, and had her parents blessing. What more could one ask for happiness? Wild passions?
Her father had told her that passion was a writers invention, that a family was built for living, not for romance novels. The wedding was arranged modestly, at a local tea roomno grand procession, no limousine (and where would one find a limousine in a small market town?).
When it came to clothing, the adventure began. The groom managed to buy a suit with a voucher from the Newlyweds Emporium, Eleanor was lucky with shoes, but the dress turned into a fiasco. In those days brides resembled airy meringuestulle, ruffles, and bows the size of a propeller on a corncutter. It was endearing, a little comic, sincerely beautiful, yet she did not wish to look like that. No floorlength veil, no sweeping train trampling the cobblestones.
Eleanor dreamed of a dress that was both exceptional and practical, not just a showpiece for the wardrobe but suitable for the celebration and for life thereafter.
Her mothers seamstress suggested a white batiste dress dotted with tiny blue flowers and a fitted corset. At that moment Eleanor was already a touch pregnantnaturally, after filing the paperwork at the registry office. The pregnancy was kept secret from her parents, but a stiff corset and morning sickness did not mix. She mumbled something about the flowers and stepped back.
The situation was rescued by her grandparents, who had emigrated from Israel. Upon hearing that their beloved granddaughter was to be married, they decided the dress would be their gift.
Eleanor awaited the parcel with a mixture of excitement, joy, and dread. When she finally unwrapped it she could scarcely believe her eyes: the dress was simple yet elegant, in a 1920s spiritsoft fabric, loose cut, horizontal gathers at the waist, a skirt just below the knee. No lace, no sequinsonly a light veil and delicate gloves that lent the whole look a quiet, noble modesty.
The groom insisted on the veilhe wanted everything to be really traditional. He later lifted her onto his arms and carried her up to the sixth floor. After that there was no romance to speak of: exhausted, drunk, and jittery, they collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep instantly. By halfpast six they had to dash to the airport to catch the flight to the Scottish Highlands for their honeymoon.
Three years later the young couple emigrated to the United States, and, of course, the dress travelled with them. It was never worn again, though a few friendsmore petite and luckierborrowed it once or twice. The rest envied them silently.
When the marriage dissolved and Eleanor moved to Europe, she slipped the dress back into a suitcase, just in case.
Now, decades later, she stood amid the overstuffed wardrobe and thought: Its time to sell. She photographed the dress, wrote a brief description, and listed it on Gumtree, the British version of a flea market where you can buy anything from a kettle to a hamster.
Price: £85enough to show it wasnt a cheap trinket but not so high as to scare buyers. To her surprise the dress sold the very same day.
The buyer turned out to be a local, and they arranged to meet at a café in the town centre to avoid any postal hassle. Eleanor was already nursing a cappuccino and a buttery croissant when a whirlwind of a young womanabout twentyseven, with chestnut hair and blue eyesdarted to the table.
Good heavens, thats me at that age, Eleanor thought.
The girl examined the dress, gasped, turned it over in her hands, and chattered nonstop: Im from Wales, finishing my pharmacy degree, my fiancé is Spanish, also studying and working. No ones going to help us, and we dont need anyones. Well make it ourselves. Were planning a Gatsbystyle wedding for our friendsfun and lively. Your dress is a miracle, it fits perfectly!
Eleanor smiled. Thats wonderful. Im glad its useful. No money needed, take it.
She wiped a tear from her eye and mused: perhaps that dress will bring true happiness to this young lady. As for herself, when she reflected, things hadnt been so terrible after all: love, two wonderful sons, travel, laughter. It just didnt happen all at once nor like in the movies.
The girl left, and outside a fine rain fellthin as a veil. Eleanor watched the street and thought that happiness does come in many forms. Sometimes its like a dress: not brandnew, but familiar. The key is that, at least once in life, it fits you just right.
She stirred her cooling cappuccino thoughtfully and smiled. I really should give the wardrobe another look, she thought. Theres still plenty there.
