The Gown

by Jennifer Robson

  “Fuzzy?”

  “Yes. That is the perfect word. Fuzzy. And there are times, for a minute, my memories seem like a very bad dream, and I am slowly waking up. But I open my eyes, and I am truly awake, and then I know. I know in my heart it was not a dream.”

  “I am sorry,” Ann said helplessly. What else was there to say? “Is it . . . is it better here? Do you like it in England?”

  Miriam nodded. “I do. I was not sure, at first. The winter did not help, of course. But I do like it here.”

  “I remember, the day we met, you said you were living in Ealing. Are you still there?”

  “Yes. At a small pension—a boardinghouse. But I am not very fond of it. The woman who is the concierge—”

  “The landlady?”

  “Yes. She is not a nice woman. Yesterday she complained that she could not understand me. She said she hadn’t lived through the war just to listen to foreigners talking in . . . what did she call it? ‘Mumbo jumbo.’” At this, Miriam made a face, as if she had smelled something unpleasant.

  “Oh, Miriam. That is awful. I am sorry.”

  “You do not need to apologize. She is the one who is ignorant. Not you. Everyone here at Hartnell has been very pleasant to me.”

  “Well, you can’t stay on there.” And then an idea came to her. Why on earth hadn’t she thought of it before? “I wonder,” she began, her heart racing a little, “if you might be interested in lodging with me? For years I shared a house with my sister-in-law, but she emigrated to Canada last month.”

  Miriam seemed nonplussed. “You would wish for me to share with you?”

  “I don’t see why not.” And then, to lighten the mood, “You don’t have any strange habits, do you? Opera singing? Sleepwalking?”

  “No,” Miriam said, beginning to giggle. “I assure you I am very dull.”

  “It is rather a long trip on the Tube,” Ann admitted. “But we have the whole house to ourselves, and a little garden, too. Do say you’ll at least come and have a look. Do you have any plans for this evening? No? Then come and see the house with me. I’m sure you’ll like it. And just think how lovely it will be to see the last of that awful landlady.”

  “Would it be, ah . . . is it very expensive?” Miriam asked uneasily.

  “I was going to charge fifteen shillings a week. Half my rent. Would you be able to manage that?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “Oh, good. I did ask some of the other girls when Milly first told me she was emigrating, but they all want to stay in London. And do you know, I was going to put a notice up tonight. This is so much better. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.”

  The others were drifting back upstairs. “We had better go,” she said, and waited as Miriam drank the last of her tea. Then, her heart light, she followed the other woman up the steps and back to the embroidery workroom.

  Chapter Eight

  Miriam

  After hearing Ann’s description of the length and tedium of the journey from Mayfair to Barking, Miriam had braced herself for a voyage of several hours’ duration, with perhaps a long walk along dusty country roads at the very end. The reality was rather less daunting: first a ride of nine stops on the Tube, as she had learned to call it, and then a short walk through the station at Mile End for the District line trains heading east.

  “Before last year, when they opened the Central line extension, I’d walk over to Oxford Circus and get on a Bakerloo train to Charing Cross,” Ann said as they boarded. “But the District line platform was always packed out. Sometimes I’d wait half an hour or more until I could get on a train. This is ever so much easier.”

  “How far is it now?”

  “From here, I’d say about twenty minutes. So, altogether, about an hour? I hope you don’t mind.”

  “An hour does not bother me at all. The train to Ealing is very often delayed, or sometimes it stops for no reason. At least on this train we can look out the window.”

  It was nothing like the journey that had taken her to Ravensbrück. She’d had to stand the whole way, and she’d been half-dead from thirst and fright and exhaustion by the end, and then the woman next to her had fainted and an iron-faced guard had shot her in the head and warned the rest of them to give him no trouble.

  She pushed away the memory. It was useless to think of such things, and Ann had begun to talk again. She really ought to be listening.

  “—that there’s much to look at. Back gardens and coal yards, and not much else. When I was a girl . . .”

  “Yes?” Miriam prompted.

  “Barking was a town proper, you see, and not wedged up against London like it is now. Sometimes, on a Sunday afternoon, we’d go for walks in the country, me and my mum and dad and Frank, and we’d go by farm after farm, and sometimes you could stop in and buy a pint of fresh milk, or they’d have jugs of cider later on in the year. I loved those walks. But now the farms are gone, most of them at least, and the rest of my family, too. Seems like forever since I’ve walked on a piece of ground that wasn’t paved over.”

  “I understand. I feel that way as well. From time to time.”

  “Where did you grow up?” Ann asked. “Was it in Paris?”

  This, she could answer. There was no harm in talking of her quite ordinary childhood. “No. Just outside the city. A place called Colombes. Once, I think, it must have seemed very far from Paris. Like your Barking. But the city grew, and the fields all have houses on them now.”

  “Are your people still there? In Col— I’m sorry, I don’t think I can say it the way you did.”

  “No. They died during the war.” This she could say without flinching. It was true, after all. “What of your family?”

  “My parents both died before the war. My dad when I was young, and my mum when I was seventeen. And then my brother, Frank—it was his widow, Milly, who left for Canada—he was killed in the Blitz.”

  “I am very sorry to hear it.”

  “And I’m sorry about your family. I suppose that’s why you came here? They do say a change can be good when you’ve lost people you love.”

  “Yes. In part.” She turned her head, pretending to look out the window, and waited for her heart to stop racing. It was normal to speak of the war, of loved ones who had been lost, of the decisions made by those who were left. It was normal and expected and this was not the last time she would be asked about her family. “It is hard to talk of them,” she admitted at last.

  “I understand. I do. Just thinking about Frank gets me worked up. For him to die in that way seems so unfair. Forget what they say about valor and duty and sacrifice. But I don’t have to tell you that. Your family didn’t deserve what happened to them either.”

  A bubble of pain swelled in her throat, rising and rising, and Miriam knew that if she opened her mouth to say anything, even a simple thank-you, she would begin to scream. So she nodded and looked out the window again. Ann seemed to understand, which was a relief, and did not press her any further.

  Instead she pulled some knitting from her bag, the wool a bilious shade of mustard yellow. Too late, Miriam realized she was letting her distaste show on her face. But Ann only laughed.

  “I know. It’s awful, isn’t it? My nan always picked the worst colors. It used to be a jumper. Far too ugly to wear, but there’s nothing wrong with the wool. Well, apart from the color.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Liners for my boots. I didn’t have any last winter, just a pair of worn-out shoes, and there were days I’d get home and my feet were like blocks of ice. I found some boots at the bring-and-buy a few weeks ago, but they aren’t lined. So I thought I’d try this. Do you have warm things for the winter? I know it seems far off now, but it’s worth thinking about. These eighty-five-degree days won’t last for long.”

  “I have a coat, but it is not very warm.”

  “Then we’ll have to find you a better one, or knit you a good warm cardigan to wear underneath. I’ve an extra scarf and gl
oves, and we can knit you a hat. Not out of this, though!” she said, gesturing to the sick-colored wool, and laughed again.

  “Thank you,” Miriam said, remembering to smile in return.

  They were pulling into a station. “EAST HAM,” the sign read. English place-names were so very odd. “Why is your town called Barking?” she asked, suddenly curious. “Is it for the sound the dog makes?”

  Ann giggled, and the sound of it was so infectious that Miriam found herself laughing as well. “I don’t think so. I feel as if it’s from an old form of English, or at least that’s what we learned in school. Of course now I can’t remember what it means.”

  The train was moving again. Ann packed away her knitting and tucked her bag under her arm. “We’re almost there. Our station is next.”

  It was a beautiful evening. As they emerged from the station and began their walk to Ann’s house, the evening sun cast everything in the prettiest sort of rosy glow. Even a slum might look welcoming in such a light. But this was a good neighborhood, the houses neat, windows clean, front yards tidy. Here and there, people had planted out window boxes or left pots of flowers on their doorsteps.

  “What are the names of the flowers? Those pink and white ones?” Miriam asked.

  “Those? Petunias. What are they in French?”

  “Pétunias,” Miriam answered, and they both smiled.

  “I have some in my garden,” Ann added. “It’s very small, but I grow as much as I can. Probably more than I should, to be honest. It’s very crowded.”

  They turned off the main road and onto a street of terraced houses. Every house was the same: liver-colored brick on the ground floor and whitewashed stucco on the first floor, with a tiled roof and white-trimmed windows.

  “This stretch of road was built first,” Ann said. “Before the rest of the estate. I grew up in the last house but one.”

  “The houses are very tidy,” Miriam said, not wishing to lie by saying they were pretty or charming. Surely Ann could see that was not the case.

  “They are. And it’s quiet here, which is nice. People are friendly, but they keep to themselves, too, if that makes any sense.”

  There was such a relentless sameness to the houses on the street. One after the other they continued on, with little changing apart from the number on the door. Even the white lace curtains in the front windows looked identical. How would she ever find the correct house in the dark?

  “Here we are,” Ann said, and then, as if she’d read Miriam’s thoughts, “the top of my gate is rounded, see? And the others nearby are all straight across or pointed. That’s how I keep track when I come home in the evenings and it’s black as pitch. Silly streetlights don’t help either. They’re so dim you can hardly see your hand in front of your face.”

  Beyond the gate, the front yard was covered with paving stones, with not a blade of grass peeping up between them. Ann unlocked the door and beckoned Miriam inside.

  “Come on in, and don’t mind your shoes.” They stood in a tiny entranceway, with barely room enough for the two of them. “There’s a coatrack behind the door, and in bad weather or winter you can leave your shoes on the mat here.”

  Moving into the front room, Ann pulled open the draperies, revealing a set of crisp net curtains beneath, their edges embroidered with a pretty design of marguerites. The room was furnished with a plump sofa and matching chair upholstered in brown horsehair, a small occasional table between them. On the opposite wall was the hearth, and it was flanked by a wireless in an enormous wooden cabinet. Near the window was an étagère crammed with little china figurines and other decorative items. Daintily crocheted lace doilies lined each shelf, as well as the top of the wireless cabinet, the mantel above the hearth, and the backs of the sofa and chair.

  “This is the sitting room, and here’s the kitchen,” Ann said, continuing into the adjoining room. “I’ll put on the kettle so we can have a cup of tea in a bit.”

  The kitchen was far more modern than Miriam’s mother’s had been. Instead of a coal range, the centerpiece of the room was a compact gas cooker adorned with white enamel and chrome trim. A sink was in front of the window, a draining board to its side, and on the far wall was an old dresser, its shelves laden with rose-patterned dishes. The remaining wall was taken up by a table with two chairs, and beyond, just past the dresser, was a sort of storage room with open shelves lined with jars and tins and boxes.

  “If you go through that door you’ll see the pantry, and beyond that is the washroom. There’s a bath and sink and an inside WC, thank goodness. We’re ever so lucky in that way.”

  Miriam edged forward, her attention caught by the door to the garden. “May I go outside?”

  “Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I’ve set the kettle to boil. Key’s in the lock, so just give it a turn.”

  Miriam stepped into the garden and, for an instant, was stunned by the riot of color and scent that greeted her. It was, as Ann had said, quite small, with a modest patch of lawn in the center and a low shed in the far corner. Everything else was flowers.

  An arching lilac, its plumy blossoms faded, dominated one corner. A climbing rose clambered across the fence, its sturdy canes intertwined with a tangle of clematis, its feet obscured by a shaggy mound of lavender. And in the middle of the main flower bed there was a peony, still flowering though it was well into July.

  She reached out, her hand trembling, and let her fingertips brush against its petals. The scent was heavenly, like roses but even sweeter. It had been so long since she’d seen a peony in bloom.

  Ann had come into the garden. “Can you believe it’s still going? My neighbor gave it to me a few years ago. It was a division from one he’s had for years. I can’t remember the name.”

  “‘Monsieur Jules Elie.’ My mother had one.” Her voice was calm, yet she had to blink back tears. How silly to cry over a flower.

  “It sulked for ages. This is the first year it’s agreed to put on a show. But then, everything is happy this summer. Endless heat and plenty of rain, too. And I was worried, I’ll tell you, after the winter we had. I was sure I’d lose half— Oh, there’s the kettle.”

  Miriam followed her inside, though she’d have given almost anything to remain in the garden, and watched as Ann filled a teapot with water from the kettle.

  “There. Let’s leave that to brew while I show you the upstairs.”

  The staircase was steep and narrow and led to a small landing with two doors. Ann opened one and beckoned for Miriam to follow. “Here we are. Milly left her furniture, since it was too dear to send it all the way to Canada. I hope you like it.”

  The bedroom was enormous, at least four meters square, and held a large double bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a side table. There was even a small upholstered chair in the corner. The furniture, chair excepted, was a matching suite of veneered wood in a modern, streamlined shape. Not precisely to her taste, but what did it matter? It was a hundred times nicer than her horrid little room at the pension.

  “What do you think?” Ann asked. “Nice, isn’t it?”

  “It is. You are certain you wish for me to have this room?”

  “Of course. I like my view over the garden, and I’m used to my things being where they are. It would be ever such a fuss to switch things around.”

  She turned to Ann. “I would like to take the room.”

  “Oh, thank heavens. That is such a weight off my mind.” The other woman’s smile was wide and heartfelt, and it was hard not to feel her own spirits rise in accord. “Come on downstairs and we’ll work everything out over a cup of tea.”

  Miriam sat at the kitchen table while Ann set out the tea things: a homely brown teapot, its spout chipped, a pair of rose-sprigged cups and saucers from the dresser, a little pitcher of milk, and two shining silver teaspoons.

  “You take your tea with milk, right? I do have some sugar.”

  “Simply the milk. Thank you.”

  Ann fixed her own tea, drank
deeply from her cup, and set it back on its saucer. “So. Like I said before, it’ll be fifteen bob a week. Shillings, that is. And we can split the cost of food, if you like, and pool our rations.”

  “I think I would like that. Although I am not a very good cook,” Miriam admitted.

  “Really? A proper Frenchwoman like you?” Ann teased. “Never you mind. I’m not much of a cook either. We’ll rub along somehow. As for the cleaning, I try to keep things neat during the week, then on Saturday, after I’ve done the marketing, I give everything a good going-over. It’s a small house, so it only takes a few hours.”

  “Of course I will help you with that.”

  “Thanks. I will say I don’t do the laundry, except for small things I can wash by hand. My undies and such. The rest I take to Mrs. Cole round the corner. She does a good job and never sends me home with someone else’s sheets. Runs between one and two bob a week.”

  Miriam nodded, though she was still trying to add up the total in her head. There wouldn’t be much left of her wages at the end of each week, true, but she would be living in great comfort, and Ann was pleasant and friendly.

  “Is that all right? Honestly? Because . . .”

  Miriam suddenly realized that Ann appeared nervous. Hesitant, somehow, as if she were struggling to find the right words. Of course. There was a catch. It was, as she had suspected, too good to be true.

  “What is wrong?” she asked, her heart sinking.

  “I, well . . . I need to be honest with you. This is a council house.”

  “I am not sure I understand.”

  “The town owns the house and I rent it from them. Or rather, my brother did. He and Milly were the original tenants. I moved in after he died, otherwise Milly wouldn’t have been able to manage on her own. We’ve kept our heads down since then, done well not to attract anyone’s attention. But if the council were to take notice, if they realized that two women are living here instead of a family, they might decide to, ah . . .”

  Miriam’s palms went clammy, and a swell of panic stole the breath from her lungs. It wasn’t safe here. It wasn’t—