She stepped out into Waterloo Road, free of the machine. St John’s Church was there. And the Lying-In Hospital. Stamford Street, Peabody Buildings. All present and correct, sir, but a bit worse for wear, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir. If those buildings were all right, her street must be too. She crossed the road. Exton Street. Roupell Street. The houses were standing. All of them. One or two had their windows boarded up. The lace curtains were tatty and the windows and doors could do with a lick of paint, but they hadn’t been bombed. It was all right. It would be all right. She began to run, her eyes misting up. She stopped and wiped her face. Mustn’t do to be crying. Home. Round the corner. Theed Street. The terrace of little cottages with their even doors and windows with old-fashioned square panes.
Clip-clop along the uneven pavement, past where the Chapmans lived and the O’Connors, front doors still open to the street so you could see inside, respectable houses, good homes. Things hadn’t changed, after all. She was smiling. Maybe someone would come out of these houses, recognize her. Good Gawd, if it ain’t Ada Vaughan.
And there it was. Number 11. Home. Ada curled her fist and knocked, a soft tap-tap on the shabby wood. She breathed in and took hold of the handle. Turned. Pushed. The hallway was much smaller than she remembered, but it was the same faded, flowery wallpaper, the same dirty marks up the stairs and the chipped, green skirting boards. The door to the kitchen opened and her mother came through, wiping her hands on her apron, squinting at Ada as if she didn’t know her.
‘Who’s there?’
Ada bit her lip. ‘It’s me.’ Her voice was tight as a tripwire. ‘Ada.’
Her mother took two strides and grabbed Ada’s arm, pinching her elbow. ‘You’ve got a bleeding nerve,’ she said, ‘waltzing in here after all this time.’
Ada flinched, not understanding. She had been ready to hug her mother, bury her face in her hair, smell her sweat and the peach of her skin. Here she was, her daughter, missing presumed dead, back from the grave. A bloody miracle. But not so much as a hello from her mother, much less a hug.
‘Causing your father and me no end of worry,’ her mother went on. ‘It killed him, you know that? Dropped dead. Just like that.’
Dad? Dead? Her bowels churned and her mouth filled with iron. This was not how she dreamed it. Dad, dead? She hadn’t thought of that, not really. She swallowed hard, fighting back the tears. She’d never told him she loved him. Never said goodbye. Never said, thank you, Dad.
‘When?’ she managed to say.
‘Left me to carry on,’ her mother ignored her. ‘No idea where you were, whether you were a goner or alive. Not a word from you. Not. A. Word.’
‘That wasn’t true,’ Ada whipped a reply. ‘Stanislaus sent you a telegram.’
‘Stanislaus? Was that what he was called? Bloody German.’
His name slipped out. She hadn’t wanted to talk about him.
‘He—’ she corrected herself, made it sound better. ‘We sent you a telegram. Saying I was all right. Not to worry.’
‘Well, it never got here.’
‘It was sent to Mrs B. She was going to tell you.’
‘You mean you didn’t even have the common decency to send it to me? Mrs B. never told me about no telegram. Had her on my doorstep, the day war broke out. The very day. Is Ada back? Only she didn’t come into work today. First we heard about it. Upped and gone to Paris with a fancy man. The disgrace of it. To think a daughter of mine would do such a thing.’
That was so long ago, years ago. So much had happened since, and here was her mother dredging it up as if it was yesterday, as if it was the most important thing, as if she hadn’t missed her at all. Ada looked at her. She had grown bitter, worry lines along her forehead and round her mouth, her lips thin and mean.
‘I sent you a letter when it was over,’ Ada said. ‘I couldn’t before.’
‘Fine letter that was. A bit of an adventure, you said. An adventure, I ask you. Have you any idea what it was like for us?’ Her mother’s face was close to hers, her breath musty and stale. ‘While you were living it up, we were going through hell. Hell. What with the bombing, and the rationing and then the doodlebugs. We all had to do our bit. Pull our weight. But you? You lived off the fat of the land, you and your Nazi boyfriend.’
‘No,’ Ada said. ‘It wasn’t like that. I had it bad, too—’
‘You had it bad? You’ve no idea the suffering we went through.’
‘I was interned.’
Her mother snorted. ‘What does that mean, when it’s at home?’
‘A prisoner. I was kept a prisoner.’
‘Prison? Safe and sound, I bet. Not a care in the world.’
Ada didn’t know what to say. How could she describe what she had lived through? What she’d seen? All she’d ever wanted was to come home, but she was being treated like a traitor. She wasn’t a traitor. Would her mother believe her? Would anyone believe her?
‘Did you ever spare a thought for your father and I?’ Her mother continued. ‘And your brothers? And your sisters?’
Ada needed to sit down. Her bones were loose and disconnected, her head was spinning. ‘How are they?’
‘Now you ask.’ Spittle frothed at the corner of her mother’s mouth. ‘Fred was killed at Alamein. Gave his life for the likes of you.’ She spat on Ada’s shoes. Ada had never known her mother like this, not with her. Her father used to get the sharp end of her mother’s tongue and gave back as good as he got. But now Ada was the target for her venom. ‘Alf’s all right. And the girls. But you? You always were the selfish one. Deceitful. You broke our hearts.’
Ada rubbed her fingers over her forehead. Her father gone left such a crater inside. She had wanted to breathe in his tobacco skin, feel him squeeze her close, smell his sweat as his lips brushed the top of her head, know that she was loved again. You’ve always been my favourite, Ada.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t help it.’ Her voice was cracking and she was holding back the tears.
‘Sorry?’ Her mother’s voice was at boiling point. ‘Too bloody late for sorry. You’re not welcome here. So you can get out. Now.’
‘Out?’ Ada couldn’t understand what her mother was saying. ‘Can’t I stay?’
‘No, you bloody can’t.’
‘I’ve nowhere to go.’
‘You should have thought of that before.’ Her mother twisted Ada’s arm, forcing her towards the door. ‘Think yourself lucky you’re not trailing a bastard. Or are you? I wouldn’t put it past you. Nothing would surprise me.’
Her mother pushed her. ‘Clear off. And don’t you ever darken this door again.’ She shoved and Ada lurched to the door, feeling the wind as her mother slammed it hard behind her.
Ada stood on the doorstep, in the neat arc her mother had scrubbed round the threshold. She took a deep breath. Pull yourself together. Her mother was upset. It was the shock of seeing Ada again. That was all. She always had a temper. Even so, she might have been a bit more understanding. She hadn’t seen Ada for nearly six years. You’d think she’d be pleased. She’d calm down, would be sorry for her outburst. Give her time. All that worry, bottled up, ready to explode. A few more minutes. She’d knock on the door again. Mum, please.
Some children had chalked a hopscotch on the cobbles. Ada picked up a stone and threw it on the ground. Hop, hop, hop, double, hop hop. She balanced on one leg, picked up the stone, threw it again.
A window opened above her and her mother leant out. ‘You heard me,’ she shouted. ‘Piss off.’ She slammed the sash back again.
Ada let the stone drop to the ground. Mum could be funny like that. Had a temper hot enough to brew a cup of tea. And unforgiving. Kept a fight going for years. Ada knew she wouldn’t change her mind, not today. Well, she thought, if that’s what she wants, she can have it. Her loss.
She turned and walked down the street. Her legs were frail and her hands were shaking. She had no home, no clothes, no friends, no money, except ten bob from t
he Red Cross. Nine and eleven now, after a penny for the Left Luggage. She fingered the ticket. Collect on day of issue. Uncollected items will be disposed of. All she had in the world was a sewing machine. You couldn’t sleep under that.
She’d lost everyone. Her son. Her mother. Her father. Stanislaus. Good riddance. And Frank. She could have gone to America. She could have had a good life. Frank had been a kind man, honest too. He’d reminded her of her father. She stopped, breathed in. She didn’t even know where her father was buried. Oh, Ada, she could hear him. No use crying over spilt milk. There was nothing she could do now to make it better. Your mother feeds on grudges like a gannet in a trough. Well, she could do without that. She’d survived the war. She’d survive now. She remembered a song from her childhood, heard her father sing it in her head. Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile. But it wasn’t like that anymore. War had changed everything.
A troop train must have come in. Waterloo Road was full of soldiers and airmen in blue uniforms holding duffle bags. They were going home. War was about men. Heroes. Lucky them. They had their place. But the wives and the women, who cared about them? Nobody listened. How would Mum understand Ada’s war? How would anyone? It had been a different war. Caught up in its flow, like a single scrap of flotsam and jetsam, alone.
There was a newspaper vendor by the entrance to the train station, a short, plump man, with a ruddy face and thick, white hair. He was leaning on a crutch. He held out a copy of the Evening News. She shook her head.
‘Cheer up,’ he grinned. ‘It could be worse.’
It was the first time anyone had smiled at her since she had got back to London. She swallowed hard, felt her forehead pucker. No use feeling sorry for yourself, Ada girl.
The vendor limped forward. He had a kind face, happy lines round his eyes.
‘Beautiful girl like you,’ he said, ‘you should be on top of the world.’
‘I’ve nowhere to go,’ Ada said. ‘Would you believe that?’
‘Where you from?’ he said. ‘Manchester? Just arrived in London?’
She looked at him. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Try Ada Lewis House,’ he said, ‘New Kent Road. It’s a hostel. For good girls, if you know my meaning.’ He turned and handed out a copy of the paper to a man in a suit and bowler hat. ‘You can get a bus over there.’ He pointed to the stop on the opposite side of the street.
‘Thank you,’ Ada said.
She guessed it must be about five o’clock. She was hungry and needed a bed for the night. She went into the station, collected the sewing machine, and began to walk to the bus stop.
‘Can I help you, miss?’
A soldier.
‘Thank you.’
‘Where are you heading?’
Ada pointed to the stop. Any bus to the Elephant, walk from there, the man had said. Perhaps the soldier was going that way too. She could do with the company and his help. She joined the queue and he placed the machine on the pavement.
‘Toodle-oo,’ he said.
She caught the number 12. Dulwich, she remembered. Posh. The conductor took the sewing machine and placed it in the cubbyhole under the stairs. She sat on the long bench just inside the bus, looking out of the window, at the once-familiar streets now bleak and battered. She craned her neck. There were pockets of bombed-out houses. The old Bedlam was still there. And the convent, Notre Dame. The buildings next to it, where were they? The tube was there, and the South London Press building. Half of it, the other half a mince of bricks and mortar. But the rest? The Tabernacle. The Trocadero?
She stepped off the bus, banging her shin with the machine. It took a moment to get her bearings before she could head off down the New Kent Road. Ten paces. Stop. Change hands. The machine was heavy, she could barely carry it. Nobody helped. She limped along, heaving the machine, looking at the name plates. The terrace on her left was a mound of fetid rubble and blackened bricks, split doors and distempered plaster shafts, long since picked over, desperate women pulling free from the rubble a battered saucepan, a photo album, the piss-pot for boiling beetroot. She’d seen it in Munich, but she didn’t think she’d see it here. They looked as poor now as they did before the war. Women fishing for the last potato that had rolled beneath the cupboard. Boys with scabby knees thundering up the stairs Mum, what’s to eat? Starving and old before their years. I used to know you. This was what she had come home to.
The site was fenced off with sheets of rusty corrugated iron. ‘Bill posters will be prosecuted’ was written in white paint which had run down the ridges. Behind the fencing, a single house was still standing, a wall ripped away, its naked rooms poised sideways like a coquette, one above the other. Rags of wallpaper could be seen and a mirror still hanging on a wall, crooked. There was a table missing a leg, kneeling like a beggar. Along from the house a remnant of a brick wall was still standing. Someone had painted a Mr Chad in black, written ‘Wot? No sugar?’ beneath it. Ada could see the stump of a burnt-out chestnut tree, its dead roots bulging through the tarmac like buried veins, cleaving the pavement in two.
She picked up her sewing machine. Ada Lewis House.
It was a tall, brick building, with long, rounded windows. A cubicle was a reasonable price and meals were included. It would do, until she got on her feet. No children or animals allowed. She’d have to get a job. And then a proper home, for Tommy. She only had four bob after she’d paid two nights’ board and lodging.
‘What sort of work do you do?’ the warden had asked.
Ada took a deep breath. ‘I’m a dressmaker,’ she said. ‘A ladies’ tailor.’ Modiste.
The warden pulled a face. ‘Not much call for that anymore,’ she said. ‘It’s all off-the-peg now. Ready-made. You should try the factories in the East End. Whitechapel, that sort of way.’
Factory. Arbeit macht frei. Frank had told her about the bodies. She couldn’t work in a factory, not after that. Besides, she hadn’t survived the war only to work in a sweatshop.
‘You get your coupons sorted out,’ the warden had said. ‘You can owe us till then.’
Tea was at six o’clock. Tripe and onions. Carrots and potatoes. Tasty. Ada wolfed it down. Cup of tea. A cup of tea. Thick and stewed. Good job she didn’t like sugar.
She was up early that morning, took the tube to Green Park. She’d forgotten how hot the Underground was, how it smelt of soot and stale air, how crowded too, crammed between strangers, tight enough to crush her. She pushed her way free of the doors and out into the balmy July air, to Dover Street. If Mrs B. wouldn’t take her on, she’d go to see Isidore. She was good at her job, had lots of experience now.
But the house in Dover Street was a bombed-out wreck. Other buildings in the street were intact. The bomb had hit just this one. A man jostled her on the pavement. His suit was cheap and baggy, his felt hat mottled with age. He had a pipe in his mouth.
Ada grabbed his sleeve as he walked past. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Do you know what happened here? Are the people all right?’
He shrugged, sauntered away, leaving a scented trail of sweet tobacco.
Perhaps Mrs B. had moved. Ada walked along the street, squinting at the name plates on the doors, then went back to the ruin. Ada had no idea where Mrs B. lived. She crossed her fingers, shut her eyes. Let her be alive. She opened them, expecting Mrs B. to be standing there with her painted lips and powdered cheeks, but the street was empty. She wandered along Bond Street, into Oxford Street. Those big stores now had storeys boarded up, or missing parts, like old, wounded soldiers. John Lewis. Ada stared. Nothing but black, scorched remains. Scrawny buddleias had taken root and tufts of grass had pushed up through the rubble. This was not the London she knew anymore. She wasn’t sure she belonged here.
Hanover Square Gardens had been dug up. Isidore’s basement was still there but the plate on the door had gone. Ada stepped down and peered through the windows. It was empty, apart from a crate and some old newspapers scattered on the floor. S
he staggered through Hanover Street, along Regent Street. Dickins & Jones. The scars of battle were everywhere. The Café Royal. She stopped underneath the awning, looking at the revolving doors. How could she have been so stupid? Taken in by a common con-man, Stanislaus von Lieben. If it hadn’t been for him, she’d be all right now. Would never have had all this pain and heartbreak. Bastard. What she wouldn’t do to him if she saw him again. Perhaps there was a bit of her mother in her. She’d do more than give him a tongue lashing. She’d bloody murder him.
She nodded at the flunkey by the Café Royal door and walked further on. There were some young women in Piccadilly Circus, circling the statue of Eros with their rouged lips and low-cut blouses, smoking. She’d seen them in Munich as well. Sometimes they were there with their mothers. Yankee, you want? They did it for cigarettes. Was it like this here too?
Ada wondered what it must be like, a different man, every hour. No man would look at her these days, with her flat chest and shapeless waist. No one would desire her, would touch her face with tender fingers, and pull her close, kiss her with the soft promise of love. No one would love her now, not even her family. A rush of loss and sadness let loose inside her and she swallowed back tears. That vendor man was full of banter, would call every woman beautiful. Ada knew his sort. It didn’t mean a thing. She wasn’t beautiful, not anymore.
She left the rouged girls behind and stepped into Haymarket. Stucco had broken loose and scaffolding propped up porticoes. Many of the façades were boarded up and covered with posters. The Theatre Royal was intact. Lady Windermere’s Fan. What sort of a play was that? Left into Trafalgar Square. Victory Over Germany, she read, 1945. It was still early in the morning but the square was crowded with soldiers in uniform, sauntering across with their girls. There were workers in shabby suits, young girls in smart shoes and slim skirts. One or two were sitting on the sides of the fountains eating sandwiches, brushing away the pigeons who hovered for scraps. One woman held a cup of tea in one hand, a thermos in the other. A cup of tea. Ada spotted the Lyons Corner House opposite Charing Cross. They used to make a good cup of tea. She fished in her pocket. She had enough.
The Dressmaker of Dachau Page 19
