“What’s your name?” he said.
Ada. A two-a-penny, common-as-muck name.
“Ava,” she said.
“Like the film star?”
“Not quite. Same initials.” She posed her lips into a pout and looked at him from beneath her lashes. “No, I’m an ordinary Ava.” She thought fast. “Ava Gordon.”
“Well, I can assure you there is nothing ordinary about you, my dear.” He lifted his glass into the air. “Cin, cin.”
—
HE HAD BEEN an officer. RAF, Berlin, at the end of the war. Never seen anything like it. Must have been terrible. Mentioned in dispatches, up for a medal. Didn’t do anything to earn it. I bet you were ever so brave. It was difficult back in Civvy Street. No one wants to talk about the war. Shame, that is.
“Were you in the services?” he went on. “I can see you as a WRNS, with the backroom boys.”
“No,” Ada said.
“A Land Girl?” He laughed. “You don’t look hardy enough.”
Ada shook her head.
“Well, you must have done something.”
“I can’t talk about it,” she said. It was the truth.
He stubbed out his cigarette and leant towards her. “How jolly exciting. Were you a spy? You’d make a stunning Mata Hari.”
“What do you do now?” she said.
“I say, are you changing the subject?”
“Yes. What do you do?”
Farming. Mainly arable, sugar beet, barley. Ada was drinking faster than she wanted. His parents ran the farm while he was away, but they needed to retire. He was happy to take over, a country boy at heart. He was in London to talk to the bank. No money in farming. Needed to remortgage, invest.
“Drink up,” he said. “Let me get you another.”
He was old-fashioned, with his blazer and brogues, but he made Ada laugh. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed with a man, had had fun. He was good-looking, in his way, even though he had ginger hair. His face was lined, but he was slim, with broad shoulders.
“Are you hungry?” he said. “Let’s have dinner.”
Smith’s Grill. White tablecloths. Starched. Ada ran her fingers over the shiny folds, checked the stitching at the edge. Drawn threads. Someone had stitched those. Alone, hunched over, into the night. Her fingers turned cold and clammy at the memory. She pushed it away, picked up her napkin, dabbed at her mouth, leaving a smudge of lipstick.
She smiled at William. “I like Smith’s Grill,” she said.
Sole meunière. Ada’d never had it before. Made with real butter, too.
“Would you care to come up for a nightcap?”
They’d had wine with the meal. She shouldn’t have anything more to drink, but she was enjoying herself. The evening had turned out better than she thought. She’d rather go back to the bar, but he seemed a nice enough fellow, not the sort to try anything on. They took the lift to the fourth floor, walked along the corridor. He opened the door. “After you.”
She was barely inside when he grabbed her shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her, tongue and all.
She pulled away. “That’s a bit fast, William.”
“Don’t tease me.”
“I’m not. You said a nightcap.”
“In time,” he said. He held her face in his hands. “You really are the most beautiful creature, Ava.”
Gentleman’s talk, farmer’s hands. The skin was rough, but the flesh firm. It smelled of soap. He pulled her closer again. He was breathing hard, and she felt the power of his chest as it rose and fell, the vigor and life in his arms as he closed them round her. It had been so long since anyone had held her, had desired her this way. His strength brought life into her muted body, made her young and lusty again.
He held her hand and led her to the bed. She thought of the hotel room in Paris. This would have a bathroom, too. He pulled her down on the satin bedspread and rolled her close to him. She lay in his arms, the rough cloth of his jacket scratching against her cheek. She was warm and wanted. He’d called her beautiful. She felt his fingers search for her zip, slip inside her bodice, reaching for her breasts. He was a fast worker, she’d say that. He must think she was loose. She tried to push his hand away, but he held it firm. It was warm on her flesh, soft. It disturbed her, excited her. Why shove him away? She wasn’t a virgin. Why pretend to be good when she knew she wasn’t? She wanted this, she wanted love, tenderness, affection. She wanted to forget her war, its pain and loss and loneliness, to immerse herself in another human being, to be coddled and nurtured, to smell the musk of a male body, and wallow in its warmth. To live again. She kissed him back.
—
HE SNAPPED ON the light, checked his watch. “You should go,” he said.
She knew she couldn’t stay. Wouldn’t do to spend the night with him. She rolled off the bed, gathered up her clothes, and padded to the bathroom. There were some salts by the bath, neat little cubes in silver foil. She was tempted to pick a couple up, but she didn’t want to be exposed as a thief. It was bad enough being in a guest’s bedroom after hours. She liked him. He’d caressed her, been tender and careful. If you were the only girl in the world. She’d like to see him again. He seemed a good man. She dressed, brushed her hair with her fingers, dabbed on some lipstick, and came out. He had pulled on a dressing gown and was standing by the door, her handbag in one hand, jangling some coins in the other.
“Two bob for a taxi,” he said, pressing the coins into her hands. “And two for the doorman’s troubles. Off you go.”
“I can walk,” she said. “It’s not very far. And this is too much.”
“You’ll be safer in a cab.”
“Thank you, William,” she said. “And thank you for this evening.” He wasn’t saying anything about a rendezvous. “I really enjoyed it,” she added.
“Please go now,” he said. “I have a busy day tomorrow.”
It would be too forward to ask to see him again, and she couldn’t very well tell him where she lived, in a hostel for working girls. He opened the door, waved for Ada to go through. He’d grown cold. Had she done something wrong? She supposed if he wanted to see her again, he’d find a means. Or she would. Ask for his full name at the desk, and his address.
In the lobby, one of the doormen approached her. “Would you like me to find you a taxi, miss?” he said.
She nodded.
“Do you have anything to give me for my trouble?”
She wanted to say Not really, no. She could get a taxi herself. This lot didn’t stand back when it came to extras. What with the tip for the maître d’ and now the doorman, this evening was working out expensive. He stood still, his gloved hands folded behind his back. But William had given her the money, so it wasn’t costing her anything.
She handed him a florin, and he ushered her through the revolving door, whistled for a taxi.
“Just tell the cabbie where you’re going.”
“Not often I do that journey,” the cabbie said. “Smith’s to Ada Lewis House. You had a good time, ducks?”
He set her down at the hostel. She had a late key and let herself in, taking off her sandals and tiptoeing up the stairs, along the corridor, into her cubicle. She shouldn’t switch on the light. She’d wake the others. She slipped out of her clothes and crawled beneath the sheets.
—
FROM THE BRIGHTNESS of the sun, Ada guessed she had overslept. It must be midday. She’d drunk too much and had a headache. Ada pulled her bag towards her for a cigarette and opened it. There was a five-pound note folded inside.
She pulled it out, held it up to the light. She’d never had a fiver before. A thick line was embedded in the note. It was real. William. William must have put it there last night for some reason. She’d have to return it, of course. She’d get his address that way, too. Dear William, thank you for that lovely evening but I believe the enclosed is yours and I am returning it forthwith. Must have been some kind of mistake. I do hope we meet again soo
n. She couldn’t give her address, Ada Lewis House. She’d get a post office box. That way he wouldn’t know. Were they expensive?
Though perhaps it was a present. He intended her to have it, would be insulted if she gave it back. Strange present, money, especially after the amount he’d spent on her all evening. Generous.
Oh my lawd. He had paid her. Should have realized sooner. Would have, too, if her head hadn’t throbbed so much. Thought she was on the game. She laughed out loud, spluttered on her cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray. That’s why he changed, afterwards. Had to get her out. He’d have to pay double for the room otherwise, and then his wife would find out. His wife. The bastard, probably had children, too. A boy and a girl. She could see them, on his farm, a tough little boy in a Fair Isle pullover, a sturdy girl with her hair in plaits. He knew the ropes. Money in the bag. Cash for the doorman. William probably wasn’t even his real name.
She fingered the note. This was twice what she earned in a week at Lyons. She’d have to open a post office account now, deposit it safe. Pay back what she’d taken from her savings for the night out, then add some more each week. Little by little.
Ada lit another cigarette, and thought.
She’d had a nice time. It wasn’t really payment, this, more an appreciation, for her company. She hadn’t prostituted herself. Not like those creatures who hung round Eros, or those skinny wrecks in Munich who’d do anything for a cigarette. No, she and William, they’d had a pleasant time. He’d worn a rubber. She’d probably never see him again, but he had found her alluring, desirable. What harm had been done?
She could go again. Maybe she would meet someone else, someone permanent. She could wear her blue dress. Lucky. And if she didn’t, if the man wasn’t looking for that? It was a lot of money for nothing, really. She knew the ropes now. Sixpence for the maître d’. Two bob for the doorman, if she ended up in the room. If she went each month, she’d save money fast. She’d need more clothes, would have to use some of those savings, spend money to make money, but it would be worth it. She wouldn’t go with anyone she didn’t fancy. Smith’s attracted a good class of people, nobody rough. She’d be fussy, lay down the terms. Five pounds in the handbag, four bob in coins for expenses. Nothing she didn’t feel comfortable with. Must wear a rubber. If she went twice a month, that would be a tenner. She counted the money. She’d be able to move out of the hostel, find a little bed-sit. Tommy would need a home. She’d do it up lovely for him. Paint cars on the walls, give him a football. She could find some premises, a workshop. Somewhere smart. Put up a sign that read: VAUGHAN, MODISTE. She had her sewing machine, solid little workhorse that was. Get a table. Tools of the trade. Proper shears. She’d have to advertise. “Ladies. Make your clothing coupons stretch further.” What was that magazine Mrs. B. kept in the waiting room? The Lady. She’d put an advert there. It’d cost, but she could afford it. She’d enjoy herself in the meantime, make money. She couldn’t lose.
Not full-time. Those girls round Eros looked coarse and common. She didn’t want to be like them. But twice a month. Week off for her period. She’d stay working at Lyons until she was on her feet and could open up shop. She liked the girls. They were a laugh, and she didn’t have much other company. The hostel was all right, but if she was in a bed-sit, she might get lonely. Work in the day. Saturday nights out.
Three times a month was fifteen pounds.
IT HAD ONLY taken her three months, and now she had the deposit in hand, and the key money, and a week’s rent, in advance. The landlady was a racketeer, had ratcheted up the price, but it was a good bed-sit, in Floral Street. Four flights up, wouldn’t be bothered by the costers from the market pissing in the basement.
“No gentleman callers,” the landlady had said.
“What if I have a fiancé?” Ada said.
“Do you?”
“I live in hope.”
The landlady smiled.
“Actually,” Ada said. “I’m a widow. I have a little boy. I just need a nice place till I can get back on my feet.”
“And where’s your kiddie?” the landlady said. “Only I don’t allow children.”
“He’s being looked after.”
“Well, this is a respectable house,” the landlady continued as if Ada hadn’t told her anything. “Can’t be too careful. Nice girls don’t live on their own. They live with their people.” She added, “Unless they live a long way away.”
It was a big room, across the width of the front of the top floor, with what the landlady called a “kitchenette,” a ledge with a single electric ring, BABY BELLING embellished on its side, and a basin. There was running water. There were shelves for her cups and plates, a hook for her saucepan, a small cupboard for the tins and perishables. The room came with a bed, an easy chair, a Utility table and wardrobe. The bed would be big enough for Tommy, too, for the time being. When he got older, she’d have to buy another one. She’d talk the landlady round into allowing him. Run the old blackout curtain across the room for him. It wouldn’t do to share a bedroom.
There was a lavatory on the second floor, and a bathroom with a water heater that you paid for and a big notice: GUESTS. REMEMBER. NO MORE THAN TWO INCHES OF WATER IN THE BATH.
Ada used her coupons and the last of her savings to make the room homey. She didn’t have enough for new curtains, but she bought some flannelette sheets, and a secondhand candlewick bedspread that matched, and a calendar for 1946 with a picture of a dog. The manageress had given her a busy Lizzie in full bloom, which would have to do until she could buy flowers in the summer. It was handy having the market so near.
“Where’ve you got the money for this?” the manageress had asked.
“My grandmother died,” Ada said. “Left me a little nest egg.”
She managed to acquire, cash only, a couple of plates and cups and cutlery, a pot and a frying pan, and made a mat for the table so the sewing machine didn’t scratch the wood. Ada procured a wireless. It was secondhand, occupied all the space on top of the food cupboard, took five minutes for the valves to warm up, but it was company in the evenings when she was alone. Sometimes she missed the noises of the dormitory, Beryl talking in her sleep, incoherent ramblings that they teased her about in the morning, Maureen with adenoids two cubicles down, snoring like a train. Still, Ada could always talk to Scarlett in the basement if she got too lonely.
She would wake occasionally in the early hours. There were voices outside. A woman’s voice. Shouting. Frau Weiss? Her heart began to pound. Frau Weiter? She rolled over and reached for her cross, bracing herself. Nun. Get up. Her fingers tangled in the sheets. The cross had gone. She patted the mattress. She was in a bed, not on the floor. She was here in her room, in London. Of course. She listened. What language were they speaking? Who was talking? Her ears grew attuned. It was Scarlett. She heard a man’s voice. Stanislaus. It was Stanislaus. What was he saying? Was he asking for her? All right, all right, all right. No, it wasn’t him. Who was it? Was he coming or going?
Going. Scarlett stopped work at midnight. Shutters down. Closed for business.
“Like a shop, see,” she’d said to Ada. “But I’m a late bird, so pop in, if you see a light on. We’ll have some cocoa.”
Every Saturday, in the early hours of the morning, kicking off their high heels together, plastering on the cold cream, peeling away their makeup. Scarlett looked dowdy in flat shoes and without her paint. Ordinary. She was like a chameleon, drab as a cobblestone by day, bright as neon by night. Men couldn’t change the way women could, pull on a new dress and slap on the powder, dab on the lipstick and rouge up their faces. Her real name was Joyce, but she called herself Scarlett.
“Scarlett?” Ada said. “What kind of name is that?”
“Don’t you know?” Scarlett’s voice was high in disbelief. “Scarlett O’Hara. Gone with the Wind?”
“What’s that?”
“What’s that? The best bloody film I’ve ever seen, that’s what that is. Clark Gable. My he
artthrob?”
“Don’t know it.”
“Blimey. Where was you in the war?”
Ada hesitated. “Far away,” she said. “In the country.”
“Well,” Scarlett said. “You must have been in Scapa bloody Flow not to have seen Gone with the Wind.”
Ada clasped her chipped mug of hot cocoa and looked over at Scarlett sitting cross-legged on her bed, her dress pulled tight across her knees, a packet of Woodbines nestling in the valley between. Her fingers were brown with nicotine and her voice was rough, but Ada liked her.
Scarlett sorted her rubbers, three for two bob, and told Ada to make sure they put the money in the bag before they got anything.
“You, being a beginner and all, might not appreciate that. We need to stick together, us women.”
Ada ran her up a skirt from an offcut she got in the market, by way of thanks. Soft, pink-check Dayella, “Does Not Shrink.”
Two years, she’d do this. That was all. Then she’d have saved enough.
ADA HAD A routine. Up in the morning with her nippy’s uniform, smart black frock and stiff white collar and apron, clip-clopping down the Strand to Lyons. It was convenient; she could go home in her lunch hour if she wanted, though she preferred to sit with the other girls and have a laugh before she went back to work, sashaying between the tables with her pinny and cap. Two pots of tea and a scone. Coming up. She saw the men looking at her. She was a cut above this. She knew it, and they knew it, too, she could tell.
She preferred the restaurant to the snack bar. The work wasn’t so hectic, and it was a different class of client, older, better paid, gave good tips. There were regulars, office workers, managers most likely, who came in their lunch hour, sat by themselves with a newspaper and ordered from the carvery, roast pork and applesauce, ham and piccalilli. Wednesdays was early closing, so it was shopgirls out for a treat, steak and kidney pie, sausages and chips. Mondays and Fridays, women with time and money, out for luncheon with their friends, went home to Beckenham or Turnham Green to get their hubbies’ tea. She liked these women the best, smart frocks, hats and gloves, ever so, ever so. Ada knew them all. Had charladies, children who went to private prep schools in the suburbs. They had dressmakers, too, a little lady round the corner.
The Dressmaker's War Page 21
