‘Buy them for sixpence,’ Gino was saying. ‘Sell them on for a shilling. A hundred per cent profit. That’s a good deal, Ava. And a good price for nylons.’
If she couldn’t sell them, she could always keep them. You had to be so careful with nylons. One snag and that was it.
‘Give me a couple of pairs,’ Ada said. ‘I’ll try it out.’
Gino pulled two boxes from his case and handed them to her. ‘I trust you, Ava,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you next week. Same time, same place. You can give me the money then.’
‘And if I haven’t sold them?’
‘Sale or return. No hard feelings. I’ll make sure my man understands. Here,’ Gino said. ‘put them between the pages of this. We don’t want anyone asking questions.’ He handed her a copy of the Evening News and Ada slipped the boxes inside the folded paper.
‘And should anyone ask,’ he said, ‘say you got them from a Yankee seaman.’
She tucked the nylons under her arm.
Ada could have sold twenty pairs without even trying.
‘I can’t promise,’ she said, making a note of the girls’ sizes in the tea break at work the next week. Saturday night she handed Gino the money she’d collected, and an order for twenty pairs of nylons.
‘Out of their boxes,’ he said, handing them to her, ‘but genuine.’ She slipped them between the pages of the Evening News, checked her handbag for the fee. ‘Same time next week, Ava. Same place. Let me have your order.’
‘I can’t put in an order every week,’ she said. The girls at work didn’t earn a lot. Nylons were a treat, not routine, except maybe for Scarlett or Ada who had a little to spare.
‘I thought you were good at your job. These are a bargain, Ava.’
He was sitting in the chair, a towel wrapped round his waist. He stood up, walked towards the wardrobe, reached for his suitcase, leather, expensive, travelled, with chrome clips. He opened it and fished out a bottle of nail polish.
‘If you can give me an order,’ he said, ‘there may be something in it for you.’ He held out the bottle towards her.
‘And if I can’t?’
‘You’ll find a way.’
She took the nail polish, Dura-Gloss, American Beauty.
She handed the doorman his florin, and walked back through the market. Funny thing, money, the way it worked, a cut for the maître d’ and the doorman, a cut for her landlady. A cut for Ada flogging nylons, a cut for Gino supplying them, and a cut for his contact. Who had done the work here? What did they get for their labours? Bloody parasites, she could hear her father say. Capitalism. But that’s what capitalism was like, had a life of its own.
She took an order for eleven pairs of nylons that week, and a request for clothing coupons if her boyfriend’s contact had any to spare, or bread coupons if he could get them.
‘We’ll see how it goes, Ava,’ he said. ‘See how it goes.’
He met her again and again in the following weeks. He wasn’t like the other men. She was growing fond of him. He seemed fond of her too, though he made sure it was all professional, the fee in her bag, no questions asked, the buying and selling. Commission is what he called it. Commission.
Dorchester and the Savoy, Smith’s and the Ritz. He had almost the same haunts as Stanislaus. He always had plenty of cash. His business, whatever it was, was profitable. She was curious about it, but he never said a thing.
‘You’re too pretty to bother with my work, Ava,’ he’d say. ‘It’s a man’s world.’
Martinis, Pink Ladies, Mint Juleps. He was an attractive man, knew how to treat a woman well, even though she knew he didn’t love women, not the way William had done. She was getting used to his body, close and familiar to her. He was still an enigma. She couldn’t slot him in, but maybe that was because he was a continental. Only this time, she told herself, she was wise, a different woman from the one she’d been before the war. She’d get the measure of the likes of Gino Messina, sooner or later.
‘You do me proud,’ he said. ‘People turn their heads when they see you and me together. What’s that old man got, they say, that I haven’t? How is it the ugly men get the beautiful women?’
He probably had other women, other nights of the week. Sometimes a fist of jealousy punched her in the ribs, caught her unawares. Can we make a deal, Gino? I’ll only go with you, if you only go with me? She knew he was married. They all were. He said his wife didn’t understand him.
‘I’d like a divorce, but she won’t have it, for the kiddy’s sake.’
‘How many do you have, Gino?’
‘One,’ he said. ‘A little boy.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Six.’
The same age as Tommy.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Gerardo,’ Gino said, ‘but we call him Jerry. Born in the Blitz. My friend, the one I told you about, my contact, he said call him Jerry, after Adolf’s fuckers. Fokkers.’ It sounded funny, with his accent, all rolling rrrs and stretched vowels. He spoke perfect English, otherwise. Goodness knows where he’d learned it. He was laughing, ha ha ha. Ada had never told him about Tommy, wasn’t sure she should bring it up now. He might not like it. He thought she was foot loose and fancy-free. Independent, he’d said. That’s what I like about you, Ava. Ambitious, too. Want to get on in the world.
The manageress had a nephew, a little boy. She said they were affectionate, much more than girls, would fling their arms round you and crawl onto your lap, I love you. Ada could still remember the German. Ich liebe dich. She mustn’t forget her German. Mutti. She thought of Thomas, every day. She was doing this for him.
‘I can get you material,’ Gino said. ‘Direct. From my contact. No middle man.’
‘Oh yes?’ She had got the measure of him. Utility with the mark blacked out most likely. ‘Get me coupons,’ Ada said. She’d use them to buy from her coster. He sold the real McCoy.
Perhaps she could set herself up in business sooner than she thought. Ada Vaughan, modiste. Do what she knew best, what she had dreamed of long ago. Her coster friend seemed to know where to get the material. Everyone was sick of the war, of rationing and belt-tightening, of Utility and austerity. She’d make clothes to lift the spirits. Lace and batiste, georgette and sateen, tulle and zibeline. Clothes that swung and danced, that sung and laughed. Clothes that became the body, transformed it into living sculpture. Drape the toile, left for bias, right for straight. Never be afraid, Isidore would say, the cloth is not the enemy. Shrink and stretch, steam and shape. It’s the invisible work that counts, that lifts a dress from the doldrums into paradise.
She’d have to sell them on the black market, but Gino and his friend would be able to help. It would have to be word-of-mouth. Nothing wrong with that. It had got her a few clients already and Mrs B. had done very well through word-of-mouth. Best publicity, she used to say. Much better than paid advertising, that was for the likes of off-the-peg, pay-by-instalment frocks, or C & A. Hers would be bespoke, a mode for the mood. She liked that. House of Vaughan, a mode for every mood. Mrs Bottomley always said as much. Your clothes, she said, help put a spring in my step. Things would be back to normal soon.
‘Coupons?’ Gino said.
‘Yes,’ Ada said. ‘I could use them, make things, sell them. I know I could get rid of them. Easier to hide than nylons, easier all round.’
‘What makes you think he can get coupons?’
‘He seems able to get most other things.’ She hesitated. She had to say it. ‘I’d like to start up in business, Gino. Would you help me? Be my patron? It could be a loan. I’d pay you back.’
Gino lit a cigarette and lay back on the bed, pursing his lips and blowing rings into the air with a quiet putt, putt. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘We would have to put things on a more professional basis.’
‘Of course.’ Perhaps Gino wanted a better return on his money. He split the profits on the nylons fifty-fifty, so he said. Maybe he’d want a bigger cut on the coupons, for more of
a risk. Or a cut in the business.
‘You could be a partner,’ Ada said. ‘I wouldn’t mind. I could make it work, I know it.’
Gino watched as the smoke rings drifted and dissolved. ‘Well,’ he said, his words slow and liquid. ‘I don’t mean that, exactly.’
‘What do you mean, then?’
‘These Saturday nights. A hazard, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You never know who you might meet. Beautiful woman like you. How do I know what you do when I’m not around? Who you talk to? I’m putting myself at risk.’
‘There’s nobody, Gino,’ Ada said, ‘only you.’
‘How can I be sure?’
‘You have my word.’
‘Your word doesn’t mean a thing. How can you guarantee that I’m the only one for you?’
What was he insinuating, that she couldn’t be trusted? Ada could feel a surge of irritation bubble up. ‘You have to believe me, Gino.’
He stubbed out the cigarette on the ashtray, pushing the ash into a mound in the centre. ‘Why don’t I pay you a retainer?’ Gino said.
‘A retainer?’
‘So much a week. Reserve yourself, just for me.’
Scarlett was right. Ada thought she had a lover. But he was a client, a regular client. Clientele. Two could play at that. If she was going to be a kept woman, it had to be worth her while.
‘How much?’
‘Ten pounds,’ he said.
She shook her head.
‘That’s a generous offer, Ava,’ he said. ‘It’s dangerous, your line of business. You should think about protection.’
There were some awkward customers out there, kinky with it, no scruples. She knew from Scarlett that not all the girls got away with it, and she’d had some dodgy moments. Ada had been careful, but she’d also been lucky. She had to be safe for Tommy. What good would she be to him dead? She needed the money too, had to make a home for her little boy. Those things didn’t come cheap, and she was on her own.
‘Just one thing,’ he said. ‘I want to use your place.’
‘What’s wrong with Smith’s?’
‘Change of scenery,’ he said.
It was only once a week, Ada explained to the landlady, on a Saturday. No gentleman visitors. Gino was her fiancé. With a name like that? Don’t have truck with Eyeties. He’d be gone by midnight. No gentlemen after ten, fiancé or not. The landlady must have been young once. Ten was a bit early. Ada hadn’t caused her any bother. Paid her rent on time. Was never noisy, or disorderly. Not like Scarlett in the basement whose visitors came and went, or the so-called clairvoyant on the first floor who had clients at all hours. It seemed cruel to kick him out at ten. Eleven, at the latest. Eleven would be fine. Only I’ll have to charge extra, to defray expenses. Expenses? If I’m charged with running a brothel.
‘No,’ Ada said, ‘it’s not like that. There’s only the one for me, and that’s Gino Messina.’
‘Glad to hear it then,’ the landlady said. ‘Only I’m still putting your rent up. Four quid a week.’
‘Four quid? That’s more than double the price.’
‘You’ll have to work harder then, won’t you?’ the landlady said. ‘You and Gino.’
‘I’m not what you think I am,’ Ada said. ‘I work at Lyons. I can’t afford that kind of money.’ Wanted to add, racketeer. Wanted to threaten her with the police, but knew she couldn’t, in case they nabbed her too.
‘We’ll see,’ the landlady said, ‘what this fiancé of yours gets up to.’
The snow melted, the floods drained, the skies turned from grey to blue. Motes danced in the April air, picked out the dust lining the cupboard tops and skirting boards. The room needed a spring clean. Ada wanted to keep her home pure, had been saving it for her and Tommy. He was growing up fast. It could be difficult to track him down now. Six years was a long time. She wasn’t sure Covent Garden was the best place to bring up a child. It was rough, what with the costers and the all-night pubs, and the girls from Shaftesbury Avenue and Seven Dials round the back of the actor’s church. It was handy, though, for work, and the costers knew her and would toss her some carrots or a cauliflower at the end of the day, even though they were trade.
She didn’t like Gino there in her room. He made himself at home, so it didn’t belong to her anymore. Took off his shoes and padded round in grey socks, put the kettle on without asking.
‘That costs money,’ Ada said.
‘I’ll make a cup of tea whenever I want,’ he said. ‘Just remember who’s paying your bills.’
He didn’t like her going out, not even with the girls from work.
‘I have spies, you know,’ he said and ran his finger across his throat.
She wondered whether this was a price worth paying. Maybe she’d been better off before, when she was on her own and in control. But she didn’t know how to get out of it now. Gino would calm down, once he was sure of her.
‘Besides,’ he said, ‘this place is a dump. I have property. Holdings, in Mayfair. I could let you have a little flat, somewhere nice, Stafford Street, Shepherd Street. You might have to share it, but you’d have company, so you wouldn’t get lonely.’
Ada liked living by herself. Her bedsit might be small, but it was home. She didn’t want to move.
‘It’s all right,’ Ada said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I don’t think you understand me, Ava,’ he said. ‘Girl on her own. Think of the dangers.’
Stafford Street. That would be expensive. Twice what she paid here, and that was pricey enough. She could never afford it, let alone save.
‘Watch it,’ Scarlett said. ‘He’ll pimp you next. That’s how they all start.’
‘Who?’
‘Oh lovey, you are green. Pimps. Ever so nice to their girls then, wham, they turn the screws, make you work for them, live off of us.’
‘Gino wouldn’t do that.’
‘Mark my words, he’s a pimp. We choose our ponces, not them.’
‘But I’m not a prostitute.’
‘Too bloody right. You’re an amateur. You’re no threat, not to me.’
Gino wasn’t like that. He was just a bit moody, possessive.
*
Ada felt lonely that spring. Her mother had kept to her word, refused to see her, even though Ada went round there once a month, sometimes more. She had sent her brothers and sisters her new address, but they never made contact either. She had nobody to care if she came home or not. No one to know if she was thrown off a pier, to claim her body if she was found dead in the river. The manageress might report her missing if she didn’t turn up for work, but the girls were always walking out on the job. She wouldn’t think Ada had done any different.
Ada had woken early. A baby was crying, a loud, vibrating wail that wove its way between the drums of the night carts on the cobbles and the shouts of the early-morning traders. It had been crying some time, worked itself up into a steady rhythmic waagh, waagh, waagh. She shut her eyes, tried to conjure Thomas’s face and his new-born mewl. She had forgotten what he looked like, it had been so long. Had he cried at all? He’d been asleep, such a quiet baby. Tired from being born. It must have been hard work for him.
*
Gino said his friend could lay his hands on ration books. Clothing. Bread. Sugar. Things were tighter than in the war and there was more demand than ever. Ada had no problem passing them on, handing over the money, receiving her cut, giving him the orders for next week. It was regular earnings, and gave her a bit extra to put aside for Tommy, and the business.
‘Only the way I see it, Gino,’ Ada said, curling into his chest and walking her fingers up towards his neck. ‘Since I take all the risks at work flogging it on, I think I deserve a bit more of the share.’
‘Don’t be greedy, Ava,’ he said.
‘I’m not. I just mean more of a stake in the business.’
‘Meaning?’
‘We could go into partnership, you, me a
nd your friend,’ she said. Took in her breath. ‘He supplies, I sell. Clothing, dresses. I thought that was what you wanted. Set me up in a little firm.’
He pushed her arm aside and reached for a cigarette, lay back in bed, smoking it with slow, deliberate drags.
‘Maybe you haven’t quite grasped the nature of business,’ he said, blowing rings in the air. ‘How can I put it in words you’ll understand?’ He leant over and flicked the ash on the floor. He could have used an ashtray, but made a mess to show who was in charge.
‘Let’s say me and my friend are Mr Marshall and Mr Snelgrove. Or Mr Dickins and Mr Jones.’ Ada knew he wasn’t going to agree, could read it in his body, chest tight, muscles clamped. ‘Big stores. Lots of departments,’ he went on. ‘Different goods. We’d see you as one of our workers. Haberdashery, let’s say. You’re talented, Ava. We might even see you as head of that department. You keep the orders coming, you pay on time. But a partner?’ He reached for the ashtray and stubbed the cigarette hard in the centre. ‘No. This isn’t the bleeding Co-op, or John Lewis.’
He pushed her away and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He pulled on his clothes and opened the door. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, the soft click of the outside door. Let’s get this right, Ava. I’m in charge here, and don’t you forget that.
Forget-me-not. Cornflower blue. Ada hummed at the price.
‘I know you, Ada.’ The coster wet his middle finger and drummed it against the palm of his other hand, as if he was counting through a coupon book. ‘Worth every penny.’ He’d pinned a picture of Princess Margaret on the side of his stall. It showed her sitting in a dress with a tight, trim bodice, and a long, full skirt that billowed round her.
‘Organza,’ he said, ‘that’s what this is.’ He thumped the bolts of fabric. ‘New Look, they call it. But if it’s good enough for the likes of her,’ he rolled his thumb towards the picture, ‘it’s good enough for the likes of you, Ada.’
She had been planning to sell the coupons to the girls at work, set the money aside for Tommy.
‘Of course, with this bloody rationing,’ the coster was saying, ‘no one likes to look extravagant. But it doesn’t bother that lot.’ He tilted his head backwards.
The Dressmaker of Dachau Page 23