She’d have enough with her coupons, if she kept them. She never asked Gino where his friend got them from and the coster in Berwick Street never looked too closely. Three yards for the skirt. One and a half for the bodice. Plus lining. Notions. Thread. Zipper.
She looked carefully at the picture of Princess Margaret while the coster cut the cloth. Cross-over bodice, raglan sleeves. The skirt would be easy enough. She’d make the lining first, as a mock-up. Organza was feeble, needed nursing. She’d start at the weekend, in the daylight.
‘Making yourself something nice, Ava?’ Gino peered closer at the machine. ‘A Naumann. That name sounds foreign. German.’
Most Saturdays Ada put the machine away when Gino came round but it was heavy and awkward, and she was in the middle of sewing. Never occurred to her he’d look at it.
‘A Singer isn’t good enough for you?’ This was nothing to do with Gino. He had no right to criticize. She shrugged.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘What’s it to you?’ she said, her voice light and airy, an organza voice.
‘I don’t want to be consorting with the enemy, that’s what it is to me.’
‘Well, you’re not,’ Ada said. Her voice had an edge. She hoped Gino picked up on it.
‘Where did you get it?’ He grabbed her arm, squeezed it hard. This was not his business. Why did he care? ‘Who gave it to you?’
‘You’re hurting me, Gino.’
‘Well?’
‘If you must know.’ He relaxed his hold and she shook her arm free, rubbed it with her other hand. It would leave a bruise, a thumb and four fingers, would show below the sleeves of her uniform when she went to work. She took a deep breath. ‘If you must know, my brother brought it back for me. From the war. He was in Germany.’ Ada warmed to her story. ‘Bought it for five cigarettes. Poor buggers. He said they were desperate. Would sell anything. Even their daughters. But it’s a good machine.’
The sunlight was behind him and his face was in silhouette, dark and featureless.
‘Where in Germany?’ he said.
‘Munich,’ Ada said. ‘He was in Munich.’
‘So he’s American, your brother?’
‘No, why?’
‘It was the Americans who were in Munich.’
‘Oh.’ Ada thought for a minute. ‘Well, maybe not Munich. Maybe somewhere else. I was never good at geography.’
Gino stepped forward, and sat down in the easy chair. ‘No, but you’re good at other things.’ He patted his knee and signalled for Ada to sit on it.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, running his finger up her skirt. ‘I know someone who was in Munich at the end of the war. A little town outside Munich.’
Ada pushed his hand away. ‘Do you now.’ She tried to control her voice but it came out high and thin. ‘That’s how you’ll know then, about the Americans.’ She studied his face, the dark, sombre eyes, the curl of his lip, the groove of his skin lines. ‘What was he doing there?’
‘Business,’ he said, adding, ‘army business.’ He began to laugh. ‘I know where you can get the parts.’ He tipped his head towards the sewing machine. ‘If you ever need them.’ He pushed her off his knee, tapping her bottom as she stood up.
*
The bodice fitted like a membrane, slick and smooth. Forget-me-not blue. She made a pair of shields for under her arms. Wouldn’t do to spoil it with sweat. She thought of poor Anni, the Weiter’s cook. Anni. Where was she now? Probably living in some bed-sit in Munich. Ada tried not to think about those days. They’d had a friendship, of sorts. Never a word, a different kind of language. Anni had kept her alive. Anni understood, maybe even loved.
Ada stood on tiptoes and turned, faster and faster as the skirt floated higher and higher, like the rings of Saturn. The dress made her a woman, made her free, to dance and pirouette, to be. She was sublime, flying through the heavens, a celestial being of happiness and joy. She steadied herself on the chair, waited for the dizziness to pass. Pulled on her shoes, the same sandals she’d worn with the cobalt moiré. Blue was a lucky colour.
Clip-clop. Trafalgar Square. Pall Mall. Haymarket. Piccadilly. Swathes of organza like angel’s wings swirling in fans as she swung her body this way, that, her waist rippling with the movement. She spotted the men’s eyes, lustful, envious. The war was over. She had survived. She’d play Gino along for now, but she’d get rid of him soon enough. She hadn’t survived the prison in Dachau only to become a prisoner again, in her own home. She wanted freedom to soar, to dance in a lapis sky, she and the moon.
He said his contact wanted to meet her. Talk business. Gino winked as he’d said it.
House of Vaughan, Ada thought.
Café Royal. She hadn’t been there since before the war. It wasn’t one of Gino’s usual haunts. No rooms, you understand? He said he’d wait for her in the Grill Room. She had a sixpence ready, in case she was early and they had the same rigmarole here as in Smith’s. She’d have a champagne while she waited, fizzing elegant on her tongue, popping in her nose. Sit on the gilt chair surrounded by mirrors, losing herself in her own reflections.
He was already there, talking to another man who was slouched in a chair, tie loose round his neck, the top button of his shirt undone. He wore small, round glasses. Hair short, slicked back.
‘Here she is,’ Gino said, beckoning her over.
The man turned. Behind the glasses his eyes were soft and pale. Duck-egg blue, Ada thought, airy enough to see through. A cold stream of dread coursed through her nerves. Stanislaus. There was no mistaking.
‘Meet Stanley Lovekin, Ava.’
She froze as he tried to stand up, leaning on his arm which buckled beneath him, knocking the table so the glasses teetered. He looked past her, with vacant, glazed eyes.
‘This is Ava Gordon,’ Gino said.
‘Ava Gordon. Invergordon. Pleased to meet you,’ he said, slurring his words and slumping back into his seat. He tried to focus his eyes, but the lids hung heavy and his chin dropped onto his chest. Stanislaus. She had changed, she knew, thin as a matchstick, blonde hair, glasses. But he didn’t recognize her. He was too drunk. Did he call himself Stanley now? He didn’t sound foreign anymore. Same eyes, but the rims were red and swollen and his face was lined. It had been over seven years since she’d seen him. He’d put on a bit of weight, hadn’t aged well. But, she realized now, it had been him in Munich, hat down, collar up. She hadn’t been wrong. Her hands turned clammy and she began to sweat. Keep calm. Pretend. Act normal.
Gino signalled to the waiter. ‘A Manhattan for me. A Pink Lady for madame here.’
Ada wanted champagne, but he didn’t ask her. Gino waited for the drinks to arrive, then leant forward. ‘Well, Ava,’ he said. ‘We have something to celebrate here.’
‘Oh?’
‘Your ship has come in, so to speak.’
‘Really?’ she said. She knew what he was going to say. He was going to put money in her business. He and Stanley. She didn’t want their money now. She could feel the panic rising. Pretend, she told herself, pretend you don’t know him. She needed time to think. ‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘Not yet,’ Gino said. He had an unlit cigarette between his lips that bobbed as he spoke. He was looking at her hard, without a smile. ‘But I’ve great hopes for you, Ada.’
Stanley’s head fell forward and he jerked it back, awake. He was very drunk.
‘Tell me,’ Ada said.
‘Not yet, no.’ He picked up the matches and lit his cigarette, dragging on it so a catkin of ash hovered at the end. He didn’t lift his eyes for a moment.
‘You look very lovely tonight, if I might say,’ he said. ‘Turning heads as always.’ He turned to Stanley. ‘I hand-pick my girls. Only the best.’
He flicked his cigarette in the ashtray and smirked. ‘You play your cards right with Stanley,’ he said. ‘Who knows where it might lead?’
‘Meaning?’ Ada said, eyeing Stanley – Stanislaus – who
was nodding like a marionette and grinning. He must know who I am.
‘Him and me,’ he said. ‘Invest in you. Start you up in business.’
‘See,’ Stanley said, leaning forward and propping his elbows on the table. ‘You’re legit.’ His arm stretched into a long arc as he pointed his finger at her. ‘It’s the marriage of bloody Cana.’ He drooled as he spoke, wiped his cuff across his mouth, and peered at her again, his lids low and sluggish, his eyes bleary and unfocused. ‘You turn water into wine. Metal into gold.’ He broke off from what he was saying, his head lolling to one side.
‘Coupons into clothes. Dirty money into clean,’ Gino continued. ‘You cooperate with Stanley tonight, and it’s all yours.’
‘Cooperate?’ Ada said.
‘Ava, don’t play the innocent. It doesn’t flatter you.’
Scarlett’s warning rang in her ears.
‘You go with Stanley tonight,’ Gino said. ‘Do whatever he wants, and who knows where it will lead?’
‘No, Gino. No. I’m with you.’
‘You’re with me on Saturday night,’ Gino said. His chubby face curled into a snarl and his black eyes grew sharp and pointed. ‘But the rest of the nights you’re with whoever I tell you to go with.’
‘No.’ Ada stood up sharp, knocking the table so the glasses wobbled. Gino grabbed her arm, pulled her back down.
‘You’re my present to him. His reward for loyalty.’ He dug his thumb into the soft bones of her wrist hard enough to break them. ‘You’re part of my family now. Do I need to teach you a lesson in obedience?’
Ada cried out from the pain. Scarlett had been right. He was pimping her. Had gifted her to Stanley as if she was a bottle of cheap booze. Words, words. She had to ditch Gino. She wasn’t sure how she’d give him the slip, but she’d find a way. And Stanislaus. He didn’t recognize her. She could leave him.
‘Be a good girl,’ Gino was saying, ‘or there will be consequences.’
He stood up, adjusted his tie, and walked out of the room. Stanley pushed back in his chair, leant forward to Ada.
‘Me and Gino,’ he said. His speech was still slurred, his eyes glazed and confused. He crossed his fingers and waved them in front of her face. ‘That close. Like brothers. We go back a long time. Before the war.’
Ada sat, too stunned to speak. Stanislaus. Here, in London. After all these years.
‘London. Paris. Belgium,’ he went on. Ada’s hands stiffened round her glass. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve ever been to Paris, have you?’ Stanley sniffed, finished his drink, signalled to the waiter. ‘We’re going to have a good time tonight,’ he said, not waiting for her reply. ‘You and me. Drink up.’
Run, now. He’d be too drunk to catch her. She stood up, turned, ready to make a dash for it.
Gino was standing in the doorway, watching.
He needed help out of the restaurant. Two doormen down the stairs. He stumbled and tripped on his feet. He had pulled his tie looser and his jacket was falling off his shoulders. He put his arm round her, leant on her with all his weight, moved with uncertain steps, one foot dragging behind the other.
‘I think you should go home,’ Ada said as they drew close to Charing Cross. ‘You’re in no fit state.’
‘Home is where you are.’ He spoke his words like a ventriloquist, slow and articulated. ‘I’m not leaving you here. You’re mine. Tonight.’ The station clock said half past nine, and the day was fading, the sun’s sleeping rays turning the sky a rich, deep indigo. It was still warm and Ada was hot in her dress, wished she’d made the sleeves shorter.
Stanley was heavy. He weighed down on her, gripping her shoulder hard. She could barely support him. If she moved away, he’d keel over, fall flat on his face. She could escape then, leave him to it. The police would sober him up in a cell. She tried to prise open his fingers and push his hand away, but he wouldn’t let go. She twisted sharply to break his hold, but he squeezed tighter and slammed his free fist into her chest, winding her. She was no match for him, drunk though he was. And Gino? Was he still watching her? What would he do if she didn’t obey? Gino was a big man, strong. He knew where she lived. Knew where she worked. He’d sniff her out. She’d have to move house. Find another flat. Consequences, he’d said. Consequences.
She had to help Stanley up the stairs to her room. He tumbled onto the bed. Ada put the kettle on, sat in the dark watching his chest rise and fall, sipped her tea. She could slip away now. Find Scarlett, she’d know what to do.
He patted the bed. ‘Come over here, Ava,’ he said, running his words together. ‘Give us a cuddle.’
She could make a run for it.
‘Now.’ His voice cracked like a pistol. He might be drunk, but she heard the menace in his voice. He could throw himself at her from the bed, cut off her exit. ‘Or I tell Gino.’
Gino pays you for this. She was trapped. She walked towards the bed, one slow foot after another.
‘That’s a good girl,’ Stanley said.
She slipped out of her dress and laid it over the end of the bed.
‘I’ve seen some things in my time,’ he slurred, ‘but nothing as lovely as you.’
She climbed on the bed and lay down beside him. Gino had tricked her when he said they’d start her in business. He didn’t mean dressmaking. This was the business he had in mind. And now here she was, side by side with Stanislaus. Only he called himself Stanley. Cockney Stanley. Not Count Stanislaus.
‘I’m glad the war’s over.’ His words were sluggish. ‘Don’t get me wrong. But it gave me a chance in life, a leg-up, as it were.’
His voice was flat, melancholy from the alcohol. She’d heard it before. They had to talk, these men. Even Stanley. Get it out of their system. Tell their stories. Stanislaus. Stanley. Who was he?
‘What did you do in the war, Stanley?’ She could see him in Namur, his shadow in the doorway. She could remember the way his collar was turned up in Munich, his hat pulled low. She needed to know where he’d been in between. She’d never get another chance to find out.
‘I have a dodgy ticker,’ he said. ‘Rheumatic fever. When I was a nipper.’
‘Really?’ Ada said. Humour him.
‘Yeah,’ his voice was far away. ‘They signed me off. I’d have liked to have fought.’
Ada could feel her heart hammering against her chest. She was sure Stanislaus must hear it.
‘What did you do instead?’ Her words came out high, strangled.
‘I was in business.’ He tapped the side of his nose. Business, Ada, business.
‘You didn’t have any adventures then?’ Ada said. She knew how fast these drunken moods could swing, she had to ask now. She had to know what happened.
‘No,’ he said, ‘not really.’ He pushed himself up on one elbow. She could smell the whisky on his breath. ‘Mind you,’ he said. ‘I was in Belgium when the Germans invaded. That was a bit of an episode.’
The blood drained from her head, cascaded down her spine. Bit of an episode. The bombs thundering in her head, her flesh flaying in the heat and dust as she ran, alone, for sanctuary. Her life destroyed and all he could say was that it was a bit of an episode.
‘Oh?’ Her voice was thin.
‘Yeah,’ Stanley reached for a cigarette, lit it and leant back, one arm behind his head. ‘I was in Namur, as a matter of fact.’
She wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him so hard his tongue would loll in his mouth and his brain would crash against the hard of his skull. She wanted to scream Don’t you recognize me? Namur, as a matter of fact, as if nothing had taken place.
‘Managed to get the last boat out,’ Stanley went on. ‘It was a close shave, I can tell you.’
‘Namur is a long way from the sea.’
‘I was lucky. I’m a lucky man, Ava, I tell you. Last train, last boat. Last-chance saloon, that’s me.’
He blew cigarette rings that silhouetted in the dark, round ghosts of memory that hovered like grey haloes. ‘Lots of buggers didn’t ma
ke it. Refugees. Standing on the quays, begging. They’d have sold their grandmother if it’d got them out.’
I didn’t make it, Ada thought. You didn’t save me. You don’t even recognize me.
‘The world owes no one a favour, Ava girl,’ Stanley was saying. ‘If you don’t have the money or the nous, why should you expect others to help you out? Every man jack for himself. That’s my motto in life.’
The drink had made him talkative, a burst of energy before the crash.
‘Were you by yourself?’ Ada said. She was quivering, hoped he hadn’t noticed. She’d say she was cold, lying here, all naked.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered.’
He stubbed out his cigarette, blowing the last of the smoke free. It smelt bitter.
‘There was some empty-headed tart who’d latched onto me.’ He lay back on the bed, resting his head on the pillow. ‘Could have made good money off of her, but I ran into a spot of bother. Glad to be shot of the bitch.’
Ada swallowed. ‘What happened to her?’
‘How should I know? I left her in Namur. Right pain she was. As a matter of fact,’ he pushed himself up and looked down at her, ‘you remind me of her. Funny that.’
The bastard. Abandoned her. Never cared for her. Empty-headed tart. He hadn’t recognized her. Hadn’t cared enough to remember her. Probably never given her a second thought.
‘What about you, Ava?’ he was saying. ‘What did you do in the war?’ Stanley was calmer now.
She pushed herself up from the bed, walked over to the window. The night was clear and she could see the speckled lights of the Milky Way a million miles away. ‘You don’t remember me?’
‘No,’ Stanley said, ‘should I?’
‘Ada Vaughan?’
‘Name rings a bell.’ He smacked his lips, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
She walked back to the bed and stood over him. ‘I was the girl in Namur. You took me to Paris, promised me a life, then you left me. In Namur.’
He pushed himself up on both elbows and looked at her, his eyes icy and hard.
‘Really?’ He laughed, a hollow, bitter cackle. ‘Thought you looked familiar.’ She felt her head tighten, her thoughts spin, like a child’s top teetering out of control. ‘Yes, I remember you now. Got my wires crossed a bit there,’ Stanley went on. ‘It was French tarts in London that make the money, not English tarts in Paris. I’ll say this.’ He was opening his mouth wide so his words would come out square. ‘At least you’ve gone up in the world since then. One of Gino Messina’s tarts. Fancy that.’
The Dressmaker of Dachau Page 24