The Dressmaker's War

by Mary Chamberlain

  No one had ever called her lovely before. But then, she’d never had a boy before. Boy. Stanislaus was a man. Mature, experienced. At least thirty, she guessed. Maybe older. He reached forward and handed her a plate and a serviette. There was a proper word for serviette, but Ada had forgotten it. They never had much use for things like that in Theed Street. He pulled out some chicken, what a luxury, and some fresh tomatoes, and a tiny salt and pepper set.

  “Bon appétit,” he said, smiling.

  Ada wasn’t sure how she could eat the chicken without smearing grease over her face. This was all new to her. Picnics. She picked at it, pulling off shards of flesh, placing them in her mouth.

  “You look a picture,” Stanislaus said. “Demure. Like one of those models in Vogue.”

  Ada began to blush again. She rubbed her hand over her neck, hoping to steady the color, hoping Stanislaus had not noticed. “Thank you,” she said.

  “No,” he went on, “I mean it. The first time I saw you I knew you had class. Everything about you. Your looks, the way you held yourself, the way you dressed. Chic. Original. Then when you told me you made the clothes. Well! You’ll go far, Ada, believe me.”

  He leant on one elbow, stretched out his legs, plucked a blade of grass, and began to flutter it on her bare leg. “You know where you belong?” he said.

  She shook her head. The grass tickled. She longed for him to touch her again, run his finger against her skin, blow her a kiss.

  “You belong in Paris. I can see you there, sashaying down the boulevards, turning heads.”

  Paris. How had Stanislaus guessed? House of Vaughan. Mrs. B. said maison was French for house. Maison Vaughan.

  “I’d like to go to Paris,” Ada said. “Be a real modiste. A couturiere.”

  “Well, Ada,” he said, “I like a dreamer. We’ll have to see what we can do.”

  Ada bit her lip, held back a yelp of excitement.

  He pushed himself upright and sat with his elbows on his knees. He lifted one arm and pointed to the deep bracken on the right. “Look.” His voice was hushed. “A stag. A big one.”

  Ada followed his gaze. It took her a while, but she spotted it, head proud above the bracken, the fresh buds of antlers on its crown.

  “They grow them in the spring,” he said. “A spur for every year. That one will have a dozen by the end of the summer.”

  “I never knew that,” Ada said.

  “Bit of a loner, this time of year,” Stanislaus continued. “But come the autumn, he’ll build a harem. Fight off the competition. Have all the women to himself.”

  “That doesn’t sound very proper,” Ada said. “I wouldn’t want to share my husband.”

  Stanislaus eyed her from the side. She knew then it had been a silly thing to say. Stanislaus, man of the world, with his much-married aunt.

  “It’s not about the women,” he said. “It’s about the men. Survival of the fittest, that’s what it’s about.”

  Ada wasn’t sure what he meant.

  —

  “WISDOM TEETH,” ADA said.

  Mrs. B. raised a painted eyebrow. “Wisdom teeth?” she said. “Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday,” Mrs. B. said. “You weren’t the only one skiving off. Nice summer’s day. I’ve given Avril her marching orders.”

  Ada swallowed. She should never have let Stanislaus persuade her. Mrs. B. was going to sack her. She’d have no work. How would she tell her mother? She’d have to get another position before the day was out. Guess what, Mum? I’ve changed my job. She’d lie, of course. Mrs. B. didn’t have enough work for me.

  “You knew there were big orders coming in. How did you think I was supposed to cope?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ada said. She cupped her hand around her cheek, as Stanislaus had done, remembered the cool tenderness of his touch. Stick with the excuse. “It was swollen. It hurt too much.”

  Mrs. B. harrumphed. “If it had been any one of the other girls, you’d be out on your ear by now. It’s only because you’re good and I need you that I’ll let you stay.”

  Ada dropped her hand. “Thank you,” she said. Her body relaxed into relief. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to let you down. It won’t happen again.”

  “If it does,” Mrs. B. said, “there’ll be no second chance. Now, get back to work.”

  Ada walked towards the door of Mrs. B.’s office, hand poised on the handle.

  “You’re really good, Ada,” Mrs. B. called. Ada turned to face her. “You’re the most talented young woman I’ve known. Don’t throw away your chances on a man.”

  Ada swallowed, nodded.

  “I won’t be so tolerant next time,” Mrs. B. added.

  “Thank you,” Ada said, and smiled.

  ADA STRETCHED HER slender fingers, took a cigarette, and drew it to her lips. Her legs crossed and wound round each other like the coils of a rope. She breathed in, inclined her head with the smile of a saint, and watched as the plumes of smoke furled from her nostrils. She leant forward and picked up her martini glass. The Grill Room. Plush, red seats, golden ceiling. She glanced in the mirrors and saw herself and Stanislaus reflected a thousand times. They became other people in the infinity of glass, a man in an elegant suit and a woman in Hollywood cerise.

  “You’re very beautiful,” Stanislaus said.

  “Am I?” Ada hoped she sounded nonchalant, another word she’d picked up at Mrs. B.’s.

  “You could drive a chap to distraction.”

  She uncurled her legs, leant forward, and tapped his knee. “Behave.”

  A whirlwind romance, that’s what Woman’s Own would call it. A swirling gale of love that snagged her in its force. She adored Stanislaus. “It’s our anniversary,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “Fourteenth of July. Three months.” Ada nodded. “Three months since I met you that day in April, in the pouring rain.”

  “Anniversary?” Stanislaus said. He smiled, a crooked curl of his lip. Ada knew that look. He was thinking. “Then we should go away. Celebrate. Somewhere romantic. Paris. Paree.”

  Paris. Paree. She longed to see Paris, hadn’t stopped thinking about it since that day in Richmond Park.

  “How about it?”

  She’d never thought he’d suggest going away so soon. Not now, with all this talk of Hitler and bomb shelters. “Isn’t there going to be a war?” she said. “Perhaps we should wait a bit.”

  “War?” He shook his head. “There’s not going to be a war. That’s just all talk. Hitler’s got what he wants. Claimed back his bits of Germany. He’s not greedy. Believe me.”

  That wasn’t what her father said, but Stanislaus was educated. He was bound to know more.

  “You said you wanted to go,” Stanislaus continued. “You could see some real French couture. Get ideas. Try them out here. You’d soon make a name for yourself.”

  Ada opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue rucked up like a bolster. She bit her lip and nodded, calculating quickly. Her parents would never let her go to Paris, not with all this talk of war, much less let her go with a man. They knew she was courting, but even so. She knew they wouldn’t like a foreigner. She told them he brought her home each night, made sure she was safely back. She told him her parents were invalids and couldn’t have visitors. She’d have to miss work, invent some excuse for going away, otherwise she’d get the sack. What would she say to Mrs. B.?

  “Do you have a passport?” Stanislaus said.

  A passport. “No,” she said. “How do I get one of those?”

  “This isn’t my country.” Stanislaus was smiling. “But my English friends tell me there is an office which issues them, in Petty France.”

  “I’ll go tomorrow,” Ada said, “in my lunch hour. I’ll get one straightaway. Will you wait for me?” She’d tell her parents Mrs. B. was sending her to Paris, to look at the collections, to buy new fabrics. She’d ask Mrs. B. if she would really le
t her do that.

  —

  ONLY THE MAN in Petty France said she needed a photograph, and her birth certificate, and seeing as how she was under twenty-one, her father needed to complete the form. They could issue it in twenty-four hours but only in an emergency, otherwise she’d have to wait six weeks.

  “But,” he added, “we don’t advise travel abroad right now, miss, not on the Continent. There’s going to be war.”

  War. That was all anyone talked about. Stanislaus never mentioned war, and she liked him for that. He gave her a good time.

  “Can’t worry about what’s not here.”

  The man frowned, shook his head, raised an eyebrow. Perhaps she was being a bit silly. But even if war was coming, it was months away yet.

  She sniffed and put the papers in her handbag. She couldn’t ask her father to fill out the form. That would be the end of the matter. She’d never told Stanislaus how old she was, and he’d never asked. But if he understood she was a minor, he might get cold feet and lose interest in her. She was a free spirit, he’d said, he’d spotted it the first time they met. How could she tell him otherwise?

  The solution came to her that afternoon, as she was watching Mrs. B. make out the bill for Lady MacNeice. Ada’s father wrote with a slow, careful hand, linking the arms and legs of his letters in a looping waltz. Ada had always been entranced by the way he choreographed his words, had tried to copy him when she was young. It was an easy hand to forge, and the man at Petty France would be none the wiser. She knew it was wrong, but what else could she do? She’d get her likeness taken tomorrow, in her lunch hour. There was a photographer’s shop in Haymarket. It would be ready at the weekend. She’d go to the public library on Saturday, fill in the form, take it in person on Monday. It would be ready in a few weeks.

  “Then it has to be the Lutetia,” Stanislaus said. “There is simply no other hotel. Saint-Germain-des-Prés.” He squeezed her hand. “Have you ever been on a boat?”

  “Only on the river.” She’d been on the Woolwich ferry.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “August is a good month to sail. No storms.”

  ADA HAD IT worked out. She’d have to tell her parents, but she’d do it after she’d gone. Send them a postcard from Paris so they wouldn’t call the police and declare her a missing person. She’d have hell to pay when she got back, but by then Stanislaus and she would be engaged in all likelihood. She’d tell Mrs. B. she was going to Paris on a holiday and would she like her to bring back some fabric samples, some tissus? She’d say it in French. Mrs. B. would be grateful, would tell her where to go. That’s kind of you, mademoiselle, giving up your holiday. It would give her something to do in Paris, and she could pick up ideas. In the meantime, she’d bring the clothes she planned to take to Paris with her to work, one at a time. She sometimes brought sandwiches for lunch in a small tote bag. It was summer, and the dresses and skirts were light fabrics, rayon or lawn. She knew how to fold them so they wouldn’t crease or take up space. She would hide everything in her cupboard at work, the one where she hung her coat in winter and kept a change of shoes. Nobody looked in there. She would need a suitcase. There were plenty in Mrs. B.’s box room, which was never locked. She’d borrow one. She had the keys to the shop. Come in early on the day, pack quickly. Catch the bus to Charing Cross, in good time to meet Stanislaus by the clock.

  “Paris?” Mrs. B. had said, her voice rising like a klaxon. “Do your parents know?”

  “Of course,” Ada had said. She’d shrugged her shoulders and opened her hands. Of course.

  “But there’s going to be a war.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” Ada said, though she’d heard the eerie moans of practice sirens along with everyone else, and watched the air-raid shelter being built in Kennington Park. “We don’t want war. Hitler doesn’t want war. The Russians don’t want war.” That’s what Stanislaus said. He should know, shouldn’t he? Besides, what other chance would she have to get to Paris? Her father had a different view about the war, but Ada didn’t care what he thought. He was even considering signing up for the ARP for defense. Defense, he repeated, just so Ada wouldn’t think he supported the imperialists’ war. He even listened now as her mother read aloud the latest leaflet. It is important to know how to put on your mask quickly and properly….

  “But they’re going to evacuate London,” Mrs. B. said. “The little kiddies. In a few days. It was on the wireless.”

  Three of her younger brothers and sisters were going, all the way to Cornwall. Mum had done nothing but cry for days, and Dad had stalked the house with his head in his hands. Pah! Ada thought. This will blow over. Everyone was so pessimistic. Miserable. They’d be back soon enough. Why should she let this spoil her chances? Paris. Mum would come round. She’d buy her something nice. Perfume. Proper perfume, in a bottle.

  “I’ll be back,” Ada said. “Bright and early Tuesday morning.” Engaged. She had been dreaming about the proposal. Stanislaus on one knee. Miss Vaughan, would you do me the honor of…“We’re only going for five days.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Mrs. B. said. “Though if you were my daughter, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight. War’s coming any day now.” She waved her hands at the large plate-glass windows of her shop, crisscrossed with tape to protect them if the glass shattered, and at the blackout blinds above.

  “And your fancy man,” she added. “Which side will he be on?”

  Ada hadn’t given that a thought. She’d assumed he was on their side. He lived here, after all. But if he spoke German, perhaps he’d fight with Germany, would leave her here and go back home. She’d follow him, of course. If they were to be married, she’d be loyal to him, stay by his side, no matter what.

  “Only in the last war,” Mrs. B. went on, “they locked the Germans up, the ones who were here.”

  “He’s not actually German,” Ada said. “Just speaks it.”

  “And why’s he over here?”

  Ada shrugged. “He likes it.” She had never asked him. No more than she had asked what he did for a living. There was no need. He was a count. But if they locked him up, that wouldn’t be so bad. She could visit and he wouldn’t have to fight. He wouldn’t die and the war wouldn’t last forever.

  “Perhaps he’s a spy,” Mrs. B. said, “and you’re his cover.”

  “If that’s the case,” Ada said, hoping her voice didn’t wobble, “all the more reason to enjoy myself.”

  “Well,” Mrs. B. said, “if you know what you’re doing…” She paused and gave a twisted smile. “As a matter of fact, there are one or two places you might care to visit in Paris.” She pulled out a piece of paper from the drawer in her desk and began to write.

  Ada took the piece of paper. Rue d’Orsel, Place Saint-Pierre, Boulevard Barbès.

  “I haven’t been to Paris for so long,” she said. There was a wistfulness in her voice that Ada hadn’t heard before. “These places are mostly in Montmartre, on the Right Bank.” Stanislaus had talked about the Seine. “So be careful.”

  Their hotel was on the Left Bank, where the artists lived.

  CHARING CROSS STATION was a heaving tangle of nervy women and whining children, cross old people, worried men checking their watches, bewildered young boys in uniforms. Territorial Army, Ada guessed, or reservists. Sailors and soldiers. The occasional ARP volunteer elbowed his way through the crowd, Keep to the left. People took them seriously now, Air-Raid Precaution, as if they really did have a job to do. A train to Kent was announced, and the shambles surged forward, a giant slug of humanity. Ada stood her ground, shoved back against the crowd, banged her suitcase against other people’s shins. Watch out, miss. The frenzy of the scene matched her mood. What if he wasn’t there? What if she missed him? She realized that she had no way of contacting him. He didn’t have a telephone. He lived in Bayswater, but she didn’t know his address. A woman pushed past her with two children, a boy in gray short trousers and a white shirt, a girl in a yellow, smocked dress. In fa
ct, Ada thought, she knew very little about Stanislaus. She didn’t even know how old he was. He was an only child, he’d told her. Both his parents were dead, as was his much-married aunt. She had no idea why he had come to England. Maybe he was a spy.

  This was daft. She shouldn’t go. She hardly knew him. Her mother had warned her. White slave trade. Stick a pin in you so you fainted and woke up in a harem. And all these people. Soldiers. ARP. There really was going to be a war. Stanislaus was wrong. Maybe he was a spy. The enemy. She shouldn’t go.

  She spotted him. He was leaning against a pillar in a navy blue blazer and white slacks, a leather grip at his feet. She took a deep breath. He hadn’t seen her. She could turn round, go home. There was time.

  But then he saw her, grinned, pushed himself forward, lifted his bag and swung it over his shoulder. A spy. A sharp prickle of heat crept up Ada’s neck. She watched as he wove his way towards her. It would be fine. Everything would be all right. He was a handsome man, despite his glasses. An honest man, anyone could see that. A man of means, too. Nothing to worry about. Silly of her. His face was creased in a broad smile. He walked faster, pleased to see her. This, Paris, was happening to her, Ada Vaughan, of Theed Street, Lambeth, just by the Peabody Buildings.

  THE GARE DU Nord was full of the same sweating turmoil as Charing Cross, except the French station was hotter and stuffier, and the crowds noisier and more unruly. Ada was transfixed. Why don’t they line up? Why do they shout? She was tired from the journey, too. She hadn’t slept the night before, and there wasn’t a seat to be had on the train to Dover. The crossing had made her queasy, and the view of the white cliffs receding into a faint stripe of land had unsettled her in ways she hadn’t expected. Worry hammered in her head. What if war did come? What if they were stuck here? She couldn’t ignore the scrolls of barbed wire on the beaches ready to snare and rip the enemy. The hungry seagulls hovering over the deserted pebbles and bundles of scabby tar, waiting for their morsels of flesh. The battleships in the Channel. Destroyers, Stanislaus called them, hovering hulks of metal, gray as the water.