It was dark when she woke. Then she heard it. The distant blast of an explosion, the boom of heavy guns. The curtains had been left open, and through the window the night sky streaked white and vermilion.
“Stanislaus.” She groped for him next to her. The bed was empty, the sheets cold and smooth. She sat up, awake, panic gripping her body, short of breath.
“Stanislaus.” His name echoed round the empty room. Something was wrong, she knew. She fumbled for her clothes, pulled them on. Please God let him come back. There were steps outside. It must be him. Just went out for a cigarette. She opened the door, but it was Madame who was walking up the stairs, her way lit by a small oil lamp.
“Mademoiselle.” She was panting from the climb. “The Germans are here. You must come, to the basement.”
“My husband,” Ada said. “Where is my husband?”
“Follow me,” Madame said, lighting the way for them both. She held up the long skirt of her nightdress with her free hand.
“But my husband.” Dread clamored, a shrill, persistent klaxon. “My husband. He’s not here.”
They had entered the café now. The room was dark. Ada could make out the tables and chairs, the glisten of bottles behind the bar. Madame opened a trapdoor and began to lower herself down.
“Come,” she said.
Ada looked for Stanislaus in the gloom, listened for his breathing, smelled the air for his scent, but her nostrils filled with the tang of stale beer and burnt sugar.
“Mademoiselle. Now. You must come now. We are in danger.” A hand tugged at her ankle. Stanislaus wasn’t in the room. He was out there, in the night, by himself, in danger. A boom thundered in the distance. The hand tugged again at her foot so Ada lost her balance and had to steady herself on a chair.
“I’m coming,” she said.
She looked for the glow of his cigarette in the cellar, his shadow in the vaults. You took your time, Ada. Madame closed the trapdoor and switched on a single bulb, which shed a dim light through the darkness. The cellar was full of barrels stacked five high, and a pair of porters’ trolleys. The earth floor smelled of mushrooms. Madame had brought down a sheet of linoleum and two hard-backed chairs. There was a hamper next to one, with bread and cheese. She had prepared for this day, knew that war was coming. Ada should have known, too.
“My husband.” Ada began to whimper. “He’s not here.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes. Where is he?”
“Your husband?”
“Yes. Mon mari.” Ada wondered if Madame was deaf, or simple. “The man who was with me last night. Mustache, glasses. My husband.”
“Yes, yes,” the woman said. “I know who he is. He left yesterday evening.”
Ada limped to the chair and sat down, blood thundering through her head. “He left?” Her voice was frail.
“Oui,” Madame said. “He went to meet his wife. They were going to Ostend, for the ferry, to England. I said I thought he’d be lucky; the transport’s not what it was. Can’t get the fuel, see? But he insisted.”
“No,” Ada said. “There’s some mistake.”
“No.” The woman sounded almost cheery. “He was adamant. Said he had to get back to England.”
Stanislaus had left? To meet his wife? England, where he’d face jail? It made no sense.
“But what about me?” Ada said.
“He said you had other plans. You would know what to do.”
The strength left her body, flesh slumped and numb. This had to be some other person Madame was talking about. In the morning, when it was light, she’d go and look for him. He was out there, lost. Perhaps he was hurt. She’d find him. The German guns were still far away, although they sounded near enough.
THE ROAD RAN above the cellar. She could hear cars rolling by, footsteps clipping the cobbles, the squeak of a barrow and the brisk bell of a bicycle. There was a wooden trapdoor to the street through which the deliverymen lowered the barrels. Ada could see daylight through the joins.
“You must not go out,” Madame said. “The last war…the Germans. Such horrors.” She held her down, gnarled hand on Ada’s arm, corrugated fingers round her wrist.
Ada shook her off. “He may be waiting,” she said. “Outside. We have to let him in.”
“He has gone.” Madame was shaking her head. She doesn’t know Stanislaus, Ada thought. Or she misunderstood him. He spoke terrible French.
She could hear voices, muffled, urgent speech that she couldn’t quite catch. The town was awake and alive and Stanislaus was part of it.
She freed herself from Madame’s hold, grabbed her handbag, climbed the stepladder, and pushed open the trap from the cellar into the café. The morning light flooded in, motes of dust dancing in the sunlight. Ada glanced back at Madame standing by the chair, holding a cloth napkin across her front.
“Vous êtes folle!” Madame said, shaking her head.
Ada pulled the bolts on the street door and slipped outside. The light was fresh, and the sun glowed low and warm. On this side of the house the street was silent and empty, as if an army of ghouls had passed through and cleared the souls away. There was a smell in the air, a sweet balsam from a tree that overhung the road with newborn foliage. She thought of Stanislaus, so long ago, the smell of trees making love. Her blister still hurt, and she plucked some leaves and shoved them into the heel of her shoe, clip-clopped round the corner with a limp.
The buildings were tall, redbrick walls with roofs that soared and curled. Ada turned and walked down another street. Empty. There was no sign of the Germans anywhere. A man on a bicycle was coming towards her, and for a moment Ada was sure it was Stanislaus. He cycled by, a fair-haired man with a leer, turning round as he passed to stare. Ada clutched at her collar. She had buttoned it askew in her rush last night; the top gaped open, her slip showed. Dressed in a hurry. Woman of the night. She waited until the man had passed, reorganized her dress, began to run in case he returned, her blister rubbing raw as her shoe jolted on the cobblestones.
The street opened into a large square filled with hundreds of people. Ada stopped, drew her hands to her face, covered her nose. The smell of fear she’d first learned in Paris filled this square, too; its dread tasted sour on her tongue, its keening echoed round her ears. Faces cast with determination, eyes fixed ahead, elbows out, dragging suitcases and children. They shouted and cried, pushed bicycles or prams laden with possessions. There was an old lady in a wheelbarrow, her hair straight and white, her face gaunt and drawn, tears draining down her hollow cheeks, bony knuckles clutching the sides as her son struggled to keep the barrow steady. Cars honked in irritation as they tried to push through the crowds. A dray horse breathed in the terror, straining on the creaking shafts of its cart. Tempers were short all round. Ada had seen it before, in London, in Paris. Only now it was real. The Germans were coming. Belgium should have been safe.
She’d never find Stanislaus in this crowd. Perhaps he had got away, or perhaps he had been captured, shot, his body already festering behind enemy lines. She shut her eyes and tried to rid herself of the thought, tried to make sense of everything, of him. How could he have a wife? They had spent every day together since they left London. He always came home, however late it was. Ada would have known. Madame was wrong. But why else leave Paris so fast? Why come to Belgium, why Namur? Why here?
The crowd pushed against her. She recognized where they were, close to the train station. The people must be heading there. She wanted to be free of them, to think. She tried to turn and stand against the force. No one noticed her, no one cared. She was alone in the middle of a thousand frightened, fleeing people. There was no Stanislaus. She had no idea where to go, or what to do. She had no one to turn to. She let the crowd carry her with them. Perhaps they knew where they were going. Perhaps they knew where it was safe.
Paris. She could go back to Paris. Monsieur Lafitte, Madame Breton. They would take care of her. She’d explain why she left without warning. Bit of bother t
hat Stanislaus got himself into. They thought he was a German.
And then a truth smacked her hard across the face. What if Stanislaus was German? What if Mrs. B. had been right all along? He was a spy, and she his alibi. She tried to turn again, but the pressure of the crowd was too strong. Move to the side, she thought, to the side, forward and to the side. The crowds were thinner there.
A man trod on her toe, and she yelped.
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” he said. “Excusez-moi.” He didn’t linger, his eyes hard-focused on the space ahead.
Ada reached the edge of the square and stood beneath an arcade away from the crowd. What had Stanislaus been doing in London? She never asked. Took her to Paris. Said there’d be no war, said he couldn’t go back to England. She promised him she’d stay. They were a nice young couple and she was his cover. Where did he get his money from? What sort of business was he in? Did he love her?
She had been a fool. Taken in. And then Belgium, Namur. No more. Of course. He knew the Germans were coming; he must have. That was who he went to join, not his wife, he had no wife. That was a code word. Spies used them. Of course she’d never seen his passport; he couldn’t show it to her. He’d give himself away. You do the talking, Ada, when we get to the border. Left her here, discarded her, after he was done with her. Purpose served, mission complete.
An aircraft overhead emitted a steady, rhythmic drone, like a giant wasp. It flew low enough that Ada could make out a swastika on its tail, the cross on its side, and the ghostly shape of its pilot in the cockpit. Moments later there was an explosion, close enough to make the ground shudder. The crowd screamed and scattered. She heard the frightened whinnies of the horses, the cries of children, could see people falling, trampled on the ground. She stood at the edge of the square, frozen. Another aircraft came into view, and Ada realized that it had spotted the crowds, was lining up to attack them. She pushed her way through the arcade, into a side street. Ran and ran as another bomb hurtled down, closer this time, its force rocking the ground so she tripped and fell. Get up, get up. She knew she had to run, get out of the open streets and find protection. She heard a heavy rumble. Ahead of her a building was crumbling down, a giant with shattered knees, falling in a thick fog of grit. She must go back to Madame, to the cellar, shelter.
She pushed herself onto her feet and looked round. The sky was filled with dust, sticky, gray grouts that clogged her nose and fell like ash on her hands and into her mouth. She tried to push them out, but they coated her tongue and sat like blotting paper, mopping up her spittle. She had no idea where the pension was or what it was called or which street it was on. She had lost her bearings. Her foot was sticky. She had cut her knee when she fell, and blood was trickling down her calf and into the side of her shoe. Her blister throbbed. She pulled off her shoes. Have to run. Get away. Perhaps the pension was to the right. She had cut across the square. Up the road, first on the right, but the street veered back on itself and twisted round again. She was going in circles.
The crowds had fled for shelter. Another plane droned off in the distance, and there was a sharp crack of gunfire. The plane came into view, and Ada watched, transfixed, as the long, black bomb fell behind a row of houses nearby. The ground juddered. She heard the tinkle of shattered windows, felt a shard of glass brush her arm, watched a cloud of thick, black smoke billow from a neighboring street. There were more planes now, and more bombs, coming faster and faster. Nowhere was safe. There was broken glass all round, and her feet were bare. She slipped her shoes back on, wincing at her blisters, and ran away from the blast, down another street she didn’t recognize, away and away, her mind racing in time with her legs, praying for the first time for months. Please God, please God…
Round a corner. Two of them. Standing there, in full view, staring at her.
—
Les Soeurs de la Bienveillance. Heavy black cloaks and white, starched wimples. She recognized the habit. It was the same order that her Auntie Vi had joined fifteen years ago.
“Please,” she said. She could feel the words tumbling out, pushing for space, begging to be heard over the roar of the bombers. “Please. Help me. Aidez-moi. My name is Ada. My aunt is a sister, one of you, Sister Bernadette of Lourdes, perhaps you know her? She served her novitiate here, in Belgium.” Or was it France? Ada couldn’t remember. She was only little at the time. “I’m lost. My husband—” What could she say? “I’m alone.”
“Your husband?” one of the nuns said.
She had to stick with her lie. “Yes,” she said quickly. The gunfire and explosions had stopped. Smoke and dust clung like a shroud, and the smell of broken masonry and burning filled the air. This might be her only chance. “I’ve lost my husband.”
She felt sick, and her head began to spin. When she came to, she was sitting on the ground, her head held down between her knees.
“Madame,” one of the sisters was saying. “Madame, you cannot stay here. It isn’t safe.”
“Help me,” Ada said. Her voice was far away, a distant rap in her head. “I have nowhere to go.”
The nuns lifted her to her feet, one on each side, a firm grip on her elbows. “Come with us.”
She leant on them for support, legs moving, one before the other, but her bones had turned to sponge and she had no strength left.
—
SHE WAS AWARE of an eerie quiet, clouds of rising smoke in the clear blue sky, a river gleaming in the sunlight, and a castle high on the hill. She was aware, too, of uneven cobbles and broken glass and, beyond, an archway with wrought-iron writing: LA RÉSIDENCE DE SAINT-JOSEPH. The nuns led her inside, into a large hall with a marble checkerboard floor and a life-size statue of Saint Joseph standing in the center. He balanced a lily in the crook of an arm and held the other arm up in a blessing. One nun went off down a corridor, and the other led her to a long wooden settle.
“Asseyez-vous,” she said. “Attendez.”
Ada sat. She was still dizzy and faint. The noise of the bombs and the falling debris echoed in her head. She hadn’t had a proper meal for days, not a meal with meat and potatoes; nor had she had a good night’s sleep. She eased off the first shoe, and then the second. Her feet were filthy, bloodied and black from the road. She clutched her handbag close to her. It was scuffed and dusty and bulging from the teddy bear stuffed inside. The bear was bringing her luck, had kept her alive so far. She fished inside for her compact and lipstick. Must look a fright.
She heard the rattle of beads, the swish of heavy skirts, and smelled the bland talcum of nuns. One from this morning was carrying a tray. Another nun, tall and thin, walked with an air of authority. She must be the head. What did Auntie Vi say they were called? Reverend? Mother? Good Mother. There was an older nun behind her with a stern, red face and round, horn-rimmed glasses. The nun who’d rescued her this morning placed the tray beside her on the settle. There was a glass of water and some bread. The tall nun approached Ada, her arms outstretched in greeting.
“Je suis la Bonne Mère,” she said. Ada tried to stand, but her knees buckled. The Good Mother sat next to her, pointed to the tray. Mangez. Ada drank the water, felt it soothe her throat. She broke off a piece of bread and stuffed it into her mouth.
“You are English,” the Good Mother said. “You have lost your husband.”
Ada nodded.
“Your name?”
“Ada Vaughan.”
“And you are the niece of our beloved Sister Bernadette of Lourdes?”
Ada nodded again. Her lips trembled. She had never been so alone, or so frightened.
“Remind me,” the Good Mother went on, “what was your aunt’s name, before she took Holy Orders?”
“Auntie Vi,” Ada said. She corrected herself. “Violet. Violet Gamble.”
“And when did she enter?”
“I can’t remember,” Ada said. She knew she was being tested. She could be an impostor. If she gave the wrong answer, they’d send her away, back out to the street. “I was only li
ttle when she left, but it must have been about fifteen years ago. Maybe ten.” She added, “I think she was here.”
“And where did she come from?” the other, red-faced nun said. She spoke in English, with an Irish accent. She sounded strict, as if Ada was telling a fib.
“London,” Ada said. “Walworth. Nineteen Inville Road, Walworth.”
This red-faced nun nodded at the Good Mother.
“Please help me,” Ada said.
“How?” the Good Mother said. “We look after old people. We must think of them.”
“I’ll work for you.” Auntie Vi had said they always had laypeople in to do the cleaning, wash the dishes, make the beds. Ada could do that. They had to keep her. “Let me stay, please. I’ll do anything. I have nowhere to go.”
The Good Mother patted Ada’s hand, stood up and walked to the corner, beckoning the other nun to follow. They turned their backs to Ada and leant their heads close. Ada couldn’t hear what they were saying, nor was she sure she would understand if she did. The Good Mother spoke fast.
They returned after a few minutes. “We can shelter you.” She shrugged. “But for how long?” She rolled her hands so the palms faced upwards. “Je ne sais pas. If the British help us, drive the Germans out, a few days perhaps. And then you must leave.”
Ada nodded. She’d be safe here, safer than at the pension. Besides, she’d never find the pension, not now, with the bombs and the smoke.
“Thank you, Bonne Mère,” Ada said. “Thank you so much.” The British would be here soon. It would be all right. They’d send her back to London, to Mum and Dad.
The Good Mother nodded and tucked her hands behind her scapular. “Sister Monica,” she said, tilting her head towards the other nun, who was scowling at Ada, “is in charge of our novitiates. I shall leave you with her. I have much to do now.” She turned on her heel and marched down the corridor.
The Dressmaker's War Page 7