The Dressmaker's War

by Mary Chamberlain

  “Would you tell me your name?” Mr. Harris-Jones said.

  “Joyce Matheson.” It was the first Ada had heard her full name.

  “Your relationship with the defendant, Ada Vaughan?”

  “Friends.”

  “Good friends?”

  “Yeah, well. We help each other out.”

  “And your occupation?”

  Scarlett stuck out her chin and looked the jury square-on. “I’m a prostitute.” Scarlett wasn’t afraid of the law, so what? She had been in front of the beak more times than Ada’d had hot dinners.

  “Is Joyce Matheson your only name?”

  “Sometimes I call myself Scarlett. When I’m working.”

  “And do all prostitutes use an alias?” Mr. Harris-Jones asked.

  “Some do.”

  “Did Ada Vaughan?”

  Ada took in her breath sharp. They were making her out to be a whore. Two of the jurymen were shaking their heads. She knew their types. Bloody Christians. Baptists. She felt like shouting, Let him who is without sin cast the first stone. She was on a roller coaster, up and down and round and round, frightened of what else would come.

  “Oh yes,” Scarlett was saying. “She called herself Ava Gordon. Ava, after the film star, you know, Ava Gardner.” Mr. Harris-Jones nodded, letting her talk. “Don’t know where the Gordon came from. Gin, perhaps. She liked her pink ladies.” She smiled, warming to her theme. “Scarlett’s from Gone with the Wind. Have you seen it?”

  Harris-Jones was stitching her up, and now he’d laid a trap and Scarlett had fallen into it. Ada could see Scarlett fidgeting on her feet.

  “Would you describe Ada Vaughan as a common prostitute?”

  “Not common,” Scarlett said, looking across at Ada. “Classy. Charged more than the girls up West.” She smiled, a satisfied pout. She was proud of Ada, proud to be her friend. “But then it wasn’t just a fifteen-minute job she gave them. She worked out of Smith’s.”

  “As I said”—Mr. Harris-Jones sneered—“a common prostitute.”

  “No,” Scarlett said. Her cheeks had gone red, and Ada could see she was riled. “She wasn’t a streetwalker. Didn’t solicit. Nothing like that. I mean, she only did it for pin money. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Pin money or a regular living, it doesn’t matter. Selling your body for sex is prostitution.”

  “She was a good-time girl,” Scarlett said. “That’s all. Heart of gold. Her gentlemen showed appreciation.”

  “In cash?”

  Mr. Harris-Jones’s silver hair curled below his barrister’s wig. She could see him in Smith’s. Are you alone? May I join you? She’d had a few barristers. Judges, too. Perhaps he’d been one of them; she’d never recognize him in his wig. He looked the sort. Acted it and all. Guilty afterwards, blaming Ada for his sins, as if it was her fault he’d left his wife at home with the housekeeping and a little extra. What was that, if it wasn’t payment? That’s all marriage did. Made sex legal. It was hypocrisy. She wasn’t having that. She was as good as any of their wives. She hadn’t killed Stanley because she was a prostitute. She’d killed him because he was an evil, lying bastard.

  “What was the relationship between Ada Vaughan and the deceased?”

  Scarlett fidgeted. “I never met him,” she said.

  “But you knew about him?”

  Scarlett shrugged. “No.”

  “What was the nature of the relationship?”

  “What do you think?” Scarlett snapped.

  “Thank you.” Mr. Harris-Jones looked down at his notes, lifted his head, and looked Scarlett in the eye. “One further question. Did Ada Vaughan ever mention what she did in the war?”

  Of course not, Ada wanted to shout. Why should she? She always kept herself to herself.

  “No,” Scarlett said. “We didn’t talk about the war. Best put that behind us, that’s what we all said.”

  “Thank you, Miss Matheson,” Mr. Harris-Jones said. “No further questions.”

  Scarlett caught Ada’s eye, gave her a look of sympathy. Sorry, love. I did my best. She had to give evidence, Mr. Wallis said, couldn’t wriggle out of it. Still, Ada couldn’t see why she was there, telling the jury what another woman did for a bit of extra.

  “I did it for Thomas,” Ada shouted. “I was saving for him, so I could find him, bring him home. But now you say he’s dead.”

  “Miss Vaughan”—the judge leant forward—“you will have an opportunity to put your defense later. Until then, you must be silent, or I will evict you from the court.”

  Her barrister said he had no questions of Scarlett.

  —

  THE LANDLADY WAS standing in the witness box next, holding the Bible, swearing to Almighty God. Ada hadn’t forgiven her for throwing out her things, leaving her with nothing to wear. She’d paid for that room, up front. The landlady had no right to get rid of her stuff. She’d probably let the room out again. Racketeer.

  Mr. Harris-Jones stood up. “Were you aware of the defendant’s occupation when you rented out a room to her?”

  “You only get done for brothel keeping if every room’s used,” the landlady said. “I was going clean.”

  “I know the law on this,” Mr. Harris-Jones said. “I asked you if you were aware of her occupation.”

  “She said she worked in Lyons,” the landlady said. “I did wonder, mind, how she could afford the room on a nippy’s wages, but she went out every morning in her uniform, so I didn’t question it.”

  “When did you discover the truth?”

  “Well,” she said, “when she started bringing back her pimp. Or her ponce. Whoever.”

  “Stanley Lovekin?”

  “No, another one. Foreign name. A Negro.” She said it through her nose, stretched the vowels, a neee grow.

  The judge leant forward, ahemed. “Would this be Gino Messina you are referring to?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one.”

  Ada knew what the jury was thinking already. Only prostitutes go with black men. Loose morals. The landlady had said that on purpose. Gino wasn’t a Negro. Ada’d only ever said he was her fiancé. The landlady wouldn’t know anything more. She was making it up.

  “Why did you think that pimping was the nature of their relationship?”

  “My bedroom’s just below her room. All sorts came up, I can tell you. That bed brayed like a donkey with a sore tooth.”

  “It never,” Ada shouted. The cheek of the woman. She and Gino didn’t even always have sex, not every week. Now here was this woman implying she was at it all night, every night, with any Tom, Dick, or Harry.

  “Miss Vaughan,” the judge said, glowering over his glasses. “Another warning.” He nodded to Mr. Harris-Jones. “Continue.”

  “What else did you hear?” Mr. Harris-Jones said.

  “Rows. Terrible rows. You could’ve heard them across the river.”

  “What were the rows about?”

  “Money. Every time. Either she wasn’t giving him enough, or he wasn’t giving her enough.”

  “You’re lying,” Ada shouted.

  “Miss Vaughan,” the judge said, his voice toned to a deep timbre. “No more outbursts, otherwise you will be removed from the court.”

  “But the nosy cow must have had her ear pinned to the door,” Ada said, caught the judge’s frown. “Sorry.”

  Mr. Harris-Jones had been looking at the judge. He turned back to the landlady. “And the night of the murder?”

  “Well.” The landlady pursed her lips together and shook her head. “Whoever it was she brought up had had a skinful. You could tell. Stumbling up the stairs. I heard her shouting, then it went all quiet. Eerie, if you know what I mean. Not like normal. Bed creaked a bit. I thought they was asleep. I heard her go to the lavvy, see, because it’s just down the stairs, at the back. I never heard no more, then I smelled gas.”

  “And?”

  “I looked up the stairs and saw this sausage thing, that she used to block the drafts,
stuffed outside. I hammered on the door, but there was no reply. I didn’t want to go in. So I rushed back down the stairs, straight to the White Lion. Got them to ring the police and the fire brigade.”

  “You’re sure no one else was with them, had entered or left the room?”

  “No,” the landlady said, “it was only the two of them. They have to go past my flat. I hear everything. Everything.”

  Ada knew the landlady would have queued to be a witness against her. Anything to put the boot in. Probably took all Ada’s clothes and sold them on for profit. Her lawyer shook his head, like he was too scared to put it over the parapet and challenge the woman. Couldn’t he see she was lying? He should do one of those clever tricks lawyers do with words and get her to tell the truth. But Wallis stood up, flipped his gown like she’d seen Mr. Harris-Jones do. Barristers must do that, made them feel big.

  “Do you like a drink?” he said.

  “I like a glass of porter of an evening,” she said. “It helps me sleep.”

  “Do you sleep well as a result?”

  “Like a log,” the landlady said.

  “Yet you claim to hear everything that goes on after you have gone to sleep?”

  “Well.” The landlady sounded flustered. “Sometimes I get woken up. She ain’t exactly quiet.”

  “How often would you say you get woken?”

  The landlady glared at Ada, as if it was she, not her barrister, who had asked the question.

  “Every night?” Mr. Wallis said. “Every week? Once a month?”

  The landlady shrugged. “I can’t rightly say.”

  “Where did you say your bedroom was?” Mr. Wallis said.

  “Near the bathroom,” the landlady said. “Handy, at night.”

  “And the bathroom is where?”

  “At the back.”

  “The defendant’s room is at the front.” Mr. Wallis smiled, as if he’d won an argument. “A long way from your bedroom. Are you so sure it is the defendant you hear? Are you sure it was her you heard the night Stanley Lovekin died?”

  “Yeah, well,” the landlady said. “I put two and two together.”

  “But you can’t be positive?”

  “Who else would have gone up to that room?”

  “You cannot be positive,” he said. “Thank you.” Didn’t bother to ask anything more.

  —

  “THEY WON’T CALL Gino, will they?” Ada asked Wallis in the adjournment. “I couldn’t bear to see him. I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “They would have liked to,” Mr. Wallis said, “but he refused to testify.”

  “Why?” Ada knew he’d never cared for her, but perhaps there was some decency in him after all. He didn’t want to sully her name.

  “You don’t know?” Mr. Wallis said. “He’s in prison.”

  “Prison? What for?”

  “Got three years for beating up a prostitute in Mayfair.” Consequences, Ava, consequences. He must have beaten her pretty hard if he was sent to prison for that long.

  “Is she all right?” Ada said. “The woman. Is she all right?”

  “I think so,” Mr. Wallis said. “But if he testified in court now, he’d risk being done for living off immoral earnings.”

  Ada shut her eyes and clenched her fists. She had been so stupid. So bloody stupid.

  —

  THE MANAGERESS CAME next. Dressed up, smart black suit, black-heeled Utility shoes. Had the nerve to wear the nylons Ada’d sold her. Ada wanted to ask her, so the whole courtroom would hear, Where did you get those stockings?

  The manageress confirmed that Ada worked as a nippy, wondered how she could afford a bed-sit, on her own. Wondered how she got it, what with the housing shortage and all.

  “And what did the defendant tell you?”

  “Her grandmother had died. Left her a little nest egg.”

  “Did you believe her?”

  The manageress pulled her jacket straight, looked Ada in the eye. “No.”

  “Do you think she was lying?”

  “Must have been.”

  Hypocrite. She’d come with a busy Lizzie, had a cup of tea. Nice place you’ve got here, Ada.

  Ada sold the other nippies nylons, she said. Clothing coupons. Bread coupons. No end of supplies.

  “Did she say where she got her goods?”

  “No,” the manageress said. She shifted her weight. She shouldn’t have been receiving the stuff. “I never took it, you understand,” she added. “Never on the black.” Ada opened her mouth, Liar, but the sound stuck in her throat. The judge frowned. “It was never done on the premises,” she was saying, “not in the Corner House. Not in Lyons.”

  “Stick to the question. Where did she get her supplies?”

  “I believe she had a boyfriend.”

  “One final question,” Mr. Harris-Jones said. “Did the defendant ever talk to you about where she was during the war?”

  “No. It’s all news to me.”

  She looked across at Ada, like she’d never seen her before. Stepped down from the stand. Ada watched as she walked away, a small run in the back of her stockings, near the ankle, stopped with a blob of red nail polish.

  Ada wondered how many more so-called witnesses the prosecution would bring on to twist the truth. He was painting her as nothing better than a common, greedy prostitute. She expected her mother any minute. My daughter? Running off with a fancy man? Deceitful, through and through. Miss Skinner. Ada Vaughan? The sparrow who wanted to be a swan? Pure fantasy. Her gentlemen friends wouldn’t vouch for her. Lucky escape there, I can tell you. And what would they tell their wives? Mrs. Bottomley and her friends would drop her like a hot coal. Never knew the woman. Snooty cows. Mrs. B. at least would have been able to vouch for her. Only Mr. Wallis said they’d made inquiries and she’d died in the war, in the shop when the Luftwaffe bombed. Madame Duchamps, modiste. The one person who might have believed Ada, believed in her. Blown to pieces.

  “I daresay Ada Vaughan told lies to get a passport,” Mr. Harris-Jones was saying. “Probably forged her father’s signature. She lied to the nuns, to her boss, to her landlady. And not once did she talk about her war experiences. Why?”

  Why? Ada wanted to scream. I didn’t say a word because nobody wanted to hear it. There’s only so much anyone wants to know about it, and nothing if your story doesn’t fit. Better to keep it to yourself. Everybody’s been damaged by the war, in their different ways.

  “Women can’t keep secrets,” Mr. Harris-Jones said, man of the world addressing other men. “We know women. Tittle-tattle is what they do. But not once did Ada Vaughan mention these things. Including the loss of a child.”

  He paused, face clouding with solemnity. He’s an actor, Ada thought, nothing more, treating the jury like this was a play and they were the audience. All make-believe.

  “What kind of mother never speaks of her grief? She never spoke about losing her son in the war. She brushed him under the mat, a bastard. A bastard, because that, gentlemen of the jury, is what he was. Could this possibly have been the cause of provocation, to the extent that she forfeited all self-control? And murdered Stanley Lovekin? Because of this child, of whom not one word was ever uttered, about whom, we must construe, she did not care?”

  “No.” Ada slammed her fist on the rail. “That’s not how it was.”

  He took a deep breath, went on.

  “Furthermore,” he said, “she would wish you to believe that the deceased, Stanley Lovekin, was no other than Stanislaus von Lieben, a Hungarian national with whom she allegedly had a long-term grievance that went back to her wartime experiences, these same experiences about which she never spoke. She never mentioned Stanislaus von Lieben, not once, until now, in the courtroom. He is a silent, absent witness. They’re sometimes the best, those witnesses who cannot testify.”

  He picked up his folder. “Please refer to item two in your bundle. As you see, Stanley Lovekin’s records show that he was born in Bermondsey, south London, in 190
0 and has never been out of this country.”

  Well, his records would, she wanted to yell, he didn’t have a passport. Not a British one. His passport was stolen, foreign. He’d made her get one before they went, to be on the safe side, so he could piggyback on her. She knew that now.

  “This was, of course, another fantasy,” Mr. Harris-Jones was saying, “invented by the defendant to excuse herself. There is no evidence that Lovekin and von Lieben were one and the same, much less that he took her abroad and abandoned her. If there is, it must be a bigger secret than the making of the atom bomb.” He paused, looking at the jury again, waiting for them to nod. He flung his gown behind him and sat down.

  Mr. Wallis had his work cut out, Ada could see. It will be all right, he’d said to her, in that interview room at the end of that day, the sound of the metal gates echoing shut down the corridor. Keep calm. The true story would stack up, like bricks, one by one. Stanislaus, Stanley. How he’d left her, thrown her in at the deep end, without a care. How Ada still felt these things, fretted, worried at them like a rabbit in a snare—for eight long years. Ada couldn’t fight Stanley when she met him again. Couldn’t even run away, not with Gino Messina behind her. She had to bide her time, wait for the moment. You’ll see, he said, when we put you in the witness box.

  —

  ADA MADE AN effort as best she could. Borrowed some rouge from the wardress, washed her hair and brushed it till it shone, rolled it back and under and pinned it in place. Wore a cardigan over her blouse, buttoned to the neck, and dabbed at the stain on her skirt so it looked clean and presentable. Spat on her shoes and rubbed them so they gleamed. Confidence comes from the inside. Appearances matter.

  She had never had to make a speech before. Never had to talk. Be yourself, Mr. Wallis said, tell them what you know. She’d told it to herself every night since Thomas was born, over and over in her head. But not out loud. She’d never told her story out loud. Mr. Wallis prompted and coached. Let’s start at the beginning, Miss Vaughan. Her voice snagged more than once, caught like rayon on the ragged fringes of memory, pulling the threads tight. Her dreams of being a dressmaker with her own shop, like Mrs. B., meeting Stanislaus, going to Paris, then Belgium. How he abandoned her and the nuns sheltered her, how they were transported for slave labor, the work she did for the women in the town of Dachau.