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The Dressmaker of Dachau
Mary Chamberlain


THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLERSpanning the intense years of war, The Dressmaker of Dachau is a dramatic tale of love, conflict, betrayal and survival. It is the compelling story of one young woman’s resolve to endure and of the choices she must make at every turn – choices which will contain truths she must confront.London, spring 1939. Eighteen-year-old Ada Vaughan, a beautiful and ambitious seamstress, has just started work for a modiste in Dover Street. A career in couture is hers for the taking – she has the skill and the drive – if only she can break free from the dreariness of family life in Lambeth.A chance meeting with the enigmatic Stanislaus von Lieben catapults Ada into a world of glamour and romance. When he suggests a trip to Paris, Ada is blind to all the warnings of war on the continent: this is her chance for a new start.Anticipation turns to despair when war is declared and the two are trapped in France. After the Nazis invade, Stanislaus abandons her. Ada is taken prisoner and forced to survive the only way she knows how: by being a dressmaker. It is a decision which will haunt her during the war and its devastating aftermath.























Copyright (#uba36fb5b-22f8-59b0-ad0a-3e27a31e94ea)


The Borough Press

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Ms Ark Ltd 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photography by Henry Steadman. All other images © Shutterstock.com (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Lines from Alfred Noyes’ The Highwayman reproduced with permission from The Society of Authors as the Literary Representative of the Estate of Alfred Noyes.

Mary Chamberlain asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007591558

Ebook Edition © APRIL 2016 ISBN: 9780007591541

Version: 2015-12-19




Dedication (#uba36fb5b-22f8-59b0-ad0a-3e27a31e94ea)


For the little ones – Aaron, Lola, Cosmo,

Trilby – and their Ba.


Contents

Cover (#u977b96b6-3262-53ef-a8bf-95911fae4528)

Title Page (#u5fb37c8a-aabf-5492-bc3e-e73288ccd6f3)

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

One: London, January 1939

Two: London, July 1945

Three: London, November 1947

Historical Note

Acknowledgements

A Q&A: with Mary Chamberlain

About the Author

Also by Mary Chamberlain

About the Publisher




PROLOGUE (#uba36fb5b-22f8-59b0-ad0a-3e27a31e94ea)


The April sun cast shafts of light onto the thick slubs of black silk, turning it into a sea of ebony and jet, silver and slate. Ada watched as Anni ran her hand along the fine, crisp edges of the jacket, tracing the rich, warm threads and fingering the corsage as if the petals were tender, living blooms.

She was wearing it over a thick wool jumper and her cook’s apron, so it pulled tight around the shoulders. No, Ada wanted to say, not like that. It won’t fit. But she kept her mouth shut. She could see from Anni’s face that the jacket was the most beautiful thing she had ever possessed.

Anni was holding the key to Ada’s room in one hand and a suitcase in the other.

‘Goodbye,’ she said, throwing the key on the floor and kicking it towards Ada.

She walked away, leaving the door open.



ONE (#uba36fb5b-22f8-59b0-ad0a-3e27a31e94ea)


Ada peered into the broken mirror propped up on the kitchen dresser. Mouth open, tongue to attention, she plucked at her eyebrows with a pair of rusty tweezers. Winced and ouched until only a thin arc was left. She dabbed on the witch hazel, hoped the stinging would fade. Dunked her hair in clean, warm water in the old, cracked butler sink, patted it dry with a towel and parted it along the left. Eighteen years old, more grown up this way. Middle finger, comb and straighten, index finger, crimp. Three waves down the left, five down the right, five each herringbone down the back, pin curls and a Kirby grip tight to her skull, leave it to dry.

Ada was taking her time. She opened her handbag and fished around until she found her powder, rouge and lipstick. Not too much, in case she looked common, but enough to make her fresh and wholesome like those young girls from the Women’s League of Health and Beauty. She’d seen them in Hyde Park in their black drawers and white blouses and knew they practised on a Saturday afternoon in the playground of Henry Fawcett’s. She might think about joining them. It was good to be supple, and slender. She could make the uniform herself. After all, she was a dressmaker now, earned good money.

She rubbed her lips together to spread her lipstick, checked that the waves were holding their grip as her hair dried, picked up the mirror and carried it into the bedroom. The brown houndstooth skirt with the inverted pleats and the cream blouse with the enamel pin at the neck – that was smart. Good tweed, too, an offcut from Isidore, the tailor in Hanover Square. Just fifteen she was when she started there. Gawd, she was green, picking up pins from the floor and sweeping away fabric dustings, plimsolls grey from the chalk and her hand-me-down jacket too long in the arm. Dad said it was a sweatshop, that the fat capitalist who ran it did nothing but exploit her and she should stand up for her rights and organize. But Isidore had opened her eyes. He taught her how fabric lived and breathed, how it had a personality and moods. Silk, he said, was stubborn, lawn sullen. Worsted was tough, flannel lazy. He taught her how to cut the cloth so it didn’t pucker and bruise, about biases and selvedges. He showed her how to make patterns and where to chalk and tack. He taught her the sewing machine, about yarns and threads, how to fit a new-fangled zipper so it lay hidden in the seam and how to buttonhole and hem. Herringbone, Ada, herringbone. Women looking like mannequins. It was a world of enchantment. Beautiful hair and glistening gowns. Tailored knickers even. Isidore had shown Ada that world, and she wanted it for herself.

She wasn’t there yet. What with Mum demanding a share for her keep and the bus to work and a tea cake in Lyons with the girls on pay day, there wasn’t much over at the end of the week.

‘And don’t think you can come into this house and lord it around,’ Mum raised a stained finger at Ada, knuckles creased like an old worm, ‘just because you pay your way.’ Still had to do her share of the dusting and sweeping and, now she was trained up, the family’s dressmaking too.

Ada knew this life of scrimping and nit-combs and hand-me-downs was not what she was meant for. She damped her finger and thumb with her tongue, folded down her Bemberg stockings with the fitted toe and heel and rolled them up, crease by crease, careful you don’t snag, so the seam sat straight at the back. Quality shows. Appearances matter. So long as her top clothes looked good, nobody could touch her. Lips pinched, nose in the air, excuse me. Airs and graces, like the best of them. Ada would go far, she knew, be a somebody too.

She propped the mirror on top of the mantelpiece and combed her hair so it settled in chestnut waves. She placed her hat on her head, a brown, felt pillbox that one of the milliners at work had made for her, nudging it forward and to the side. She slipped her feet into her new tan court shoes and, lifting the mirror and tilting it downwards, stood back to see the effect. Perfect. Modish. Groomed.

Ada Vaughan jumped over the threshold, still damp from the scrubbing and reddening this morning. The morning sky above was thick, chimney pots coughing sooty grouts into the air. The terrace stretched the length of the street, smuts clinging to the yellow stock and to the brown net curtains struggling free from the open windows in the city-hobbled wind. She covered her nose with her hand so the murk from the Thames and the ash from the tallow melts wouldn’t fill her nostrils and leave blackened snot on the handkerchiefs she’d made for herself and embroidered in the corner, AV.

Clip-clop along Theed Street, front doors open so you could see inside, respectable houses these, clean as a whistle, good address, you had to be a somebody to rent here, Mum always said. Somebody, my foot. Mum and Dad wouldn’t know a somebody if he clipped them round the ear. Somebodies didn’t sell the Daily Worker outside Dalton’s on a Saturday morning, or thumb their rosaries until their fingers grew calouses. Somebodies didn’t scream at each other, or sulk in silence for days on end. If Ada had to choose between her mother and father, it would be her father every time, for all his temper and frustrations. He wasn’t waiting for Heaven but salvation in the here and now, one last push and the edifice of prejudice and privilege would crumble and everyone would have the world that Ada yearned for. Her mother’s salvation came after death and a lifetime of suffering and bleeding hearts. Sitting in the church on Sunday, she wondered how anyone could make a religion out of misery.

Clip-clop past the fire station and the emergency sandbags stacked outside. Past the Old Vic where she’d seen Twelfth Night on a free seat when she was eleven years old, entranced by the glossy velvet costumes and the smell of Tungstens and orange peel. She knew, just knew, there was a world enclosed on this stage with its painted-on scenery and artificial lights that was as true and deep as the universe itself. Make-up and make-belief, her heart sang for Malvolio, for he, like her, yearned to be a somebody. She kept going, down the London Road, round St George’s Cross and onto the Borough Road. Dad said there was going to be a war before the year was out and Mum kept picking up leaflets and reading them out loud, When you hear the siren, proceed in an orderly fashion …

Ada clip-clopped up to the building and raised her eyes to the letters that ran in black relief along the top. ‘Borough Polytechnic Institute’. She fidgeted with her hat, opened and shut her bag, checked her seams were straight, and walked up the stairs. Sticky under her arms and between her thighs, the clamminess that came from nerves, not the clean damp you got from running.

The door to Room 35 had four glass panels in the top half. Ada peered through. The desks had been pushed to one side and six women were standing in a semicircle in the middle. Their backs were to the door and they were looking at someone in the front. Ada couldn’t see who. She wiped her palm down the side of her skirt, opened the door and stepped into the room.

A woman with large bosoms, a pearl necklace and grey hair rolled in a bun stepped forward from the semicircle and threw open her arms. ‘And you are?’

Ada swallowed. ‘Ada Vaughan.’

‘From the diaphragm,’ the woman bellowed. ‘Your name?’

Ada didn’t know what she meant. ‘Ada Vaughan,’ her voice crashed against her tongue.

‘Are we a mouse?’ the woman boomed.

Ada blushed. She felt small, stupid. She turned and walked to the door.

‘No, no,’ the woman cried. ‘Do come in.’ Ada was reaching for the door-knob. She put her hand on Ada’s. ‘You’ve come this far.’

The woman’s hand was warm and dry and Ada saw her nails were manicured and painted pink. She led her back to the other women, positioned her in the centre of the semicircle.

‘My name is Miss Skinner.’ Her words sang clear, like a melody, Ada thought, or a crystal dove. ‘And yours?’

Miss Skinner stood straight, all bosom, though her waist was slender. She poised her head to the side, chin forward.

‘Say it clearly,’ she smiled, nodded. Her face was kindly, after all, even if her voice was strict. ‘E-nun-ci-ate.’

‘Ada Vaughan,’ Ada said, with conviction.

‘You may look like a swan,’ Miss Skinner said, stepping back, ‘but if you talk like a sparrow, who will take you seriously? Welcome, Miss Vaughan.’

She placed her hands round her waist. Ada knew she must be wearing a girdle. No woman her age had a figure like that without support. She breathed in Mmmmm, drummed her fingers on the cavity she made beneath her ribs, opened her mouth, Do re mi fa so. She held tight to the last note, blasting like a ship’s funnel until it left only an echo lingering in the air. Her shoulders relaxed and she let out the rest of the air with a whoosh. It’s her bosoms, Ada thought, that’s where she must keep the air, blow them up like balloons. No one could breathe in that deep. It wasn’t natural.

‘Stand straight.’ Miss Skinner stepped forward, ‘Chin up, bottom in.’ She threaded her way through the group, came to Ada and pushed one hand against the small of her back and with the other lifted Ada’s chin up and out.

‘Unless we stand upright,’ Miss Skinner rolled her shoulders back and adjusted her bosom, ‘we cannot project.’ She trilled her rrrs like a Sally Army cymbal. ‘And if we cannot project,’ Miss Skinner added, ‘we cannot pronounce.’

She turned to Ada. ‘Miss Vaughan, why do you wish to learn elocution?’

Ada could feel the heat crawl up her neck and prickle her ears, knew her face was turning red. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t say it. Her tongue folded in a pleat. I want to be a somebody. Miss Skinner nodded anyway. She’d seen the likes of Ada before. Ambitious.

*

‘I thought you were one of the customers,’ the Hon. Mrs Buckley had said, ‘when I saw you standing there, looking so smart.’ Taken for one of the customers. Imagine. She was only eighteen years old when she’d started there last September. Ada had learned fast.

The Hon. Mrs Buckley traded under the name ‘Madame Duchamps’. Square-hipped and tall, with painted nails and quiet earrings, she dazzled with her talk of couture and atelier and Paris, pah! She would flip through the pages of Vogue and conjure ballgowns and cocktail dresses from bolts of silks and chenilles which she draped and pinned round slender debutantes and their portly chaperones.

Ada had learned her trade from Isidore and her nerve from Mrs B., as the other girls all called her. Where Isidore had been wise and kind and funny, genuine, Mrs B. was crafted through artifice. Ada was sure the Hon. Mrs Buckley was neither an Hon. nor a Mrs, and her complexion was as false as her name, but that didn’t stop Mrs B. What she didn’t know about the female form and the lie of a fabric was not worth writing on a postage stamp.

Mrs B. was a step up from Isidore. Paris. That was the city Ada aimed to conquer. She’d call her house ‘Vaughan’. It was a modish name, like Worth, or Chanel, but with British cachet. That was another word she’d learned from Mrs B. Cachet. Style and class, rolled into one.

‘Where did you learn all this French, madame?’ The girls always had to call her ‘madame’ to her face.

Mrs B. had given a knowing smile, her head pivoting on the tilt of her long neck. ‘Here and there,’ she said. ‘Here and there.’

Fair dues to Mrs B., she recognized in Ada a hard worker, and a young woman with ambition and talent. Aitches present and correct without aspiration, haspiration, Ada was made front-of-house, Madame Duchamps’s instore fresh-faced mannequin, and the young society ladies began to turn to her to model their clothes, rather than Mrs B., whose complexion and waistline grew thicker by the day.

‘Mademoiselle,’ Mrs B. would say. ‘Slip on the evening gown.’

‘The douppioni, madame?’

Midnight blue with a halter neck. Ada would lean into her hips and sway across the floor, swirl so her naked back drew the eye, and that eye would marvel at the drape of the fabric as it swallowed the curve of her figure, out and in, and fanned in a fishtail. She’d turn again and smile.

‘And now the chiffon.’

Veils of mystery and a taffeta lining, oyster and pearl and precious lustres. Ada loved the way the clothes transformed her. She could be fire, or water, air or earth. Elemental. Truthful. This was who she was. She would lift her arms as if to embrace the heavens and the fabric would drift in the gossamer breeze; she would bend low in a curtsy then unfold her body like a flower in bloom, each limb a sensuous, supple petal.

She was the centre of adoration, a living sculpture, a work of art. A creator, too. She would smile and say, ‘But if you tuck it here, or pleat it there, then voilà.’ With a flourish of her long, slim fingers and that new, knowing voilà, Ada would add her own touch to one of Mrs B.’s designs and make it altogether more modern, more desirable. Ada knew Mrs B. saw her as an asset, recognized her skills and taste, her ability to lure the customers and charm them with an effortless eloquence, thanks to Miss Skinner’s skilful tutoring.

‘If you cut on the bias,’ Ada would say, holding up the dress length on the diagonal to a customer, ‘you can see how it falls, like a Grecian goddess.’

Draped across the breast, a single, naked shoulder rising like a mermaid from a chiffon sea.

‘Non, non, non.’ Mrs B. tut-tutted, spoke in French when Ada pushed the limits of decency. ‘That will not do, Mademoiselle. This is not for the boudoir, but the ball. Decorum, decorum.’

She’d turned to her client. ‘Miss Vaughan is still a little inexperienced, naïve, in the subtler points of social correctness.’

Naive she might be, but Ada was good publicity for Madame Duchamps, modiste, of Dover Street, and Ada had hopes that one day she could be more than an asset but a partner in the business. She had developed a respectable following. Her talent marked her out, the flow and poise of her design distinguished her. She conjured Hollywood and the glamorous world of the stars and brought them into the drawing rooms of the everyday. Ada became her designs, a walking advertisement for them. The floral day dress, the tailored suit, the manicured nails and the simple court shoes, she knew she was watched as she left the shop and sauntered west down Piccadilly, past the Ritz and Green Park. She would clip-clop along, chin in the air, pretending she might live in Knightsbridge or Kensington, until she knew she was free of curious eyes. Then finally she turned south, clip-clopped over Westminster Bridge and into Lambeth and past the sniggering urchins who stuck their noses in the air and teetered behind her on imaginary heels.

Late April, black rain fell in turrets and drummed on the slate roofs of Dover Street. Torrents, scooped from the oceans and let loose from the heavens, thundered down to earth and soaked deep into the cracks between the paving, fell in dark rivers along the gutters, eddied in dips in the pavements and in the areas of the tall, stuccoed houses. It splattered off the umbrellas and sombre hats of the pedestrians and soaked the trouser legs below the raincoats. It seeped into the leather of the shoes.

Ada reached for her coat, a soft camel with a tie belt, and her umbrella. She’d have to bite the bullet today, turn left right away, pick up the number 12 in Haymarket.

‘Good night, madame,’ she said to Mrs B. She stood under the door frame, then out into the sodden street. She walked towards Piccadilly, looking down, side-stepping the puddles. A gust of wind caught her umbrella and turned it inside out, whipped the sides of her coat so they billowed free and snatched her hair in sopping tentacles. She pulled at the twisted metal spokes.

‘Allow me, please,’ a man’s voice said as a large umbrella positioned itself above her head. She turned round, almost brushed the man’s face, an instant too close but long enough for Ada to know. His face was slim, punctuated by a narrow, clipped moustache. He wore small, round glasses and behind them his eyes were soft and pale. Duck egg blue, Ada thought, airy enough to see through. They chilled and stirred her. He stepped back.

‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I was only trying to protect you. Here, you hold this.’ He passed over his umbrella and took hold of hers with his free hand. He sounded continental, Ada thought, a sophisticated clip to his accent. Ada watched as he bent it back into shape.

‘Not quite as good as new,’ he said. ‘But it will take care of you today. Where do you live? Do you have far to go?’

She started to answer, but the words tangled in her mouth. Lambeth. Lambeth.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I’ll get the bus.’

‘Let me walk you to the stop.’

She wanted to say yes, but she was frightened he’d press her on where she lived. The number 12 went to Dulwich. That was all right. She could say Dulwich, it was respectable enough.

‘You’re hesitating,’ he said. His eyes creased in a smile. ‘Your mother told you never to go with strange men.’

She was grateful for the excuse. His accent was formal. She couldn’t place it.

‘I have a better idea,’ he went on. ‘I’m sure your mother would approve of this.’ He pointed over the road. ‘Would you care to join me, Miss? Tea at the Ritz. Couldn’t be more English.’

What would be the harm in that? If he was up to no good, he wouldn’t waste money at the Ritz. Probably a week’s wages. And it was in public, after all.

‘I am inviting you,’ he said. ‘Please accept.’

He was polite, well-mannered.

‘And the rain will stop in the mean time.’

Ada gathered her senses. ‘Will? Will it? How do you know?’

‘Because,’ he said, ‘I command it to.’ He shut his eyes, stretched his free arm up above his head, raising his umbrella, and clenched and opened his fist three times.

‘Ein, zwei, drei.’

Ada didn’t understand a word but knew they were foreign. ‘Dry?’ she said.

‘Oh, very good,’ he said. ‘I like that. So do you accept?’

He was charming. Whimsical. She liked that word. It made her feel light and carefree. It was a diaphanous word, like a chiffon veil.

Why not? None of the boys she knew would ever dream of asking her to the Ritz.

‘Thank you. I would enjoy that.’

He took her elbow and guided her across the road, through the starlit arches of the Ritz, into the lobby with its crystal chandeliers and porcelain jardinières. She wanted to pause and look, take it all in, but he was walking her fast along the gallery. She could feel her feet floating along the red carpet, past vast windows festooned and ruched in velvet, through marble columns and into a room of mirrors and fountains and gilded curves.

She had never seen anything so vast, so rich, so shiny. She smiled, as if this was something she was used to every day.

‘May I take your coat?’ A waiter in a black suit with a white apron.

‘It’s all right,’ Ada said, ‘I’ll keep it. It’s a bit wet.’

‘Are you sure?’ he said. A sticky ring of heat began to creep up her neck and Ada knew she had blundered. In this world, you handed your clothes to valets and flunkeys and maids.

‘No,’ the words tripped out, ‘you’re right. Please take it. Thank you.’ Wanted to say, don’t lose it, the man in Berwick Street market said it was real camel hair, though Ada’d had her doubts. She shrugged the coat off her shoulders, aware that the waiter in the apron was peeling it from her arms and draping it over his. Aware, too, that the nudge of her shoulders had been slow and graceful.

‘What is your name?’ the man asked.

‘Ada. Ada Vaughan. And yours?’

‘Stanislaus,’ he said. ‘Stanislaus von Lieben.’

A foreigner. She’d never met one. It was – she struggled for the word – exotic.

‘And where does that name come from, when it’s at home?’

‘Hungary,’ he said. ‘Austria-Hungary. When it was an empire.’

Ada had only ever heard of two empires, the British one that oppressed the natives and the Roman one that killed Christ. It was news to her that there were more.

‘I don’t tell many people this,’ he said, leaning towards her. ‘In my own country, I am a count.’

‘Oh my goodness.’ Ada couldn’t help it. A count. ‘Are you really? With a castle, and all?’ She heard how common she sounded. Maybe he wouldn’t notice, being a foreigner.

‘No.’ He smiled. ‘Not every count lives in a castle. Some of us live in more modest circumstances.’

His suit, Ada could tell, was expensive. Wool. Super 200, she wouldn’t be surprised. Grey. Well tailored. Discreet.

‘What language were you talking, earlier, in the street?’

‘My mother tongue,’ he said. ‘German.’

‘German?’ Ada swallowed. Not all Germans are bad, she could hear her father say. Rosa Luxemburg. A martyr. And those who’re standing up to Hitler. Still, Dad wouldn’t like a German speaker in the house. Stop it, Ada. She was getting ahead of herself.

‘And you?’ he said. ‘What were you doing in Dover Street?’

Ada wondered for a moment whether she could say she was visiting her dressmaker, but then thought better of it.

‘I work there,’ she said.

‘How very independent,’ he said. ‘And what do you work at?’

She didn’t like to say she was a tailoress, even if it was bespoke, ladies. Couldn’t claim to be a modiste, like Madame Duchamps, not yet. She said the next best thing.

‘I’m a mannequin, actually.’ Wanted to add, an artiste.

He leant back in the chair. She was aware of how his eyes roamed over her body as if she was a landscape to be admired, or lost in.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course.’ He pulled out a gold cigarette case from his inside pocket, opened it, and leant forward to Ada. ‘Would you like a cigarette?’

She didn’t smoke. She wasn’t sophisticated like that. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to take one and end up choking. That would be too humiliating. Tea at the Ritz was full of pitfalls, full of reminders of how far she had to go.

‘Not just now, thank you,’ she said.

He tapped the cigarette on the case before he lit it. She heard him inhale and watched as the smoke furled from his nostrils. She would like to be able to do that.

‘And where are you a mannequin?’

Ada was back on safer ground. ‘At Madame Duchamps.’

‘Madame Duchamps. Of course.’

‘You know her?’

‘My great-aunt used to be a customer of hers. She died last year. Perhaps you knew her?’

‘I haven’t been there very long,’ she said. ‘What was her name?’

Stanislaus laughed and Ada noticed he had a glint of gold in his mouth. ‘I couldn’t tell you,’ he said. ‘She was married so many times, I couldn’t keep up.’

‘Perhaps that’s what killed her,’ she said. ‘All that marrying.’

It would, if her parents were anything to go by. She knew what they would think of Stanislaus and his great-aunt. Morals of a hyena. That was Germany for you. But Ada was intrigued by the idea. A woman, a loose woman. She could smell her perfumed body, see her languid gestures as her body shimmied close and purred for affection.

‘You’re funny,’ Stanislaus said. ‘I like that.’

It had stopped raining by the time they left, but it was dark.

‘I should escort you home,’ he said.

‘There’s no need, really.’

‘It’s the least a gentleman can do.’

‘Another time,’ she said, realizing how forward that sounded. ‘I didn’t mean that. I mean, I have to go somewhere else. I’m not going straight home.’

She hoped he wouldn’t follow her.

‘Another time it is,’ he said. ‘Do you like cocktails, Ada Vaughan? Because the Café Royal is just round the corner and is my favourite place.’

Cocktails. Ada swallowed. She was out of her depth. But she’d learn to swim, she’d pick it up fast.

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘and thank you for tea.’

‘I know where you work,’ he said. ‘I will drop you a line.’

He clicked his heels, lifted his hat and turned. She watched as he walked back down Piccadilly. She’d tell her parents she was working late.

*

Martinis, Pink Ladies, Mint Juleps. Ada grew to be at ease in the Café Royal, and the Savoy, Smith’s and the Ritz. She bought rayon in the market at trade price and made herself some dresses after work at Mrs B.’s. Cut on the bias, the cheap synthetic fabrics emerged like butterflies from a chrysalis and hugged Ada into evening elegance. Long gloves and a cocktail hat. Ada graced the chicest establishments with confidence.

‘Swept you off your feet, he has,’ Mrs B. would say each Friday as Ada left work to meet Stanislaus. Mrs B. didn’t like gentlemen calling at her shop in case it gave her a bad name, but she saw that Stanislaus dressed well and had class, even if it was foreign class. ‘So be careful.’

Ada twisted rings from silver paper and paraded her left hand in front of the mirror when no one was looking. She saw herself as Stanislaus’s wife, Ada von Lieben. Count and Countess von Lieben. ‘I hope his intentions are honourable,’ Mrs B.’d said. ‘Because I’ve never known a gentleman smitten so fast.’

Ada just laughed.

*

‘Who is he then?’ her mother said. ‘If he was a decent fellow, he’d want to meet your father and me.’

‘I’m late, Mum,’ Ada said. Her mother blocked the hallway, stood in the middle of the passage. She wore Dad’s old socks rolled down to her ankles, and her shabby apron was stained in front.

‘Bad enough you come home in no fit state on a Friday night, but now you’ve taken up going out in the middle of the week, whatever next?’

‘Why shouldn’t I go out of an evening?’

‘You’ll get a name,’ her mother said. ‘That’s why. He’d better not try anything on. No man wants second-hand goods.’

Her mouth set in a scornful line. She nodded as if she knew the world and all its sinful ways.

You know nothing, Ada thought.

‘For goodness sake,’ Ada said. ‘He’s not like that.’

‘Then why don’t you bring him home? Let your father and I be the judge of that.’

He’d never have set foot inside a two-up two-down terrace that rattled when the trains went by, with a scullery tagged on the back and an outside privy. He wouldn’t understand that she had to sleep in the same bed with her sisters, while her brothers lay on mattresses on the floor, the other side of the dividing curtain Dad had rigged up. He wouldn’t know what to do with all those kids running about. Her mother kept the house clean enough but sooty grouts clung to the nets and coated the furniture and sometimes in the summer the bugs were so bad they had to sit outside in the street.

Ada couldn’t picture him here, not ever.

‘I have to go,’ Ada said. ‘Mrs B. will dock my wages.’

Her mother snorted. ‘If you’d come in at a respectable time,’ she said, ‘you wouldn’t be in this state now.’

Ada pushed past her, out into the street.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ her mother yelled for all the neighbours to hear.

*

She had to run to the bus stop, caught the number 12 by the skin of her teeth. She’d had no time for breakfast and her head ached. Mrs B. would wonder what had happened. Ada had never been late for work before, never taken time off. She rushed along Piccadilly. The June day was already hot. It would be another scorcher. Mrs B. should get a fan, cool the shop down so they weren’t all picking pins with sticky fingers.

‘Tell her, Ada,’ one of the other girls said. Poisonous little cow called Avril, common as a brown penny. ‘We’re all sweating like pigs.’

‘Pigs sweat,’ Ada had said. ‘Gentlemen perspire. Ladies glow.’

‘Get you,’ Avril said, sticking her finger under her nose.

Avril could be as catty as she liked. Ada didn’t care. Jealous, most likely. Never trust a woman, her mother used to say. Well, her mother was right on that one. Ada had never found a woman she could call her best friend.

The clock at Fortnum’s began to strike the quarter hour and Ada started to run, but a figure walked out, blocking her way.

‘Thought you were never coming.’ Stanislaus straddled the pavement in front of her, arms stretched wide like an angel. ‘I was about to leave.’

She let out a cry, a puppy whine of surprise. He’d come to meet her, before work. She knew she was blushing, heat prickling her cheeks. She fanned her hand across her face, thankful for the cool air. ‘I’m late for work,’ she said. ‘I can’t chat.’

‘I thought you could take the day off,’ he said. ‘Pretend you’re sick or something.’

‘I’d lose my job if she ever found out.’

‘Get another,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. Stanislaus had never had to work, couldn’t understand how hard she’d struggled to get where she was. Ada Vaughan, from Lambeth, working with a modiste, in Mayfair. ‘How will she find out?’

He stepped forward and, cupping her chin in his hand, brushed his lips against hers. His touch was delicate as a feather, his fingers warm and dry round her face. She leant towards him, couldn’t help it, as if he was a magnet and she his dainty filings.

‘It’s a lovely day, Ada. Too nice to be cooped up inside. You need to live a little. That’s what I always say.’ She smelled cologne on his cheeks, tart, like lingering lemon. ‘You’re late already. Why bother going in now?’

Mrs B. was a stickler. Ten minutes and she’d dock half a day’s wages. Ada couldn’t afford to lose that much money. There was a picnic basket on the pavement beside Stanislaus. He’d got it all planned.

‘Where had you in mind?’

‘Richmond Park,’ he said. ‘Make a day of it.’

The whole day. Just the two of them.

‘What would I say to her?’ Ada said.

‘Wisdom teeth,’ Stanislaus said. ‘That’s always a good one. That’s why there are so many dentists in Vienna.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘It’s a toff’s complaint.’

She’d have to remember that. Toffs had wisdom teeth. Somebodies had wisdom teeth.

‘Well,’ she hesitated. She’d lost half a day’s wages already. ‘All right then.’ Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

‘That’s my Ada.’ He picked up the picnic basket with one hand, put his other round her waist.

She’d never been to Richmond Park, but she couldn’t tell him that. He was sophisticated, travelled. He could have had his pick of women – well-bred, upper-class women, women like the debutantes she clothed and flattered and who kept Mrs B. in business. Ahead of her the park gates rose in ornate spears. Below, the river curled through lush green woods to where the distant, dusty downs of Berkshire merged into slabs of pearl and silver against the sky. The sun was already high, its warm rays embracing her as if she was the only person in the world, the only one who mattered.

They entered the park. London was spread before them, St Paul’s and the City cast in hazy silhouette. The ground was dry, the paths cracked and uneven. Ancient oaks with blasted trunks and chestnuts with drooping catkins rose like forts from the tufted grassland and fresh, spiky bracken. The air was filled with a sweet, cloying scent. Ada crinkled her nose.

‘That’s the smell of trees making love,’ Stanislaus said.

Ada put her hand to her mouth. Making love. No one she knew talked about that sort of thing. Maybe her mother was right. He’d brought her here for a purpose. He was fast. He laughed.

‘You didn’t know that, did you? Chestnuts have male and female flowers. I guess it’s the female that gives off the smell. What do you think?’

Ada shrugged. Best ignore it.

‘I like chestnuts,’ he went on. ‘Hot chestnuts on a cold winter’s day. Nothing like it.’

‘Yes.’ She was on safe ground. ‘I like them too. Conkers, and all.’

And all. Common.

‘Different sort of chestnut,’ he said.

How was Ada to know? There was so much to learn. Had he noticed how ignorant she was? He didn’t show it. A gentleman.

‘We’ll stop here, by the pond.’ He put down the hamper and pulled out a cloth, flicking it so it filled with air like a flying swan, before falling to the earth. If she’d known she was going to have to sit on the ground, she’d have worn her sundress with the full skirt, enough to tuck round so she didn’t show anything. She lowered herself, pulled her knees together, bent them to the side and tugged her dress down as best she could.

‘Very ladylike,’ Stanislaus said. ‘But that’s what you are, Ada, a real lady.’ He poured two beakers of ginger beer, passed one to her and sat down. ‘A lovely lady.’

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 Ada 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 colour, hoping Stanislaus had not noticed. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘No,’ Stanislaus 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, feel the breeze of 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 couturier.’

‘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 was 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. 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 ceilings. 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 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 straight away. 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 let 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, 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 boxroom 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 had 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 defence. Defence, 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 honour 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 black-out 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 St Pierre, Boulevard Barbès.

‘I haven’t been to Paris for so long,’ she said. There was a wistfulness in her voice which 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 grizzling 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 grey short trousers and a white shirt, a girl in a yellow, smocked dress. In fact, 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 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, grey as the water.

Then Stanislaus had given her a ring.

‘I hope it fits.’ He pushed it onto her third finger. A single band of gold. Not real gold, Ada could tell that straight away.

‘You’d better wear it,’ he said. This was not how she imagined he would propose, and this, she knew, was not a proposal. Her stomach churned and she leant over the side of the ship.

‘I’ve booked the room under Mr and Mrs von Lieben.’

‘The room?’ Her voice was weak.

‘Of course. What else did you think?’

She wasn’t that kind of a girl. Didn’t he know that? She wanted to save herself for their wedding night. He wouldn’t respect her otherwise. But she couldn’t run away. She had no money. He was paying for all of this, of course he’d expect something in return. Mrs B. had hinted as much.

Stanislaus was laughing. ‘What’s the matter?’

She leant over the side of the ship, hoping the breezes would sweep out the panic lodged inside her head like a cannon ball. She was not ready for this. She thought he was a gentleman. Those society women, they were all loose. That’s what her father always said. Stanislaus thought she was one of them. Didn’t he see it was all a sham? The way she dressed, the way she spoke. A sham, all of it. She took a deep breath, smarted as the salty air entered her lungs. Stanislaus placed his arm round her shoulders. Free spirit. He pulled her close, cupped her face in his hand, tilted it towards him, and kissed her.

Perhaps this was what it took, to become a woman.

*

The hotelier apologized. They were so busy, what with all these artists and musicians, refugees, you know how it is, Monsieur, Madame … The room was small. There were two single beds, with ruched covers. Two beds. What a relief. There was a bathroom next to the bedroom, with black and white tiles and a lavatory that flushed. The room had a small balcony that looked over Paris. Ada could see the Eiffel Tower.

By night, Paris was as dark as London. By day, the sun was hot and the sky clear. They wandered through the boulevards and squares and Ada tried not to pay attention to the sandbags or the noisy, nervous laughs from the pavement cafés, or the young soldiers in their tan uniforms and webbing. She fell in love with the city. She was already in love with Stanislaus. Ada Vaughan, here, in Paris, walking out with the likes of a foreign count.

He held her hand, or linked her arm in his, said to the world, my girl, said to her, ‘I’m the happiest man.’

‘And I’m the happiest woman.’

Breeze of a kiss. They slept in separate beds.

Left bank. Right bank. Montmartre. Rue D’Orsel, Place St Pierre, Boulevard Barbès. Ada caressed the silks against her cheek, embraced the soft charmeuse against her skin and left traces on velvet pile where she’d run her fingers over. Stanislaus bought her some moiré in a fresh, pale green which the monsieur had called chartreuse. That evening Ada crossed the length across her breasts, draped the silk round her legs and secured it with a bow at her waist. Her naked shoulder blades marked the angles of her frame and in the bathroom mirror she could see how the eye would be drawn along the length of her back and rest on the gentle curve of her hips.

‘That,’ Stanislaus said, ‘is genius.’ And ordered two brandy and chartreuse cocktails to celebrate.

Ada stared with hungry eyes at the Chanel atelier in the rue Cambon.

‘Bit of a rough diamond, she was,’ Stanislaus said. Sometimes his English was so good Ada forgot he was foreign. ‘Started in the gutter.’

He didn’t mean it unkindly, and the story Stanislaus told gave Ada heart. Poor girl made good, against the odds.

‘Mind you,’ Stanislaus winked, ‘she had a wealthy male admirer or two who set her up in business.’

Distinctive style. A signature, she thought, that’s the word. Like Chanel. A signature, something that would mark out the House of Vaughan. And help from an admirer, if that’s what it took too.

‘Paris,’ she said to Stanislaus, as they strolled back arm in arm through the Luxembourg Gardens, ‘is made for me.’

‘Then we should stay,’ Stanislaus said, and kissed her lightly again. She wanted to shriek Yes, forever.

*

On their last morning they were woken by sirens. For a moment Ada thought she was back in London. Stanislaus pushed himself off his bed, opened the metal shutters and stepped onto the balcony. A shard of daylight illuminated the carpet and the end of her bed, and Ada could see, through the open doors, that the blue sky was no longer fresh and washed. They must have overslept.

‘It’s very quiet out there,’ Stanislaus called from outside. ‘Unnatural.’ He came in through the open door. ‘Perhaps it was the real thing.’

‘Well, we’re leaving today.’

They were going home and Stanislaus hadn’t proposed, nor had he taken advantage of her. That would count for nothing if she had to tell her parents. She would lie. She had it worked out. Mrs B. had sent her to Paris with one of the other girls, for work. They’d shared a room. The hotel was ever so posh.

‘Get up,’ Stanislaus said. His voice was clipped, agitated. He was pulling on his clothes. Ada swung her legs over the side of the bed.

‘Wait here,’ he said. She heard him open the lock, shut the door behind him. She sauntered into the bathroom and turned on the taps and watched as the steaming water fell and tumbled in eddies in the bath, melting the salts she sprinkled in. How could she go home to a galvanized tub in the kitchen? A once-a-week dip with the bar of Fairy?

An hour passed. The water grew cool. Ada sat up, making waves that washed over the side and onto the cork mat on the floor. She stepped out, reached for the towel, wrapped herself in its fleece, embracing the soft tufts of cotton for the last time. Paris. I will return. Learn French. It wouldn’t take long. She had already picked up a few phrases, merci, s’il vous plait, au revoir.

She stepped into the bedroom and put on her slip and knickers. She’d organize a proper trousseau for when she and Stanislaus married. He’d have to pay, of course. On her wages, she could barely afford drawers. She’d buy a chemise or two, and a negligee. Just three days in Paris and she knew a lot of words. She glanced at the bedside clock. Stanislaus had been gone a long time. She flung open the wardrobe doors. She’d wear the diagonal striped dress today, with the puffed sleeves and the tie at the neck. It had driven her mad, matching up all the stripes, so wasteful on the fabric, but it was worth it. She looked at herself in the mirror. The diagonals, dark green and white, rippled in rhythm with her body, lithe like a cat. She sucked in her cheeks, more alluring. She was grateful that Stanislaus left the room when she dressed in the morning, or undressed at night. A true gentleman.

There was a soft knock on the door – their signal – but Stanislaus barged in without waiting for her to reply. ‘There’s going to be war.’ His face was ashen and drawn.

Her body went cold, clammy, even though the room was warm. War wasn’t supposed to happen. ‘It’s been declared?’

‘Not yet,’ Stanislaus said. ‘But the officers I spoke to in the hotel said they were mobilized, ready. Hitler’s invaded Poland.’

There was an edge to his voice which Ada had never heard before.

War. She’d batted off the talk as if it were a wasp. But it had hovered over her all her life and she had learned to live with its vicious sting. It was the only time her father wept, each November, homburg hat and funeral coat, words gagging in the gases of memory, his tall frame shrinking. He sang a hymn for his brother, lost in the Great War. Brave enough to die but all they gave him was the Military Medal, not good enough for the bloody Cross. He had only been seventeen. Oh God, our help in ages past …

War. Her mother prayed for Ada’s other uncles whom she’d never met, swallowed in the hungry maws of Ypres or the Somme, missing presumed dead, buried in the mud of the battlefields. A whole generation of young men, gone. That’s why Auntie Lily never married, and Auntie Vi became a nun. That was the only time her mother swore, then. Such a bleeding waste. And what for? Ada couldn’t think of a worse way to die than drowning in a quagmire.

‘We have to go home,’ she said. Her mind was racing and she could hear her voice breaking. War. It was real, all of a sudden. ‘Today. We must let my parents know.’ She hoped now they hadn’t got her postcard. They’d be worried stiff.

‘I sent them a telegram,’ Stanislaus said, ‘while I was downstairs.’

‘A telegram?’ Telegrams only came when someone died. They’d go frantic when they saw it.

‘They’re invalids,’ Stanislaus said, ‘they must know you’re safe.’

She had forgotten she’d told him that. Of course.

‘That was,’ she stumbled for the word, ‘that was very kind. Considerate.’

She was touched. Stanislaus’s first thought had been of her, in all of this. And her parents. She felt bad now. She’d told him they were house-bound. She might even have said bedridden. She’d really be in for it now, when she got home. All those lies.

‘I sent it to Mrs B. The telegram. I didn’t have your address. She can let your parents know. I trust that’s OK,’ Stanislaus said and added, before she could answer, ‘Who’s looking after them? I hope you left them in safe hands.’

She nodded, but he was looking at her as if he didn’t approve.

They packed in silence. Officers in blue uniforms milled round the hotel lobby. There were soldiers too. Ada had never seen so many. The other guests, many of whom Ada recognized from the restaurant, argued in groups or leant, waving and shouting, against the reception desk. Ada was aware of the musk of anxious men, the lust of their adrenalin.

‘Follow me.’ Stanislaus took her bag. They pushed their way through the crowded lobby and out through the revolving doors.

‘Gare du Nord,’ he said to a bell boy, who whistled for a taxi. The once deserted street with its eerie silence was now full of sound, of scurrying people and thunderous traffic. There were no cabs in sight. Ada had no idea how far it was to the station. She could feel her head begin to tighten. What if they were stuck here in France? Couldn’t get home? At last, a taxi hove into view, and the bell boy secured it.

‘You didn’t pay,’ she said to Stanislaus, as they pulled away from the hotel.

‘I settled earlier,’ he said. ‘When I sent the telegram.’ She shut her eyes.

A solid wall of people filled the street, men, women and children, old and young, soldiers, policemen. Most of them were carrying suitcases, or knapsacks, all heading in the same direction, to the Gare du Nord. The people were silent, save for the whimper of a baby in a large pram piled high with bags, and the shouts from the police. Attention! Prenez garde! No one could move. All of Paris was fleeing.

They had to walk the last kilometre or so. The taxi driver had stopped the cab, shrugged, opened the door, ‘C’est impossible’.

‘It’s hopeless,’ Ada said. ‘Is there another way?’ People were crowding in behind them now. Ada looked quickly at a side street but saw that that was as thick with people as the main avenue.

‘What shall we do?’

Stanislaus thought for a moment. ‘Wait for the crowds to pass,’ he said. ‘They’re just panicked. You know what these Latin-types are like.’ He tried to smile. ‘Excitable. Emotional.’

He used their bags as a ram, beat a path to the side. ‘We’ll have a coffee,’ he announced. ‘Some food. And try later. Don’t worry, old thing.’

Ada would have preferred a cup of tea, brown, two sugars. Coffee was all right, if it was milky enough, but Ada wasn’t sure she could ever get used to it. Far from the station, the crowds had finally thinned. They found a small café, in the Boulevard Barbès, with chairs and tables outside.

‘This is where we were,’ Ada said, ‘when I bought the fabric. Just up there.’ She pointed along the Boulevard.

Stanislaus sat on the edge of his seat, pulled out his cigarettes, lit one without offering any to Ada. He was distracted, she could see, flicking the ash onto the pavement and taking short, moody puffs. He stubbed out the cigarette, lit another straight away.

‘It’s all right.’ Ada wanted to soothe him. ‘We’ll get away. Don’t worry.’

She laid her hand on his arm but he shook it off.

The waiter brought them their coffee. Stanislaus poured in the sugar, stirred it hard so it slopped on the saucer. She could see the muscles in his jaws clenching, his lips opening and shutting as if he was talking to himself.

‘Penny for them.’ She had to get him out of this mood. ‘Look on the bright side, maybe we’ll get to stay in Paris for another day.’ She didn’t know what else to say. It was not what she wanted, her parents going out of their minds, Mrs B. livid. She could picture her now, gearing up to sack her. She’d done that with one of the other girls who didn’t come back from her holidays on time. Do you think I run a charity? Right pickle they were in but they were stuck, for the time being. She had no one to turn to, only Stanislaus. The waiter had left some bread on the table, and she dipped it into her coffee, sucking out the sweetness.

‘Is there anyone who can help us?’ she said.

‘How?’

‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Get us home.’ The French wouldn’t do that, she was sure, they had enough of their own kind to look after. Stanislaus turned in his seat, put his elbows on the table, and leant towards her. His forehead was creased and he looked worried.

‘The truth is, Ada,’ he said. ‘I can’t go back. I’ll be locked up.’ She drew a breath. Mrs B. had said something like that and all. Ada corrected herself, Mrs B. had said something like that too. Mustn’t drop her guard, not now, in case Stanislaus left her. You’re not who I thought you were.

‘Why?’ Ada said. ‘You’re not a German. You only speak it.’

‘Austria, Hungary,’ he said, ‘we’re all the enemy.’

Ada put her hands in her lap and pulled at her cheap ring, up, down, up down. She was stranded. She’d have to go back alone. She wasn’t sure she could do that, find the right train. What if they made an announcement and she didn’t understand? They did that all the time on the Southern Railway. We regret to have to inform passengers that the 09.05 Southern Railways train to Broadstairs will terminate at … She’d be stuck. In the middle of a foreign country, all by herself, not speaking French. And even if she got to Calais, how would she find the ferry? What if it wasn’t running anymore? What would she do then?

‘What will you do?’ Her voice came through high and warbling.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right.’

It was already late in the afternoon. The waiter came out and pointed at their cups.

‘Fini?’

Ada didn’t understand so she shook her head, wished he’d leave them alone.

‘Encore?’

She didn’t know what it meant, but nodded.

‘I can’t abandon you,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay here. We’ll be all right.’ For a moment, she saw them, hand in hand, sauntering through the Tuileries.

Stanislaus hesitated. ‘The thing is, old girl.’ His voice was slow and quavering and for a fleeting moment he didn’t sound foreign, she’d got so used to his accent. ‘I have no money. Not now. With the war. I won’t be able to wire.’

Ada couldn’t imagine Stanislaus without money. He’d never been short of a bob or two, always flashed it round. Surely they wouldn’t be poor for long? And anyway being poor in Paris with Stanislaus would be different from being poor in Lambeth. She felt a surge of love for this man who had swept her off her feet, a warm, comfortable glow of optimism.

‘We don’t need money,’ she said. ‘I’ll work. I’ll look after us.’

The waiter reappeared with two more cups of coffee and placed them on the table, tucking the bill under the ashtray.

‘L’addition,’ he said and added, ‘la guerre a commencé.’

Stanislaus looked up.

‘What’s he say?’ Ada said.

‘Something about the war. Guerre is French for war.’

The waiter stood to attention. ‘La France et le Royaume-Uni déclarent la guerre à l’Allemagne.’

‘It’s started,’ Stanislaus said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m bloody sure. I may not know much French, but I understood that.’

He stood up abruptly, knocking the table so their coffee spilled in the saucers. He stepped to the side, as if he was leaving, then turned and sat back down again.

‘Would you stay with me?’ he said. ‘Here, in Paris? We’d get work, the pair of us. Won’t be short of money for long.’

Ada had been so sure a few moments ago, but now a wave of panic tightened round her head and fear clawed at her stomach. War. War. She wanted to be home. She wanted to sit in the kitchen at the back of the house with her parents and brothers and sisters. She wanted to smell the dank musk of the washing as it dried round the cooking range, to listen to the pots boiling potatoes for tea, to hear her mother thumb the rosary beads and laugh at her father as he mimicked her, Hail Marx, full of struggle, the revolution is with thee, blessed art thou among working men …

But there was no way she could get home, not by herself. She nodded.

‘Would you mind,’ Stanislaus said, ‘if we used your name?’

‘Why?’

‘My name’s too foreign. The French might lock me away.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘I’ll get rid of my passport,’ he was talking fast. ‘Pretend I lost it. Or it was stolen. I could be anyone then.’ He laughed and the gold in his tooth glinted in the evening sun. He fished in his pockets for some coins to pay the waiter and picked up their bags.

‘Come,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘We have to find somewhere to stay.’

‘The hotel,’ Ada said. ‘We’ll go back there.’

Stanislaus put his arm round Ada, and rested his chin on top of her head. ‘They’re full. They told me. We’ll find somewhere else. A little pension house.’

*

The room had a bed with a rusty iron frame and sagging mattress covered in stained ticking, a small table, a chair with a broken seat, and some hooks on the wall. The wallpaper had been torn off at some point, but stubborn shreds stuck in corners and above the wainscoting, bumping and rippling with the slumbering bugs beneath.

‘I can’t stay.’ Ada picked up her case and stepped towards the door. Stanislaus had never been poor, didn’t understand how low they had fallen.

‘I don’t know where you’ll go then,’ Stanislaus said. ‘With no money. The hotels will be full. The army have commandeered them.’ He sat on the bed, releasing a small cloud of dust. ‘Come here.’ His voice was soft, tempting. ‘It’s just till we get back on our feet. I promise you.’

They’d find jobs, move up in the world. She’d done it before, she could do it again.

‘What will you do?’ she said. ‘What job will you look for?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m not used to working.’

‘Not used to working?’

‘I’ve never had to,’ he said. She had forgotten. He was a Count. Of course Counts didn’t work. They were like Lords and Ladies. Bloody parasites, her father called them. Getting rich on the backs of the poor. For a moment Ada saw him from a different angle, as someone alien. She saw something else too: he was lost, didn’t know what to do. He was an innocent and she the streetwise urchin. She felt sorry for him. Pity. She could hear her father snorting. Pity? Would they ever take pity on you? Did the Tsar pity the peasants? Got what he bloody deserved.

Ada stood up. She was still wearing the striped dress. A bit crumpled, but she pulled it taut over her body and fished in her handbag for her lipstick. She dapped some on, rubbed her lips together.

‘I’ll be back,’ she said. She had to take charge. She knew where she was going.

*

Walked into the very first establishment, and landed herself a job. Ada couldn’t believe her luck. But she supposed that’s what she was: lucky. The wages weren’t much, but the work was plentiful. Monsieur Lafitte ran a thriving business. Wholesale, retail, and tailor. He was a congenial man who reminded her of Isidore. He spoke French very fast, but slowed down for Ada, took pains to help her learn the language. Ada filled the vacancy left by Monsieur Lafitte’s apprentice, who had enlisted in the army, leaving him with more work than he could handle himself. Although Ada longed to invent new drapes and cuts, and from time to time would suggest a new detail – the twist of a collar, the turn of a pocket – he’d frown and wag his finger. Non.

Within a week she and Stanislaus had moved from the filthy room to a small attic, closer to the shop and the better end of the Boulevard Barbès. Between Monsieur Lafitte and the concierge, Madame Breton, her French became passable and she was talking to customers even.

Ada couldn’t quite believe there was a war. It was too quiet, didn’t seem real, even though there were more soldiers on the streets and in the bars and cafés. There were stockpiles of sandbags on the corners, and shelters built in the parks and squares. Men and women walked about with gas masks slung over their shoulders.

‘Even the prostitutes,’ Stanislaus said. ‘I wonder how they do it, with those on?’

They hadn’t been issued with masks, but Stanislaus conjured two for them, tapping his nose, ask no questions. ‘I’m in business.’ She loved him, with his mystery and his charm and his strange, foreign accent that waxed and waned depending on how excited he was.

From time to time a siren wailed, but nothing came of it and at night the neighbourhood was black and impenetrable. Cloth was scarce, good cloth at least, and Ada began to cut the garments with a narrower fit and a shorter length, and a seam allowance that skimped and scraped.

*

‘What do you do all day when I’m not here?’ She and Stanislaus were sitting in the Bar du Sport. They’d been in Paris two months now and were regulars, had taken to having a glass of red wine at night before they ate dinner there. It was a far cry from cocktails at Smith’s, but Ada made an effort to dress up. Monsieur Lafitte let her have the remnants and offcuts and, with the new vogue for plain styles and shorter hems, Ada had run up a presentable winter frock for going out and some simple skirts and blouses. Monsieur Lafitte had given her some old clothes that, he said, had belonged to an uncle of his, now deceased, which Ada had remodelled for Stanislaus. Madame Lafitte had given her a winter coat which she had adjusted. Stanislaus would need a coat soon and Monsieur Lafitte had hinted that he might be able to lay his hands on some surplus army fabric. They made ends meet, and Stanislaus had money again.

They had recaptured something of the old days, but with a difference. Now they were man and wife. Not legally, but as good as.

‘I’ll be gentle,’ he’d said the first time, ‘and wear a rubber.’

‘A what?’

‘A johnny. What do you call them?’

Ada didn’t know. She’d heard bits and pieces from the girls at Mrs B.’s, but nobody had ever sat her down and said this is what happens on your wedding night. Her mother had talked about the sacrament of marriage and Ada thought it something so holy that babies could be made in ways they couldn’t if you weren’t married. Stanislaus had laughed. This bit is for this, and that for that. She knew it was wrong, not being married, but it seemed natural, sidling close so her body soaked up his male smell and her flesh rippled and melted in his warmth. She knew he’d propose, once the war was over in a few months, make an honest woman of her.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to go home?’ Stanislaus said. Ada shook her head. She was in Paris, with him, and wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else in the world. Besides, she hadn’t heard from home, even though Stanislaus had said he’d sent another telegram. All safe. Working in Paris. Telegrams cost money, she knew, but even so, they could have sent something.

After they had eaten, once the evenings had drawn in, there wasn’t much to do. There was a blackout, and the streets were empty, the cafés hidden behind closed doors and shuttered blinds. They played rummy, and pontoon. Ada tried to read French, but it was hard-going. The newspapers, as far as she could make out, were full of news about Germany and Russia, speculation about the Americans and complaints about the behaviour of British troops in France. They didn’t have so much to talk about now. Stanislaus said she wouldn’t understand his business, so she stopped asking. He wasn’t interested in her work. What was exciting about turning up a hem and economizing on a cut? She missed home at those moments, her brothers and sisters. Mum and Dad. She even missed the girls at Mrs B.’s. At least they could have had a laugh.

In December, Stanislaus’s business began to take him away for the night. Two or three times a week. Long, lonely evenings with nothing to do. The old iron radiator in their room creaked and tapped. Ada never got used to it, was sure an intruder was there, padding around, waiting to strike. It was all right when Stanislaus was with her, but on those nights when he was out late, she went to bed early to keep warm, with a small candle by the side, go away, don’t come near me, until she fell asleep. The radiator didn’t give much heat and was turned off at ten, so the room grew bitter and cold by dawn. Sometimes a fine layer of ice formed overnight on the bowl of water they kept on the table.

She hoped one day they could afford better lodgings, with a small kitchen, so she could prepare their own food and not always have to eat at the Bar du Sport. She’d have to learn to cook. She knew how to make a mutton stew but it needed pearl barley and Ada wasn’t sure you could buy that here. There was other food she could try to make, French food. Omelette, for instance, or a soufflé. She could see herself whisking the eggs, the way she’d seen the cook at the Bar du Sport do.

The kitchen would have an airer too, so that when she did their laundry she could hang it up to dry, and not drape it over the bedstead. Perhaps they’d have a little parlour, with a table and a red chenille cloth, and a mirror. She’d keep it pretty, with fresh flowers, if she could get them, in a jam jar. Her wages weren’t much, but with both of them earning money, they’d live a simple life.

But something was changing.

‘The thing is, Ada,’ he said. ‘I need to be in the mood.’

She respected that to begin with, but now it didn’t seem right. She touched his face, ran her fingers along his nose to the tickle of his moustache, tapped a rhythm on his lips.

Stanislaus shoved her hand away. ‘No, Ada,’ he said. ‘Not now.’

She heard his breathing, heavy and hard, felt the air squall from his mouth.

‘Do you love me?’ she said.

‘Stop it, Ada.’

He threw back the bed covers and stood up. Ada heard him pull on his trousers, swearing at the buttons in the dark, yank his shirt from the back of the chair, pick up his shoes with an angry slap and slam the door. She lay still on the bed. She shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have thrown herself at him. Her mother said no man respects that. Men like to do the chasing. She’d say she was sorry. He’d come round.

The Stanislaus she met in London had thrilled her with his honeyed talk and feathered touch. He had changed. The war had changed him, the business had changed him. He was out, night after night. She’d have to make more of an effort, make herself more alluring. A new lipstick, if she could afford it. She looked young for her age, she knew. Her cheeks still had the plumpness of youth. She’d try to look older, more mature. Perhaps that’s what Stanislaus wanted, an older woman, an experienced woman. Her hair had grown long. She’d roll it in a pleat round her head, like some of the sophisticated women she’d seen in Paris. He’d love her then. Nobody said marriage would be easy.

Christmas-time she bought Stanislaus some new handkerchiefs and a pipe. Wrapped the presents in newspaper and tied them with a ribbon from Madame Lafitte.

‘Thank you, Ada,’ he said, putting the gifts on the floor beside the bed. Stanislaus had made her a stocking, one grey sock bulging with walnuts and a small bottle of perfume.

‘L’Aimant,’ she read. ‘Coty.’ Loving. She knew it. He just couldn’t say it. Some men were like that. She dabbed the perfume behind her ears. It was too sweet for her taste, but she liked that he’d thought of her, had taken the trouble to make a stocking, even if it was only full of nuts. Dad did the stockings at home. Brussels sprouts more likely, and a couple of spuds. Ha ha, got you there. But he made sure there was an orange in the toe, or a spinning top, and Mum always made them a new outfit for Christmas.

She’d never spent Christmas away from home. She’d have given anything to be back in Theed Street today. Go to Mass, while Dad cooked breakfast. Bacon and egg and fried bread. Then he and the boys would go to the King’s Arms for their jug of porter while she and Mum got the meal ready.

Lunch in the Bar du Sport didn’t feel or taste like Christmas dinner at home. They’d splashed out on a bottle of wine. Vin du Pays. It was thick and heavy, a dark, ruby red. It reminded her of Ribena, and Ada didn’t much care for it, but Stanislaus knocked it back as if it was fruit juice and then had a couple of brandies to chase it down.

He patted his stomach, winked at her. ‘Nothing like a good meal, is there, Ada?’ he said. ‘Fancy a game of rummy?’

‘That would be nice, Stanislaus,’ she said, pushing herself away from the table. Mum would be bringing in the Christmas pudding now. If Dad had got his bonus, he’d get a drop of brandy from the chemist and pour it over. Turn out the lights. Put a match to the brandy and bring the pudding to the table in a ball of flaming blue.

‘You smell good,’ Stanislaus said, opening the door to their room and pulling her towards him. The alcohol was fusty on his breath.

‘Are you tipsy, Stanislaus?’

‘Just merry, Ada. Merry,’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t a man get merry at Christmas?’

He crossed his arms around her, squeezed her close. Maybe she should have worn perfume before.

He released his grip and flopped on the bed, patting the place next to him. Ada took off her dress and stockings and lay down beside him. His eyes were shut and he’d fallen asleep, put-putting through velvet lips, one arm raised above his head. Ada watched him as the daylight faded. She should get up, pull the curtains, turn on the light. But the room was quiet, soft in the twilight, and Stanislaus was sleeping. She ran the back of her hand down his cheek, caressing the soft flesh of his skin, the sharp scratch of his whiskers.

He grabbed her wrist, pinching it tight so she yelped. ‘Lay off, Ada,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you before.’ He looked at her as if she was a stranger, then shoved her onto her back. ‘Is this what you want?’

He reached for the rubber, fitted it with clumsy fingers, thrust himself into her and pulled away without a sound. He rolled over and fell asleep.

Ada buried her head in the pillow. This wasn’t love, not like it used to be.

*

Winter filtered into spring, fizzing flecks of green in the parks and on the trees. Despite the bitter cold, there had been something safe about the winter, tucked beneath the long thick blanket of the blackout. Now the later evenings and brighter days were like a searchlight illuminating everything and Ada jumped whenever an aeroplane droned above. There were more planes flying overhead, and soldiers on the move along the streets and boulevards, boots, boots. Ada picked up a newspaper almost every day and Monsieur Lafitte brought his wireless into the shop. Madame Lafitte said that she’d seen British tanks near the Belgian border when she went to visit her sister, lumbering monsters that churned up the roads. Her sister said that the British had sent thousands of men, so they were expecting trouble. Ada couldn’t imagine that number. So many young men in uniforms. Who had made them all?

Stanislaus shrugged. ‘What will be, will be,’ he said. ‘We can’t stop it.’ He was back to his old self, relaxed, happy.

But Ada fretted. War marched with hobnail boots, left right, left right. The streets around the Boulevard Barbès filled with refugees, haunted faces in shabby clothing pushing their possessions in a child’s pram. Stanislaus didn’t seem to notice. Nothing worried him. He was a continental, that’s why. Continentals were relaxed. He looked foreign, neat ears close to his skull, short fair hair, his clipped moustache in the centre of his lip, a bit like Hitler, she often thought, though that was the fashion these days. Milky eyes framed by his glasses. He always wore them. She couldn’t imagine his face without them. It must have been such a come-down for him, living like this.

‘For you, madame.’ He pulled a round box from behind his back and presented it to her. She undid the ribbon and pulled out a hat, a lemon straw pillbox with a spotted black veil. ‘Your Easter bonnet.’

It didn’t go with her winter outfits, and the weather wasn’t warm enough yet to put on her summer dress, but Stanislaus had gone out of his way to purchase the hat when goodness knows this kind of raffia was hard to come by now.

She put it on, the veil drawn across her face. A grown-up hat, a woman’s hat. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Shall we, as the French say, faire une promenade?’

Ada giggled. Stanislaus rarely spoke French, at least not with her. It was always English and even so he often got his ‘v’ and ‘w’ muddled, and could never pronounce ‘th’, however many times she tried to show him. Sometimes he was in a good mood, sometimes not. He’d taken to putting the bolster down the middle of the bed, his side, hers.

Two weeks after Easter, Germany invaded Norway, neutral Norway. There was news of resistance and fighting, of British troops sent in to help. Endless blah blah on the wireless about the Maginot Line and what to do if Germany invaded France. Refugees needed to be vetted. Sympathizers would be shot. It was the duty of France to stand up and fight back.

Her neighbours’ faces were pinched and Monsieur and Madame Lafitte looked gaunt and frail. A smell began to permeate the Paris air. It oozed from the pores of women and mouths of screaming babies, from grown men and from the hairs of dogs pissing on the lamp-posts. Ada sniffed it in her nostrils, on her clothes, from Stanislaus as he lay on his side of the bed at night. Ada knew it now, the stale onion of fear.

There was talk of rationing. She wondered whether Stanislaus would change his mind, if she could persuade him to leave. They should go home, find a way to England. Monsieur Lafitte was hinting that it was time he retired, now the work was getting thin, and he didn’t want to start making army uniforms, not at his age. What if she lost her job? What then?

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said one day. ‘A young girl like you. It’s too dangerous. Go home. While you can.’

She thought of where her parents lived, close to the river with its docks and ports, of her younger brothers and sisters, living goodness knows where in the country, of her Mum, thin with worry, and Stanislaus out till late, leaving Ada with nothing to do but gnaw at her anxieties like a fox in a trap.

*

Stanislaus came back one night in May with a bloodied nose and broken lip, his spectacles twisted and crooked on his nose.

‘Pack,’ he said. ‘We have to leave.’

‘What happened?’

He splashed water from the basin on his face. Drops fell onto the table, washed pale and pink. There was blood on the towel he dried himself with.

‘What happened?’ Ada said again. ‘Did someone hit you?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Just pack. Now.’

She moved to dab at his cuts with the cloth but he grabbed her hand and forced it away.

‘Pack,’ he shouted. ‘Now.’

She knew he only raised his voice when he was worried. Perhaps someone had thought he was a German.

‘Are you listening? We must go.’

He took her suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and flung it on the bed. She opened it, took out a dress from the cupboard, started to fold it. He snatched it from her, threw it into the case.

‘No time for that.’ He scooped up the rest of her clothes, grabbed her hat and shoved it in, yanked her underwear from the bedpost where it had been drying, tossed it on top and slammed the case shut. ‘Come on.’

He hadn’t packed a thing. She followed him down the stairs, racing, two at a time. She’d trip if she tried to keep up. She held the banister to steady herself. ‘But where—’

‘Shut up,’ he said.

The concierge had gone home for the night, the blind pulled down, her office dark and vacant. They walked out of the building, through the courtyard, into the street, and up to a black car parked nearby, a car she’d never seen before. He lifted the boot, put the suitcase inside and opened the passenger door.

‘Get in.’

She climbed inside, the leather seat chill against her bare legs. Stanislaus pulled at the starter handle until the car chugged to life, climbed in beside her and drove off, the shaded lights throwing narrow triangles on the road in the pitch-black midnight. Her stomach tightened in a ball and her mouth tasted of metal, of fear.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Belgium.’

‘Belgium?’

‘Belgium’s neutral.’ She was right. They thought he was a German. She wanted to say how sorry she was. She couldn’t see him in the dark, but she knew his lips were closed and tight and he was not going to talk to her about it. He was a brave man.

‘Where did you get the car?’

‘I borrowed it.’

Then she remembered. ‘My samples,’ she said. ‘I left my samples. We have to go back.’

‘Forget it.’

‘Please, Stanislaus.’

He laughed, a cruel, mocking ‘Ha, ha’. She had never known him like this.

There was no traffic on the road and they sped through Paris, the unlit streets and suburbs unfolding behind them. Maybe they could go back later, when this crisis had blown over. Madame Breton would keep them for her. That’s what concierges did.

‘Do you know the way?’ Ada said.

‘I’d better.’

‘How long will it take?’

‘Five hours, six. Who knows?’

Six hours was a long time. He was driving fast.

‘Will they catch us?’

‘Who?’

‘Whoever is after you.’

He said nothing. They sat in silence. She closed her eyes. She was tired. The burr of the engine and the rocking motion of the car were soothing, even though her stomach churned and her head spun with questions. Something had happened, something serious. What if they were caught? She’d be in for it too.

She must have fallen asleep because it was dawn, a soft, grey light that mottled through tall trees and drew faint stripes across the road.

‘Glad you slept,’ he said in a bitter tone.

Ada stretched her legs and arms, clenched and unclenched her hands. The road ahead was straight, the countryside flat. ‘Where are we?’

‘Picardy,’ he said. ‘Somewhere.’

Her father used to sing, Roses are shining in Picardy. It was one of his favourite songs. That and Tipperary. She wanted to hear it now, a longing so acute it lunged like a knife. She could hear him singing, his voice sweet and tender, and she began to sing with him in her head, a soft, mournful duo, in the hush of the silver dew. Roses are flowering in Picardy, but there’s never a rose like you.

Stanislaus turned and faced her. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘It was a wartime song,’ she said. ‘The soldiers sang it in the trenches. I expect you Germans sang the same kind of songs.’

His knuckles tightened on the wheel and the muscles in his jaw flexed. ‘I am not a German.’

‘I know.’ She was cross, tired. A silly mistake. But still, he didn’t have to speak so sharp. She wasn’t the enemy.

‘Do you think they’ll fight again here?’

‘Shut up.’

She slunk back in her seat, stared out of the window, tears pricking her eyes. She had no idea where they were and there didn’t seem to be any road signs. They passed a platoon of troops, dressed in khaki, helmets and rifles at the ready.

‘They’re British,’ Ada said. ‘Stop, I want to talk to them.’ Ask where they were going, what they were doing. Perhaps they’d look after her. Take her home.

‘Please stop,’ she said again.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said, adding, ‘you’re a fucking liability, you know that, don’t you?’

He’d never sworn before. She turned in her seat and watched them disappear through the rear window.

The car began to slow down.

‘No.’ His foot pumped the pedal on the floor and he shifted the gears on the dashboard, making angry grinding sounds. The car spluttered and stopped.

‘No.’ He was screaming.

He got out and slammed the door. Ada watched him open the boot, felt the car shudder as he banged it shut again. He walked round to her side, and flung open her door.

‘Out,’ he said.

‘What’s happened?’

‘We have no petrol.’

‘What will we do?’

‘Walk,’ he said.

Ada stepped onto the running board and jumped to the ground. She looked down the road behind her, but the soldiers were out of sight. She could run, catch them up.

He grabbed her hand and began to pull.

‘My case,’ she said. ‘I need my case.’

‘No time for that. It’ll slow us down.’

‘But my shoes,’ Ada said. ‘I can’t walk in these shoes.’ She only had the shoes that she had travelled in to France, all that time ago, simple courts with high, stacked heels. She had worn them constantly and there was a hole in one of the soles. They were comfortable enough, but not for walking.

‘Then take them off,’ he said. He would not let go of her hand and his pace was fast.

‘How far is it?’

‘Ten kilometres. Fifteen.’

‘What’s that in miles?’

‘Seven,’ he said. ‘Roughly. Ten.’

Ten miles. Ada had never walked so far in her life, and here she was, trotting to keep up with him.

They stopped once when Stanislaus needed to relieve himself. Ada was glad for the pause. She had a stitch, and sat down on the side of the road, slipping off her shoes. They were old and worn, but at least they weren’t rubbing. She wiggled her toes. She had no idea what time it was, but the sun was already high in the sky. They had passed several platoons of soldiers. She wanted to call out to them, Good luck, boys! To ask them for help, to take her home, but Stanislaus told her to keep quiet, threatened to silence her, once and for all, if she made a sound. There were other people on the road, walking like themselves, or on bicycles, men with their girlfriends or wives sitting on the crossbar. One couple had a baby, and another a young child strapped into a chair over the rear wheel. From time to time a car passed, piled with luggage. Well-to-do people, she thought, who had found a way round petrol shortages. She wondered who Stanislaus had borrowed the car from.

He was tense, but then he had responsibilities. He was doing his best. He had to protect them. They’d be all right, she knew. She was lucky. They were lucky. Nothing would happen and it was exciting, in its way, running away like this. She regretted having to leave the samples behind, but there was nothing much else in the suitcase that she really wanted to bring back to England with her. The clothes she’d packed – Stanislaus had packed – were worn and stretched. If they were going home, she’d be on her feet again in no time, could make herself some nice new outfits. That’s if Mrs B. gave her her old job back. And if she didn’t? She’d get another job, just as she had in Paris. Or maybe they’d stay in Belgium. She didn’t know anything about Belgium. She pulled out her hankie and wiped her nose. At least she still had her handbag and had had the foresight to slip in her lipstick and comb before they left. Her purse and passport were always there, in the side pocket.

‘Not far,’ Stanislaus said. He looked happier now, held out his hand to help her up. His moods didn’t last long.

‘Perhaps,’ he went on, ‘when we get to the border, you could do the talking? Your French is better than mine.’

‘What do I have to talk about?’

‘I got rid of my passport, remember? You’ll have to say it got lost, or was stolen, or mislaid in our rush to leave. Something. I have to get out of France.’

‘But it doesn’t say I’m married on it. It’s not a married woman’s passport. I’d be on yours if I really was your wife.’

‘You’ll think of something.’

The crowds were thickening now and Ada could see what looked like a queue ahead that snaked away to two officers whom she could see standing in the distance by a sentry box.

‘Is this it?’ she said. ‘Belgium?’

Stanislaus nodded, put his arm round her waist, pulled her close.

Most people were speaking French, but there were some other languages Ada had never heard before. Soldiers walked up and down, making sure the line was orderly and calm. French soldiers, Ada thought. They moved slowly, inch by inch. Stanislaus fished in his pocket, and handed over a franc to a young boy pushing a trolley with baguettes and a steel churn that glinted in the sun. She was thirsty, and hungry, grateful for the bread and the water, even though she wished the metal cup for the water had been a little cleaner. But then the French never thought about those things.

The line moved slowly. More people came up behind them. There must be hundreds, Ada thought, thousands. It was as if half of Europe were escaping. Her shoes were pinching now. She longed to sit down, or better, lie flat with her head on a soft, feather pillow. They’d be here all day at this rate, all night. The guards took their time, inspecting the paperwork, asking questions, eyeing the refugees. They were opening suitcases, pulling out a cotton dress, a cummerband, the snatched relics of a former life. Stanislaus stood beside her, worry creased in his forehead.

They inched forward. She’d say Stanislaus was her brother. A bit simple. She’d tap her head. Muddled. Would he mind? Or perhaps he could be deaf and dumb? My brother can’t talk. Someone stole his passport. Would he snap at her afterwards, What do you take me for? Or would he say, Well done, Ada, I knew you’d think of something. She rehearsed the lines in her head, in her best French. What if she forgot them? Or they saw through her? He’s not your brother. Come with me, monsieur, mademoiselle. She’d have to warn him, Don’t say a word. She worried that he looked suspicious with his face cut and bruised like that.

Slowly, slowly. Most of the people were let through but some were turned away. There was a large family, a grandmother and her two sons and a daughter, or perhaps a wife, grandchildren. There must have been around ten of them all together. The children were knock-kneed with socks scrolled down their skinny legs, the boys in grey flannel shorts, the girls in smocked dresses. They stood still, eyes wide, watching, while one of the fathers pointed to their documents, to the children. The guard shook his head, beckoned over another man with braid on his uniform. Ada couldn’t hear what they were saying. One of the sons took the guard’s hand, pumped it, smiling and they walked to the other side, to Belgium. Ada breathed with relief. If that family could get through, she and Stanislaus would be all right. She followed each refugee, one by one, as the guard let them pass, smiling with them, for them. Families, single women, old men. Edging forward. They were two away from the border post. An elderly couple was ahead of them. He was wearing an overcoat tied round the middle with string, and she wore a black skirt with an uneven hem that draped at the back over her thick, fat ankles. Everyone looked dowdy in the war, dressed in old clothes, patched and darned. Perhaps they were saving their best for the armistice. The guard stamped their documents and Ada watched as they shuffled away.

Almost their turn. A young man was in front of them. He looked about her age. His cheeks were flushed and smooth, unmarked by whiskers. Close-up, the guard looked stern, bored. A hard man. If they didn’t let Stanislaus through, she thought, what would happen? Would they arrest him? Take him to prison? If he started talking, they’d know she had lied. She’d be in for it then, too. Perhaps they’d have to stay in France. They could hide. Change their names. No one would know. They should never have come anyway. They could turn around, now, go back to Paris.

Ada shifted her weight to relieve the pressure off her blister and stepped on a small, brown teddy bear lying on the ground. It was woollen, soft, stuffed with kapok, sewn together down the side, smooth even stitches. Perhaps someone had made a pullover for her husband, knitted a toy for the baby with the leftover two-ply. Ada looked around. There was no baby in sight. She’d keep it, a good luck charm. She put it in her bag.

The guard had taken the young man’s documentation, was studying it, twisting it upside down, to the side. He returned the papers and pointed left, to a small bureau a few yards along.

‘Mais—’ the young man began, his shoulders slumped. He was close to tears. But the guard wasn’t listening, was beckoning to Ada and Stanislaus. The youth picked up his knapsack, slung it over his shoulder, and walked towards the office.

They stepped forward. Ada ran through the lines in her head. My brother, someone stole—

‘Nationalité?’

She wasn’t sure if she should show her passport. It was right here, in her hand, a small, dark blue book. She squeezed her bag instead with the soft teddy inside, Wish me luck.

‘Nous sommes anglais.’

The officer lifted his chin, studied their faces. She dared not look at Stanislaus. Her armpits were wet. She began to sweat behind her knees and in the palms of her hands.

The guard said nothing, waved them through with a flick of the wrist, summoned the next in line, a large family with five children.

Walked through, just like that. The strain had made her dizzy, but she was almost disappointed too. No one had given her the chance to say the words she’d practised over and over in her head. Stanislaus wouldn’t know how clever she could be.

‘We made it,’ he said.

They were in Belgium.

The relief brought with it exhaustion. Her legs ached, her back hurt, another blister had formed on her heel. She wanted this to be over. She wanted to go home, to open the door, Hello, Mum, it’s me. She wasn’t sure she had the strength to walk another yard, and she had no idea where they were.

‘Are we far from the sea?’ she said.

‘Sea?’ He laughed. ‘We’re a long way from the sea.’

‘Where do we go?’

‘Namur.’

‘Why?’

‘No more,’ he said, winking. ‘Get it?’

‘Where is it? Is it on the way?’

The family that had been behind them in the queue jostled forward, scratching her legs with the buckle of a suitcase, pushing her closer to Stanislaus. She leant towards him.

‘I want to go home,’ she said. ‘To England. Can’t we go back now?’

‘Maybe.’ His voice was distant. ‘Maybe. But first Namur.’

‘Why? I want to go home.’ She wanted to say, this minute. Stamp her feet, like a child.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Namur.’

‘Why Namur?’

‘Business, Ada,’ he said. She couldn’t imagine what business could be taking them there.

‘Promise me.’ There was panic in her voice. ‘After. We go home.’

He lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles. ‘I promise.’

They hitched a lift to Mons and caught a crowded train to Namur that stopped at every station and red light. It was evening by the time they arrived. The baguette was all Ada had eaten since they’d left Paris eighteen hours ago and she felt faint and weak. Stanislaus took her by the elbow, guided her away from the station, down the side streets. She had no idea where they were going, or whether Stanislaus knew the way but they stopped by a small café above which was a painted sign, ‘Pension’.

‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll organize it.’

She sat at a table and chair outside. This side of the street was in the shade but she was too tired to walk to the other side, where the last of the May sun was shining. Stanislaus came out.

‘Everything,’ he said, ‘is organized. Madame will give us a simple meal, and while we’re eating her daughter will arrange the room.’ As he spoke, Madame appeared with two glasses of beer which she placed in front of them.

Stanislaus picked up his glass. ‘To you, Ada Vaughan. Namur.’

She touched her handbag with the teddy bear, and held the glass so it chinked with his and smiled at him. Lucky.

Paté and bread, sausage. The beer was cloudy and sweet, and she drank two long glasses. It made her light-headed, and she was glad for it. She hadn’t been tipsy since before the war. The early days with Stanislaus seemed like another age now, at the Café Royal, a Martini or two, with a cherry on a stick. Content and flushed with love, they’d sashayed down Piccadilly to the number 12, where he’d kiss her under the lamp-post, tender lips to hers. She’d suck peppermints on the way home so her breath didn’t smell. It was like that just now. Stanislaus’s mood had evaporated, his worries – their worries – over. Namur. No more. No more temper or brooding silences. He was in good heart again, but he swung so quickly from light to dark. It worried her. His moods made her change too. When he was sunny so was she, nimble toes and bubbling breath. But when his mood turned cold it choked her like a fog.

They went upstairs after dinner. She was unsteady on her feet, could smell herself tart and musty from the day, her hair sticky with dust and sweat. Madame had left a jug of water and a wash bowl on the table and had laid out a towel and a flannel.

‘I must,’ her words slurred, ‘wash.’

Stanislaus nodded and walked to the window, looked out over the street with his back to her. Ada wet the flannel and rubbed. She heard her mother in her head, saw herself as a child standing by the sink in the kitchen at home. Up as far as you can go, down as far as you can go. She giggled into the cloth, and found herself crying, a lunge of homesickness and fear, as if she was tumbling deep into a canyon and couldn’t stop herself.

She was aware of Stanislaus catching her as she fell, laying her on the bed and fumbling with the buttons on his flies. Her head was spinning, her eyes heavy. She just wanted to sleep. She felt him open her legs, enter her with an impatient thrust, sharp rips of pain that made her cry out. He lifted himself off her and lay by her side. Her legs were wet. He’d kept his shirt on, she could see, even through the blur of beer.

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 clamoured, 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 trap door 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 trap door, 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. Moustache, 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 trap door to the street through which the delivery men 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 which 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 lap.

‘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 which 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, re-organized 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 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 the cart. Tempers were short all round. She’d 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 did get away or perhaps he had been caught, 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 that 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 he 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 codeword. 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, grey grouts that clogged her nose and fell like ash on her hands and in 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 round 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 neighbouring 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 spoke 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 chequerboard floor and a life-size statue of St Joseph standing in the centre. He balanced a lily in the crook of an arm and held the other 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 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,’ Good Mother said. ‘You have lost your husband.’

Ada nodded.

‘Your name?’

‘Ada Vaughan.’

‘And you are the niece of our beloved Soeur Bernadette de Lourdes?’

Ada nodded again. Her lips trembled. She had never been so alone, or so frightened.

‘Remind me,’ 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 little 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. 19 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 have lay people 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.

‘She’s not the only one with much to do,’ Sister Monica said in a tight voice. ‘And no time to do it.’

‘I can help,’ Ada said, though all she wanted was to sleep.

‘You? How?’

‘I can sew. And clean, and—’

Sister Monica snorted, and began to walk away, calling over her shoulder. ‘Well, come on then. Follow me. Good Mother says I’m to make a nun of you.’

Ada stood up, nestling her handbag under her arm. ‘Make a nun of me?’

‘She said to dress you up like one of us.’ She hissed, ‘A sacrilege. Not to mention the danger. What if the Germans win? Eh?’

There were two tall doors at the end of the corridor marked ‘Privé’. Sister Monica led the way through them, up a long flight of wooden steps, down another corridor and into a large room full of open shelves on which were stacked folded piles of garments, linen and towels.

‘You need a bath,’ Sister Monica said, thrusting a towel into Ada’s arms and pointing to a door opposite. ‘But don’t bother dressing when you’re done. Wrap this round you,’ she handed over a long, white shift, ‘and come back in here. Don’t take all day. No more than two inches of water in the bath, and mind you clean it after you.’

A large tub on claw feet, tiled floor and walls. No mirror. Just as well. She wouldn’t want to see what she looked like. She turned the tap. The pipes screamed as steaming water belched out. The bath wasn’t run that often, Ada thought. The pipes were full of air, like the pump at home. She undressed and lowered herself into warm water, wincing as it hit the raw of her blisters, watching as it dissolved the dirt. She lay back, wetting the ends of her hair. If she shut her eyes, she could sleep.

Sister Monica was hammering at the door. ‘Come out now. I don’t have time to wait for you.’

Ada rubbed her body with the towel, pulled the shift over her head. It rucked on her damp skin. She felt better for the bath, and the food, more herself.

‘Sit there,’ Sister Monica said, pointing to a chair. She held a large pair of scissors in her hands. Ada stared at the shears.

‘Don’t even argue,’ Sister Monica went on. ‘I’ve got the measure of you, Ada Vaughan.’

She sat on the chair and Sister Monica tugged at her hair. She heard the scratch of the blades as they sliced and watched as a chestnut lock floated past her to the floor. She’d known that nuns shaved their heads, but if it was only for a few days, why did she have to? She’d be back in England soon enough and she’d look ridiculous. Clumps of hair swilled from her shift and onto the floor.

‘Now,’ Sister Monica said, ‘stand over there.’ Ada felt her head. It wasn’t shaved, but the hair was short. It felt dry and sharp, like stubble. Her hair lay below her, long waves of rich amber like fallen leaves. Cruel. A cruel cut. She’d have to wear a hat while it grew back. She could have made a turban from one of the samples she’d left in Paris, that would’ve been all right. But now she’d have to go out with tufts, unless she found a scarf to cover her head.

Sister Monica was rifling through the shelves, pulling out items of folded clothing. ‘You’ll wear Sister Jeanne’s habit,’ she said. ‘She died last week. These are your drawers. They go on first.’ She held up a large square of calico, divided halfway down. ‘You step in and pull the tapes. Waist. Legs.’

Ada stepped in. The drawers were vast. ‘Do you have a smaller pair?’

Sister Monica snorted. ‘I suppose you’ll want tailored French knickers next.’ Ada said nothing. ‘Now this.’

Bodice and underskirt, tunic and scapular, belt and rosary. Serge, black. Sister Jeanne had been a large nun and Ada was lost in her clothes. The shoes and stockings were several sizes too big.




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