The Dressmaker of Dachau. Mary Chamberlain
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