The Gown(107)

Instead he had come out to the house in Barking and, over a cup of tea in the kitchen, surrounded by packing crates, he had made a confession.

“I got to talking with Ruby the other day. She’s worried about their flat, for she and Bennett are thinking of living in Edenbridge full-time until the baby gets a bit older. She’s been losing sleep worrying about what will become of the place when they’re away, she told me. Mice in the pantry and silverfish in the linen cupboard, and burglars noticing the lights are off and ransacking the place. That sort of thing.

“I asked if she and Bennett had considered getting a lodger to stay in the spare room and keep an eye on the flat while they were away. She admitted it had occurred to her but she’d been too tired to do anything about it.

“So I then asked if she might consider having you to stay, and I reminded her that Ann was emigrating to Canada, which means you need somewhere to live.”

“Oh, Walter—”

“Hear me out. She was delighted. I wish you could have heard her reaction. And Bennett is in full accord.”

“Are you sure they aren’t trying to please you?”

“Quite sure. You would be helping them, and although I doubt they intend to ask you for anything by way of rent, you might be able to induce them to accept a token amount. But only if you truly feel it’s necessary.”

“But why should they do such a thing for me?”

Her question appeared to baffle him. “Why shouldn’t they? That’s what friends do for one another. I do know that if you refuse their offer and move into some grubby boardinghouse it won’t be a week before Ruby lands at your front door with baby Victoria in her arms, and she’ll be begging you to move into their flat. You could also lodge with Bennett’s godmother in south Kensington, as Ruby once did, but it’s all the way on the other side of London. And I’m not certain I wish for you to be so far away.”

“Far away?”

“From my flat. It’s the next street over from Ruby and Bennett’s. Just so you know.”

He wasn’t giving her any room to think, let alone form a coherent objection to his plans. “Where shall I go when they return? I cannot live there once they are back in London.”

“That’s a worry we’ll save for another day. Until then, you’ll have a roof over your head and friends nearby.”

That had been a little more than two months ago, and in the weeks that followed Miriam’s evenings had fallen into a pleasant sort of pattern. On the nights Walter wasn’t working, she would go to his flat for supper, and when he was busy or she was tired, or when she wished to work on her embroideries or have some time to herself, she remained at Ruby and Bennett’s flat for the evening. She had yet to spend the night with him, and he had yet to ask her.

She knocked softly at his door, for it wasn’t her home, after all, and it would be rude to simply barge in. It was unlocked, as usual, and as soon as she entered she was struck by the wonderful smells coming from his kitchen. Without even bothering to wipe her feet she hurried down the hall to investigate.

The kitchen door was open. He had his back to her, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and was preoccupied with the contents of the frying pan before him. Garlic and shallots, she guessed from the smell, and he was cooking them in the fat from a heap of browned chicken pieces that now sat on a plate by the cooker.

He peered at a note he’d tacked to the cupboard door next to the cooker, then uncorked a bottle of vermouth, added a splash to the pan, and jumped back when the drippings hissed at him. She stood at the kitchen door and watched him cook and let her heart grow full at the sight.

“Walter,” she said.

He turned his head a little, just so she could see he was smiling. “Hello, there.”

“Will you turn off the cooker? Just for a moment.”

He did so, and then he turned around to face her properly. She took the spoon from his hand, set it on the counter, and hugged him close.

“How?” she asked wonderingly.

“I’ve watched you make it often enough.” His arms came around her, returning her embrace. “I even remembered your wishing for vermouth that one time, and how it would make the entire dish taste better.”

“That is why you had all those questions for me. I thought you were simply being a journalist.”

“I was. But I was also learning.”

“Why tonight? Why not wait for Friday? I usually make it on Friday.”

“I know, but today is March third.”

“And?” she asked, puzzled.

“You told me once that you came to England on March third. That’s a year ago today. I thought we ought to mark the occasion in some way.” And then, his voice a little uncertain, “What do you think?”

“It looks and smells wonderful. Where did you get the olives and—”

“Prunes and fennel seeds? From Marcel Normand in Shoreditch. He even sold me an orange. It was a little dried out, so he decided to bend the rules.”

Looking around him, she spied a small bottle next to the cooker. “Is that olive oil?”

“It is. According to Monsieur Normand, the stuff from the chemist’s is fit only for the greasing of motorcar engines.”

“Do you need any help?”

“Not in here. I’ve come this far—I want to see if I can turn out something worth eating. But would you mind setting the table? Just push all the papers and books down to the far end. There’s no rhyme or reason to them. Oh—and there’s one more thing.”