The Gown(25)

“Yes?” Miriam prompted.

“Barking was a town proper, you see, and not wedged up against London like it is now. Sometimes, on a Sunday afternoon, we’d go for walks in the country, me and my mum and dad and Frank, and we’d go by farm after farm, and sometimes you could stop in and buy a pint of fresh milk, or they’d have jugs of cider later on in the year. I loved those walks. But now the farms are gone, most of them at least, and the rest of my family, too. Seems like forever since I’ve walked on a piece of ground that wasn’t paved over.”

“I understand. I feel that way as well. From time to time.”

“Where did you grow up?” Ann asked. “Was it in Paris?”

This, she could answer. There was no harm in talking of her quite ordinary childhood. “No. Just outside the city. A place called Colombes. Once, I think, it must have seemed very far from Paris. Like your Barking. But the city grew, and the fields all have houses on them now.”

“Are your people still there? In Col— I’m sorry, I don’t think I can say it the way you did.”

“No. They died during the war.” This she could say without flinching. It was true, after all. “What of your family?”

“My parents both died before the war. My dad when I was young, and my mum when I was seventeen. And then my brother, Frank—it was his widow, Milly, who left for Canada—he was killed in the Blitz.”

“I am very sorry to hear it.”

“And I’m sorry about your family. I suppose that’s why you came here? They do say a change can be good when you’ve lost people you love.”

“Yes. In part.” She turned her head, pretending to look out the window, and waited for her heart to stop racing. It was normal to speak of the war, of loved ones who had been lost, of the decisions made by those who were left. It was normal and expected and this was not the last time she would be asked about her family. “It is hard to talk of them,” she admitted at last.

“I understand. I do. Just thinking about Frank gets me worked up. For him to die in that way seems so unfair. Forget what they say about valor and duty and sacrifice. But I don’t have to tell you that. Your family didn’t deserve what happened to them either.”

A bubble of pain swelled in her throat, rising and rising, and Miriam knew that if she opened her mouth to say anything, even a simple thank-you, she would begin to scream. So she nodded and looked out the window again. Ann seemed to understand, which was a relief, and did not press her any further.

Instead she pulled some knitting from her bag, the wool a bilious shade of mustard yellow. Too late, Miriam realized she was letting her distaste show on her face. But Ann only laughed.

“I know. It’s awful, isn’t it? My nan always picked the worst colors. It used to be a jumper. Far too ugly to wear, but there’s nothing wrong with the wool. Well, apart from the color.”

“What are you making?”

“Liners for my boots. I didn’t have any last winter, just a pair of worn-out shoes, and there were days I’d get home and my feet were like blocks of ice. I found some boots at the bring-and-buy a few weeks ago, but they aren’t lined. So I thought I’d try this. Do you have warm things for the winter? I know it seems far off now, but it’s worth thinking about. These eighty-five-degree days won’t last for long.”

“I have a coat, but it is not very warm.”

“Then we’ll have to find you a better one, or knit you a good warm cardigan to wear underneath. I’ve an extra scarf and gloves, and we can knit you a hat. Not out of this, though!” she said, gesturing to the sick-colored wool, and laughed again.

“Thank you,” Miriam said, remembering to smile in return.

They were pulling into a station. “EAST HAM,” the sign read. English place-names were so very odd. “Why is your town called Barking?” she asked, suddenly curious. “Is it for the sound the dog makes?”

Ann giggled, and the sound of it was so infectious that Miriam found herself laughing as well. “I don’t think so. I feel as if it’s from an old form of English, or at least that’s what we learned in school. Of course now I can’t remember what it means.”

The train was moving again. Ann packed away her knitting and tucked her bag under her arm. “We’re almost there. Our station is next.”

It was a beautiful evening. As they emerged from the station and began their walk to Ann’s house, the evening sun cast everything in the prettiest sort of rosy glow. Even a slum might look welcoming in such a light. But this was a good neighborhood, the houses neat, windows clean, front yards tidy. Here and there, people had planted out window boxes or left pots of flowers on their doorsteps.

“What are the names of the flowers? Those pink and white ones?” Miriam asked.

“Those? Petunias. What are they in French?”

“Pétunias,” Miriam answered, and they both smiled.

“I have some in my garden,” Ann added. “It’s very small, but I grow as much as I can. Probably more than I should, to be honest. It’s very crowded.”

They turned off the main road and onto a street of terraced houses. Every house was the same: liver-colored brick on the ground floor and whitewashed stucco on the first floor, with a tiled roof and white-trimmed windows.