The Gown(38)

“May I help you?” came an unfamiliar voice.

Miriam looked up, and then farther up again. A rather enormous man was standing next to them, his arms outstretched in an attempt to protect them from the passing crowds. “I saw you stumble,” he explained. “Are you all right?”

“I think so. It is only my pride that is hurting me.”

She’d managed to undo the buckle at her ankle, but she was reluctant to give up on her shoe.

“You ladies should stand on the curb,” the stranger suggested. “I’ll see if I can wriggle this loose. Any sane motorist would think twice before running me down.”

“What about the mad ones?” she asked.

He grinned. “There’s not a thing I can do about them,” he admitted. Kneeling down, he took hold of her shoe and began to twist it back and forth, pushing it down and sliding the heel along the grate. “Almost there . . . aha. Here we go.” He held up the freed shoe triumphantly.

“Thank you,” Miriam said, taking it from him. “It was very kind of you to stop and help.” She hopped to the corner and, after slipping on the shoe, crouched to fasten the buckle.

He was still there when she straightened. Not a handsome man, not compared to Ann’s mysterious aristocrat, but there was something compelling about him all the same. His appearance was the furthest thing from chic she could imagine, for his clothes, though evidently of good quality, were ill-fitting and marked here and there with blotches of ink, and the knees of his trousers were stained with mud from where he’d knelt in the street. There was a button missing from his vest, which did not match his coat at all, and his bow tie was almost comically lopsided. If he were to tell her it was his habit to dress in the dark, and furthermore that he liked to choose his garments from the nearest pile of laundry, she would not have been surprised in the least.

He was very tall, for the top of her head only came to his shoulders, and his hands, as ink-stained as the rest of him, were similarly enormous. Yet he wasn’t the least bit intimidating. Perhaps it was his pale eyes, much magnified by his spectacles, and the way they seemed to radiate kindness. Or perhaps it was the way his sandy hair, silvering at the temples and dampened by the rain, so badly needed a haircut. Whatever other failings might afflict this man, vanity was not among them.

As grateful as she was for his help, and as pleasant as he seemed at first glance, his failure to simply disappear into the crowds made her uneasy. Whatever did he have to gain from lingering?

“Thank you again for your help. I am certain you will wish to—”

“You’re most welcome,” he said, and held out his hand for her to shake. She did so, unable to ignore the way his hand enveloped hers so surely. “I’m Walter Kaczmarek.”

“I am Miriam Dassin,” she said. “This is my friend Miss Hughes. We are on our way home,” she added pointedly. “Ann?”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” Ann agreed. “On our way home. Shall we . . . ?”

They began to walk, side by side as the crowds were thinning, and Mr. Kaczmarek, moving to the curb side of the pavement, fell into step beside them. “Were you at the theater tonight?” he asked, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to make conversation with strangers. What sort of Englishman was he?

“No. We were out with friends. Dancing.”

“I went to see 1066 and All That at the Palace Theatre. Second time I’ve been. First time I was laughing so hard I missed half of it.”

She smiled despite herself. “Ten sixty-six? What is it about, this play? I have not heard of it.”

“It was the year of the Norman Conquest. The year a Frenchman, or something near enough to a Frenchman, conquered England. Of course it’s all been downhill since then.”

“Do you consider yourself an Englishman?” she asked, all too aware of how rude she must seem. But he didn’t seem to mind.

“Despite my un-English name? I do. My parents were Poles but I’ve lived here since I was a boy. I’m not sure I’d feel at home anywhere else.” He reached into his breast pocket and, after extracting a card, handed it to her. “Just in case you’re worrying I’m waiting for the perfect moment to make off with your handbags.”

PICTURE WEEKLY

WALTER KACZMAREK

EDITOR IN CHIEF

87 FLEET STREET ? LONDON EC4

CENTRAL 7050

VERBA DOCENT, EXEMPLA TRAHUNT

“Picture Weekly,” she read aloud. “You are the editor of this magazine? You are a journalist?”

“Yes. And I do realize that my profession might lead some to accuse me of criminality. I hope you believe me when I say I’m neither a confidence man nor an ambulance chaser.”

“And this magazine? It is a successful one?”

“Miriam,” Ann said, elbowing her gently. “It’s on every newsstand. You must have seen it.”

“Perhaps I have,” she allowed. “What sort of magazine is your Picture Weekly? Is it full of scandal and film stars?”

“And scandals about film stars?” he offered. “No. They do grace our pages from time to time, but in the main I’m interested in more serious things.”

“Such as?”

“The future of Britain in the postwar era. How the welfare state is changing the fabric of society. The dangers we face at the dawn of the nuclear age. Things like that. With a smattering of lighter fare to leaven the mix.”