The Gown(49)

She walked on, blind to everything but the pavement before her, until she looked up and realized she was at the restaurant. Mr. Kaczmarek was there, waiting outside as he’d promised. Such a big man, though like most tall people he stooped a little, and his hair was so bright and fair under the midday sun. It didn’t surprise her that he didn’t bother with a hat.

He had a battered old canvas satchel slung over one shoulder, and his head was bent over a newspaper, which he’d folded back on itself so it didn’t flap in the wind. He looked up just as she crossed the street, and the expression of delight on his face made her heart skip a beat.

It pleased her, his interest, yet it was a puzzle as well. What did this cultured, well-connected, and presumably successful man want to do with her? She had no education, no connections that would interest him, and she knew almost nothing of English life beyond the confines of an embroidery workroom and a council house in Essex. She was in her early twenties, while he had to be something close to forty. For all she knew, he might even be married.

It would be wise to remain on her guard. Perhaps he was the sort to befriend young women and turn their heads with compliments and gifts and the luxury of his attention. Perhaps he had only one aim in mind.

Even as the suspicion arose, she knew it to be false. If he were such a man, to begin with, would he not be better dressed? He was no lothario, not with his ink-blotched cuffs and shaggy hair and shoes that cried out for polish. He was the sort of man, she decided, who might easily forget to put on his coat when he left for work in the morning. Her father had been like that, too.

They shook hands and said hello and he ushered her inside the restaurant. To their right was a marble counter laden with platters of gleaming fish, so fresh she could smell only the sea, and then only faintly. Waiters in long aprons were moving purposefully about the space, which looked to encompass a series of rooms, none of them especially grand. Most of the restaurant’s patrons were seated shoulder to shoulder at a series of high counters, though there were a few small tables scattered about.

One of the waiters hurried over to shake Mr. Kaczmarek’s hand and welcome him to the restaurant.

“Lovely to see you, Kaz.”

“Any tables free?”

“There’s one in the far room. Do you need a menu?” the waiter asked.

“Just the one for my guest. We’ll seat ourselves?”

“If you don’t mind. I’ll be along in a minute.”

Their table was nicely secluded, at the far end of the second room, and by the time they had settled into their chairs the waiter was back with a menu for Miriam.

“Pint of the usual?” he asked Mr. Kaczmarek.

“Yes, please. What would you like, Miss Dassin? A glass of wine, perhaps? They have a very nice Sancerre.”

She nodded her head, relieved he hadn’t asked for her opinions on the wine, since she hadn’t any worth sharing. Inspecting her menu, which was almost poetic in its simplicity, she halted when she came to the names of the fish being served. Brill? Newlyn hake? John Dory?

“I usually have whatever the waiter recommends,” he said, perhaps sensing her confusion. “They’ll prepare it any way you like. And the vegetables they serve are cooked with some care, which is a rarity in England. Did you want something to start? Or were you thinking of leaving some room for pudding?”

“No . . . perhaps just the fish?”

The waiter returned with their drinks just then, and when prompted by Mr. Kaczmarek he recommended the plaice. “Fresh in from Cornwall this morning.”

“Very good. Shall we both have that, Miss Dassin? Grilled, I think. And an order of samphire as well.”

Miriam took a sip of her wine, then another for courage, and tried to think of something to say. Mr. Kaczmarek, however, had no such difficulties. “You know what I do for a living,” he began. “What is your profession?”

“I am an embroiderer,” she said. Best to be honest from the start. If he were disappointed to discover she worked for a living it was best to know straightaway. “I work for Monsieur Hartnell,” she added, and immediately cringed. That was a detail she might have kept to herself.

“Ah,” he said. “Your employer has been in the news this week.”

“Yes. I cannot say any more. I should not have told you.”

“There’s no need to worry. I assure you I’m not about to start fishing for a story. On my word of honor, I’m not.”

“Very well. Shall you tell me of your work? Of this magazine of yours?”

“I don’t own the thing, so I can’t properly say it’s mine. But I did found it, a little more than twelve years ago, and I’ve been its editor from the start. I was given, or rather lent, the money to get it off the ground. And beyond the staff’s salaries and the costs of running the office and so forth, our profits get plowed back into the enterprise.”

“You said, the evening we met, that it is a serious publication. That your stories are about important things.”

“Much of the time, yes. But I’m not averse to lighter fare. We all need the occasional taste of cake in between our rations of National Loaf. Now more than ever.”

“Why now?” she asked, though she had a good idea of what his answer would be.

“Life here is a far sight less dangerous than it was during the war. I won’t dispute that. But it’s also a good deal more miserable. The nation is beggared, the empire is crumbling, and we just lived through a winter where people froze to death in their own homes because there wasn’t coal enough to go around. No wonder everyone is over the moon about this royal wedding.”