The Gown(5)

The people around her were gathering their cases, pulling on gloves, wrapping scarves tightly around their necks. She followed in their wake, hurrying along the platform, matching her stride to theirs. Her bags were light; it was easy to do.

They reached the barrier, and she saw the people before her were showing their tickets to the inspector, or guard, or whatever he was called in England. She watched his expression as he punched their tickets, and felt an easing sort of relief when he smiled at those who seemed unsure or anxious.

She already had her ticket in hand, having anticipated she might need it again, but all the same she hung back until everyone else had passed. No sense in calling attention to herself by holding up the queue. She had heard stories about English people and queues.

“Good evening,” she said to the man.

“Good evening, miss.” He took her ticket, punched a little hole in one corner, and handed it back to her. As if it were a memento she would want to keep. The journey that took her away from France, from everything she knew, and deposited her in this strange, cold, and desperately shabby place.

“I beg your pardon, but would you be so kind as to direct me to the Wilton Hotel? I believe it is near the station.” A few weeks ago, she’d combed through the racks of the bouquinistes along the Seine until she’d found a guide to London. From its description the Wilton had seemed like a safe and economical choice.

“It’s not far at all, miss. Go out those doors straight ahead, then turn to your right. That takes you to Wilton Road. The hotel’s just past the Victoria Theatre on the far side of the street. If you cross Gillingham Street you’ve gone too far. D’you need any help with your cases? I can find a porter who’ll—”

“No, thank you. I can manage. Thank you very much for your help.”

It was just as he had said, and in only a few minutes she was at the door of the hotel. Its grubby exterior, illuminated by a single dim bulb above the front entrance, had certainly seen better days, and the air inside smelled of damp, cabbage, and cigarette smoke.

A man sat behind the desk, his chin in his hand, his eyes closed. The lapels of his jacket had begun to fray, and a faint dusting of dandruff adorned his shoulders. As she watched, the corner of his mouth began to twitch, as if something amused him, then stilled just as quickly. Perhaps he was dreaming of happier times.

“Ahem,” she said, and waited for him to stir. Nothing. “Excuse me,” she said a bit more forcefully.

He sat up with a gasp. “I do beg your pardon. I was, uh, resting my eyes.”

“It is no trouble at all. I wonder if you have available a single room?”

He frowned down at the ledger before him. “For how many nights, miss?”

“I am not certain. Two or three to begin. May I ask what it is, the rate, for each night?”

“Ten and six including breakfast, or fifteen bob for full board. Bath and WC at the end of the hall, room made up once a day, linens changed weekly on account of the coal shortage.”

Her guide to London had provided a brief explanation of the strange British currency, but even so she was having trouble wrapping her brain around it. Presumably a bob was a shilling? And there were twenty shillings to the pound, which meant one night at this surprisingly expensive hotel would cost her something like two hundred and fifty francs. Too expensive to remain for long, but the thought of finding somewhere else to stay was more, in that moment, than she could bear to contemplate.

“Very well. I shall take one room with breakfast for three nights to begin.”

“Right you are. I’ll need your passport.” She handed it over, squelching a thrum of panic when he held it up and compared her face to the photograph. He had no power over her. He was not the police, or the Milice, or the Gestapo. He would write down her passport number and proceed to do nothing with it. That was all.

“Here on holiday, Miss . . . Dassin?”

“No. I have moved here. From France.”

“Hate to say it, but you couldn’t have picked a worse time. Coldest winter in living memory, not enough coal to go round, and rationing worse than ever. Potatoes are on the ration now, if you can believe it. Potatoes.”

She forced herself to smile. “We both survived the war, did we not? And it will be spring very soon.”

“I hope you’re right,” he said, and the thought of it, or perhaps the memory of past springs, made him smile, too. “We could all do with a bit of sunshine.”

He finished scribbling in another of his ledgers and handed back her passport. “If you’re staying longer than a week or two—I mean in England, not here necessarily—you’ll need a ration book. But you can eat in restaurants off-ration without any trouble. Breakfast is served from half seven to half nine, just so’s you know. Oh, and here’s your key,” he added. “Third floor, end of the corridor. We’ve a lift but it’s out of service, so you’ll have to take the stairs. Hot water’s shut off until morning. That includes the central heating. Sorry about that.”

“It is of no matter. I am used to the cold. May I ask . . . might it be possible to borrow an iron and a board from your laundry?”

This simple question seemed to confound him. “I don’t know. I . . . well, I suppose so. Usually guests send things down that need pressing.”

“I am certain they do, but this garment is precious to me. I feel . . .”—she had to reach for the word—“uneasy entrusting it to anyone else. I do hope you understand,” she said, softening her voice so it was little more than a whisper, and she aimed her most convincing smile at him, the one that was ever so slightly tremulous, with just a touch of diffidence. Such a smile had served her well over the past seven years.