The Gown(59)

“Is this your family?”

“I think so. I wasn’t sure when I started, but . . . yes. It is them.”

“They’re Jewish. You’re Jewish.”

“Yes.”

Ann tore her gaze from the picture, and she saw how Miriam was frozen in place. How the color had leached away from her friend’s pretty face.

“I didn’t mean to have it come out like that. I was just surprised. Really, that’s all.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ann asked, gentling her voice.

“I couldn’t. Not to begin with. I couldn’t be sure.”

“That I wouldn’t hold it against you?”

A nod.

“But you must know by now that I would never—I mean, I honestly don’t. Oh, I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s all right,” Miriam said, and perhaps it was wishful thinking on Ann’s part but it did seem, just maybe, that she’d stopped holding herself quite so stiffly.

“It’s only just— Oh, no. How many times have I fed you bacon since you moved here? Why on earth didn’t you say anything? I feel awful.”

Miriam smiled, only a little, but it was enough to dispel some of the gloom that had crept into the kitchen. “I did not mind. My parents were not religious people. We broke all the rules when I was young.”

Ann looked at the picture again. “Who is the man holding the cup?”

“My grandfather. When I was little, before Grand-Mère died, we went to their house every Friday. For le d?ner de chabbat. The Sabbath, I think you say? He is saying the blessing. Le kiddouch. The cup holds wine that we would share, and after that we would wash our hands and Grand-Père would break the bread, and we would each take a piece and dip it in salt. And then our Sabbath dinner would begin.”

“Your grandmother’s Friday-night chicken?” Ann asked.

“Yes. She made it every week.”

“But didn’t you make it for me on a Saturday? I don’t know much about Jewish people, but I thought you aren’t allowed to do things on Saturday. Like use the cooker and so on.”

“I know. Grand-Mère would have been so upset with me for breaking the Sabbath. I—”

“The stories in the papers, and those dreadful newsreels? That’s what happened to your family.”

“Yes.” Miriam’s gaze was directed at the picture, but Ann felt sure she was seeing something else.

“How did you survive if they did not?”

“I hid. I . . .” Miriam shook her head, slowly, definitively, and a single tear began a lonely trail down her face.

It took every particle of strength Ann possessed to stifle the instinct to leap up and embrace her friend. “I’m sorry. I won’t ask again. Only . . . if you ever feel like telling me I should love to hear about them. Your mum and dad and your nan. Your grandmother, I mean. She must have been a very good cook.”

“She was. She and my mother both.”

After wiping her eyes, Ann folded her handkerchief back on itself and passed it to Miriam. And then she turned her attention back to the picture of the Sabbath dinner. “What’ll you do with this?” she asked after a moment. “Will you turn it into a painting? I know you said you don’t know how to draw, but it’s very good. It’s so good I don’t want to look away.”

“Thank you. I was thinking I might try to make an embroidery of it. Not at all like the sort of thing we do at work. I mean as they once did long ago. For the walls of the great castles and places like that.”

Of course. What better way for Miriam to express herself than through thread and fabric? “I think those were woven, but I know what you mean. Have you ever seen pictures of the Bayeux Tapestry? You could make something like that. Stitches and appliqué work on a backing. I’ve got yards and yards of plain linen from Milly’s parcels, and it’s too good to waste on dish towels.”

“Thank you. That is very generous.” Miriam’s attention turned to Ann’s own work, and the sketchbook she’d been silly enough to leave open on the table. “May I see?”

“It’s nothing to look at. Just some idle thoughts.”

“Do you wish to become a dressmaker like Monsieur Hartnell?”

“Heavens, no. That’s just me playing about. More a case, I suppose, of what I’d ever want for myself if I won the pools and could spend money like water.”

“Like water? Oh—I see. As if you have turned on a faucet.”

“But it’s not likely ever to happen,” Ann went on, “and I’d probably last about a day in those fancy clothes without wanting my ordinary things back again. This is make-believe on my part. Nothing more.”

“What would your dreams look like? If they did come true?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe a house of my own? Something the council couldn’t take away from me? And a big garden with room for as many flowers as I like.” It was a reasonable sort of dream, and one she actually had a prayer of fulfilling. Asking for anything more would be foolhardy.

“A family?” Miriam prompted.

“I suppose. If the right man ever comes along. In the meantime, though, I’ve got my work, and lovely friends like you, and a comfortable bed to sleep in at night.”