The Gown(72)

So chin up it was, and no looking back.





Chapter Twenty


Miriam


October 5, 1947

In recent weeks Walter had taken to sending Miriam a letter when he wished to invite her to supper, and she would then ring him from one of the telephone kiosks in the post office near Bruton Street. This week he had proposed a change to their usual plans.

“You wish to visit your friends on Sunday? And for me to accompany you?”

“Yes. They live in Kent, about an hour’s drive south of the city.”

“Do they know that you wish to bring me?”

“Yes. They’re very keen to meet you. It’s a longish drive, but it’ll do us both good to breathe in some fresh air. And . . .” It wasn’t like Walter to sound hesitant. As if he were nervous of saying the wrong thing. “I am rather keen, as well, for you to meet them. That’s all.”

She decided to ignore the way her heart had begun to flutter. “In that case I will come with you.”

“Excellent. I’ll come to collect you at—”

“No, you will not. If it is south of the city then you will be going far out of your way. I will meet you in London.”

“Very well. Since you’re determined to be sensible about it. I live near Chancery Lane station. Can you meet me there? Say at ten o’clock?”

He was waiting outside the station when she emerged on Sunday morning, and after wishing her good morning and stooping to kiss her cheek, he led her to his car. It was an alarmingly small vehicle, or perhaps it was only the case that his long legs and broad shoulders were too large for an ordinary automobile. He certainly didn’t seem very comfortable once he’d shoehorned himself into the driver’s seat.

“Made for Lilliputians. And this bloody thing is so underpowered I might as well have put wheels on one of the sewing machines from your work,” he grumbled. “I’ll apologize now for my bad language over the next hour. I loathe driving and I particularly loathe driving in London. Once we’re clear of the city I’ll be in a better mood.”

“Why do you have a car if you hate driving?”

“I don’t. This belongs to my neighbor.”

“Then why did we not take the train?”

“Ordinarily we’d have done just that. But there weren’t any running this morning that would get us there for midday.”

Not wishing to distract him, she turned her attention to the passing view. So much of London was ugly; there was no denying it. Even the most beautiful buildings were marked by neglect, their fa?ades stained with soot, their brasses pitted by tarnish, their paint worn ghostly thin. The strange and sad spaces between buildings, as random as fate, no longer puzzled her.

They crossed a bridge, very long and wide, the waters of the Thames roiling angrily beneath. When she leaned forward to look across him she glimpsed the clock face on the tower in Westminster, and just beyond it the ancient abbey where the princess was to have her wedding.

“There,” Walter said. “We’re across the river. Not long until we’re clear of the city.”

It wasn’t a sudden thing. There was no sign to say they had left London behind. The buildings thinned, a little, and after a while they became a patchy sort of frontier, with glimpses of something calmer and greener beyond. The road narrowed, the hedgerows grew taller and wilder, and then they were surrounded by gently rolling hills and golden fields set aglow by the late morning sun.

“Much better,” he said. “Sorry I was a bear at first.”

“It did not bother me.”

“Good. How are you? Busy, I expect.”

“Yes. It was a busy week. As you say.”

“I expect having the queen to visit didn’t help very much.”

“How did you know?” she asked, a ribbon of dread gathering close around her heart.

“I wouldn’t be much of a journalist if I didn’t. They were photographed leaving the premises.”

Now it would happen. Now he would begin to ask his questions.

“Miriam. Miriam. I am not about to break my promise. Do you hear me?”

She licked her lips and tried to swallow back the fear. “Yes,” she said. “I know you will not.”

“Good. I will say I’m worried about you and your friends. The interest in this gown alarms even me, and I’m usually unflappable. People are so avid for details, the Americans in particular, and I’ve got to wonder—”

“They offer us money. The men waiting outside the back door. When we leave work every day they are waiting. They shout their questions and they never move out of the way. Sometimes there are so many we have to push past them.”

“Good Lord.”

“All the windows have been whitewashed over. At first it was just curtains, but then the man who owns the building across the lane came to Monsieur Hartnell. He said an American newspaper had offered him a fortune if they might have his top floor until the wedding.”

“You read Picture Weekly. You know I would never stoop to that sort of thing.”

“I know you would not. I do know. But what if anyone should see us together? I worry about this, for I have only worked for Monsieur Hartnell since the spring. If I were to be seen with a famous journalist—”