The Gown(83)

She pulled down her skirt, straightened her ruined stockings, and, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped out of her torn knickers and stuffed them in the bin. Her blouse was intact, for the buttons had obediently popped through their holes when he’d tugged it open.

He was in the kitchen, and her bag was on the table. He must have taken it with him when he’d gone downstairs. He had made himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, and he didn’t even look up when she came in.

“I’d like to go home,” she said.

“Fine. You know the way out. I hope you didn’t make a mess on my mother’s bed.”

“No,” she said, enjoying a moment of perverse pride in her lie. There was no easy way to get blood out of silk brocade. She put on her coat, which he’d thrown over the back of a chair, and picked up her bag.

She stared at him, wondering how he could be so calm. So unaffected by what he had done to her. “Why?” she said at last.

He kept eating his sandwich, bite after bite, and when it was gone he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and went to set the empty plate in the sink. Only then did he turn to look at her.

“You have no idea what it costs to live properly. No idea of the expectations people have, of the things I’ve had to force myself to do, just to keep a foot in the door.”

“It was all lies.”

“In the main, yes. I kept hoping you might be silly enough to tell me about that bloody gown. But not a word—not one word. And I couldn’t come straight out and ask, could I? You’d have run in the other direction if I’d said a thing. I’ve wasted weeks on you, and I’m no further ahead than I was in August.”

“So it was revenge just now?”

“That? That was me having some fun. You, too, if you’d bothered to unclench your teeth.”

“You raped me.”

“Did I? You came to this house with me. You walked upstairs on your own. You let me kiss you. There isn’t a judge in this land who’d agree it was rape.”

“But I know it was. You can try to forget, but it will never leave you. I know, and you know, that you are the farthest thing in the world from a decent man.” She walked to the side door and tore it open. “I hope you drown in your debts. It’s no less than you deserve.”

She didn’t look back. Her heart pounding out of her chest, she ran up the darkened steps, through the garden and garage, and back into the mews. She ran until she could see lights and traffic and safety ahead.

Soon she would be home. She would be home, and safe, and she’d have a hot bath and a still hotter cup of tea, and she would mend the parts of her he’d broken.

He had been a mistake. That was all. The sort of mistake she’d never be stupid enough to make again.

The sort of mistake she would take to her grave.





Chapter Twenty-Three


Miriam


November 10, 1947

Something was wrong with Ann. Miriam was certain of it. About a month ago she had fallen ill with some nameless malady, and it had left her wan and shaky, her stomach so upset that she hadn’t been able to face anything more than tea and toast. Still she’d gone to work, faithful to the dictates of the great project before them, but the long days had left her flattened. It had gone on like that for weeks, and no matter how often Miriam begged her Ann would not go to the doctor.

“All I need is some sleep,” she kept saying. “I’ll feel better after I’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

Miriam had tried to cheer her with news of Ruby’s baby, for was it not the case that everyone loved to hear about babies? She had shown her pictures of the infant, named Victoria in recognition of her parents having become engaged on VE Day, and Ann had nodded and agreed the baby was very sweet, her voice an almost inaudible monotone.

“Is anything the matter?” Miriam had asked.

“No, not at all. Please do pass on my best wishes to your friends.”

At the end of October, when Princess Elizabeth had asked Monsieur Hartnell to nominate three women from his staff to attend the wedding ceremony, Ann, together with Miss Duley and Miss Holliday from sewing, had been chosen for the honor. Ann had smiled, and accepted the other women’s congratulations, and had sworn she was indeed excited beyond belief, but Miriam had remained unconvinced. Her friend was unhappy, deeply so, and her melancholy only seemed to deepen as the day of the royal wedding grew near.

This past weekend, Miriam had watched Ann’s every move, and when she realized, as of Sunday night, that her friend had eaten only a few crackers over the course of two days, she had made up a mug of Bovril and taken it upstairs. It was that or summon the local doctor.

“Ann, ma belle, will you let me come in and give you this Bovril? It smells vile but I know you like it. I am worried that you have not eaten. Will you let me come in?”

Ann had opened the door, still in her nightgown and robe, and had tried to smile. “Thank you. I’m sorry I made you worry.”

“Is anything the matter?” Miriam had asked gently.

“No,” Ann had said, and she’d hidden her face behind the mug of Bovril, and Miriam had known she was lying. She knew it because she would have done the same. “I do feel badly that I didn’t go to church today. Since it’s Remembrance Sunday.”