She wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone at their table, with the possible exception of Ann, but tonight was the first time Miriam had ever been out dancing. She’d been so young when she had begun her apprenticeship at Lesage, and the curfew at her lodgings had always been so strict, that she’d never dared to stay out past supper. And then, once the Occupation had begun, her life had shrunk to secrets and shadows and the grim business of survival. Dancing had belonged to another world. Another, saner, universe.
Her colleagues at Hartnell, however, looked upon her as if she were the embodiment of sophisticated European glamour. As if she’d spent her youth gulping down tumblers of absinthe in dubious jazz bars in Pigalle and dancing alongside Josephine Baker at the Folies Bergère.
Not wishing to prove them wrong, she told herself that she belonged. That sitting at this table by the edge of a crowded dance floor, her ears assaulted by the thrum and thump of restless feet and raucous music, her lungs clogged by a fug of smoke and perspiration and cheap perfume, was second nature to her, and the sort of thing she’d done all the time when she had lived in Paris.
It had come as something of a relief, when they’d arrived at the Astoria, to see there were scores of tables around the edge of the ballroom and that she would not, as Ann had said, be called upon to hold up the wall with the other girls who weren’t dancing. She’d accepted the vile English cigarette Jessie had offered her, although it had burned her throat and made her feel a little queasy, and the lemonade she’d sipped had been warm and unpleasantly tannic. Yet she was enjoying herself all the same.
It was interesting to sit with the others and try to make sense of this strange place where anyone might come and dance, as long as he or she had the money to pay the admission fee. Most were ordinary people like her friends from Hartnell, treating themselves to a night out and determined to make the most of their investment. A few, however, were like the people at the adjacent table. Wealthy and indolent and so convinced of their own superiority that their disdain for everyone else fairly dripped from the tips of their manicured fingers.
She’d noticed them straightaway. Their accents, all drawling vowels and clipped consonants, were so rarefied that even she could discern a difference in the way they spoke. And there was a languor in the way the women moved, as if dancing a waltz with an attractive man, or raising a glass of lemonade to their lips, were praiseworthy feats of endurance.
They seemed to complain about everything, too, their voices rising easily above the enveloping clamor of bystanders and dancers and music.
“What do you mean there’s no champagne?” whined one of the women. “You know I only drink champagne when I’m dancing. Gin goes straight to my head.”
“There’s no pleasing you, is there?” This from a dark-haired man at the far side of the table. He handed the girl a small metal flask, which she proceeded to empty into her glass of lemonade. Miriam’s eyes fairly watered at the sight of it.
The other man in the group of aristocrats, the one who had just delivered the disappointing glasses of lemonade to his companions, was tall and fair and conventionally handsome in a very English way. He’d been standing next to the table, his gaze flickering around the ballroom, and she had seen him looking in their direction more than once.
All the same, it was a surprise when he approached their table and stopped in front of Ann. Earlier, her friend had been kind enough to let one of the women in his group know when her fur wrap had fallen on the floor. Presumably he had come over to offer his thanks. That was the only reason Miriam could imagine for him to speak with any of them.
He held out his hand. He said something in a low voice, and he smiled at Ann. He was asking her to dance. She hesitated; of course she did, for it was unimaginable that a man like him would ask one of them to dance. France or England, the gulf between classes was just as unbridgeable.
“Go on,” Ruthie urged, and the other girls all nodded their agreement. Ann looked to Miriam, but what was she to do? Tell her to refuse? He was only asking for a dance, after all. So she shrugged, and Ann nodded, and she let the man, the stranger, lead her onto the dance floor and out of sight.
Miriam didn’t see them again for that dance, nor for the one that followed, nor the one after that. There were hundreds of dancers, of course, so she wasn’t worried. Not yet. And Ann had left her handbag behind. She would certainly never leave without retrieving it first.
The band began to play again, a softer, sweeter song, and Miriam swept her gaze over the dancers once more. There—there Ann was, coming toward them from the far end of the room, arm in arm with the charming aristocrat. She’d never looked prettier, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with happiness.
Close up, Miriam was struck again by how handsome he was. His manners could not be faulted either.
“I beg your pardon, ladies, for making off with Miss Hughes,” he said, and bestowed an imploring smile on each of them. “Do forgive me.” He released Ann’s hand and took a step back. “Promise me you’ll ring me up?”
“I promise,” Ann echoed.
“I do hope you enjoy the rest of your evening. Thank you again.” With that, he turned away and went to rejoin his friends.
While the others questioned Ann, their excitement fizzing over into giggles and squeals, Miriam angled her head so she might better eavesdrop on the discussion the stranger was having with his friends. One of them, the woman whose fur Ann had rescued, did not trouble to hide her annoyance.
“You just disappeared with her. It’s like you forgot we were even here.”
“I didn’t forget, Tabby girl,” he replied placidly. “And I’m back now. What say you to the 400 Club for a spell? The cocktails will be a far sight nicer than they are here.”
“Fine. But I insist you stay with us from now on. Darling Caro had no one to dance with at all after you went off with that shopgirl.”
“I’ll stay. Promise I will.”
Miriam stole a glance at Ann. Her friend’s eyes were following the man as he departed, a wondering and faintly dreamy expression on her face. She hoped Ann hadn’t heard the other woman’s nasty comment.
“Good—now they’re out of the way. Tell us everything,” Ethel insisted.
“There isn’t much to say. He asked me to dance, and after two songs they started up with the jitterbug, and neither of us knew the steps. So he bought us some lemonade and we sat and talked for a bit. He seemed very nice.”
“Very posh is how he seemed,” Doris said. “Did you see what those girls were wearing? And the jewelry they had on?”
“I know,” Ann admitted. “I’m still not sure . . . I mean, why me?”
“Because you look very pretty tonight,” Miriam said abruptly. The time for doubts was tomorrow, not now. “He saw you and said to himself, ‘I want to dance with that pretty girl.’ It is as simple as that.”
“Are you going to see him again?” asked Doris.
“I don’t know. He asked me to ring him up. He said he wanted to see me again.” She set a business card upon the table, its corners bent from where it had been clutched in her hand. “But I don’t know. I don’t think I should go.”
“Why ever not?” Carmen asked. “There’s no harm in having supper with the man.”
“I suppose not. Except I don’t have anything to wear. This frock is the only really nice thing I have.”
“Then you must wear my suit,” Miriam said. “My good suit that I had made in Paris. We are much the same size.”
“I couldn’t. I—”
“Come on,” Carmen said, her patience fraying. “It’s a chance for you to kick up your heels and see how the other half lives. If he’d asked me I’d be off like a shot.”
“But what if . . .”
“What if he’s the sort that thinks a girl should pay for a night out one way or another?” Ruthie asked, oblivious to her friends’ shared expression of dismay. “Oh, honestly. I know you’re all thinking the same thing. And I’m only being practical.”
“So? What should she do?” Ethel asked.
“If he pushes you to go anywhere with him after, you say you can’t,” Ruthie reasoned. “You have to be at work the next morning, or your mum and dad are waiting up for you—I know, I know, but how’s he to know? And then you ask someone at the restaurant to call you a cab and you take it to the nearest Tube station. He won’t know where you’ve gone, and that’ll be an end of it.”
Ann nodded, taking it all in, and then she turned to Miriam. “What do you think?”
“I think a restaurant is safe enough, but I agree with Ruthie. Do not agree to go anywhere else with this man. Even if he suggests something like a nightclub. Not until you know him better.”
“Did he say what he does for a living?” Doris asked.
“He’s a captain in the army, but he can’t really talk about his work. He says it’s all rather hush-hush.”
“Hmm. I don’t like the sound of that,” Ethel said.
“Probably working in Whitehall. None of them are allowed to talk about it,” Carmen speculated.
“See?” Doris asked, undeterred. “It’s probably something very secret and important.”
It was time for a change of subject. “What is the time?” Miriam asked the group. “Is it not the case that Ann and I must leave by ten o’clock so we do not miss our train?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I suppose we must be going.” Ignoring the others’ cries of disappointment, they said their farewells and made their way upstairs to street level.
“Do you mind that I suggested we leave?” Miriam asked as they stepped onto the sidewalk. It was so wonderfully cool outside, at least compared to the insufferably hot ballroom.
“Not at all. If we’d stayed they’d have kept badgering me all evening. And I was more than ready to go. The music was starting to give me a headache.”
“Where shall we go now? Is there a Tube station nearby?”
“We passed one on the way—it’s just at the corner. But would you mind walking for a while? If we go south it’s about twenty minutes to Charing Cross. We can get on a District line train there.”
It seemed that nearly every other building they passed was a theater, almost all of them disgorging hundreds of patrons, and before long it became an effort to stay together. Then it began to rain, albeit lightly, and the people around them became even more impatient to carve a path through the crowd, never mind how many others they had to shove or elbow out of the way.
They were crossing Shaftesbury Avenue, heads down against the rain, when a man bumped into Miriam, his shoulder catching hers and all but spinning her around. She stumbled, almost dropping to her knees, but managed to take an unsteady step forward. She was almost at the curb and out of harm’s way, but with her next step she felt her heel sink into a hole of some sort. She looked down to discover that her shoe was stuck fast in a metal grate.
“Ann!” she cried out, and her friend, turning, crouched to help her. They tried to wrestle it loose, all the while enduring the complaints of passersby, but it was no use. The shoe would not come free.
“You’ll have to undo the strap,” Ann said. “Then we can at least stand on the curb. No sense in getting knocked down for the sake of a shoe.”
“But these are my only good—”
“May I help you?” came an unfamiliar voice.
Miriam looked up, and then farther up again. A rather enormous man was standing next to them, his arms outstretched in an attempt to protect them from the passing crowds. “I saw you stumble,” he explained. “Are you all right?”
“I think so. It is only my pride that is hurting me.”
She’d managed to undo the buckle at her ankle, but she was reluctant to give up on her shoe.
“You ladies should stand on the curb,” the stranger suggested. “I’ll see if I can wriggle this loose. Any sane motorist would think twice before running me down.”
“What about the mad ones?” she asked.
He grinned. “There’s not a thing I can do about them,” he admitted. Kneeling down, he took hold of her shoe and began to twist it back and forth, pushing it down and sliding the heel along the grate. “Almost there . . . aha. Here we go.” He held up the freed shoe triumphantly.
“Thank you,” Miriam said, taking it from him. “It was very kind of you to stop and help.” She hopped to the corner and, after slipping on the shoe, crouched to fasten the buckle.
He was still there when she straightened. Not a handsome man, not compared to Ann’s mysterious aristocrat, but there was something compelling about him all the same. His appearance was the furthest thing from chic she could imagine, for his clothes, though evidently of good quality, were ill-fitting and marked here and there with blotches of ink, and the knees of his trousers were stained with mud from where he’d knelt in the street. There was a button missing from his vest, which did not match his coat at all, and his bow tie was almost comically lopsided. If he were to tell her it was his habit to dress in the dark, and furthermore that he liked to choose his garments from the nearest pile of laundry, she would not have been surprised in the least.
He was very tall, for the top of her head only came to his shoulders, and his hands, as ink-stained as the rest of him, were similarly enormous. Yet he wasn’t the least bit intimidating. Perhaps it was his pale eyes, much magnified by his spectacles, and the way they seemed to radiate kindness. Or perhaps it was the way his sandy hair, silvering at the temples and dampened by the rain, so badly needed a haircut. Whatever other failings might afflict this man, vanity was not among them.
As grateful as she was for his help, and as pleasant as he seemed at first glance, his failure to simply disappear into the crowds made her uneasy. Whatever did he have to gain from lingering?
“Thank you again for your help. I am certain you will wish to—”
“You’re most welcome,” he said, and held out his hand for her to shake. She did so, unable to ignore the way his hand enveloped hers so surely. “I’m Walter Kaczmarek.”
“I am Miriam Dassin,” she said. “This is my friend Miss Hughes. We are on our way home,” she added pointedly. “Ann?”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” Ann agreed. “On our way home. Shall we . . . ?”
They began to walk, side by side as the crowds were thinning, and Mr. Kaczmarek, moving to the curb side of the pavement, fell into step beside them. “Were you at the theater tonight?” he asked, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to make conversation with strangers. What sort of Englishman was he?
“No. We were out with friends. Dancing.”
“I went to see 1066 and All That at the Palace Theatre. Second time I’ve been. First time I was laughing so hard I missed half of it.”
She smiled despite herself. “Ten sixty-six? What is it about, this play? I have not heard of it.”
“It was the year of the Norman Conquest. The year a Frenchman, or something near enough to a Frenchman, conquered England. Of course it’s all been downhill since then.”
“Do you consider yourself an Englishman?” she asked, all too aware of how rude she must seem. But he didn’t seem to mind.
“Despite my un-English name? I do. My parents were Poles but I’ve lived here since I was a boy. I’m not sure I’d feel at home anywhere else.” He reached into his breast pocket and, after extracting a card, handed it to her. “Just in case you’re worrying I’m waiting for the perfect moment to make off with your handbags.”
PICTURE WEEKLY
WALTER KACZMAREK
EDITOR IN CHIEF
87 FLEET STREET • LONDON EC4
CENTRAL 7050
VERBA DOCENT, EXEMPLA TRAHUNT
“Picture Weekly,” she read aloud. “You are the editor of this magazine? You are a journalist?”
“Yes. And I do realize that my profession might lead some to accuse me of criminality. I hope you believe me when I say I’m neither a confidence man nor an ambulance chaser.”
“And this magazine? It is a successful one?”
“Miriam,” Ann said, elbowing her gently. “It’s on every newsstand. You must have seen it.”
“Perhaps I have,” she allowed. “What sort of magazine is your Picture Weekly? Is it full of scandal and film stars?”
“And scandals about film stars?” he offered. “No. They do grace our pages from time to time, but in the main I’m interested in more serious things.”
“Such as?”
“The future of Britain in the postwar era. How the welfare state is changing the fabric of society. The dangers we face at the dawn of the nuclear age. Things like that. With a smattering of lighter fare to leaven the mix.”
“I suppose I shall have to purchase a copy. Is it expensive?”
He grinned once more. “Fourpence an issue but worth every penny.”
Ann nudged her again. “We need to cross the street. For the station.”
“And I need to go the opposite way,” he added. “It was a pleasure meeting both of you. Will you be all right from here?”
Miriam nodded, though she felt strangely reluctant to say good-bye. “We will. Thank you again.”
“Think nothing of it. I do hope you’ll ring me up. For lunch one day, if you like. My offices aren’t far from here. Just so you know.”
She searched his face, still uncertain as to what, precisely, would lead him to suggest such a thing. What did he know of her? What did he see in her that made him wish to learn more?
“Good night, Monsieur Kaczmarek,” she said, not knowing what else to say.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Dassin, Miss Hughes.”
She watched until he was out of sight, and then she turned to Ann, wondering if her friend was as surprised as she. “Are all Englishmen so . . . so . . . ?”
“Practically never,” Ann admitted. “I’m starting to wonder if that fabric Milly sent along was sprinkled with stardust.”
“Perhaps it was. It has been an unusual evening. Very much so.”
“But a good one?” Ann asked, her voice threaded through with hope.
“The very best.”