Edith went down the stairs to the bathroom. She could smell the Et Noir bath oil through the door. All the way from Paris. One of Dori’s sidelines. Got to make a penny somehow, darling! It was more than a sideline and Dori was making more than pennies. Not just bath oil. Perfume, makeup, nylons, silk stockings. But it was a risky business and Dori was in deep and getting deeper. Impossible to stop her. She needed the money, but she needed risk even more.
Back in the Bolt Hole, after her bath, Edith opened the drawer reserved for what she thought of as ‘Stella’s things’, unrolling precious silk stockings and laying out silk underwear. Silk, darling, always silk, Dori insisted. Then she flicked through her rail of clothes to find something nice for Leo: the midnight blue silk, long and tight across the hips with a slight flare in the skirt, the shawl collar dipped to expose her décolletage.
Satisfied with her choice, she moved to her small dressing table to do her hair, brushing out the dark-gold waves, smoothing and pinning up the sides, teasing the front section into rolls. She leaned into the mirror to apply her makeup in the way Dori had shown her: eyebrow pencil for definition, the merest hint of rouge. As a final touch, she uncapped a tube of Marcel Rochas lipstick in a silver tube and applied a shade she never wore in her everyday life. She worked her lips together and smiled at her reflection. The final transformation. This was the moment she relished most. She doubted that many of her colleagues at the Headmistress’ New Year’s reception would even recognize her as they sipped Miss Lambert’s sweet sherry and nibbled on sparsely-filled mince pies and meagre sausage rolls.
3
Cromwell Square, Paddington
31st December 1945
Winter Goulash
A good, filling beef stew is always welcome on a night that might be spent at the Warden Post or in the Air Raid Shelter. This delicious continental dish makes a welcome change to more traditional recipes and can be made with the cheapest cuts of meat. It is simplicity itself to prepare: A pound of onions, a pound and a half of stewing steak (shin or the cheapest cut available – skirt will do) and any amount of root vegetables browned well for colour and flavour. A little flour to thicken, a sprig of thyme if you have it; salt, pepper, paprika if possible. Canned or bottled tomatoes, a dash or two of Worcestershire sauce and (my secret ingredient) a dash of Angostura. Enough stock to cover, made up from those kitchen stalwarts the Bovril bottle or the OXO cube. Simmer on a low heat or in a moderate oven (regulo 2 or 3) for two or three hours.
Warming Suppers by Stella Snelling,
Home Monthly, November 1944, No. 36, Vol. 24
In the basement, the goulash was doing nicely, potatoes baking. The canapé plates had come back empty. Time for a drink.
The screen separating the downstairs rooms was opened up. Jazz issued from the gramophone, a tune Edith almost knew picked up and whirled away by a tenor saxophone. A couple were attempting to dance but there was scarcely room to move. Men in chalk-striped suits with thin moustaches, Dori’s new friends, trailed girls with peroxided hair. Poles stood by the door smoking furiously watched by a tall old man with long white hair, sunken blue eyes and a sardonic smile under his yellowing moustache. Anton lived on the first landing and paid no rent. He supplied the paprika. He bowed to Edith, saluting with his ivory-topped cane.
The rooms were stifling, thick with cigarette smoke, perfume and body odour. Edith drifted through enjoying it all.
‘Canapés went down a treat. Come and have a drink. There are impossibly gorgeous men I want you to meet.’ Dori took her over to the drinks table. ‘This is Edith,’ she said to the young man serving. ‘Perfect genius in the kitchen and one of my best friends in the world. Get her a drink, would you, darling? Not the punch. The Poles have tipped a whole bottle of some dreadful hooch into it.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Edith. I’m Harry Hirsch.’ He reached under the table and brought out a bottle of Gordon’s. ‘Will this do?’
‘Very well.’
‘What would you like in it? Not a lot of choice, I’m afraid.’
‘Lemonade’s fine.’
He gave her a wide smile, which Edith returned. Not tall, quite slightly built, but there was a wiriness about him. Good-looking in a delicate sort of way: very pale with thick, black hair falling across his forehead in a boyish cowlick. He was probably older than he seemed at first glance. It showed in the frown marks arrowing down over his nose; the purple smudges like thumbprints beneath his deep-set brown eyes. Edith watched his hands as he poured, his corded wrists, the way the veins snaked over the sliding muscles of his forearms, the skin burnt brown, as if he had spent time in the sun with his sleeves rolled back.
‘Where were you overseas?’ she asked.
‘Oh, Italy,’ he said, ‘Egypt, before that. And Germany. Just back.’ He added a dash of flat lemonade. ‘I could add bitters to jazz it up, but it’s disappeared.’
She took the proffered drink. ‘What’s it like there? Germany, I mean.’
‘It’s a mess.’ He frowned.
‘Really? I’m due out there in a few days.’
‘Are you?’ His eyebrows quirked up, making him look younger. ‘In what capacity?’
‘To take up a post with the Control Commission. You couldn’t tell me a little more, could you? I really don’t know what to expect.’
‘Of course. Happy to.’
He rolled down his sleeves and slipped on a tweed jacket. Moving out from behind the drinks table, he took her elbow lightly and led her to a quieter spot in the throng. His grey flannels had long lost their crease, if they’d ever had one. His white shirt was open at the neck and he wore no tie. Blueish shadow shaded his jaw and upper lip. He had a slightly raffish, bohemian quality that definitely wasn’t British. His English was faultless but spoken with an accent that Edith couldn’t quite place.
‘What will you be doing in Germany?’
‘D’you know?’ She gave a rueful shrug. ‘I’m not quite sure.’
He laughed. ‘You’ll be in good company. Where will you be based?’
‘In Lübeck. Schleswig-Holstein.’
‘That’s a coincidence. I’m going there myself soon.’
‘You’re stationed there?’ Edith asked casually, hoping he’d answer in the affirmative. He really was rather attractive.
‘B.A.O.R. VIII Corps District.’ He gave a mock salute. ‘I’m a captain. Jewish Brigade. We’re conducting interrogations there. I am originally from Latvia, you see, and Northern Germany is full of DPs, displaced persons, from the Baltic countries. We have to sort them out. Sheep from goats. Good from bad.’
‘That must be difficult.’
He grimaced. ‘Almost impossible. But necessary.’
‘Some of the goats are very bad?’
‘Wolves in goats’ clothing, you could say.’ He folded his arms, suddenly serious, his dark eyes shadowed. ‘When are you off?’
‘Fourth of January.’
‘I’m due out a week later. Belgium first, Keil, then Hamburg.’ His face brightened. ‘I say, perhaps we can meet?’
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ Edith smiled, knowing that she really would.