‘A what?’
‘A johnny. What do you call them?’
Ada didn’t know. She’d heard bits and pieces from the girls at Mrs B.’s, but nobody had ever sat her down and said this is what happens on your wedding night. Her mother had talked about the sacrament of marriage and Ada thought it something so holy that babies could be made in ways they couldn’t if you weren’t married. Stanislaus had laughed. This bit is for this, and that for that. She knew it was wrong, not being married, but it seemed natural, sidling close so her body soaked up his male smell and her flesh rippled and melted in his warmth. She knew he’d propose, once the war was over in a few months, make an honest woman of her.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go home?’ Stanislaus said. Ada shook her head. She was in Paris, with him, and wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else in the world. Besides, she hadn’t heard from home, even though Stanislaus had said he’d sent another telegram. All safe. Working in Paris. Telegrams cost money, she knew, but even so, they could have sent something.
After they had eaten, once the evenings had drawn in, there wasn’t much to do. There was a blackout, and the streets were empty, the cafés hidden behind closed doors and shuttered blinds. They played rummy, and pontoon. Ada tried to read French, but it was hard-going. The newspapers, as far as she could make out, were full of news about Germany and Russia, speculation about the Americans and complaints about the behaviour of British troops in France. They didn’t have so much to talk about now. Stanislaus said she wouldn’t understand his business, so she stopped asking. He wasn’t interested in her work. What was exciting about turning up a hem and economizing on a cut? She missed home at those moments, her brothers and sisters. Mum and Dad. She even missed the girls at Mrs B.’s. At least they could have had a laugh.
In December, Stanislaus’s business began to take him away for the night. Two or three times a week. Long, lonely evenings with nothing to do. The old iron radiator in their room creaked and tapped. Ada never got used to it, was sure an intruder was there, padding around, waiting to strike. It was all right when Stanislaus was with her, but on those nights when he was out late, she went to bed early to keep warm, with a small candle by the side, go away, don’t come near me, until she fell asleep. The radiator didn’t give much heat and was turned off at ten, so the room grew bitter and cold by dawn. Sometimes a fine layer of ice formed overnight on the bowl of water they kept on the table.
She hoped one day they could afford better lodgings, with a small kitchen, so she could prepare their own food and not always have to eat at the Bar du Sport. She’d have to learn to cook. She knew how to make a mutton stew but it needed pearl barley and Ada wasn’t sure you could buy that here. There was other food she could try to make, French food. Omelette, for instance, or a soufflé. She could see herself whisking the eggs, the way she’d seen the cook at the Bar du Sport do.
The kitchen would have an airer too, so that when she did their laundry she could hang it up to dry, and not drape it over the bedstead. Perhaps they’d have a little parlour, with a table and a red chenille cloth, and a mirror. She’d keep it pretty, with fresh flowers, if she could get them, in a jam jar. Her wages weren’t much, but with both of them earning money, they’d live a simple life.
But something was changing.
‘The thing is, Ada,’ he said. ‘I need to be in the mood.’
She respected that to begin with, but now it didn’t seem right. She touched his face, ran her fingers along his nose to the tickle of his moustache, tapped a rhythm on his lips.
Stanislaus shoved her hand away. ‘No, Ada,’ he said. ‘Not now.’
She heard his breathing, heavy and hard, felt the air squall from his mouth.
‘Do you love me?’ she said.
‘Stop it, Ada.’
He threw back the bed covers and stood up. Ada heard him pull on his trousers, swearing at the buttons in the dark, yank his shirt from the back of the chair, pick up his shoes with an angry slap and slam the door. She lay still on the bed. She shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have thrown herself at him. Her mother said no man respects that. Men like to do the chasing. She’d say she was sorry. He’d come round.
The Stanislaus she met in London had thrilled her with his honeyed talk and feathered touch. He had changed. The war had changed him, the business had changed him. He was out, night after night. She’d have to make more of an effort, make herself more alluring. A new lipstick, if she could afford it. She looked young for her age, she knew. Her cheeks still had the plumpness of youth. She’d try to look older, more mature. Perhaps that’s what Stanislaus wanted, an older woman, an experienced woman. Her hair had grown long. She’d roll it in a pleat round her head, like some of the sophisticated women she’d seen in Paris. He’d love her then. Nobody said marriage would be easy.
Christmas-time she bought Stanislaus some new handkerchiefs and a pipe. Wrapped the presents in newspaper and tied them with a ribbon from Madame Lafitte.
‘Thank you, Ada,’ he said, putting the gifts on the floor beside the bed. Stanislaus had made her a stocking, one grey sock bulging with walnuts and a small bottle of perfume.
‘L’Aimant,’ she read. ‘Coty.’ Loving. She knew it. He just couldn’t say it. Some men were like that. She dabbed the perfume behind her ears. It was too sweet for her taste, but she liked that he’d thought of her, had taken the trouble to make a stocking, even if it was only full of nuts. Dad did the stockings at home. Brussels sprouts more likely, and a couple of spuds. Ha ha, got you there. But he made sure there was an orange in the toe, or a spinning top, and Mum always made them a new outfit for Christmas.
She’d never spent Christmas away from home. She’d have given anything to be back in Theed Street today. Go to Mass, while Dad cooked breakfast. Bacon and egg and fried bread. Then he and the boys would go to the King’s Arms for their jug of porter while she and Mum got the meal ready.
Lunch in the Bar du Sport didn’t feel or taste like Christmas dinner at home. They’d splashed out on a bottle of wine. Vin du Pays. It was thick and heavy, a dark, ruby red. It reminded her of Ribena, and Ada didn’t much care for it, but Stanislaus knocked it back as if it was fruit juice and then had a couple of brandies to chase it down.
He patted his stomach, winked at her. ‘Nothing like a good meal, is there, Ada?’ he said. ‘Fancy a game of rummy?’
‘That would be nice, Stanislaus,’ she said, pushing herself away from the table. Mum would be bringing in the Christmas pudding now. If Dad had got his bonus, he’d get a drop of brandy from the chemist and pour it over. Turn out the lights. Put a match to the brandy and bring the pudding to the table in a ball of flaming blue.
‘You smell good,’ Stanislaus said, opening the door to their room and pulling her towards him. The alcohol was fusty on his breath.
‘Are you tipsy, Stanislaus?’
‘Just merry, Ada. Merry,’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t a man get merry at Christmas?’
He crossed his arms around her, squeezed her close. Maybe she should have worn perfume before.
He released his grip and flopped on the bed, patting the place next to him. Ada took off her dress and stockings and lay down beside him. His eyes were shut and he’d fallen asleep, put-putting through velvet lips, one arm raised above his head. Ada watched him as the daylight faded. She should get up, pull the curtains, turn on the light. But the room was quiet, soft in the twilight, and Stanislaus was sleeping. She ran the back of her hand down his cheek, caressing the soft flesh of his skin, the sharp scratch of his whiskers.
He grabbed her wrist, pinching it tight so she yelped. ‘Lay off, Ada,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you before.’ He looked at her as if she was a stranger, then shoved her onto her back. ‘Is this what you want?’
He reached for the rubber, fitted it with clumsy fingers, thrust himself into her and pulled