Love and War Read Online Free Page B

of pink paper leaves and a very plain damson-blue dress.
    I sidle into the shop, empty except for an oak chest of drawers with two brass candlesticks on the top. I find myself wishing I was at the great mahogany counter of J.C. Jones where Mrs Edith advises against buying ready-made. ‘Run it up yourself, love,’ she says, ‘it’ll only take three and a half yards at two and elevenpence. Think of the saving.’
    ‘Good morning, Madam.’ Mrs Edith would die sooner than call anyone ‘Madam’.
    ‘I’m looking for a dress, actually.’
    I don’t think I’ve ever said ‘actually’ before. ‘I’m looking for a dress actually,’ with a clipped English accent. I suppose being called Madam has unnerved me.
    Mr Tremlett Browne inspects me with head slightly tilted to one side.
    ‘You’ve got a fine figure,’ he says.
    What a nerve. I didn’t come in here for him to run his eyes over my body.
    ‘I should think a size 36, Madam, is that right?’
    I make a little bobbing motion with my head, as ducks do when they know they’re being watched.
    ‘I see you in something very tight. You’ve got good shoulders. What does Madam think about the model in the window?’
    Before I can say a word, he’s got it out and is holding it up before me.
    ‘I wanted something pretty,’ I say feebly.
    ‘Oh no, Madam. Nothing pretty. You want something... well, something like this. You take it through and try it on. You’ll see what I mean.’
    I look for a price tag, but there isn’t one. ‘How much is it?’ I ask, but he’s turned away and is staring at the pink-leaved tree and the sparkling sea beyond it.

    Of course, it’s a perfect fit and makes me look so different that I feel dizzy to see myself in the mirror. It’s made of a thick, matt silk, so cleverly cut that it seems to reveal rather than hide my body; my breasts seem bigger and rounder, my hips and thighs harder, more sculptured. It’s turned my brownish hair red as conkers. I don’t think for a moment that I’ll ever have the occasion or the courage to wear it, but on the other hand I know that to leave without it would be as difficult as leaving without my skin.
    I go back into the shop.
    Gwynn Morgan is there leaning against the door.
    ‘Yes,’ he says, nodding his head. ‘Yes, that looks just right. Lovely. No need to try anything else.’
    ‘How much are you going to charge her?’ he asks Tremlett Browne, who mentions a sum which is almost exactly what I earn in a month.
    ‘Nonsense,’ Gwynn Morgan says. ‘She can’t afford that sort of money. She may look somebody in that dress, but she’s only a teacher, man. Take half off and she may consider it.
    ‘I do the window for him,’ he tells me, ‘so he owes me a favour.’
    ‘You get paid.’
    ‘Give her a discount, man. She’s a friend of mine.’
    They’re still arguing while I change back into my grey skirt and green jumper and my navy-blue gaberdine.
    In the end, Tremlett Browne takes almost a third off the price. It’s still more, far more, than I’ve ever paid for anything else in my entire life, but I hand over the money readily enough.
    After folding the dress very carefully and putting it into a shiny green and white striped bag with Studio Laura on it, Mr Browne hands it to Gwynn Morgan – rather odd – who takes it without protest. And together he and I walk out of the shop and along the front.
    ‘Did you really cut out all those hundreds of pink leaves?’ I ask him, glancing back at the window.
    ‘No. 2C did that part. But the grand design was mine.’
    ‘Like God made the world.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    When we come to the lifeboat station, we stop and look out at the lavender-coloured sea and the gulls wheeling silently overhead. Huge waves advance, one after the other, exploding and crashing and sucking the loosened shingle as they retreat. It’s very cold.
    Life is certainly strange. I’ve been bored to the bone for months and months on end, and suddenly I feel