“I see what you mean. The way you must mix important things with . . .”
“A day in the life of Miss Loveday Lang, star of Put On Your Best Blues? I know. And I wish, sometimes, that— Ah. Here’s our food.”
The fish, white and delicate and perfectly cooked, was delicious, as were the accompanying vegetables. She even accepted a portion of the samphire Mr. Kaczmarek had ordered, which he explained was a form of seaweed, and, undeterred, found it not unlike a briny sort of haricot vert.
“So,” he said, arranging his fork and knife on his empty plate. “Tell me about your work. I’m not fishing for details of the royal waistline, I promise. I’m interested in you. Why did you become an embroiderer?”
“There was no ‘why.’ I was fourteen, and one of my teachers thought I might have a talent for it. She told my parents, and before I knew it I was beginning my apprenticeship at Maison Lesage. From there I went to Maison Rébé.”
“And during the war . . . ?”
She shook her head. “Another time. What of you? Did you remain at Picture Weekly during the war?”
“I did. I’m blind as a proverbial bat, so none of the services would take me. Said I was in a reserved occupation anyway, so I might as well stay put. Surprised the hell out of me. I’ve been a thorn in the side of the establishment, as it were, for my entire working life, so I was sure they’d want to throw me in the path of danger as quickly as possible.”
“It was dangerous here, though, was it not? With the Blitz?”
“I suppose. At times it was. In the main it was just depressing. I . . .” He took off his spectacles and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “I lost someone I loved very much. She was killed in an air raid. In the summer of 1941, after the Blitz proper had ended.”
It was easier to see his eyes without the barrier of his spectacles. They were a pale blue that faded to silver at the edge of his irises, and there was something about the color that put her in mind of a midwinter sky. But there was nothing cold about his gaze.
“After Mary was killed I had a hard time. It was a long while before I . . . well . . .”
“Before you were content to face each new morning?”
“Yes.”
“And after Mary? Was there anyone?”
“No,” he said, his gaze meeting hers readily.
“Why did you give me your card?” she asked, emboldened by his honesty.
“I’m not precisely sure. Perhaps it was the way you reacted to your shoe being caught in the grate? You didn’t fuss, or panic, or even complain. You were rather funny about it, as I recall. And I knew straight off that you’d lay me out cold if you’d thought I was a threat.”
English people and their baffling idioms. “Lay you out?”
He mimed a punch to his jaw.
“Perhaps,” she acceded, “but you behaved yourself.”
“Of course. Whatever else I may be—and I have my share of faults—I would never stoop to harassing a woman. In any fashion.”
“That I believe. I do not know why, but I do.”
He smiled, and his pale eyes grew even warmer. “Then I shall endeavor not to give you any reason to change your mind.”
The waiter, returning to clear their plates, asked if they wanted pudding, but Miriam shook her head. English desserts were nearly as frightful as English bread.
“Not today, thanks,” Mr. Kaczmarek answered, and she suspected, from the gleam in his eye, that he had read her mind.
“I must go,” Miriam said after stealing a glance at her wristwatch. “It is half-past one, and I promised Ann that I would not be late. I am making my grandmother’s Friday-night chicken for our supper tonight.”
“Even though it’s Saturday?”
“I did not have time to stop in Shoreditch yesterday. There is a French grocer there. He sells things I could not find in Barking.”
“Such as?”
“Olives. Prunes. Fennel seeds. And also some dried orange peel. I looked for fresh oranges but they are not in season.”
“No, they wouldn’t be. Even if they were, you wouldn’t be able to buy one. They’re reserved for children. For the vitamins, I suppose.”
The waiter returned with the bill, which Mr. Kaczmarek barely glanced at before handing the man several bank notes and shaking his hand. And then he was helping to pull back her chair, his hand grazing the small of her back for the briefest instant, and she couldn’t be sure if she welcomed or feared his touch.