A Lesser Evil - Lesley Pearse [32]
Seeing such an attractive young couple moving in was a real event, but she was unsure whether it pleased or worried her. The blonde girl was so slim and elegant in her jeans and hand-knitted jumper. Her husband was devilishly handsome, gypsy-like with his dark hair and angular cheekbones. She could see they were deeply in love by the way they laughed together and touched each other. It made her smile just to watch them.
Yvette had little to smile about in her life. She was thirty-seven but looked far older. Her once thick dark hair was peppered with grey, and she pulled it back tightly from her face into a severe bun at the base of her neck. She wore old-fashioned, drab clothes, and lived a very reclusive and lonely life. Her only real pleasure was her work, which she took great pride in.
Like most of her neighbours, she’d come to live in Dale Street out of desperation. Old Mrs Jarvis, who had lived at number 1 since the street was built in 1890, had told her that in those days everyone kept a maid. Yet Yvette found it hard to believe that it had ever been a smart address.
The young couple were laughing about a bag which had spilled its contents out on to the pavement and the sight reminded Yvette poignantly of similar scenes in her native Paris when she was a girl. She used to sit in the window, just as she was doing now, to watch people moving into the apartments in rue du Jardin. She would report back to her mama when she saw leather luggage, fur coats or beautiful hats, for these were signs that their owners might be likely candidates for needing a first-class dressmaker. Then at the first opportunity Mama would go round there with a bunch of flowers or a homemade cake to welcome them, always leaving one of her gold-edged cards.
Yvette supposed that on the outside at least, Dale Street and rue du Jardin had some similarities. Both were narrow, sunless cul-de-sacs, with tall, neglected old houses. Yet behind the peeling paint of the shutters and doors in rue du Jardin there were some beautiful apartments. Yvette remembered seeing chandeliers, opulent drapes, beautiful rugs, silver and alabaster when she went with her mama to do a dress fitting. She once asked why their apartment wasn’t the same, and she got boxed round the ears instead of receiving a proper explanation.
There were no pleasant surprises behind the doors of Dale Street, except perhaps at the Boltons’ next door on the left to Yvette’s, which was luxurious. But then John Bolton was a villain, and the thick carpets, gilt-framed mirrors and brocade curtains were in keeping with his handmade suits, gold watch and the many visits he had from the police.
The smells and sounds which wafted out of the houses here were of damp, fried food, crying children, adults squabbling and Workers’ Playtime on the radio. Back in Paris it was newly baked bread, garlic, Mozart or Edith Piaf, and when adults raised their voices it was in greeting, not anger.
Remembering Paris always made Yvette feel shaky and sick, and today was no exception. She turned away from the window and went over to the turquoise cocktail dress on her dressmaker’s dummy. She had to set the sleeves in and have it ready for a final fitting for Mrs Silverman in Chelsea on Monday.
Forty-seven-year-old Ryszard Stanislav, known to everyone in Dale Street as ‘Stan the Pole’, was also watching Fifi and Dan from his bedsitter on the top floor of number 2. He wanted to go down to offer to help them, but he knew from experience that he would immediately be suspected of having some sinister motive.
After fifteen years here his English was excellent, but try as he might, he couldn’t lose his Polish accent. It didn’t help either that he was a dustman and lived alone; this made people think he was dirty and uncouth.
About ten years ago he’d rushed to help an old lady who had collapsed in the street. Later, after she was taken away in an ambulance, the police came,