by Kerri Turner
Leaning forward, she flicked a speck of cigarette ash off the Practical Householder magazine that was sitting on the coffee table, wishing it were her copy of Painting with Light by the Hollywood cinematographer John Alton. Books were the closest she got to lights these days, but there weren’t too many on the subject, and even though Evelyn had read those she owned until the spines were creased, she still came back to them almost every day.
She allowed her sister’s high-pitched voice to fade into a background buzz, nothing more than a wireless left on, and thought of the Festival of Britain. She and Cynthia would be taking Spencer there for the day, and Evelyn was looking forward to some relief from the drudgery of her post-war life. She hoped the event might satiate her never-ending ache for excitement; and, more importantly, remind her she was lucky to have this life. This was exactly what they’d fought for. They’d won the war, and this was the prize.
Cynthia had finished telling her how their neighbour Joan had spotted someone called Betty Weeks—a woman Evelyn supposed she was meant to know—getting around hatless like a trollop, and was now talking about their plans to visit the Festival.
‘You’ll take care of him, won’t you?’ her sister said, referring to Spencer. ‘Only I don’t think I can bear to face the crowds and keep an eye on him at the same time. It would be so nice to be able to see some of the sights for myself instead of trailing behind an excited child.’
‘I’ll do the trailing.’ Evelyn wasn’t resentful. The little boy was the one thing that gave her life both unpredictability and joy; a shining light metaphorically if not in actuality.
Which was why one week later, when Spencer was tugging at his aunt’s hand, switching from one topic to another at a pace so rapid it wasn’t possible to keep up, Evelyn couldn’t help but smile.
‘Can we get some butter toffee, Aunt Evelyn? Or maybe some candy floss? Barry Thompson says they have lemonade with a scoop of ice cream in it. Could we get some of that?’
The boy’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Evelyn had to admit the idea of being able to eat still-rationed sweets in public without getting in trouble with the law was appealing.
‘Perhaps in a bit,’ she said, adjusting the felt hat that had been irritating her ever since Cynthia insisted she wear it. ‘We’ve only just got here and your mother would be terribly unhappy if the first thing I did was take you to eat sweets. Besides, there are so many exciting things to look at. Wouldn’t you rather see the Dome of Discovery first?’
Spencer’s attention had already been caught by something else, and Evelyn allowed the three-year-old to pull her along once more. He looked so smart in his Sunday best, his hair neatly parted on the side just like his father. She wished she could slow down to take in her surrounds, but she wouldn’t for the world try to stop him. Not when he looked so grown up, yet was so childish in his excitement.
Everywhere they looked there was some new thing that seemed to herald a bright future. Pavilions were cluttered with geometric statues and textiles in bright primary colours; the undersides of railway arches were painted in strawberry pink and cornflower blue; coloured balls hung in curtains so the distant chimney pots of the city were barely visible; even the benches and wicker chairs for visitors to use were painted pieces of art. All was a determined celebration of colour and freedom. Yet Evelyn still spotted reminders of the war. Young men with an arm or leg of their suit neatly pinned where they were empty. An eyepatch or mask covering a facial disfigurement. The destroyed buildings of London had been cleared but the people would forever wear the reminders of the war.
Evelyn tried to gently guide Spencer towards the Skylon she’d read about in the papers. A tall aluminium tower on an elevated walkway, its odd, toothpick-like shape appeared from a distance to be balancing on a needle-fine point. It was the impossible suddenly made real, and there was something about the elegant, futuristic style that caused her heart to skip in a way she hadn’t experienced since being demobbed.
As she took a couple of steps towards it, her shoulder was jostled by the crowd, and her hand, previously filled with the sticky fingers of her nephew, was suddenly empty. Evelyn glanced down, unsure for a second what had happened; then, as understanding hit, she whirled around. Spencer, so tiny and smart in his blazer, had disappeared somewhere into the crowd of thousands.
‘Spencer?’ Evelyn’s voice shrilled across the crowd. A few people turned to look at her as she called again, then began to run. After four or five steps, she stopped and sharply turned, scanning the crowd. What if he had gone in the other direction, and she was taking herself further away from him?
‘Spencer!’ she bellowed, distress giving the word unnatural volume.
The expanse of the South Bank seemed to grow even bigger as she tried to run again, but almost tripped over a large black French poodle performing tricks. Those watching the show laughed, and the dog looked at her with its silly smiling face. For a second Evelyn thought she must surely be dreaming. But then the hat bit at her scalp again and she knew this nightmare was real.
She skirted around the dog and ducked under a blue and red striped umbrella. Tears welled in her eyes, but she brushed them away furiously. She needed to be able to see properly to have even the tiniest hope of finding her nephew.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your exhibit, please help to keep it tidy.’ The tinny voice came from above and Evelyn latched onto it with a fierce burst of hope. Loudspeakers. They could be used to help find a missing boy.
She desperately scanned the crowd for one of the grey-clad attendants. They would be able to tell her where the loudspeaker announcer was set up. But before she had spotted one, she heard a familiar squeal. Heart pounding, she pivoted in the direction it had come from. She couldn’t see anything through the crowds, but she knew it was Spencer. She’d recognise his voice anywhere.
She pushed forward, leaving a trail of disgruntled people in her wake. Then a knot of people before her parted and she saw him. He was talking to a tall man with dark skin who had just produced a piece of cake from his jacket. Spencer was reaching up to take the treat from the man’s square hand.
Evelyn lurched forward and reached her nephew just in time to swat his hand away. He gave a disappointed cry, looking up at her with hurt eyes.
‘What do you think you’re doing, Spencer?’ she cried, bending down and taking him by the shoulders. She wanted to kiss him and shake him all at once. ‘Do you know how worried I was? I could have lost you forever!’
‘Hey, he’s alright. We were just having a talk,’ the man said. His voice was deep and smooth, and Evelyn recognised him as American by his accent. When she looked up, the brown eyes that met hers were warm. ‘It was only a piece of coconut cake. The boy said he was hungry and I had some on me, so …’ The man shrugged.
‘Thank you. That was very kind of you. He has a sweet tooth you wouldn’t believe and is apt to over-indulge it—even if that means taking something which doesn’t belong to him.’ Evelyn knew she was babbling but couldn’t seem to stop. Her heart still sounded like a Lister generator whirring in her ears.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ The man grinned, exposing a set of straight, white teeth. ‘We had a good talk, he and I.’
‘Did you know he can breathe fire?’ Spencer said, tugging on Evelyn’s skirt.
Evelyn took his hand in a tight grip he couldn’t slip out of. ‘It’s not polite to tell tales,’ she scolded, glancing at the man in embarrassment.
But he laughed, his head tilting back a little. ‘That’s no lie, miss. I’m a fire breather alright.’
Evelyn stared. She couldn’t tell if he was having a joke at her expense or not. But either way, she’d had more than enough excitement for now.
‘I should take my nephew to get something to eat so he doesn’t run off and try to scavenge food from strangers again,’ she said.
‘Name’s Alvin. Now I’m not a stranger. And you can’t go yet.’
‘I can’t?’
�
�Haven’t you heard about the man who’s going to cross the Thames on a tightrope? It’s the whole reason I’m here!’
Spencer gasped, his eyes widening.
Evelyn stifled a sigh. There would be no rest now: Spencer would nag and complain and plead until he got to see the tightrope walker.
‘Are you sure that’s today?’ she asked with little hope.
Alvin nodded. ‘Why do you think the crowd is so big? A small boy like him would get a better view from there though, where the ground’s higher.’ He pointed over Evelyn’s shoulder.
She thanked him one last time, then pulled Spencer firmly towards the higher ground.
Alvin called out after her. ‘Hey, if you’re interested in seeing some fire breathing and other spectacles, come down to the water’s edge at Battersea Park tonight. But don’t bring the boy—this show’s specially for adults.’
The tightrope walker took some time to get going, but Evelyn had to admit he was worth the wait. She tried to explain to Spencer the mechanics of how the man could balance so—at least as far as she understood it—but he wasn’t interested. He had never shown any curiosity about how things worked, only the spectacle of them. In that way he didn’t resemble his aunt at all.
Evelyn couldn’t help thinking how frustrating it was that a boy with no interest would grow up to have every opportunity to learn and create and operate, when she craved the very same things yet was denied them. She watched his small figure, excitable and distracted, always wanting to move to the next thing, and hoped that one day he would understand how lucky he was to be born a boy in a world that was done with war.
CHAPTER TEN
As scintillating as the Festival was—especially the electrical instruments in the Dome of Discovery, where Evelyn had finally been able to drag Spencer after two helpings of ice cream—the melancholy returned as soon as she was back home, making tea. Preoccupied with her thoughts, it took a few moments before Evelyn realised her sister had stopped talking. When she glanced up at her, Cynthia had her arms folded across the front of her floral dress and her foot was tapping impatiently on the carpet.
‘What did you say?’ Evelyn asked, trying to sound casual and not as if she hadn’t been listening.
Cynthia sighed. ‘You’ve got to stop doing that. You’re always drifting off somewhere and it’s precisely why you don’t have a husband. Men want a woman they can count on to listen to the gripes of their day, and be ready with a drink and a hot meal. Not someone who forgets where she is at any given moment.’
Another of Cynthia’s favourite topics. She was always telling Evelyn that her greatest wish was to see her engaged, ready to start a family and be happy like her. Evelyn had to resist the temptation to ask Cynthia what she’d have to nag about then. No doubt she would find something.
‘You’re too old to be single,’ Cynthia continued. ‘Especially with Maureen married off now. It’s not becoming. People will call you a spinster if you’re not careful.’
Evelyn flinched, and immediately hated herself for it. Such an ugly word. She felt it was designed purely to make women like herself feel pressure in the race to get a husband.
‘Yes, I know, I’m twenty-eight,’ she said. ‘Positively decrepit and beyond hope.’
‘Almost twenty-nine. Laugh all you want, but men are probably saying the same thing about you and they’re not joking.’
Evelyn thought of Miroslaw and the sweet, brief time they had shared together. Would he find her too old to be desired now, should they happen to meet again? Evelyn couldn’t say she knew him well enough to answer. What she did know was what Cynthia’s reaction would be if she ever found out about the affair: she would announce that Evelyn had condemned herself to a life of spinsterhood, for no reputable man would want a woman who’d sullied herself by giving her body to another.
Cynthia came to sit next to her sister and placed her hand on the back of Evelyn’s. It was obvious the lecture wasn’t over.
‘You know, Charles’s boss was recently widowed. I hear he’s on the lookout for a new wife.’
Evelyn stared at her sister, trying to see if she was being serious. ‘Charles’s boss is in his fifties,’ she said slowly.
‘All that means is he’s less likely to mind your age,’ Cynthia countered. ‘And that he’s well set up. Besides, the man is used to having a wife; he needs to be looked after.’
‘What are you two nattering about?’ Charles, beanpole tall and thin, walked into the room, a folded newspaper under his arm.
Evelyn resisted the temptation to jump up and throw her arms around him in gratitude for the interruption.
‘We’re just talking,’ Cynthia said, her face and voice going sullen. She picked up a Practical Householder magazine and flicked it open to the middle.
‘Yes, that much I deduced. What I wanted to know was what about?’
Cynthia huffed and closed the magazine theatrically, as if she’d been reading it all along and he’d just interrupted her. She stood to make Charles a drink, tipping a little of the orange juice concentrate that was meant for Spencer’s daily dose of vitamin C into the gin to give it flavour. ‘If you must know, I was telling Evelyn that your boss was recently widowed and is looking for a new wife.’
Charles sank into a chair, crossed one ankle over the other and opened his newspaper, accepting the drink without thanks. ‘That’s what they say. What has that got to do with Evelyn?’
The question was greeted with silence.
Evelyn shifted uncomfortably, her skin beginning to prickle in response to the tension in the air that always preceded one of their arguments.
Charles, also registering it, bent the newspaper back with a sharp motion of his fingers. ‘Cynthia, please tell me you weren’t suggesting his new wife could be your sister?’
‘I don’t see that it’s such an unreasonable suggestion.’
‘The man is near sixty, for god’s sake! What are you thinking?’
‘I was thinking that someone around here needs to consider Evelyn’s future. She’s not getting any younger, you know.’
‘Says someone who didn’t at all benefit from marrying early.’
Evelyn felt her sister’s gasp more than heard it. She turned her head away, trying to stay out of their argument despite being stuck in the same room. She hated being the weapon they used against one another.
‘I mightn’t be surprised you’d rush to defend her from the prospect of marriage,’ Cynthia retorted. ‘Anything to make sure she doesn’t leave this house and easy view of your eyes.’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘Aren’t all the other women enough for you?’
Cynthia’s voice rose; Evelyn knew it was only a matter of time before she’d be yelling. Charles, on the other hand, would only get calmer, the very coolness of his tone serving to stoke his wife’s temper.
Evelyn knew Charles wasn’t faithful to Cynthia, and it was the thing that prevented her from siding with him in any arguments, even when he was right. It was also the reason she could never truly become close to her brother-in-law; that, and Cynthia’s fear—unfounded, in Evelyn’s opinion—that Charles was attracted to her.
Not wanting to be witness once again to their marital unhappiness, Evelyn decided that as soon as the shouting began, she would sneak out of the house. Once they were that riled they wouldn’t notice she’d gone.
Evelyn stood at the water’s edge in Battersea Park, inhaling the scent of popcorn and something deep-fried, wondering if she had missed the fire-breathing American’s show. Boats barely bigger than dining chairs crowded the river near the shore, children tucked neatly in the front seats so they could steer. The fun fair stretched out into the park, all colourful flashing lights and excited screams. A lit carousel, swings, and an enormous wooden roller-coaster called the Big Dipper thrilled adults and children alike.
Beyond the toy boats, the Thames was crowded with full-sized ones. Most were lit, but as insignificant as fireflies compared to th
e gold and red spectacular of the fun fair. But there was one large boat, right in the middle, that was shrouded in darkness. Trying to make it out, Evelyn’s skin began to itch with a feeling somewhere between anticipation and recognition.
A group of young men in college scarves and double-breasted suit jackets—a fine sight after the single-breasted restrictions of the war years—were awkwardly pushing a small wooden boat into the water near to her. As though feeling her gaze, one of them looked up and grinned.
‘Going to see the Victory too?’
‘I … uh …’ Evelyn didn’t know.
‘You won’t see much of the show from here. You can share our boat, if you like. I’m sure we’ve got room for one more, right, lads?’
He elbowed the man nearest him, who swatted at him in irritation. The rest kept their attention on sliding their boat into the water.
‘Thank you, that’s kind. But I’m not sure I have the money for a ticket.’
Evelyn was making an excuse, and when the young man smirked in response she felt he knew it.
‘That’s the beauty of the Victory: you don’t need a ticket. If you can make your way to the show, you can watch it. Money’s given in appreciation, and how much depends on how good you thought the entertainment. A fair transaction you’re not likely to get on land.’
Taking her elbow, the man guided her into the modest craft. Not sure she wanted to, Evelyn sat down anyway. The boat rocked as they pushed out from the shore, and she grasped the timber seat underneath her with a tight grip.
The young men talked fast, their voices pitched high as the boat propelled forward, paused, then moved forward once more. They stopped within twenty metres of the blacked-out boat Evelyn had noticed, and hooked the oars into metal brackets.
Evelyn glanced around. They were in the middle of a sizeable crowd of other rowboats and small craft with motors on the back, bobbing in water that was more lively now they were away from the shore. Most of the vessels looked filled to tipping point with men. Evelyn gazed at her lap, where her hands were now clutching the laminated plastic of her handbag. She wanted to ask her companions to row her back to shore, but feared such a request might upset them.