by Vicki Beeby
‘Promise me you won’t give up, my girl.’ Stan’s voice was thready but held the same conviction it always had when he spoke of his hopes for his daughter’s future.
‘Please, Dad. Don’t tire yourself.’ Her throat ached, making it difficult to force any words out.
The grip tightened briefly. ‘I mean it. Promise!’
Evie sniffed, wiping away tears with her free hand. ‘That doesn’t matter now. Just concentrate on getting better.’
‘No!’ Even though his voice was scarcely more than a breath, the fierceness made Evie’s own breath catch in her throat. ‘You’ve worked so hard.’ He held her gaze, and Evie couldn’t have looked away even had she wanted to. Her father’s strength was fading from one heartbeat to the next, but what little reserves he had left he used to imbue his words with authority. ‘Don’t let the sacrifices be for nothing.’
She choked. ‘I…I won’t.’
Stan’s grip relaxed, and he closed his eyes. For a moment, Evie thought he’d drifted into sleep. But then his eyes opened, and the death mask cracked into a smile. The sun seemed to flood the room, and her father was back with her. ‘My girl. I’m so proud of you, Evie.’
Evie swallowed back the lump in her throat. Her father’s face sparkled and blurred through her tears, but she forced a smile. ‘I’ll do you proud, Dad. I’ll do it for you.’
Stan’s eyes fluttered closed, his features relaxed in a smile. By the time her mother nudged open the door, a cup and saucer in one hand, he was asleep. Dora set the teacup down upon the dressing table, then she smoothed the candlewick bedspread. Evie glanced at her face and was shocked to see her mouth drawn tight as though in pain, her chin trembling.
She rose and gripped Dora’s hand, ushering her into the chair she’d just vacated. ‘Sit here, Mum.’ She had to swallow against the tightness in her throat. ‘I can fetch another chair.’
Throughout the long night that followed, Stan didn’t once open his eyes. Evie and Dora sat beside the bed, hardly daring to move, listening to each laboured breath. As the hours wore on, his breathing became gradually shallower, the pause between inhalations increasing.
Evie clung to his hand, as though she could will her life force and warmth through the connection. Stay with us, Dad. Please don’t go. But she knew in her heart he was fading. All her senses were focused on Stan, watching for each rise and fall of his chest, listening for the rasp as he dragged more air into his lungs, jumping each time his fingers twitched in hers. Even though her eyes were heavy and gritty from lack of sleep, she didn’t dare tear away her gaze. Outside, the wind rattled at the windows and its shrill banshee wail tore down the chimney.
Finally, about an hour before dawn, Stan gave a long, slow, rattling exhalation. Evie waited a long time for his next breath, but it never came.
* * *
‘Goodbye, Evie dear.’ Mrs Wilkins, always the last to leave any gathering, stood beside the front door and smiled as Evie helped her on with her coat. ‘Do let me know if there’s anything I can do for you or your mother.’ She paused. ‘I suppose you’ve given up with that whole Somerville business now.’
Evie, her throat aching from the effort of holding back the tears all morning, forced a smile. ‘Oh no. I’ll still be going to Somerville in the autumn. But I’ll pass your kind message on to my mother.’
Mrs Wilkins said nothing but pursed her mouth in obvious disapproval. Then she stepped over the threshold and waddled down the path, turning up her collar against the damp air.
Evie shut the door and sagged against it, relieved that the last guest had finally left. She allowed herself ten precious seconds of quiet before returning to the front room to help her mother clear up. It was the morning after New Year’s Day, the day of Stan’s funeral. Dora had insisted upon inviting the mourners to the house after the dismal service at the cemetery under skies as grey and heavy as Evie’s heart. The neighbours had all brought plates of sandwiches and cakes to supplement the food Evie and Dora had provided. Evie had been touched at their generosity at a time when people were stocking their larders in preparation for the introduction of rationing in just six days.
In honour of the occasion they had used the best room in the house, but it felt wrong to Evie to commemorate her father in here. He had never liked the front room, complaining it had a soulless feel, and Evie had to agree. There was no denying Dora took great care of its appearance: lace antimacassars draped the back and arms of the sofa and armchair with mathematical precision; the convex mirror hanging from the picture rail gleamed from regular polishing; a vase filled with dried pink rosebuds, matching those on the wallpaper, stood in the precise centre of the console table beneath the window. Maybe it was the sterile cleanliness or maybe it was the slight mustiness in the air, the inevitable result of leaving the room unused most of the time, but Evie always felt uncomfortable in here. She preferred to think of her father in the cheerful, if scruffy, back room.
‘If you think you’re swanning off to college when I need you here, you’ve got another think coming.’ Dora Bishop turned on Evie almost as soon as she entered the room.
Evie swallowed, her throat raw from days of weeping. Not this argument again, today of all days. ‘But Mum, I promised Dad—’
‘Well, he’s not here, is he.’ Dora picked up the empty plates that were scattered around the front room, weaving around the dining chairs that had been brought in from the back room to supplement the seating. She stacked them with swift, jerky movements, the crashing of crockery setting Evie’s teeth on edge. ‘And now I’m all alone, you want to go off and leave me.’ Her voice wobbled, and Evie’s heart twisted.
Several times in the ten days since her father’s death, Evie had considered giving up her dream of a degree to look after Dora. However, each time the thought crossed her mind she was back beside her father’s death bed, and she could hear the urgency in his voice despite the struggle to speak. ‘Promise me you won’t give up, my girl.’ The memory always strengthened her resolve.
‘But it’s not until October. Surely by then—?’
‘No. It’s time you did your bit. I’ll admit it was a good idea to get your Higher Certificate. You can get yourself a good job with that – with all the men joining up, the banks are crying out for educated girls to fill the vacancies. I’ve spent years working my fingers to the bone to put you through the High. It’s time you paid your way.’
Dora seemed to imply Evie hadn’t lifted a finger to help, but she’d taken the job at Henderson’s and several tutoring jobs to help support her parents, taking an extra year after leaving school so she could start to repay them for everything they’d given up. It hadn’t been easy finding the time for her own studies. Evie counted to ten before answering, doing her best to keep the irritation out of her voice. ‘I could get a much better job with a degree. And it’s not as if I’ll be far away.’ Evie was grateful her father had made her promise to go. It would have been hard to hold out against her mother otherwise. She felt guilty enough as it was, but she wouldn’t be leaving for months. Surely her mother would have had a change of heart by then. And Mrs Wilkins was a good neighbour. With Evie coming home every weekend, her mother would be well looked after. No. When the official letter came through from Somerville, she’d accept the scholarship without a qualm.
The letter. She paused in the act of stacking plates. Come to think of it, she would have expected to have heard from Somerville by now. It had been almost two weeks.
Drawing a shaky breath, she went to the kitchen. There was a pile of letters on the shelf just inside the door. Her scholarship offer must be buried underneath all the messages of condolence from friends and family. She put the plates in the sink, wiped her hands on her apron and turned to the papers. To her dismay, Dora followed. She couldn’t deal with this now.
‘Mum, please, let’s talk about this tomorrow.’ She shuffled through the correspondence: handwritten letters from uncles, aunts, cousins, neighbours and colleagues. All brief, give
n the increasing paper shortage, but heartfelt, nonetheless. She shuffled through the stack three times, sure she must have missed it, but there was no typed letter. Nothing bearing the Somerville crest. ‘Have you seen a letter from Somerville?’
Dora shot her a sidelong glance, then picked up a tea towel and used it to pick up the kettle from the stove. She poured hot water into the sink, sending steam billowing into the cramped kitchen. She seemed to take a painfully long time to empty the water out of the kettle.
‘I’ve already told you you’re not going to Somerville.’ Dora stuck out her chin, but she wouldn’t meet Evie’s gaze.
A cold trickle of unease ran down Evie’s spine. But no. The emotion of the day was playing havoc with her imagination. ‘I promise we’ll talk about it properly later, Mum. I won’t leave you in the lurch. It’s just—’ Her voice wobbled as she caught sight of her father’s coffee mug standing upon the draining board, sparkling clean, the only unused cup in the house. Her next words, forced through her tight throat, came out in a husky whisper. ‘Not today. Please.’
‘There’s nothing to discuss.’ Dora’s voice held an odd tone of defiance and triumph that set alarm bells ringing in Evie’s head.
She licked dry lips. ‘What do you mean, Mum? What have you done?’
A long silence filled the kitchen, broken only by the drip of the tap. Then: ‘The letter came the day after your father died. I answered it in your name. I turned down the scholarship.’
* * *
Evie felt nothing. No anger, no surprise, just leaden numbness. It was as though she’d known something like this would happen. Suddenly she couldn’t face her mother. She had to get out, away from this suffocating kitchen, out of the house. She stumbled into the hall, grabbed her coat and strode outside, slamming the door behind her so hard, the door knocker rattled. For some time, she walked without paying attention to where she was going, blinking away the drizzle that stung her eyes. Then she saw she was on the Cowley Road. A bus heading into Oxford pulled into a bus stop a few paces away.
An idea struck, and she hurried to climb aboard. She would go to Cornelia, explain what had happened and ask her to intervene. Cornelia would sort everything out.
She got off the bus on the High Street and strode towards Charles Street. But with each step her feet grew heavier as bitter certainty overtook her. Her mother had turned the scholarship down over a week ago. Another girl would have been offered the scholarship by now. Another girl who had dreamed of being an Oxford scholar for years. Cornelia would be powerless to do anything. Besides, it wasn’t fair to ask her to take on Evie’s problems. Evie was used to solving her own problems.
She wandered aimlessly, scarcely noticing where she was going, aware only of the rain beading on her eyelashes, blurring her vision, and a heavy ache in her chest. The last thing she’d said to her father was a promise not to give up her dream of Somerville. How dare her mother dash all of Evie’s hopes, force her to break her promise?
It was as though the icy shell that had formed around her heart ever since her father’s death suddenly cracked, letting in all the feelings she’d been shielded from. A sob of rage burst from her, causing several passers-by to turn curious gazes upon her. She hastily dived into an empty side road, away from the bustle of the main thoroughfares. Golden sandstone walls towered above the cobbled lane on both sides, shutting out the world. The hum of voices, the tap and scrape of many feet upon the gritty pavements and the chiming of bicycle bells faded the farther she walked. She drew several deep breaths, forcing herself to calm down and think. There had to be a solution, some way she could fund her degree. She still had a place at Somerville, after all; it was just the scholarship Dora had turned down. Maybe she could defer her place and apply for a scholarship again next year? Yet everything in her rebelled at spending another year working in Henderson’s or shuffling paper in a bank when she wanted to be learning new things.
She reached the end of the narrow lane and found herself on busy Broad Street, near the Clarendon Building. The imposing Palladian-style building had been taken over as a recruitment office after the outbreak of war, and now Evie found herself gazing at posters of men and women in uniform, all doing their part to fight the Nazi threat. Her eyes fell on a poster for the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. It showed a young woman in air force blue, gazing keenly into the distance. There was an air of purpose about her, determination. She wasn’t whiling away her time in a job her heart wasn’t in. She was using her God-given talents in the service of her country and she wouldn’t let anyone hold her back.
For a wild moment, Evie was struck by the urge to volunteer as a WAAF and leave her disappointment and dreams behind. What with her studies and her father’s illness and death, she hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the progress of the war; beyond the blackout and the fuss surrounding the introduction of rationing, it hadn’t affected her personally. Even so, she’d been aware of the rumours that Hitler intended to invade France and the Low Countries in the spring. If she couldn’t go to Somerville, perhaps the WAAF would provide the purpose and comradeship she craved.
She hesitated. Why not go in? It wouldn’t do any harm to at least find out more.
Her limbs trembling, she approached the building. She’d just climbed the first stone step to the porticoed entrance when an image of her mother, bowed with grief, came to mind. She stopped and leaned against a column, feeling the scrape of the chilly sandstone beneath her fingernails. It was one thing to move to Somerville, less than four miles from home, but it was quite another to join the WAAF and have no say over where she was sent. For all she knew she could end up in the Hebrides. Angry as she was, could she really do that to her mother? She closed her eyes, willing herself to think rationally and decide upon a course of action.
Her stomach rumbled. A glance at her watch gave her a shock when she saw it was five past three. No wonder she was hungry – she hadn’t eaten a thing all day, having been unable to force a morsel past her lips either before the funeral or during the reception afterwards. She could almost hear Cornelia Gould telling her sternly not to make hasty decisions upon an empty stomach. She drew her purse from her pocket and counted her money; she had just enough for a bowl of soup and still leave change for the bus fare home. She trudged back down the steps and headed down Broad Street towards her favourite café. Maybe she’d be able to think straight once she got some food inside her.
She never made it to the café. As she drew level with the entrance to Boswells, the department store doors opened, and three young women strode out surrounded by a cloud of perfume. At the centre of the trio, tall, confident, dressed in furs, was none other than Julia Harris. Evie’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, and she turned abruptly, desperately trying to keep out of sight behind a group of elderly women sheltering beneath umbrellas. But ill fortune made Julia glance up before she reached safety.
‘Why, if it isn’t Evie Bishop.’ Julia’s sneering voice rang out above the babble of voices in the street. ‘You remember Evie, girls. Would you believe the teachers’ pet is now nothing more than a common shop girl?’
The three girls giggled, and it was just like being back at school, Julia and her cronies circling like a pack of hyenas. Evie felt her face burn, and something inside her snapped. Scarcely knowing what possessed her, she found herself marching towards her tormentor, fists balled at her sides. Julia gave a little yelp and took a hasty step back, as though fearing Evie would hit her. Evie saw Julia’s immaculately made-up face through a red mist. She took another step forward, backing Julia against the stone pillar beside the shop doorway. Julia’s friends sidled away, looking alarmed.
‘There’s nothing wrong with earning a living,’ she spat. ‘It beats living off your daddy.’ She felt as though she was standing outside herself, watching someone else. She could no more control the words pouring from her mouth than stop the drizzle falling from the leaden clouds. ‘Anyway, I’m not a shop girl any more – I’ve joined the WAAF. I�
�m going to do something useful with my life. Something I can be proud of. Not like you, who has nothing better to do with her time than stockpile soap.’
Her final salvo fired, she marched back up Broad Street, without so much as a glance over her shoulder. In a daze, she went straight up the steps of the Clarendon Building and into the recruitment office. As luck would have it, there was no queue, and she found herself sitting in front of the recruiting sergeant before the mist had fully cleared from her head. ‘I want to join the WAAF,’ she said.
‘Can you drive or cook?’ the sergeant asked. He barely glanced at Evie but studied the paper on the desk in front of him, pen poised.
‘I can’t drive,’ Evie replied.
‘Cook, then.’ The man went to write a note on the form.
Evie felt like she’d swallowed a lead weight. The last of the haze dissolved. What was she doing? She’d rather work in a bank than spend the duration cooking. It was only the thought of bumping into Julia Harris again and having to explain that she hadn’t joined the WAAF after all that made her keep going. ‘I can’t really cook, either. Well, nothing more than eggs and toast,’ she stammered when the man glared at her. ‘I mean, I’m better at maths.’
The man looked at her in sudden interest. ‘How good?’
‘I won a scholarship to Somerville to read mathematics.’ Suddenly her brain clicked back into gear, and she could see her way forward. By signing up to the armed forces, she could defer her place at Somerville until the end of the war. In the meantime, she could put money aside from her pay to fund her degree if she wasn’t able to get a scholarship.
The man looked impressed. ‘In that case, I’ll put you down for clerk, special duties.’
And that was that. Before she knew it, she’d given her details to the sergeant and she was told to await her calling-up papers by post. She had no idea what ‘clerk, special duties’ meant, but it was too late to ask now. Anyway, it had to be better than cooking.