by May, Nicola
‘So, let me guess: the big drama is that the tall man with the Santa hat and the heart-shaped birthmark is in love with someone other than you – correct?’ Evie could detect a posh accent. ‘I’m Yves by the way, Yves with a Y.’
‘Evie – Evie with an E.’ She wiped her eyes and turned to face her step companion.
‘Ah, she speaks with humour, as well as weeps.’
‘Yves and Evie. Ha! That’s quite a coincidence.’
‘Nothing in this world is a coincidence, Evie with an E, eh? Hmmm. My mum was French, my birthday was yesterday, my dad had a sense of humour – go figure.’
‘That’s brilliant. I recognise you now – I dished up your carrots earlier.’
‘And you did it so finely too. That woman with the blonde wig, I thought to myself. She sure knows how to dish up veg.
Evie couldn’t help but smile. ‘You cheeky bastard. And as for your wig insinuation, no one in their right mind would want to pay good money for this unruly mop.’
‘That’s better. The frown has been turned upside down.’
‘Aw, I like that!’
‘And your curls make you who you are, so stop all that vocal self-harming right this minute. I suppose you don’t like your curves either?’ Yves went on. ‘Want to look like the skinny kid that had her arms wrapped around Greg, I bet?’
Evie loving his frankness, nodded.
‘Well, embrace those curves too, honey, as I say they just make more of you to love.’
‘You must think me such a trivial bitch. My problems are nothing compared to yours.’
‘And there I expect you are very wrong, lady. Go on, tell me why you are sad? I’m a good listener and I’ve got plenty of time on my hands.’
Evie noticed Yves’s green eyes. They still had a wonderful sparkle despite him living on the street. He had a full beard that was actually not too badly kept, and his skin was remarkably clear and not as weather-beaten compared to other people’s were that she had spoken to today. His jumper and jeans were worn but clean, and he actually smelled quite fresh. His right boot was tied round with string to keep the sole on and he wore a silver earring in the shape of a dove in his right ear.
As if he could read her mind, he took her hand gently. She could feel his rough palm. ‘I stayed in a hostel last night,’ he told her. ‘Washed, brushed up, and one of the helpers gave me a new pair of undies and a squirt of his aftershave. I mean, I didn’t know who I might meet today, did I?’ His teeth were slightly stained, from his pipe-smoking, she assumed.
‘You don’t look old enough to be smoking a pipe,’ she commented.
‘All these preconceptions the real world conforms to. Age is purely a number, it shouldn’t be a label for anything.’ He scratched his beard. ‘I suck on the pipe more out of habit than anything. It’s quite enjoyable. If I score baccy it’s a bonus – wanna try?’
‘No, you’re all right, thanks. So what about you? I’m interested to hear your story.’
‘I asked you first. Come on, humour me a little, Evie. I mean, my entertainment tonight isn’t going to involve catching up on the soaps or a Gavin & Stacey Christmas special, now is it?’
‘I so feel for you.’
‘Don’t. Now speak.’
Evie pulled her knees in under the old grey overcoat. ‘Well, I really like Greg, but he’s not the reason for my tears.’
‘Go on.’
‘Are you sure you want my tales of woe?’
‘Evie, talk!’
‘OK. OK. My boyfriend dumped me two days ago. He’s fucking his secretary. I lost my job two weeks ago. I’m thirty-two and have a body clock ticking as loudly as Big Ben and I can’t afford to stay in my rented house unless I get a lodger. And I really don’t fancy sharing with a stranger.’ She was on a roll now. ‘I knew things weren’t right with me and Darren. He was pretty selfish, a real mummy’s boy, never did any chores. Always knew his parents would bail him out. He had the sex drive of an amoeba anyway, so in fact good bloody riddance to him, I say. Aitchoo!’
‘Bless you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And as for Greg, well, I met him two nights ago in a pub in Chelsea and he randomly asked if I would help here today. He’s the first man who’s shown me an inch of kindness for a while and he is rather hot.’
Yves sucked on his pipe and shivered slightly.
‘Do you want your coat back?’
‘No, it’s fine. I’m used to the cold.’
A couple walked by hand in hand, laughing, then stopped and kissed right in front of them.
‘Happy Christmas!’ they both shouted back in unison as they ran towards a black cab.
‘So, out of all those things you said that were making you sad, which one of them doesn’t have a solution?’
Evie looked up to the starry sky in thought.
‘There’s going to be a frost,’ she noted.
‘Evie, I asked you a question.’
‘Well, none of them, I suppose. In time I will get a job and a house. I need a man to get a baby, and that’s what I always struggle with. Finding a decent man. I’ve got a worse track record than Elizabeth Taylor, as a matter of fact.’
‘See, it’s not so bad – and who says you need a man to get a baby these days?’
‘True.’
‘And wouldn’t you rather have had the colourful life that Elizabeth Taylor led, than be someone for example who stayed in a loveless marriage for the security of it?’
‘Well, if you put it like that . . . I can’t believe I’m being so candid but if I’m totally honest, I am materialistic. I don’t like not having money or love in my life for that matter. I don’t want to have to scrape to buy a lipstick or treat a magazine as a luxury item. I’m too old to be living like a student again.’
‘Thar she blows again about age.’ Yves sucked harder on his pipe.
‘I mean, what sort of quality of life can you have without money, Yves? I hate to say it, but you are a prime example. You have one good boot, your clothes are horrible, you don’t have a bed to sleep in. I don’t believe you can ever wake up feeling happy.’
Yves ignored her comment and offered Evie his hand to help her up. She sneezed again loudly. He took his coat gently from her shoulders, reached into a pocket and dabbed a menthol-smelling yellow cream under her nose.
‘Oi.’ She pulled away. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Trust me and meet me five p.m. tomorrow on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral.’
Evie finished wiping her nose and turned to answer, but the young tramp had already disappeared into the cold December night.
Chapter Three
‘What do you mean, someone put some ointment under your nose and your cold has completely gone?’
‘Just that. Honestly, it was the weirdest thing. I’m no longer sneezing, my sore throat’s gone, even the cough. I’m one hundred per cent better; in fact, I feel bloody great.’
‘It’s just a coincidence, Evie. I mean, colds do that. They come and then they go.’
‘He told me there was no such thing as a coincidence.’
‘Who is this man who has brainwashed you, anyway?’
‘His name’s Yves. He was born on Christmas Eve so his parents called him Yves. He’s a tramp.’
‘I know it’s only ten o’clock but are you on the sherry already?’
‘No. I’m not! I met him at the homeless shelter. He’s sweet. He said some lovely things. I’m meeting him later actually. At St Paul’s.’
‘I think you’ve gone mad – and where does the lovely Greg feature in all this?’
‘The lovely Greg has a girlfriend, unfortunately. I was all set to ask him out for a drink and she suddenly appeared. All petite and perfect, to work the night-shift with him.’
‘Well, it’s just a girlfriend, not a wife. You ‘re still in with a chance if you play your cards right.’
‘Bea, you are terrible! I do have some morals. Anyway, Happy Boxing Day you old ta
rt. How was yesterday?’
‘Just the usual. Mum, Dad and the sisters. Auntie Flo, Uncle Pete. Oh, and Tom and Vera came round from next door with number one son, Josh, for the evening.’
‘And did you?’
‘Just a blow job, in the utility room.’
‘You are unbelievable.’
‘He’s twenty-four now. He’ll be too old for me soon.’
‘I wish I had your gall.’
‘It’s short-lived gratification, Evie, and it’s not big or clever. Just a complete and utter turn-on.’
‘Don’t ever change, Beatrice Stewart.’
‘So, back to Yves the tramp. I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation. Why are you meeting him later?’
‘I don’t actually know.’
‘What?’
‘Well, there’s something about him. He is really interesting. I feel drawn to him.’
‘Come on down! Meet Beatrice Stewart, shagger of toy boys and her friend Evie Harris with her fetish for tramps.’
Evie laughed out loud. ‘Let me just go with it.’
‘He might be after your money.’
‘What bloody money? Nah, he knows I’m skint.’
‘OK. Well, be careful and make sure you call me later and give me the scoop.’
‘I will. What are you doing later anyway?’
‘Hopefully, Josh. His mum and dad are going out and I said I’d pop round to pull his cracker later.’
‘You are insatiable, girl.’
‘I know! Now, bugger off and go and see old Christmas Yves, you weird tart.’
‘He’s not old.’
‘You said he was a tramp?’
‘Look at you labelling. It’s hard to tell exactly how old he is, as he has a bushy beard and a few laughter lines, but he’s only around thirty, I reckon.’
‘Get in there then, girl. Who knows? This could be the man of your dreams.’
‘You make my heart smile, Bea. You really do.’
‘Good. Enjoy yourself whatever you do and I cannot wait to hear all about it.’
Chapter Four
Peace
It was eerily quiet on the tube on Boxing Day and Evie enjoyed the tranquility. One benefit of being out of work, she thought, was that she could step out of the rat race, even if just for a short while.
Yves was wearing a light grey suit and his beard looked slightly shorter than she remembered. He was waiting at the bottom of the steps to the spectacular St Paul’s Cathedral. Evie had read about the cathedral on her iPhone on the way here. She could recite off pat the fact that it sits at the top of Ludgate Hill, the highest point in the City of London, is dedicated to Paul the Apostle and dates back to the original church on this site, founded in AD something or other. The present church had been designed by Sir Christopher Wren. Phew!
Despite the area around the cathedral being well lit, Yves shone a torch towards her so Evie’s path was even clearer. Today, his brown hair was tied back in a short ponytail. She hated to admit it but he did look quite handsome in a hippyish sort of way.
‘Hello Evie with an E, how are you?’
‘My cold has gone! I feel so much better. Haven’t sneezed even once today.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘What was that ointment you put under my nose? Is it a wonder cure?’
‘Ointment? Sorry, I don’t understand. I had some hand cream on that they had put in the toilets yesterday, maybe it was that you smelled?’
‘Oh, maybe.’ Bea was right, she was imagining things. Her cold had gone, and for this she was pleased – whatever the reason.
‘These are for you.’ She handed Yves a carrier bag.
‘Trainers? Wow. That’s really kind. Thank you – and they’re the right size.’
‘Well, I thought you looked about the same build as Darren, and he won’t miss them. He’s got hundreds of pairs.’
‘I really appreciate that, Evie. Right, I’m glad you are early. Evensong is about to start and I want you to experience it.’
Evie wasn’t particularly religious; she had gone to a Church of England school and that was about as far as it went. She knew the Lord’s Prayer and a few hymns, was all.
However, she gasped as she entered the cathedral. She had obviously seen it on the television at various state occasions and had seen images of Charles and Diana getting married there.
‘Was Diana’s funeral here too?’ She was whispering now.
‘No, Westminster Abbey.’ Yves tucked his pipe in his pocket.
Evie giggled. ‘We should go up to the Whispering Gallery.’
‘Ssh. Another day.’ Yves’ beard tickled her ear.
They were ushered to seats right within the choir stalls. Once everyone was settled, it was the loudest silence she had ever experienced. The beauty of this magnificent place of worship overtook her and her eyes filled with tears. Yves reached for her hand and squeezed it. She was in awe of the magnificently painted ceiling, the ornate gold decorations, the architecture, the sheer size of the place.
But, most of all she was overcome by the sudden feeling of peace that washed over her when the choir began to sing. She took a deep breath and thought of her beautiful mum, as she always did when she ventured into a church. Celia Harris had died when she was just thirty-five, of a sudden brain haemorrhage, and it had been the single most horrific event to date in Evie’s whole life. She was so glad that Celia had had her when she was just seventeen, as it had at least given her eighteen glorious years with her mother. She still missed her every single day. Celia had not only been an amazing person, but also a gifted artist, and Evie knew that if she had been allowed to reach her potential, her paintings would have made it to top London galleries. Such a waste of a beautiful life.
Evie knew her love of photography must have come from her creative mother. She had never met the man who had fathered her. She was the much-loved result of a dubious one-night stand, Celia had told her, and nothing more glamorous than that. Evie wasn’t angry: she had loved the frankness and eccentricity of her adored mother, and didn’t miss having a father in her life.
Evie had read somewhere that love and peace are supposed to fill the hole that a bereavement brings. She was yet to experience that, but hoped one day it might come true.
The last hymn reached its heartwarming crescendo and Yves guided her out of the choir stalls and towards the Nativity Scene, which had been set up on the way out of the cathedral.
‘It’s so sweet,’ Evie said quietly.
She then noticed rows and rows of lit tea-lights. They looked so beautiful and it felt so Christmassy. Without prompting, she put her money in the box for one. Wishing her mum happiness wherever she might be, she lit it, put it amongst the others. Quietly at first, then more loudly on reaching the cold fresh air, she began to sob. Big, fat, snotty sobs on to Yves shoulder.
He rubbed her back gently. ‘It’s OK, Evie, get it out. You will feel so much better.’
After about five minutes she stopped and pulled away from him.
‘I am so sorry.’
‘Never ever apologise for expressing emotion, Evie. And if anyone is not kind enough to comfort or understand you when you do, then they are not worthy of your time or love.’
‘Thank you.’ She blew her nose.
‘Can I ask who it was?’
‘My mum.’
Yves shut his eyes. ‘I feel your pain and bless you.’ After a moment, he went on: ‘When you asked about Diana’s funeral earlier, I remembered her sister reading the most beautiful piece.’
‘Go on, will it make me cry again though?’
‘Maybe, but it is so beautiful. I want to share it with you.’
They walked down the cathedral steps together, an unlikely couple, but Evie didn’t mind what anyone thought. Yves had such a good soul – who cared if he looked a bit of a mess. It really didn’t matter. Without warning he started to recite –
Time is too slow for those who wait,
Too swift for those who fear,
Too long for those who grieve,
Too short for those who rejoice,
But for those who love, time is eternity.
All of a sudden, some fireworks lit up the night sky behind the dome of the cathedral.
‘I adore fireworks.’ Evie laughed happily. ‘How magical is this. Who wrote that poem, by the way?’
‘It was a guy called Henry van Dyke, a nineteenth-century American author, educator, and clergyman.’
‘You’re far too clever to be a tramp.’
‘Another unfounded generalisation, Evie with an E. Now what was it that the dandy Oscar Wilde said? One has a right to judge a man by the effect he has over his friends. But I won’t bore you with more of my quotations.’
‘You’ve haven’t bored me once. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for bringing me here. It’s been truly amazing and I feel honoured that I could get upset in front of you.’
‘See, you don’t need money to do things that make you feel good.’
‘No, tonight does prove that, but please let me get you dinner to say thank you?’
‘Evie, if you were to use one word to describe to me how tonight’s experiences have made you feel – the singing, the surroundings, the candle, your release of tears – what would it be?’
Without hesitation, Evie replied very softly, ‘Peaceful. Yes – peaceful, that’s how I feel.’ She smiled at him. ‘So, dinner?’
Yves shook his head, placed a piece of white card in her hand, closed her fingers around it and was gone.
The small, business-sized card had the most beautiful water-colour painting of a dove on one side, and on the other in perfect handwriting were the words: Meet me at the bottom of The Shard tomorrow night, half an hour before sunset.
Chapter Five
‘He obviously wants to shag you.’ Bea put a glass of white wine down in front of her friend and sat back in a leather sofa in their favourite Chelsea bar.
‘Oh Bea, not everyone thinks at such a base level as you,’ Evie said, then looked around the place. ‘Quiet in here today, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I guess everyone’s saving themselves for New Year’s Eve.’