by Louise Hare
‘Mrs Ryan’s been good to me.’
Arthur nodded. ‘She’s worried ’bout you. You’re too good at keeping your feelings to yourself and letting everyone take up the attention. Like Aston. And Evie.’
‘I don’t mind. I’m used to it. And I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have them.’ Especially Evie, he was realising. He should have put his foot down, made her come inside with him. They could have spent the afternoon together indoors quite nicely and Mrs Coleridge would have assumed they’d gone to the pictures as usual.
‘I know something that will cheer you up.’ Arthur reached with glee into his paper bag.
‘What you got there?’ Lawrie leaned forward to get a better look.
‘It was going to be a surprise but you look so damned miserable! I said that I would cook for us all tomorrow. Sunday dinner. Make myself useful and cheer up the troops. Lord knows we all need it. Everyone is so glum at the moment, not just you. I blame the weather.’ He brought out a bag of dried beans, then a glass jar filled with a reddish-brown powder.
Lawrie reached for the jar, twisting off the lid. The seasoning smelled of his mother’s kitchen: warmth from the pepper, garlic kicking the back of his throat. ‘Arthur, I could kiss you. Where you get this all from?’
‘Derek told to me the other day that some wise fella opened up shop a few stalls down from him. He got a deal with his cousin back home to send stuff over. Only been there a couple days but him almost sold out already. The English was standing around. Watching as if we mad. The crowd! I surprised you didn’t hear ’bout it. Ursula Sands got in there, haggling over the last of the beans until the fella ripped the bag and split it in two, like he King Solomon.’
‘Pray for the day the English discover that food can actually taste of something before you tip a pound of salt onto it.’ Lawrie brought the jar to his nose once more and breathed in deeply, the spice warming his soul. ‘How much did all this cost?’
‘More than it should, but the man promised me that he was sorting out regular shipments. Once a week, he hoping. A real genius, this fella is. He be buying his own house in no time. No more shift work for meagre pennies for that man.’
‘We should have thought of this, you know. Set up our own stall and got Derek to help us,’ Lawrie said. Forget working three jobs – this fella would be rolling in money in a matter of weeks so long as he could keep up with the demand.
He heard the front door close and Arthur stood up. ‘Cup of tea, Nóirín?’ He took a clean mug from the tree on the side.
Nóirín? Lawrie shot Arthur a look which was pointedly ignored.
‘Yes, please, Arthur love.’ Mrs Ryan struggled in, arms weighed down with shopping bags which Arthur leaped forward to take.
‘I was just hearing about the feast this dark horse of a man is preparing for us tomorrow,’ Lawrie told her.
‘Bless his heart.’ She smiled at Arthur, who Lawrie could swear blushed.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the front door, more of a thump, which seemed excessive when there was a perfectly good doorbell.
‘Now who on God’s green earth can that be?’ Mrs Ryan looked peeved, tutting as there came another great thump. ‘Are they trying to batter down the door?’
‘I’ll go.’ Lawrie got up and made himself useful. Besides, Arthur and Mrs Ryan – Nóirín – were looking like they wanted a minute to themselves. God only knew what Derek would make of it if there was something going on between those two.
Whoever was at the door was impatient enough to give the door another great thump, rattling the letterbox for good measure. ‘I’m coming!’
Lawrie opened the door. Two seconds later he wished he hadn’t.
8
She had almost turned back immediately, regretting her haste before the door had clicked closed. Then she heard the Ryans’ front door shut and it was too late. She couldn’t bear the thought of having to ring the bell, waiting for him to answer, wondering if he would accept her begrudging apology. She needed to calm down first. Wait until her temper had cooled enough that her pride was no longer important. She already knew that she’d let Lawrie down. He’d only wanted someone to talk to, and she could admit to herself that she wasn’t even that bothered about the pictures. It was Aston who had put her in such a foul mood. Just the mention of his name was enough to make her temper rise.
The hallway was thick with the miasma of boiling cabbage, and Evie’s nose wrinkled in distaste. Any stranger who walked in would think the Coleridge house a little shabby, and they’d be right. The wallpaper was faded, and the woodwork begged for a lick of paint, but money was tight. But while there were higher priorities than decorating, no one could claim that the Coleridges kept anything other but a spotless home. Not a single speck of dust was allowed to settle, nor a single item left out of place.
‘No pictures today?’ Ma was crouched before the open oven door as her daughter entered. Two pans boiled violently on the stove, the kitchen window clouded over by steam which made Evie’s face tingle.
‘Long story.’ She sat at the small wooden table which squatted along the wall opposite the back door, a chair either side. They’d only ever been two, every meal eaten facing one another through a silence that varied from companionable to glowering. ‘Just as well, anyway. You got dinner started early. Need a hand?’
‘No need, love, but I’m glad you’re home.’ Ma held her back, wincing as she moved from her crouch to a standing position. ‘I thought we’d crack open that bottle of wine. You know, the fancy one I won at the church tombola. Might be all right, eh?’
Evie nodded warily. Her mother rarely drank and never at home unless they had a visitor. On those special occasions Ma would pull out the dusty bottle of Glenfiddich that lived at the back of the sideboard, first opened before Evie had started at school. She could recall each separate event: the vicar at Christmas; Aunt Gertie when she had visited them three years before (though she’d brought her own gin, and let Evie have the odd thimbleful); the time Mrs Hargrave from down the road had lost her marbles and mistaken Ma for Evie’s grandmother who had died back in 1923. Evie had been sent out to find Mrs Hargrave’s son who lived in a large semi-detached down in Herne Hill. The son had driven back up with Evie in the passenger seat of his flash two-seater, and she’d tried not to look terrified as he pressed his impatient foot to the floor, gathering up his senile old mother before whizzing her off to an old folk’s home, never to be seen or heard of again.
‘Are we celebrating something?’ Evie asked now.
‘You could say that.’ Her mother plonked down the bottle of burgundy along with two of the crystal wine glasses that had lived up on the top shelf for decades, droplets of water still clinging to the cut edges where they had been rinsed out. Ma sat down. ‘Evie, I know that the last couple of years haven’t been easy, but things are looking up now, don’t you think?’
‘Never been better.’ Evie smiled, thinking of Lawrie and trying to forget their stupid argument.
‘I’m proud of you, you know?’ Ma reached over the table and squeezed Evie’s hand.
‘Gosh, Ma, what’s up with you today? You’re not dying, are you?’ The words flipped off her tongue and she bit it to stop from making things any worse. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘It’s fine, love. I mean, we’re both here, aren’t we? Surviving? Won’t be long before you’re leaving me behind and starting a family of your own.’ Ma wrestled the cork from the bottle and poured barely an inch into each glass. ‘I know it won’t make up for growing up without a father and-’
‘Like you said,’ Evie interrupted, ‘sometimes things happen for the best. Cheers.’ She clinked her glass against her mother’s and drank. The wine was rich and she held it in her mouth while she decided if she liked it or not. It was different, not as bitter as gin or fiery as the Glenfiddich, which had set Evie’s throat on fire when she’d sneaked a drop from the bottom of the vicar’s glass after he’d left.
&nbs
p; Ma took a suspicious sip of the wine and wrinkled her nose. ‘Your aunt Gertie wrote to me. I was thinking maybe we should invite her to come and stay this summer for a week or two. What do you think?’
‘It’d be nice to see her. It was very generous of her, having me to stay for all that time.’ Evie had been glad that her aunt’s house was on the outskirts of her small Devon town. It was easy to hide away from the locals who had stared at her without shame every time she went to the local shop. They’d clearly never seen a coloured person before, not in real life anyway.
‘Least she could do,’ her mother said. ‘She didn’t exactly do anything to help when you were born. I could have done with a little of her generosity back then.’
‘I suppose she was afraid. Of my grandfather, I mean.’ Evie took another gulp from her glass, for courage. ‘That baby in the pond, d’you think, maybe, that she’s like me? It would make sense, wouldn’t it? And you still know people at the home on Cedars Road. Could she have come from there?’
Ma’s reply was interrupted as they heard shouting through the wall from next door. Mrs Ryan was shrieking and Evie could make out a second, lower voice. A man with a Cockney accent, getting gradually louder. She jumped as the wall thudded, as if something heavy had been thrown against it, shaking the crockery on the shelves of the Coleridges’ kitchen.
‘What on earth…’ Ma began to speak but Evie was already on her feet and rushing to the front door.
She didn’t know how, but she knew that Lawrie was in trouble; her fears proven when she threw open the door and startled the uniformed police constable who stood at the end of the Ryans’ path, his hand moving to his baton. ‘Go back inside, Miss,’ he ordered.
Evie ignored the policeman and walked outside, down the path. The Ryans’ front door stood open and she could hear scuffling, a dragging sound, before three men appeared. Lawrie was in the middle, awkwardly supported by the other two men, plain-clothed but clearly coppers. They squeezed out of the door, almost falling onto the path, another man strolling out behind them. This man was older, with a thin moustache that reminded her of Errol Flynn, though this man was no movie star hero with his pasty pitted skin and receding hairline. He paused on the step as he noticed Evie, puffing a cloud of smoke around the cigarette that was glued to his bottom lip.
‘Lawrie?’ Evie reached out a hand towards him without thinking, the man closest to her knocking it away. ‘What’s going on? Where are you taking him?’
‘Who are you?’ The detective was eyeing her with interest and her stomach clenched, those few sips of wine now burning at the base of her gullet.
She took a deep breath and held onto the wall to steady herself. ‘Evelyn Coleridge. I live here.’
‘Well, Miss Coleridge, you should learn to mind your own business.’ He blew out a stream of smoke and smiled. ‘Unless you’ve got something of use to tell me?’
‘You leave her alone!’ Lawrie twisted in his captor’s grip, his cuffed hands sending him off balance, stumbling, earning a sly punch in the head for his trouble. They held him so that Evie couldn’t see his face properly but when the man who’d thrown the punch drew back his hand, the signet ring on his little finger was bloodied. Evie heard a sob and realised belatedly that it had come from her own lungs.
The pockmarked detective gave a signal and his men began to move once more, taking Lawrie towards the van they had parked up against the kerb. Mrs Ryan appeared in the doorway, her face blotchy and red, Arthur behind her and holding her back. Across the road Evie saw the net curtains twitch, and a few of their more brazen neighbours had actually come outside to get a better look. At the end of the road were a couple of children who’d stopped their game to watch the show. This was nothing but a street circus, the ringmaster surveying the scene with a thin smile on his face as he flicked ash from his cigarette. He looked like a man used to getting his own way; confident and satisfied in what he saw before him.
‘You can’t do this. You can’t just force your way onto private property and haul a man away,’ Mrs Ryan called. ‘What d’you think you’re playing at? I shall be making a complaint.’
‘I’m perfectly within my rights, madam. This man is under arrest for murder.’ The words landed amongst them like a doodlebug, a terrible silence broken by the clamouring of four people talking at once, shouting over one another until order was brought – a piercing whistle blasting the air, stabbing through Evie’s brain.
It was Ma, standing in the doorway with her father’s old police whistle in hand. ‘Let’s sort this out in a sensible fashion, shall we? Now, who are you exactly?’ She pointed at the detective, his jaw now clenched.
‘Detective Sergeant Rathbone.’ His lip curled as he stared at her, not used to being challenged.
‘Well, DS Rathbone, I must warn you, my father was a DI for quite some years and he told me all your little tricks. James Coleridge?’ Ma’s tone still filled with pride when she spoke of the man who had come to despise his own daughter.
Rathbone clenched his jaw. ‘I knew DI Coleridge. He was a great man, may he rest in peace.’ His eyes slid from Ma and rested on Evie, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly. If he knew of her grandfather then he no doubt knew who Evie was. What she was.
‘And I know this lad, Lawrie. There’s no way he did what you’re saying he did. I’d bet my life on it. He’s a good lad. It’d be very embarrassing if you missed the real culprit after putting on this song and dance, with all these people watching.’
‘He’s already lied to me once, Mrs…?’
‘It’s still Coleridge.’
Evie held her breath.
Rathbone smirked. ‘Of course it is. Well, Mrs Coleridge, I’m just doing my job, as I’m sure your old man would have appreciated. Your nigger friend here lied and I want to know why. That’s all. Maybe it’s a question your daughter can answer.’
‘You leave Evie out of this and don’t treat me like a fool, lad.’ Ma’s voice hardened as Evie took a step back, away from the detective’s accusation. ‘Your game won’t wash with me. I’m perfectly capable of picking up the telephone to your superiors. I’ve known Jim Garvan since I was young enough to bounce on his knee.’
‘Hold up, lads.’ His men paused by the side of the van as Rathbone took hold of the cigarette in his mouth and blew smoke in Evie’s direction. ‘I used to look up to your father, Mrs Coleridge. He taught me a great deal. Even went to his funeral when he was taken too soon. Don’t remember seeing you there, though. Or this one.’ He gestured at Evie with his cigarette.
‘I was there. Front pew with my sister.’ Ma bristled with indignation.
The detective glanced over at his men, giving a nod. They shoved Lawrie into the van and slammed the door on him. Rathbone leaned forward. ‘Jim Garvan? I know him well. Better than you, I’d say, ’cause if he was here he’d make sure you knew exactly what you are: a traitor. Way I hear it, you broke your father’s heart running off with some darkie chap who didn’t even stick around once he got what he wanted.’ He turned and spat on Mrs Ryan’s well-swept path. ‘Jim Garvan wouldn’t give you the time of day, Miss Coleridge.’
Ma was silent as Rathbone walked away to a red car which was parked up behind the van, her face pale in contrast to her flushed cheeks as she stared after him. Evie could hear the man whistling, as if the altercation had put him in a better mood, had buoyed him up as surely as it had deflated her mother.
‘Derek’ll sort it, Evie love. Soon as he gets home. He knows people. Lawyers and the like.’ Mrs Ryan wiped her eyes on a lilac handkerchief. ‘We’ll get him out.’
Evie just nodded as her mother turned and went back into the house without another word.
‘Evie?’ Arthur looked over his shoulder as he pushed Mrs Ryan gently back inside. ‘I’ll pop round when we have news.’
‘Thanks, Arthur.’
The door closed behind them and Evie watched as first the van, then Rathbone’s car, drove off down the street. From the corner of her eye she
sensed a cascade of curtains being dropped back into place, each house slightly out of time with the next.
Walking back into the house she was struck by the density of the silence, the only sound the shuffle of her slippered feet as she went to the kitchen in search of her mother. She found her there, looking out of the window, her hands resting on the cold hard steel of the sink. The rings on the stove had been turned off and she missed the regular sound that the boiling potatoes had made as they hit gently against the side of the pan.
‘Ma?’
There was no reply, her mother’s body as still as one of the waxworks at Madame Tussauds, as if she’d been posed to model as the perfect housewife. Evie knew this mood well, though it had been eighteen months or so since she’d last seen her mother like this. Her first instinct was to walk away but experience told her that would only make things worse.
‘Ma, would you like another drink?’ Wasn’t that what people did in the novels Ma got from the library? Things went wrong and they had a brandy or a Scotch and felt better.
Her mother turned and leaned against the counter, staring at Evie with eyes that were red and swollen, though she wasn’t crying. Evie sat down at the table and drained her own glass.
‘You know what they’ll do to him?’
Evie shook her head and poured more wine, holding the bottle with both hands to stop it from shaking. ‘We might as well eat something. Arthur said he’ll come and let us know as soon as they hear.’ In her head she begged her mother to shut up. She didn’t want to think about what Lawrie might be going through as she sat safe at home in a warm kitchen. He’d be cold in just that shirt and there was no one to tend to his wounds.