by Louise Hare
‘Thanks to Derek.’ Lawrie dug out the card he’d been given. ‘We’re to call this person if anything else happens.’ He drained his first glass in two gulps and accepted a second. He felt strange, his skin feverish and his bones less than solid, as though he were watching events unfold from a viewing point slightly outside of his actual body.
Mrs Ryan put the card up on the shelf. ‘We were all in a tizz, weren’t we, boys? Lucky Derek managed to get hold of his fella in the end.’
‘Did they tell you anything else about the baby?’ Aston asked, impatient to get to the facts.
‘Shouldn’t matter, I know, but don’t you think it’s worse that it was a girl?’ Mrs Ryan crossed herself. ‘Poor mite. Never had a chance in life.’
‘They’ll catch the bitch soon enough,’ Derek said, bowing his head away from the sideswipe his mother gave him. ‘I’d bet you any amount of money it’s a woman.’
‘Then they’re questioning the wrong people,’ Lawrie said. ‘You never wonder why?’
‘You know why. Think about it. Work out when that baby was conceived and you can see why they’re looking at anyone who arrived in summer ’48,’ Aston pointed out. ‘But what they’re missing is that a lot of fellas moved on already. Those who had relatives up north and whatnot. Sam, for one.’
Lawrie nodded. Sam hadn’t lasted long in London and they weren’t on speaking terms when he left. He was just the kind of man to leave chaos behind.
‘Exactly! Fine, some bloke got lucky one Saturday night, but who’s to say he had anything to do with what happened to that baby girl? They should be looking at the women who were hanging around,’ Derek said. ‘Plenty of sluts turning up at parties, looking to spread their legs for the first spade who’d take them outside.’
‘Derek Ryan, that is not the sort of language I expect to hear in my own house!’ Mrs Ryan pointed to Jesus on the wall, who looked down at Derek disapprovingly, it seemed to Lawrie, as he drained his glass a third time.
‘I’m goin’ outside,’ Aston announced, holding a rollup aloft. He nudged Lawrie hard. ‘Comin’?’
Reluctantly he got up and followed him out into the yard, shivering slightly at the change in temperature. He leaned against the brick wall and waited.
Aston lit his cigarette first, putting off what he had to say. ‘You’re not goin’ to like this but I meant what I said the other night.’ He paused and took another drag. ‘You should check in with Rose.’
‘Why would I?’ He knew why. He’d been trying to block out thoughts of Rose for days now.
‘That whole entire conversation in there. That’s why. You need to be certain.’
‘What? You think she wouldn’t have been straight round here?’ Or her husband? He’d have loved a good excuse to come round and start a fight.
Aston shrugged. ‘Is it not better to know either way?’
Lawrie turned and went back inside to where at least it was warm. He longed to run next door to Evie but her mother would tell him where to go. He wished he’d begged her to stay outside with him, just for a few minutes longer, just to hold him until he felt normal again. He’d have closed his eyes and pressed his nose against her skin, breathing in her sweet fragrance until he forgot the terror that had spread from his belly to every inch of his body as the policemen had grabbed his wrist, twisting his arms until his shoulders screamed. When he was with her, everything was right with the world. Damn what Aston said; he wasn’t going anywhere near Rose Armstrong.
1948
‘Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you kindly for your attention. We’d like to play you a little music. I hope you like it.’
Johnny stood before his audience as if it were the Royal Albert Hall and not a drab south London church hall. They’d been invited to play by the mayor himself, hoping to forge relations with the local community and hush the naysayers. Johnny didn’t seem to notice the group of local men sniggering at the back, propping up the makeshift bar that was serving tea and lemonade – though Lawrie could see from his elevated position that more than one person had brought their own supply of liquor. The crowd looked like a humbug: the newcomers lining the wall to Lawrie’s left, a clear separation between them and the natives.
The band had only snatched a few hours of practice. Lawrie had rented a room with Sam, on trumpet, but few of their fellow residents were music lovers and they’d been issued particular hours at which they could play, most of which coincided with the opening hours of the labour exchange. They were managing well considering, but every now and then their timing went off or Johnny decided to skip a verse, sending the rest of them off into panicked improvisation. It was fun, though. He’d forgotten this buzz, the joy he got from riffing off other musicians. They were just playing simple tunes that everyone knew, nothing obscure for this crowd, but Lawrie was surprised at how good they sounded.
‘Lemme introduce ourselves. We’re all neighbours now and we’d like to thank you for the warm welcome.’ Johnny gave each band member their moment in the spotlight and Lawrie stepped forward, bowing his head an inch as his name was called. The people below clapped politely as if they were at a council meeting rather than a dance. ‘Now come on, folks. I want to see you have some fun. I want to see me some dancing. Who’s brave enough to show the rest how it’s done?’
Nobody moved, no matter what colour their skin. The girls whispered behind their hands, giggling and prodding each other. The men looked as if they’d rather be anywhere else. Lawrie and Moses exchanged a glance, the latter rolling his eyes.
Then a young girl stepped forward, bright blonde hair and an emerald green dress. She held out her hand. ‘Any takers?’ No one replied and she moved her hands to her hips. ‘Really? No one? Christopher Marson, where the hell are you?’
One of the men at the bar was pushed forward by his friends, reluctantly joining the blonde in the middle of the dancefloor. They looked enough alike that Lawrie guessed that they were brother and sister rather than a couple.
‘A one, two, three…’ Johnny counted them in and they were off, the two dancers moving self-consciously as everyone watched.
By the end of the song, ten couples were dancing. Three songs later segregation had been outlawed, mixed partners talking and laughing like this was just the usual night out in Brixton.
‘Good work,’ Lawrie told Johnny as they took a break.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ he replied. ‘Some persons just need a little prod is all. You coming out?’ He flashed the inside of his jacket, revealing a slim bottle of whisky.
‘I’ll just grab a lemonade.’ He wasn’t as big a drinker as the others, despite Aston’s best efforts to convert him. He’d left London the day before, heading back to his RAF base now that his leave was over.
There was a queue at the bar as thirsty dancers took a breather. Lawrie queued politely, listening to the strange accents surrounding him. He paid for his lemonade and was making his way towards the back door when she appeared.
‘Fancy seeing you here!’ Her smile was wide as she blocked his exit.
‘Hello, Rose.’ He took a step back, her proximity unnerving.
‘You look surprised to see me.’ Rose raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, though thinking about it I’m not sure why. You do live round here after all.’
They both laughed a little, the hollow sound of two people meeting outside of their usual circumstances and realising that they don’t know each other as well as they thought.
‘You sounded good. The band I mean. Proper professional,’ she told him. ‘You got sorted I assume? With somewhere to live?’
‘A place over in Somerleyton Road, though I’m still looking for work. The only income I’ve got right now is the odd gig like this one.’
‘Something’ll come up soon. A strong young man like you should be in demand.’
Rose was different tonight. Down in the shelter she’d been motherly, making sure her charges were eating right, that they knew how to use the buses and the dre
aded tube. Now she looked up at Lawrie through dark eyelashes that were spiked with mascara, a strange smile on her face.
‘People are wary of us still. Maybe they think we won’t last once winter comes.’ He tried to make light of it, not wanting her to take offence.
It wasn’t Rose’s fault after all. The man who’d interviewed him that afternoon for a factory job had said it straight enough – Nothing personal but we don’t take niggers on here. The men don’t like it. He’d shrugged apologetically as if to say, that’s just the way of the world, and Lawrie had walked out without another word. It had been too much of a shock.
Rose just nodded. ‘Let me ask around. I can let you know if I hear of anything. I don’t suppose there’s a telephone where you are but I can pop round if you give me the address.’
‘Thank you. That would be very kind.’ He gave her the details before making his excuses and walking off to join the band. Something about her, which he couldn’t put his finger on, was making him feel uneasy.
The others were outside, passing Johnny’s bottle of whisky and smoking. Even though the hour was getting on, it was daylight still. It was disconcerting enough now but Aston had told him that in winter the nights were so long that there were days when the sun barely bothered to rise. Not something he was looking forward to. Lawrie was the only non-smoker, soon surrounded by a fug of grey as the rest puffed away. He didn’t mind but neither did he feel any need to partake. His father had always endured ill health, had bad lungs after suffering from a severe bout of bronchitis while away at boarding school. There was no smoking in the Matthews household, no drinking, no vices of any kind. He could imagine what his mother would say if she could see him now and it wouldn’t be good.
He wondered about Bennie, how he had ended up friends with Aston. That afternoon when Aston had showed up at the house in Kingston, unannounced but with the last photograph of Bennie Matthews in his pocket, Lawrie had been amazed. His older brother had always been the studious type, clever enough to be thinking about a career as an engineer when he answered the call to fight for the mother country. Lawrie had wanted to follow in his footsteps ever since they’d been children playing in the yard. He’d sat on the porch deep into the night with Aston, and a bottle of white rum that Lawrie’s mother didn’t know about, and listened wide-eyed as Aston regaled him with tales of two young men let off the leash in a faraway land. He’d never even been drunk before that night, never been so sick or felt so ill the next day. Aston had laughed and drank tea with Lawrie’s mother while he convinced her that the best hope for her younger son was to try his luck on the other side of the ocean. It would be an adventure, Aston had said, and he hadn’t been wrong so far. It was only that Lawrie was beginning to think that maybe he wasn’t the adventurous type.
‘We need a proper name for the band,’ Johnny announced. ‘People can’t ask for us if we don’t have a name. And we could all use the money, right?’
Only Moses and Sonny had jobs so far, both using old RAF contacts to get jobs on the railway. Sam had barely bothered to look and Johnny was determined to try his hand at music even though he had a wife and child who were hoping to join him in England sooner rather than later.
‘Anyone have access to a telephone? Or know someone who does and might be willing to take messages for us?’
‘I could ask Rose,’ Lawrie said. ‘I just saw her in the hall and she said she wanted to help.’
‘Who?’ Moses asked.
‘You know, Rita Hayworth from the shelter.’ Sonny nudged him.
‘Oh, yes. But is she offering to help us or just you, Lawrie?’ Moses grinned.
Lawrie’s cheeks burned and he took a gulp of lemonade.
Johnny lit a cigarette. ‘Same difference, ain’t it? Lawrie, find her later and ask about the telephone.’
‘You could offer her some sort of payment. In kind, since you’re short of money.’ Sam cackled as he passed the whisky bottle to Lawrie.
‘She’s a married woman, if you must know.’ The liquor burned his throat as he tipped the bottle, trying to make it look like he was drinking back more than he was. ‘Her husband will be here somewhere.’
‘Just ask her.’ Johnny ushered them all back inside where they were greeted by rapturous applause, the crowd eager to restart the festivities.
They were midway through their first song when he saw Rose again, dancing in the centre of the floor with a dark-haired man. Her husband, presumably, since his hand was fixed firmly to her behind. It was only as they turned so that the man faced him, spinning Rose around as she threw her head back and laughed, that he recognised him, missing two whole bars in his distraction. Rose’s husband was Cary Grant, the drunk who’d punched him in the face not a week before, giving him the black eye that was only just healed enough that it wasn’t the first thing people noticed about him. Did she know? Had she known all along? Maybe that was why she’d been so friendly, she’d just been making sure he wasn’t going to cause trouble by going to the police or looking for revenge.
Frank, she’d called him. A good-looking fella, but then he’d have to be to catch Rose’s eye. He was no longer catastrophically drunk, just dishevelled from the heat of the hall. His dark hair was slicked back and he’d loosened his tie, dancing with glee. As Lawrie watched him, Frank looked up and their eyes met, Lawrie’s fingers freezing once more, but Frank looked away; he didn’t know Lawrie from Adam. Rose, however, never looked up once.
She knew all along, Lawrie thought soberly. He’d put money on it.
Extract from the Evening Standard – Monday 20th March 1950
Local police released a shocking statement last night containing previously unreported information related to the tragic death of the baby known as ‘Ophelia’, whose body was discovered on Clapham Common last week. The police hope this new information will prompt new witnesses to come forward.
‘The autopsy report confirms that the baby was deceased when she entered Eagle Pond,’ Detective Sergeant Rathbone told the press conference. ‘Cause of death is determined as an overdose of a common medication and therefore it is still unclear whether this death was due to murderous intent or accident.’
When questioned about possible suspects, DS Rathbone confirmed that the police are working on several strong leads, focusing on the recently formed Caribbean community in that part of London. For the first time the detective reported that Ophelia is thought to be of either coloured or half-caste background.
Current thinking is that an English woman has found herself in an unfortunate position. There were several public events held in the weeks following the arrival of the HMT Empire Windrush and the age of this child lends itself to the idea that she was the result of an encounter during this period.
If this new information prompts even the vaguest of memories then the police ask that you get in contact. Any information will be treated confidentially and DS Rathbone asked that we remind the public to consider that any person who could either commit infanticide, or even think to dispose of a body in such a callous way, denying her a Christian burial, is a danger to our community.
10
The rain was so heavy that those who might usually walk to work had decided to take the bus. Progress was slow. Evie had enough to worry about after reading the Standard article the night before. Ma had thrown it down on the table in front of her without a word and her heart had sunk as she read their call for information. All she needed now was to be late for work. Two women sat in front of Evie, one of them bouncing a baby in her lap. A boy, judging from the blue knitted bonnet. He was a happy little thing and Evie smiled as he dribbled around the sodden rusk he held in one tiny woollen-mitted hand. She wiggled her fingers at him and he blessed her with a gummy grin.
‘It makes you shiver, don’t it,’ the mother was saying. ‘I mean, nothing like this ever happened before. Not round here.’
Her friend agreed: ‘My Norman said it was a mistake from the start. Soon as we heard. We should have been looking a
fter our own, not bringing over more hungry mouths to feed. They’re not like us, you know. I’m only surprised it’s took this long for something to happen.’
‘Exactly what I said! They should have rounded ’em all up, soon as it happened. Lock ‘em up until they find out which one did it. They’d be falling over one another to come forward with information if there was something in it for ’em. Even if it were an accident, you can’t just go dumping a baby in a pond like that.’
‘So much for the missionaries! They should drag ’em all down to church, make them learn what it is to be a good Christian.’
Evie felt sick as it dawned on her that they were talking about Lawrie, about the other recent arrivals from the Caribbean. She pressed her back into the seat, hoping they wouldn’t notice her. Would they want to lock her up as well, even though she’d been born within spitting distance of where they now were?
‘You know what the real problem is? Those floozies who go out dancing with them. Some stupid girl’s gone and got herself into trouble, you mark my words.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t want to get landed with a baby like that, would you? No decent man would be able to pass it off as his own!’
The baby gurgled at Evie and the rusk fell from his hand, landing on the floor by Evie’s feet. He let out a shriek and the friend turned to see what the matter was, her smile freezing as her eyes fell on Evie.
Evie forced a smile. ‘He’s a beautiful baby.’
The women exchanged a glance and turned to face forward, the mother pulling her son down onto her lap so that he could no longer see Evie. Her actions were rewarded with an angry yelp as he lost his new-found friend.