This Lovely City

by Louise Hare

  Lawrie made good his escape. The newspaper article had been a blow and he’d been half expecting Rathbone to make an appearance. He’d have to watch his step. Rathbone hadn’t leaked his name yet but there was still time. And if he was caught delivering black market goods then that was it. A criminal record for sure and after that, no one would be able to help him. Two years of hard work wasted – no job, no freedom. Evie wouldn’t even stick by him if she had any sense.

  He wasn’t sure if people were looking at him suspiciously or if he’d lost that layer of thick skin that he’d grown since arriving, learning to ignore the occasional under-the-breath comments and pointed stares that were part of walking these London streets. Things were different now. He was a suspect, even if no one knew that he’d been arrested. Just by being a black man in Brixton he was a person of interest. He kept a wide berth when passing anyone on the street and fixed a smile to his face that he hoped appeared good-natured.

  The houses were as familiar to him now as the drizzling grey rain, the odd jagged gaps in the terraces where children played and built forts amongst the rubble no longer shocking, but the dark skies and damp air gave them an ominous feel, as though behind the net curtains lurked accusers. Was it just him or was Mrs Harwood less friendly this morning as he handed over the parcel that had come from her daughter in Leeds? And when he passed Mr Thomson on Kellett Road, didn’t they usually exchange a nod and a smile that today was one-sided?

  It was a relief to get home after the working day, to close the door behind him and shut out the world. He could hear Mrs Ryan humming away in the kitchen but he wasn’t in the mood to face her cheeriness. He slunk upstairs to his room and sat down heavily on the bed. He was tired, that was all. Aston had left half a bottle of whisky on the windowsill and Lawrie took a swig straight from the bottle, hoping to dampen the prodding anxiety that had trailed at his heels all day.

  It was Tuesday he remembered suddenly, Agnes Coleridge’s bridge night. He and Evie always took advantage of her mother’s absence. Sometimes they just stayed in the backyard and talked, but with the weather as grey and cold as it was, he’d suggest going to the pictures. It would make up for them not going on Saturday.

  He swallowed another mouthful of whisky and lay down on the bed. He only closed his eyes for a second, hoping to clear his mind, but the slam of the front door startled him awake. Checking his watch he found he’d been dead to the world for over an hour. The whisky had left a stale residue on his tongue and he winced as he swallowed, his throat dry and rasping. Rain was pelting against the window and the sky outside was oppressively dark.

  He swilled his mouth with water from the bathroom tap and splashed his face until he felt normal. Evie would notice if something was wrong and he was a terrible liar. She was late. That hadn’t been her at the door else he’d have been shouted for. She usually called round on her way home, just to say hello.

  He ran downstairs and found Mrs Ryan in the kitchen peeling potatoes.

  ‘Did you go out?’ he asked.

  ‘No, love.’ She looked confused. ‘Oh, you heard the door. Just a fella selling tea towels.’

  ‘Evie’s not been round? I fell asleep, must have missed her.’

  ‘No, she’s not called round. I’ve not been out since you got home.’

  ‘Maybe she got held up at work,’ he said. She should have been back well before now.

  ‘She’ll be round soon enough,’ Mrs Ryan told him. ‘Cup of tea?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll go and see if she’s home yet.’

  He felt nervous knocking on the Coleridges’ door, even though he did it every morning. It was different when he had the uniform on. He was doing his job. Now his anxiety was growing again, worrying that Evie was having second thoughts. Maybe she’d decided that Rathbone was right and Lawrie must have had something to do with the baby’s death.

  Then the door opened and there she was, looking a little sheepish.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ she replied.

  She kept her eyes lowered, not quite meeting his, and she looked pale.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked, his heart in his mouth. ‘You didn’t call round.’

  ‘No. I was late getting home from work.’ She met his gaze and he saw that her eyes were a little red. ‘But Ma’s gone out. Why don’t you come in?’

  He nodded, unsure. He’d never been inside the Coleridges’ house before. Agnes had made it a strict rule, despite turning a blind eye to him climbing the back wall; the doorstep was as far as he was allowed. Evie stepped back to let him in, surprising him with a kiss as she shut the door.

  ‘Are you sure this is allowed?’ he asked, pulling back slightly.

  She frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have invited you in if it wasn’t. Ma won’t be home for hours and it’s tipping buckets down out there.’

  She took him by the hand and he followed her into the front room, still unsure as to what Agnes Coleridge would say if she walked in and found him there.

  ‘Why don’t you light the fire and I’ll fetch us something to drink.’ She handed him a box of matches and disappeared.

  He could hear her in the kitchen, the gentle bang of cupboard doors. He struck a match and crouched before the fire, studying it. He’d never lit a coal fire before; never had to. There were twists of paper woven between the lumps of coal, and he held the match to one. The paper flared and he watched it burn but nothing else happened. Sighing at his failure, he straightened up, looking down at the framed photographs on the mantelpiece as he did so. One was a portrait of a stern-looking man; Evie’s grandfather, he guessed. On the other side of an ornamental clock sat a happier picture. A little girl, a younger Evie, stood between Agnes and a woman who must have been Agnes’s sister. The aunt Evie had stayed with in Devon.

  He turned as he heard her soft footsteps behind him. ‘This photograph,’ he said. ‘You and Agnes look so happy.’

  She carried two glasses of lemonade, putting them down carefully on the coffee table, on coasters, before walking over to look. ‘Gosh, that was taken about ten years ago. Aunt Gertie came to visit us just after the war had started. She wanted Ma and me to go down and live with her until it was over. I think she was lonely. Her husband had died not long before and they’d not had children. I went, once the evacuations started, but Ma refused to leave. She was in a terrible mood that day. She didn’t want to go sightseeing and she kept reminding us, but she cheered up eventually. It was a lovely day, the sun was out, and Gertie decided she wanted a souvenir so she got a policeman to take our photo. She had one of those fancy little cameras.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen your mother smile before,’ Lawrie joked.

  ‘No,’ Evie agreed. She looked down at the cold hearth. ‘Haven’t you lit a fire before?’

  ‘Ah, see, I tried but I think there must be a trick to it.’ He shrugged apologetically.

  She got down on her hands and knees and reached up, tugging his hand until he dropped down beside her. She took the matches from him. ‘Let me show you.’ She struck a match and held it to the twists of paper dotted amongst the coal and kindling, her hand dancing as she moved it quickly between them.

  ‘As easy as that?’ Lawrie put his arm around her waist as they both stared like proud parents at the immature flames, growing in confidence and stature before their eyes.

  ‘With a bit of luck.’ Evie blew gently on the edges, encouraging them to take hold.

  His grip tightened and she leaned into his kiss. He pulled her to her feet, their lips barely parting as they moved to the sofa. What harm were a few kisses after all? Just a temporary reprieve.

  It felt like hardly a moment passed but when he did finally come to his senses it had been almost half an hour. She reached over and passed him a glass of lemonade. He drank half of it down in one go.

  ‘You must be thirsty,’ she said.

  ‘Like a man in a desert,’ he told her, smiling.

  She looked
away and took a sip of her own drink.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No.’ She spoke quickly, then sighed. ‘You’ll think I’m being daft but I had started to wonder. I mean, I thought that maybe your heart wasn’t in it. In me.’ Her attempt at a smile failed. ‘If maybe you’d rather be with someone else.’

  He put down his glass, carefully, right in the centre of the coaster. ‘What’s all this? Evie, I would never even look at another woman. Why would I when I have you?’

  Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Rose came to see me. That’s the real reason I was late home. Frank’s spoken to Rathbone, told him the whole story, but there’s nothing to worry about. He’d have found out eventually and this way we know what he knows.’

  There it was again, the panic rising up from the pit of his stomach. ‘When was this? After Rathbone let me go? Or before?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted. ‘I should have asked her but I was so angry I could barely think. She seemed different. Like she was actually sorry. I don’t think she said much, it was more Frank, trying to get revenge.’

  ‘The man already put me in hospital once. How much revenge does one person need?’ He smiled but he could feel his lips tremble.

  ‘This will blow over. They’ll catch the real culprit and everything will go back to normal.’

  ‘You don’t want to throw me out and wash your hands of me?’

  ‘What? Now? When Ma’ll be gone for at least another hour? No chance!’ She took hold of his face, gently rubbing her hands against the coarseness of his chin, the stubble having grown since his morning shave. ‘Come here.’

  He was so grateful for her. Whatever was going on with Rathbone or Rose or Frank Armstrong, he had Evie, and Evie had forgiven him for his mistakes. He kissed her back and decided he’d speak to Agnes when he got a chance. He’d ask for Evie’s hand, get her mother’s blessing. Everything had to be perfect. Evie deserved that.

  21st March 1950

  Dear Gertie,

  How are you, darling sister?

  I can imagine you must be rolling your eyes as you read this and I’m sorry. I know I promised to write more often but you know how things get. And it’s not like I’ve been buried under the mounds of your correspondence. With that said, I told Evie I’d write back so here we are.

  We’re both fine. Better than fine, in fact. Evie has bounced back as if nothing happened and is stepping out with the young lad from next door that I told you about, the postman. Lawrie’s his name. I must have mentioned that he’s Jamaican. There are loads of them round here now, you’d be shocked. Even since last year I’d swear there are more of them. Lawrie’s all right, though. He’s a well-brought up lad, very polite. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got down on one knee before the end of the summer, at least that’s what I’m hoping.

  I haven’t forgotten what you told me and I think that maybe now is the time to cut the apron strings, as they say. There is one fly in the ointment. I don’t know if you’ve read in the papers down where you are but there was a baby found dead up on Clapham Common. I know it made it into the bigger papers but I don’t suppose people in Devon care that much about what goes on up here day to day. Anyway, I thought I’d better let you know since it was Lawrie who found the body. He’s had a bit of trouble with the police over it, as you can imagine. I don’t know what will happen so I suppose I just wanted to warn you, in case someone down your way mentions it. I know for certain that Lawrie’s not involved but we know from Dad that it doesn’t always matter.

  Saying all that, I wondered if you fancied a trip to the big smoke this summer? Evie keeps telling me that she’d be happy to see you. I get the impression that you two grew quite close during her stay with you and it would give us a proper chance to catch up. Chat about the future and all that.

  Let me know. We’ll go to a theatre show and go for a posh dinner at that restaurant on the Strand again. What do you say?

  Love from your little sister,

  Aggie xx

  1948

  Evie knocked on the door and waited. The curtains at the front window were shut tight and there was no sign of life. Was this the right house? It looked as if no one was home.

  She knocked again, less tentatively, and put her ear to the scuffed wood of the door, taking a swift step backwards as she heard footsteps from inside. Strange, it sounded like the tapping of high heels but Lawrie had warned her that there were only men living here. He’d told her because he was a gentleman, making sure it was all right with her to spend her Sunday afternoon in such company. She’d nodded and shrugged as if it was nothing new. She hadn’t been worried at the time, only now beginning to feel a little nervous.

  The door swung open. ‘Fancy seeing you here! Edie, isn’t it?’ It was the woman from the shelter, Rose. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, we’re all out in the backyard what with it being such a glorious day – you’re lucky Sonny has sharp ears and heard you knocking.’

  Evie followed her to the back of the house, knowing she’d missed the natural opportunity to correct Rose over her name. She wasn’t good at making a fuss. Besides, why was Rose even here? She wasn’t wearing her WVS uniform today. She wore a navy floral dress and heels that weren’t practical for everyday use. Ma would have tutted at the sight.

  The house was larger than Evie’s, a whole storey taller, but the ground floor was laid out similarly with the kitchen leading out to the backyard. Unlike her mother’s this kitchen floor was cluttered with several mouse traps, along with the droppings of the wily creatures who’d avoided them. She could see immediately the cause of the infestation: breadcrumbs were trailed willy-nilly across counters and there was an open container of porridge oats lying abandoned. Inviting the enemy to tea quite literally. She followed Rose’s lead and they tiptoed across the filth to the yard.

  The backyard had been converted into a living room of sorts. Stacked wooden beer crates formed a circle of seats around a long tea-chest-cum-coffee-table. Lawrie sat between two other men who Evie recognised from church that morning. Across his lap was a musical instrument, though Evie couldn’t put a name to it, a long black tube with silver keys. This was why she had come: he’d invited her round to listen to the band practice. Ma thought she’d gone round to Delia’s. Another lie. She’d have kittens if she knew where her daughter actually was.

  ‘Would you care for a drink, Evie?’ Lawrie stood to greet her. ‘It’s safe. Rose brought some ginger beer and some clean glasses that won’t give us typhoid.’

  She watched him pour and took the glass from him, almost dropping it as his hand brushed hers. She tried to smile but one of the other men was watching her, as though he were trying to puzzle her out. She shouldn’t have come. Except that there was something compelling about spending time with these people with whom she had nothing in common and yet, just by being here she felt suddenly less alone. Less of an oddity and more at home.

  ‘Where are my manners?’ Lawrie looked flustered now. ‘Boys, this is Evie. Evie, Sonny over there is our drummer, and this is Johnny, our glorious band leader.’

  ‘Glorious? I like that, man. Welcome, Evie. And thank you, Rose, for the refreshments.’ Johnny lifted his full glass. ‘You fancy moving in here and looking after us permanently?’

  ‘I’m just here representing the WVS. Making sure you chaps are settling in. Now, Evie, fancy making yourself useful?’

  Evie nodded, feeling four sets of eyes watching her.

  ‘Then let’s get stuck into that disgusting kitchen. I’ve brought some food that was left over from the shelter but it’ll be a feast for the vermin. Good thing I know what men are like and thought to bring some cleaning supplies.’

  ‘You can say no,’ Lawrie told Evie. ‘I didn’t invite you here to clean up after us.’

  ‘Might as well make myself useful.’ It wasn’t as if she could sit there like the Queen of Sheba while Rose scoured the kitchen and swept out mouse poo. What would he think of her?

  Sh
e took the spare scarf that Rose handed her and tied back her hair before picking up the broom. As she began to sweep, music started to play, deep velvety tones that made her want to stop and listen. Looking out of the window she saw that it was Lawrie’s instrument that made that wonderful sound. Johnny began to sing along and the third man, Sonny, beat out a rhythm on the tea chest. She recognised the tune: ‘Wonder When My Baby’s Coming Home’.

  ‘Good, aren’t they?’ Rose said.

  ‘Very,’ Evie agreed, forcing her eyes away from Lawrie before Rose could notice. ‘Do you do this for all the men? Make sure they’ve got food and somewhere decent to live?’

  ‘Good Lord, no!’ Rose lowered her voice. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure the powers that be would be thrilled to find out that I’m here at all.’

  Evie looked at her. ‘You’re here as a friend then?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that. And what brings you here? No homework to get done before school tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m not at school. I’m at secretarial college.’ Evie picked up the smaller dustpan and brush, turning her back on Rose as she swept shit and crumbs and stray oats into the dustpan.

  ‘Oh well, that’s different,’ she laughed.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Evie corrected her, finally finding some courage. ‘It’s not the same at all. You can’t be a secretary anywhere these days without a qualification.’

  Rose held up a placatory hand. ‘That’s me told then.’

  ‘Lawrie invited me over and I said yes.’

  ‘You’ve seen much of him?’

  Evie shrugged. ‘We bumped into each other at the Astoria yesterday.’ And went to a café afterwards, Lawrie and Sam, Evie and Delia. ‘I saw him again at church this morning and he said to come over if I wanted to hear them play.’

  ‘And so here you are.’

  Rose didn’t ask her any more questions but talked for ages about the dance the week before that Evie had been forbidden to attend even though Delia had been allowed. Apparently Lawrie had been ever such a love and, when Rose’s husband had abandoned her to meet his pals in the pub afterwards, it was Lawrie who walked her to the bus stop and made sure she got on safely.