by Louise Hare
‘Thank you, Rose,’ he told her. ‘We’re very grateful.’
Rose paid their entry into the lido before Lawrie could say or do anything, her magical bag holding towels as well as a picnic of paste sandwiches and lemonade. She disappeared to get changed as he and Sam did the same. Frank Armstrong’s trunks were a disconcertingly good fit on him, slightly tight on Sam. The lido was packed on the warmest day of the summer so far, the water chock full of splashing toddlers and pre-school age children, their mothers taking the opportunity to exchange gossip as their offspring paddled and played.
‘Lord have mercy,’ Sam muttered, and Lawrie turned to see what he was looking at.
Rose had emerged from the changing rooms. She wore a two-piece swimsuit in emerald green, similar in cut to that worn by several of the young mothers, nothing obscene in itself. It was Rose who turned an innocent swathe of material into a garment that drew admiring and envious eyes. Lawrie had found it easy to ignore the swing of her hips when they were encased in her knee-length skirt but now he couldn’t look away, his eyes drawn upwards to her chest as his skin flushed with blood.
‘You should maybe hold that towel in front,’ Sam said, chuckling as he shoved Lawrie’s arm so that the towel in his hand covered his crotch.
‘This way, boys!’ If Rose knew what was going through Lawrie’s mind then she didn’t show it, pointing towards a space big enough for the three of them.
She spread her towel on the ground and Lawrie quickly moved so that Sam was between them, ignoring the bemused glance from his friend. He threw his towel down and sat quickly, his legs pulled up so that the bulge at his crotch was hidden by the baggy material.
‘Now isn’t this civilised?’ Rose unpacked sandwiches and passed them out. ‘Sorry, it’s just fish paste. I prefer cheese myself but it’s a bit thin on the ground still. I don’t suppose you’re used to the rationing yet.’
Lawrie chewed and stayed silent. The bread tasted of nothing and luckily there was only a thin pink line of the paste which tasted like week-old fish chewed up and spat back out. He ate it because it meant he could save the eggs he’d bought for the next day. Eventually Rose got bored of speaking to Sam and lay back, closing her eyes against the sun.
‘Hey,’ Sam whispered. ‘You think she’d come to the pictures with me tomorrow night?’
‘She’s married.’ Though she wasn’t acting like it.
Sam shrugged. ‘So what’s she doing here then, with us?’
‘Maybe she’s lonely.’
‘But you don’ care if I ask her?’
‘Why would I care? I’m seeing Evie tonight.’ Lawrie lay back and tried to ignore Sam.
‘You playin’ a long game there, boy.’ Sam laughed. ‘She just a kid. You got to marry a girl like that just to get a hand in her underwear.’
‘Maybe I don’ think like you.’ Lawrie squinted up. ‘Maybe I want a nice girl.’
‘Girl next door,’ Sam teased.
‘She might be just that soon enough.’ He realised once he’d spoken that he’d not told Sam of his intentions, that Evie’s neighbour might become his new landlady.
‘What you mean?’
Lawrie sighed. ‘I came here for quiet and relaxation, not to listen to you talkin’.’
‘I just want to know what you mean, that you might be livin’ next door to Evie. You not walkin’ out on me?’
He could see that Rose was listening in now, Sam’s raised voice having stirred her awake, and he wasn’t in the mood for an argument. He stood and walked to the edge of the pool, feeling the gaze of every person he passed land upon his dark skin. Should he climb up to the high board and dive off like he used to when he and Bennie visited their cousins over in Westmoreland? They would dare one another to climb higher and higher, jumping off the cliff into the clear salty sea, the sun glinting off blue waves as they swam and explored the dark caves beneath. The pool was too busy, he decided. The last thing he needed was to draw the ire of a clan of local mothers.
He dived in from the pool edge instead, a graceful and understated effort that left little splash. The water was cold and his senses sharpened as his arms and legs fought through the resistance, propelling him towards the other end. Up and down he swam, worries and concerns slowly draining out of his body, as if they were being funnelled out through his kicking feet, every damned job interview, Sam and Rose, all left in his wake until he felt weightless. After fifty or so laps he turned and floated on his back, staring up at that blue sky that reminded him of home. He bumped against the wall and put out his arms to anchor himself as he caught his breath.
‘I thought you’d never stop.’ Rose appeared beside him, her hair caught beneath a green swimming cap that matched her costume. ‘You’re ever so fast. I couldn’t keep up.’
‘I’m used to swimming in the sea,’ he told her. ‘No waves here so it’s easier. Less effort.’
‘I’ll bet.’ She looked impressed. ‘Are you glad you came then?’
He nodded. ‘I feel clean for the first time in days. We don’t even have a decent bathroom in that place, you know. The bath is rusty so I just been using the sink in the bedroom to wash in.’
‘Gosh, that’s…’ She looked up at the sky, thinking. ‘Do you have any plans tomorrow afternoon?’
Lawrie laughed. ‘Getting a job, I hope. I shouldn’t even be here really. I can’t afford to be lazing around, having fun.’
‘I can help,’ she insisted. ‘Come round to mine tomorrow, around one o’clock. Bring your smart clothes, whatever you’ve been wearing for interviews, and I’ll wash them for you. Press them. Not to be rude but if what you were wearing earlier is anything to go by, your clothes haven’t seen an iron since you left Jamaica.’
‘They’ve not,’ he confessed.
‘There you go then. You need to look clean and presentable. You can have a bath while I sort out your clothes and when you leave you’ll be in perfect order to go out and get that job. What d’you say?’
No. He knew that’s what he should say. Going round to the house of a married woman while her husband was out at work? His mother would have slapped the back of his head and told him she was just knocking sense into him. And Evie, what would she think of him? But neither of them would understand. A bath! Warm soapy water to clean off the sticky film of stale sweat that even now, lying back in the cool water of the pool, just didn’t want to shift.
‘If you’re sure it’s all right,’ he said.
22nd March 1950
Dearest Aggie,
About time! I’d begun to think I’d never hear from you again, apart from the usual Christmas and birthday cards. I’m glad all is well up in your neck of the woods.
So Evie has learned her lesson and is doing things the right way round this time. Glad to hear it. The quicker she gets that ring on her finger the better. Perhaps it is just as well they brought over those folk from the Caribbean, for all the trouble they cause, else you’d have been growing old together in that house, I’m sure. I can’t imagine any decent young British man wanting to throw his lot in with her, I’m afraid to say. Don’t take offence, you’ve said it yourself, several times. I love Evie, you know I do, but it’s time for you to think about yourself for once.
On the subject of Evie’s new chap, I hope the police have got someone for that awful Clapham Common murder. If you’re sure that he’s got nothing to do with it then you could do worse than putting in a good word. See if you can speak to one of Pa’s old friends. Jim Garvan maybe? He and Pa used to be thick as thieves and I’m sure he’d look into it for you. The quicker they cross him off their list, the better for all of you.
How would June suit you for a visit? Then, thinking longer term, I’ve got a cunning plan for when Evie’s finally left home. There’ll be nothing holding you back then. Time for a new start for you, perhaps down here in Devon? I’ll sell the Brixton house and you can come and live with me for a bit, see if you like it. Then we can either get you a little cottage here or we c
an just get on together and live off the savings until we grow old, two little old ladies! I know you say it’s too quiet here but we’re not that far from Exeter after all and I know you never go out anywhere. When was the last time you went out dancing or to a West End show? You can’t miss what you don’t know, can you? And Mr Francis from the local shop was asking after you the other day. He’s not a bad sort and his wife died a few years ago. You could do a lot worse, Aggie. Just think about it.
Let me know about June and I’ll check at work to make sure I can get the leave. The first two weeks suit?
Love you lots,
Gertie xx
13
Mrs Coleridge was standing on her front doorstep sweeping out the dirt, her broom banging against the hallway skirting boards as she steered the dust towards the open door. Her presence seemed serendipitous.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Coleridge,’ he called out, missing out his own gate and walking up the Coleridges’ path. He took off his cap.
‘Afternoon.’ She paused, wary. ‘Did you want something, Lawrie?’
‘Yes. If you have a moment I’d like to thank you for what you did for me. On Saturday, I mean. You put yourself in a difficult position for me and I am grateful.’ He couldn’t tell from her face if he was making things better or worse.
‘I’m not sure I helped but you’re most welcome. Just finished work, have you?’
‘Yes.’ He swallowed and tried to summon his courage. ‘I was hoping to talk to you about something. About Evie.’
‘Right now?’ She glanced back inside the house, though Evie was surely still at work.
‘Yes? Or I can come back another time.’
She laughed then, at his expression. ‘Bless you, Lawrie, do I scare you so badly?’
He thought it safest to stay silent.
She sighed. ‘Come inside and we’ll talk. I’ve got a pot on already.’
He followed Mrs Coleridge into the house, stopping to take off his boots in the hallway. He padded to the kitchen in socks that he only now remembered needed darning on both big toes. Please God let her not look down at his feet. The kitchen was familiar from another angle, looking in from the backyard. Now, from the inside, he could see the neatly stacked plates on the shelf, the door which concealed the pantry, the calendar on the wall, the picture a child’s drawing of a house. He moved closer to get a better look. On the bright green lawn stood a pink woman and a brown child, both in blue dresses. Beside the girl sat a black cat on one side, on the other what looked like a sheep, grey and woolly.
‘That’s Evie’s artistic masterpiece,’ Agnes said, pulling out a chair for him. ‘From when she was in primary school. It embarrasses her now but I like it. I just buy one of those little books with all the dates in each year.’
‘Doesn’t look too much like Brixton,’ he joked, glad to hide his feet under the table as he sat.
‘No. I think it’s supposed to be Devon. That’s where my sister lives. Evie used to wish we could live there instead of London.’ Agnes’ face went dark. ‘I told her not to be so daft. Bad enough round here with people staring at her.’
‘That must have been difficult,’ he said. ‘Still, things must be better now. Eighteen years is long enough for people to get used to you, isn’t it?’
Agnes snorted as she unwrapped a slab of cake from greaseproof paper. ‘Fat chance. If you haven’t realised by now then you will soon enough. People need someone to look down on. Makes ’em feel better. If it weren’t us it’d be someone else. That strange young man who lives the next street over. Or the Cohens across the road. Anyone different. There’ll always be someone a bit different to point the finger at. Fruit cake?’
He nodded. ‘Very kind of you, Mrs Coleridge.’
‘My pleasure.’ She brought over a china plate with a slice of cake. The teapot was already sitting on the table and she poured out two cups before sitting down. ‘You know, you should probably start calling me Agnes if you’re here for the reason I think.’
‘Oh. Yes. Agnes. Well, with everything that’s going on, maybe it’s the wrong time, but I wanted to talk about my intentions towards Evie.’
She nodded, her mouth full of cake, washing it down with tea. ‘About time. It’s been long enough now. I see the two of you together, I’m not blind. She cares for you very much and I think you feel the same.’
‘Very much so.’ He stirred a spoonful of sugar into his tea, avoiding the intensity of her gaze.
‘You’d not let her down?’
‘Goodness no,’ he said, the teaspoon falling to the table with a clatter. ‘I would never do that.’
‘And you won’t be upping sticks any time soon? Heading back to Jamaica, for example?’
‘I’m staying put.’ He broke off a chunk of the dense cake and stuffed it into his mouth, to stop himself from saying anything incriminating. Under Agnes’ unwavering gaze, he felt the same rising anxiety as when he had been interrogated by DS Rathbone. Should he reassure her that he had nothing to do with that whole business, or was it better to not bring it up at all?
‘Excellent.’ Agnes beamed and clapped her hands together. ‘So we should be planning a wedding then.’
The cake was like concrete, bonding to the roof of his mouth even as tiny crumbs broke off and lodged in his throat. He gulped back tea but couldn’t completely shift it.
‘Of course, there’s a lot going on at the moment. Wait until everything’s settled down a bit with this baby business. Although maybe it would be better to show Rathbone that you’re a respectable family man.’
Lawrie frowned. ‘I want to marry Evie because I love her, not because I’m scared of Rathbone.’ Indignation finally dislodged the cake, setting off a coughing fit.
‘Goodness.’ Agnes jumped up to fetch him a glass of water. ‘I’m glad you feel so strongly.’
‘Thank you,’ he croaked, draining the glass. ‘And I do. Feel strongly. About Evie, I mean.’
Agnes looked down at him thoughtfully. ‘Wait there,’ she said eventually.
She went out into the hallway and he heard her in the front room, rummaging around in a drawer from the sounds of it. She reappeared and placed a small black box in front of him. He looked up at her and she sighed heavily, opening it up.
The ring looked like an antique, a family heirloom, perhaps; gold with a large, gleaming sapphire embedded within it. Lawrie blinked, confused.
‘Take it then.’ She pushed the box towards him.
‘This is…’ he began.
‘Just hold it, will you?’ She pushed it again, harder, and he had to shoot out his hand to catch it before it fell off the edge of the table. ‘Quick hands,’ she said. ‘All that cricket, I suppose.’
‘Agnes, this is too much. I can get a ring. I’ve got savings. I don’t need charity.’
But he couldn’t take his eyes from the sapphire as he found himself picturing it on Evie’s finger. He could never afford anything like it.
‘That was my grandmother’s ring,’ Agnes told him, her voice soft with memory. ‘She married down, more’s the pity for me, but it got passed down to my sister. She never wore it so she gave it to me for Evie.’
The ring box felt comfortable in his palm. With any luck he’d be able to take some leave from work, maybe in September at the very end of summer. That gave him a few months to save up for the honeymoon. He’d need a new suit. His pay-out from the pardner would cover the suit and a small reception, the deposit on a room for him and Evie while they saved up for a house deposit.
Agnes caught his smile. ‘Keep that safe and take her out for dinner. You can afford to take her out for a decent meal, can’t you? I’m sure you know by now that Tuesdays are my usual bridge night over in Camberwell. Next week?’
Lawrie nodded.
‘Now, you’ll need to make a reservation. I know you’ve got a fancy telephone next door but go in person. Avoid any nasty surprises on the day. And take some money in case they want a deposit.’
He stoo
d to leave, his grip tight on the ring box. ‘Thank you, Mrs Coleridge. Agnes, I mean. I promise I won’t let you or Evie down.’
‘I know that, you daft boy. I wouldn’t let you anywhere near her otherwise.’ She looked away and he wondered what she was really thinking.
For once he was glad that he didn’t have time to see Evie that evening. He was bursting with excitement and scared he’d give the game away. Everything was looking up: Rathbone had been nowhere to be seen for days and the band were playing for a wedding party at Wandsworth Town Hall that evening. He could use it as a research opportunity, work out what sort of cost to expect for such an event. He’d been going to catch the bus but took Moses up on his offer of a lift in the van, his arse feeling every bump in the road as he, Johnny and Al travelled in the back with the instruments.
‘You think I can get my hands on some money in the next month or so?’ he asked Johnny, who managed the pardner that all the band members and some other Brixton residents paid into. Opening bank accounts had proved tricky for most of them when they’d first arrived in London and it seemed easier to organise themselves into a scheme where they all paid in each month and took turns to withdraw the proceeds.
‘Reckon it’s your turn,’ Johnny replied. ‘What you need it for?’
‘Oh, I just thought to maybe have a week by the sea,’ Lawrie told him, for he’d considered that Brighton might do for a honeymoon.
‘Hey man, watch you’self!’ Johnny slapped the wall of the van as Moses hit yet another bump in the road and Lawrie felt his spine shudder.
It was a relief to pile out of the van into the driveway, Moses running round to let them out. The breeze was up, pushing the smell of hops and yeast into his lungs as he breathed in; the brewery where Arthur worked was less than a two-minute walk away. Rising three storeys, the upper level of the building in front of them was lined with relief sculptures, altogether more impressive than the Lambeth Town Hall that Lawrie was most familiar with.