by Louise Hare
She did as she’d promised and ran out of the house before her mother could come down and scold her for not putting the food away. Her heart was racing as she let him hold the car door open for her. Thank goodness Lawrie was still out at work.
When they got to the police station Rathbone led her inside without making any sort of fuss, showing her into a small room with a table and two chairs, facing one another. He left her there and vanished while she sat and waited. She wondered if this was the same room in which Lawrie had been kept.
She watched the clock tick past the minutes, rubbing her arms vigorously: the room was freezing. There was a radiator along one wall but it was cold when she put her hand to the painted iron. She’d only thrown on a cardigan to run to the shops, the day bright, but now she wished she’d thought to put on her coat.
Forty-five minutes later Rathbone walked back in, two steaming mugs in one hand and a folder held in the other. He handed one of the mugs to Evie. He slurped tea out of the other as he sat, dropping the heavy folder on the table between them.
‘Thank you for coming in without a fuss, Evelyn. I’m in a much better mood for it.’
She hated the way he said her name but at least he didn’t call her Evie. She could pretend that Evelyn was someone else; a silly little girl who’d made a terrible mistake. Evie had a bright future that this horrid man couldn’t ruin. She just had to be sensible and play along.
‘All I’m asking for is the truth,’ he told her. ‘No tricks.’
She nodded, warming her hands on the mug.
‘Good. All I want is for you to tell me what happened to your child. Your daughter.’
She looked up at him in surprise. ‘I told you already. She died. I mean, she was… stillborn.’ She always stumbled over that word.
‘I thought we were going to be honest with one another.’ He sounded disappointed in her, as if she’d done badly on a test.
‘We are. I am, I mean, that is what happened. Just like I told you before.’ She lifted the cup to her lips, pretending to drink as she cast her eyes down. She couldn’t bear to look at him but she worried that if she looked away he’d think she was trying to hide something.
‘All right. In that case, let’s go back to how this all started.’ He pulled out a sharp HB and his notebook. ‘July 1948, I’d say. According to the records, a baby girl was born near Exmouth, Devon in April of 1949 so if you count back… Are you certain Mr Matthews isn’t the father?’
‘No. I mean yes, I’m sure.’ She hung her head and stared into the tea. If only. ‘He’s got nothing to do with this. Even now we’ve not… we’ve never…’ she coughed, embarrassed. ‘We’re waiting until we’re married.’
‘Waiting until you’re married?’ He chuckled to himself, unkindly. ‘Forgive me, Evelyn, if I struggle to believe that. Bearing in mind that the evidence so far shows that neither of you have been particularly self-restrained in your conduct up ’til now. Who was the lucky chap then? Tell me the truth now.’
She took a breath. ‘His name was Sam. I never knew his surname, I swear. He used to share a room with Lawrie when he lived on Somerleyton Road.’ She blinked away a sudden flash of memory, a blurred image of that bedroom as she remembered it. ‘Lawrie invited me to a party at the house. That was where it all happened. I’ve not seen Sam since and I don’t think Lawrie has either. He moved into the Ryans’ house the next day.’
‘So there was a to-do at this party and you decided to go to bed with your chap’s friend. In his own bedroom, no less! Meanwhile Mr Matthews was chasing after Mrs Armstrong at the same time according to her.’ Rathbone was scribbling notes but she couldn’t make out his scrawl upside down. ‘Honestly, I begin to wonder if you lot have any control over yourselves.’
Evie bit the inside of her cheek and stayed silent. He wanted a reaction but she wouldn’t give it. A lifetime of Mildreds had prepared her for this.
Rathbone ordered her to tell him the names of everyone who’d been at the party that night. She hesitated before listing the names she knew, her voice breaking a little as she gave up Lawrie’s friends. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually, ‘I know there were a lot more people there but I don’t know who they were. I never met them properly.’ At least, she reasoned, she knew that all the people she’d named had already been questioned. It wasn’t as though she was giving Rathbone new information. With one exception.
‘Aston Bayley?’ He scanned the list, before flipping quickly through the pages of his notebook. ‘He’s not been interviewed. Who’s this chap then? Is he another ghost like your Sam what-everisnameis?’
‘He was in the RAF but he turns up in London every now and again.’
Evie felt a twinge of guilt as Aston’s name went down in the book. He might not have anything to do with what had happened to her, she reminded herself, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t involved with this case. If the police started looking at him then they’d leave Lawrie alone. She took a gulp of oversweet tea.
Rathbone closed the notebook and smiled. ‘At least we’re moving in the right direction.’ He reached for the folder that still lay between them. ‘Let’s carry on, shall we? Can you explain this to me?’
He whipped a sheet of paper out and laid his trump card before her with a flourish. It was an official document, Evie’s eyebrows raising as she realised what it was. The record of birth was for Annabel Coleridge, born 26th April 1949. Evie shivered and pulled her cardigan tighter. Her eyes fell upon the middle column: Name and Maiden Name of Mother. Scrawled below was not her own name as she’d expected but that of Agnes Elizabeth Coleridge. The father was left as Unknown.
‘Evelyn?’
She didn’t reply, the words swimming before her eyes.
Rathbone sighed and pulled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. She tried to take one when she was offered but her hand was shaking so much that in the end he lit one for her and placed it between her trembling fingers.
‘I don’t understand.’ She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes against the smoke.
‘It is an odd one, isn’t it,’ he agreed. ‘You’ve not seen this before then?’
She shook her head, unable to take her eyes from that damning sheet of paper, her fingers tracing the child’s name.
‘Agnes Coleridge is not the mother of this child. You are.’
‘Was,’ she said softly.
‘Are,’ he repeated. ‘She didn’t die, did she?’
Her head snapped up. ‘What? No, you’re wrong. She’s… You – you’re wrong.’
Rathbone shifted in his seat. ‘Read the date on that bit of paper.’
She did. The date of registration was 29th April. Three days after the birth.
‘You tell me that your baby was born dead. So why not register it as a stillbirth? Why register it as a birth three days later? And there’s no death certificate for an Annabel Coleridge born on this date.’ He leaned forward, Evie sitting back. ‘All I can conclude is that Annabel Coleridge did not die. At least not then. Not in April 1949.’
For some reason, she’d always thought she was having a girl. Fifty-fifty, her aunt had said, laughing when she told her. She’d wondered if she should name her for her aunt, a reward for her kindness in putting her up for the long winter as she hid away from the world, but Aunt Gertie had shaken her head and said it would be cruel to saddle a baby with such a hideous name as Gertrude. Besides, it wasn’t likely she’d ever meet her great aunt. Evie didn’t say anything. She’d already decided to keep her daughter but she knew that if she said anything too soon then Ma would be on the next train out of Paddington, determined to change her mind.
The labour had been long, worse than Evie had anticipated even after all her mother’s gleeful warnings. Ma had enjoyed recounting in great detail the pain, the lack of dignity involved. Evie was just getting her comeuppance as far as her mother was concerned. Evie had given birth in the upstairs bedroom that had been hers for five months. Gertie had worked as a district nurse for two de
cades and Ma was keen to keep prying eyes away from their business. Just be glad you’re not stuck in a cold dorm room with nobody to help you but a pair of disapproving nuns. She wished Ma’s timing hadn’t been so perfect, arriving only the day before.
For days she’d been praying, keeping her fingers crossed that the baby would hurry up and come early, desperately uncomfortable and finding it impossible to sleep without her swollen belly getting in the way. She wondered how on earth that huge lump could possibly find a way out of her, especially through there but Gertie had assured her that it would be fine. Her calm manner balanced out Ma’s agitation.
Breathe, Evie, deep breaths, Gertie had instructed, Evie raging back. How the hell could her aunt know anything when she’d never given birth herself? Her body felt as though it would rip apart, the moments of respite growing fewer and farther between. Gertie ignored her and told her when to push. Somehow she found the strength, feeling a rush that panicked her, before she heard Ma cry out that it was a baby girl. She thought she heard a sound, a whimper, but Ma told her later that she’d imagined it. Evie had tried to sit up but Gertie held her down while she cut the cord, then Ma disappeared out of the room with the baby. Gertie wiped her brow with a warm damp flannel and checked her over. She’d need a stitch or two but she’d done a fine job, she was told, as if she’d just handed over a satisfactory school report.
And then she’d waited for Ma to bring her daughter to her. Gertie busied herself sweeping the soiled towels into a heap and left the room, promising to come back with a change of bedclothes. Evie thought she heard a cry through the wall and smiled. Ma would be back soon with her daughter all cleaned up and ready to be held. Then she would show Ma that it wasn’t so ridiculous to want to keep her. She was ready to be a mother.
After a while she called out but there was no reply. The house had fallen silent. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and was testing her weight on gelatine legs when Gertie rushed back in and told her to lie down, tucking the sheets around her so tightly that she could barely move her arms. There was a manic look in her aunt’s eyes but she still didn’t realise that something was wrong until Ma came back in, wiping her eyes, and she’d known that something awful had happened.
Take it as a blessing, Ma had said. God knew that this child came from a bad place and He saved you both.
‘What happened to my daughter?’ she asked Rathbone, her voice barely a whisper.
‘You tell me,’ he replied.
But Evie just stared back at him, daring to let hope sprout from the seed he had planted.
‘You need to talk to my mother,’ she repeated, several times over the next hour. ‘Please. I swear I’ve told you all I know. She’s the one who registered the birth after all, not me. And how could I have hidden a baby for almost an entire year without anybody noticing?’
‘Somebody did,’ he pointed out.
‘I wouldn’t have hidden her. I wanted to keep Annabel but Ma wanted me to give her up for adoption.’ Evie wiped her eyes. ‘She’d never have let me live under her roof, not with a baby. Not so I could shame her a second time.’
‘Do you think she might have put her own name on the birth certificate so she could go ahead with the adoption?’ Rathbone asked.
Evie shrugged and Rathbone sighed and declared the interview terminated. She heard his stomach growl. It was after one.
‘You can go. For now.’ He pocketed his notebook and stood up. ‘Come on then, I’ve not got all day.’
She didn’t have any choice but to follow him back outside to the red Morris Minor. She wondered if Lawrie would still be at work. If he saw her get out of Rathbone’s car what would she say to him? She wouldn’t lie to him again, she couldn’t. But it was too soon to tell him the truth. Too much was now unknown. She needed to talk to Ma and find out if it was true, if Annabel was really still alive. And if she was then Evie needed to find out who had taken her away.
Ma whipped open the front door as soon as Rathbone’s car pulled up outside the front of the house, her face pale and worried. Evie saw her swallow hard as she saw the detective coming towards her.
‘Afternoon, Mrs Coleridge.’ Rathbone took off his hat as she stood back to let him in, Evie trailing behind. ‘We need to have a word. Evelyn, why don’t you go and put on a pot of tea for us, eh? Make it strong. Milk and two for me.’
Ma showed him into the front room, trying to catch Evie’s eye but her daughter ignored her, staring at the floor. It was so quiet that she could hear her mother’s breathing, and the catch in the back of the throat as she went to speak but didn’t know what to say.
‘Mrs Coleridge?’ Rathbone’s voice demanded an audience.
‘We’ll talk later, Evie. Once I sort this out.’ Ma’s words came out in a rush as she closed the door in her face.
Evie waited outside for a moment, pressing her ear close to the door, but although she could hear their voices, she couldn’t make out the words. Boiling the kettle was a distraction at least and while the tea brewed she stood on the back doorstep and smoked two cigarettes in a row. She felt feverish, sick to her stomach, her head pounding like it had been the day after the party. Ma had had no sympathy, angry at her for sneaking out and coming home in such a state. It took a few more months before she discovered just how serious a state Evie was in.
She took down two cups and saucers, part of the good tea set, and put them on a tray along with the milk jug and the sugar bowl that barely held enough grains for Rathbone’s taste. She went to grab the teapot and, on impulse, lifted the lid and spat. For a moment she froze, horrified by her own behaviour, then she replaced the lid and added the pot to the tray. The china rattled in time to the shaking of her hands as she picked it up.
‘Ah! Lovely.’ Rathbone greeted her as she walked in and put the tray down on the side, pouring out the two cups and adding milk and sugar to his as requested.
Rathbone took the cup she gave him and swilled back the hot tea in one. ‘I’ll say this for you, Evelyn, you do know how to make a good cuppa.’
Ma looked stunned as Evie passed her the other cup and saucer, not looking up. Afraid to look her in the eye, Evie thought.
‘Well, I think I’ve got what I came for. For now.’ Rathbone checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothing down his skinny moustache with thumb and forefinger and replacing his hat.
Then he was gone, Evie still standing like a statue, staring at the door.
‘So what did you tell him?’
‘You’re better off not knowing. Trust me.’ Her mother looked up and Evie saw that she’d been crying.
‘You did it, didn’t you?’ she said, her skin prickling with horror. ‘You took her from me and put her up for adoption behind my back.’ She stepped forward as her mother looked away. ‘I’ve seen the birth certificate, Ma. It’s got your name on it instead of mine. You wanted to be able to sign the paperwork without getting my permission. Am I wrong?’
Ma shook her head, silent rivulets running down her cheeks.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Evie turned away, unable to think of any words to convey the depth of her anger, her betrayal. ‘And if this other poor baby hadn’t died, if Lawrie hadn’t been in the wrong place at the wrong time, I’d have never found out.’
She wrenched open the door of the sideboard. The old bottle of Glenfiddich still had a good inch left in it. She poured it into a dusty glass from the back of the cupboard and swallowed it down in one, the fumes almost choking her. She coughed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘Evie, what are you doing?’ Ma stood but Evie took a step away, evading her.
‘How did you do it?’ Evie demanded. ‘You weren’t gone for long. Where did you take her?’ The words came like bullets.
‘Does it matter?’ Her mother combed her fingers through her hair, a nervous tic that she rarely showed.
‘Yes!’ Her voice cracked and she tried to swallow, coughing as her throat burned from the whisky. ‘You stole my daughter from m
e. I want to know how you did it. How you could do that to me?’
She tried to remember exactly what had happened. Ma had come back to the bedroom and hugged her as Evie cried and begged to see her baby. She remembered being brought a mug of hot milk to help her sleep, Ma holding it to her lips until she’d drunk it all down. That was all she’d known until the next day. Her mother had admitted later that she’d ground up a couple of her sleeping tablets into the milk, just to help her settle. By the time she was up to asking questions, Ma just told her to hush, that it was all sorted. And to her shame she’d found it easier to just go along with it.
She narrowed her eyes as a slow dawn of realisation crept through her. ‘You waited until I was asleep, didn’t you? You drugged me so that you had time to get rid of her.’
Ma simply nodded. ‘I tucked her up in a basket and left her in your aunt’s car until you were asleep. I’d already made arrangements with Sister Mary from Cedars Road. She helped me all those years ago, when you were born there, and I trusted her to find a good family for the baby. She told me to take the child to a mother-and-baby home in Exmouth, to make it easier for you. Gertie drove me over there and we left her in their care. I said I’d go back a few days later with the birth certificate. I knew how upset you’d be and I didn’t want to leave you right away.’
‘How thoughtful.’ Evie spat the words out, her mother flinching. ‘So that’s where she is? And Rathbone’s heading back down to Devon?’
‘Not exactly.’ Her mother sat back down, her hands twisting in her lap. ‘When I went back a few days later they told me they’d struggle to find someone who’d take her. They had a list of childless parents as long as your arm but not one would consider taking a coloured child. They thought it might be a good idea to bring her up to London. Big city, less small-town gossip, they said. As if I don’t know better than anyone!’
‘So where is she now?’ Evie cried. ‘Tell me!’
‘I took her to Sister Mary. I left you in Devon for a week or two to recuperate, remember?’ She picked at a cuticle, her gaze entirely focused on her hands. ‘I came back on the train with the baby and I took her to Cedars Road. I knew I could check in on them and make sure she found a home. I didn’t want her growing up in one of those places for abandoned children. I’m not a complete monster.’