This Lovely City

by Louise Hare

  Now he looked contrite. ‘I was supposed to look after you. Make sure nothing happened to you. I shoulda bashed that door down if I’d known you were going to do something stupid.’

  ‘Something stupid?’ She gasped. Had he thought she’d done that just to get back at Lawrie? That she’d wanted it to happen? ‘I would have been happy for you to have bashed the door in.’

  ‘Come on, Evie.’ He pulled his tobacco tin out of his pocket and began to roll a cigarette, leaning up against the sunny wall. ‘If you just told Lawrie in the first place, he’d have gotten over it. I mean, what with that messy business with Rose, he couldn’t exactly climb up on his high horse. A lot of girls do what you did most weekends. Things aren’t like they used to be.’

  It was his wink that infuriated her the most.

  ‘You can’t compare me to those girls! If I’d wanted to do it then that would be different but I never… I never—’

  The look on his face shut her up, his usual good-natured expression slowly melting away. ‘What you sayin’? You sayin’ that Sam…?’

  But Evie stayed silent, her tongue heavy like lead against the roof of her mouth. She found she couldn’t look him in the eye, couldn’t look at him at all, her gaze falling to the pavement.

  ‘Did he?’ His voice was so small that she could hardly hear him.

  Finally, she nodded and leaned against the wall next to him. ‘I didn’t think anyone would believe me. He told me to keep my mouth shut and I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought people would think me a – well, you know what people would have thought. Besides, he was gone soon after.’

  They stood there next to each other in silence – nothing between them, but the rise and fall of their breaths. Eventually his hand crossed her vision, a cigarette balanced between his fingers. She took it gratefully, as he held out his lighter before rolling another for himself. As she stole a glance at him, she found she was surprised by how shaken he looked.

  ‘I’m sorry, Evie, I didn’t know,’ he said sombrely. ‘I mean, I met lots of English girls who don’t take much persuading. But I knew that you were drunk and that you weren’t used to it. I suppose I shoulda said something, done something but…’ He trailed off helplessly.

  She took a drag from the rollup and felt almost two years’ worth of guilt slip from her shoulders in the exhalation. They smoked in silence, the past years’ animosity dissipating into the warm city air with each puff.

  ‘You need to tell Lawrie the truth,’ Aston said suddenly. ‘He thinks you did this to teach him a lesson. To get back at him. You tell him what Sam did, he’ll forgive you like that.’ He clicked his fingers.

  ‘It sounds easy but I don’t know how.’ Evie smiled sadly.

  ‘You got nothin’ to lose,’ he pointed out.

  Evie shook her head. ‘You didn’t see him. I don’t know why he’d ever believe me now. He’d think I was just making excuses.’

  ‘Nah,’ Aston decided. ‘He just needs a bit of time is all, though I don’t know how he’s going to take it.’ Aston took a deep pull on the cigarette, throwing the butt to the floor as he made to walk off. ‘Look, go home and stop fretting. I’ll get this all straightened out. Lawrie’ll listen to me.’

  She peeled herself from the wall and nodded at him soberly before walking away.

  ‘Evie?’ She turned as he called after her. ‘Don’t go out tonight. Derek says there’s goin’ be trouble. Stay home and stay safe.’

  23

  The music was too loud, the room too hot, and Lawrie too unsteady on his feet. He rocked his way to the door of the small bar, the floor swaying as if he were onboard a ship, and felt his lungs sigh as he breathed air that wasn’t full of cigarette smoke. He’d drunk far too much and his feet slid off the pavement into the gutter as he misjudged the distance. He sat down hard on the kerb, grunting as his behind hit the paving slab from an unexpected height.

  Somehow he’d managed to keep his glass upright with most of the contents still swirling inside rather than spilled over the ground. He took a triumphant gulp of the cheap whisky, no longer wincing from its heat.

  ‘What you doin’ out here, man?’ Aston landed next to him, more used to managing his booze.

  ‘It’s too hot in there,’ Lawrie mumbled. ‘Where’s Helene?’

  ‘She’s with Guylaine.’ Aston lit a cigarette and Lawrie put his hand out for one. ‘What? Since when do you smoke?’

  ‘Reckon I smoke a pack each night I play with the band anyway so I may as well start.’ He grabbed at the cigarette and put it between his lips. Aston struck a match and he leaned into the flame as he’d watched Evie do a hundred times, jerking back from the stinging phosphorus fumes and coughing as the harsh smoke filled his throat. Why did people think this was pleasurable?

  ‘You need to get over this, you know,’ Aston told him. ‘Go and talk to Evie.’

  ‘I’m just supposed to forget about what she did? Just accept that she been punished enough? Get over all the lies?’

  Aston took a swig of beer, the label scratched off the bottle. ‘I thought you were in love with her.’

  ‘I am.’ He lifted the glass to his mouth, then lowered it without drinking. ‘I was. No, I am. That’s the damn problem. I should just forget her. Haven’t you been sayin’ the same to me for months now? Besides, when are you such a sudden admirer of Evie Coleridge.’ He tried another drag from the cigarette but it was just as nasty the second time and he threw it into the road with disgust.

  Aston took another mouthful of beer, taking his time. ‘I just think there might be more to it, you know? Was it not just the other week that you were worrying that Rose Armstrong might have had herself a little halfie baby with eyes like yours?’

  Lawrie chewed his lip mutinously. ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘You keep tellin’ yourself that.’ Aston took a last swig. ‘Come on, I’ll fetch Helene and we can get out of here.’

  Aston got up and disappeared back into the bar, leaving Lawrie in the gutter. He wanted to crawl back home to Brixton but he knew it wasn’t safe. They’d come out west after Derek confirmed that there was trouble planned round Brixton: any coloured fella out after nightfall would be in for a kicking, that’s how he’d put it. Lawrie had agreed to stay at Helene’s house with Aston and given up his own bedroom to the Sands family, Ursula and the children, Johnny nervous that his house had already been marked for attack. Johnny himself was staying put with Moses and Sonny, armed with cricket bats, just in case.

  Helene was a tall Frenchwoman, nothing like Lawrie had expected. That afternoon she’d opened the door to them barefoot and wearing a white shirt and men’s trousers, her dark hair pulled back into a rough ponytail. She didn’t look like any of the women Lawrie knew. In her late twenties, a year or so older than Aston, she owned a house in Holland Park, within stumbling distance of the bar. It had an airy attic space where she painted and she ran a gallery in Kensington Church Street. She had embraced Lawrie like an old friend, brushing each cheek with her lips.

  Helene and Aston tumbled out of the bar, in the midst of a hushed, fast-paced argument in French. Lawrie hadn’t even known that Aston spoke French until that afternoon. Recently he was wondering if he knew anyone as well as he’d thought. He felt like a stranger to himself these days.

  ‘Come on, old friend.’ Aston slid his arm under Lawrie’s shoulders to support him. ‘Back to Helene’s before you lose your guts across the pavement.’

  ‘I ain’t gonna be sick,’ Lawrie claimed, then felt his stomach flip in an effort to prove him wrong. He managed to hold himself together by concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other and leaning on Aston.

  ‘You put on weight,’ Aston complained. ‘That’s what happens when you get complacent. Too settled.’

  ‘I won’t worry about you ever getting fat then,’ Helene said.

  Lawrie barely knew the woman but he was beginning to understand how she’d managed to keep Aston’s interest. He liked a challenge and s
he seemed to enjoy giving him one. Aston had boasted that he’d spent many a night at Helene’s, all those times he’d gone AWOL at the end of a night, but Lawrie had heard him ask permission before switching the wireless on earlier to hear the news bulletin, and before using the last of the milk for tea. Sod’s law that Aston found love just as Lawrie lost Evie.

  Helene got bored and strode off ahead, her heels clicking away into the distance. By the time they knocked on her door, she had changed into a silk robe, a glass of cloudy green liqueur in her hand. Lawrie smelled the sweet spice of the pastis, reminding him of humbugs and liquorice sweets.

  ‘You’ve had enough.’ Aston saw him looking at the glass.

  Using the wall to steady himself, Lawrie negotiated the wide hallway, following Helene and Aston down the narrow stairs that led off through a door, down into the basement. Until a decade or so ago this would have been the domain of the cook and the maid, hidden from sight behind the sturdy door. Helene had a woman come in, but she knew her way around her own kitchen. It was the room they’d spent the most time in, the most homely compared to the more formal reception rooms above.

  The size of the house astounded him. Lawrie had been given a guest bedroom on the first floor which was light and spacious, the linen so soft that he’d wanted to lie down and sleep as soon as he’d arrived that afternoon. The ceilings were high, the windows wide, letting in great swathes of sunlight that glistened against the polished floorboards. Bright Turkish rugs were thick and comforting against his bare feet when he skidded across them like a child, his soles tickled by the luxurious fibres.

  Helene pulled out a silver coffee pot and lit the stove. ‘This will wake you up just in time to go to bed!’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he protested. ‘I just want a pastis and a glass of water and I’ll be fine.’

  Helene and Aston exchanged a look and she moved the pot off the stove.

  ‘One drink, then bed,’ Aston warned.

  He was sure they were sick of him. At five o’clock, Aston had sent him out to a restaurant along Kensington High Street to buy a few bottles of the red wine that Helene preferred. Lawrie might not speak French but he could read enough in their body language to know that he was being sent away so that Aston could take Helene to bed. When he got back he was careful not to disturb them, just left the wine in the kitchen and went back out to explore the area. He didn’t know this part of London, another world from Brixton. He went into Holland Park and walked its paths for over an hour, but he didn’t find the peace that he felt when he went to Clapham Common. The Common was bound to him so tightly now that it understood him. His worst experiences, his happiest moments since arriving in London, all of them were linked to it. Holland Park was beautiful but there was something stiff and ordered about the place. People stuck to the paths, they minded their manners. Pretty to look at but not for him.

  He woke early the next day, sunlight pouring through the windows and stabbing his eyelids. His eyes felt as though they’d been pickled overnight, stinging and sore. When he tried to sit up he felt a hot needle of pain slip through his brain and fell back. Christ, he’d never felt as bad as this. He tried to swallow but his throat was lined with gravel.

  On the table by the bedside sat a glass of water and he grabbed for it, gulping it back. His stomach churned and he only just made it to the bathroom next door in time to speckle the gleaming porcelain of the toilet bowl. Just as well Helene and Aston slept on the floor above. Between each convulsion he rested in a prayer position, his head pressed against the cool china until he was sure there was nothing left in his stomach and his brain no longer felt like it might explode if he made a sudden movement. He had barely eaten the day before. Or the day before that. For all Aston’s protestations, Lawrie’s clothes were looser than they should be.

  He sat up and used the edge of the sink to pull himself into a standing position. He brushed his teeth until the vomit taste had gone from his mouth and he was left with just the faint burn at the back of his throat. He pressed his nose close to his armpit and gagged. He reeked of stale sweat and whisky. Helene had laid out thick cotton towels on the radiator for him to use so she must have meant for him to have a bath. He ran the taps, water gushing out in a torrent, unlike the trickle he usually got at home. There was a round tub of bath salts on the side and he used the small scoop inside to sprinkle a thin line across the water’s surface, stirring it with his hand until the bathwater smelled of summer blooms and long days.

  He soaked and drowsed, his headache gradually dissipating as though the healing waters were permeating his body and cleansing out the poison. The downside to this renewal was that the fog cleared and he remembered why he’d wanted to drink so much: to block out all thoughts of Evie. It hadn’t worked. All of these secrets and lies, only uncovered because he’d decided to cut through Clapham Common one March morning. If he’d not been there then Rathbone wouldn’t know who Lawrie Matthews was. He might have sent round one of his minions to talk to Lawrie and Arthur but that would be all. Ophelia would have been another sad story in the newspaper but nothing more. He and Evie would be getting on with their lives, planning a wedding and looking for somewhere to live afterwards. Would his life have been so terrible if he’d not found out the truth?

  He lay there until the bathwater was cold before getting out and drying off with one of the luxurious white towels so soft that he felt like he was wrapped in cotton wool. He could smell fresh coffee now and hear Aston’s laughter echoing up from the basement. He felt envious, that Aston could just pick himself back up, dust himself off as though there was nothing wrong.

  ‘How you feelin’?’ Aston used his foot to push out the chair opposite him as Lawrie appeared at the kitchen door.

  ‘Better than I was an hour or so ago,’ Lawrie admitted.

  Helene placed a small cup of strong coffee before him, along with the pot. ‘Help yourself.’

  Someone had been out to the bakery already. There were croissants laid out, half a baguette and even a little brie. Lawrie was ravenous, devouring a croissant in less than a minute, barely savouring its buttery flakes before it was gone.

  ‘I’ll leave you two to talk while I have a bath.’ Helene got up and kissed Aston on the forehead. ‘We made arrangements to go to lunch with Guylaine. You remember her from last night Lawrie? You’re welcome to come.’

  Lawrie nodded even though he couldn’t imagine anything worse than having to go and be polite around a stranger. He drank his coffee in the silent kitchen, the caffeine working its magic. He could feel it flowing in a stream around his body, waking up his limbs and sharpening his thoughts.

  Aston’s voice cracked the silence open. ‘Look, I got something to tell you.’

  ‘What? Don’t tell me you’re marrying Helene.’ Lawrie poured more coffee. ‘I wouldn’t be so surprised. The whole world’s turned upside down at the moment.’

  ‘No, that’s not it. I didn’t say anything last night because, well, I needed to be sure you wouldn’t do anything foolish. Like catch a cab back to Brixton.’ Aston pulled a croissant onto his plate and began to pick it apart, flaking the pastry onto the expensive china. ‘I talked to Evie. I think you should do the same.’

  ‘You talked to her?’ Lawrie laughed in confusion. ‘You two never been able to stand one another.’

  ‘I ran into her is all. I suppose I should tell you first of all that I had my suspicions about that night. The party. I knew something had happened, I just wasn’t sure what.’ The croissant was in shreds and Aston brushed crumbs from his now greasy fingertips. ‘It was – I think—’ He took a gulp of coffee, grimacing. ‘Boy, I don’t even know how to say this.’

  ‘Just spit it out.’ Lawrie braced his hands against the table, fearing the worst.

  ‘That thing with Sam – it isn’t what you think.’ Aston looked up at him, as Lawrie felt his brows knit in confusion.

  ‘He forced himself on her. I never knew it at the time but as soon as she said it to me I knew
she was tellin’ the truth. It wasn’t her fault.’

  Lawrie stared at his friend, the brutality of his words hitting him like cinder blocks to the chest. His voice was a strangled cry when he next spoke. ‘She just came out and told you? So why she didn’t say it to me?’

  ‘She was ashamed. And you already thought she was a liar so she reckoned you wouldn’ believe her.’ Aston leaned back in his chair, his face reflecting the misery that had turned Lawrie’s body cold. ‘Maybe I should have said something at the time, that I thought somethin’ happen, but I never knew it for certain. I let you down. You left me at the house to make sure nothing happen to Evie and I failed. I know that.’ He pulled his hands to his face and stared down at his lap. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

  Lawrie stood up and pushed back his chair, letting it fall to the floor. ‘How many times I ask you why you and Evie always at each other’s throats, huh? How many? And you just say she look down on you. That she got a problem.’ He sighed, too exhausted to be as angry as he wanted to be. ‘You tellin’ me that Sam hurt her. And instead of helpin’ her I been too busy getting angry at her for something that wasn’t her fault. And you’re tellin’ me that you knew! This whole time and you never said a word.’

  Aston didn’t look up but Lawrie could see the tears as they fell, forming a puddle on the polished pine of the kitchen table. He felt ninety years old as he dragged himself upstairs to collect his few belongings: his jacket and tie, his wallet with a few shillings and pence, his clarinet which he’d brought along just in case. Everything he had left in the world.

  24

  On Sunday Evie slept in, sleepily saying goodbye to Delia and waiting for the slam of the front door. The Marsons attended a different church to her mother and Lawrie but she didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to kneel and pray for others, and she was sick of praying for her own forgiveness. God wouldn’t decide if Lawrie was going to take her back; that was up to him. She wondered what Ma would think when she saw Lawrie sitting alone. Would she guess what had happened? Would she care?