by Louise Hare
‘I’m so sorry, Evie.’ Ma was weeping now, her voice hysterical. ‘I never meant for any of this to happen.’
Rathbone looked angry, his face dark as he dragged her mother towards them, Evie flattening her back to the wall to avoid touching either of them. She could feel the impotent rage blazing from the detective.
‘Evie, say something,’ her mother begged. ‘Say you’ll forgive me.’
‘You don’t have to,’ Lawrie reminded her, squeezing her hand. ‘You owe her nothing.’
Evie nodded, even though he was wrong, and closed her eyes, refusing to reopen them, despite her mother’s cries, until she heard the door close at the other end of the corridor, her mother on her way to the cells.
December 1950
‘Day longa dan rope’
JAMAICAN PROVERB
27
She shouldn’t have left it until the last shopping day before Christmas, and had to squeeze her aching body onto the packed bus. A gentleman at the front tipped his hat as he offered his seat and she gratefully sank down into it. Lawrie had offered to come with her but she’d said no. If she’d had the choice she’d have put off the trip until the new year but she knew that she had a duty. And once she put it off once, it would be so much easier to do so the second and third time.
The gates looked just as forbidding as they had the previous time she’d been to Holloway prison. On that occasion she’d been accompanied by her aunt Gertie who had been furious at her niece for running away before they’d even gained entry, the sudden impulse to throw up overtaking all emotion. Gertie had assumed that Evie was chickening out and had left her sitting on the side of the road, her breakfast at her feet. She wasn’t sure her aunt had forgiven her, for that or for the chain of events that had led to Agnes Coleridge serving a long stretch behind bars, lucky to escape the death sentence.
Today she felt calmer, no longer nauseous now that her pregnancy was visible from several paces away. She showed her identification and waited as the officer checked her handbag and coat pockets. It was busy, as noisy as a school playground because of the sheer number of children. They’d been brought to see their mothers before Christmas, she supposed. The waiting area smelled like a bus station, stale cigarettes, body odour and a faint whiff of urine which she attributed to the children. Some of their faces had that grey pallor that came from a bad diet and infrequent washing.
The doors opened and Evie trailed behind as everyone else piled into the large room beyond, the wooden tables and chairs laid out in an orderly fashion. Evie sat where she was told, leaving her coat on to guard against the chill of the air. A door at the other side of the room opened and Evie dared to look up, waiting for her mother to enter.
She looked old. Her hair was grey and tied back in a greasy ponytail. Her skin looked dry and Evie wished she’d brought some cold cream, though she wasn’t even sure if it was allowed. She’d leave some money when she left, she decided, feeling sorry for her mother for the first time.
‘You came.’
Evie nodded and fidgeted with one of her coat buttons.
‘You look well,’ Agnes told her. ‘Where are you staying these days?’
‘We’re still living with Aston and Helene,’ she said. ‘They’ve been so kind. The rent is cheap but we’ll look for our own place soon. Once the baby’s born.’
Her mother gasped as she noticed Evie’s belly for the first time. ‘That was quick.’
‘We were married in May,’ Evie reminded her.
The wedding had been a quick register office affair in the end, with a meal at Tony’s Italian restaurant in Soho as the reception. With the wad of notes that Agnes had left, Lawrie had agreed to move the wedding up, if only so that Evie could legally cast off the tainted name of Coleridge. Evie had told Lawrie to make a party of it, more to take her mind off her mother’s trial than because she felt in a celebratory mood. Their honeymoon had been two nights at the Strand Palace hotel and a theatre show. By the time they returned to Notting Hill, Evie Coleridge was in the past and Evie Matthews had been ready to begin her new life, determined to let her mother fester, out of sight and out of mind. But it wasn’t all that easy, she had come to realise.
‘I’m happy for you.’
‘Thank you.’ The words tripped easily of her tongue as though Agnes was a stranger. ‘Lawrie’s very excited. He can’t decide if he’d rather it be a boy or a girl. I’d rather a boy.’ She didn’t want a replacement for Annabel. She could see that her mother understood.
‘You’ve got a good man there. I’m happy that he’s stuck by you. You know, that’s all I wanted—’
‘Forget it, Ma.’ Evie interrupted before her mother could trot out the same old excuses.
‘How can I? And you clearly haven’t.’
‘Are you joking?’ Evie hissed, leaning forward before she saw one of the guards shaking his head. She rested back in the chair, shifting her weight to try and get comfortable on the hard wood. ‘Ma, I can’t do this.’
‘Can’t do what?’
‘I can’t talk about it. What you did.’
‘So I’m not allowed to have a reason for it? I can’t try and explain myself?’
‘Not when you try and make yourself out to be some sort of martyr. You’re a murderer, Ma, nothing more than that. You’re lucky, you know. They fell for it; that you never meant for it to happen.’
‘But you don’t believe me.’
She chewed the inside of her cheek before taking a breath. ‘No. I don’t.’ She looked up, her mother staring back dry-eyed. ‘You had a choice. You could have brought her home and told me the truth. Or you could have taken her to Cedars Road.’
‘You’d have her grow up in a home? Your own daughter?’
‘Better than being dead, isn’t it?’ Evie lit a cigarette, her hand steady. ‘We gave her a proper burial. Mrs Ryan helped me with the arrangements.’ And Lawrie had been so good about it. He even went with Evie every week to lay flowers.
Agnes looked away. ‘I didn’t know what I was going to do. It was all spur of the moment. I thought I had time.’
‘You let me get arrested, Ma. You were going to run away. Did you think Lawrie wouldn’t tell me?’ Evie pushed back the chair. ‘I said we could talk but I’m not sure this is helpful and my doctor says I should watch my blood pressure.’
‘If my father had had his way, you’d have grown up in one of those children’s homes. Then you’d understand what I was trying to save your baby from.’
‘I do understand, Ma. But you aren’t God. You never had the right to make that decision for me.’ She squeezed her mother’s hand as she watched the tears start to fall, then stood up.
Her chest felt tight as she was checked over once more before she was allowed outside into the frigid air, taking deep breaths as she walked briskly to the bus stop, her head pounding.
She’d forgotten to leave her mother any money, she remembered as she got off the bus, changing onto the tube at Chancery Lane. Funny, but even though the short confrontation had been awful, she felt better. She knew her mother would never admit to whatever madness had been going through her mind when she’d taken her granddaughter. There were days when she wanted to believe Agnes’ defence. Lawrie, in his attempts to placate his wife, said that it was for Evie to decide whether her mother was guilty or innocent. She had hoped to leave the prison knowing for certain but even now, even after her mother had seemed to accept the charges laid against her by her own flesh and blood, she couldn’t be sure.
As she came up from the underground at Notting Hill Gate she decided to stop off at the bakery. Lawrie had developed a taste for a custard slice and she needed to see that look on his face, the smile in his eyes that he always had for her when she brought him one home.
‘Bit chilly out, is it, love?’ the woman asked her, spinning the paper bag with one hand to tie ears in it before placing it on the counter.
‘Rather. Least it’s not raining.’ Evie paid and tucked the bag under he
r arm. ‘Merry Christmas.’
Back out on the street she passed a black woman, a new arrival if she had to guess. She said hello and the woman smiled back hesitantly. Those women that Evie had looked for on the Common two years ago were finally arriving. Not everyone was happy about that of course, but for Evie it was exciting. She was no longer the odd one out in her own city. She was part of a new London.
This was a place marred by war; every other woman you passed had lost a husband, a lover, a child. But still they kept going. Evie was no different. This baby wouldn’t fix what Ma had done, would never replace the child she’d lost. But they would be loved, as Evie herself felt loved. She just had to remember her own advice: that life didn’t always turn out as you imagined… and that it wasn’t foolish to have dreams.
The tree was ridiculous, Aston having driven a hard bargain with the street seller that morning. No one else wanted a seven-foot tree, it seemed, only Aston Bayley. Lawrie’s arms still ached from the effort of carrying it back to the house. Now that Helene had unleased her artistic vision, as she called it, he had to say that it looked impressive. A Hollywood sort of Christmas tree, like he’d seen in the movies.
‘What time you told them?’ Aston walked in, a glass jug in each hand. His infamous rum punch.
‘I did say six,’ Lawrie eyed the jugs cautiously, ‘but I wouldn’t bet on them being on time.’
Aston winked as he placed them carefully on the sideboard, on mats, of course, so Helene didn’t scold him. ‘Fancy making sure this stuff is all right?’
‘May as well.’
A stiff drink would sort him out, he hoped. Stop him worrying about Evie, who’d refused to say a word since she arrived home, just pleaded exhaustion and went straight to bed. He knew she hadn’t slept well the night before; neither had he, worrying what would happen with Agnes. He’d wanted to go with her but she refused point blank. It was something for them to sort out between them, she’d said, if they were ever going to.
Aston poured out punch into two crystal glasses that Evie reckoned cost more than she earned in a week. Since she now worked with Helene at the gallery, doing general admin as well as the accounts, she would know. Lawrie flinched a little at the first sip before it started going down smoother.
‘You think there’s enough rum?’ Aston asked, smacking his lips and lighting a cigarette.
‘There’s rum enough in there to set the house on fire if you hold that lighter too close to it,’ Lawrie told him. ‘Good, though.’
‘We got plenty of beer and Helene bought champagne for the ladies. You think we need more food?’
Helene had ordered food from a catering company, had wanted to book a waiter to hand round plates of food until Evie had stopped her. Lawrie could just imagine Sonny’s face, getting offered a plate of the tiny savoury tarts by a man whose suit had cost more than Sonny’s entire wardrobe.
‘Nah, man.’ Lawrie sat down on the wide sofa. ‘Just relax. These are our friends comin’ over, not Helene’s fancy acquaintances.’
‘True, true.’
They had another glass of punch, just to be sure, and Lawrie’s head was a little fuzzy when the doorbell went. Even after almost eight months, it usually felt awkward to answer the door in Helene’s house, but not when he knew the crowd outside so well. They’d all arrived together and he could imagine them making the trek across London in convoy, crammed into the vans of Derek and Moses.
He’d never stop feeling grateful to his friends. After Agnes had been arrested Mrs Ryan’s doorbell had not stopped ringing for weeks, journalists calling their questions through the letterbox until Arthur had taken to keeping a bucket of dirty water by the door. By the third soaking they’d taken their interrogations up the street, printing local gossip about Agnes and her father that the neighbours were happy to share. Shame on them, Mrs Ryan had said, and checked in on Lawrie often, at least once a week. They’d decided between them not to mention any of it to Lawrie’s mother. She’d only worry and she didn’t need to know.
‘Would you look at this place!’ Mrs Ryan marvelled as she walked into the hallway, even though she’d been to the house at least three times before. ‘I forget how grand you live now, Lawrie.’
‘Come in, come in.’
He waved them all on, Aston ushering them through to the living room: Mrs Ryan, who wasn’t actually Mrs Ryan any longer. She was newly married to Arthur, who followed her in with Derek. Behind them were Johnny and Ursula, Moses and Al, Sonny trailing in behind. Last were Delia and Sid, holding hands in an awkward fashion since Delia insisted on keeping her left hand tilted so that everyone would notice her new engagement ring.
‘Congratulations.’ Lawrie stooped to kiss her cheek, shaking Sid’s free hand.
‘Ta, Lawrie,’ she said. ‘Where’s Evie?’
‘Evie? Ah,’ he realised guiltily, ‘let me go check. She was feeling tired so she went for a lay down. I’ll go and see if she’s ready.’
Their bedroom was on the first floor, that same room where he had stayed, drunken and desperate, the night before Evie’s arrest. Now it felt more homely. Evie had bought some blue velvet from Whiteley’s and run up a new pair of curtains to stop the light coming in through the blinds in the morning. Lawrie had found an old armchair at the second-hand shop round the corner and, as Evie said, once the baby came along there’d be all manner of paraphernalia that would mark the space as their own, but with luck they could find their own place before too long. He’d been saying that since May though and, still without a steady job, he wasn’t sure when that would be. If Evie hadn’t proved such a godsend to Helene in the gallery, they’d only have what Lawrie made with the band.
He found Evie in front of the mirror, sticking a final hair grip into her chignon. He had ordered her to spend the Christmas bonus that Helene had given her on a new dress for herself. She had refused at first, saying it would be a waste when she wouldn’t be able to wear it for much longer, but then he pointed out that they had talked about having at least two children, so she would have another chance to wear it. She was wearing it now but he could tell that she wasn’t happy with the way it fell over the growing bump. He thought she looked pretty, though the style of it made her look incongruously young.
‘Look at the state!’ She turned this way and that before the mirror, tugging at the white collar of the knee-length navy smock. ‘I look huge. Why did you let me buy this awful dress? I look like a fat old woman.’
‘You look beautiful.’ He kissed her forehead and put his arms around her. ‘You’re in a bad mood is all. Because of Agnes?’
She groaned and laid her head against his chest. ‘I did what you told me not to. It was awful.’
She hadn’t raised her voice but he could hear the tremble of anger and upset, and held her tighter. ‘Come on. Come downstairs and have a drink.’
‘Is everyone here? Can’t we stay up here, just the two of us? Aston can keep them entertained.’ She looked up at him and pouted, making him chuckle.
‘No! Tempting, but we invited them and it’s Christmas. You’ll have fun once you get down there.’ He kissed her lips, glad she hadn’t bothered with lipstick. ‘Come on.’
He took her by the hand, and they joined the others in the living room. The punch had already been doled out which was just as well, Lawrie thought, and Aston was struggling to open a bottle of champagne. Mrs Ryan gave Evie a hug and Lawrie smiled to see his wife laugh at one of Sid’s terrible jokes, the company of their friends like a magic tonic.
‘Give it to me,’ Helene ordered, grabbing the bottle and popping the cork out with little effort, much to Derek’s amusement in particular.
‘See, I had loosened it right up,’ Aston claimed. ‘But I’ll let you take the credit this time, chérie.’
Helene kissed his cheek. ‘Yes, yes. Now, who wants a glass of this? Much less lethal than that rum concoction.’
Lawrie shook his head, nodding at his glass of punch, but Evie took a flute as Aston stood on a foot
stool to make a toast. Already a little tipsy, it was a crowd-pleasing speech full of risqué jokes, but Lawrie was only half listening. He wanted to watch Evie, smiling as she laughed at Aston’s impression of Arthur in the mornings, heckling as he poked fun at poor Moses who was still having no luck with the ladies – though he did have a fresh bruise on his cheek.
Ever since that night back in the spring, when Derek’s intelligence had proved accurate, there had been the odd spot of trouble. Certain pubs it was wiser to stay out of. Talking to the wrong girls or standing in the wrong place could get you a smack. At first, Lawrie had thought that Agnes’s arrest would make all that nonsense go away but the baby had just been the first spark. The fire was lit now, but it didn’t have to signal an ending to the new life he had come to England to seek. The life that he was finally starting to live.
Someone had put on a record, and as Lord Kitchener’s opening bars filled the room Lawrie looked around at the people who were now raising their glasses – the people who were his new family. Raising his own tumbler of rum, he remembered the newspaper they had handed out at Tilbury the day they disembarked from that ship. ‘Welcome Home!’ the headline had proclaimed.
For the first time, he felt it to be true.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to my agent, Nelle Andrew, for taking a chance on me when all I had was a few pages and an idea for how the rest would go (mostly that idea was wrong, but I got there in the end!). I will always be grateful to the Lucy Cavendish Fiction Prize for bringing us together.
Clio Cornish, your enthusiasm for this book won me over immediately and I’m so privileged to have called you my editor. Manpreet Grewal and Lisa Milton have been incredibly supportive and I must acknowledge the whole team at HQ – you are brilliant and innovative and there could not have been a better home for This Lovely City. Thanks to Claire Brett, Jo Rose, Ammara Isa and Joe Thomas for a marketing and publicity campaign that exceeded my expectations, Rebecca Fortuin for finding the perfect Lawrie and Evie for the audiobook. George Green, Fliss Porter, Darren Shoffren, Halema Begum and Angie Dobbs for all your work behind the scenes. And for the craziest proof drop I’ve ever seen: Alexia Thomaidis, Hannah Sawyer, Samantha Luton and Izzy Smith.