by Annie Murray
Tonight was her Saturday shift and she was feeling blue. She looked nice, she knew, in neat court shoes and a black and white dress in zigzag stripes that hugged her curves. She smiled, selling tickets to happy couples in their party outfits and dancing shoes, tapping her foot to the music from the Ballroom as the customers jigged and laughed. But as the music floated through the foyer, she ached with loneliness. She wanted to avoid everybody; but she also wanted desperately to get close to someone. A special someone. Everyone else seemed to have someone.
A gaggle of lads came in a bit later, all older than she was and wanting to pick up girls. They chatted to her in loud, forceful voices. They told her she was gorgeous, begged her to come and dance.
‘I’m not allowed,’ she said, forcing a smile. I’ve got to stay here.’ And crawled back into her shell, hardly meeting their eyes. They didn’t really mean it, she knew. No one really wanted or liked her – they only pretended. Like Gary.
Even Mrs Bracebridge, who had asked for her all those years ago, had not put up any sort of a fight for her – that was how Evie saw it. Mom had been outraged over Mary Bracebridge and had banned Evie from ever going to the Sunday school again. For the best part of a year, Evie didn’t see Mrs Bracebridge and didn’t go near St John’s. Because she wasn’t going, Gary never went either. Then there came a point when she knew Mom didn’t care what she did as long as she was out of her hair. Mom wouldn’t notice if she went back there, would she?
She and Gary returned one Sunday but it was not the same. There was hardly anyone she recognized. Mrs Bracebridge greeted her kindly, but she was distant, as if Evie was someone she barely knew, like all the others. Evie no longer felt special or cared for and the hurt of this would have cut deep into her, had she let it. But she didn’t. Everyone rejected you in the end. So what? Mrs Bracebridge was just a silly old woman. She never went back.
This Saturday, two days after bonfire night, she did her work feeling low and shut into herself. She was the youngest of the girls working in the kiosks and sometimes she had a laugh with the others, but not tonight.
‘Cat got yer tongue, Evie?’ the woman next to her called across during a lull. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing,’ Evie said. She looked away. Why couldn’t people leave her alone?
She was trying not to think about Gary. About how angry she was with him. What was so flaming special about Pete? Why had Gary kissed her that time? She was full of confusion. OK, so he was really into Pete, Pete was his new best friend, or so it seemed. But why should that stop him having a girlfriend as well? It wasn’t like Gary to be mean but it felt as if that was what he was being. Mean and stupid.
A swell of music rose from the Ballroom, then stopped amid clapping, cheering and catcalls, and she imagined all the couples in there, wrapped round each other amid the smells of sweat and perfume, all having a good time. She thought of Rita with Conn. Mom was coming round to the idea of Conn now they were actually engaged. And Shirley had grown up into a real looker with her sculpted cheekbones and dark eyes like Dad’s. Shirley had no shortage of male admirers.
Evie chucked a handful of change into the till and slammed it shut. Sod everyone. Sod Gary too. What good would he ever be to her anyway? He could hardly dress himself without making a mess of it. It was no good ever trusting anyone. You were better off on your own.
All the same, she still wanted to see Gary. Home was empty of any kind of sympathy. Her father still caressed and lashed out at them alternately and unpredictably, whether drunk or sober. Mom she still tried to please, to keep the peace, still hoping that one miraculous day Mom might actually like her, say something nice to her and claim her as a daughter.
But whenever Mom got it into her head, rightly or wrongly, that Dad was playing away, it brought back the whole business with Nancy and her boy and that, of course, was Evie’s curse. She had been born a girl. She was the cause of all Mom’s ills and resentments. She could never do anything right. And Rita and Shirley had been schooled to push Evie out too. It never seemed to change.
Since Mom had started working at Bulpitt’s making kettles, she had gained not only a whole new set of people to fall out with as well as the neighbours, but some money of her own so that she was always dressed up to the nines. She was damned if Ray was getting his hands on her money. She dyed her hair with peroxide every week, spent Saturday afternoons scouring the Rag Market for bargains and varnished her nails bright scarlet. She had gained weight as she reached her late thirties and was an even more massive, forbidding and brassily glamorous matron. Dad could still scrub up when he put his mind to it and people said, when they were together, that they looked like a pair of film stars. Marilyn Monroe and Clark Gable!
Evie sometimes felt proud of them, when they were dressed up. Proud but sad. Yes, they looked a picture, but she would rather have had them drab and kind like Mr and Mrs Waring any day.
As Christmas came closer, they decorated the Ballroom with streamers, tinsel and holly and the place felt very festive for all the parties and dances. Evie dreaded Christmas more each year. There was nothing good to expect from it and it meant being shut in with her family, who went further out of their way to be mean to her the more time they spent together. She envied other people their excitement. She found herself wishing that the Ballroom was open on Christmas Day, to give her an excuse to be away.
And then, a few days before Christmas, when Evie was at work, along with a lorry load of drinks being delivered to the bar, in came someone tall, with wavy brown hair and large brown eyes, who appeared in the foyer seeming uncertain. He looked across at her and hurried in her direction.
Thirteen
He came loping towards her, holding a sheet of paper. He had to stoop to speak into the kiosk and she saw a long face, lightly freckled, with a bewildered expression.
‘Er . . .’ He seemed shy and his cheeks went pink. ‘I’m looking for the office.’
Evie smiled, amused by how flustered he seemed. She saw how nice his hair was – thick and clean – and he was well spoken. He looked so wholesome and somehow innocent that she immediately felt that he was different from her, almost foreign.
‘Over there.’ She pointed.
He turned, obviously feeling silly for not having seen the right way to go in the first place. ‘Oh . . . yeah. Thanks.’
She watched him moving away, long legs in grey trousers, long, thin arms. Something about him appealed to her. He looked defenceless, like a baby bird, even though he was handsome and moved quite gracefully. But then she was distracted by someone carrying in a crate of bottles and forgot about him.
But he appeared again the next day, without the piece of paper, after his working hours must have finished. There was a wrestling match on in the Ballroom and a rowdy queue had already formed for tickets. As she was serving a customer, Evie became aware of the boy at the back of her line. She glanced at him and away, annoyed to feel her own cheeks flaming pink. She guessed he had come to see her. He didn’t look like someone who would come to see the wrestling.
Soon he was second in line.
‘Ta. Have a nice evening,’ she said to the middle-aged couple at the front of the queue, both wearing thick winter coats. The woman looked oddly excited at the prospect of watching wrestling, Evie thought. Maybe it was the idea of seeing men with not much on. Her eyes followed them away from the kiosk. Her shyness, her sense that the boy was somehow different from her made her want to seem aloof and pretend she had not seen him. At last she had to look.
‘Hello,’ he said earnestly. There was something sweet and decent about him. It was impossible not to like him.
‘You were here yesterday,’ she said briskly. ‘Forget something, did you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I . . .’ The impossibility of what he had to say seemed to overwhelm him. He was also under pressure from people queueing behind. ‘I, um . . . Well, I came back because I wanted to know . . .’ He wrung his hands. ‘I wanted to ask . . . if you�
�d come out . . . with me, I mean. Er . . . for a drink?’ He looked down then, seeming mortified.
‘Tonight?’ she said. She was pleased but was not going to show it. ‘Can’t, can I? I’m here, working. As you can see.’
‘Yes,’ he said foolishly. ‘I mean . . . later? Or another day? I just thought . . . I just wanted to get to talk to you.’
This was so disarming and he looked so embarrassed that she relented.
‘I’m off tomorrow. What about then?’
He brightened. ‘Would you? I don’t live all that far away. We could go into town – or somewhere,’ he added quickly, obviously wanting to please. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Oh, quite a way away,’ she said. The lad looked a bit genteel for Inkerman Street. ‘Look, why don’t we just meet outside here?’
‘All right. Six o’clock?’ A smiled played at the corners of his lips, waiting to break out. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Evie. Sutton.’
‘Evie,’ he repeated, and walked away, looking like someone who has just rubbed a lamp and something wonderful has jumped out of it. He didn’t think to tell her his own name.
It was cold out the next night, everything blurred by fog. At the furthest reach of the Ballroom’s lights, she saw someone standing looking out across the water. So, he had come. She had wondered, nervously, if he would. But now, walking out and seeing him, Evie felt a sense of defeat. He was a nice lad – too nice for her. Why was she bothering going anywhere with him? She stuck her hands in her pockets and her head down, feeling almost sulky as she walked towards him.
‘’Ello.’ She sounded grumpy, a bit resentful, but he didn’t seem to notice.
‘Oh Evie!’ he said, turning. ‘You came!’
His apparent astonishment made her relent and smile. ‘Said I would, didn’ I? What’s your name, anyway? You never said.’
‘Didn’t I? Oh dear. I’m Ken Heaton.’ He thrust a long-fingered hand at her and she took it and shook it, even more amused.
‘You’re a funny one,’ she said.
‘Am I?’ He stared down at her through the gloom, then, good mannered, seemed to gather himself. ‘A drink then?’
They walked a few streets, then found a seat, pressed in at the back of a pub, amid the fug of bodies and beer, but glad of the warmth.
‘So . . . you work for the brewery?’ she asked, when he had bought drinks – Dubonnet and lemonade for her and a half of ale for him. She eyed his drink. ‘A half? Don’t drink much, do you?’
‘Oh . . . no.’ He sat with one elbow on the table. ‘Drinking at all is a sin in our household. My mother and father are strict Methodists. They’re horrified that I’m working for Ansell’s. But it’s not forever. I’m just trying to think what to do. I’m their only son – well, only anything. No sisters either.’ He took a sip of his drink and a thin line of white remained on his upper lip which made him look foolish and disarmed her. A cheer went up from the crowd at the dartboard across the room and they both glanced in that direction, then looked at each other and smiled.
‘What do they think you should do then?’ she asked, trying to get the measure of him. He was out of a different bracket from her, she could see. She wasn’t sure how to talk to him.
He sipped again, swallowed. He was drinking fast and she could see it was nerves and this made her feel a bit better.
‘Oh . . . what they really want is for me to be a minister.’
‘What, like a vicar?’ She had never known a single person with an ambition like that before.
‘Yes. I’d most likely be a lay preacher first, then go on to be—’
‘A what?’ she interrupted.
‘Lay preacher. You go round the circuit preaching, but you’re not a minister.’
Her bafflement deepened. ‘What’s a circuit?’ She thought it must be something like a dog track.
His face creased into an attractive smile. Something softened in her a fraction.
‘It’s just a group of churches. Look, it doesn’t matter, ’cause I’m not going to do it anyway. Church is all right, you know. There’re some nice people. But not day in, day out . . . What I’d really like is to be a farmer.’
‘A farmer?’ She started laughing. ‘What, in the middle of Birmingham? How’re you going to do that?’
Ken picked up his drink, shaking his head. ‘I’ve no blooming idea really. Well, actually I do – you have to go to an agricultural . . .’
As he was speaking, the band, who had been greeted by cheers as they came in, started up. There were five lads, a skiffle band with guitars and one of them banging on a box, starting off with the Six-Five Special song.
Ken beamed, seeming delighted, and they both jigged along for a while. He leaned close to her ear and shouted, ‘No washboard!’
Evie smiled. The skiffle bands played on all sorts of homemade stuff. They listened to a couple of numbers. They were good – full of energy. The pub was filling up even more. Again, Ken leaned closer.
‘Shall we make a move? Can’t hear a word in here.’
He helped her into her coat like a gentleman and when they were out in the foggy darkness, he said, ‘I’d best not keep you out too long. I s’pose they’re expecting you home?’
Evie made a non-committal sound and Ken stopped. They were near a street light and she could see an intent look on his face.
‘I’ve hardly found out anything about you. Tell me, Evie, about your family. Have you got brothers and sisters? What are they like?’
‘I’ve two sisters,’ she said, tightening inside. She didn’t want her family anywhere near Ken. She didn’t know what she was doing anywhere near Ken.
‘And?’ he laughed at her clam-like communication.
‘Well, they’re older than me. And I’ve got a mom and dad.’
‘Where does your father work – as we’re exchanging information? Mine’s in an engineering firm – office work, though, accounts and such.’
‘Oh . . . Docker’s,’ she said, adding vaguely, ‘Paint factory.’ Dad was on deliveries now, driving the trucks, but she didn’t say so. She wanted Ken to imagine him as something a bit higher up in the pecking order.
‘You must come and meet mine one day,’ he said, then added, as if he’d been too forward, ‘Sorry, Evie . . . we’ve only just met.’ He stepped closer and, daringly, put his hands on her shoulders. She realized, with a wave of need, that she wanted him to kiss her, as if to undo that kiss of Gary’s which had meant nothing.
‘Only . . .’ He looked down into her eyes from his gangly height, sweet and intense. ‘I just think you’re smashing! I really do. You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen and . . . I really want to see you again. When can we get together?’
She felt carried away on his enthusiasm. He was so safe and innocent and kind. And being wanted, being adored like this, was so alluring. A wash of warmth and affection for him went through her. She liked the way his long face looked when he smiled – happy and foolish at the same time. And all he seemed to want was to gaze at her.
‘I’m working tomorrow,’ she said. It would be Christmas Eve.
Ken put his head back and sighed. ‘Oh, and then it’ll be Christmas, and then Boxing Day! Oh, I don’t know if I can stand it. Aunties and uncles . . . We’ll have to wait ’til it’s all over, I suppose.’ He looked down at her again. ‘But knowing you’re there – that’ll make it all right.’
Evie looked steadily back at him. She felt unsatisfied. They both got stuck for a moment and then she said, ‘You gunna kiss me then?’
‘What now? Already?’ Ken looked surprised, seemed flustered for a moment. ‘Well . . . yeah! If that’s all right.’
‘Not here,’ she said. ‘Too many people.’ There were revellers coming in and out of the pubs. ‘I’ll show you.’ She felt excited and in command, leading him towards Ladywood as he’d said he’d walk her home, taking his hand as they wandered through the foggy streets. Before they reached Inkerman Street, she pulled him gently
into an entry and soon they were locked in each other’s arms, lips pressed together.
‘Oh Evie!’ Ken exclaimed when they finally parted and walked on. He sounded drunk, much more than half a pint of bitter would warrant. ‘Oh my! You’re just . . . I’m seeing stars!’
Evie giggled, but felt deeply gratified. Kissing Ken had been so much nicer than kissing Gary. Ken held her close in his long, gentle arms and his lips were soft and tasted of beer. He kissed her in a lingering, tender way which made her feel something she had seldom ever felt before – honoured and cared for and precious. She was reeling even more than he was, she thought, but she could think of nothing to say.
This was life. How things were meant to be.
At the end of the street she said, ‘We’re nearly there – I live a bit further up. You might as well go back now.’
‘Oh Evie,’ Ken said adoringly. ‘D’you know, the moment I saw you, when I walked into the Tower, I thought, that girl is for me. You’re so beautiful,’ he added earnestly. ‘Beautiful in body and mind.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, though wondering how Ken thought he knew anything about her mind. She didn’t know what else to say back. ‘See you soon. Sat’dy?’
‘I’ll be willing the time away,’ he said. She knew he was still watching her as she walked away and his gaze felt like a caress.
Fourteen
January 1960
Ken stood at the corner of Inkerman Street, blowing a kiss along the road towards her.
Evie paused outside number twenty-nine and waved. Someone blowing her kisses – what a thing! She was astonished by Ken’s devotion to her. Though everyone said she was pretty and she was softly spoken and tried to speak nicely the way Mrs Bracebridge had taught her, she never felt as if she was an attractive person. She always felt bad inside. In a way she didn’t believe in his love. Everything about it felt unreal, her walking out with this sweet, gentle boy. She wasn’t good enough for him and she was convinced that one day he would realize it.