by Annie Murray
She would wander, looking at the lit windows of houses, feeling left out and bereft. It felt as if everyone but her had a home to go to, a room to sit in with the lights on and laugh with people they loved. She would hear laughter and chatter from pubs and one day she stepped inside one. Nervous at first, she raised her chin and asked for a port and lemon, daring herself onwards, driven by something she could hardly understand. I just want a bit of a life, she told herself. I’m young and free – why shouldn’t I go out and have a drink?
Being young, blonde and pretty, she immediately attracted attention. She was never alone for long. Some longing inside her that she scarcely knew was there must have come off her like a scent. Meeting men, she discovered, was not difficult. More nights than not, she went out, dressed up in a little black wool dress and black court shoes. Black looked good against her pale hair and skin and the dress flattered her curvaceous figure.
Paul was one of the first. He was twenty-one and worked at a firm in Cheapside. Paul was someone you could have a laugh with. He was also fair-haired, a nice-looking lad with blue eyes and a careless outlook on life.
‘Come on,’ he’d say on a Saturday night. ‘No work tomorrow – let’s make a night of it.’
She walked out with him for a while, went to a few dances. And then with Barry, a quiet, intense young man who had just finished an engineering apprenticeship. Evie never took much notice of what they told her. If she could not find in them what she was looking for within a few dates, she withdrew. And the men, who were also looking for something if they could get it, never got far with her. She would let them kiss her, have a cuddle in the dark, allow their hands to wander – but no more.
‘You’re so gorgeous,’ they’d groan. ‘I want yer, Evie. I’ve never met a girl like you before.’ All types of flattery and persuasion.
‘No,’ she’d insist, withdrawing. ‘I’m not like that. ‘I dunno what you take me for, but I’m not that kind of girl. Marriage first – do it right. No hanky-panky.’
And sooner or later, she left them, before they could leave her. Every time she felt terrible – empty and sad. But she kept going back for more. However much she longed for all of it, to be held and loved, to lie with a man and feel the force of him wanting her, she knew after Ken she was never ever going to let anyone do anything to her unless it meant more. No more money sealed in an envelope, no more bye-bye have a nice life and walking off. Never would she go through that again – a baby, her baby, being handed over to strangers.
She wanted the real thing – marriage and babies. Someone who would give her everything she needed. All the same, she liked the feeling almost of danger, the company, the drink, which made her halfway forgetful and feel as though she was melting.
One night, she was coming out of the Drovers’ Arms in town, on the arm of a bloke who had taken a fancy to her. Les. Alan. One or the other. As they got to the pavement, she caught sight of a familiar face approaching along the street – familiar and unmistakeable. Mrs Poulter, the powerful matron of the yard of her childhood. She must have been going home, late after the markets. Their eyes met, just for a second, and Evie had a terrible feeling of her blood pumping too hard round her body, as if she had been caught in a criminal act. She turned away and said something to the man, laughed loudly. When she looked back, Mrs Poulter was gone, but her gaze stayed with Evie, and the feeling of shame it brought with it.
And not long after, just before Christmas, she was with a man she met in one of the pubs round Sparkhill and they’d had a few drinks. When they left the pub he started to get amorous. He was a bit older than most of the others she had been with – well into his twenties – a solid bloke who told her he was a bricklayer.
He flung an arm round her shoulder in the street. Others were turning out into the cold night, warmed by Christmas spirits of one kind or another. Evie, who was half drunk herself, paid no attention to where they were going. She was getting used to wandering about with blokes. One street looked very much like another but she always found her way home in the end.
‘You’re a nice’n, you are,’ he said, leaning round to kiss her. He had a moustache, she remembered later. It prickled against her lips. ‘Lovely wench, you are.’ He kept muttering, weaving along. ‘Come’ere . . .’
He pulled her into an entry between two factories and pressed her up against the wall, kissing her, his lips hard and forceful, his mouth tasting of whisky and bad teeth. She soon realized that the man was very drunk and that he was making short work of her, his hands up her dress, tugging at her clothes, mind on only one thing. He took it for granted that she was going to give him what he wanted and quickly. As he thrust his body against her, she knew that she could be anyone, any piece of female meat.
‘No,’ she started to say, cursing herself for having drunk so much. She felt swimmy in the head and nothing was clear. ‘Stop! Gerroff of me now, will you!’
She grabbed at his hands, trying to pull them out of her clothes, but he was very strong.
‘What?’ He drew his head back and she could hear the aggression. ‘What d’yer mean, no, yer stupid bitch? What the hell’re you playing at?’
‘That’s enough. I don’t want this.’ She started trying to scrabble away from him. ‘I never said I’d do that with you.’ She managed to move away, pulling her clothes together. ‘Not that. I never meant—’
His hand lunged at her, catching her cheekbone, and her face jarred. She cried out with pain, clutching at her cheek.
‘You’re asking for it, out on yer own! Go on, piss off then, yer stupid bint.’ . . .’
I’ve got to get away, she thought, frightened of him now, of what he might do. Within seconds another blow came, a crack to the side of her head, and she lost consciousness.
When she came to it was still dark and she was freezing cold. She was lying on her left side, her cheek pressed against the hard ground.
Oh my God, she thought. Where am I? She felt about her. Rough bricks, grit, glass. The entry. The man. What had he done to her? The main pain was in her head, a heavy throb on the left side. As she slowly sat up, feeling sick, she realized that though her left knee and elbow were sore where she must had fallen, she was otherwise all right. Her clothes seemed to be intact. He had not taken advantage of her after he had knocked her head against the wall.
All she could think about then was that she had to get home. Thank heaven it was Saturday tomorrow and she didn’t need to get to work.
She dragged herself to her feet and the moment she was upright her insides bucked and she bent over, retching, her head throbbing. She straightened up, spat and let out a moan, leaning against the wall. She heard a voice.
‘Someone there?’ A beam of torchlight pierced her eyes as she turned. ‘You all right, miss?’
A police constable was standing at the end of the entry. He sounded very young. Evie staggered towards him. Immediately she knew she didn’t want to tell him anything. She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, knowing there was blood on it.
‘I fell,’ she said. Her voice sounded slurred. It wouldn’t seem to behave. ‘Can you tell me the way to the Stratford Road from here?’
The young man looked worried. In the end he insisted on walking her home. Once she got walking, she realized she was not badly hurt, though she felt very groggy. Her head was sore but it cleared a little as they walked from street lamp to street lamp. She could see ice forming on the pavements.
‘What time is it?’ she asked him.
‘Nearly midnight.’ He seemed shy of her, or was it frightened? She wasn’t sure. It had been nearly eleven when they left the pub. She hadn’t been lying there for too long.
‘Will you be all right?’ he asked, once they got to Mrs Hardy’s house.
‘Yes. Ta. I’ve got a key,’ she said.
After bathing the cuts on her face, Evie at last sank into bed, all of her hurting, her feelings very low and sober now. He could have killed me. She wondered if her head was all rig
ht but did not know what to do except sleep it off and hope that would do the trick. She was disgusted at herself, shocked and frightened by what had happened, by the way she could feel herself slipping down and down into somewhere lost and dark. To that policeman she must have looked like . . . Well, she could imagine what he had thought. And she knew how she must have looked to Gladys Poulter as well. Dear God, what was she becoming?
She lay filled with despair, but she hadn’t the energy to cry. Falling asleep, hugging her sore body, her head aching, she thought, I must get a hold on myself. She would have to make up something to tell Mrs Hardy tomorrow . . .
Over Christmas she made herself stay in and keep Mrs Hardy company. And it was soon after that – not in a pub – that she met Jack Harrison.
Twenty-Nine
February 1962
‘Here you are, bab, have another bit of cake. It won’t keep.’
Evie smiled and held out her plate. They were all round the table at Carol’s house and Mrs Rough had stood up to cut more slices off a fruitcake so solid and stuffed with fruit that it looked as if it would last forever. The marzipan and icing combined were almost an inch thick.
‘You could’ve sent that on an Antarctic expedition, Eileen,’ Mr Rough remarked, somewhat muffled by a sticky mouthful. He was a rangy man with dark clipped hair and a curling moustache. ‘They wouldn’t need another thing ’til they got home.’
‘Shush, Bernard.’ Mrs Rough flapped a hand at him good-naturedly. She was a comfortable-looking lady, hair permed into tight red-brown curls and wearing a brown woolly dress. ‘That’s it, our Evie, you eat up. Have a nice Christmas with your family, did you?’
‘Oh, yes, ta,’ Evie said, smiling up at her.
Evie loved the cake, and being with someone who fed her, and, even more, she loved being called ‘our Evie’. It gave her a tremor of happiness inside every time she heard it. Carol’s family had taken to her. She was always welcomed warmly and they weren’t nosey. Carol must have told them a bit about her, but they didn’t keep asking her too many questions. They went about their own business, were pleased to see her and let her be. For her own part, after what had happened with the man before Christmas, she had decided to take herself in hand and stop going out wandering about, behaving like a loose woman. What she needed was a proper life, she told herself. She had had a narrow escape. And now she was happy to be sitting here with this friendly family.
The afternoon was chill and foggy and they sat round the table in the cosy back room of the Roughs’ little terraced house, the red and white check cloth over the yellow formica table laden with food. The telly chattered on the sideboard. Evie could see its light and shade flickering to her right. The gas fire was pumping and every face was pink. As well as the stout Christmas cake, Mrs Rough had made luncheon meat and mustard sandwiches, bridge rolls with egg, and laid out Kit-Kats and Skippy bars and angel cakes and bowls of crisps, so that, as Mr Rough observed, trying to put down a cup was like playing a game of draughts. Mr and Mrs Rough were at each end, Evie on one side and Carol squeezed next to her brother Paul on the other.
‘Where’s Tony?’ Evie asked, aware that she was sitting in his seat. Tony was the eldest, well into his twenties and still living at home, working for Tangyes in Smethwick. Tony was a lively, confident man, always laughing and joking, whereas Paul, two years younger, was shy, seemingly in Tony’s shadow, and hardly said a word.
‘Oh, he’ll be in,’ Mrs Rough said. ‘He’s off out tonight – with that pal of his. He said he’d come by first, though. Now, I’ll fill the pot up again. Have a Skippy, Evie.’
‘God, Mom, let her finish her cake first,’ Carol protested. ‘I know you want us out the way so you can watch your show.’
‘No I don’t!’ Mrs Rough protested, but giving a lopsided smile to mean she did. They all knew she was devoted to Dixon of Dock Green on Saturdays, This is Your Life on Sundays and Coronation Street in the week – and nothing must get in the way.
Evie smiled at Mrs Rough, enjoying her. She was so different from her own mother it was hardly believable and it warmed her heart.
Just as the kettle was coming to the boil again, they heard the front door open and male voices booming in the narrow hall.
‘Ah, here’s our Tony now,’ Mrs Rough said, rather unnecessarily. In seconds, the boys burst in.
‘All right, Mom?’ Tony said, swooping down on a meat sandwich and chewing with relish. Evie saw his strong jaw working. She smiled shyly at him.
‘Eh!’ Mrs Rough protested, slapping him fondly on the arm. ‘What about your pal? Helping yerself first. Here yer go, bab. Want a sandwich, Jack?’
‘Yep, ta very much.’ The room felt suddenly even more crammed as the lads stood over them full of male energy, joking and teasing Paul, trying to get a rise out of him.
Tony’s friend had a deep, distinctive voice and Evie turned to look. She saw a tall, slender, vivid man, his brown hair shorn neatly into a short back and sides, but longer at the front, sweeping across his forehead. His face was thin and pale, the eyes dark and intent. It was a face she couldn’t stop looking at. He stood leaning one elbow on the wall to the side of the tiled fireplace. As she looked across at him, their eyes met.
Evie saw him take her in, then look away as Mrs Rough was talking to him, offering him tea and cake.
‘No, ta, Mrs Rough,’ he said. That voice again. She kept looking, while trying to pretend she wasn’t. She saw him glance back at her. ‘We’re off out with some of the lads. Just come for a quick wash and brush-up.’
‘You’ve got room for a cup of tea,’ Mrs Rough instructed, handing him one.
‘Mom!’ Carol said, obviously mortified. Evie could see her blushing and wondered if she fancied her brother’s friend. She hadn’t said much about him but Jack’s presence was a force in the room.
‘Oh, all right, ta then,’ Jack said easily, taking the green cup and saucer. He smiled and the face became even more interesting.
‘You can’t get away from our mom without being fed,’ Tony told him, laughing. ‘It’s no good even trying.’
‘Go on, lad, have an angel cake with that,’ Mrs Rough insisted, thrusting a plate at him.
Jack stared at the little cakes with their daubs of icing and shrugged helplessly, taking one. As he looked up, his eyes met Evie’s laughingly and lingered, just for a second, before his glance moved away. His looking at her had made her breath go shallow. There was something electric about Jack Harrison, as she later found out he was called, standing propping up the mantelpiece, his jacket draped over one shoulder like a resting wing. Even the way his hair was cut, the shape of it over his ears and round his neck, felt right, as if there was something in him she had recognized.
Almost as if she had sensed something, Carol said, ‘All right, Jack?’ As if claiming him. Evie wondered again if she fancied him and wanted him to pay her attention. But he didn’t seem interested in Carol. Carol was sweet looking, but not striking. She always wore her hair nicely, but she was mousey and homely like her mom.
Every so often, Evie felt Jack’s glance return to her, then dart away again, looking but not wanting to be seen doing it. She knew she looked nice. She had put weight back on after Julie and all the strain of it. Her bobbed hair curled under nicely and she had on a straight black skirt and a pale yellow blouse. She knew the outfit flattered her, but as she was sitting down, this could not be seen.
The boys stayed long enough to drink a cup of tea and then Tony was saying, ‘Come on, best be off soon.’
By the time the lads came down, ready, they were clearing away tea. Evie had got up from the table. She was alert for the sound of the boys’ feet on the stairs. As they came in to say goodbye, she turned, feeling the satisfaction of her own shape, her femaleness, the fact that now she was standing up. Jack’s eyes immediately swept her up and down.
‘Tara-a-bit!’ Tony called to them. ‘T’ra, Mom. T’ra, Evie.’ He nodded at her.
‘T’ra,’ she sai
d, looking at Jack.
Jack nodded back, murmured a goodbye, and the two off them wheeled away, like a couple of horses, full of pent-up, muscular energy.
A couple of days later, Carol caught up with her on the way to work again.
‘Hey,’ she panted. ‘You’ll never guess what?’
‘What?’ Evie said without enthusiasm. It was early and freezing cold. She was bundled up with her coat collar round her ears and a woolly hat pulled right down. Her chest was tight in the icy air.
‘That pal of Tony’s – Jack Harrison. He’s been asking about you.’
Evie felt a lurch of excitement, a feeling she had been pushing away ever since she had laid eyes on Jack. She had been trying not to think about him, even though he kept barging his way into her thoughts day and night.
‘Oh,’ she said, very casually. ‘Has he?’
Carol elbowed her hard. ‘Oh, has he?’ she mimicked. ‘God Evie, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you.’
Evie wondered if Carol was jealous, but she didn’t seem to be.
‘He’s nice looking, isn’t he? Our Tony says he’s ever so clever – going places, that one. He’s twenty-six, you know! Anyway, he was beating about the bush a bit, Tony said, but he wants to meet you – if you want?’
Evie took this in. ‘He’s a bit old, isn’t he?’ she said, taken aback to realize that Jack was eight years older than her. The lad she was walking out with at the moment, Pete, was only nineteen. But now, in comparison with Jack, he seemed like a boring child.
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter!’ Carol said. ‘Our dad’s nearly ten years older than Mom. It makes no difference in the long run. Jack’s a bit of a lone wolf anyway. At least, he’s not got anyone, a girlfriend, I mean – not so far as I know. He lives in digs somewhere – off the Hagley Road, I think.’