by Annie Murray
V
Forty-Two
October 1971
The plane rumbled along the runway, picking up speed as if something was chasing it. Evie gripped the arms of the seat. Tracy, beside her, was watching Edmonton airport shrink away below them. Her fair hair was tied in a little ponytail and the sweet slenderness of her neck filled Evie with tender protectiveness.
She drew in deep, shaky breaths to try and quell the turmoil inside her. If the children had not been there, she knew she would have broken down. She turned to Andrew, the other side of her, her sweet, dark-eyed lad, who had had his fifth birthday that summer. He had had a haircut just a few days ago and his treacle-coloured hair was neatly clipped and very grown-up looking.
‘You all right, lovey?’ she whispered.
He nodded. He looked small and bewildered, in a blue jersey that was too big for him. It came halfway down his thighs, partly covering the grey trousers. The last few hours had been full of change and strangeness. Evie took his hand and he gripped hers hard.
‘Look, Mom, clouds!’ Tracy turned to her, full of excitement. She had never flown before. At nearly seven, it was all an adventure. ‘They look like sheep!’
‘Yes, they do, don’t they?’ she agreed, trying to sound normal, even though sick with nerves and upset.
Evie heard her children’s voices afresh – both full Canadians – and panic welled up in her. What the hell did she think she was doing, running back to England, to a place neither of her kids had ever seen, where they would be foreigners, just because she had . . . Had what? Family who she had not seen or had anything to do with in years? She was mad. But the thought of staying in Canada now was unbearable as well. And, she thought, her hurt and rage welling up in her again, however much she had begged Jack not to leave them, not to break up the family, he had set his face away from them and never faltered. He had practically paid her to go.
Looking back now, she saw through different eyes the way Jack had left England, without a backward glance towards his family, his country. She had admired it then. Now it chilled her. He had moved on from them as he had now moved on from her. And what also shamed her was that she had done much the same. She didn’t want to be like Jack.
‘Mom.’ Tracy was looking at her in that sharp, blue-eyed way she had. There was something fierce about the girl. She’s stronger than me, Evie thought sometimes. Stronger inside. Tracy put her hand on Evie’s arm, the way a secure child will, as if a mother is a wall or a piece of furniture. ‘Mom!’
‘What, bab?’
‘Why isn’t Dad coming with us?’
‘Because . . . Look, I’ve told you. Your dad’s busy at the moment, so he couldn’t come.’ The answer was so limp and untruthful, but there had to be some sort of answer for now. They had managed to keep most of their rows away from Tracy and Andrew. None of them could manage to take in all the truth at once.
The novelty of the flight soon wore off. After they had had some food, both Tracy and Andrew fell asleep, Andrew with his head resting against Evie’s arm, Tracy curled up against the side.
Evie knew there was no chance of rest herself, even though she had barely slept for several nights in a row. She felt she would never sleep again. And though she was grateful for the children sleeping, for not having to pretend and jolly them along, she was left with her own thoughts now and that was almost harder: she had to face what she had done. What they had each done.
She adjusted the seatbelt which felt as if it was trapping her, and she could smell coming from the seat the sickly perfume of a previous passenger. Andrew’s head lolled against her and she stroked his soft hair. Tracy muttered, but slept on. She looked so sweet, her pale hair against the crimson of her dress.
Pain tore through her. Children of a broken home, that’s what they were now. It was a terrible feeling. Of all the things she could say about her own mother and father, she could not accuse them of that. Though God knew, there were times when she and her sisters had wondered why Dad didn’t just go off and have done with it.
Sitting here now, hanging over the Atlantic Ocean, she thought, Tracy and Andrew have got cousins, aunties and uncles, grandparents. A wave of longing came over her. They were all older now. Grown-up. Might they be nicer now? Might it all be different?
Forty-Three
I never wanted kids. Never ever – I told you . . .
Evie woke with a start. Jack’s angry voice was hectoring in her head and all of her mind, her emotions were left behind, in those moments, in Rosette, Alberta, Canada. She took in the sight of brown curtains, a grey light straining through them; the stale smell of fags in the room. Wherever was she?
She sat up. A double bed. Beside her, still asleep, Tracy, her honey hair spread on the pillow. Andrew lay between them, with his neat short back and sides. The sight of their trusting little forms in the dim light steadied her.
They were peaceful now, after having shed tired, bewildered tears as she put them to bed in this cheerless room. She had wanted to break down and cry herself. But she had stayed strong. Had to, for them. They were all she had, her beloved children. Everything she did was going to be for them.
The room, where they had arrived last night, was in a cheap lodging house on Birmingham’s Hagley Road. The stale-smelling room and its dark furniture dragged her spirits down to the dregs after their light, airy house in Canada.
She did not feel as if she was really back in Birmingham. This was not the city she knew. Even the money was all different. When she exchanged her last Canadian dollars she was given funny little pound notes, not like the ones she remembered. Instead of half-crowns and sixpences she found herself with the decimal twelve and a half pence. There was the fifty-pence piece, an odd-shaped coin, for what she knew as ten shillings. Even though she knew about the change, it made her feel like a foreigner in her own country.
Last night she had put her exhausted children into a taxi from the bus station in town. She had not been able to see much out of the window, but some of what she did see looked different. It had not occurred to her not to come to Birmingham. She knew nowhere else in this country. And she found herself aching for familiarity after their long journey, after living so long in a strange land.
She pulled the green sateen cover more closely round her, hugging her knees, longing for a cup of tea. The dream, in which Jack had felt so close again, began to fade. She wanted to hold on to it and yet push him away at the same time.
Sitting beside the children, her mind rushed into anxious calculations about all the obstacles in front of her. Jack had paid their fares, given her extra to get settled. Oh yes, he hadn’t stinted in getting shot of them. But they still needed somewhere to live, a school for the kids . . . It all felt overwhelming, terrifying. She had to find the strength somehow. Tracy and Andrew were everything.
Soon Tracy began to stir. She opened her eyes and a look of panic crossed her face before she saw her mother. Evie put her fingers to her lips and looked down at Andrew.
‘Let him sleep,’ she whispered.
Tracy nodded solemnly and sat up with great care, her eyes wide.
‘It smells bad in here,’ she said, screwing up her nose. ‘What are we going to do today?’
‘Well . . .’ Evie felt herself tighten inside. She tried to make her voice encouraging, as if it was all an exciting adventure. ‘What we’re going to do is see if we can find your nan and granddad, and your aunties and uncles. I’ve been away a long while, so you’ve got lots of cousins by now, I expect, Trace.’
‘Who are they?’ Tracy said, bewildered.
‘I told you – they’re my mother and father, babby,’ Evie said. ‘And my sisters.’
‘Do they live here?’
‘Somewhere, they do, yes, lovey.’ She reached over and stroked her daughter’s face. ‘And we’re going to find them, aren’t we?’
After a breakfast of watery scrambled egg, which Evie could have sworn was made of powder – left over from the war, still? –
and white toast like singed cardboard, they stepped out into the morning.
The road was gleaming wet but the sun was beginning to strain its way between the clouds. She had only had a dim idea of where she was, until the enormously plump lady running the lodging house told her that if she turned left she would soon be at Five Ways. It dawned on her that they could just walk to where they needed to go.
‘Oh, we’re near home!’ she said to Tracy. And then wondered what she had meant. When she got to the roundabout at Five Ways, each of the children clinging to her hand, it felt strange compared to what she remembered. Some of the buildings were the same: tired and grimy looking. But it felt different. There was a wide road to the left where she remembered a narrower one. The sign on it said ‘Ladywood Middleway’.
Tracy looked up at her. ‘Are you lost, Mom?’
‘Oh . . . no.’ Evie rallied herself. ‘Come on – along here.’
When she had left Birmingham, seven years earlier, the bulldozers had already begun on the area, had laid swathes of it to waste and retreated, leaving rough wastelands and half-wrecked terraces, even worse than the Blitz, people said. And now she longed for something familiar. But when she tried to find Inkerman Street a terrible shock was waiting for her.
At the end of Hyde Road, along which she had trotted so many times to get into Inkerman Street, she stood in silence, too stunned even to say anything. The street was gone. The strip of cracked old tarmac led into nothingness, a chimney poking up in the distance, a couple of spindly trees. It looked like the remains of a battleground. At each side of the road were piles of scrub and red-brick rubble. She could see trees and realized she must be looking at the edge of the reservoir. Never before had she been able to see so far.
‘Oh my God!’ she whispered as she took it in.
There were still patches of waste ground, but in the far distance, pale tower blocks poked up like overgrown teeth in the morning haze. She looked round her in dismay at the wreckage of the remaining scraps of terraces, gaps strewn with rubble and weeds. All the places of her childhood, the houses and entries, the yards and the air-raid shelter were no more. And where were all the people now – her family and neighbours?
‘Are we there?’ Tracy said, frowning.
‘Yes.’ Evie struggled to find words. How could she explain? ‘No. Well . . . I thought so. But . . . This is where the street was . . .’
She turned, lost and disorientated. On Monument Road there were still things she recognized – the baths, the dispensary, some of the old shops she knew. And St John’s Church, which felt like an old friend.
‘See that?’ She bent down and pointed it out to the children. ‘I used to go in there – to Sunday school.’
They both stared. ‘Don’t like it here,’ Andrew said in a tiny voice.
‘It’s all right, babby,’ Evie said, squeezing his hand. She didn’t know what else to say.
‘You all right, bab?’ A middle-aged man with a lined, friendly face stood in front of her. His chest was bad; she could hear his every breath.
‘I was looking for Inkerman Street,’ she said, feeling foolish.
He gave a wheezy laugh, face creasing, then coughed while they waited.
‘Where the hell’ve you been, then?’
‘Away,’ she said.
‘You must’ve been – they knocked Inkerman Street down a good while back.’
She was battling to take it in. She felt Tracy and Andrew press themselves in closer to her.
‘You looking for someone, are yer?’ he asked. He was kind, she could see, but she felt like crying and didn’t want to say she was trying to find her whole family. It sounded bad. She swallowed, pushing away the tears.
‘Where’ve they all gone?’ she asked pitifully.
The man tried to speak but had to pause, first to let a heavy lorry grind past, pumping black fumes, then to cough, a hand banging his chest. Finally, he managed to say, ‘All over. New houses, new estates. If you’re looking for someone in particular, your best bet’s the pubs.’
‘Yes.’ This made sense. ‘There’s still . . . ?’
‘Oh ar, there’s still a fair few of them left standing, bab. Any idea which they would have gone in?’ He tactfully didn’t ask who.
‘The Inkerman,’ she said, making a face. Both of them glanced at the flattened neighbourhood. ‘Or the Hyde Arms.’
‘Well, you ain’t gunna have much luck there, are yer?’ There was a bitter edge to his joking but his face still looked amiable. ‘You could try there for a start.’ He pointed at a pub just visible near the baths. ‘Or there’s the Duke of Wellington, further along.’
‘All right . . . yeah,’ she said, feeling as if she had slipped into a dream. ‘Thanks.’
They had to wait. It was too early for the pubs to open. She took the children back to the Hagley Road and sat in a cafe with them, sipping tea while they had squash and biscuits. She would have liked to walk round and round the neighbourhood, taking it all in, trying to find the things she could remember, the survivors clinging on after the battle. That was how it felt. But she knew the kids wouldn’t put up with that.
After, they went into pub after pub. No one seemed to know Ray Sutton, her dad, to her amazement. She thought Dad had been familiar with every watering hole in the area. Where’s everyone gone? she asked the landlords and the drinkers who were drifting in. All over, she was told. Depends.
She drifted back along Monument Road, the children quiet and miserable. What the hell do I do now? she thought, her mind racing. There’s no one left to ask. I suppose I could go to the council. They might be able to tell me. The thought was exhausting and she felt near to tears. They’d have to go back to that frowsty lodging house again. And it was eating up the money, but what else . . . Her mind raced on.
Along the street, suddenly, she fixed on a face moving towards her, along the opposite pavement. Years fell away. Who was it? A tall, pinch-faced man in old clothes that looked too small, smoking a skinny roll-up. He had almost passed by when she clocked who it was.
‘Ron?’ Gary’s brother, one of the twins. She was shocked by how old he looked; he was only a few years older than her. Seeing him stop, she hurried across the road, tugging the children.
‘Yeah?’ he said suspiciously.
‘It’s . . . I’m Evie . . . Sutton. Gary’s friend. D’you remember me?’ She felt eager suddenly, the past rushing back to her. She wanted to know everything about everyone, how they were, what they had been doing all this time.
‘Oh ar.’ He shoved his hand in his pockets and did not seem able to meet her eye. It made things difficult.
‘How’s Gary then?’ she asked. ‘All right, is he? And Carl?’
Ron shrugged. ‘How should I know?’
Evie was silenced by this. But Ron was her one chance to find out something.
‘Look . . . I’ve been away, a good while – in Canada. Just looking for everyone – the family, like.’
Ron looked rather more impressed by this. To her astonishment he drew in a last gasp of his cigarette, chucked it down to grind under the heel of his stained old plimsoll and volunteered sudden information. It was like watching a faulty boiler spring into life.
‘I seen yer old man, like.’
‘My dad? Have you?’
‘Yeah. Works at Docker’s, don’t ’e? S’where I work, see.’
‘Oh, he’s still there, is he?’ she said. ‘But I don’t know where they live. Everything’s gone.’ She felt tears rising again, as if all her past, unpalatable as it was, had been wiped out.
Ron was groping in his pockets and brought out tobacco and Rizlas. She felt her spirits sink even lower. This was all she was going to get. Ron did not seem prepared to be hurried. He rolled a cigarette with impressive deftness and, once that was done, seemed able to speak again.
‘Lives down Weoley Castle.’
Evie seized on this. ‘Any idea where, Ron?’
He closed one eye against the cigarette s
moke. ‘Dunno. But I do know it’s near the Sally Army somewhere. ’Ad one of ’em come round, dain’t ’e?’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘Practically on their cowing doorstep, ’e said.’
Forty-Four
Before they got on the bus, Evie bought Smarties and a packet of ginger nuts. She fed them to the kids on the way, the two of them squeezed into the seat next to the window beside her. They were too tired and confused to play up. They had stopped asking where they were going.
She had never been to Weoley Castle and, unable to think which bus to catch, she had got one out along the Bristol Road which had a reassuringly familiar number – 61. They’d have to walk the rest.
Evie felt bewildered enough herself. She had come home. But was this home? Now she was back here, seven years on, finding the family and showing off her kids, seeing her sisters’ kids and being part of it all, felt like an urgent need. Even if they had a grudge against her, surely they would love Tracy and Andrew?
As they travelled further out of town, things began to feel more as she remembered. The smashed-up inner ring gave way to the suburbs. Though there was bomb damage, it was more as it used to look and there was more green space. Looking out at the passers-by, Evie thought her own clothes, her small-town skirt in chocolate-brown pleats, cream blouse and black roll-neck jumper felt old-fashioned, as if she was middle-aged before her time. She saw people in bright colours, swirling patterns. Of course she had heard the Beatles and the Rolling Stones and other pop groups, but the ‘Swinging Sixties’ had reached Rosette only as a distant echo. Suddenly she felt she had missed being young.
They got off on the Bristol Road and walked through to the Castle Square. Evie, tense as a wire, had to hold on tight to her temper and make encouraging noises to Andrew, whose feet were dragging all the way. The square was in fact a circle, with shops set back from the road. There was the usual array of shops – the Co-op, a hairdresser’s, a bakery – and boards propped outside advertising newspapers and coach trips to the seaside.