by Karen Osman
‘Anyway,’ said Evelyn recovering, ‘typical fella, if you ask me: got away with murder. He was a handsome chap in those days – probably still is. Men – they don’t need to deal with anything really, do they? And childbirth! Well, don’t even get me started on that. Back then, it was brutal. I don’t remember much of it, thank God, as they drugged me up to keep me quiet. It didn’t do any good for the other girls, you see, to hear us shouting our heads off in agony.’
For one brief moment, all three women were quiet.
‘They didn’t even let me hold you,’ continued Evelyn quietly, staring off into the distance. ‘Just whisked you off while I was passed out. Apparently, I didn’t wake up until the next morning. I took a few days to recover and then I left that place as fast as I could.’
*
As Angela entered her own home, the all-white décor a soothing welcome, she felt exhausted. She’d imagined that after meeting Evelyn, she would feel an element of closure or at least some relief. She’d concentrated so hard on finding Evelyn that she’d not given as much thought as to what would happen next. Instead, she felt like Lucy entering Narnia in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. When she was growing up in a children’s home, her birth mother was someone very far away, almost mystical. While the home was tough, there was a sense of camaraderie amongst the children, a bond that had united them in their situation almost as tightly as an umbilical cord. Meeting Evelyn had also made her hyperaware that her adoptive parents had not brought her into the world, even though she loved them, called them Mum and Dad, and had her milestones documented in family albums.
As Angela sat at her mirrored dresser, applying night cream, she knew that Evelyn was nothing like her. She had expected to see some sort of similarity – a gesture or perhaps similar features, the curve of a jawline, or an eye colour – but there was nothing. Nothing that Angela could see, anyway. She had gone into this hoping she could build some sort of relationship with Evelyn, but she was just a stranger. Angela couldn’t see how they could be a part of each other’s worlds; the gap just seemed too big. They were like two jigsaw pieces that didn’t fit together even though they were part of the same puzzle. Getting into bed, Angela felt disappointed, but not surprised, at the absence of connection, and as she closed her eyes she tried to ignore the sliver of resentment that sat in its place.
27
Saturday 19 April 1975
Dear Diary,
I woke up last night to a huge commotion. It sounded like someone was breaking in. The littlies in the dorm were scared. I told them to keep quiet while I tiptoed to the top of the stairs. Peter had the same idea. We could see the top of Ray’s balding head as he stumbled around the hallway. He’d probably just come in from the pub and had too many. Maureen had followed me out and I whispered to her to go and settle the others and reassure them it was just Ray, drunk from a night out. As I turned to follow her, I tripped on my nightie and almost fell down the stairs. Peter managed to catch my arm, but not before Ray glanced up. He had a nasty grin on his face when he saw us. ‘Oi,’ he shouted. ‘What’re the pair of you up to? Doing things you’re not supposed to? Get down here NOW.’ His words slurred together and he was already removing his belt. I was terrified. I had seen what he was capable of sober – what would he do when drunk?
Slowly, I started to walk down the stairs, but I felt Peter’s hand on my arm stopping me. Not this time, he seemed to be saying. Before I could stop him, he rushed down the stairs towards Ray, knocking him to the floor. Peter had grown a lot as a teenager but he was still no match for Ray and, despite being drunk, Ray turned on him and was on top of Peter in moments. I couldn’t just stand there, so I ran down the stairs and tried to drag him off. Ray was punching him over and over again and I was afraid he was going to kill him. I looked around and saw the telephone book. I grabbed it, and I hit Ray across the side of his head as hard as I could. It didn’t do very much but it did stop the beating. Peter was covered in blood – he wouldn’t be able to take much more. He was groaning on the floor while Ray stumbled around holding his head. Rushing over to Peter, I tried to think, but there was so much blood everywhere. Where was Mark? Why didn’t he come downstairs? Maybe he was out. I started to clean Peter’s face with my nightie. Behind me, I could hear Ray swearing. He was furious. I turned to look at him and his face was contorted into pure evil. Forcing Peter to sit upright, he dragged him to a chair. There was a skipping rope that one of the littlies had left by the door and he used it to tie Peter up. Not that he was going anywhere – he was a mess. Ray used the back of his hand to knock me to the floor and it was a few moments before I realised what he was going to do. As he undid his trousers, I felt sick. It was my first time. He was heavy and I struggled to breathe. I was fighting him, twisting to try and get out from under him and as I turned my head towards the stairs, I saw Kath at the top watching. She saw me looking at her and she quickly hurried away. I swore then that even if it took me a lifetime, I would find and destroy everyone who had hurt me – including my so-called mother who had left me in this hellhole.
A.
Sunday 24 August 1975
Dear Diary,
I haven’t written for months. There doesn’t seem to be much point. I don’t remember very much after that night – the fight between Ray and Peter and what followed. Ray told Kath to take Peter to hospital and say he got into a fight in town. I prayed that Peter would find the strength to tell the doctors what had happened but I was doubtful. We had tried it with the Inspector and it had backfired on all of us. All I feel is hate.
A.
Monday 25 August 1975
Dear Diary,
It was a Bank Holiday today and Keith wanted me to come into work. He said the bar was going to be busy and get my sexiest outfit on if I wanted lots of tips. I was just happy to be out of the house. Ray and Kath only speak to me to give instructions. The newspapers are still full of the murder and kidnap of Lesley Whittle. I hope they catch the man who did it and kill him on sight. People like that don’t deserve to live.
A.
Sunday 14 December 1975
Dear Diary,
I am writing less and less in this diary but I don’t care. I haven’t really had any good things to write about. But over the last few weeks, two things happened. 1. The police caught the murderer of Lesley Whittle. They call him the Black Panther in the press. I hope he rots in hell. 2. Mark snuck me out to my first concert to see the Sex Pistols. It was amazing, and for the first time in my life I felt free. Mark gave me a pill, which he called LSD. He told me it was like weed but better and he was right! Mark said when I turn 15 next month, he will take me clubbing for my birthday.
A.
28
Evelyn
Evelyn shut the front door with a sigh of relief. She knew she hadn’t handled meeting Angela as well as she’d have liked, but the scene behind Angela and Susan when she had opened her front door had shaken her to the core. The police were literally everywhere. How had it come to this? She’d only wanted to make the noise stop and now she had the boys in blue all over the estate. Her neighbours would never forgive her if they found out she had called them. It wouldn’t be long before they were at her door asking questions. And then when she saw the bloodied streaks down the walls, she felt panicked. Murder? It looked like something out of a scene from one of her TV shows.
Evelyn had fought the instinct to flee and instead had forced her attention on the young woman on her doorstep. This couldn’t possibly be her daughter. She looked completely out of place, a peacock against the dank grey stairwell. As she took in Angela’s immaculate blow-dried hair and her undoubtedly expensive outfit, Evelyn scrabbled in vain for even a whisper of maternal love for the child she had given up all those years ago. Instead, she tasted the sourness of spite that this woman who stood in front of her today had clearly succeeded in life. Evelyn felt meaningless, as if her life had been for nothing, which she supposed in a way it was. She took no joy or pleasure at the sight
of her daughter. While she had given birth to Angela, it was somebody else who had raised her and only they could feel that wonderful sense of parental pride at having done the hardest job in the world – raising a child into a successful, confident adult. All at once, Evelyn felt a jealousy so intense towards the woman who had clearly succeeded in the gamble of motherhood that she’d had to walk away, leaving Angela and Susan to follow her.
She had attempted to relax during the meeting but the more she tried, the stiffer she became. As a result, she feared her words came across as defensive, stilted and brittle. Ironically, she was annoyed to realise that she sounded just like Mother. Well, they say it happened to every woman at some point in their lives. It was hardly likely to happen to Angela, though: the woman was like an ice queen in her composure.
As her daughter sat down on the sofa, her long slim legs elegantly placed to one side, for the first time in her life Evelyn suddenly saw her home as an outsider might see it: messy and disorganised. She’d given it a onceover with the duster and the Hoover but Angela’s presence seemed to highlight every speck of dirt.
Nervously, Evelyn had drawn another cigarette out of the packet that sat on the arm of her chair and inhaled deeply. She had been talking too quickly and she could sense Susan looking at her, but Evelyn’s only thought was to prove to Angela how different times had been back then. She knew she was coming across in a factual, practical manner, but she just didn’t have the words to express her true feelings during the birth and the aftermath. They had been buried for so long and she had had years of practice at suppressing them. And what had made her go on so much about Jimmy? Probably the necklace. She hadn’t worn it in years but it seemed appropriate to wear it that day being as he’d gifted it to her all those years ago. She’d planned to give it to Angela, a sentimental offering that seemed ridiculous in hindsight. She had been glad that she’d held on to it. It was a valuable reminder of the traitorous coward Jimmy was. What kind of man left his girl to deal with a pregnancy? A pregnancy he had convinced her would never happen in the first place? Yes, her mother was a pain in the backside, but she’d been right about one thing: Jimmy would break her heart and leave her in ruins.
Evelyn sighed. Well, it was done now; the first meeting was over. It was unlikely Angela would want to see her again anyway, and that was probably best all round.
As soon as Angela and Susan had left, Evelyn poured herself a generous measure of vodka, letting her secret hope of a second chance dissolve in the clear liquid.
*
The shot of vodka had done its job and Evelyn got up from her armchair to try to find out more about what had happened at 3A. She peered through the peephole of her front door and could see the policeman still standing there. Evelyn was torn. She wanted to ask the constable what was happening, but if her neighbours saw her talking to him…
The door of the flat opposite was still open, and if she cricked her neck to the right slightly she could just see the streaks of blood in the hallway. Just then, a man came up the stairs dressed in plain clothes – was he a detective? His beige trench coat certainly made him look like the detectives she’d seen on telly. He spoke at length with the policeman standing guard before slipping on gloves and shoe covers and entering the flat. Was he collecting evidence? Evelyn felt uneasy. It was only recently that she’d been banging on their door and shouting obscenities. Would they suspect her in all of this?
Several minutes passed with Evelyn glued to the peephole. She didn’t want to miss anything. It was a good twenty minutes before the detective came back out, removing his gloves and shaking his head. He talked again to the policeman, but Evelyn was unable to catch what was said. But she didn’t need to hear to know. As the policeman spoke into his walkie-talkie, a procession of wheeled stretchers left the flat, each carrying what she assumed was a lifeless body covered from head to toe in black material. Evelyn hadn’t realised she was holding her breath but as she counted three bodies in total, she understood just how serious this was. She was used to the odd fight breaking out; she’d even seen someone glassed once – incredibly unpleasant. She was used to shouting and swearing between neighbours, the secret passing of small packages as the lads plied their trade of cheap weed and God knows what else, but murder? This was something else completely, and the fact that it was happening right on her doorstep gave Evelyn a tingle that surpassed even the Christmas Day soap specials. As the police officer closed the door to the flat and started to put up the crime scene tape, Evelyn scurried off to phone Doreen.
*
It was while she was halfway through her description of the bodies (had she really told Doreen that one of the bodies was so badly mutilated, one of the arms was hanging off the side of the stretcher?) that Evelyn realised she would have to prepare herself for questioning by the police. Despite her enjoyment of her neighbour’s rapt attention, she quickly ended the conversation and hung up before beginning to pace the kitchen.
What would she say? They would have her noise complaint on record, of course, but she didn’t need to tell them about the various times she’d gone over there banging and shouting. Billy had seen her do it, though. And what about Dougie? Would it get back to the police that she’d tried to get him to intimidate them in some way? If the police questioned any of the other flat occupants about her thoughts towards her neighbours, they would all concur that Evelyn had a vendetta towards them. She hadn’t exactly been discreet about it.
Evelyn could feel the sweat gather in her armpits. She had to admit that while she wouldn’t wish such a gruesome death on anyone, she wasn’t sorry to see them go. Perhaps a nice gentleman would move in – someone around her age who would take her out once in a while. Yes, Evelyn decided, they could do with a nice man around the place, someone to do the odd jobs and keep a protective eye out for her. Perhaps she wouldn’t mention that to the police. But one thing was for sure: she certainly would not be telling them about the spare key she still had from when the previous tenants lived there.
29
Rosemary
Rosemary dressed carefully, pulling the jumper over her silk blouse. She didn’t feel like going to her monthly WI coffee morning in Cirencester but she knew it was important to keep up her own routine. It’s how their marriage functioned, survived even. James had always said he loved her intelligence and independence and the fact that she wasn’t waiting around for him.
The only exception had been when they’d adopted Angela. It was Rosemary who had given up her job as a civil servant then. They’d never discussed it; it was just assumed, even by Rosemary herself. And while she didn’t regret it, she sometimes wondered where she would be today if she’d continued working. She didn’t blame James either. His business was expanding, and he was incredibly busy. She knew James enjoyed life but when Angela moved in, Rosemary sensed a contentment in James that she had never seen before. It was a relief really. There was always the worry that a child would add pressure, but she couldn’t deny that Angela’s presence brought out the very best in him. He would even come home early from work sometimes, which he had never done before during their married life.
As Rosemary sat at her dresser, she combed her hair and added a touch of lipstick. She’d used a particular light pink shade since her blond hair had started showing signs of grey. She never dyed it but she went into London every couple of months to get it cut on Bond Street, an indulgence that she was happy to pay for. Now as she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw the effort had paid off and she felt ready to face the day.
*
As Rosemary left Cirencester, she felt relieved she’d done her community duty. She’d undertaken the role of chairman for the WI Federation for many years, but a couple of years ago, she’d decided to enjoy just being a member. There were over twenty ladies that morning and as usual she was sitting between Eileen and Mary.
At fifty-three, Mary was the same age as Rosemary, whereas Eileen was a few years older. She’d met Eileen in the local post office in Tet
bury, her big blow-dried auburn hair and matching red lipstick almost too much against the ordinary Saturday morning of village life. But Rosemary, having learnt Eileen had just moved with her husband from Birmingham to be closer to their daughter, had invited her to the local WI group that evening and even offered to drive her there. When Rosemary picked her up, Eileen had sidled into the passenger seat in a cloud of perfume and glamour. In that moment, Rosemary, in her expensive but sensible trousers and twinset, felt old and she almost regretted her invitation. But she’d never forgotten that car journey, mainly because she couldn’t ever remember laughing so much; she’d actually had to stop the car at one point. And while there had been a few side-long glances when she’d first introduced Eileen to the members of WI, by the end of the meeting, she had won them all over.
Mary, on the other hand, was and always had been a stalwart of Tetbury life, having grown up with Rosemary. Although they had each taken very different paths at the age of eighteen, they had remained close. Even when Rosemary had gone off to university while Mary had got married and had children, they had written to each other every week. Rosemary still had all the letters up in the loft somewhere. When she told Mary about her parents’ disapproval of James, she didn’t need to explain the reasons why; Mary already knew. Growing up together, sharing everything but the same DNA, their experiences and values were similar. And while Rosemary had married against her parents’ wishes, Mary had given neither advice nor approval, but as she stood by her side at her wedding, Rosemary knew she had a friend for life.
As Rosemary, Eileen and Mary sat with four other women at their craft table, talk had turned to family, as it often did. Rosemary remembered when it was their children’s lives who dominated the conversation and she still felt a thrill when she shared her own anecdotes, the stories often retold and familiar, but still comforting. But today, as if seeing the group of women for the first time, she wondered when the focus had moved on to grandchildren.