Evie had a few good friends, all women. She lived at No. 1 Quayside and next door to her were Judy and Alison Praed. She enjoyed sitting outside the front of the cottages, knitting with Judy and the Praeds’ next-door neighbour, the elderly widow Mrs Coad. Rob Praed had built a bench against the wall adjoining the Praeds’ and Mrs Coad’s homes, and Evie would join them for an hour or two nearly every morning. It was while there knitting a few days ago that she had seen, across the quay, Rob Praed and the rest of the crew of Our Lily chatting to a striking-looking woman who, it turned out, was the companion of someone who had not been expected ever to return to Portcowl. A person Evie had heard about almost as a legend, whose childhood suffering had led to her rescue and a well-deserved happy-ever-after ending. Elizabeth Tresaile, Evie’s younger and more privileged half-sister.
Her father had brought home the facts to Evie. They had been at the tea table the next evening. ‘I’ve got news, my handsome.’ Davey’s sombre tone told Evie it was serious news. The leathery colour of his balding head drained away leaving his rounded cheeks grey and blotchy, and his mono-brow crinkled into the likeness of a scrunched-up insect.
‘What’s wrong, Dad? Not problems with the boat, is it?’ Davey was the engineer of Morenwyn and he felt his responsibility in that regard very keenly.
Davey had put down his knife and fork, leaving his steak and kidney pie virtually uneaten. ‘It’s nothing like that, Evie. There’s someone come to the cove. It’s the Tresaile girl, Elizabeth. You know all about her. You’re related, of course. Half-sisters. She’s moved in with her mother. Don’t know the full story about that and nor do I want to. If she learns about you, I’m concerned she might be curious about you and try to see you. How would you feel about that? Would you want to see her?’
The suddenness of the question and the issues it raised also wiped out Evie’s small appetite. ‘I don’t know… she might not be interested in me at all, we can’t have nothing in common.’
‘Exactly,’ Davey had stressed as if brushing aside the fact that the women had the same biological father. ‘She was brought up by her stuck-up grandmother. She’ll be posh. We’re ordinary people.’ Stretching across the little kitchen table Davey had placed his heavy rough-knuckled paw over Evie’s stiffened hand. ‘We’ve been all right, eh, Evie, just the two of us, with our own routine, our quiet life, since your mother died? I’ve always tried to do the best for you, Evie. If there’s anything you want I’ll get it for you, and if there’s anything you’d like to do, I’ll not stop you. Life must be a bit boring for you sometimes. I mean if you want to go to the cinema or have a meal out we can go together, or you could go with the girls next door. We’ve never had a holiday. We could go away for a few days somewhere between the fishing seasons, if you like. I’m not being selfish keeping you just about all to myself, am I? It’s just that no one can hurt us if we stick together, just the two of us.’
At the end of her father’s pleas and kind promises, Evie smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’m perfectly happy with my life just as it is.’
It was true, but during the next few days Evie had thought often about Elizabeth Tresaile. Posh or not, Elizabeth was, except for Ken Tresaile, her only blood relative, and Evie could not help being curious about her half-sister. If she was to find herself face to face with Elizabeth and Elizabeth did speak to her then Evie would certainly respond, albeit cautiously, and take it from there. If it happened she would tell Davey. She had no need to be scared over his reaction. He was too kind to be disappointed in her. Evie had never seen Christina Vyvyan and had caught only the odd glimpse of her strapping, confident son. The people of Owles House, past or present, including the man who had fathered her, were nothing to Evie. As for Elizabeth Tresaile, time would tell about that.
* * *
In Evie’s second bag, a large straw one, were various finished items of her other craft, lace making. The local shops eagerly bought her traycloths and tablecloths, doilies, furniture runners and handkerchiefs and sold them on in the summer season. Today Evie was delivering to Richard Opie’s mother a private commission, lace curtains for her sitting room. All the money Evie made from her lace she saved to buy presents for Davey’s birthday and Christmas, and the rest she put away for ‘a rainy day’. Davey insisted she also keep the profit she made on the fishermen’s jerseys she knitted. Evie walked across the tiny backyard that only took two short strings of washing line and three tubs of begonias. Dozing on the low stone wall, either side of the little cast-iron gate, were two of her four cats, Smoky and Fluffy. She stopped to smooth their fur and kiss their soft lazy heads. ‘Biddy’s inside, Where’s Sly, eh? Out looking for fish tails? Now you two must help Biddy look after the house. I shall only be out for a short while.’
The ground rose immediately into the short, cobbled Dunn Alley, a hair’s breadth wide and flanked on either side by the end walls of the homes of Old Street. Once through the alley she reached Half Street, where Mrs Reseigh and her son and granddaughter lived. Evie had knitted a matinee coat for Rowella and she loved seeing the little girl. Theirs was Thrift Cottage, half hung with slates, half painted pale pink, the middle dwelling of just seven homes, hence the street name. Its tiny front garden was bursting with summer colours in pots and hanging baskets. There were pinks, hollyhocks, lavender, poppies, lupins, begonias, lobelia and geraniums. The cottage was much photographed and admired by holidaymakers who climbed up this way, and to Mark Reseigh’s pride it was featured on souvenir postcards.
Next was Crescent Street where the cottages, in groups of four to six, formed the shape of its name. The gradient cut out of the cliff was quite steep but softened where the dwellings stood. All the streets and alleys were flagged or cobbled or were just rough ground. Evie’s lively strides made quick work of the journey.
Leaving Crescent Street behind, Evie was near the top of the cove. Here were the finer dwellings, owned mostly by tradespeople. A motor car was parked grandly outside one house. Cliff Way Road, newly built this decade, afforded a panoramic view of the sea and nearby Dunn Head, and of Coggan Point way across the cove. The chimney tops of Owles House could be seen. The road was paved and flat, affording the better-off easier passage, but it lacked the olde-worlde feel and wonderful quaintness of the rest of the cove.
Mrs Opie, whose husband owned the Grand Sea View Hotel, had waved hair flat against her scalp, long rows of pearls and no apron. She had seen Evie coming and stood smiling delightedly on her doorstep. In her rather affected voice she said, ‘You’ve finished my curtains, Miss Vage. How splendid. Please step inside so I can take a look at them. Then I’ll fetch my purse.’
Evie was faintly offended that the pretentious Mrs Opie should doubt the quality of her work, which had taken her hours to make. The evidence of her gifted handiwork in the shops proved her unsurpassed excellence. Minutes later, however, she left Cliff Way Road carrying not only her payment of three pounds ten shillings, but an unexpected two and six bonus thanks to Mrs Opie’s utter delight with the curtains. Evie was delighted too and went straight off to buy a box of coloured beads to add to a shawl she was making for herself.
Evie was humming a ragtime favourite she had heard on the wireless but went quiet at hearing the cries of a new baby coming from three houses along. She was happy with her life as a single woman but she did find her maternal strings occasionally being tugged.
Judy Praed had begun to teasingly advise her about looking around for a future husband. ‘You don’t want to end up a sad old spinster like Miss Oakley, do you?’ chirpy Judy asked. ‘You’d regret missing out on having children, wouldn’t you?’
‘I suppose so, but I’m satisfied with my life. Me, Dad and the cats.’ So Evie would ward off the suggestions.
‘But Mr Vage and the cats won’t be here for ever, Evie,’ Judy persisted. ‘And the day will come when you’ll be too old for children. I don’t want you to end up horribly lonely. Why not give love and a family a chance? I’ve found my true love, B
ernie and I are getting engaged. And Alison is casting her eye round. There’s some nice young men about. There’s my cousin Linford and the rest of the boys. One of them would be suitable for you, Evie. They’re all steady and not bad looking.’ Judy gave a little wicked laugh. ‘What about Rob? He’s a bit full of himself but he’s totally family orientated.’
‘Everyone knows your brother’s got a roving eye,’ Evie had returned. She disapproved of Rob Praed. She sensed he had a mean side to him and she did not like him at all.
‘He’ll stop all that when he settles down,’ Judy had said confidently, only the day before. ‘It’s about time you started looking for a husband, Evie. What do you think, Mrs Coad?’
Mrs Coad had long ago lost her fisherman husband to the cruelty of the sea. She had a son and a daughter and grandchildren living in Portcowl, who looked in on her almost every day. ‘Time will tell, I suppose,’ the elderly woman had issued her usual saying. ‘But after I lost my Gordon it was a blessing to have my children with me. I’ve never regretted the hardships I went through bringing them up alone. Going back to the matter of spinsters, there is one who’s not exactly old yet but she’s certainly very sad. I got a letter from Miss Oakley yesterday. She’s calling on me tomorrow afternoon. If you ask me, visiting the old and sick is the only thing that keeps her going. S’time her father was put out to pasture, better fit her not to be living any longer in that musty old vicarage.’
‘You’ll make good company for her, Mrs Coad,’ Evie had said. ‘Miss Oakley must be really lonely rattling round in that gloomy old house where it’s said not even the water taps function properly. When she comes down to the quay she often heads for my cats. It’s like they take pity on her and let her make a fuss of them. When Fluff was having her last litter I asked her if she’d like a kitten. She looked so grateful then got into a fluster. “No, oh no, thank you for your kind thought but it would never do,” she said. She was like a little girl, sorrowful at having to refuse a treat. It’s awful really. Can’t be many people in Portcowl sadder than Miss Oakley.’
Evie left the baby’s cries behind her but the possibility of having babies of her own stayed in her mind. She knew Davey would hate to lose her but he probably wouldn’t mind too much if she brought a nice fisherman husband to the door. She mused about possible husbands from among the young men she knew and felt shy and a little scared at doing so. Of all the possibilities, Linford Praed kept coming to her mind. He was a few years older than her, and sensible and steady. He had always spoken respectfully to her. He had walked out with about half a dozen girls. Judy had said none of them had been the right one for him. Could she, Evie, be right for him, or he for her? Evie felt a nervous fluttering in her tummy and found she was blushing. If she ever were to marry Linford, or one of his brothers, it would be nice being Judy and Alison’s cousin-in-law. But their sister-in-law, never. Deciding it was time to end these nervy thoughts, Evie began humming again.
A strange vision appeared just ahead of her. A woman in creased, rather shabby clothes, her felt-brimmed hat askew, was stumbling along Cliff Way Road seemingly hot and flustered, as if she was lost. Evie’s mouth dropped open in shock to recognize the vicar’s daughter. Miss Muriel Oakley had blood on her leg and her stockings were ripped. Evie hurried to her, hoping no one living behind these nobler windows would spy Miss Oakley and be appalled by her dishevelment. ‘Miss Oakley, have you had an accident? Can I help you?’
Muriel Oakley came out of her dithering stupor and threw up her hands in horror. ‘Oh, Miss Vage! I’m so sorry. I – I seem to be going to the wrong address. I’m meant to be calling on… on, um, Mrs Coad… I – I think.’
Evie saw there was a deep graze on the lady’s cheek, and the side of her loose cardigan was covered in grit and dust. ‘Miss Oakley, you’re hurt. You are meant to be calling on Mrs Coad today, but not until this afternoon. Please let me take you home and tend to you. I think you need the doctor to call. You’re hurt, Miss Oakley,’ Evie repeated, for the lady was slipping back into confusion.
‘Really? I am? H-how kind of you, um, Miss… Miss… ow! My knees are stinging.’ She looked down and seemed to crash inside and shrink in size. ‘Oh, no, look at the state of me, I’m so ashamed. Yes, I really must go home. What will people think of me?’
Evie put her arm round the lady’s sagging bony shoulders; a gesture unthinkable in any other circumstances. ‘It’s going to be all right, Miss Oakley. You mustn’t worry. You’ve taken a fall somewhere and it’s left you dazed. Let me knock on a door and explain what’s happened. Then we could ring for a taxicab to take you home. I’ll go with you if you like.’
‘No!’ Miss Oakley flew into a tremendous panic. ‘Don’t do that, please, Miss Vage. I’m terrified of motor cars, of anything that has noisy machinery. Could you walk me home? I’d be so grateful to you.’
‘Of course, don’t worry, I won’t leave you.’ In one quick movement Evie straightened the lady’s hat, then she turned her round about and slowly led her off.
‘Oh, yes-s,’ Muriel Oakley suddenly whimpered, clinging to Evie’s arm so hard she pinched her. ‘I remember now. It’s coming back to me. I – I was walking through the churchyard. I go there every day to talk to my mama, you understand. Then suddenly he was there. He was right in front of me. I screamed, I think. I turned and tried to run away but he was there again. He laughed. He pushed me over. He always laughed when he did… when he did it to me! He’s a terrible man. He’s evil. I can’t get away from him. I don’t want to go home, he might be there!’
The horrible rigidity that had gripped Muriel Oakley just as abruptly left her. She went limp and retreated again into a stupor, her mind shutting out the horror of the terrible incident.
It was a relief for Evie to have her hurting flesh released, but it was getting harder to move Miss Oakley along and soon they would have to start climbing the hill. ‘Dear God,’ Evie thought with revulsion. ‘Her father’s hurting her, and in the worst possible way by the sound of it. I shouldn’t really take her home but I can’t really take her anywhere else. I’ve got to think of a way to help her.’
Seventeen
It was a shock to Beth to be suddenly faced with her half-sister. She had arrived at the Gothic-style iron gates of the vicarage, which were partly hanging off their hinges and thrown against the perimeter wall, and there, trailing just feet ahead of her, was the evidently accident-befallen Muriel Oakley, being supported round the waist by a slender young woman. Instinct made Beth certain she knew who the stranger was.
Beth rushed over the weedy gravelled ground to reach them. Miss Oakley was sagging at the knees, groggy and mumbling to herself. Beth hailed the stranger. ‘Good afternoon, can I help you with Miss Oakley? Oh, and are you Evie Vage?’ Beth’s second question was out of her mouth before she had time to consider the wisdom of it, and she was embarrassed to feel her face burning.
‘Hello, I’d be glad if you could take Miss Oakley’s other side. She’s had a fall and badly needs to lie down. I’ve walked her up from the cove. I tried to get her to allow me to call for a taxi but she utterly refused. Said motor cars frighten her. How do you know my name?’ As soon as Evie took her first good look at the well-dressed, posh-speaking Good Samaritan she knew the answer to her own question. Her colour too rose highly. ‘Are you Elizabeth Tresaile?’
‘Yes, yes I am. I’m pleased to meet you, um… I’ve been planning to call on you. I hope you wouldn’t have minded. Well, now we’ve met. I – I suppose we’d better get Miss Oakley safely inside.’ Beth knew she was making a weak impression but she didn’t know how to be with her half-sister. She was reassured that Evie Vage was polite and had not refused her offer to help. Tucking her clutch bag under one arm, Beth folded Miss Oakley’s flopping arm through hers and lifted her flagging weight. She smelt not of rose water but of sour perspiration. ‘What happened to her?’
Pace by careful pace, Evie and Beth led the vicar’s daughter past a jungle of tangled shrubbery and neglected r
hododendrons, towering weeds and wild herbage, to her front door. ‘Miss Oakley told me that she’d fallen in the churchyard this morning,’ Evie explained, putting on hold her personal feelings at suddenly being faced with her half-sister. ‘It seems after that she got confused. She was meant to be visiting a neighbour of mine but she had gone down to the cove far too early. As you can see she’s hurt, but she’s flatly refused to allow me to call the doctor. She said she doesn’t trust doctors. She became really upset. It’s taken me well over an hour to get her here.’
Evie would never betray the full story that Miss Oakley had told her, least of all to the woman she had just met. On the arduous journey here, during many necessary rests, Miss Oakley, in her confusion, had rambled out a terrible story. She believed Phil Tresaile had appeared to her in the churchyard and taunted her and deliberately pushed her over. Evie was fearful Miss Oakley was more than just confused and was actually beginning to lose her mind. That would be no wonder to her, given the monotonous, seemingly abnormal life she had been leading for so many years with her potty father.
‘It’s fortunate for Miss Oakley that you were on hand to bring her home.’
They had arrived at the wide granite doorstep of the vicarage. Beside the iron foot scraper was a pair of large rubber boots with mud drying on them. Apparently the Reverend Oakley had been gardening (and about time, Beth thought, having noticed the wild state of the flower beds and shrubbery) and he was within. Inside the dark, drab porch was a dusty coconut mat lagged with dead leaves, and on it were several pairs of scuffed and dirty male shoes, all neatly lined up, an odd combination of carelessness and care.
Leaving Shades Page 16