This Lovely City. Louise Hare
to sit here talking?’ She placed a hand on his thigh and felt him jump as though burned by her touch. ‘You don’t want to…?’
‘I just – I don’t want you to feel like you have to is all. Not on my account.’
‘Will you ever stop thinking of me as a little girl?’ she snapped, her tone sharper than she intended.
‘I don’t.’
She refused to look at him until he reached over and turned her head gently with his fingertips.
‘I just want to do right by you, Evie, that’s all.’
‘Then stop treating me like I’m made of glass. I won’t break if you touch me. Properly I mean, instead of all this careful patting and stroking. Why do you have to be such a gentleman all the time?’
He kissed her hand and laughed as she rolled her eyes. ‘Why you want to rush everything?’ She kept her mouth shut, forcing him to go on. ‘I just don’t want you to think that I’m only interested in one thing. I messed up before, I know that. I don’t want to lose you again.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I love you, all right? And if we’re going to be together for the rest of our lives then why do we need to hurry?’
‘You love me?’ Her first reaction was to smile, then to laugh. ‘I love you too.’
‘You do?’ Now he was all smiles, leaning forward to kiss her.
There was enough light from next door to see Lawrie’s eyes blacken as he came closer, the hand on her back pulling her into his body as his left hand slipped between the unbuttoned lapels of her wool coat. She opened her mouth to his as his palm brushed against her breast and she began to feel a little light-headed.
Was it wrong to want this? She knew what her mother would say: that she should know better, amongst other choice phrases. But Lawrie was different from other young men; different to anyone else she’d met. He wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to. He had asked permission to hold her hand the first time, for goodness’ sake.
The front door banged suddenly, breaking them apart, Lawrie on his feet in seconds. Evie smiled as she watched him leap in one clean motion, his arms pushing him up easily as he vaulted the wall. He allowed a second’s pause as he reached the summit and blew her a kiss. Then he was gone and she heard the creak of Mrs Ryan’s kitchen door as it opened then closed.
‘You been smoking again?’
Evie had to catch herself from falling backwards as her mother whipped the back door open.
‘Sorry, Ma.’ She picked up the butt and stood to throw it in the bin.
‘You will be when you catch a cold. You shouldn’t be sitting out there in this weather.’
A solid woman, thick through the middle and short enough to be called stout, Ma was the very definition of no nonsense. She never bothered with make-up these days and always sniffed whenever Evie wore a little herself, though she did hold her tongue now that Evie was bringing in her own wages. Ma had never married, which was Evie’s fault. She called herself Mrs Coleridge to avoid receiving that look that people, especially women, liked to give her. Of course, once they found out about Evie she did still get that look, but there was nothing to be done about that. Back in their Camberwell days, when she occasionally stepped out with a chap who hadn’t yet found out about her daughter, Agnes Coleridge’s hair had been her crowning glory, thick and curly. Now she kept a shorter, more practical hairstyle, the locks falling no further than her second chin, the ebony losing its battle with the salt.
‘I take it Lawrie was round?’ Ma filled the kettle from the tap.
Evie stared at her mother’s back, not sure if she was in trouble or not. ‘Is that all right? We were only talking.’
‘I do remember what it’s like to be young, you know, and I wasn’t born yesterday. He’s not quite as quick as he thinks he is when it comes to jumping that wall. And you should take a look in the mirror.’ Her mother raised her hand to her chin.
Evie mimicked her action, her cheeks flushing as she felt the irritated skin. Damn Lawrie for not shaving. ‘Sorry, Ma,’ she confessed.
‘I’m sure you know better than to do anything foolish. Nóirín next door seems to think he’s a sensible chap. Got his head screwed on right.’
‘He wouldn’t take advantage if that’s what you mean,’ Evie confirmed. ‘In fact,’ she said, taking a deep fortifying breath, ‘I was wondering if you minded me going to see him play in his band tomorrow night. At the Lyceum. There’ll be lots of people there, and Delia. She’ll be my chaperone, if you like.’
Her mother snorted a laugh. ‘If I was going to choose a chaperone for you then Delia Marson would be at the bottom of that list.’
‘Please, Ma?’
‘Do what you want. You’re old enough. For pity’s sake, Evie, take some responsibility for yourself, won’t you, you’re a grown woman.’
‘Yes. Fine then, so that’s where I’ll be tomorrow night.’
‘Good. Well, since you’ve nothing better to do you can help put away those dishes and then bring me a cup of tea. I’m off to put my feet up.’
Some things didn’t change.
The Friday morning papers shouted of the macabre discovery in the pond, their articles more floridly written now that their intrepid journalists had had time to pry information from the local community – including Gladys Barnett, whose dog had made the initial find. Evie checked three different newspapers on her way to work but she was relieved to find that they hadn’t printed Lawrie’s name.
They had given the baby a name: Ophelia. It was mentioned in more than one paper, as if there’d been a committee meeting held between all the journalists the night before and this was what had been agreed upon. The girl in the pond; the body in the rushes. Only it sounded wrong to Evie’s ears. They must have taken the name from Millais’ work. She’d seen the painting on a school outing to the Tate Gallery, but Hamlet’s Ophelia had been a grown woman, making a choice. This was an innocent baby.
‘You gonna pay for one of them?’ The newsagent had spied her. She chose one at random and handed over the coins.
She was just on time for work, slipping off her coat and hanging it up quickly before grabbing her notepad and pencil and following Delia downstairs. Every morning they headed to the floor below to receive any special instructions from Mrs Jones, their supervisor.
They joined the other partners’ secretaries at the back of the room, Evie noticing more than one of the typing pool girls look her way, whispering amongst themselves. They were talking about the baby – ‘pond’, ‘Clapham Common’, ‘murder’. Did they know more than the papers had printed? Maybe the rumours had begun regardless. What would they be saying once they knew that Lawrie had found the baby? She’d have to tell Delia when they got back up to their own office, safe from the malicious gossipers.
‘I don’t know why anyone’s surprised,’ Mildred said, raising her voice. There was no doubting the target of her attack, not when she was looking right at Evie. ‘My dad says this country’s going to the dogs. If we let in all sorts then we’ve got to expect that things change, and not for the better.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it, Mildred.’ Evie’s voice came out weak and she cleared her throat. Mildred must have been letting her views known before she’d arrived; that was why those girls were staring at her like that.
‘I went to the church service last night and the woman who found her was there.’ Mildred’s face shone with glee. ‘She was telling everyone that they’d arrested one of you lot. A darkie.’
Evie opened her mouth but she didn’t know what she could say without giving Lawrie away. She gripped the edge of the table behind her as her body weakened, panic taking over.
‘So what?’