‘You be careful,’ Muriel said, ‘walking that road, that’s how your mother got caught, walking that road and him coming up on his horse day after day. Did anyone speak to you? No? Good. Keep yourself to yourself, that’s best.’
Evie did now finally help in the bar but only at quiet times when the daytime regulars were in, those with the patience not to mind her hesitations and difficulties with the pumps. Some were kind to her and tried to engage her in banter, but this flustered her - she found it hard to draw beer and take money and talk at the same time. Ernest always had her out from behind the bar long before it filled up and would order her back to the kitchen. ‘You’re flushed,’ Muriel would say, ‘your face is right red, Evie, you’re more like Leah now, she had a good colour. Of course, she stayed all night in that bar, she
60
drew them like flies, she could have had anyone she wanted, her looks could have been her fortune if she’d played her cards right.’ Evie began washing the supper dishes, slipping them very, very quietly through the sinkful of water so as not to disturb Muriel’s train of thought. ‘But he came along, on his horse, and took a fancy to her and after that nobody could tell her anything, she was daft for him, daft. I told her, I said, “Leah” - I’d just married Ernest then and we were at the Crown, but I saw her often enough - I said, “Leah, lass, give over, he’ll make a fool of you, he’ll have you and leave you and won’t give a damn,” and surely she could see it, she’d heard the tales, they were well enough known, but no, she wouldn’t have it, she wouldn’t listen, not her. If she’d had a mam it might have been different, but her mam was dead and her dad too, and she was brought up in Caldewgate, then sent here. Her mam was Ernest’s dad’s sister’s child and they brought her up as their own like we’re bringing up you.’ Muriel sipped the brandy and lemon to which she was partial, and looked at Evie’s back, bent over the sink. ‘She was lovely to look at, your mam, Evie.’ And then, what Evie had waited so long for, ‘Maybe still is, for all anybody knows, she’ll only be in her thirties, wherever she is.’
So. Evie went over and over every one of Muriel’s slurred words many times. Her mother might be alive. She was certainly not known definitely to be dead. She had felt quite faint hearing what Muriel said that night, and was glad to be facing away from her or for once in spite of herself her expression might have betrayed her excitement. At first, thinking about what she now knew, it seemed wonderful news but then, after all the hours of mulling it over, it seemed dreadful also. Her mother was not dead. She had therefore given her away. She had not wanted her. She, Evie, had been the cause of betrayal, misery and ruin, if Muriel was to be believed. Her mother had banished her for ever, given her to old Mary Messenger and abandoned her. When Mary died she had not come forward to claim her. She had let her be taken into a Home. But then Evie remembered she had been baptised and had a birth certificate. Did that mean some measure of concern for her and her soul? The thought of that certificate, the piece of paper in the ribbon box which had led to Ernest and Muriel taking her, worried her. She didn’t have it any more. She still had the tin box and the ribbons, she still treasured those, but the paper had gone when it had been given back to her by Mrs Cox. Ernest must have it. She wished she
61
had it, now that she understood the full significance of it. Perhaps, if she had it, she could find her mother. But another thought occurred to her: if her mother could have been found why did the people who found Ernest and Muriel not find her first? It could only be because she had disappeared. Unless - and this chilled Evie - her mother had denied Evie belonged to her.
Evie could not remember afterwards when she had decided that
Evie did now finally help in the bar but only at quiet times when the daytime regulars were in, those with the patience not to mind her hesitations and difficulties with the pumps. Some were kind to her and tried to engage her in banter, but this flustered her - she found it hard to draw beer and take money and talk at the same time. Ernest always had her out from behind the bar long before it filled up and would order her back to the kitchen. ‘You’re flushed,’ Muriel would say, ‘your face is right red, Evie, you’re more like Leah now, she had a good colour. Of course, she stayed all night in that bar, she
60
drew them like flies, she could have had anyone she wanted, her looks could have been her fortune if she’d played her cards right.’ Evie began washing the supper dishes, slipping them very, very quietly through the sinkful of water so as not to disturb Muriel’s train of thought. ‘But he came along, on his horse, and took a fancy to her and after that nobody could tell her anything, she was daft for him, daft. I told her, I said, “Leah” - I’d just married Ernest then and we were at the Crown, but I saw her often enough - I said, “Leah, lass, give over, he’ll make a fool of you, he’ll have you and leave you and won’t give a damn,” and surely she could see it, she’d heard the tales, they were well enough known, but no, she wouldn’t have it, she wouldn’t listen, not her. If she’d had a mam it might have been different, but her mam was dead and her dad too, and she was brought up in Caldewgate, then sent here. Her mam was Ernest’s dad’s sister’s child and they brought her up as their own like we’re bringing up you.’ Muriel sipped the brandy and lemon to which she was partial, and looked at Evie’s back, bent over the sink. ‘She was lovely to look at, your mam, Evie.’ And then, what Evie had waited so long for, ‘Maybe still is, for all anybody knows, she’ll only be in her thirties, wherever she is.’
So. Evie went over and over every one of Muriel’s slurred words many times. Her mother might be alive. She was certainly not known definitely to be dead. She had felt quite faint hearing what Muriel said that night, and was glad to be facing away from her or for once in spite of herself her expression might have betrayed her excitement. At first, thinking about what she now knew, it seemed wonderful news but then, after all the hours of mulling it over, it seemed dreadful also. Her mother was not dead. She had therefore given her away. She had not wanted her. She, Evie, had been the cause of betrayal, misery and ruin, if Muriel was to be believed. Her mother had banished her for ever, given her to old Mary Messenger and abandoned her. When Mary died she had not come forward to claim her. She had let her be taken into a Home. But then Evie remembered she had been baptised and had a birth certificate. Did that mean some measure of concern for her and her soul? The thought of that certificate, the piece of paper in the ribbon box which had led to Ernest and Muriel taking her, worried her. She didn’t have it any more. She still had the tin box and the ribbons, she still treasured those, but the paper had gone when it had been given back to her by Mrs Cox. Ernest must have it. She wished she
61
had it, now that she understood the full significance of it. Perhaps, if she had it, she could find her mother. But another thought occurred to her: if her mother could have been found why did the people who found Ernest and Muriel not find her first? It could only be because she had disappeared. Unless - and this chilled Evie - her mother had denied Evie belonged to her.
Evie could not remember afterwards when she had decided that
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