her sole purpose in life was to find her mother. She thought probably there was no one time when she had made the decision and doubted if the making of it had been precipitated by any particular thing. It had just grown with her, this strong sense of knowing what she must do, and it had made her curiously happy. She would not remain at the Fox and Hound for ever, working so hard for Ernest and Muriel, her days utterly monotonous and without hope of change. She nurtured her conviction that there would indeed be change and that she would bring it about herself. She would use her brain. She might not be beautiful like her mother but she knew she had a brain and that it must be capable of helping her. Answers came from this admirable secret organ in her head to the questions she put to it and she marvelled at the ease of the process once she got started.
Where and how could she start to look for her mother? Carlisle, of course, where she had lived with Mary once upon a time. And how could she get to Carlisle? By coach. Who would pay? She would have to save the money herself. Very difficult. She had no money except the rare threepence strangers in the bar gave her and the even rarer sixpence Muriel graciously bestowed upon her on market days in a fit of sublime generosity. These miserable pennies would have to be saved and, once accumulated, used for her fare. But in Carlisle where and how would she live during her search? She would have to find work the moment she arrived there, she would have to show a boldness she had never felt she possessed. And if there was no work? If her smallness and slightness and plain features put employers off? What then, brain?
That was too far to go. She stopped her questions at that point and settled for the limited plan of action she had thought up. Meanwhile, as she saved, as she put the small coins into her tin box of ribbons and sighed at how slowly they filled it, she drew from Muriel every last detail she could about Leah merely by forcing herself to say a word of encouragement here and there. ‘You’ll need
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a new dress,’ Muriel said when, at seventeen, Evie’s growth reached its modest limit, resulting in a sudden bursting of the buttons on her bodice. ‘We’ll make it a different colour, you look bad in navy, we’ll try a brown maybe, your mother looked lovely in brown with that hair of hers.’ ‘Hair?’ echoed Evie, timidly. ‘Her hair, all gold it was, and masses of it, waves and curls, the lot. You haven’t got it, you must’ve got yours from him, gold hair and hazel eyes, that was Leah, not that it did her any good, she was just the sort he fancied.’ ‘He?’ repeated Evie, only a murmur but enough. ‘Mr High-falutin’, Mr Smart-as-paint, Mr Here-today-and-gone-tomorrow. Hugo was his name, la-di-da as himself, Hugo Todhunter, but they’re ashamed of him now, his family disowned him and not before time, and off he went, to Canada, they said.’ Evie stored the name away. It was easy to remember, it thrilled her to say it to herself. But she had no desire to find him, her father, it seemed, no desire at all, he was nothing to her. All she hoped was that through knowing his name she might be aided in her search for her mother when it began.
There were Todhunters in the village but she didn’t think they were anything to do with this man on the horse whom Muriel described. There was nothing la-di-da about them, they were blacksmiths. But on the Carlisle road there was a big house, set back from it with a curving driveway, and Muriel passing it once had made some remark to Ernest about the old Todhunters letting it go to waste. ‘Look at it,’ Muriel had said, ‘needs painting, needs the roof mending,’ and Ernest had squinted at it in the midday sun as their cart rattled along and pronounced the neglect of this once fine house both a shame and a disgrace. ‘Heart went out of them after he left,’ Muriel remarked. ‘And that other son died. There was
Where and how could she start to look for her mother? Carlisle, of course, where she had lived with Mary once upon a time. And how could she get to Carlisle? By coach. Who would pay? She would have to save the money herself. Very difficult. She had no money except the rare threepence strangers in the bar gave her and the even rarer sixpence Muriel graciously bestowed upon her on market days in a fit of sublime generosity. These miserable pennies would have to be saved and, once accumulated, used for her fare. But in Carlisle where and how would she live during her search? She would have to find work the moment she arrived there, she would have to show a boldness she had never felt she possessed. And if there was no work? If her smallness and slightness and plain features put employers off? What then, brain?
That was too far to go. She stopped her questions at that point and settled for the limited plan of action she had thought up. Meanwhile, as she saved, as she put the small coins into her tin box of ribbons and sighed at how slowly they filled it, she drew from Muriel every last detail she could about Leah merely by forcing herself to say a word of encouragement here and there. ‘You’ll need
62
a new dress,’ Muriel said when, at seventeen, Evie’s growth reached its modest limit, resulting in a sudden bursting of the buttons on her bodice. ‘We’ll make it a different colour, you look bad in navy, we’ll try a brown maybe, your mother looked lovely in brown with that hair of hers.’ ‘Hair?’ echoed Evie, timidly. ‘Her hair, all gold it was, and masses of it, waves and curls, the lot. You haven’t got it, you must’ve got yours from him, gold hair and hazel eyes, that was Leah, not that it did her any good, she was just the sort he fancied.’ ‘He?’ repeated Evie, only a murmur but enough. ‘Mr High-falutin’, Mr Smart-as-paint, Mr Here-today-and-gone-tomorrow. Hugo was his name, la-di-da as himself, Hugo Todhunter, but they’re ashamed of him now, his family disowned him and not before time, and off he went, to Canada, they said.’ Evie stored the name away. It was easy to remember, it thrilled her to say it to herself. But she had no desire to find him, her father, it seemed, no desire at all, he was nothing to her. All she hoped was that through knowing his name she might be aided in her search for her mother when it began.
There were Todhunters in the village but she didn’t think they were anything to do with this man on the horse whom Muriel described. There was nothing la-di-da about them, they were blacksmiths. But on the Carlisle road there was a big house, set back from it with a curving driveway, and Muriel passing it once had made some remark to Ernest about the old Todhunters letting it go to waste. ‘Look at it,’ Muriel had said, ‘needs painting, needs the roof mending,’ and Ernest had squinted at it in the midday sun as their cart rattled along and pronounced the neglect of this once fine house both a shame and a disgrace. ‘Heart went out of them after he left,’ Muriel remarked. ‘And that other son died. There was
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