The Doorstep Child

by Annie Murray

  She wanted Mom to melt and say, ‘Oh, what a surprise!’ and ‘But it’s your birthday. You shouldn’t be buying me presents,’ and, best of all, ‘Come ’ere, kid,’ and pull her into her arms. That was her dream of what should happen. What Mom did in front of other people sometimes to show what a good mom she was.

  ‘Ta,’ was all she said, but in a mocking tone. She reached towards Evie. Evie waited for a pat, for something. Her mother slapped her cheek, pretend playful, but the slap was hard and edged with spite. ‘It’s nice. Now bugger off, all three of yer. I want a bit of peace.’

  There was no sign, or mention, of any more Kit-Kats.

  Evie stood outside, her cheek stinging. For a few moments she nursed the hurt inside her, then put it out of her mind. She caught sight of Gary giving Carl a turn in the moke, shoving it along the road as fast as he could, his shirt tails flying. Carl’s swarthy little face was fixed somewhere between terror and rapture.

  ‘My go, my go!’ Five-year-old George was yelling, jumping up and down on the pavement.

  ‘Go on, Ducky, give us a go!’ other kids were shouting. Gary was more popular now he had the go-kart.

  On his way back with Carl, Gary looked up and saw Evie. He released the moke and it trundled further without him before crashing into the kerb.

  ‘Gary!’ Carl was yelling.

  ‘Get Frankie to push yer,’ Gary called to him. ‘Come on,’ he said to Evie. ‘Let’s go and get us some rocks. You got any money? I found a farthing!’

  ‘A halfpenny, that’s all,’ Evie said.

  The trick was to go and buy sweets off old Mrs Harris at the far end of Inkerman Street, because she was hard of hearing. Now rationing was over it was like heaven in sweet shops. They stepped into the crammed little corner shop, with a ting of the bell. Mrs Harris never seemed to be able to hear the bell but it tinged all the same. Mrs Harris sold a variety of things and the shop had a musty smell, laced with rubber and something metallic. Mrs Harris was sitting behind the counter knitting.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, as she always did. ‘I never heard you come in.’

  Evie stayed by the counter while Mrs Harris talked to her.

  ‘You letting your friend choose, are you? Well, that’s nice. You have got pretty hair, my dear. I’m knitting this for my lad, Bert – well, I say lad, he’ll be forty next year . . .’ There was no need for Evie to say anything.

  They handed over their coppers for the few sweets Gary laid on the counter and scooted out as fast as they could, giggling as they ran down the street.

  ‘D’yer get some?’ Evie said. Home was forgotten now, and Mom. She was with Gary.

  ‘Yeah, tons!’ From his shirt, Gary pulled a bar of toffee, grinning ecstatically. ‘Let’s get to the shelter and scoff ’em all!’

  He was having difficulty running, the pockets of his shorts were so full. Evie got the giggles seeing him waddling along.

  ‘We left Carly behind,’ Evie said in the shelter, feeling guilty as Gary emptied the loot out of his pockets.

  ‘Frankie can look after ’im for a bit,’ Gary said, shoving liquorice into his mouth until it was bulging. Both of them adored liquorice.

  ‘We stole it,’ she said solemnly. ‘That’s a sin.’

  Their eyes met. Both of them were thinking about what Mrs Bracebridge at the Sunday school would say. She was so determined to believe the very best of them. They went every Sunday now because they could stay indoors in the church hall and play games and there was a drink of orange squash and a biscuit. Mrs Bracebridge was always there with some other ladies and the tall vicar in black and they always spoke nicely to everyone.

  ‘’Ook,’ Gary said indistinctly, black spit dribbling from the corner of his mouth. ‘I go’ these ’n’ all!’ Two sherbet dabs.

  Evie felt a grin spread across her face. Soon they were in fits of laughter, mouths crammed with sugar. The sight of Gary’s creased-up face always made Evie laugh even more. At least this felt like a birthday present.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Eve dear!’ Mrs Bracebridge saw her come in.

  It was two months later and Evie had had to come to Sunday school on her own. There were children spread out in groups round the wide space, some at small tables, others on the floor, playing games of Ludo and Jack Straws, drawing pictures. Mrs Bracebridge came across the room, wearing a grey skirt with big boxy pleats swishing round her legs. She always smelled of lavender. ‘I thought perhaps you weren’t coming today.’

  Mrs Bracebridge was the only person who ever called her Eve. ‘You’ve missed our Bible story for today,’ she went on. ‘But would you like me to tell it to you again?’

  Evie slipped her hand into Mrs Bracebridge’s. She didn’t care if other children told her she was a babby. She didn’t care whether or not she heard a Bible story. But she did like Mrs Bracebridge’s kindly attention. It was the other thing that kept her coming here, week after week.

  ‘Where’s young Gary?’ Mrs Bracebridge said as she drew Evie onto a chair beside her.

  ‘He’s got a bad chest,’ Evie said.

  She had gone to call for him. Standing outside the Knights’ house, she could hear noises from inside, the hum of a large family, like a beehive. The door was ajar and she pushed it open. Her nose wrinkled as she climbed the stairs. At first she could hardly make Gary out amid the muddle of rags, a bleached-out eiderdown and an old coat which made up his bedding on the floor. It was a moment before she caught sight of his tousled hair.

  ‘Ducky?’

  Gary raised his head. Without his specs on he looked like a half-blind little rabbit. He groped for his specs and pulled the wires over his ears.

  ‘Don’t call me Ducky,’ he rasped.

  ‘You poorly?’

  He nodded, coughing as he sat up. He looked dazed and feverish. Evie wasn’t sure what to say.

  ‘You ain’t coming then?’ Mrs Bracebridge said you shouldn’t say ‘ain’t’.

  ‘Nah.’ Gary coughed and coughed, before sinking back down again.

  Mrs Bracebridge looked at her through her spectacles. ‘Oh, poor boy. We must say a little prayer for him, mustn’t we?’ She seemed about to say something, stopped, then started again. ‘Is he . . . all right? Otherwise, I mean?’

  Evie nodded. She wasn’t sure what Mrs Bracebridge meant and was glad when she picked up her well-thumbed Bible, with faded gold along the edges of the pages. She wanted to lean on Mrs Bracebridge as she sat next to her, to put her cheek against her arm, in its soft-looking, lilac-coloured sweater, but she didn’t dare.

  Evie didn’t listen as she read, even though she found the general sound of Mrs Bracebridge’s voice soothing. She looked round the room, wondering if she might do a jigsaw puzzle afterwards.

  ‘So you see,’ Mrs Bracebridge finished, ‘what wonderful things the Lord can do.’

  Evie looked up at her. Whatever the wonderful things were, she had not heard a word of it.

  ‘Are you a teacher?’ she asked. The way she read, she seemed like a teacher.

  Mrs Bracebridge smiled, the smile that made her face, with its chapped, pink cheeks, seem younger.

  ‘I was a teacher, dear, yes, before I married. I gave it up then, thinking that . . . Anyway, my Herb . . . Mr Bracebridge, is not in the best of health, so I stay at home to make sure things are comfortable for him when he gets home. That’s my vocation now.’ She looked keenly at Evie. ‘Do you think you’d like to be a teacher when you grow up, Eve?’

  Nothing could have been further from Evie’s thoughts. ‘No.’ She shook her head. She saw that she had disappointed the kindly lady.

  Again, after a hesitation, Mrs Bracebridge said, ‘Would you like me to put your hair in plaits, d’you think? It’s all over your face rather.’

  Evie shook her head, then changed her mind. ‘All right.’

  Mrs Bracebridge fetched a little tortoiseshell comb from her black handbag and very gently teased out Evie’s hair, which was now long and loose on her shoulders.

/>   ‘I have a little bit of string, luckily,’ she said.

  Feeling her touch, Evie remembered that Mom had done her hair, once or twice when she was much younger. Times when Mom was in a good mood and wanted a little dolly to dress. An ache of longing filled her for a moment. She enjoyed the touch of Mrs Bracebridge’s fingers.

  ‘Your mother must be very busy, mustn’t she?’ Mrs Bracebridge asked, in a casual sort of voice.

  Evie wasn’t sure so she just said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’ve two sisters, dear – is that right?’ Rita and Shirley had come to Sunday school once, but never set foot in the place again.

  At last she had finished the hair plaiting. She swung Evie round gently and smiled at her.

  ‘There. Don’t you look neat and tidy?’ For a second she touched Evie’s cheek with the palm of her hand and her fingers lingered there. ‘Lovely,’ she added.

  ‘Miss, miss . . . will you do my hair?’ Two other girls came running up.

  ‘I hadn’t been planning to open a hair salon,’ she said, laughing and seeming pleased. ‘But all right, just this once.’

  Evie looked at Gary across the big space of the church, all decorated for Christmas. He had been sick again last week and she was happy that he had got better in time to be here for this, amid the smells of damp stone and hymn books and the fusty aroma of bodies in thick winter clothing. Her own outfit was not warm, however, and she was trying not to shiver in the white cotton dress that Mrs Bracebridge had slipped over her head. There was a scratchy train of white gauze pinned to the top of her head and flowing down over her shoulders for her angel wings, and a band of silver tinsel round her forehead.

  ‘Don’t you look a picture, dear?’ Mrs Bracebridge had said once she had assembled Evie’s costume. She stood back and looked rapturously at her. ‘Now, you’re the head angel because you’re the eldest.’ As the children shuffled into line to go out and begin, Mrs Bracebridge had put her arm round Evie’s shoulders for a moment and given her a squeeze. ‘Lovely,’ she whispered. ‘So lovely.’

  Evie had thought Mrs Bracebridge sounded almost as if she was going to cry.

  Gary, with Carl next to him, was opposite her in the nativity line-up, both in shepherds’ outfits, heads swathed in stripy cloths and long brown robes reaching down to and – in Gary’s case – below the ankles. Gary had tripped and fallen flat on his face on the way out to begin their Christmas performance and caused a muted ripple of laughter among the audience for a few seconds as he scrambled into line again. His glasses winked under the lights. He wore a very serious expression and was holding a stick as a crook. Both he and the crook had an appearance of lopsidedness, as if he might keel over at any second. Carl’s headdress was slipping forwards so that you could only just see his enchanted smile.

  Mary and Joseph already had their baby – a one-eyed doll – and the assembled animals, shepherds, kings and angels all stood round. The organ gave what sounded like a dyspeptic grunt and burst into life, the sound rumbling round the church. There was a soft sort of swishing as everyone stood up and started singing, ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing!’ Evie sang out. She loved singing. She saw Gary vaguely moving his lips. His thoughts seemed to be miles away.

  She didn’t want the nativity play to end. It was like being in heaven, here in the shadowy church with its beauty and mystery and with the voice of the tall, kindly vicar, Mr Power, telling them all how nice they looked. And there were all the pretty costumes, the music and the feeling of goodwill. Of Christmas bringing something new. Mom hadn’t come to watch, of course, although Mrs Bracebridge had called specially to tell her about it and ask her to attend.

  ‘I ay going in that church on the orders of that dried-up old busy-body,’ she’d said, as Mrs Bracebridge left. ‘What’s ’er after, any’ow? ’Er ay even got any kids of ’er own.’

  The hymn ended in a blast of sound. There was a moment of silence and stillness before everyone burst into talk and handshaking and offering Christmas wishes. The children filed away to change into their normal clothes. Evie felt a pang of anti-climax as she wriggled back into her old frock and pulled on her baggy cardigan.

  ‘You all did a marvellous job!’ Mrs Bracebridge swooped down on her as the other helpers and children were milling round. Her plain face beaming, she patted Gary and Carl on their heads cautiously, as if worried she might catch something. ‘A very happy Christmas to you all!’ she said. Then Evie, startled, found herself being taken, just for a moment, in Mrs Bracebridge’s lavender-scented arms.

  The children went home with presents. Gary and Carl had little metal cars – Carl was beside himself with excitement: ‘Look Evie, look, mine’s green!’ – and Evie had a notebook with spongey paper and five tiny crayons: red, yellow, blue, green and black. Pleased, she pushed it into the pocket of her dress.

  The three of them went out into the icy darkness, the church a bulky shadow behind them. They hurried along Hyde Road towards home. Carl was singing tunelessly to himself. There was a Christmas Eve feeling in the air, one of expectation, even though none of them had much to expect. But Evie kept hearing the words Mrs Bracebridge had said softly in her ear as she embraced her, words no one had ever said to her before: ‘Bless you, my darling child.’

  Ten

  January 1955

  The moment she set foot through the door from school, her mother was on her, seizing her by the hair and dragging her to the table.

  ‘What’s this? What’ve yow been saying to people, yow sneaking little rat?’

  She yanked on Evie’s hair so that her neck snapped back and Evie yelped at the pain, her scalp burning.

  ‘Yes, you can put it on when you want! What’ve you been telling ’er, eh?’ Another yank, then she let go and shoved Evie towards the oil-cloth-covered table and the sheet of pale blue paper that lay on it. ‘What the bleeding ’ell is that?’

  Evie felt panic waiting not far away. Usually now she was attuned to seeing things coming with Mom. Trying to slide her way out of any trouble before it happened. But this was something she had not seen coming and she had no idea what it was.

  She saw small, neat copperplate writing:

  24 Clarendon Road

  Edgbaston

  Birmingham

  2nd January, 1955

  Dear Mrs Sutton,

  I have had the pleasure of meeting your daughter Eve at the Sunday school at St John’s Church. Eve is a delightful child and has been a pleasure to teach and work with. However, I have become aware that your situation as a family is not an easy one and I am wondering whether I might offer a solution which may ease things.

  My husband and I have not been blessed with children. Though this was not our choice we have come to believe it to be the will of Almighty God, who has, until now, freed us to do other good in the world. Mr Bracebridge and I have prayed at length before communicating with you and now we feel that the time is right to lay our offer before you in the hope that it will be accepted in the kindly spirit with which it is intended.

  We would like to offer to adopt your daughter Eve and bring her up in our Christian home with all the love and comfort we have to offer a child, to care for her and educate her as we would have done a daughter of our own.

  We realize that this is a decision of great weight for you and we do not expect an immediate answer. We do hope and pray, however, that you will give our offer, and all the advantages it would entail for Eve, due and favourable consideration.

  With kind regards,

  Mr Herbert and Mrs Mary Bracebridge

  Evie read and reread the blue handwriting, at first unable to take in what it meant. Mrs Bracebridge offering to adopt her? But what did that mean? She had scarcely any time to think at all before Mom was on her again, yanking her round to face her and bellowing into her face. Her breath stank of raw onion.

  ‘Did yow put ’er up to this, yow lying, sneaking little bitch? What’ve yow been telling ’er, eh?’

  ‘N-nothing,’ Evie tried
to say, which was the truth. She had never said a word to Mrs Bracebridge or anyone else about home – barely even to Gary. Gary seemed to understand without her having to, but how did Mrs Bracebridge know anything? ‘I never said nothing.’ She raised her hands to defend herself, waiting for blows to fall.

  ‘So, yower own family ay good enough for yow, is that it? You wait til yower father sees this,’ Irene raged at her. But Evie could hear worry in her voice as well.

  Just then, Shirley came in from school. Evie caught sight of her face, seeing their mother planted in the middle of the room, hands on hips. There was a mixture of fear and smugness – Evie was the one getting it. Shirley slid in along the wall and disappeared upstairs.

  ‘Right,’ Mom said. ‘I ay ’aving this. You come with me. We’re gunna go and see that dried-up old bitch and put her right about a few things.’

  ‘No! Mom, you can’t!’ Evie said, filled with horror at what her mother might come out with to genteel Mrs Bracebridge. ‘Don’t go down there . . . please!’

  ‘I’ll do what I cowing want – and you’re coming too.’ She hoiked her brown and white coat on and dragged Evie outside by the arm. Evie was still wearing a grey coat that Mrs Bracebridge had given her. She half fell down the step as Mom yanked at her.

  All the way, Evie felt her mother’s iron grip on the top of her left arm. She did not know where Clarendon Road was and didn’t know if Mom had any idea either, but that didn’t stop her. Mom wove along the street, cutting a swathe like a tank between neighbours and children. As they reached the end of the street, to Evie’s horror they saw Mrs Charles turn the corner and begin walking towards them. She was carrying a bag and wore a neat, dark red pleated skirt and a short black coat.

  ‘Ho, what’re you cowing staring at, eh?’ Mom bawled at her, despite the fact that Mrs Charles had not even looked in their direction.

  Mrs Charles lowered her head even further, making a small hissing noise between her teeth, but said nothing. Mom wasn’t satisfied with that.

  ‘Don’t yow go making your jungly noises at me!’ she yelled as Mrs Charles receded behind them. ‘Yow want to get back where you belong, sambo!’