The Doorstep Child

by Annie Murray

  This was just the beginning of an hour that made Evie feel she might actually die of shame. It was at least a relief when they left the part of Ladywood where they lived so that no one knew them. Her mother was walking with fast, furious strides, all the time gripping Evie’s arm so that she was forced to break into a trot to keep up. It seemed a long way, along streets of houses she had never seen before. Mom ignored everyone who dared to look at them after Mrs Charles, but she kept muttering about ‘bleeding nosey buggers’ and people who had nothing else to do but poke into other people’s business.

  The dreaded moment came when they reached number twenty-four Clarendon Road. Evie prayed as she had never prayed before that no one would be in.

  Her mother marched up to the door, ignored the brass knocker and hammered on it with her fist. Evie stood beside her because she had no choice. Her arm felt bruised and sore. She forced her head down as she heard the door open, unable to cope with the thought of seeing Mrs Bracebridge’s bewildered face.

  ‘Oh . . . er, good afternoon,’ she heard Mrs Bracebridge say, sounding flustered.

  ‘I’ve got summat to say to you,’ Evie heard Mom begin. She cringed. Inwardly, she was like a rabbit taking refuge down a long, dark burrow. She heard her mother begin to launch into a barrage of insults at Mrs Bracebridge – how dare she, who did she think she was . . . The insults swarmed and Mom’s belting voice rang along the street, but after the first outburst Evie did not take in any of the words.

  Eventually, when Mom had finished haranguing Mrs Bracebridge, she dragged on Evie’s arm again and the words started to reach her at last.

  ‘Come on, you, we’re going ’ome. And you’re not going near this interfering old cow anymore – ever. D’you ’ear?’

  Only then did Evie raise her head, and she caught sight of Mrs Bracebridge standing at her door in a straight grey dress, her hands to her cheeks and wearing an expression of utter shock and anguish. Evie could barely take in what Mrs Bracebridge had been suggesting – adopt her? She wanted to give the woman comfort somehow but did not know how and Mom was already dragging her off along the street.

  ‘That’s the last time yower going to that cowing church,’ her mother decreed as they began the route march home. ‘These Holy bloody Joes, think they know it all . . . And you . . .’ Her venom was directed at Evie now. ‘A cowing disgrace, that’s what you are.’

  A cold feeling settled over Evie, a dry sense of inevitability that Mrs Bracebridge and Sunday school, the best things in her week, had now been taken away.

  II

  Eleven

  November 1959

  The bonfire was on the new patch of waste ground at the bottom of Inkerman Street, where the ‘development’ had begun. They had knocked down several blocks of terraces, leaving a raw, open space of rubble, old foundations and twisted wire which became a quagmire when it rained. The land was now an open cut-through, where kids played amid the broken glass and dog muck and learned about knocking things down. There was no sign of anything else being done except more demolition all over Ladywood. When, people wondered, was something constructive going to begin? What was the plan exactly? And if their houses were knocked down, where would they be rehoused?

  Tonight, the open space came in handy for a bonfire. Wood was in short supply and everyone around had been storing old bits of scrap for weeks. Someone had brought in a couple of van loads of twigs and gorse from the countryside to use as kindling and there was a good pile of stuff to be burnt.

  Evie could see the sparks already flying high into the darkness as she walked down Inkerman Street with Gary and Carl. The younger kids had been round shouting ‘penny for the guy’ and the white-faced rag doll stuffed with sawdust lay slumped on top of the pile. The flames were already licking up round him when they arrived and his inked-in face seemed to wear a look of anguish.

  People were turning out from all around, some with plates of food they had cooked at home. The delicious aromas of hot chestnuts, potatoes and sausages mingled with the smoke. Evie knew her mom and sisters were there somewhere but she stuck with Gary and kept away from them – especially as Rita was with Conn, the feller she reckoned she was going to marry and who Mom was rude to because he was a freckly ginger Irish lad. Conn seemed all right to Evie – and if he’d take Rita off their hands, that was a favour so far as she was concerned. Rita thought she was the most important person in the world now that she was engaged, even though there was no sign of a ring. Shirley did not seem to have a boyfriend, but there was a regular supply of lads sniffing round. Evie, still the one they picked on, the outcast, moved around her family, trying to please and avoid trouble and not expecting anything much.

  But as the years passed and she grew, she began to experience new hungers and longings. She knew there was love somewhere in the world and she wanted it. In the coppery, flickering darkness, amid the shouts and shrieks of pleasure, she turned to look at Gary. Gary who had long been her friend, the one person she could always rely on in their struggling lives. Gary was seventeen now and she sixteen. He was nearly a head taller than her. He looked much the same except that he had filled out very slightly and had different specs, with dark frames, in the usual state of disrepair and held together with bits of sticking plaster or string. But his shirt was usually hanging out, his trousers baggy and worn and his hair too long and chopped unevenly round his face. There was something rather sagging about Gary, with his funny crab walk. He always looked as if he badly needed taking care of, which was the truth. But he was the one forever looking after Carl, who had grown into a sweet, lumbering bear of a boy.

  Lately, Evie had found herself thinking about Gary – not just as the Gary she had always known, but as a boy, a man. Even though he was seventeen, it was startling to think of Gary as a man. He was still just as likely to trip over his own feet as not. All these years they had been mates, a refuge for each other when each of their families were of little use to them. And if there was one person in the world who could make her laugh through difficult times, it was Gary.

  They had always knocked around together and sooner or later other lads had started to call out, ‘That yer girlfriend, Ducky?’

  The first time it had happened, when they were thirteen and fourteen, her eyes met Gary’s and they both laughed. It all seemed silly. What were they on about? Gary was her mate. And so it had been, for ages. But as time passed, her feelings changed and she began to think, well, we’ve been together all this time, maybe that’s where we belong. Gary was what she knew. She felt safe with him. What could be more obvious and natural? But Gary never seemed interested in her, not in that way. Other boys were keen on her and she was forever being told she was pretty. But they were never boys who she even liked or felt anything for in return. She felt safe with Gary. More and more she started to want Gary to be the one who wanted to go out with her. Her feelings now were all confusion.

  Last summer, her first summer after leaving school, something had shifted and now, although they still saw each other, things often felt awkward. It had been a warm September evening and, as usual, she and Gary were hanging about together with not much to do. They had been at the Warings’. Whisky was a very old, white-muzzled dog now but still soft and loving. Mr Waring still had his chickens. They hardly ever went near the shelter now, with its odd memories and cold dampness.

  But that evening, as they patted Whisky goodbye, Gary suddenly said, ‘Shall us go to the shelter – have a look? Someone else might’ve took it over by now.’ It felt like something for old time’s sake, now they were older.

  They never got as far as the shelter, though, because when they got into the back lane, deserted, with its walls and weeds, Gary stopped, halfway along, all in a rush.

  ‘Evie . . . hang on a minute, will yer?’

  She paused, slightly ahead of him, and turned round. She was wearing a mauve cotton frock with a white collar and a belt. It was a little tight on her – her curvaceous body was developing so fast now –
and suddenly she saw him looking at her in an odd, intense way, as if taking in what she actually looked like, standing there before him in the hazy evening. She felt naked suddenly, as if every line of her body was enlarged. Her bosoms had grown and were pushing at the fabric of the dress; her hips were wide, her thighs generous. She had feelings now, that her body ought to be wanted, though she hardly knew what she felt. And him looking at her like that didn’t feel bad. It felt . . . exciting.

  ‘What?’ she said, and it came out sounding cross because she was embarrassed and unsure.

  ‘I . . .’ Gary swallowed and she sensed, rather than saw, his Adam’s apple go up and down. ‘C-can I . . . I mean.’ He was wringing his hands. With brusque assertion he said, ‘We ought to have a kiss, that’s what.’

  They just stood there for a few seconds, both of them astonished by this development. Stiffly, they walked into each other’s arms. It was the most awkward thing. Gary was bony and tense against her, and tremulous as a newborn chick. Evie felt suddenly motherly, as if she was much older than him. They fumbled for each other’s lips and pushed a bit with their tongues. She felt Gary move his hand up and down her back.

  He stepped away, looking down at the ground.

  Was that it? Evie thought. She felt a twinging ache at the side of her breasts. Was that what all the fuss was about? There must be more to answer this yearning she felt. Had they got it all wrong? Things felt unfinished. But she knew then, and had felt since, that it was the being wanted that mattered more than what actually happened. That was how it seemed to her. Rita was wanted by Conn and it seemed to mean everything.

  It took Gary a moment before he could look up at her and his cheeks were flushed pink. He shrugged. ‘So . . . that’s it then.’

  ‘Is it?’ she said. And laughed. They both did.

  And they had not kissed since. Now, walking beside Gary in the darkness, with Carl in tow as usual, clumping along behind, she started to feel put out and resentful. After the kiss – was that really a kiss? – Gary had seemed to avoid her. Then things had eased somehow and they often had a chat, but she didn’t know where they were with each other anymore.

  All Gary could talk about nowadays was some bloke he’d met who came into the garage where he was now working as a mechanic in Ryland Road. A bloke called Pete. Pete was a Ted and Evie was already sick to the back teeth of hearing about him. Pete’s record collection, Pete’s bike, Pete this, Pete that. And now Gary was starting to dress like a Teddy Boy as well. He had bought himself a pair of drainpipe trousers – too short in the leg, of course, being Gary.

  ‘I’m gunna save up for a waistcoat next,’ he said as they walked along. The trousers looked ridiculous because they made his skinny legs look even thinner but he swaggered along seeming mighty pleased with them.

  Evie rolled her eyes.

  ‘You could dress like a Ted,’ Gary enthused. ‘There’s girls do – ’ave yer seen ’em?’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ Evie said grumpily. ‘And anyway, it’s all stale cakes, that – it’s been about for years.’

  ‘No it ain’t! It’s just changing a bit – more American stuff. Pete says he thinks it’s a better thing – not just looking backwards like the old-style Teds.’

  As if I give a monkeys what Pete thinks, she wanted to retort, but instead, she said, ‘I just don’t think it’s me, that’s all. Shall we get a hot spud?’

  ‘Taters – and toffee apples!’ Carl cried. He was twelve now and still in many ways like a little child. As loveable as one too – he still sometimes wanted to hold hands. Evie felt as if he was her little brother as well.

  There were potatoes cooked in the fire, hot chestnuts. Evie bought toffee apples and she gave one each to Gary and Carl.

  ‘Ta,’ Gary said, without much enthusiasm, but Carl said, ‘Ta, Evie!’ and beamed.

  They stood amid the crowd, the flames gilding the sky and lighting up the wrecked shells of houses, broken brick walls and bits of painted surface or wallpaper. The fire was in full spate now, crackling and roaring, sparks whirling upwards. Evie could feel the heat of it on her face. A nice smell came off the burning twigs. Something cracked in the fire, like a shot, and they all jumped and ‘oohed’. Somewhere in the distance, at the edge of the wasteland, someone was playing a piano and people joined in singing old hits from their youth – ‘Daisy, Daisy’ and ‘Knees up Mother Brown’. Gary muttered something about didn’t they know any better songs. He was all ‘Rock Around the Clock’. Evie knew this was because of Pete and so immediately she said that she liked the old songs. People started to let off rockets and jumping Jacks, kids screaming and jumping out of the way. Carl gasped when there were bangs but someone handed him a sparkler and he was enraptured, drawing loops of snowflake light on the dark.

  Evie pulled her coat round her, wishing she had better shoes. Hers were thin on the bottom, and the cold seeped through. But the chill went deeper than that. She felt as if Gary was so far away from her, as if not her friend anymore. She felt so lonely, after all the years of him being her pal, like a devoted puppy, that she reached out suddenly to take hold of his hand. It was thin and cold and she wrapped hers around it.

  Gary turned to her, surprised. He smiled, but it was a strange, awkward smile and Evie felt she had done something wrong. It made her feel worse and she let go, looking ahead of her, not facing him.

  A few minutes later, she heard Carl, through a mouthful of toffee apple, pipe up, excited.

  ‘Gary! Look, it’s Pete!’

  Quite close to them, the shadows moving on his face, she saw Gary’s new best friend moving towards them. He was a tall, slender boy with dark hair, deep-set eyes and a long, pale face. He was dressed in his full Ted outfit, the drainpipes and jacket, and he kept his hands in his trouser pockets, moving with a masculine swagger of his hips, elbows jutting as he slipped through the crowd, like a snake, Evie thought.

  Something in her had rebelled against Pete the moment she met him, a couple of months back. He had never been actively unpleasant to her, but acted more as if she was not there at all. There was something about the way he could not meet her eye, something closed and secretive that always made her feel shut out. When he was there, she felt miles away from Gary, as if he and Pete had a secret male understanding from which she was excluded. She had never felt this before with Gary, despite all his brothers and all the other boys around. He had just been her mate, just Gary.

  Something had happened to Gary. She could sense a pulsing excitement in him whenever Pete appeared and it aggravated her beyond words. Anyone would think Pete was God, she thought sourly. She just couldn’t see what it was. All right, so he was a Ted – it wasn’t as if there weren’t plenty of others about. He didn’t seem especially interesting or funny or exciting. Why the hero worship? And come to that, what on earth did Pete see in Gary? Did he just need someone to worship him?

  ‘Pete! Over ’ere!’ Gary hailed him.

  Pete’s sinuous walk brought him over to them.

  ‘All right, mate?’ Gary asked, in his warm, sweet way. She could see how excited he was that Pete had come. Pete lived somewhere in Edgbaston.

  ‘Yup.’ Pete nodded back, then nodded abruptly to Evie and Carl. He drew a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up, offering Gary one but none of the rest of them, Evie noticed. She felt even more cross, even though she didn’t want one. Not off him, anyway. He drew on the fag with short, nervous puffs, not meeting anyone’s eye.

  ‘Where you been then?’ Gary was saying.

  ‘Just . . . you know, about,’ Pete said mysteriously. He stared ahead of him. Already Evie felt invisible, as if she didn’t count.

  ‘D’you want to come and get a tater?’ she whispered to Carl.

  Carl nodded, always one for food if it was on offer.

  In the firelight they watched the potato lady put salt and a knob of butter on the potatoes, which smelt delicious.

  ‘There yer go, bab,’ she smiled, handing it to Carl. Everyon
e was sweet to Carl; you couldn’t not be.

  ‘I wanna go back and see Gary now, and Pete,’ Carl said, and he hurried away, not looking back to see if she was following.

  ‘Charming,’ Evie muttered. She was about to follow when she thought, what’s the point? I’m not wanted in that department. Most of the fireworks had been let off by now anyway.

  She drifted away, feeling more desolate than she could even understand. There was nowhere else to go, even though this was her night off work. She’d best just go home.

  Twelve

  She was working at the Tower Ballroom, by Edgbaston Reservoir. She had had other jobs – at a factory, and a shop. She liked walking to the ‘rezza’ for work, into Edgbaston and past the sooty brick stack of Perrott’s Folly. At her school, Follett Osler, they had told her that Abraham Follett Osler had been a glass maker in Broad Street, but that he was also keen on clocks and on weather forecasting. He had started using the folly tower as a weather observatory. Someone else, at work, told her that the Ballroom had once been a skating rink, before it became a favourite for dances and other sorts of entertainment. For the first time Evie had more of a sense of the wider city and a glimpse of history.

  She worked in one of the kiosks in the foyer, selling tickets. When she arrived for an evening shift on these winter nights, it was nice to see the welcoming lights, reflecting in the water of the reservoir. She liked working evenings – it kept her out of the house when Mom and Dad were there. And she came across a lot of different people – it was lively and sociable.

  On dance nights people queued outside, togged up in their finery. There was a happy atmosphere of letting off steam and having fun. Evie saw plenty of people but she didn’t have to spend too much time with any of them and that suited her. Her pretty, strong-boned face with its Cupid’s bow lips and her golden hair, falling long and thick on her shoulders, were all an asset. She enjoyed using them to charm people – people who would be gone in a few seconds. It was easy. She could smile, sell them the tickets, wish them a good evening and move on to the next one in the queue.