The Doorstep Child

by Annie Murray

  ‘Is this where our nanna lives?’ Tracy asked. She seemed encouraged suddenly. The pavements here were wider than in town, the houses newer. It felt more like Canada.

  ‘Yes . . . somewhere, I think. Just got to ask.’

  Evie poked her head round the door of the hairdresser’s. There was a strong chemical smell, hairdryers humming, the light yellowed by plastic sheets stuck to the windows. A girl with heavy black eye make-up and an air of resentment eyed Tracy and Andrew as if they might be about to wreak havoc. The Salvation Army? She shrugged – how would I know? – seeming insulted by the question. It was an older woman who spoke up from under a dryer and said, pointing, ‘It’s in Alwold Road, bab. Just up that way.’

  More walking. They found themselves standing in front of a squat white building with a noticeboard outside. It was growing warm now and Evie was sweating in her brown wool coat but she didn’t want to take it off and carry it.

  Andrew began to grizzle. ‘I wanna go home,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it here.’

  Evie picked him up and cuddled him. ‘It’s all right, babby, nearly there,’ she told him, hoping this was true – not sure what she hoped anymore. ‘Then we’ll get you some dinner, all right?’ Looking down at Tracy she could see she wasn’t much more cheerful. ‘I think Nanna and Granddad live near here somewhere.’

  ‘Why don’t you know where they live?’ Tracy said crossly.

  Evie could not think where to begin on this. She caught sight of a lady coming out of a house across Alwold Road with a cloth shopping bag over her arm. Evie tapped the back of Tracy’s head, urging her across the street.

  ‘’Scuse me!’ she called.

  The woman, who had been about to walk off, turned with an air of suspicion. She was middle-aged, in a stone-coloured mac, with hair tightly permed and batwing spectacle frames. Seeing Evie with Andrew in her arms, she softened a fraction. He had stopped grizzling but still looked the picture of misery.

  ‘Sorry,’ Evie said. Already she had lost all trace of Canada in her voice. The city of her birth had reasserted itself instantly. ‘Only I’m looking for someone – I don’t know the address but I know it’s round here somewhere.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know . . .’ the woman said, as if afraid she was about to be caught up in something she might regret.

  ‘A family called “Sutton”. Mr and Mrs . . . It’s Ray and Irene . . .’

  The woman recoiled visibly from her. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Them.’ She peered at Evie. ‘You her daughter?’

  ‘I . . . Yes,’ Evie admitted.

  ‘I can see the likeness – in your face, any road.’ Her tone seemed laden with criticism. ‘Don’t you know where she lives then – your own mother? Mind you, if she was my mother, I’d keep my distance.’

  Evie couldn’t think of anything to say. She shook her head, her cheeks burning.

  ‘Over there – where that lad’s just come out of.’ The woman nodded her head in the direction Evie had just come from. Sourly, eyeing Tracy and Andrew, she added, ‘Good luck to you is all I can say.’ And off she went.

  Another boy had come out of the house she had pointed to and the two of them – eleven or twelve years old, Evie guessed – were cuffing each other on the worn square of grass outside. She narrowed her eyes. Who could they . . .? The penny dropped. Was that Rita’s son, Joseph? And was that another brother? The second lad was the same ginger as the older one – like Conn. She had only seen Joseph, before she left home for good. It was astonishing to see the size of him now. My nephews, she thought. A warm feeling filled her. She wondered if Shirley had had any kids.

  She was moving closer when someone else appeared – an unmistakeable, corpulent figure in a bright green frock, with almost white-blonde hair hanging down shoulder-length. Evie knew her instantly, the ample set of her hips, the huge calves and that walk, lurching from foot to foot, more stiffly now than she remembered.

  The woman shouted something, though Evie couldn’t make out the words. She took swipes at the heads of the boys, who disappeared indoors again followed by the woman – this woman who was undoubtedly her mother.

  Evie ground to a halt. Panic filled her. Mom – as she always had been. What was she doing back here, chasing some idea of a mother that never was? Some dream of a mother who would love and welcome her?

  But in those seconds she gave herself a stern talking-to. She was grown-up now with two children of her own, not the lost girl who had been thrown out of home. She didn’t have to let her mother push her around. Mothers didn’t have to be like hers had been – she knew that now. She could do her duty, introduce her mother to her grandchildren. And, after all, where else did she have to go?

  Reaching down to take Tracy’s hand, she said, ‘Come on.’

  They were terraced houses, modern, but built on the same principle of cramming as many human beings into a small space as possible. The front strip of garden was full of trampled weeds; the door was sky blue. Limp, grubby-looking nets hung in the lower front windows.

  The front door was open. As they reached the house they could hear voices indoors – boys, Mom shouting above them and another nagging female voice. Smells of stale smoke and burnt toast wafted out from the hall, the lino of which was patterned with browns and orange. There was a threadbare doormat on the step. Evie felt Tracy tighten her hold on her hand. Andrew was silent, staring.

  As she went to knock, Evie heard her mother’s voice: ‘Get that dinner on the table before I knock all their cowing blocks off!’

  Evie knocked, knocked again and finally someone, not Mom, yelled irritably, ‘Who’s that? Oh, I’ll get it . . .’ Was that Rita’s voice?

  A thin, scraggy woman came barefoot along the hall. Her hair was scraped up behind; she was heavily pregnant and swathed in a bright yellow smock dress. Seeing Evie, she stopped in astonishment, crossed her arms over her chest and stared.

  ‘Who’re . . . ? Is that . . . ?’

  ‘Hullo, Rita,’ Evie said. She felt an advantage, having taken them by surprise. She cuddled Andrew close to her. ‘Yeah, it’s me. And these’re my kids. Tracy, this is your Auntie Rita. And this is Andrew. We’ve just come over from Canada – for a visit.’

  For the first time Evie could ever remember, she had impressed and astonished her eldest sister. Rita stood, gawping.

  ‘Who is it, Reet?’ Mom shouted. ‘Gerrin’ere – I’m not feeding this cowing tribe all on my own.’

  Rita came closer to the front door, all belly and stick limbs, and looked down in wonder at Tracy.

  ‘’Ello, darlin’,’ she said, in a syrupy voice. ‘Aren’t you a pretty little thing then? I’m your Auntie Rita. Come on, babby, come with me.’ She held out a hand and Tracy, not sure what else to do, took it. Evie put Andrew down and they followed. She was amazed at Rita. That was about the nicest she had ever seen her. Maybe being a mom to a few kids had changed her?

  The back kitchen appeared, on first sight, to be full of boys. In fact, there were four of them, but the room was small and they were constantly wriggling and trying to thump each other. As they walked in, the bottle of ketchup went rolling onto the floor. Evie saw her mother struggling to squeeze round the table with a pan in her hand, cuffing them as she went.

  ‘Mom!’ Rita cried. ‘Guess who’s ’ere! It’s Evie! And look, you got more grandkids!’

  Evie saw her mother’s gaze swivel over to them. Her instinctive eye assessed that Mom had not been drinking – or if she had, not much. She was in control. She had gained a lot of weight. Her clothes strained around her as if she was tied into her dress like a parcel. Her face had slackened, its pink and white flesh softer and more jowelly, yet she still had a little girlish air, as if she might dance on tiptoe or fall into a tantrum any moment.

  She took in the new arrivals. Evie felt Mom’s presence in the room, the old force of it. She faltered inside. Gripping Andrew’s hand, she told herself not to be stupid.

  ‘Hello, Mom,’ she said coolly. ‘We’ve just com
e over from Canada – for a visit, like.’ She wasn’t going to tell them the truth, not yet – maybe not ever. And certainly not now, in front of the kids. ‘This is Tracy and this is Andrew. Your grandchildren.’

  Her mother appeared to melt at the sight of Tracy’s sweet, intent face. She put down the pan, containing tinned spaghetti, and came round.

  ‘Ooh, more grandkids for me then!’ She made it sound as if it was a race she was winning. ‘Ain’t you a pretty little thing, eh?’ She laid her lardy hand on Tracy’s head for a moment. Evie saw her wedding ring, so embedded she could surely never take it off. Tracy gave a strained smile. ‘Oh, and another lad as well!’

  ‘These are my boys,’ Rita said immediately, not wanting to be left out. ‘Joseph, Sean’ – she pointed at each – ‘Jimmy and Wayne. And this one . . .’ She looked down at her swollen belly. ‘This’d best be a girl. Ooh, I’d love a girl to dress. I’m not going through all this again. I’ve said to Conn, come January, when it’s all over, you’ve ’ad yer chips, mate. You can tie a knot in it.’ She gave a chesty laugh, not sounding as if she meant it.

  The boys all looked remarkably like Conn – red-haired and freckled, except for the youngest, Wayne, who must have been Andrew’s age and was dark, more like their own father. A lot like Andrew, in fact. The two youngest boys eyed each other. Evie’s two were uncertain, as yet. They watched as Sean noisily sucked spaghetti between his lips. The end of it went into his mouth in a rush, flicking sauce onto his face, and he giggled. Tracy and Andrew laughed as well.

  ‘D’you want some spaghetti on toast, babby?’ Rita bent over Tracy and when she nodded, Rita shooed her older two boys away from the table. ‘You can eat standing up – these are your cousins and they’ve come a long way.’

  Evie was amazed by this. And even more so when Rita turned and said rather piously, ‘It’s the most important thing, family, ain’t it? Want a cuppa, Evie? And some spaghetti – or beans?’

  ‘Oh, yes please,’ Evie said. She felt a surge of hope. Maybe they could put all the past behind them, be a family in a new way?

  Her mother had sunk down on what was clearly always her chair, sideways on to the table, legs spread in front of her. She pulled her ciggies from a pocket and lit up.

  ‘Want one?’ she asked indistinctly, holding out the packet.

  ‘Oh . . . no. Thanks.’

  ‘Sit ’ere.’ Mom pulled out the one spare chair, between her and Tracy. It had a pink plastic seat.

  It was very strange being close to her mother again. Evie knew every line of her, the heave of her stomach pushing up the pea-green dress, the mighty white calves, feet half spilling out of flat white shoes. And that face, the big cheeks and full lips, faded red with old lipstick; her smell of sweat and cheap perfume. Her breathing was heavier now, almost a wheeze. Evie felt her body tingle, as if warning her of extreme danger. It was an old familiar feeling but it shocked her. Was that how she had been, on guard always? It was, of course. She had almost forgotten. But she thought, I’m past all that now. She can’t touch me anymore. She knew she must cling to a distant, objective view of her mother. She must not go back to being the little girl she used to be.

  It was strange seeing Mom in this new house with a proper back kitchen – water and a sink, Ajax on the draining board, Ascot heater, the lot, instead of the old wrecks of houses they had always lived in.

  Rita moved round the kitchen making more toast and spaghetti, smoking. Mom dispensed orders. ‘Pass me that . . .’ ‘Don’t put that in there, Reet . . .’ Rita pressed a hand to her back every now and then as if to remind them all that she was pregnant. Motherhood had given her a bossy kind of confidence. But she’s still here hanging round Mom, Evie thought.

  She saw the freckly boys all eyeing her, this strange auntie, nudging each other. She smiled at their mischievous faces and patted Tracy reassuringly. Andrew, sitting across from her, stared, fascinated by his cousins. They started vying to make him laugh. Soon Evie heard giggles coming from her little boy, he creasing up at the face pulling and general antics. She was warmed by this.

  As they ate she asked after Dad and Conn and Shirley.

  ‘Yer father’s still driving for Docker’s,’ was all Mom said. ‘’E’s all right.’ Conn was working for a mechanic in Northfield. Shirley . . . well, Shirley . . . Rita looked pitying. Shirl was living back here with Mom. She’d had a little girl called Ann, but her husband Howard had left her for another woman a couple of years ago. So she was back working – Rita said this with snooty disdain – for a doctor again, also in Northfield.

  ‘Oh,’ Evie said. ‘Poor Shirl.’ Her and me both, she thought. She was looking forward to seeing Shirley.

  ‘His Mom helps out still, though,’ Rita said pityingly. ‘Ann’s with her today – it’s half-term, see.’

  ‘Oh,’ Evie said. ‘Yes, I s’pose.’ So Shirley had still not got away from Mom either. A feeling of oppression passed through her. Their mother was like a planet that they circled round and couldn’t seem to break away from.

  ‘But she’ll be in after work,’ Rita was saying. ‘’Er’s on a half day today.’

  They didn’t ask her much, not about Canada. It was too far beyond anything they knew. Rita asked how old Tracy and Andrew were. Mom kept looking at them and Evie could see her children found their grandmother rather alarming. She kept leaning round and smiling and saying things like, ‘Ooh, look at you two. Fancy – two more grandkids. I dunno what your grandfather’ll say.’ And just, ‘Look at you two,’ seeming to want their attention.

  After they’d finished she said to Rita, ‘Give ’em all some sweet stuff – that’ll keep ’em quiet.’

  Rita reached into a cupboard and brought out a bag of broken biscuits and a handful of tubes – sherbet dips and fruit pastilles. Tracy and Andrew, wide-eyed, were allowed to take what they wanted. Tracy kept looking back at Evie, as if for approval. Evie nodded to say it was all right.

  ‘Go on, take ’em!’ Mom said. ‘Have what you like. And you can go in the other room and give us some peace.’

  Uncertain, but seeming to want to go, Tracy and Andrew followed their cousins next door. Evie hoped they’d be all right, but thought she would soon hear if they weren’t.

  They drank cups of tea, the orange-smeared plates all still on the table. Mom and Rita smoked and ate fruit pastilles. Rita plonked her feet up on another chair. Her legs were a mottled white and very thin.

  Evie waited for someone to ask her something about her life. Since no one did, she said, ‘I’ve been in Canada – getting on for seven years.’

  Her mother pulled the cigarette from her mouth, inhaling. ‘Oh ar,’ she said, breathing smoke. She sounded neither interested nor uninterested. With her other hand she patted her hair. But suddenly, to Evie’s amazement, she added, ‘Looks like you’ve done all right for yourself, bab.’

  With her lifetime of sensitivity to trouble, Evie listened for sarcasm, for the sting in the tail which always came from Mom somewhere along the line. Since when did Mom call her ‘bab’? But she couldn’t hear it. She looked at her in confusion, almost forgetting to breathe. Could Mom actually be saying something nice?

  ‘Couple of nice kiddies you’ve got there,’ Mom said.

  An astonished, joyous feeling stole through Evie. It was going to be all right. Mom was welcoming her home, was pleased with her! And she was the new person she had become in Canada – stronger, more grown-up. All the harsh words, the pain of the last time she had seen her mother were forgotten. Tears filled her eyes.

  ‘Thanks, Mom,’ she said. ‘I wanted them to meet their nanna and granddad.’

  ‘Oh, yer father’ll be pleased to see another wench,’ her mother said. ‘With all these lads about.’

  Evie sat waiting, wanting more, more of Mom being nice to her. She felt herself open, like a flower that can at last bloom in its own soil. Say more, she thought. Talk to me!

  ‘Is he all right?’ she asked. ‘Dad?’

  ‘Oh ar, �
�e’s all right.’

  A silence fell.

  ‘It’s a bit different here, isn’t it?’ Evie said, reaching for conversation as no one seemed to have anything more to say. ‘Nice house.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right, yeah.’ Her mother leaned one elbow on the table, the cigarette burning in her hand. ‘Least it would be if it weren’t for the neighbours. Cowing awful lot they are . . . All kippers and curtains.’

  Evie felt the breath sigh out of her. Here we go, she thought. Some things never change.

  Shirley arrived later, with Ann, a little girl of seven with almost white-blonde hair and a pale, doll-like face. The child was not pretty exactly, Evie thought. She had a sour look about her.

  ‘Look who’s here,’ Rita announced, before Shirley could take in the new company.

  Shirley, though looking tired, was more beautiful than Evie remembered. Her combination of their mother’s strong bone structure and their father’s swarthy looks had developed into appealing proportions now she had matured. She was dressed in work clothes – navy skirt, court shoes, blouse. Ann was a skinny little thing, in baggy mauve corduroy slacks and a pink ribbed jumper. She seemed shy and put out to see new children in the house.

  Shirley stared at Evie for a moment, then her face broke into a grin. Her mouth was wide and sensuous.

  ‘Eves! Oh my word! What’re you doing here? Where’ve you been?’

  She came over and hugged Evie, who felt tears rise in her eyes at this sign of affection.

  ‘And she’s got two kids,’ Rita said.

  During all the introductions Ann and Tracy eyed each other. Tracy was a little older and Ann looked uncertain to begin with. But soon the two of them were in a corner whispering and giggling.