The Doorstep Child

by Annie Murray

  ‘Ta,’ he said, hurrying, then added, ‘Thank you,’ as if he had not been polite or grateful enough. He smiled at her and it lit his rather plain face.

  ‘S’all right,’ Evie said.

  He had a black mac on over his brown suit. In the fading daylight she tried again to assess his age. About forty, she thought, though it was hard to tell.

  ‘Looks as if it’s going to come down any minute,’ he said, eyeing the sky. Red tail lights glowed in the gloomy afternoon. ‘You heading for the bus?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, as they turned onto the Bristol Road. She had her hands pushed down into her pockets and did not feel like talking. That was the thing about Alan, she realized. She didn’t feel like she had to make a big effort. He seemed happy just to be beside her whatever she was like. He was never pushy. No wonder he’s never married, she thought. He’s probably too shy ever to ask a girl for anything. But she was glad. He just seemed like a nice man.

  ‘I’m going the other way.’ He nodded his head in an out-of-town direction, towards Longbridge. Hesitating for a moment, he looked as if he wanted to say more, but she was not being encouraging.

  He gave a slight shrug and smiled. ‘Better go – before we get drenched.’

  They said their goodbyes. Evie walked up the Bristol Road, then waited to cross over to the bus stop. As she stood waiting, a figure appeared in the corner of her vision, hurrying towards her, heading out of town. Something about his gait immediately triggered her memory. Turning, she watched as the tall, lanky person hurried towards her, seeming to lead with the left side of his body, almost running, his arms bent at his sides. He wore a donkey jacket that looked far too big, a lime-green knitted hat pushed down over shaggy hair, specs . . .

  ‘Gary!’ The word left her mouth almost before she had time to think, she was so certain it was him. He had almost gone past.

  A second later, as he turned back, she was less sure. She saw a lined, leathery face, the stooping body. He was staring at her through smeary specs, his eyes seeming bigger than she remembered, the skin sagging under them. Was it him, this broken-looking man?

  ‘Who . . .? Are you . . .? Evie! Oh!’ He hugged himself in excitement, grinning, suddenly the old Gary, except his gums only showed a sprinkling of brown teeth. ‘Is that you? Well, well, fancy seeing you!’

  He was laughing, a sound she could hear welling up from damaged lungs. A laugh that became almost instantly a cough and he doubled up for a moment. When he came closer and stood up, she made out that the specs had no side arms. They were black-rimmed and seemed to be tied onto his head with string which disappeared under the hat. He wore ragged black trousers and a pair of rancid-looking Green Flash plimsolls which must once have been white.

  ‘Gary,’ she said, feeling appalled and tender all at once. When had she last seen him? Before . . . before Julie, and all of it. After his beloved Pete had been found dead . . . He was so aged, so wrecked looking. She didn’t know what to say, so she asked, ‘Where’re you off to?’

  He seemed anxious, his feet moving on the spot. When he spoke it was fast, restless talk. ‘Looking for Carl.’ He nodded along the street. ‘’E got a job, like, at the Austin. Not on the cars I don’t mean . . .’ He spoke slowly, seeming to have to reach for the words. ‘It’s outside, like, in the grounds. It’s his first day. ’E should be back by now – come to look for ’im . . .’ For a second her presence penetrated his preoccupation again. He seemed unable to focus his mind. ‘Nice to see you, Eves. You all right?’

  ‘Yes, ta.’ There was too much to say to begin on anything. He seemed about to rush onwards so she said quickly, ‘Gary, where’re you living?’

  ‘On the cut.’ He was starting to drift away. ‘Gotta find Carl . . . Along a bit, from the Dingle. Come and see us, like, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll try, Gary, when I can.’ Did anyone live on the cut these days? She had heard that all trade down there had moved onto the roads by now.

  ‘The boat’s called Pearl!’ he threw over his shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, it’d be nice to see . . .’ But he was already off along the road at top, shuffling speed, at once old man and boy.

  Forty-Nine

  Rita was sitting up in Mom’s front room like a queen – albeit a very bad-tempered one – smoking and issuing orders. She wore one of her old pregnancy smocks, a pair of nylons and her sloppy pink slippers.

  Their mother was in the other armchair, smoking, yelling half-heartedly at the boys to shut up. On the television, a man with heavy black specs was talking beside a blackboard, his chatter turned down low.

  The room looked empty with no Christmas tree taking up half of it. Cold winter light seeped through the window facing over the scuffed grass at the front and filtered through the smoke in the room. It was grey and drizzling so the kids were all on the rampage inside. There was constant banging and crashing from the floor above as the older boys were letting rip, jumping on and off one of the beds. Wayne was downstairs with Andrew, both of them roaring from room to room. The girls were taken up with the baby. Shirley was out of the room somewhere and Evie stood about, propping up the wall near the door for want of a chair, keeping an eye on Andrew.

  It was a month since little Dean, Rita’s fifth son, was born and she was still in no better temper about it. Dean, like three of his brothers, was going to be a redhead like Conn.

  ‘’Ere, take ’im.’ She handed the baby to Ann, who was eagerly waiting. Sitting back, lighting a cigarette, she added, ‘I don’t know why I flaming bother. Conn only makes boys and they all turn out looking like peas in a pod – ’cept Wayne and ’e’s another cowing lad.’

  She was very bitter at not having a daughter, none of which improved her temper with either Shirley or Evie, proud mothers of daughters. It was the one thing in which Evie and her next sister up were united. Shirley, caught as she had been all her life between her sisters, sometimes turned and rolled her eyes at Evie when Rita was keeping on, in her high, moany voice.

  Ann was sitting perched on the edge of a chair cradling Dean in her arms, shoulders hunched as if she was never going to give him up again.

  After a while, Rita said, ‘That’s it, Ann. You hand ’im over to Trace now, it’s ’er turn.’

  ‘She ’ad him before!’ Ann was immediately scowling. ‘And she had him longer!’

  ‘No she dain’t, Ann. Hand ’im to Trace,’ Rita snapped. ‘Don’t be a mardy little cow.’

  Tracy, looking apologetic, took Dean from Ann’s reluctant arms and crouched on the chair with him. He was not a big baby – had been barely six pounds at birth – but Tracy, skinny and slight, had to curve her arms right round him to hold on. She released one hand carefully to stroke his nose, then looked up in delight.

  ‘He smiled, Auntie, he did!’

  ‘Oh, he likes you, Trace,’ Rita said.

  Ann scowled more deeply at this sign of favouritism. She slammed out of the room, rigid with resentment. Evie thought what a sour little girl she was becoming, compared with Tracy. She sighed. She didn’t want to be here in this noisy, smoky room, being ignored by everyone. But Tracy had wanted to come and see the baby.

  Tracy sat cuddling Dean and Evie watched her. How lovely she was! She felt a swell of pride. Even if she herself felt like a nothing in this family, like worse than nothing, at least they were all right to Tracy and Andrew, and her children needed a family.

  The scientific-looking man on the television was replaced by a different one, with black, greasy-looking hair, standing in front of some glass jars. Evie yawned and shifted from foot to foot. The stuffy, smoke-filled room made her feel muzzy in the head.

  A moment later, there came a series of bangs and crashes from upstairs, so loud that the house shuddered. Mom snapped into life and hurtled to her feet, striding out to the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘You lot! Cowing well shurrup! Get down ’ere and get out!’

  ‘It’s raining out,’ Rita protested feebly.

  He
r mother came back as they heard the boys’ feet pounding down the stairs.

  ‘A soaking never hurt anyone,’ she said, whoomping back onto her chair again. ‘Turn the telly up, Reet.’ The front door slammed and the noise startled baby Dean who started to bawl.

  ‘Auntie!’ Tracy said in a panicky voice. ‘He didn’t like the noise – he’s crying!’

  ‘I can ’ear ’e’s crying,’ Rita said grumpily, though not moving to do anything about it. ‘Just sort ’im out, will yer? I’ll get fag ash on ’is ’ead if I take ’im.’

  Evie moved forward, seeing that Tracy was not sure what to do. The child was only seven – how was she supposed to know how to sort a baby out?

  ‘Here you are, I’ll take him,’ Evie said, going over to them. Dean’s face was red with outrage, his little mouth issuing yells.

  She was just trying to take him from Tracy when Mom said nastily, ‘Don’t you pick him up.’ She spoke as if Evie was a vile, contaminating thing. ‘You don’t want ’er picking ’im up, do you, Reet? Move over.’ Once again she wrestled her bulky body to its feet while Evie stood, stung and shamed.

  ‘’Ere y’are, bab, give ’im to Nanna.’ She leaned over to Tracy and scooped Dean into her arms, ignoring Evie.

  ‘That’s it, you take ’im, Mom,’ Rita said, with a nasty look in Evie’s direction.

  She’s mad, Evie thought, with a sense of despair. She had held Dean before. If it suited Mom, anything could happen. Kids could romp round the house, anyone could do anything if it went with her mood. But if it didn’t, she would turn . . . And she had taught Rita so well to be spiteful. Being nasty to Evie was a lifelong habit.

  ‘Come on, Trace,’ she said softly to her daughter. ‘Time to go.’

  Tracy, who had had her hold of the baby, slid obediently off the chair and put her hand in her mother’s. Evie almost cried at the warm feel of her child’s skin. She could see in Tracy’s eyes that she hated the others being nasty to her mother.

  Mom and Rita were talking about some woman along the road, bitching again.

  Evie left the room without saying goodbye. Wearily, she knew it was going to be a fight to get Andrew to come home. He and Wayne had escaped being sent into the rain and she could hear them upstairs in Shirley and Ann’s room. When she went up, she found Shirley lying listlessly on her bed, one arm bent under head, staring at the ceiling. Ann was sitting on the edge of the bed looking bored and mutinous and the two boys were on the floor, bent over a mess of little cars and trucks.

  ‘Andrew.’ Evie stood at the door.

  ‘Ever heard of knocking?’ Shirley said nastily.

  ‘Sorry,’ Evie said. ‘Need to get him home.’

  ‘Go on, Andrew,’ Shirley said indifferently. ‘Go with yer mom.’

  Andrew ignored them both and he and Wayne put their heads together, tittering about something.

  ‘Andrew!’ Evie said, more sharply, though she was full of a dull sense of futility. She was dragging him out of here, back to the Grants’ house – for what? It was pouring with rain now and the rest of Saturday spread out before them like a sea of nothingness.

  She stepped over to Andrew and hoicked him to his feet. ‘I said we’re going home. Now.’

  Andrew started fighting her and screaming like a pig being killed. ‘Don’t wanna go!’ he roared. ‘I wanna stay here!’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Shirley sat up furiously. Ann stared at the scene with a blank face. ‘What d’you have to go and set him off for?’

  ‘I’m just trying to get him to do as I ask, that’s all,’ Evie said, choking back her helpless rage. ‘Stop it, Andrew. Right, that’s enough.’ She lifted him into her arms and he was horribly strong, kicking at her and throwing himself about as she tried to go downstairs, so that she nearly lost her footing. Tracy watched from the bottom, hat on and anorak already zipped up.

  ‘Listen to that,’ she heard her mother say from the front room. ‘Even ’er own cowing kids don’t like ’er.’

  She heard Rita’s nasty laughter from the front room. It was like being kicked – far worse than Andrew’s real blows.

  They hate me, she thought, fighting Andrew into his coat as he tried to punch and kick her. They’ve always hated me and nothing’s different . . .

  She had always hoped, always tried. One day she would please Mom, make Rita nicer, be close to Shirley . . .

  She attempted to ignore Andrew’s tantrum as they walked home along the wet street, he pulling on her hand, Tracy slightly ahead of them, hunched up in her blue anorak.

  She felt wiped out, a terrible, dizzy feeling, like falling with no one to catch you.

  Mrs Grant saved that afternoon. She took one look at Evie’s face as they came in through the back door. The Grants had just had their dinner and the house smelt of stew and boiled carrots. Mr Grant, a newspaper in his hand, smiled vaguely at her and slipped away to the front room.

  ‘Oh, hello, dear,’ Mrs Grant said cautiously. ‘What a wet day, isn’t it? Have you all had your dinner?’

  Evie was about to pretend, but Tracy and Andrew – who had finally wound down into silence – shook their heads. Evie saw that Mrs Grant now seemed to have at least an inkling of her problems.

  ‘Well, I’ve got a nice little bit of meat and some potatoes over – and stewed apple and custard. How would you fancy that?’

  Tears welled in Evie’s eyes. Usually Mrs Grant supplied their evening meal, not the one at dinnertime.

  ‘I can pay you,’ she offered.

  Mrs Grant moved past her with a bird-like movement, touching Evie’s arm briefly as she did so.

  ‘No, dear, no need. I made too much. Still in my old habits of cooking for a family, you see. I cook potatoes for five instead of two! Come along, sit yourselves down. I don’t suppose you’re going to be able to go out this afternoon, are you? How about I see if I can find some of our old games, and you can come and sit by the fire.’

  The children brightened considerably at this, and even more so when they had some food inside them. The dread inside Evie eased a little at not having to face an achingly empty afternoon. Another fairy godmother, she thought. Those people in her life who had kept her going, kept her believing kindness was possible. Like Rachel Booker and Mary Bracebridge – and Bea, in Canada. Where would she be now without them?

  Fifty

  March 1972

  ‘Evie?’

  The voice only just penetrated the fog of her thoughts. She was sitting in the coffee bar at Kalamazoo, over a cup of weak coffee, about to go back to work. The other comptometer girls had just gone, so Alan must have seen his chance.

  She looked up into his kind face.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Evie said, trying to drag herself into the present moment. The room was emptying after the morning break, tinny music in the background, I’ve got a brand-new pair of roller skates . . . She felt as if she needed to shake herself the way a dog does when getting up from sleep. It was so hard to concentrate – on anything.

  ‘It’s a while since I’ve seen you,’ he said, holding on to the back of the chair opposite her, solid, somehow reassuring. He had told her he worked in the print department as a litho artist, which, other people said, made him a ‘clever bugger’. He was close to his sister, his young nephew and niece. He seemed kindly. He was single. And he was so obviously interested in her. The other girls were always nudge-nudging, saying to Evie that he fancied her, it was obvious. She was flattered. She liked him. But she was exhausted, as if she just had no energy for it, no room in her life.

  ‘I s’pose it is,’ she said, getting up and pushing her chair in. She was dressed in her office clothes, straight skirt, blouse, little navy court shoes. People said she looked good in them.

  ‘Oh, very nice,’ Mrs Grant said sometimes when she left the house. ‘Don’t you look neat and businesslike?’

  She had not been avoiding Alan. In fact, she had barely given him a thought. Since C
hristmas she had not felt herself. Things seemed to be sliding out of her grasp and she was not sleeping well. She felt distant from everything.

  ‘I, er . . . I just wondered if you’d like to come out for a drink one night,’ Alan said. She could hear the nervousness in his voice and she liked him for it. ‘Friday, maybe?’

  She looked at him, trying to take in what he was asking her. It took her time to reply.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t really,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’ He looked down at the floor, pushing his hands into the pockets of his brown suit trousers in an abashed way. ‘Sorry. I just thought . . . you know, maybe now and then there might be someone who you could get to look after them? I mean, my sister said she could . . .’ He stopped. ‘One of the other girls said . . .’ He looked ever more awkward. ‘That . . . well, that you’re not married anymore.’

  ‘No,’ she said, not wanting to reject him. He was a nice man. ‘I’m not. At least . . . I’m not divorced yet.’ Now her own face was hot. It was a hard admission. She still felt married to Jack – was still married to him, in law. ‘But he’s in Canada. I’m on my own with the kids, so it’s difficult.’ She spoke fast, wanting to make things better because he seemed a nice person. ‘I mean, maybe one day I could find a babysitter, but . . .’

  She didn’t feel she could ask Mrs Grant. And she was not sure she really wanted to go out with anyone. Looking at Alan, though, at that moment, seeing his amiable face, a longing filled her. Oh, to be looked after by someone like that – someone older and mild and solid. Their eyes met for a moment before he looked down.

  ‘I see,’ he said. Looking up again, he smiled. ‘Well . . . the offer’s there, all right?’

  She managed to smile back, but still as if she was distant, at the end of a long tunnel. ‘All right. That might be nice. Thanks.’