“Friends?” She laughed, and Vincent had the good grace to look embarrassed.
They finished their toast and ordered another mug of tea. As Vincent dabbed at the crumbs on his empty plate, Evelyn thought about when she’d last seen him, at Chemley Court. How long ago that seemed—and she was glad for that distance, although there had been a period in her life when she would have given anything to fold the passage of time into minute portable squares. Vincent knew all this, of course, had made this calculation when he offered to meet her, and she could feel his familiar appraisal of her dry lips, her brown coat. It was a curious bond they’d once had, that flimsy intimacy, like old lovers knowing each other’s deepest secrets and their silent vow to always keep them.
“Did anyone else see you with her?” he asked.
Evelyn nodded. “Stephen Glover.”
“Who is that?”
“A friend.” Evelyn hesitated. “A close friend.”
“Does he know—”
She shook her head.
Vincent frowned. “Does he know you’re here now?”
“No. I haven’t heard from him since last night.” Evelyn fidgeted with the canister of sugar. “I was . . . scared.”
There, she had said it, though she felt no better for it.
Vincent casually brought out the orange tin where he kept his cigars.
“What were you scared of, darling?”
“I thought Julia might say something . . .”
“Would that be so terrible?”
Evelyn stared back at him. So this was how Vincent approached the past: incisive, diagnostic. He was lucky enough to be in the position where he could view it with such detachment, but it made her want to shriek.
“Terrible? After what happened? It would be ghastly.”
They sat watching one another, the air between them unmoving, until Vincent sat back, smiling faintly. “I’ve often wondered what became of you, Evelyn. What it all did to you. It was all so very unfair . . . I’m sorry I didn’t keep in touch.” He puffed away on the cigar, thoughtful. “Do you care for this chap, Stephen?”
“Yes.”
“You love him?”
Beneath her coat, Evelyn could feel the exact pressure of Stephen’s arms around her when they went dancing, the certainty of him but also the bulk of him as they glided around the hall, as if he were bracing for impact. Perhaps that was what he’d been doing: waiting for the blow that would tear them apart.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know what that feels like.”
“Rot. We all know what it feels like.” Vincent let this hang, perhaps considering what it had meant for him in the intervening years. “And now he thinks you’re keeping something from him? Some part of yourself?”
Evelyn nodded.
“Well then, it’s simple. You need to tell him. Everything. Start at the beginning. How can anyone really love you if they don’t know you?”
“But it’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I’m not supposed to talk about—”
Vincent leaned forward, snatching up Evelyn’s hands, his own blue and hard like they had just come out of Zafer’s chiller. But his eyes were the same color as the Thames, and Evelyn’s mind wandered back to the river and all the silt that lay beneath it.
“You don’t have to be loyal to them anymore, Evelyn, for Christ’s sake! Not them, not anyone! Do you understand?” His bottom lip trembled as he slumped back, rubbing at the faint map of broken capillaries across his cheeks. “What’s the use of scurrying around in the shadows like you’re still a damned spook? Some things you have to bring up from the ground or they will kill you. You of all people should know this.”
And it was absurd, after all this time, to still be afraid of the war and its long shadow hanging over her—Evelyn knew that. But it wasn’t fear like the men would have felt in the boats or on the beaches. Not the same fear as when the German bombs rained down across London, picking out targets like indiscriminate skittles—she could remember that particular visceral terror, with its airlessness and the static whistle at the back of her head. This fear was made of quicker, steelier matter; it was sleek and icy, working its way inside Evelyn’s blood. It was the same fear she felt when she first met Nina: of being seen.
Afterward, they stood out the front of the cafe. Vincent offered a hand to Evelyn and they stood looking at one another, squinting in the gray light.
“You will think about what I said, won’t you, Evelyn? About getting away?”
“Of course.”
“Your parents . . .” Vincent was winding a scarf around his neck. It had started to rain. “They lived outside the city, didn’t they? Could you stay with them?”
Evelyn bit her lip. She looked past him to a group of children gathered in a circle in the lane. She hadn’t spoken to her mother and father in years.
“They’re dead.” The lie, like all those from the past, came easily.
Vincent made a face. “Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I had no idea.” But then he was struck by another coughing fit, so violent he was bent over by it, and when he straightened she saw a glob of bright blood in his handkerchief.
They didn’t hug or kiss on parting. There was no promise of another telephone call. It was still easier to say nothing, Evelyn thought, watching Vincent walk away. He looked frail as he made his way back up Lavender Hill, head bowed, as if a sudden gust of wind might sweep through and take him away. But later, as Evelyn headed back across Vauxhall Bridge, the grit and rain howling around her, she gripped the rail for a moment, rocked back on her heels with the force of it, and realized she was the one in danger of flying away.
November 1939
Six
EVELYN WALKED UP the hill to High Street and turned off toward the Ouse and the cobbled walkway through the market stalls. She passed the brewery and St. Thomas’s church on the corner. It wasn’t a long walk from the station, but she soon stopped by some sparse shrubs at the side of the road to catch her breath. Through the spindly branches she could make out the slate-colored triangular roofs of South Street, and tucked away behind the trees the old pub, the Dorset. The town didn’t extend far; beyond it a patchwork of green and brown and gray farmland moved in a gentle incline toward the horizon. Behind that land was Falmer. This view was Evelyn’s favorite thing about Lewes: it reminded her of life beyond the town. When she was a girl she used to fancy she could see all the way to Brighton.
Veering into the next laneway, Evelyn glimpsed her parents’ house. Not a large dwelling by any means, it was a two-story cottage clad with brown stucco, and she could make out the ivy creeping up the wall outside the kitchen and the thread of smoke from the chimney. Still, it was imposing from this distance. Perhaps that had something to do with its proud stance, tall along the hemmed-in lane, elevated on the mound of lush grass, and the large Regency-style windows overlooking the valley. The lawn looked to have been recently clipped and the pheasant grass and foxtail barley planted by the verge were thriving. As Evelyn strolled up the stone path she caught the strong, earthy scent of Michaelmas daisies growing in pots on the patio.
The front door was unlocked and Evelyn let herself in. She called out, but there was no reply. She set down her suitcase and went through to the sitting room where she found her father on the sofa, the morning newspaper spread across his lap.
“Hello, Evelyn.”
“Did you not hear me at the door, Dad?”
The room was cluttered with his books, stacks of old magazines, and her mother’s knitting unspooling from a box on the chaise longue. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked above the fizz and crackle from the fire in the hearth, and a few knitted lace doilies had been cast over the arms of the sofa. On the wall above the fire hung the portrait of Evelyn’s grandfather and beneath it two photographs in silver frames stood on the mantelpiece: one of her parents on their wedding day, the other of Evelyn when she was about four years old, dressed in a white slip
dress, clasping her toy rabbit, Bunny. She gazed at the soft curl of her hair, the solemn pout, her cold eyes. It wasn’t a flattering portrait; there must have been others in her parents’ collection, and she wondered why they had chosen to display this one. Nothing much else in the room belonged to Evelyn—no sketches or papers or books of her own. She recalled all the times her mother had complained about her leaving her socks, shoes, hairpins, brushes around. Now it was as if she had never lived in the house at all.
“Hello, dear. I thought it was you. I’ll fetch an extra cup.”
Her mother had appeared in the doorway with tea and biscuits and brought the tray to the small table in front of the sofa. Once her father had set aside his reading she began pouring out the tea.
“Now, how is the new flat? Are you settled in?”
Peering over his glasses, her father looked smaller than Evelyn remembered, his cardigan hanging limp from his shoulders.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s much nicer than Earl’s Court.”
Evelyn had moved from Mrs. Banker’s earlier that month. The new flat was on the corner of Berwick and Broadwick streets, on the third floor above a small public house. On a clear day, the terrace was almost attractive, and with its olive-painted dormer windows and slate mansard roof Evelyn often felt that she could have been living not in Soho but in the twelfth arrondissement of Paris. Ivy grew up the left side of the facade, hedge boxes hung from the first-floor ledge, and a lantern swung at the pub’s entrance. The flat was a Service one, which meant the landlord had been vetted. Chadwick even had someone already there for Evelyn to share with, a switch operator from the Scrubs. “You’ll be much happier lodging with another MI5 girl,” he reasoned. “And Fay’s a good sort—trust me.”
But the building had known better days. The stairs leading up to the flat were rotten, each step felt precarious, and on the landing outside the front door, where the wallpaper was stained and curling away from the skirting boards, the peaty stench of mildew often lingered. Nonetheless, Fay Harding, a friendly, freckly girl from Bolton, had made the place homely with old rugs, Indian lampshades, and joss sticks burning in the hall. A good sort, as Chadwick had promised, she was also a social creature, out most nights with the other switchies from the Scrubs. Evelyn was always invited to join them, and she had gone along a few times to the revue at the Windmill Theatre, to please Fay as much as anything else. They were nice enough girls, but Evelyn was never quite comfortable with them, unable to shake the feeling they preferred it when she wasn’t around.
“And Sally?” her mother asked. “I hear she’s getting married.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Evelyn blew on her tea and set it down on the table. “The wedding’s in early March.”
“March?” Her mother made a face. “She’s taking a gamble on the weather.” Then, frowning, “She’s not, well, you know . . . ?”
“No, nothing like that.” Evelyn could feel irritation surging in her veins. How could her mother do this to her after only a few minutes in her company? “Jonty, her fiancé, he’s in the RAF. It’s all about his deployment and whatnot.”
Her father snapped a malt biscuit between his teeth and munched on it contentedly. “Now, tell us about this government job of yours, dear,” he said. “I’m not sure Mum and I are quite certain of what you actually do!”
“I’m Mr. Chadwick’s assistant in the War Office.”
“That’s in Whitehall, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. He’s head of Supply.”
“And I suppose you’re working on some intriguing stuff?”
Evelyn shifted against the sofa. She realized if she couldn’t speak about work, she couldn’t really speak about London, and that didn’t leave much to talk about. Her father didn’t seem to notice, already drawn back to his newspaper, his obligatory queries discharged, but her mother had been watching her from the armchair as one might watch a bird whose aviary door had been left open.
“I’m not sure how intriguing it is,” Evelyn said. “We keep an eye on all the army consignments and deliveries around the country. Fuel logs, dispatch riders, that sort of thing. But there’s a fair amount of administration too. Posting letters and answering the telephone.”
Her mother frowned. “They should be putting you to better use than that.”
“I’m doing good work, Mum. Important work.”
“What about your plans for teaching? Or have you given up on them?”
“No.” Evelyn clenched her jaw. “They’re just on hold for now. Like many people’s plans.”
But this wasn’t enough. Her mother stirred her tea and set down the spoon. “All men, then, is it? The War Office?”
Evelyn couldn’t tell if her tone was approving or reproachful.
“No, it’s not.”
Her parents stared back at her.
“Well, I’m sure you know what’s best,” her father said finally, reaching for another biscuit.
Evelyn looked out the window, her eyes drifting over the neat garden hedge. A bird had nested in the brambles near the back gate. It began to whistle, the shrill noise penetrating the glass, and Evelyn and her parents went quiet, listening.
“I say, it’s a waxwing,” said her father, rising from his chair and moving to the window. “We thought all the garden birds were gone for the season, didn’t we, Mum? But this chap looks fairly plump and well feathered.”
He tapped on the glass and the bird turned its black and white eyestripe in their direction. Evelyn admired it for a moment. When she was a girl she used to walk with her father up the Malling Down reserve, an old pair of Brevete field binoculars bumping against her chest, to watch the first arrival of the serins, her favorite finch with a bright yellow plumage.
“The garden is looking healthy. Is that your work, Mum?”
“Mum has been spending a lot of time out there,” her father murmured, returning to his chair as her mother stacked the cups and saucers on the tray. “It’s something of a passion of hers.” The wisps of his eyebrows shone gold as he glanced back at Evelyn. “So, how long do we have you?”
“I’ll take the last afternoon train back on Tuesday.”
“Till Tuesday,” he mused. “Not too bad, is it, Mum?”
Her mother had paused in the doorway but didn’t reply. Evelyn watched her leave the room, taking in the straight line of her back, the fragile gray of her bun.
“We thought we might head out tomorrow to Eastbourne,” her father said. “Make a day of it, like we used to when you were a scrap. We could even have fish and chips on the promenade? Remember that time—”
“—with the seagull? He wanted your cod.”
“He got it, all right, and half my chips.” Her father laughed. “Didn’t get your pickled egg, though, did he? You kept that safe like the Praetorian Guard.”
“Mum said it served us right for eating out there by the beach.”
“Well, sometimes your mother doesn’t see the value in a bit of fun. But we won’t hold that against her too much, will we?”
He winked, reaching for his newspaper again, and Evelyn felt the dull throb of her heart. She leaned back on the sofa, but she couldn’t settle, distracted by the sound of clattering crockery, knowing her mother was at the sink furiously scrubbing. She wouldn’t come out of the kitchen until every last plate, spoon, and teacup was spotless—it had always been like that; she had always preferred to spend time at the sink rather than with her own daughter—and as she stood and went to the window, Evelyn became aware of another feeling behind that throb, hot and swift and sharp, like a swoop of the waxwing perched in the brambles.
* * *
The next day they traveled to the seaside. The sun was out and crowds had flocked to the promenade; some children were even running through the shallows beneath the pier. After a stroll and a baked potato from the van near the new bandstand, her father found a quiet tavern tucked away from Grand Parade, and they sat on a terrace overlooking the gardens of St. Mary the Virgi
n and drank dark ale. Her parents talked about the town and the renovation of the clubrooms at the golf course. They didn’t ask about Evelyn’s work again, or much about her life in London. Perhaps they’re afraid of what I might tell them, she thought, tracing the rim of her glass.
Evelyn sat in the back seat on the return drive to Lewes. She could see that her father was happy; his family, if only for the duration of the journey, had been reunited. But her mother remained tense and watchful, gripping the handle above the car door all the way home.
* * *
The next morning, after her father had walked into town, Evelyn joined her mother in the garden as she pruned the roses. The sun was out again but the wind had bite. Evelyn watched her mother move from one bed to the next, her gait springy, her face fixed in stern concentration. Normally Evelyn would have joined in without hesitation, but something held her back. Perhaps it was the wariness her mother had adopted since she had arrived home, tiptoeing about Evelyn as if she were a stranger. Once the roses had been attended to, however, her mother called, “There’s another pair of secateurs somewhere in the shed if you’d like to help me?” and Evelyn followed her to the kumquats and the strawberry patch, where insects had nibbled through most of the leaves, and they spent another hour laying a compost of loam, peat, and sand over the plants.
At midday, her mother brought out some lemonade and cheese-and-chutney sandwiches, and they sat shivering on the patio, a white cast-iron table between them. When they were finished, her mother fetched a pot of coffee, which they drank from the small glazed cups Evelyn had made in a school pottery class, her spidery initials, E.V., carved into the base.
“He misses you,” her mother remarked. “Your father. He likes having you home.”
Evelyn blew on her hands, gazing out over the lawn. She felt her lips curve in a smile, a reluctant one.
“I really think he never got over you going away to school.” Her mother sighed. “It was almost like he knew.”
Evelyn turned to look at her mother, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “Knew what?”
An Unlikely Spy Page 10
