Her mother took a sip of coffee. “That you were more interested in other people. That our family was never quite intriguing enough for you.”
Evelyn sat up straighter in the cold seat, waiting for her to say more, but instead her mother went to the lime tree in a terracotta pot and began pruning. When she’d finished, she rose to her full height and began tossing the dead branches into a pile by the boot-room door.
“I just hope you know what you’re doing,” she said, her back to Evelyn. “War can make everyone . . .” She didn’t seem to know how to finish this. “It can make people reckless. And you’re only a young girl. Some would take advantage of you. Especially in London.”
Evelyn laughed. “I’m twenty-two years old! I think I know my own mind by now.”
“You may know many things, dear, but I’m not sure you’ve ever known that.”
Something malicious had slipped into her mother’s voice when she turned around again but also something raw, and as she stood like that, almost challenging her to retaliate, it occurred to Evelyn that she was trying to reveal something, however oblique, about her own experiences.
“Is that what happened to you?” she asked. “When you met Dad?”
Her mother shook her head.
“Then what?”
Evelyn stared at her mother. How alike we are, she thought. She had never considered herself to be an image of her mother, but there it was, plain to see: the long, fine shape of their faces, the dark hair, that proud bottom lip.
“Sometimes I wish you’d never gone away either,” her mother muttered, tugging off her gloves. “I had always hoped for something bigger for you, grander, but perhaps it was a mistake.”
“Mother, don’t be so obtuse.”
She shrugged, finality in the gesture. “Never mind.”
“Never mind?”
Evelyn threw up her hands. How long were they going to continue like this, talking around one another whenever the conversation strayed somewhere dangerous, like steering clear of a raving stranger on the footpath? When would her mother stop believing that Evelyn would cast her aside—or, worse, forget her?
“I don’t understand you, Mum, I really don’t. Why won’t you say what you’re thinking?”
Her mother hesitated. “All right. Since you asked. I don’t understand the appeal of this War Office work. It sounds so menial to me.”
“I work for the government. I’m trying to play a part, however small, in this war. How is that menial?”
“And why on earth do you want to be doing that? You are an Oxford graduate. You could be doing anything. You could be married.”
“For goodness’ sake.”
“And always trying to run away. Was it so awful here? Were your father and I so terrible?”
“Mum . . .”
“Well.” Her mother shrugged again. “You wanted to be a teacher the last I knew. That, at least, is a respectable profession, even if your father and I had hoped for something more for you. Isn’t that why you studied German? And I needn’t remind you what trouble that caused. But now you come home and we discover you’re a glorified errand girl. What was it all for, your education, if you only planned to do something like that?”
Evelyn leapt to her feet. Rage had flooded her entire body, though she had no idea what to do with it, except perhaps to break something. Instead, she strode to the edge of the patio, picked up her secateurs, and threw them across the lawn. It felt good to see them fly from her hands; to release, even for a moment, all that pent-up fury. Her mother watched them sail through the air and land near the roses. Then she turned back to Evelyn.
“Now why did you do that?”
Her eyes were shining and her mouth twitched. But when Evelyn took a step toward her, she flinched, strands of dark hair whipping against her forehead in the breeze, and the awful understanding that it was possible to frighten her struck Evelyn like a slap. She took a sharp breath, tears smarting at her eyes, but she marched inside the house before her mother could see them.
They didn’t speak about what had happened. When her father returned from town, Evelyn was locked away in her room with the comfort of the Children’s Hour on the wireless while her mother sat crocheting in the sitting room. Evelyn listened to the sounds of him moving around downstairs, his rumbling one-way conversation. He wouldn’t notice anything different, she thought bitterly; he had never been aware of the nuances of the house. And her mother, Evelyn realized, was good at keeping secrets.
* * *
The evening she was due to return to London, Evelyn found her mother stooped over the sink scrubbing at a pan. At first she wouldn’t be drawn away to say goodbye, but when she finally put down the scourer and eyed Evelyn’s dark green pullover and brown monk strap shoes, she seemed to struggle with a new emotion, and she crossed the kitchen with arms outstretched.
“You travel safely, dear,” she mumbled, damp hands on Evelyn’s sleeves. It took Evelyn another moment to realize she was crying.
“Mum?”
Her mother pulled away, covering her face. “Don’t mind me. It’s only . . . You’re so far away.”
“But London isn’t far. You could visit.”
Her mother shook her head. “What would I do with myself in London?”
She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. It would be unbearable, Evelyn thought guiltily, to share living quarters again, to see in the stark light all that her mother had missed out on after half a lifetime in quiet and inconsequential Lewes. And what if she ran into someone she knew? Someone like Julia . . . Evelyn had worked so hard to build this version of herself that she couldn’t have it threatened like that. Still, as she stood there, Evelyn wished she could shake some courage into her mother and into herself to push past these limits of imagination. Each had created a part in the other’s life they had no idea how to play. There was so much Evelyn wanted to say, so much she wanted to ask, but a rigid, unyielding wall had sprung up between them, and this felt like grief to Evelyn as her mother turned back to the sink, as if she had lost something that could never be replaced.
* * *
It was a clear night as Evelyn and her father walked to the station. A crescent moon hung low to the west. Evelyn’s nose stung from the cold.
“Life is quiet without you in the house,” her father said as they made their way down the sharp incline toward the main road. “I keep myself busy, but I think Mum feels it keenly.”
Evelyn didn’t reply, recalling the pressure of her mother’s embrace in the kitchen.
“Maybe you could send just a few more letters? Or telephone, perhaps? Is there a telephone at the flat?”
Evelyn felt herself grow heavy. She longed to be on the train, away from this blithe needling. But she managed to say brightly, “Yes, Dad. And I will call, I promise,” and this seemed to mollify him as they turned the corner into Malling Street.
There were only three other passengers waiting on the platform for the London-bound express. Evelyn boarded, and a few minutes later the train began to pull away. She waved to her father as he jogged alongside the carriage, then sank back into the seat, closing her eyes.
Seven
AFTER GETTING OFF the train at Piccadilly, Evelyn walked up Shaftesbury Avenue, turning left at the Globe Theatre to head north along Rupert Street. It was darker in Soho, seedier, with derelict houses, empty plots, and stray cats—the difference stark from the wide, well-lit streets that merged at the Circus. But Evelyn preferred this part of town; she liked its illicit mood, its danger. As she strode on in the direction of Berwick Street, the buildings started to improve, with bars and cafes dotted along the footpath, the smell of olive oil, onion, and garlic sizzling in the pan wafting from every second window. Evelyn, however, could also feel the eyes of men loitering in open doorways; she sensed a hunger in them, and she kept her own eyes firmly ahead as she approached the pub on the corner.
Once she had arrived back at the flat and hung her coat on the hallstand, she sl
ipped quietly into her room. It was the smaller of the two bedrooms overlooking the street. It might have belonged to a maid once; there was only enough space for her creaky bed and a wardrobe made of pine. On the mantelpiece, Evelyn had put some red cyclamens in a Chinese vase to jolly up the place. But no matter what she did, the room reminded her of her childhood doll’s house, everything in miniature. It’s hardly the room of a grown woman, she thought as she kicked off her shoes.
She walked down the narrow hall. The rest of the Broadwick Street flat was just as poky. There was a kitchen and a sitting room with a couple of sofas and an old leather armchair, and a tatty rug in front of the fireplace. In here, the walls were covered in framed pictures of forts and castles and some Yorkshire landscapes, a few pastoral prints, and one or two portraits from last century. They were in the flat when Fay first moved in and she didn’t want to get rid of them (“I’m superstitious like that,” she explained), but these remnants of past lives made Evelyn uneasy, as if the previous occupants still lived behind the glass.
“Hullo?” she called.
Fay glided out from her bedroom into the sitting room. She was dressed in a silk kimono and her hair was set in rollers. Music from the gramophone drifted about the room; something American, by the sounds of it.
“All right, Evie? You look done in.”
Evelyn slumped into the armchair and watched Fay pour some brandy and a splash of water into a glass.
“Where are you off to tonight?” she asked.
“Tony’s taking me to the pictures. The Spy in Black is showing at the Troc. I’m rather keen on it.”
“Oh yes?”
“Mm. You see, I plan for a cuddle in the back row, maybe a smooch. And then . . . Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Fay giggled, sashaying back to her room to get dressed.
Tony was a tall, droopy fellow who never quite looked Evelyn in the eye. He worked as a car salesman in Clapham. He thought of himself as rather fashionable with his pencil mustache and black hair smoothed back with Murray’s. Evelyn had only met him twice, but each time he’d shaken her hand with curious deference, as though she were Fay’s father and he sought her approval.
“And what about you?” Fay called a few minutes later as Evelyn made her way back toward her room. “How are you spending the evening?”
Normally Evelyn enjoyed a night on her own, but she felt despondent as she reached her door. In some ways, living with Fay reminded her of the life she was missing out on, and with Fay following her down the hallway they soon found themselves standing together at the cramped entrance to the flat. Fay peered into the mirror hanging beside the hallstand, adjusting her headscarf. She eyed Evelyn in the glass.
“Pretty girl like you shouldn’t spend her nights cooped up,” she murmured. “You should have a chap.” She checked her purse, coy all of a sudden. “Tony has loads of pals. I could . . . Well, we could see you right with one of them.”
Evelyn tried not to flinch at the suggestion. “I don’t know . . .” Her voice was airless. Why couldn’t Fay just leave her be?
Fay opened the front door and tottered on her heels toward the top of the stairs before turning to raise her hand like the Queen at a parade.
“You think on it, Evelyn,” she instructed. “It might be fun.”
* * *
After a bowl of onion soup and a few crusts of yesterday’s bread, Evelyn went downstairs for a bath. She sat naked on the cold edge of the tub, listening to the sounds of footsteps clomping along the street and the shouts from the restaurateur at Ley On’s, before easing herself into the water.
As she lathered up her arms with a leftover sliver of Lux, Evelyn thought about what Fay had said about having a chap. She supposed it was something she ought to consider. She looked down at her long legs growing dark hairs again, her concave stomach, her small, high-set breasts, and added some more hot to the milky bath. The pipes groaned, shuddering in protest, as water eventually spluttered from the tap. She lay back, resting her head against the cool enamel, and as she did her fingers strayed over the top of her legs, down the groove of her hip bone, and across her soft pubic hair. She let her hand rest there. She wondered what had become of Philip. He had been interested in teaching too, hadn’t he? She could see him in that profession, at an austere grammar school, with horn-rimmed glasses and a pipe, always believing himself cleverer than his colleagues. For a moment, she pictured meeting him on the street, his surprise at finding her dressed so smartly and striding along the pavement with such purpose. Imagine if he knew what she did now!
Evelyn edged her fingers down to the soft, warm part of her. She hesitated, her pulse quickening, and continued stroking herself. At first nothing happened, and she thought about stopping, but she didn’t, and soon she felt something rise in her. She closed her eyes, aware of her breath shortening and the small, steady waves moving around the bath. Soon she felt like she was on top of a wave herself. Philip popped into her mind again and the press of him against her leg. What would it have felt like inside her? Her arm slowed, faltering.
“God.”
She slapped her hand against the hard surface of the bath. What was the matter with her? The light hanging above her flickered, a moth hovering at the bulb. By now the water was tepid and, shivering, Evelyn reached for her towel.
* * *
She had already turned out her bedroom lamp when a loud banging sounded through the flat. Supposing it was only Fay (she was always forgetting her key), Evelyn dragged herself out of bed and slipped on the velvet dressing-gown hanging from the back of her chair. But when she pulled open the front door she found Sally and Julia crowding the mat.
“What on earth are you two doing here?” she cried as they swept in, bringing the cold air with them.
“We’re taking you out. The Four Hundred Club. It’s all arranged, no excuses!” Julia held up a finger to silence Evelyn. “I don’t care if you’ve got Herr Hitler himself in the War Office basement. Tonight, you’re coming with us.”
“And we’ve brought wine,” Sally said, thrusting out a bottle. It was already half empty.
They wandered through to the sitting room. Evelyn wished she had known they were coming. She would have done the dishes, or at least made sure Fay’s bedroom door was closed to conceal those rumpled sheets and stains on the duvet. She would have dressed! But they didn’t seem to notice, the sitting room already clogged with Sally’s cigarette smoke as she threw herself across a sofa, while Julia paced up and down on the rug in front of the fireplace. At first Evelyn thought she was trying to warm up—it was a bitter night, after all, with snow predicted—but then she recognized the restlessness in that gait, like a cat in a cage.
She went to the kitchen to pour them each a glass of wine. It was awful, and her stomach prickled at the vinegary aftertaste, but, rallying, she had another mouthful, then another, and her palate started to relent.
“Nice place,” said Julia, smiling faintly. “Very cozy.”
“Yes, very cozy, Ev,” Sally agreed. “They found you these digs, didn’t they? The War Office?”
Since the wine would soon be gone, Evelyn brought out Fay’s bottle of brandy and took it over to one of the sofas.
“I like it here,” she said. “It’s cheap as chips and Fay’s a terrific girl. It works out well for me.” She sat on the edge of the cushion, pulling her dressing-gown tighter around her shoulders. “Besides, I’m really only here to sleep.”
“Mm.” Julia peered at the lithograph hanging above the mantelpiece. Somewhere in the dregs of Evelyn’s memory she recalled the title: The Wreck of the Atlantic. “They’re working you hard, then, at Whitehall?” She turned around, her eyes bleary in the dim light from the lamp, and Evelyn wondered where the pair had been before arriving at the flat.
“Quite hard, yes,” she said.
“How strange to think of you in that drab building,” Sally said, flicking through a tattered copy of a French Marie Claire that Fay had bought from the pawnshop on Berwick Street
. “But I have missed you. Soho is just too far away!”
“It’s hardly far.” Evelyn had a sip of the brandy and made a face—it was sweet, nasty stuff—but she was already feeling quite tipsy. “Half an hour at a brisk pace.”
“Well, it’s far when you have a pal in the next room.” Sally patted Julia’s dark head as her cousin sat down on the rug. “Julia is staying on at Curzon Street for a while. Did I tell you?”
“It’s only temporary, Sallywag, remember.”
“Yes, I suppose it is—until you elope again!”
Julia blew out some smoke and smiled across the rug at Evelyn.
“She’s found herself another man,” Sally elaborated. “But at least this one’s English.”
“Oh yes?” An image of Jonty’s lean face flashed in Evelyn’s mind. “Now that does sound promising.”
“Go on,” Sally said, nudging her cousin with the tip of her high heel. “Spill the beans to Evelyn.”
“There’s nothing to spill.” Julia put out her cigarette in an empty glass. “He’s a friend, that’s all.”
“Will he be at this club tonight?” Evelyn asked.
“No, he’s out of town for a few weeks. Up north.”
“He’s some army man,” Sally said quietly. “Tall, apparently, and very handsome.”
“If you say so.” Julia rested back on her elbows, stretching out her long legs. “And it’s navy, not army, but let’s not quibble.”
* * *
Somehow they made it to Leicester Square and found Rupert Street. There was a long line at the top of the staircase at number twenty-eight, but Julia walked them straight to the front. She knew one of the men on the door, and when they made their way into the basement they discovered their table was right by the band, with Jonty and Michael Talbert sitting on either side, each dressed in neat blue suits and drinking Taittinger from shallow coupes.
“Is this your doing, Sal?” Evelyn hissed.
“What?”
“Talbert!”
“Oh, don’t mind him.” Julia took Evelyn’s hand, steering her toward the table. “Jonty needed a chum. I’ll keep an eye out for you.” She gave her a wink. “Besides, Michael’s paying. Might as well make a night of it.”
An Unlikely Spy Page 11
