Dear Evelyn, page 12
She knew what her mother wanted her to say: I love you, Daddy. I won’t forget you. And surely she could say it, true or not, if it made a dying man—the man who had brought her into being—feel better? Surely she could say those words for her mother, if not for the man on the bed? For her mother, and let him have them, too? Why not. There was no good reason, and yet it was impossible. The whole of her—lips, tongue, jaw, throat, heart—locked against it.
“I hope the injections help, Dad,” she said. “I think the district nurse will be back soon.” He stiffened as she spoke.
“Off! Get the hell off me!” he barked out.
“There, there, Teddy.” Her mother stood; he shouted “No!” several times, and then fell silent, apart from his desperate breathing, which conveyed more than any word could have done about the nature of his emergency. Tears seeped from beneath his closed lids.
“There, my love, it’s all right now,” her mother said, “It’s just me and Evie,” and she dabbed at his face with her handkerchief, then sat down again and kissed his cheek. Straightening, she glanced over at Evelyn, half plea, half smile.
Give your Daddy a kiss to help him feel better.
Evelyn looked back at the man on the bed.
“It’s a shame, Dad,” she managed to say. “I’m very sorry it’s come to this.” It was the absolute best she could do.
He did not reply.
They sat there, holding his hands until it grew dark outside, and the doctor came again, and then the district nurse with another injection.
“He’ll be peaceful now for at least a few hours,” she said. “You two should try and sleep.” Her mother would not hear of it, but encouraged Evelyn to go into her old room over the kitchen and lie down.
The bed creaked in a familiar way; the depression in the middle was both comforting and repellent, but she settled in to it, pulled the bedspread over herself, and closed her eyes. She intended just a short nap, but lay for a long time hearing noises, thinking she should get up and keep her mother company, and also wanting to use the WC outside, yet postponing the move out of dread of going back into the room, or even passing the open door and glimpsing him again … She did not think she had slept at all, yet she must have, because she woke to her mother shaking her shoulder, telling her time after time, “He’s gone, Evie! He’s gone!”
Her father lay on his back with his eyes closed. He was still yellow, but his face had relaxed; the terrible breathing had stopped and the room seemed extraordinarily quiet in its wake.
“There, there. Come downstairs, now,” she told her mother, and soon she had her seated at the table drinking tea laced with a splash of the brandy that Fran next door brought over.
“He had his weaknesses, but he loved us in his way. Poor, dear man.” May held her handkerchief ready, but let the tears run down her cheeks. “I’ve money put aside for what he needs now.”
It was sad to think that her mother had to deny herself whatever it was—new shoes, a bit of cheese, coal—to such an end … And yet at least it was an end. May was only fifty and her life would be in many ways easier without her husband to care for. She could stop wearing herself out, come with the family on seaside holidays, play with her grandchildren; when Evelyn and Harry moved into their house, whenever that would be, there would always be a room for her.
While they waited for May’s sister Beth to come, for the doctor to sign the certificate, for the undertaker, Evelyn set to washing the pans, cups, and plates that had accumulated in her mother’s kitchen. After that, she wiped the cupboards down inside and out, cleaned the window and scrubbed the floor. On her mother’s instructions, she went into the front room to close the curtains. It was the proper way to announce the death, and yet it seemed a pity: the silver morning light flooded in and she felt a great surge of energy, a manic heat pushing through her veins—a fierce desire to push back at the forces that had defeated her father, to banish all darkness. She stood in the middle of the room, feeling her own vitality, and thought of her husband, Harry, who had survived the war and come back to her, of his strong limbs and clear speech, his devotion to her, not mere words, not just kisses and caresses, but actions: work, money; his methodical plans, the drawing he had made of the house they would live in one day: its large windows, the garden in full sun, the positions of the trees, the accompanying calculations. How he sat on the floor and played with the girls. She had made the right choice Just once she had been tempted, but she had resisted … Evelyn drew the curtains, walked quickly out, and closed the door behind her.
After the funeral, about thirty crammed into May’s: family and neighbours mainly, along with two women May had worked for. There was only one of Teddy’s so-called friends, Dickie Weston, a rake of a man with glistening eyes and an unkempt wedge of iron-grey hair who drank most of the bottle of brandy and then stayed on far too long after the rest, even Harry’s parents, had gone and she, the girls, and Harry were sitting with her mother and Beth in the front room.
“Dickie, it’s very late and we’re going to clear away now,” Evelyn told him, and he looked across at her, not moving. The sort that would not be told by a woman what to do. She was not having it, and looked right back at him.
“I’ll just finish this,” he said, raising his glass, and she noted a tremor in his hand. As soon as the glass was empty, she walked him to the door, opened it, thanked him for coming, told him goodbye, and stepped smartly back to avoid the kiss she could see him thinking of. She pushed the door shut, and ignored him when he rang the bell.
Valerie, sitting on the floor in front of Harry, had fallen asleep, her head lolling against his leg. Evelyn took Lily to the kitchen help her make more tea.
“I don’t think I like funerals,” Lily said as she counted the four spoonsful into the pot.
“You’re not supposed to, my love.” Evelyn gave her a squeeze before they set off back to the others with the tray. Despite the coal fire burning it felt damp in the front room and she shivered as they entered it. Her mother, flush-faced, was slumped in one of the armchairs by the fire and her Aunt Beth, plump, younger-looking despite being the elder, sat opposite; Evelyn set the tray on a footstool, then returned to her place on the old sofa next to Harry. She was glad when he put his arm round her, pulled her in to his warmth.
“May,” he said, “we’d like to do something to help. We’ve been wondering, would you like me to redecorate your bedroom for you? As and when we can find such a thing, I’d be happy to hang some new paper and slap on a bit of paint.” Her mother offered a watery smile. Lily began pouring milk into the cups.
“I think those violets have been there since before I was born,” Evelyn said. The redecoration was her idea. She was haunted by the memory of her father in that room, his yellow sunken face; she was thinking too of the germs that must be there, how scrubbing would never get it clean and a new mattress and a wipe around with disinfectant was not nearly enough. “It wouldn’t be any bother, Mum,” she said.
“That’s very kind of you, Harry, dear,” her mother said, “but I won’t put you to the trouble just yet. Teddy put that paper up.”
What? It was extraordinary to think of her father ever doing such a thing, and then, for a moment, Evelyn imagined him, sober, in overalls—saw him climb a ladder, the damp paper in careful folds, and then lean in to line it up and press it down, pushing away the bubbles of air. For a moment, this version of him, one she had never known, entranced her and flooded her with tenderness. But of course it was not her own memory. She still wanted a bright new start, a better story.
“Just say when you’re ready, or if there is anything else we can do,” Harry said.
The bedroom was gloomy at night, with just the one lamp on an extension cord placed at Evelyn’s side of the bed. The girls had taken over an hour to get to sleep, first hungry, then tearful, disturbed by the idea of death, and now Evelyn lay on her back, stared at the ceiling while Harry undressed.
“A difficult day. How are you doing?” he asked.
“That Dickie makes my blood boil!” she said, stiffening.
“You did well with him,” Harry said as he climbed in next to her. “And it’s over with. And as for your poor mother, we tried. Maybe she’ll call on me later.”
“She won’t,” Evelyn told him. “She’ll stay with Beth in Walthamstow for a week or two and then go back and live in that miserable little house just as it always was!” She switched out the light and in the sudden darkness he reached out for her, but she pulled away, turned her back to him. “Leave me alone!” she said, her voice beginning to crack. If only, she thought, biting her knuckle to stop herself crying out loud, If only she had been able to do what her mother wanted. Yet for the life of her she could not, and that was the end of it … Except that it wasn’t, because without meaning to she spun back to face Harry and was saying aloud in a voice not her own: If only — If only I—her fingers dug into his back. She pressed her face into his chest.
“Shh, shh, you did everything you could,” he muttered into her hair, their bodies clenched damply together, “everything you could.” Gradually, her sobs subsided, and then, when he kissed her gently on the base of her neck she felt the touch of his lips on the skin there with her entire body.
Don’t stop, she said.
Another Man
Beyond the windows, the new leaves of plane trees toss and gleam in the rain. Somewhere must be a rainbow. But here and now, it’s Timber, Labour, and Economies of Scale with Multiple Units, while behind him the radio plays and the girls squeal delightedly in their bedroom across the hall. It is just like the army, only without the noise and excitement, and he can think of an infinite number of things he would prefer to do, but instead, he must pick up the slide rule, then adjust, read, double-check, record his answer: Each unit with cavity walls will require 17,800 common bricks and 17,800 facing bricks, 2,500 ties, and 1,800 roof tiles, and then move on to the next item. A machine could do it and one day will.
Meanwhile, for him, three evening classes a week for three years, and now, on top of that, it’s 100 percent or fail and so now he must shut himself away from Evelyn, Lily, and little Val to study this drivel on a Sunday afternoon, the edge of the dining table butting into his stomach, the chair excruciatingly hard beneath his buttocks, yet another practice exam in front of him and Auden’s Nones, bought in Charing Cross Road three weeks ago, still in his briefcase with not a single poem read. At the beginning of the war, his competence with numbers put him in the artillery and possibly saved his life; now it’s offering him a profession—so yes, he should be grateful, but will he ever be able to find his way back to the lovely slipperiness of words, the feeling of them running away with him?
Drops spatter on the glass. Slither down.
So far as writing goes, he’s ready to admit facts and resign himself. If not by now, never. At the most, keep a notebook. Try again later. When things ease up. On retirement, if he lives that long! But at this rate will there ever be time to even read? Oh, he tells himself, shut up and knuckle down …
Evelyn pushes through the door just as he’s adding the per-unit total for copper pipe.
“Which shirt do you want me to iron for tomorrow?” she asks, and the figure he was carrying from one column to the next evaporates. He flings down his pencil, twists round to face her.
“Pardon?” he asks, though he heard well enough.
“Which shirt are you wearing tomorrow?”
“I’ve no idea.” Is it unreasonable to expect an hour’s quiet? After all, the bloody exam is for their benefit. “Frankly, I don’t care! I just need to be left in peace.”
“Don’t be such a bear!” A phrase which, said another time, could have been an affectionate reprimand. In this case, it’s not: he knows immediately from the sudden set of her mouth, the way her jaw skews.
“You’re welcome to do your own ironing!” Evelyn slams the door behind her, and he should follow her out and apologise, hear her say how sick she is of the chores and the rain, but he wants her to know how he is feeling, to commiserate, and so he, at least part-knowingly, makes things worse still by returning to the figures. Strict, tedious, functional things. He hates them even more than ever.
Starts over. Can’t concentrate. Hears Evelyn hustle the girls into their coats and prepare to go out, Valerie asking in a loud whisper whether Daddy will come? Lily telling her no, hurry up. But I will come, he tells himself, just as soon as I finish this one … And a few minutes after the downstairs front door slams shut, he slips the slide rule into its case, pushes his feet into his shoes and sprints down after them. The rain has just stopped, and halfway down the still-glistening street, Evelyn, her spine straight, her shoulders back, strides ahead with the two girls in her wake, Valerie wobbling along on the scooter he made for Lily.
He soon catches up, walks next to his wife. Dear Evelyn, you are the sweetest wife … he used to write to her in his letters home. Dear Evelyn. My dearest.
“Oh—” She looks straight ahead as she speaks, “I thought you said you wanted to be left in peace. And frankly, so do I.” Touché. He has to admire her skill with the rapier; though at the same time, it brings him to the brink of tears. Why? What are they doing? Such a waste! He walks beside her, but says nothing. He’s at a low ebb, needs to gather his resources.
He never imagined they would be like this. But once you live together properly, you learn fast. How dismissive he can sometimes be. How very sensitive Evelyn is to that, or to any criticism or lack of respect, whether real or perceived. How, thinking herself slighted, she will put everything she has into self-defence. How she can be vicious as well as sweet. What an art it is, once that begins (normally because of some sudden, stupid, sticklerish inflexibility on his part, or sarcasm, or superiority of some kind) to talk her back down. A direct approach rarely works. Even trying to talk about the arguments, between episodes, is an aggravation: What are you accusing me of? Finding the way out requires creativity, energy, perfect timing.
Are these umbrages, these dudgeons of hers, within her control? Hard to tell. Perhaps no more than his own sudden snaps or lunges. The important thing is to prevent them from escalating. And he knows, too, that her pride and temper are the extreme end of something that draws him to her, that he could not have Evelyn’s fiery, wilful strength without also having her tendency to overreact. Without sometimes finding it directed his way.
At St Ann’s Hill he drops back to walk with the girls.
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“The windmill,” Valerie says, craning her neck to look at him and nearly falling over. What a smile she has! What dark, glittering eyes. She looks hot in her coat.
“Watch out!” Lily tells her sister.
Lily is not yet sure which parent’s side she will take, though it is very clear to her that since she doesn’t know how to ride it and isn’t prepared to wheel it, Valerie is at fault for bringing the scooter along.
“Why don’t you ride it for a bit?” her father asks her as they thin out to pass a well-dressed woman with a Dalmatian on a leash coming from the opposite direction: she’s probably from one of the big houses at the other side of the green, Harry thinks.
“I’m nearly eleven!” Lily tells him. “And the handles are far too low for me now.”
“When we get to the edge of the common, we’ll hide it in a bush,” he announces, “and collect it on the way home.” A mistake: when they get there, Evelyn, watching him conceal the scooter, breathes out noisily: almost a snort. She is, he knows, castigating him for giving in to the girls, for risking the loss of their property. Yet it was she who brought the damn thing out. No matter.
“Run ahead,” he tells Lily and Valerie. “See who gets to the windmill first. Wait for us there.”
“I don’t want to run,” Lily says, but already Valerie is pulling away. Much as she dislikes it, it is Lily’s job to keep her sister safe, so she sets off in pursuit. It will certainly be Daddy’s fault if the scooter is stolen, she thinks, and at least part of her hopes that it won’t be there when they return.
He matches his pace to Evelyn’s.
“I’m so very sorry, darling. I was just in such a bloody mood, having all this work to do on the weekend and the exams tomorrow.” Evelyn, looking ahead, maintains her silence.
He knows better than to reach for her gloved hand, or try to slip his arm through hers. “It’s a strain,” he says. “Studying and working, paying for here and saving for the house … Not much fun now, though it will pay off and I’m glad to do it, but sometimes I get frazzled. Of course, that’s no excuse. And of course, I know it’s not easy for you, having us all in that cramped flat, with me always cluttering up the table, and moody too. Once we’ve moved, it will all seem worthwhile.”
So he hopes. Part of him longs to push it all aside—the job, the need for security, the bank balance, the constant thinking of the future, the house itself. To live instead an unsettled life. Read for hours every day. Hike for weeks on end. Travel, live miles from anywhere in the country, perhaps hand-make the few bits of furniture they need … But the girls need schools and a regular life, and then there’s Evelyn herself: not averse to travelling, but not one to sleep in a hedge. Remember: she might not have chosen him. She could surely have done better; her school friend Jennifer, despite being plain and dull, married a barrister after the war, moved to a very large house near Tunbridge Wells, and has a woman come to clean every day.
“I wish I hadn’t snapped,” he says. Avoid at all costs the second person plural. Shoulder all of the blame. No ifs or buts … It’s the only way, and already he senses from the set of her jaw and mouth, from the slight softening of her shoulders, from something subtle in the way her feet touch the path, that her hostility is becoming less vehement. In silence, they walk on through the oak woods where the smells of leaf mould and humus thicken the air. Spears of new grass and weeds shoot up at the edges of the path. The red-tinged greens of the new leaves burn against a sky scoured blue.
