Evie kept her distance as Lawrence arrived at one of the houses and stuck his key into the door. She had come this far. She whistled as a tycoon might, causing Lawrence’s outline to stop. He removed his key and stared at her.
“This is the big mystery?” she said, strolling over, nearly reeling at the thunderous expression awaiting her.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I got bored of the Scarlet Pimpernel act?”
“You had no right to follow us!”
“Oh, fine, if you’re going to be so precious about it.”
Evie was about to sweep away when the door to the house opened. Lawrence’s mother stood there wearing a coat and a scarf, holding a tea towel. “I heard the key in the door,” she said. “Oh, hello.”
“You must be Mrs Newman.”
“Who’s this, Lawrence?”
“A friend.”
Some friend. Before she could protest, Evie was ushered into the Newman’s candle-lit lounge, where Lawrence’s mother tidied away a variety of papers from the settee. She seemed alone and highly embarrassed.
“Dad in?” said Lawrence.
“Upstairs.”
Lawrence glared at Evie as if that was her fault.
Shell introduced herself by name. Evie did the same.
“So nice of you to pop round an’ see your mam,” Shell said to Lawrence, apparently wanting to hug him but unsure how. “I’d offer a brew but we’ve none, Evie. Do you drink coffee?”
“Oh, yes.”
“How do you take it?”
“I like cappuccinos.”
“We’ve instant. I can do it milky.”
Mrs Newman left for the kitchen where she produced a carton of powdered milk from the cupboard. In the lounge there was no TV, no radio or furniture other than the settee and the armchair, a stuffed bookshelf and an empty minibar. A photo of Lawrence hung above a mantle beneath which a switched-off electric fire stood, its metal bars dusty. The floor in front of the fire had scratches on it and a bank of flickering candles offered the only light. The room would have felt cosy if it wasn’t so cold. Beginning to realise the scale of her imposition, Evie tugged the hem of her skirt over her knees.
“You’re always so secretive,” she said quietly.
“Who do you think you are?”
“I don’t.” Evie shut her mouth. “I should go.”
“You’re here now. Have a good look.”
“It’s not like that.”
But it was.
“I didn’t realise. I mean, I thought you weren’t even living at home?”
“I’m not,” said Lawrence.
“Then why are you here?”
“I came to see us mam. That alright wi’ you?”
“You’re not being fair.”
“That what you used to say to Lord Guiseley?”
There was a clattering upstairs.
Guiseley.
“Don’t mind the racket,” Shell said, entering the room with three mugs set on a tray. “That’s just Lawrence’s dad.”
The lukewarm coffee was sweet and had discs of grease floating on its surface.
Guiseley.
“How’s he doing?” said Lawrence. Not an inch. Not even the guts to look at Evie. She could feel her indignation growing.
“Fine, I suppose,” said Shell.
“Pissed, then.”
Was Lawrence blushing? He was!
Shell gave him a hard look, then diverted her attention to Evie. “Will you be eating, Evelyn? Is it Evelyn? I’m afraid we’ve not much in.” She was nibbling a lock of hair. “I could run to the shop.”
“Oh no. Thank you. I was just walking Lawrence home.”
“You’re sure?”
“Just stretching my legs.”
“I wasn’t expecting guests. If this one had said something, I could’ve tidied.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs—”
“Shell, please.”
“Shell.”
The woman was tremendously pale and unable to make eye contact with anyone. What must it be like to have such a sense of the done thing that to have your home even slightly out of sorts in company was this upsetting?
“For God’s sake, Mam, what?” said Lawrence.
“Nowt.” Shell faced the bookshelf. “Are you sure you won’t stay, love? I’ve some Parkin. I work at the bakery. We’ve—”
“Mam, will you just leave it!”
“Well pardon me, Lawrence, I was only… Do you know, Evelyn, my son has never once mentioned you. In fact, I don’t think he’s even had one friend round, not in all the time we’ve lived here.”
“Before you shipped us to Fernside I did.”
“Aye, and we know what happened there, don’t we.”
Lawrence glowered whilst his mother pushed the long kinks of curly hair from her eyes. “I’m plain embarrassed,” she said. “Here’s me, all wrapped up, no face on an’ tha’s here for the first time and it’s all…” Her hand went to her lips. “I’ve just thought. Are you not cold, love? I’m sorry. How rude of me. Let’s get a coat round them shoulders before a death is fetched.”
“Oh, I’m fine, Mrs Newman. Don’t worry—”
“It’s no bother. And please call me Shell.”
The poor woman was on her way to the kitchen when Lawrence swore, which made his mother stomp over and clip him around the head. The blow made a snapping sound.
“Watch your mouth when we’ve guests! Cursing like some flamin’ paddy.”
The sound of footsteps. A voice ricocheted down the stairwell. “What’s all this racket about a fucking paddy?”
No one spoke. Lawrence’s father stomped about upstairs, audibly complaining about not being able to find his boots.
“Arthur,” Shell called. “Them boots are where they were left.”
No response.
Arthur. Evie thought of the look on the man’s face that summer. No way, he’d said. She hadn’t thought of that in months.
“Evie’s to be off,” said Lawrence. “Remember your date, Evie?”
“Oh yes.” She downed her coffee.
Guiseley.
“I’ve got a red hot date with the tub.”
“Oh, I am jealous,” said Shell. “But will you not say hello to Lawrence’s dad before you go? Arthur!” she called, raising a single finger when Evie opened her mouth to protest. “Get down here an’ meet us guest.”
Arthur’s booming voice made Evie jump. “Guest, what bloody guest?”
“You OK, love?” Shell said.
“I’m fine, thanks.” Evie stood. “But I can’t stay.” Shell was wittering on about tea when it was dinner, not tea. Evie hurried from the room before anyone could stop her, heading out of the door and into the possible night.
Her dreams were full of bends in shape. Chrysanthemums in plastic wrapping, a creaking byre with a corrugated iron roof and wretched, collared birds fledging from the byre’s eaves. The night, it wound about her. The smell of Ryan Fenton’s hair gel, Bramwell Guiseley’s desk adorned with antique pens, its green leather top. Eventually the night evolved into the radial of day and with that came Evie’s father who sat opposite her, greedily buttering his toast.
“So you’ve finally noticed what’s going on, and now you want me to take a look?”
Evie slugged back her orange juice. “It just occurred to me that you might make the campaign more convincing if you were to actually meet these people. You could even help.”
“The campaign isn’t supposed to be convincing. And if I was to go and kiss a few babies, I doubt I’d come back in one piece.”
“Honestly, Clive, they’re struggling.”