The Women of Waterloo Bridge Read online

  Evelyn lay back and looked up at the sloping tiled roof. She wished it was. When Ron had walked her home after their engagement party, last June, he’d pushed his hand up her skirt and found the top of her thigh. There he drew feeble circles round and round with shaking fingers until her flesh felt numb. He kissed her neck and the top of her breasts, but never dared push her vest aside to expose them to his mouth and no matter how she moved against him, that was it. It became a pattern, that and his tongue limp against hers, and every time they were alone together it was the same, until she cringed when he started his fiddling.

  ‘Well?’ Sylvie said. ‘We were just getting to the good bit.’

  ‘You wear me out.’ Evelyn turned on her side and pulled her engagement ring over her knuckle, then shoved it back down on her finger with force. She closed her eyes, longing for sleep.

  *

  Standing at the sink, Evelyn lifted up the grey dishcloth and studied the holes in the threadbare material. She watched as a stream of greasy water dripped into the washing-up bowl, leaving bits of carrot and potato clinging to the loose fibres. She wrung it out and sighed. The last thing she felt like was a night on the town, but upstairs in their bedroom Sylvie was organising clothes and make-up like a military operation, telling her they would get ready together when everything was set out. She shook the rag and dropped it into a bowl of bleach. Perhaps she’d feel better in a couple of hours when she was fresh and clean, rejuvenated like the cloth when she fished it out.

  After gathering the coal scuttles together, she carried them towards the shed. The fireplaces still needed to be set for the morning, the dishes were waiting to be dried and there were Dad’s sandwiches to cut and wrap ready for his night in the Underground. A currant loaf in the oven would soon be ready, and she always made sure the blackouts were secure. It hadn’t been like this before her engagement. Both she and Sylvie had worked then, so they shared the chores and, to be fair, it had been she who’d changed the routine. She’d been in her first year of teaching and loved it, but Ron said there was no point in her carrying on. ‘You might as well leave now,’ he’d said, ‘as wait until after we’re married and then feel as though you’re being forced out.’

  There was some sense in his logic, but his certainty about how she would feel had niggled at her. When she tried to explain to him that she was more than capable of putting across her own point of view, he wouldn’t have any of it. ‘Don’t be so silly,’ he’d said, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand. ‘It was a misunderstanding. That’s all.’

  Once at home all day, there was no reason for her not to take over the running of the household, as she had to do something with her time. ‘In training to be Mrs Ron,’ Sylvie said, in a chirping tone of voice that made it sound as though Evelyn should be grateful for finding her calling. But it didn’t feel as though being a wife and taking care of the domestic side of life would be enough for her. Or was she allowing herself to think in a selfish and indulgent manner when dissatisfaction nudged its way in around the endless tasks of polishing, wiping down, scrubbing and dusting?

  From what little she could remember of Mum, she had never seemed disgruntled or displeased about the endless cycle of shopping, cooking and cleaning, nor did other women she had a chance to observe going about their daily business. Perhaps having children to care about made for a difference in perspective. Or maybe most women accepted their lot and got on with it and she would have to learn to do the same, but that made her heart sink down towards her practical and inelegant house slippers.

  She thought about Rosie Harris with her crooked teeth and the coat that was two sizes too small and her endless questions. ‘Why do lady teachers have to leave when they get married?’ she’d asked – and Evelyn hadn’t been able to give her an answer that satisfied either of them. Rosie had cried when the school said goodbye during morning prayers, and so had Evelyn when she left for the last time. Sometimes she saw one or two of the children who hadn’t gone to the country and they always shouted after her, ‘Are you coming back to school, Miss Draper?’

  She would flash her ring and say, ‘You know I can’t. I’m getting married.’ Then she would smile so they could see how happy she was.

  She felt for her ring now, but her fingers stroked an empty space. For a moment she was unsettled until she remembered she’d put it on the shelf, safe from the washing-up and the coal. She studied her hand without it, tracing the indentation where the ring usually settled, and rubbing the small callous that had appeared where the band pressed down into the flesh of her palm. In twenty years’ time, she thought, the imprint of the ring on her finger would be indelible, as if she had been branded. She must remember to put it on before she went out later. It was time to get a move on; Sylvie would soon be ready to transform her.

  Everything Sylvie owned was spread around the bedroom. Dresses and jackets laid out on the bed, necklaces hanging over them to maximise their effect; make-up and scent bottles in rows on the dresser; shoes against the wall; a bowl of sugar water on the bedside table. Sylvie was busy inspecting items of clothing for marks or loose threads. ‘Now.’ Sylvie was business-like. ‘You’ve seen all of these before.’ She pointed to the bed. ‘So has everyone in London. But we can make anything look a bit different if we mix and match. See anything you fancy?’

  Evelyn looked through the outfits, touching the material and holding one or two up against herself for Sylvie’s reaction. Anything she borrowed would have to be adjusted in some way, a pin at the neckline or a fold at the waist. ‘I think I’ll wear my turquoise dress.’

  ‘Your engagement dress?’ Sylvie looked up, a bottle of scarlet nail varnish suspended mid-shake. ‘I thought you were keeping that wrapped in tissue paper.’

  ‘Well, that seems a shame, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I always thought so.’

  ‘Just to wear it the once.’ Evelyn remembered how it accentuated her neck and cleavage and made her legs seem longer. ‘And it fits so well.’

  ‘You’ll look lovely,’ Sylvie said. ‘Now, let’s get our hair set.’

  Evelyn sat down in a chair facing the mottled mirror that showed their faces back to them as distorted pieces of mosaic. Sylvie tipped it so they could both see what she was doing. Evelyn watched her pick up swathes of her thick, fair hair and twist it around strips of fabric, tie the ends of the rags together and leave the waves to set. They swapped places and Evelyn pushed Sylvie’s darker hair into finger curls with the syrupy water. They finished dressing, let their hair down, turned around as far as they could to scrutinise themselves in the mirror. Pleased with their reflections, they turned off the lights and gas and stepped out into the cold night.

  Helen was waiting for them outside Piccadilly Tube. They linked arms, Evelyn in the middle so she could be guided along by Sylvie and Helen, who seemed to know the route like automatons. As they walked along Shaftesbury Avenue they chatted over Evelyn about work. Sylvie had recently left her job with Lyons and signed up as a labourer on a building site.

  ‘Are you doing that, too?’ Evelyn asked Helen.

  ‘I might,’ said Helen. ‘It’s either that or the telephone exchange next to St Paul’s.’

  ‘You could get another job now, Evelyn,’ Sylvie said.

  Not this again. ‘But Ron…’

  ‘Ron couldn’t object to war work. Or shouldn’t, anyway.’

  They hurried down Greek Street and cut across Soho Square, then they turned right and went down a few steps. A narrow doorway led to a dark corridor that smelled of carpets stained with spirits and Craven A. They checked their coats in at the cloakroom, and Evelyn followed Sylvie and Helen towards the contagious noise of laughter and chatter on the opposite side of the swing doors. The band must have been on a break, as the light hit her first. Nowhere had been this bright for more than a year, and she shaded her face with her hand while she adapted. Helen was saying something to her and she had to lean close to hear. ‘Your ring. Sylvie told me you’re engaged. I was
going to ask to see your ring.’ Helen looked at Sylvie, worried she might have said the wrong thing.

  Sylvie grabbed at Evelyn’s hand. ‘Why you little minx,’ she said.

  ‘I left it on the side. Near the sink.’

  ‘And there I was, thinking I’d have to force you to have a good time, when you had this planned all along.’

  ‘It was a genuine mistake.’ Evelyn could feel her face glowing; she was desperate to make them believe her. ‘Perhaps I should go back.’

  ‘Don’t be so daft,’ Sylvie said. ‘You’re out and you’ll stay out and enjoy yourself.’ Evelyn saw her look over at Helen and raise her eyebrow. ‘Much more without that ring on. Look, I think there’s room over there.’

  Sylvie nodded her head towards everyone she recognised around the table and Evelyn repeated their names. A man with oily hair said he’d get them a drink. Evelyn sat down next to a woman wearing the most authentic-looking string of costume pearls she had ever seen, with a bracelet to match, her long, elegant fingers playing languidly with the Gin and It on the table in front of her.

  The lights dimmed, the band took their places and Sylvie and Helen were soon in the thick of it. Evelyn caught sight of them as they swept past and then lost them amongst the turning crowd. Reaching for the drink she thought must be hers, she sat and tapped her foot in time to the music. The table was quiet now, only one couple sitting close together and a young man with a disappointed look on his face, drawing circles in a patch of sticky residue.

  Evelyn felt a touch on her shoulder and looked up to see a man in an immaculate navy uniform leaning towards her. ‘Can you foxtrot?’ he enquired anxiously, a deep crease running along his forehead as if he’d been scored with a paring knife. Evelyn wondered if he was working his way around the club, hoping each time he asked a girl to dance that the answer wouldn’t be another rejection. He didn’t look as though he would lurch at her or try to pin her too close. He was tame, she decided, but when she stood, she was surprised at how tall he was, and when he led her to the floor his hand on her elbow was firm.

  ‘I took lessons at home,’ he said, after a few minutes spent watching his feet and counting time under his breath. ‘How’m I doing?’ He looked up and grinned, the groove across his brow disappearing.

  ‘They’ve paid off,’ she said. He was more relaxed now, although his hands were a bit damp and he kept looking down to study his footwork. Evelyn noticed his neat ears and liked the smell of what he used to tame his thick, wavy hair. ‘Where’s home,’ she said. ‘Scotland?’

  ‘Belfast. I’m an engineer at Chatham. You know, in Kent. What do you do?’

  Evelyn looked at her hand, resting on this strange man’s lapel. The depression left by her engagement ring had lifted, that finger now as plump and filled out as the others. ‘I’m a teacher.’

  ‘Oh, really? How do you stand it? I feel sorry for you if your class is anything like mine was. Joe’s the name, by the way.’

  ‘Evelyn.’ The band shifted to a quickstep. They readjusted their hands, Joe counted a few bars and they glided around the floor with everyone else. She felt a nudge and when she turned, Sylvie winked at her. ‘My sister,’ she explained. ‘This was her idea. She thinks I need to go out more often.’

  ‘Too busy marking copybooks? That’s no good.’

  ‘No,’ Evelyn said. ‘I don’t suppose it is.’

  The dance ended and Joe walked her back to the table. ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve got one here somewhere, thanks.’

  He produced a pack of cigarettes, lit hers and one for himself. He handed her the drink she’d pointed to, and then they stood against a pillar, watching the dancers and commenting on their techniques. ‘Wasn’t that your sister?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Probably,’ said Evelyn.

  ‘She’s with another different lad.’

  ‘Then there’s no probably about it.’ Evelyn laughed. ‘That was Sylvie.’

  ‘Shall we, again?’

  But before he could put her glass on the table, the bandleader turned to the floor and said, ‘Ladies’ Request.’

  Evelyn hesitated. That felt less innocent somehow, asking Joe to dance with her instead of the other way around. A flush spread up from his collar as he waited and Evelyn remembered his anxiety from earlier. Where’s the harm in it? she thought – and was about to take his hand when a pretty girl in a lavender blouse spun him around and pulled at his sleeve. Looking over his shoulder at Evelyn, he was led away through the tables and into the middle of a waltz. Then she lost sight of him.

  Two other nice, polite men asked Evelyn to dance. She hoped she’d see Joe again, at least to mouth sorry to him, but the crowd thickened and became more raucous and she eventually gave up. Around eleven, there was some talk of moving on to the Astoria to see in the New Year. ‘What shall we do?’ Helen asked. ‘Go on or stick to what we know?’

  ‘Let’s try Hatchetts,’ Sylvie said. ‘Evelyn wants to see more than one place on her only night out this year. Evelyn?’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ Evelyn said. ‘That way we won’t have far to go to the Tube after midnight.’

  The streets were busy. So many people determined to suspend everyday reality for a few hours of revelry. Hoping that to say the words ‘Happy New Year’ would make it come true. They were waiting to cross at the bottom of the road when Evelyn heard someone shout her name. All three of them turned and saw Joe dodging his way towards them.

  ‘I must have forgotten something,’ Evelyn said, searching herself to see what it might be.

  ‘I’m glad I caught you.’ Joe was out of breath. ‘You’re a fine dancer. I didn’t trip up once with you.’

  Evelyn laughed and said, ‘That’s not what my feet are telling me.’

  For a moment Joe looked hurt, the rut reappearing along his forehead, then he laughed, too. ‘Here’s how you can get in touch with me. If you’d like to.’ He pressed the torn corner of a beer mat into her hand, an address scrawled on it in pencil.

  Sylvie and Helen were watching for her response, amused looks on their faces.

  ‘Joe.’ They heard a shout from a crowd of men. ‘We’re going this way.’

  Evelyn tried to pass the scrap of paper back to Joe but he closed her fingers around it. Then he pressed his mouth to hers with a solid hand on the back of her head. She was startled and made a small noise of protest, but his lips were cool and his tongue, when it found hers, was hot and full of energy.

  ‘Joe.’ Another shout from further away and he ran towards his friends without looking back.

  After a few seconds of silence, during which Sylvie and Helen looked stunned, they both began whooping and cheering with delight.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Evelyn, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. She felt mortified at what she’d allowed to happen.

  ‘It’s alright,’ Sylvie said. ‘You’ve probably had too much to drink.’

  Let them think that. Then they might not keep on at her.

  They carried on to Hatchetts, but Evelyn couldn’t think about anything else except that kiss and how it had made her feel. A tide of disloyalty washed over her in waves, but she hadn’t thought about Ron then, not while it was happening. Now each time she replayed the scene, her remorse became more raw. She refused to dance and wouldn’t have a drink. Someone pulled her from her seat for ‘Auld Lang Syne’, but as soon as it was over, she told Sylvie and Helen she was going home. Well, down to Wood Green Tube. Dad was expecting them. ‘Sorry to put a damper on the evening,’ she said, ‘but I’ve had enough for one night.’

  Helen stayed on with some other girls she knew and Sylvie decided to leave with Evelyn. They walked to the Tube in silence, but on the way down Sylvie said, ‘Don’t worry about this. Ron will never know.’

  Evelyn turned to her sister sharply. ‘No. He won’t. No one will. And don’t goad me to go out with you again. I know you mean well, but… just don’t.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Sylvie. And she
kept her promise.

  *

  By the middle of March, Evelyn was pleased to realise that when she thought about Joe she couldn’t quite picture his face. The kiss, however, was taking a bit longer to blot out.

  Working her way through a pile of potatoes, peeler in hand, she heard the post land on the doormat. Late again; but these days it was a wonder it arrived at all. She dried her hands and was surprised to see a letter from Ron. It was Monday. How could he write a letter and it be delivered on the same day? She tore it open. One sheet of paper; there’d always been two. Dear Evelyn, it began. Not the usual reference to her being his fiancée. She felt as if she’d been demoted. You’re a lovely girl, the letter went on.

  That is why I cannot continue to string you along. The fact is I have met someone else. Please do not think badly of me and I swear to you that nothing has happened, in that way, between us yet. But I am afraid that I do like this girl and it has made me think that you and I are not really very well suited. I find your independent attitude a bit overpowering and I also get the feeling that you want more fun out of life than I can give you. That makes me feel on edge.

  I know you will find someone who deserves you and who will love and take care of you. I hope in time you can think fondly of me as I do of you.

  Ron

  Evelyn was stunned. How dare he? Boring Ron Clarke had jilted her, or as good as. ‘Met someone else’. And ‘nothing had happened, yet’. She was outraged. Well it won’t, she thought. Jane or Daisy or Anne or whatever your name is. Nothing except a cold lump of tongue pushed like a dead slug against yours. Well, you’re welcome to that.

  She marched back to the kitchen and attacked the vegetables, scraping and chopping and tunnelling eyes out with a vengeance. Then she changed the beds and put the sheets in the copper to boil. She polished the mantelpiece, washed the kitchen floor, blacked the front doorstep. At half past five she put the kettle on the gas ready for Sylvie’s arrival home, and wondered why she hadn’t cried. She stood still for a minute, watching the flames lick and twist around the pot. ‘Thank you, Ron,’ she whispered. She looked at the letter again and kissed it. ‘Thank you very much.’