This Lovely City. Louise Hare
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Mrs Jones marched in and everyone turned to face the front. ‘Some hush, please.’
Delia put a hand on Evie’s, squeezing it briefly.
Extract from the Evening Standard – Friday 17th March 1950
GRUESOME DISCOVERY ON CLAPHAM COMMON AS BABY FOUND DEAD
More details have emerged regarding the body of a baby that was found yesterday, hidden in the shallows of Eagle Pond, Clapham Common.
The discovery was made by a local woman, whilst walking her dog in the vicinity of the pond. Police have confirmed that the woman is unrelated to the case, and that they are already questioning a person of interest, a man who was discovered close to the scene.
The child has yet to be identified but we are able to disclose that the baby was female, 10-12 months old, and well cared for. It is still unknown whether her death was a consequence of foul play or accident. She was found wrapped in a white woollen blanket with a floral decoration so it is likely that she had a mother who cared for her.
Police ask that anyone who has any information call in at their local police station as soon as possible. If anyone knows of a baby of the right age who hasn’t been seen in a while, or was in the area on the evening of Wednesday 15th March, or the early hours of Thursday 16th, please think carefully – you may have seen something which at the time seemed unimportant but may be vital to the police investigation.
There will be special prayers said for the deceased at both St Mary’s and St Barnabas’s churches again this evening for local parishioners who wish to pay their respects following a generous turn-out yesterday.
There were far better ways of spending a Friday evening than waiting on a cold station platform for an unreliable friend. But here he was, freezing his arse off at Waterloo as legions of buttoned-up office workers marched past him on their way home to the suburbs. They all looked the same: harassed and hunched over, their grey overcoats and hats giving the appearance of a national uniform. The shoes were the only clue; the most reliable way to tell boss from employee, the tenant from the landlord. Lawrie’s own dress shoes were polished to a high shine but the soles were not original and the leather was cracked along the throat line.
Aston had rung him up on the telephone on Tuesday. A lifetime ago, it felt like. Few more days and I’m a free man! Thing is, I need somewhere to stay… And how could Lawrie say no? Aston had served in the RAF since 1942, side by side with Lawrie’s brother until that last fatal mission, just weeks before the war ended. But of course, Aston was late. He hadn’t been on the train he should have been on which meant that he’d missed it, probably ’cause he’d got chatting to some pretty girl on his way to the station, and they’d both have to wait for the next. As usual. Lawrie checked his watch; he still had time.
He felt a debt to Aston, not least because it was one of Aston’s RAF contacts who had finally managed to get Lawrie his Post Office job. It had been Aston who had come down to Kingston two years earlier and talked Lawrie on to that boat, convinced Mrs Matthews that it was a wise idea to send her remaining son overseas where he could seek his fortune. She’d cried as she waved her surviving son off but she had a new husband to look after her now. Lawrie had only been in the way, Mr Herbert from the grocery store leaping at the chance to comfort the handsome widow as she grieved for her eldest son. How well it all worked out in the end, the new Mrs Herbert wrote to her son months later, taking his good news missives at their word.
The ship had been full of men seeking their fortunes, many of them having fought in the war just like Bennie and Aston, escaping the island life that was too quiet now that they’d experienced adventures across Europe and beyond. Why bother gambling with your life if all you did with your winnings was put it into the small farm that you could have had anyway, just by staying at home? Like Aston, they’d seen the advert in the Gleaner – cheap tickets back to the Motherland – and jumped at the chance to return. There was safety in accepting the embrace of the depleted British armed forces, crying out for men who’d already been trained up.
Walking the deck and breathing in air that was as salty as the unfathomable ocean beneath him, Lawrie had listened to tales of big houses, pretty girls, the wages even the most menial of jobs paid. He’d expected to arrive in the country of his schoolbooks, to walk the wide thoroughfares he’d seen on newsreels and have conversations, perhaps in a real English pub, with people who spoke like they did on the wireless. It would kill his mother if she ever found out how the English actually lived. Eating spam and shopping with coupons; living in bomb-damaged houses. It would destroy her if she could see her only living son now, if she knew that the police suspected him to be involved in the murder of a baby. She could never find out.
The next train pulled in and he watched the passengers pour out of the doors. He waited until the last old man hobbled off, no Aston in sight, and was about to give up when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
‘Fancy seein’ you here.’ Aston looked smart in his demob suit, kitbag in hand, newspaper wedged under his arm and a smile on his face.
‘What the…’ Lawrie looked around him. ‘What train you come on?’
‘Came in over there.’ Aston pointed vaguely to his right. ‘We got time for a drink? I’m parched.’ He put on a hoarse voice.
‘Then you shoulda got here earlier. I got no time, not even for a quick one before you ask.’
‘What’s up with you?’
‘Nothin’.’ Worried that the police would come back and question him. Exhausted from not sleeping. ‘I just got a lot to think about at the moment.’
‘Lyceum, right?’
Lawrie nodded.
‘Good-looking women there, I remember rightly.’
Aston was what Evie referred to as a ladies’ man when she was in a good mood, an alley cat when he annoyed her, which was often.
‘You was so drunk the last time you could barely stand. How you remember a thing?’ Lawrie reminded him. Last time had been New Year’s Eve and he’d had to throw himself off the stage mid-song to stop Aston from getting punched by some fella who’d taken against Aston dancing with his girl.
‘Never forget a thing, boy. The women, they call me the elephant.’
Lawrie rolled his eyes and groaned.
‘Get your mind out the gutter! It’s ’cause I never forgot a pretty face.’ Aston laughed and clapped his friend’s shoulder hard so that Lawrie winced. ‘Talking of which, how’s your girl?’
‘She got a name and I know you know it.’
‘I apologise sincerely. How is Miss Evelyn Coleridge, might I ask?’ Aston put on his best English accent and they both laughed as they negotiated their way across the concourse towards the exit, the crowds around them watching the departures board intently, waiting for it to announce their passage out of the city. A few commuters turned to see who these chaps were who dared to be so carefree and loud. ‘We walkin’?’
‘’Less you feel flush enough for a taxi – ’cause I do not.’
They emerged from the station. Seven o’clock on a March evening and the skies over the city didn’t even have the decency to turn black at night, the stars staying away in protest.
‘Evie is well, thanks for asking. She’s coming to the Lyceum tonight so behave yourself when you see her. She might even start to think better of you.’
‘I doubt that.’ Aston’s words were mumbled as he tried to light a cigarette, his head bent to the match sheltered between his cupped palms.
‘Well, you can at least try. You never know when a person gonna change their mind. I thought Evie’s mother couldn’t stand me but apparently she decided