Jubilee (2 page)

Matthew didn’t know about the pregnancy yet. She hadn’t been sure enough to raise his hopes. Or dash hers, she thought. But they were probably already dashed.

The children were on their feet now, clamouring for three-legged-races and egg-and-spoon. The fake sable-edged robes they’d worn for the pageant lay crumpled and trampled on the grass.
Evie looked at their pink cheeks and shining eyes. New hope. A fresh start. She had to look away.

I still have so much, she told herself briskly. Think of all those war widows. Or those women whose children were crushed to death by bombs in London, Bristol or Portsmouth. Or those even more
wretched women all over Europe whose entire families were deliberately murdered.

She finished clearing the table and went to put the scraps in the swill bucket, hidden behind the hedge, the smell of the wasted food making her want to retch. The pigs would like it, though.
When he’d first come home, Matthew had stared at the pig swill and she’d known he was thinking how men in the camp would have fought over it.

Philippa, who lived in the cottage next to the shop, was rinsing plates in a bowl of soapy water on an old table, her hands wrinkled by long immersion.

‘Weren’t we clever to miss the worst of the rain?’ It had rained most of the morning.

Evie smiled and nodded, inhaling the smell of new grass to ease the nausea.

‘How’s Matthew?’

‘This is a good day.’ At least she’d asked outright. Some of the others gossiped about him behind their hands. ‘He still hides food but the dreams don’t seem as
bad. This cool weather makes his bad foot ache, though.’

‘Nearly eight years and still they’re not right.’ The woman’s face suddenly took on a guarded expression, as though she’d said too much. Evie wished she
hadn’t stopped. But she couldn’t ask her for details. Before the war Philippa had walked out with Jonathan Fernham, Fiona’s brother, for a while, but when he’d come back
he’d done no more than occasionally partner her in mixed doubles or lead her round the village hall in a stiff foxtrot.

‘Did you watch the ceremony on television, Evie? We went to my mother’s to see it.’ Philippa handed Evie another bowl to empty. Evie watched the jelly and cake crumbs slide off
the bowl into the swill bucket, where they joined more cake crumbs and a pint of cream that had turned too much to be used at the party. In the war they’d have done something with all that
food. Again her stomach protested.

‘I saw it.’

The girl polished a plate with her drying-up cloth. ‘Those gorgeous dresses. Imagine having all that silk and taffeta.’

Evie nodded, although she hadn’t paid much attention to the Queen’s costume.

‘Like something from a film.’ Philippa wrung out the cloth. ‘A life of glamour. That’s what the Queen has. Not like us.’ She put her hands to her lower back.
‘Though you don’t need the posh frocks and jewellery.’

Evie put a hand to her face.

‘You’ve just rubbed jelly into your cheek. Here.’ Philippa flicked it off with the cloth. She gazed at Evie. ‘How do you do it, Evie?’

‘What?’

‘I remember you when you first came here, a scrawny little kid from south London. Nothing special. But now . . .’ She didn’t sound envious, only slightly reproachful. Evie had
got her man, after all.

Evie shrugged. ‘I don’t think I’m all that special. My mother was pretty, as far as I remember. But by the time I’m twenty-five I’ll be a weathered old hag from all
those winter nights in the lambing shed.’

Philippa turned back to the washing-up bowl, shaking her head. ‘And Matthew adores you and you live in the prettiest house in the village.’

And only one thing was asked of her.

‘Fetch me some more plates if the kids have finished with them. I’ll freshen up this bowl first.’ Philippa tipped out the soapy water onto the grass, where the suds gleamed
like small crystal balls before popping.

‘I’ll fetch you some hot water from the urn.’ Both women jumped at the voice. Martha Stourton stood at the hedge, unsmiling, watchful, her pale eyes huge in her face.

‘Thanks!’ Philippa answered.

Evie retreated behind the hedge. First Fiona Fernham and now Martha: this was going to be a day of avoiding women who didn’t approve of her. The grass was nearly dry here now and she could
risk her new frock for a minute’s peace and quiet. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t brood today, she’d let the past go, fold back the memories and pretend
they’d never been taken out again. She removed her pinafore and laid it on the grass to protect the full poplin skirt. ‘There’s enough material in that frock to clothe all the
women in the village,’ Matthew had joked when she’d put it on. Then his eyes had softened and he’d put his arms around her. ‘It shows off your neat little waist.
You’re fit for a queen yourself.’

It might have been her imagination but the dress already felt slightly tight around the bust and stomach. Could she still be pregnant after yesterday? She felt the muscles around the tops of her
legs and in her pelvis tighten, as though they were trying to hold on to the foetus.

The grass was soft and springy from all the rain. It made a comfortable resting place. Nobody would see her here. From her pocket she retrieved her Woodbines and lighter. Mrs W didn’t like
smoking in the house. She could barely talk but her hands would flutter in her lap at the sight of a cigarette packet.

From here Evie was looking up towards the White Horse. Its front legs were hidden by the curve of the hill and it looked more like a kangaroo. Small black figures walked around beside it; not
everyone was marking the Coronation, some had travelled out here to look at the horse, now restored again after its ignominious wartime camouflaging. Above the horse, hidden by the slope, the
Ridgeway cut its way like an east-west scar across the Downs. Sometimes, when she walked up there, Evie could almost imagine a call blown on the breeze, or the treading of hooves behind her. She
never turned round in case she saw the ghosts of the men and beasts who’d tramped the footway all those centuries ago. And she only ever walked on the eastern section of the path, never to
the west of the White Horse.

Evie let her eyes close for a moment. Sleep had been elusive for the last few nights but wanted to snare her now. Her chin slumped onto her chest. The packet tumbled from her hand before she
could even remove a cigarette.

‘Taking a break?’

Her eyes flew open. Martha, back from fetching water. She sat up. Martha always made her feel guilty for taking a minute’s break. If Evie sat on a hay bale or leaned against the fence
posts for a sip of tea from the Thermos, that would be the moment Martha conjured herself up from nowhere to suggest with just a flash of those green eyes of hers that Evie lacked commitment.
‘Just wanted a rest.’

‘I see.’ Martha’s eyes seemed to glide along Evie’s body. Perhaps she’d guessed.

‘I’ll just finish this. Would you like . . .’ She gestured at the cigarettes.

‘Thanks.’ Martha took one and lit it with her own lighter, standing beside Evie as she smoked.

‘Funny how peaceful it gets as soon as you step just a few yards away from the crowds.’ Might as well try for some conversation, Evie thought, difficult as it was with Martha.

‘Especially now the silver band’s stopped.’ Martha took a draw of the cigarette. ‘Bit different from London.’

She liked to refer to Evie’s early childhood in the city, as though underlining her incomer status.

‘I don’t really remember London.’ She forced a note of neutrality into her words. ‘I was so young when I came here.’

‘Ten.’ Martha made it sound like a contradiction.

‘I should be getting back. Philippa needs the plates cleaning.’ She was gabbling.

‘I saw you up on the hill earlier on, Evie. Didn’t you want to watch the ceremony on television? Matthew bought you a set, didn’t he?’

The last sentence made it plain what Martha thought of such uxoriousness. ‘He thought his mother would like to see it.’ She felt her cheeks burn and turned her head so that Martha
wouldn’t see and forced herself to stare at the trees and the distant lettuce-green Cotswold hills to the north. But the older woman simply stared at her for another second before drifting
away towards the tables.

Evie stayed where she stood, giving herself another minute, just until the worst of the pain subsided. Should she tell Matthew now? He looked so happy, sitting with his mother at the trestle
table, enjoying the celebration. If she told him, he’d worry. Wait another day.

She should have told him this morning, when it had started.

She’d come inside to join Matthew and Mrs W. She wasn’t really that bothered about watching the Coronation but it had started to rain again. Just like D-Day had been, cold and wet,
not like early summer at all. Matthew moved up on the sofa so there was room for her, grimacing slightly as he moved his left foot. ‘Tea’s just brewed, Evie. Here, let me pour you a
cup.’

‘No, you stay there, I’ll do it in a moment.’ She looked at the square wooden cabinet, received with such pride and anticipation just days ago. The picture wasn’t bad,
smaller than the cinema but you could make out the shining brass on the horses’ harnesses and the details on the carriages. Shame you couldn’t see the colours, though. So many people on
the streets: thin faces, and tired-looking, still, some of them. The war had only finished eight years ago, after all. Perhaps the cheers and shouts were a release of emotion. People looked at that
young woman in the carriage with her smooth skin and they thought she was drawing a line under it all.

Evie considered whether this would ever be possible. She gave her husband another little smile and looked back at the television screen

‘Just look at those arches they’ve put up over the Mall,’ Matthew marvelled. ‘It’s like something from ancient Rome.’ The Queen’s coach was coming
closer. The camera angle changed and Evie saw the backs of the spectators’ heads, then the sides of their faces as the camera moved round to get a clearer shot of the monarch. What did she
feel, this young woman, as she saw all those people? Perhaps she was flattered, gratified. Or perhaps she was secretly terrified, longing to run away and spring on one of the horses they said she
adored.

How many tens or hundreds of thousands of them were in London to see this procession? Little children, old people, middle-aged women in their best hats, soldiers in uniform. Happy, smiling
faces.

Mrs W’s shawl had fallen off her lap. Evie rose to retrieve it for her, moving closer to the television screen just as the camera changed its angle, focusing on the crowd instead of the
coach, so their faces were close to Evie’s eyes. How extraordinary that she could look at these excited strangers while sitting in their own parlour, eighty miles away from the Mall.

A cramp squeezed her abdomen. And she felt the back of her neck prickle with cold sweat even though the coal fire was lit in the grate.

A cool tingle ran down her spine. It was going to happen again and there was nothing she could do to stop it, to hold on to what might have been a child. Somehow she managed to pick up the shawl
and tuck it round her mother-in-law’s lap.

‘Robert.’ Evie had to strain her ears to pick up the word. The old lady raised a finger and pointed towards the screen. Evie glanced at the television and saw only the blurred black
and white faces of thousands of strangers. A quick glance at Matthew’s relaxed expression told her he couldn’t have heard his mother murmur his brother’s name. Evie sat back again
and forced herself to breathe slowly. Mrs Winter was confused again; she couldn’t possibly have made out an individual in that throng.

Robert was dead. That’s what they’d told Matthew when he’d come home from the hospital. Your brother died in a barn fire. He fell asleep and left a cigarette alight and the dry
hay caught fire. He is buried underneath one of the yews in the churchyard.

‘There,’ said Robert’s mother slowly again. Evie’d never even been certain whether Mrs Winter had understood that Robert had died those eight years ago. Impossible to
tell whether the information had pierced the old lady’s expressionless eyes.

Evie touched her arm. ‘The picture’s not very clear, is it? You can’t make out the details?’ She gave the arm a gentle shake. ‘Where did you think you saw
him?’

Mrs W’s eyes focused on the square box. The carriage had reached the Abbey now.

‘First the Duke of Edinburgh and then the Queen alight from the royal carriage,’ Richard Dimbleby said on the television.

The old woman’s lips opened. ‘There,’ she said again, her eyes focusing somewhere in the direction of the television. Something about the flags and crowds must have made Mrs
Winter remember a previous Coronation. Perhaps Robert had enjoyed watching the news film at the cinema and that was why she was thinking about him now.

‘You’re right, mother, she’s there now,’ Matthew said. ‘Going in a young wife and mother and she’ll come out a queen. Doesn’t she look young? Barely
older than our Evie.’

‘There,’ the old woman said again.

‘I’m just going to check on that heifer.’ Evie stood, her eyes on the window behind the television. The room felt stifling, despite the unseasonable chill outside. Remembering
Robert was making her feel dizzy.

‘She’ll be fine, love. Leave her till later. You’ll want to watch the ceremony.’

‘I don’t mind.’ She left the room, praying he wouldn’t make a fuss, but he didn’t, Matthew never did unless something triggered one of his bad turns; then
he’d grow uneasy if she left his sight. She forced herself to walk unhurriedly through the house to the kitchen, where she swapped her court shoes for a pair of boots in which to negotiate
the muddy farmyard. The heifer looked up as she approached the shed, eyes no longer dull, nose damp and twitching. Good. She could go back inside now, into the companionable fug of the parlour. But
she didn’t. She found herself walking out of the yard. She needed space – her feet found their own way across the field and through the gate. The faint outline of a sheep track led up
to the Ridgeway. Years ago she and Charlie had stood up here looking down as smoke curled from the roof of the barn.