Reluctantly Home(10)

The man on the left answered her. ‘She’s a bit rough,’ he said. ‘Keen as mustard but without any nuance about her. Calls a spade a spade, if you know what I mean.’

‘All right,’ replied Evelyn smoothly, her brain running ten to the dozen as to how to portray this. She turned to page sixteen and considered it. DC Walker had about half a page of script and she read it quickly so she had some idea of what was coming. And then she began.

When she’d finished, she looked up and smiled. ‘How was that?’ she asked. ‘I can make her more aggressive if you like, or more thoughtful. Whatever you think. She strikes me as having more common sense than is perhaps expected of her, wise beyond her years, if you know what I mean?’

The man in the middle was nodding at her. ‘Go on,’ he said.

Evelyn wasn’t sure she had anything to add, but she carried on anyway. ‘I think she’d be very loyal, the kind of officer her boss can rely on in a crisis, so that even though she doesn’t have much experience, she still makes a valuable contribution to the team.’

More nodding, which Evelyn chose to interpret as a good thing. She smiled and turned her head a little to show off her best side.

‘Okay, thank you, Miss Mountcastle,’ said the one who had yet to speak. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

And then it was all over. Evelyn collected her portfolio from the disinterested receptionist and made her way back outside to catch her bus.





7


‘There’s no bread,’ announced Brenda when Evelyn appeared for breakfast the next day. ‘And there’s only a splash of milk, so use it carefully.’

‘Shall I pop to the shop?’ asked Evelyn helpfully.

‘Don’t you watch the news, Evie? There’s no bread, full stop. There’s nothing. The lorry drivers have been on strike for weeks, or hadn’t you noticed?’

Evelyn was put out. She didn’t really follow the news. It was so dull and nothing ever seemed to happen other than people complaining, which brought her mood down. But she wasn’t stupid.

‘Of course I’ve noticed,’ she snapped. ‘So, there’s no bread in the shop either?’

‘Nope,’ said Brenda, raising her hand, which held a cream cracker slathered with raspberry jam. ‘I’m using my initiative. It’s not too bad, actually.’ She turned her attention back to her newspaper. ‘They’re saying Monday was the worst day of industrial action since 1926,’ she added. ‘And the gravediggers are out in Liverpool. You can’t get a body buried for love nor money, apparently.’

‘That can’t be very hygienic,’ replied Evelyn, pulling a squeamish face. ‘Won’t there be diseases and what have you? Typhoid or the plague or whatever?’

Brenda shook her head. ‘Too cold,’ she said simply.

Evelyn pulled her thin robe more tightly around her slender shoulders and suppressed a shudder.

‘Well, it’s certainly freezing in here,’ she said. Ice had traced patterns on the inside of the window, like the whorls of so many fingerprints.

‘Mr O’Malley rang,’ Brenda replied. ‘Apparently he’s worried that the gas bills are going to be too high, so he says we have to ration our heating to two hours a day.’

‘But that’s ridiculous,’ complained Evelyn. ‘Does he know how cold it is?’

Brenda shrugged and Evelyn noticed that she seemed to be wearing almost every item of clothing she possessed. The inadequacies of her own glamorous but totally impractical coverings were suddenly writ large for her. It was turning out to be the coldest winter she could ever remember. It had been cold sometimes at home in Suffolk when she was a girl, but nothing to compare to this.

‘Right then,’ said Evelyn decisively, determined to put a positive slant on their predicament. ‘Black coffee it is.’ She flicked the switch on the kettle and reached for a mug and the jar of Nescafé.

‘Actually, Evie,’ Brenda began. She sounded tentative and unsure of herself, and Evelyn stopped what she was doing to listen. ‘There was something I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘If it’s about your shampoo, I’m sorry that I’ve been using it. I’ll replace it, I promise. It’s just that there hasn’t been much money coming in since Christmas.’

‘It’s not about the shampoo,’ said Brenda kindly. ‘Come and sit down.’

Evelyn abandoned her drink and pulled up a chair obediently. She looked at Brenda, waiting to hear what she had done wrong this time, her heart filled with trepidation.

‘So,’ Brenda began. ‘Jim has asked me to marry him and . . .’

She got no further before Evelyn was up on her feet again. She flung her arms around her flatmate and squeezed her tight. ‘Oh, Bren. That’s fantastic news. Congratulations! Have you got a ring yet? Have you set a date? Did he get down on one knee?’

It didn’t matter how modern Evelyn considered her attitudes to be. In the face of a good old-fashioned proposal, she reverted to the values she’d been brought up with – traditional ones.

Brenda shrugged. ‘It’s a bit of a farce if you ask me,’ she said. ‘We’re as good as living together as it is, but his mother has this idea that we’re not a “proper”’ – she made air quotes, her fingers laden with sarcasm, and rolled her eyes – ‘couple unless we’re married.’