Had she found it? In Jos’s arms, she really thought she had. But that was gone now and she was not sure she would be able to win it back. So now her thoughts turned again to Edward, to her own loss, and how she wished he was there to help her in that instant. Tired of pursuing a life well lived, she rested against the cold stone, as the tears fell again. London swept by on the road, but she was still, calm and lying on a clifftop with Eddie, pondering the future.
Chapter Twenty
Night fell. Such was the bustle and anonymity of London that no one came to question the young woman with her face pressed to the Cenotaph. Perhaps, Evelyn thought, this was not so unusual. Even though nearly a decade had passed, people had not stopped mourning their fathers, sons, brothers, husbands, lovers. They moved on, but the grief went with them. Evelyn wondered if people would always mourn here, when the war was forgotten and the soldiers long gone. Or would the memorial be torn down one day, when there was no one left to remember?
Her tears had stopped and yet there was an odd comfort in the solid block of stone. She did not want to leave it behind. But the darkness brought the cold of winter and she could hardly stand in Whitehall through the night. She had to try to return to someone familiar. Perhaps to Vernon, or even to Jos. Just for somewhere warm and something to eat. She would expect nothing but shelter and, perhaps, to be kept safe from Lilian’s rage.
Sadly, she turned her aching feet towards the archway leading to Horseguards Parade. She knew if she could reach the Mall, and Buckingham Palace, she could find her way back into Mayfair. She would decide where to seek refuge when she got there. As she set off, it began to rain, a cold, icy rain that was nearly sleet. Hatless and with only her coat to protect her, Evelyn soon felt the chill creeping through her whole body, the freezing water tricking over her scalp, down her face, and seeping under her collar. She did not care. There was something cleansing about being drenched in this way. As her extremities went numb, her emotions felt the same.
Across the gravel of Horseguards and onto the Mall. Right on Marlborough Road to emerge near St. James’s Palace and follow St. James’s Street until she reached Piccadilly. She received a few curious glances from passersby, especially as she neared the well-to-do streets of Mayfair, but no one questioned why she was out in the winter rain with no hat or umbrella and no one offered her assistance. She was glad of it, convinced that kindness would feel like an intrusion to a grief that felt all consuming and yet impossible to explain. What would she tell anyone who enquired what was wrong? That the woman she loved had rejected her, and a friend she had only known for a short time had publicly accused her of seducing two men, playing on a dead soldier’s memory, and taking illicit drugs? It sounded ludicrous. Evelyn could almost have laughed at just how outlandish her old self would have found such a tale. And yet here, in London, it did not seem so odd, somehow, in the city that swallowed stories and made them part of itself.
In the end, she turned her footsteps towards the Yellow Orchid. She considered it unlikely that Lilian would still be there and decided she was guaranteed a warm welcome from Vernon, whereas she could not be sure of the same from Jos.
She was approaching the cafe when a woman walking down the street towards her suddenly exclaimed, “Evelyn! What on earth are you doing? Oh, my dear, you gave us such a fright, disappearing like that.”
Evelyn raised her eyes from the wet pavement to look at Dorothy. Warm relief flooded her cold body. Dorothy, of all people, would understand. “It’s Jos,” she said first. “And Lilian. Oh, Dorothy, I’ve made such a mess of everything!” She began to cry again.
“Nonsense,” Dorothy replied. “Look, I know the story, as much as Vernon told me, anyway. You’ve not made a mess of anything. Come home with me—we’ll get you dry and you can sleep in my spare bed.”
“What about Lilian? You’re her friend,” Evelyn asked, trying to restrain the sobs.
“I don’t give two hoots about what Lilian thinks. Besides, a woman would have to be heartless to leave you outside with nowhere to go. Come on. I’m not letting you back inside the Orchid, just in case. I’ll nip back and stop Vernon worrying later.” Dorothy took Evelyn’s hand and led her along the street. Her house was only two streets over from the Orchid, a small terraced town house at the end of a rather quaint street. She opened the door and led Evelyn into the warm.
Dorothy’s home was rather plain and matter of fact. She had everything she needed but nothing unnecessary. There was a smell of perfume and cigarette smoke, mixing with the scent of coal from the glowing hearth. Dorothy left Evelyn standing in the lamplit sitting room and went to fetch towels and blankets.
Once Evelyn was dried and dressed in one of Dorothy’s nightdresses, a blanket around her shoulders, Dorothy sat to talk to her. “Now, I know what Vernon told me, but do you care to tell me what’s happened yourself? He’s awfully prone to exaggeration.”
“It started this morning with Jos,” Evelyn replied, realising she was grateful of the opportunity to relate what had happened. “I don’t really know what I said, but she got very tense. I think I might have implied that I could live with her if Lilian decided I had to leave her house. And I questioned why we had to keep what’s between
