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 I’m not so bad.’
Aston snorted. ‘That woman’s a dragon, guarding she daughter like she’s some fairy tale princess. Must be gettin’ to realise no white fella’ll marry the girl so she make do with a light skin boy like you.’
‘Why you make everything an insult?’ Lawrie elbowed his friend in the side.
‘Just saying how things is,’ Aston corrected him. ‘Mrs Coleridge sees some dark skin bastard like me go near her daughter, she’d lock her away ’til the end of time. Man, she would never let me cross her threshold ’less she had a knife ready to cut me man parts off. You, on the other hand, are the educated son of a government man, or whatever your papa was. You got a steady job. Perfect son-in-law.’
‘Steady job? Keeping hold of it’s all I can manage these days.’
Aston acted like Lawrie had it so easy but, until now, he’d only ever known the RAF, had been safe in his barracks, insulated from real life. He’d not yet had to sit in those interviews with some shoddy-looking fella looking him up and down as he decided without even bothering with the CV, or asking a single question, that this nigger before him would not be working in his establishment.
‘You work too hard, boy. You all right for money?’
‘Fine. I been doin’ some extra deliveries for Derek, you know?’ He knew that Aston felt a responsibility towards him, though he wished sometimes that he didn’t. Sometimes he just wanted to be left alone, to get on with things his own way without Aston or Mrs Ryan or anyone else feeling like they needed to intervene.
‘All right. But you just say the word if you need anything.’
A light drizzle began to fall as the men crossed the road and turned onto Belvedere Road. Lawrie pulled up his collar as they walked the dingy damp street that ran parallel to the Thames, the beginnings of the new Royal Festival Hall blocking the view to the river. Each time he passed, he had to wonder at the vast building site that was slowly transforming into a great beast of a concert hall. It beggared belief that they would leave people without proper houses to live in and spend a fortune on a so-called festival, as if people could come and dance themselves out of strife and not worry that they were still having to use ration books and make do.
They climbed the steps up onto Waterloo Bridge as raindrops landed on Lawrie’s cheeks like saltless tears. Back home when it rained he had liked to stand outside and let it baptise him, the water cleansing, rejuvenating. English rain made him feel grubby, falling from that filthy sky, its dank grime sinking into his skin until he felt contaminated.
‘You ever goin’ tell me what is the matter?’ Aston said, breaking the silence.
Aston would find out soon enough. Lawrie wiped his face with his hand and forced himself to speak, recounting the events of the past two days to his dumbstruck friend.
The Lyceum was still fast asleep when they arrived via the stage door. Aston dumped his bag on a rickety wooden table in the green room and sat down with a sigh. They were the first to arrive, the other band members cutting it fine as usual. The Johnny Sands Band they were called. This was their regular Friday night slot and they usually had at least one booking on a Saturday as well. It had taken a while to build their reputation but Johnny had ambition, as well as an eldest son back in Jamaica who he wanted to bring over when funds allowed.
Telling Aston had lifted a weight, and while the shadow of his macabre discovery still loomed over him, Lawrie already felt better. He always enjoyed playing this dance hall. Although the audiences in the poky Soho clubs were more appreciative of his talent, he felt immersed in the history of this old theatre, part of something that had existed long before his time and would continue on long after. He could imagine the ghosts of Shakespearean thespians and beautiful opera sopranos who used to draw the crowds. Maybe one day people would recall hearing Lawrie Matthews at the Lyceum. He’d happily give up his job tramping the south London streets if he could make a decent living from music but chance would be a fine thing. Of all of them, only Johnny was getting by as a musician. His wife, Ursula, worked in a factory five days a week while Johnny looked after their two young offspring. She was home by four, and then off went Johnny. He could play the piano as well as sing – hotel bars paid his wages on the nights when the band wasn’t playing. But there wasn’t much call for a solo clarinettist and no one would pay to hear Lawrie sing. He could hold a tune all right, but Johnny had that rich tone to his voice that made people close their eyes as they listened, letting his voice sink into their souls like butter melting on toast. Lawrie would have been embarrassed to get up before an audience and be mediocre.
Aston reached into his bag. ‘Got any glasses?’ He pulled out a bottle of Scotch. ‘I reckon we could both do with a little pick-me-up.’
At the back of the room was an ancient cast iron sink, five mismatched mugs drying on the side. Lawrie chose the two least tannin-stained, and handed them to Aston who poured two fingers of whisky into each.
‘To a new life in London.’ Aston raised his drink, Lawrie doing the same.
‘Cheers.’
They clinked their mugs together and drank, the fumes burning the hairs in Lawrie’s nostrils before the heat hit the back of his throat.
‘So this all happen yesterday, right? You had any more trouble today?’ Aston asked, not ready to change the subject. ‘The cops, I mean.’
‘Not a word. Nothing new in the papers either, I checked.’ Lawrie’s hands had trembled as he tried to turn the pages of the newspaper that morning, expecting any moment to see his name printed there in black, sweat lifting the ink from the paper onto his fingertips. ‘It’s strange, they still never mentioned that the baby was coloured.’
Aston shrugged and lit another cigarette. ‘Maybe they’re worried about vigilantes. Don’t we know at least one fella would like an excuse to take matters into his own hands?’
‘You think there’ll be trouble? ’Cause it’ll get out at some point. Can’t see how it won’t.’
‘Almost certainly. You better watch your step. They get desperate to tie someone to this, you’re the obvious choice, ’less they know a lot more than they’re letting on.’ Aston leaned over and refilled Lawrie’s mug. ‘Your boss know?’
Lawrie nodded. At work that morning he’d gone straight to Donovan and told him everything that had happened the day before. Arthur had suggested it was better to come clean, even though Lawrie hadn’t technically been on duty at the time. He’d still been wearing his uniform and it wasn’t out of the question that Rathbone might go sniffing around his place of work, asking after Lawrie. Donovan’s lips had pressed so tightly together as he listened that they’d vanished entirely into his chubby face. None of it had happened during his shift but he could see in his boss’s narrowed eyes that he had no room to mess up from now on.
‘You think that Rose could—’
‘No!’
