Epilogue
Evie watched the little girl dash down the garden path, pink plastic sandals slapping on the dry and dusty earth. The paths were fine in the summer, but in the winter they turned to mud. They needed to lay something proper—concrete slabs. Or bricks would be nice. A herringbone pattern, like the walled garden at Redbridge. Why not bring a little bit of that country estate vibe into urban North London?
A big fat bee bumbled noisily across the path, disappearing into the bright orange nasturtiums that tumbled over the woven wicker path edging. She watched it amble from flower to flower, then ambled herself further up the path to the little apple and pear trees in the middle of the garden.
There was a small boy, a toddler, on his knees there, dirty to the elbow. A bag of compost and a row of pots on the short sun-yellowed grass. The boy scooped some compost from the bag with a small red plastic spade and spilt almost all of it before getting a few crumbs into a plant pot.
“Excellent,” said the man kneeling next to him. “Another thousand of those and we should be ready to go.”
The boy looked up at him and held out the spade, putting a grubby hand on a once-immaculate trouser leg as he levered himself up to a wobbly stand. “Orby do it,” said the boy, and toddled off, perhaps in search of his parents who were standing nearby, or perhaps in search of a less onerous task. Like poking snails.
Evie laughed, coming over.
“The youth of today,” Aubrey said, shaking his head and getting to his feet. “No work ethic.” He tossed the spade down and brushed the dirt from his knees, then gave Evie a careful once over. “How are you holding up? It’s so hot.”
“I’m OK.”
“You should be in the shade.”
“In another ten years or so, it’ll be lovely and shady here,” she said, toying with a leaf on the baby apple tree. “A miniature orchard.”
“Mm,” said Aubrey, unswayed, and took her by the shoulder, guiding her in the direction of the wooden summerhouse in the corner. It had replaced the old Bluedeen builder’s portacabin and was where the volunteers served tea and squash on family open days, like today.
“But you’re nine months pregnant right now . I don’t think we can wait ten years.”
“It feels like it’s been ten years already. I’ve been pregnant forever .”
Aubrey just chuckled, hand on the small of her back as they walked, exactly where it ached the most. He probably knew it well. Spent a large part of his evening when he came home from work rubbing that exact spot.
It really was difficult to remember not being pregnant. It was such a strange, all-consuming thing. Terrifying and thrilling. Uncomfortable and boring. Ungainly yet sensual. Curves and breasts and cravings and a new awareness of her body, inside and out. Aubrey loved it. Was besotted with her bump. But Aubrey didn’t get the heartburn and the hip ache, or lie there awake wondering how long it was since the baby last moved, panic mounting, until it flipped over in her belly or kicked her soundly in the bladder.
But no, she was besotted, too. Spoke constantly to their daughter, fingers splayed gently over the strangeness of her new shape. Sang songs to it in the shower. She stared at every pram that went past in the street, wondering if her baby would look like that. Though they all sort of looked the same.
The summerhouse was busy. There were lots of the regulars here—families and volunteers from the houses and tower block nearby. Evie smiled at them, said hello. But there were lots of new faces, too, this being one of the fundraising open days, with activities for the kids and a small bric-a-brac sale. She’d made Aubrey buy fifty tickets for the raffle. “Yes,” he’d said dryly, “I do desperately want that second-hand pair of curling tongs.”
He ducked into the crowd of the summerhouse and emerged with cold drinks for them. They walked to their usual seat—a bench, hand-made by that gnarly old retired builder, under a trellis frame half filled by young roses.
“I’ve thought of a name,” Evie said once they sat down. She looked out over the garden, at the flowers and the birds and the bees, and yes, at the children laughing and the rainbows hand-painted by the primary school on the fence. She looked at the sunshine on the green leaves and smelt the flowers in the air, tipped her head to the blue, blue sky.
“Another one?” Aubrey asked. “That’s five this week.”
She nudged him with her shoulder, still sitting with her head tipped back, her closed eyes to the sky.
“Summer,” she said.
Aubrey said nothing, so she opened her eyes and looked at him. He was looking at her, then he swept his gaze over the garden, taking in all the things that she just had.
“Summer Ford,” he said.
“Summer Blackton.”
He gave her a flat look. “Summer Blackton Ford.”
“Or let’s make our own new surname! Some people do! And I’ve no love for mine. My brothers can carry it on. Summer Blackford? Summer Fordton?”
His flat look barely changed, then he leant down, put his hand on her bump. “What do you think, Summer? Is Mummy mad?”
The baby wriggled. It always did when he spoke to it. He felt the movement and grinned.
“We have a verdict.”
“But you like Summer?”
“I love Summer.”
Evie smiled and put her hand over his where it lay on her stomach. Summer seemed to give a stretch, then go still, falling asleep in the drowsy heat that lulled her mother. Evie settled her head on Aubrey’s shoulder. He tucked her more firmly against his side, the heat of him matching the heat of the sun until it all seemed like one.
“I wish we could stay all afternoon,” she said.
“If only there wasn’t the small task of moving house to attend to.”
She grinned. “I feel guilty being here while the removal men are packing all our stuff.”
“It’s what we’re paying them for.”
“And we get to walk into the new place, and everything’s unpacked. Just like that.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. It’ll mostly still be in boxes. And mostly probably in the wrong rooms.”
“So long as there’s a kettle. And a bed to lie on.”
She felt him shift his head, his mouth against her hair as he murmured, “Definitely the bed. Apparently sex is a good way to induce labour.”
“I suspected you were listening to that part of the prenatal course.”
“It caught my attention.”
“I bet.”
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. She shifted to sit upright again, always uncomfortable being in one position for too long. But sitting up let her meet his eyes. Darkest brown. But the sunlight revealed the gold.
“We should probably unpack first before we try to get the baby out,” she said.
“Now you’ve said that, she will definitely come the minute we get to the first box.”
“Probably. At least the garden is perfect, though. Our garden, I mean, at the new house.”
She had visions of lying on the grass, baby at her side on a blanket, watching the planes cross the blue sky. They were probably unrealistic dreams. The baby would be crying. She’d be crying. She’d never get a moment to look at the sky. But still. It was a pleasant dream to have, especially sitting here, surrounded by the drone of bees, white butterflies skipping briskly between the vegetable patches, the sound of London traffic made distant by the hot air and the smell of green things.
The house was a little two-bed terrace, just under a mile away from Aubrey’s parents’ house. Which was good, Evie kept reminding herself, because they were very enthusiastic grandparents and would be very useful. Priya was lovely. An angel. Had already been invaluable with her knowledge on all manner of baby-related things. But Evie was still getting used to having parental interest in her life. She wasn’t used to the curiosity, the questions, the advice.
“Don’t worry about the unpacking,” Aubrey said now. “It’ll all get done. My contract ends on Wednesday. I’ll be there. I’ll have time to do it all. You won’t have to do a thing.”
“Which means the baby will definitely come on Monday.”
Aubrey laughed. “Probably. In which case, I’ll quit on Monday.”
Evie smiled. It had been perfect, the short contract he’d been offered soon after her father’s statement went public. The fact it finished on almost her exact due date had seemed like a sign. And three months after it ended, he would be starting work at Roscoe’s new company—part-time.
“Don’t you mind?” she had asked when he told her what he’d agreed with her brother. “Won’t it be hard to build up your career working part-time?”
“I already told you, I’m not that career-driven. The job provides everything we need to live on. I want to see the baby. I want to be in our daughter’s life. I want to be in your life. I can’t do that if I’m working like I used to, seven ‘til nine—or more, every day of the week, often weekends, too. And besides, this means you get to do what you want.”
Studying, he meant. He’d found her reading a pile of prospectuses for courses ranging from urban planning to environmental law, and after some initial good-natured horror at the realisation that she might become yet another lawyer in his life, he’d got extremely enthusiastic about the idea. She wasn’t entirely sure what it would lead to, but the idea of being involved right in the heart of things, as he had once suggested—helping create the policies that decided how green spaces were made and kept—that was the plan she had.
“It was Asha’s doing,” she had explained to Aubrey. “At her birthday party, when she was brow-beating your dad into getting her a new phone, reeling off all these statistics. Knowledge is power, she told him. Obviously it’s not the first time I’d heard the expression, but to see it in practise, the way she dismantled his every objection one by one—”
“Raised in a house of lawyers,” Aubrey had said. “It’s in the blood.”
“I realised how powerful it could be. That sort of systematic use of logic and argument—backed up by knowledge of the law—combined with the passion to argue the case…”
“Oh my God,” Aubrey had said, covering his eyes with a groan. “You’ll be terrifying.”
Evie had laughed. “Exactly!” Then, lightly, trying not to show how worried she was over something so ridiculous: “If Liv hasn’t put you off lawyers entirely.”
He had smiled ruefully. “Liv put me off Liv.” She was gone anyway, Aubrey had heard it via his brother. Gone back to New York. Aubrey seemed sure she would never come near him again.
So Evie would try to study on the days Aubrey wasn’t at work. It might be impossible. The baby might leave her too exhausted. But the baby would grow. Evie would adapt. And she had her whole life. She was twenty-five now. There was time to do it all—to grow up, with Aubrey at her side, a constant rock, as he always had been, even when she was battering herself against him in the early days. A moth to a flame.
If that flame was loving… If that flame cupped you in warm hands and held you safe… If that flame never went out but grew brighter every day, loved you more and more every day, steady and unquenchable and everlasting… With a man like that, Evie felt she could do anything. A scrappy, impossible tree, roots held deep by the cliff face it clung to, together facing the storm…
“You’re drifting off,” his voice came now, a low rumble that mingled with the bees and the sweet, dry grass.
“Am not,” she mumbled, head once more on his shoulder.
He laughed quietly, stroking her hair. “I’d let you sleep, my love, but we have a new house to get to. I’ll make the bed when we get there. You can sleep all afternoon while I hunt for the kettle.”
She smiled, rousing herself, knowing that the moment they got there she would be full of energy again, wouldn’t rest until the place was the perfect nest for the three of them. Aubrey stood, pulling on her hand and helping her to her feet. They set off hand in hand for the gateway to the city beyond.
“It just occurred to me,” she asked, as they crossed the space where a silver car had once parked on the mud. “EP. The name of the company you created when you bought this place. Why EP? What does it mean?”
Aubrey laughed. “EP? Evie’s Pigeons, of course.”
She looked at him, half-laughing. “My pigeons?”
“That pathetic little story. Ten-year-old Evie standing crying in Trafalgar square. Tears on your little white face. Heart-breaking, Evie,” he admonished her, laughing. “How could I stand it? It’s what I saw, every time I thought of this place. That same white face, those same tears, you standing here looking through the metal bars at the wasteland I’d made of it and hating every breath I’d ever taken. Evie’s bloody pigeons. Haunting my dreams.”
She laughed, and he put his arm around her shoulders as they reached the street, squeezing her against his side.
“Well, I’m glad I haunted you,” she said, smiling. “Because look what it’s become.”
“A dream from a nightmare,” Aubrey said wryly. “Actually, your brother once said something similar to me.”
“Roscoe?”
“That perfect things can come from imperfect beginnings.” He stopped to look at her. “And I think he was right, don’t you?”
_______________
Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed Evie and Aubrey's story there are lots more stories set in this world.