Edward and Alex took the tram home, and finding the house locked they went down the alley and along the canal to climb over the back wall. It was January 1936, and King George was to be replaced on the throne by his eldest son Edward VIII. England went into mourning, but the Stubbs boys were thrilled that they had a whole afternoon to themselves.
Alex stood on Edward’s hands and climbed over into the yard, while Edward stood on an old crate and followed. He found Alex in tears by his rabbit hutch. Not only had the King died, so had his beloved rabbit.
Evelyne was out working, collecting her rents and doing her bakery accounts. Freedom had still not come back, and when she let herself into the house she called his name, thinking he had returned. She was surprised to find the boys waiting for her. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there? Why aren’t you both at school?’
Edward searched through her shopping bag for something to eat. ‘King’s dead, we all got the day off — I’m starvin’, Ma!’
She took the bag away from him, muttering that no one had told her about the King, but that must be why the traffic was so bad. ‘You’d best both sit at the table and do your school work, then. And no moaning, you’re both old enough to know better. Lads your age were already working down the mines … You all right, Alex, you’re a bit quiet?’
Eddie told her that the rabbit had died, that they had buried it by the canal. ‘I got a shillin’ for its cage, Ma, here’s sixpence for you to buy yourself something.’
Alex glanced at his brother. He could lie so well, not a flicker on his face, and Alex was ashamed.
Touched by Edward’s gift, Evelyne kissed him and said that they could have threepence each, but no more rabbits.
Later that night, as Evelyne brushed her hair, she heard soft, muffled sobs. She peeked into the boys’ room.
Edward was sprawled across his bed. The blankets were tumbled, and the bed was surrounded by books, football boots, and the clothes he had taken off and dropped on the floor. On the opposite side of the room was. Alex’s neat bed, with the sheets and blankets just so. His school satchel and books were stacked neatly on his bedside box. It was Alex who was weeping, holding his pillow over his face.
Evelyne crept over to him and gendy lifted the pillow. His eyes were red-rimmed from crying. She put her finger to her lips, pulled the bedclothes aside and gestured for him to follow her to her own room.
‘Now, my love, what’s all this about? Nothing wrong at school, is there? You want to tell me about it?’
Alex gulped his tears, bit his trembling lip.
‘Is it the rabbit? Come on, get into bed with me … come on, Edward won’t know. And it’s not cissy, you’re still only ten.’
“Nearly eleven.’
‘So you are, so you are.’
Alex snuggled close to his mother, and she kissed the top of his head. She asked again what was wrong.
‘I miss him, every day I look for him. Eddie says he might never come back … Oh, Ma … where’s me Dad?’
‘Now, now, it’s not me, it’s my, and your Dad is just away working. Don’t you pay any attention to Edward. I’ll give him a piece of my mind tomorrow for telling you such things.’
‘Oh, no, please don’t. He’ll know I’ve said something.’
‘All right, I won’t. Now snuggle up, and I’ll read to you. I’ll read my favourite poem, how’s that?’
Alex was delighted, and with his arms wrapped around her he listened to her soft, lilting Welsh voice. She had tried so hard not to pick up the East-End accent. It had been difficult — everyone she worked and mixed with spoke the local dialect — but she prided herself that she spoke well.
‘Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far into the silent land, When you can no more hold me by the hand …’ Evelyne knew the poem by heart.
Alex sighed, slowly his eyelids drooped, and he slept curled up beside his beloved mother. Evelyne lay, unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes filled with tears as she wondered where Freedom was …
From then on, Alex often came to her bed after Edward was asleep. Evelyne found herself waiting for him, and over the weeks she read through her small library until he slept in her arms.
Months had passed with no word from Freedom. Freda seemed more concerned about it than the Stubbs family, she was worried that something had happened to him. ‘He’s with that Jesse, Freda, so the least said the better. How’s Ed doing? All right, is he?’
Freda nodded. Now that he was working for Evelyne it made the world of difference to Ed, bringing in that bit extra every week.
‘Darlink, we owe you so much. Poor Ed was getting so upset about the money troubles. It is easier now, thanks to you.’
Evelyne shrugged it off, and said she never wanted to hear a word about it. ‘We’re a family, Freda, and we should help each other out, that’s all that has to be said … now, how are your legs?’
Freedom still had not returned when the street began to prepare for the coronation of Edward, hanging memorabilia in their windows for the big occasion.
On 1 December 1936, the Crystal Palace burnt down. It was the most spectacular conflagration ever seen in London in peacetime. The flames lit the sky, and many gloomy speculations buzzed round the streets and in the newspapers that the fire was a disaster, a portent that boded ill for the monarchy. The new king, Edward, was not long in proving them right. Sitting around the radio, Evelyne, the boys, Freda and Ed listened to the abdication speech at one fifty-two on the afternoon of 10 December. Edward VIII, forced to choose between the woman he loved and his country, opted for his lady.
That night Ed sat in the local pub with Freda and Evelyne. It was a hive of gossip. He downed his pint, shook his head. ‘Hard to believe, ain’t it, I mean, fancy givin’ up the throne fer a woman what’s been married twice, I mean, it’s not on, is it? She don’t even ‘ave no ‘igh society connections, beats me.’
Someone shouted across the bar, asking if Freda knew the American woman.
‘When I was in Florida I passed this close, within inches, and I didn’t think much of her looks. Small, piggy eyes, and a very large nose, and so thin! Oh, she is so thin!’
Evelyne couldn’t help but smile, and the more port and lemons that came Freda’s way, the more intimate details of the royal couple she remembered. ‘Mind you, what worries me, darlinks, and I am sure it will worry everyone — his brother, George … Well, he’s always been in his shadow, always the quieter one. I hear he has a stammer, too. Well, darlinks, a younger brother always suffers if he has such a charming and handsome elder brother, it is always the way.’
Royalty forgotten, Evelyne went home. She wasn’t thinking of King Edward but of her own Edward, and Alex. She considered what Freda had said. In a way Alex did suffer from Edward’s dominance — he was quiet, easily led.
Alex was still pining for Freedom. Every afternoon he would sit on the front doorstep, looking up and down the road, and his litde face would be crestfallen when eventually he came indoors to do his homework. She continued to allow him into her bed, enjoying the closeness and looking forward to reading to him. For the first time in years, she had begun to take odd spare moments to read for herself.
One night she read Alex one of her own stories, and his astonishment when she told him that she had written it herself filled her with pleasure.
Evelyne had begun to feel angry with Freedom, angry at the way he had disappeared without even a letter. Then she would sigh to herself — she knew Freedom’s writing ability was confined to little more than his own name.