the public lavatories; or hoist the union jack; or ring his brass bell at stations round the town to proclaim a whist drive at the Working Men’s Institute or a fete in the vicarage garden. Mrs. Babbacombe usually fetched her. At normal times Mrs. Babbacombe radiated a social awareness and friendliness that was indomitable, though seldom reciprocated. She was a sparrow of a woman, neat like Evie, but already wizened. She moved quickly, head up and turning from person to person, smiling—sometimes inclining her head, aiming it right across the High street in a gracious, sideways bow to a person entirely out of her social sphere. Naturally these greetings were never acknowledged or even mentioned; since no one could tell whether Mrs. Babbacombe was mad, and believed herself entitled to make them, or whether she came from some fabulous country where the Town Crier’s wife and the wife of the Chief Constable might be on terms of intimacy. The first alternative seemed the more probable. You might see her, shall we say, chirping like a sparrow at the counter of the International Stores, then smiling graciously (head on left shoulder slight inclination of the neck) at Lady Hamilton-Smythe who was apparently unaware of her existence. She was about our only Roman Catholic, was Mrs. Babbacombe—unless you include Evie—and that, taken with her other eccentricity, made her notable and trying. Since she would not mix with the riff-raff of Chandler’s Close and nobody else spoke to her, it seemed strange that she persevered with her useless smiles and bows. However, for a few days after the episode of the cross, the smiles and bows were absent. Sergeant Babbacombe delivered Evie like a parcel and little Mrs. Babbacombe collected her, wizened and grim.
After a week, Evie came into the dispensary complaining of a headache and my father fixed her up with something. That evening when Mrs. Babbacombe came to the steps of the Ewans’s house, the two ladies left together, laughing and chattering like old friends. It was a remarkable change, and went still further. Evie was let off the hook, having done this bit of penance. A few evenings later—it must have been about nine o’clock—Evie came pacing along by herself on the other side of the square. She wore her cotton summer dress, no stockings, white socks and sandals. She slid along, lips breathlessly everted, slight smile enchanting the evening air, bob glossy, both eyes by this time shining bright, only her legs moving below the knees. We were back to square one. And mysterious as a glowworm, she was emitting a radiance of desirability so strong as to be almost visible light. As she came near Miss Dawlish’s bow window opposite our cottage, her pace slowed till it was imperceptible. Nor was it my imagination that even at that distance I could see a mad fluttering of the black paintbrushes and the flash of eyes swivelling in my direction. As if commanded by a master I stole out of the house.
Evie was sliding past the Town Hall down the High Street. There were very few people about unless you count a policeman and the girl in the box office of the cinema. With a proper sense of taboo I followed her at a distance of fifty yards. This was difficult since she did not seem to have the same social awareness and moved at a snail’s pace. Indeed I was forced to examine the Saddler’s window, the Tobacconist’s, and the less likely seductions of the Needlework Shop in order to maintain my proper distance. When she reached the Old Bridge she went no further. In the conflict between social propriety and sexual attraction there was never much doubt which would win. Besides, the sun had set, night was coming on and already the darkness had settled under the arch of the bridge. Above it, there was a degree of twilight. Evie had arranged herself, leaning with her bottom on the stone coping at the top of the rise. She was watching the place where the sun had gone down. I went up to her. We