24

As Evie’s pregnancy advanced, so too did the war in Europe. With the invasion of France, the surrender of Belgium, the retreat of the British Expeditionary Force to Dunkirk and their subsequent dramatic evacuation, all the news from England seemed to be bad news.

Sitting in the King’s Theatre, watching newsreels of German Panzer tanks rolling through the streets of Paris, Evie felt numb, hollowed out. She remembered a few glorious days she had spent in the French capital with her parents en route to the Cote d’Azur for a holiday. Seeing giant swastikas hanging from the Arc de Triomphe and jackbooted troops parading in triumph along the tree-lined boulevards, was chilling. Placing her hands over her swollen belly she asked herself what kind of world she was bringing her child into. What kind of future might he or she expect when it looked a foregone conclusion that Hitler’s next target would be across the channel? And were he to succeed, there would be no need for any Japanese invasion of Malaya, as the spoils of the British Empire would all fall straight into Hitler’s hands.

In the darkened theatre, a tide of loneliness and hopelessness washed over her. The hole that Arthur Leighton had left in her life was vast. She may not have seen him often but knowing that he was in the same town, that she might bump into him any day in the street or at a function, had made a greater difference than she had realised, until he was gone. Yet every time she allowed herself to think this, she was consumed by guilt. She had to focus on her family. Arthur had no part in that. Despite his past infidelity, her husband was her future and dreaming of another man was disloyal.

These last weeks, as her delivery approached, all she wanted was to free herself of the cumbersome burden of carrying the baby. She wanted her body back, to be free of the weight, the discomfort, the constant need to go to the lavatory and the crushing backache. Yet here in the darkened picture house, watching what was happening in the world, Evie wanted to keep her baby safe inside her. Bringing it into such a terrible terrifying world felt too heavy a responsibility.

The baby was in no hurry to be born anyway. It was into July when Evie finally went into labour – what turned out to be just a few days before the start of the Battle of Britain. The only battle Evie cared about now was the one in her own body as she struggled with the pain of delivering her child.

To her great relief she produced a healthy boy. Douglas arrived at the hospital in Butterworth, grinning broadly, behind an enormous bouquet of flowers. He bent over the bed and kissed her lightly on the brow. ‘Thank you, Evie,’ was all he said, but his delight was evident.

Sitting stiffly in a chair at her bedside, he gazed, rapt, at the tiny red-faced, wrinkled bundle as Evie cradled her son in her arms. A frown creased Doug’s face and he looked at her, anxiety in his eyes. ‘I don’t know how to be a good father to him.’ He stretched his lips into a tight line. ‘I don’t know what to do, how to be all the things my own father wasn’t.’