Work Text
I: Evans Uncertain
In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas
Corpora;
METAMORPHOSES
My mind would tell of forms changed to new
Bodies;
In the twilight decades of the previous century, whence no nostalgic hue has superseded in exciting the heart beats in students of human nature, much was amiss. The world abroad was enjoying an age of liberated morality, whilst England was groaning under the expectation of political tumult devised by a tyrant — a view much ratified by the omnipotent everyman of posterity — who would be seen to vary but a little from the avarice of her peers, and perhaps marked out for contempt because no such dominance had heretofore been exercised by a member of the fairer sex: such was the magnanimity of that time.Bobbing in the salient currents of the mid seventies was a rector of humble standing, quite averse to the common humbug of the present, always preferring to seek the best of humanity in pages of men long dead. Being a churchman, it follows that he strove for the life of a devotee; that he had procured the furnishings for this pursuit in the form of a pleasant wife and two daughters (no sons, alas), was just what was expected; being expected, it was lauded through the winding streets of Cokeworth; one Mrs O’Hare of 17 Priscott Lane, a widow highly revered in all circles of that narrow street, condescended to remark that ’twas heigh time Britain saw some ’espectable yong womenfolk abowt, there having been a sore paucity sin’ she been a lass; her worldly opinion was constituted by the broad swathes of Greater Manchester, herself never having deigned to venture farther than oriental Tramside.Not a little proud (some vices must be allowed to the prostrate servants of any higher power), Mr Evans piqued himself as much was warranted by this genial cloud of admiration he had sowed in his wake. To give a brief sketch of the man ambling along our page in an ill-fitted tweed suit shall be no onerous task. Since a boy, he had often been branded a rascal — in those days one of the most profane indictments one could level at another — the shame of which was not in the least mitigated by it’s author being his own mother; ever an optimist in the face of maternal condemnation however, being accustomed to this sort of abuse, a George Evans of fifteen could not but bask in such a compliment. The chief amusements of his adolescence had in the first been stealing cigarettes and liquor from the grocer, Mr O’Hare (he had not yet abandoned his wife and the joys of commerce for a better place where virtue is not measured by quid and pence), who had at one point become so incensed at this juvenile malefactor that he actually belted the poor boy senseless — so bereaved was he at the loss of five pounds’ worth of Burton Scotch; I myself have seen the dearest of friendships, dating far back to the shimmering years of boyhood, torn asunder by less.As our present story could not be otherwise however, a change must come: an event occurred which drove our young prodigy to higher pursuits in life than tormenting his innocent neighbours and mother. It had arrived in the form of a letter, wrought in cold ink, announcing that his father had fallen at Dunkirk. Poor George had never been much of a religious zealot in his youth, unaffected by his father’s readings on Saturday nights, but now that he had seen and felt a finality unimaginable yesterday, he threw all his powers to worshipping what was once dim and obscure, thence not the less blurred but shone with such intensity as makes the most irreverent of men believers when they have suffered martyrdom in a loved one. Perhaps he merely imagined paternal disappointment breathing down his neck, and was dragged under the chafe of that yoke to the grace of God.And so after some years’ study beyond the watchful gates of northern England, a man returned to his native town; although as readers we may wish that this Ulysses bring back with him fabulous encounters with Midland Scyllas and the sirens of Cambridge, we must as yet suppress that natural urge — though a charming man in his own right, we shall pass over much of George Evans’s history; for he is not the hero of our story. He did however, during his repatriation, find himself his own Penelope, a lovely young lady perhaps not five years his junior, marking the end of his odyssey to adulthood. More need not be said, I think, concerning this couple — let them bask in the pleasant throes of young love, leading them where it ought, fiery spirits made docile by experience, to where we can examine the domestic affairs of a family of four.Every June King’s Cross Station was wont to flood the streets of London with oddities: some clad in billowing robes far too oppressive for the heat, others seen buckling about in the metropolis with the dexterity of a newborn fawn, many donning expressions of utmost perplexity at the vision of commonplace electric utilities — many city-goers were inclined to believe an autumnal influx of Amish had come for the delights of British precipitation; such clouds must never have graced the skies of Pennsylvania, after all.A keen observer might have spied four figures traversing the throng down Crestfield St, a comely middle-aged couple flanked by a pair of young women, both of them advancing on the pavement in taut steps, heads held high with scowls impressing their pretty brows. One of them, a handsome redhead of smaller stature, was chewing her bottom lip raw in agitation; the other, a waxen figure inspired with breath, had the manifestation of feminine discontent down to an art: her hair was wrought in a tight flaxen bun, whence wisps of limp gold tickled down the stiff dorian column of neck; every few minutes she would twitch in irritation at this minute rebellion of nature. Two slender fingers, most abundantly adorned in rings of silver, gently opened the door of a Cartina, which was shut with corresponding delicateness a moment later. Bang.‘Christ, Lily!’ Burst forth this mild creature, ‘How many times has father told you not to slam the door!’ After the initial cry, the voice composed itself into a hushed staccato.‘I didn’t mean to,’ the offender hasted in defence, ‘I’m still used to the Vauxhall. It’s not like I’m always here, Petunia.’Alas, this delicate female had been allotted with that most unfortunate name: many a tear was spilled in Cokeworth Chapel during the christening, perhaps more from nomenclature-induced perturbation than pure neighbourly emotion. However, under the auspices of Mr and Mrs Evans, Petunia was held a most gratifying title for so darling a daughter; this proved to be quite the grievance during Petunia’s school years.‘What’re you two bickering on about now?’ Mr Evans interrupted this sororal colloquy, ‘Lily?’ (Mrs Evans was an ardent florist in her youth, and many verdant beauties could be seen in the Rectory garden, since run wild after natal cares preceded their floral counterparts.) ‘Lily slammed the door, is all.’ Petunia preferred to show clemency in company.The father gave an exasperated puff from his nostrils.‘If you girls can’t contain yourselves here to home, I’ll not let either of you using the car. All summer, I mean.’‘Lily’s the one who slammed the door!’ the elder sister quaked, ‘Besides, Vernon still hasn’t got his jag from the shop yet. God knows how long it’ll be before then. And Marge has been dying to see me again, he says. Though I do hope she doesn’t bring that mutt again, I positively reeked of slobber all night, thank goodness his parents had already left, otherwise—’ Our young orator was interrupted from her exercise by the rumbling of the ignition, her brevity of complaint too persuasive for Mr Evans to bear, and our troop was off.Lily, the transgressor against the poor Ford’s lateral wellbeing, spent most of the journey in silence, save when her parents inquired about her school-year, or when Petunia occasionally offered a remark about her sister’s complexion, remarking how dreadfully she envied the pallor that Apollo bestowed on the Scots.‘Busy lately, Dad?’‘Oh, you know how it is Lil, saving the county from eternal damnation, on sermon at a time.’‘Excited for the summer, love?’ Her mum asked.‘Not terribly, no.’‘I’m sure you and Severus’ll make do enough.’‘We’ll see.’The mossy bricks shone in the headlights when Lily made her way to the door, her soles dragging on the gravel. The family retired to their wonted pursuits: Mr Evans holed up in his study; Petunia monopolising the bathroom; Mrs Evans preparing supper, and Lily unpacking in her room. Uniform commixed with casual attire erupted from her trunk, not folded neatly as usual. Memoranda and crumpled textbooks were hastily stashed beneath the bed frame. Time from school was most often a period of ambivalence to Lily, who appreciated the return to her family, but was impatient with the restrictions of home. For five years this pressure was alleviated by companionship with one who understood her plight; but she was much changed in that time, and he was a different person.Her father came later that night for his usual ‘good night’, and as often with him, ceremony devolved into soul searching.‘You’re a bit changed, love, since Christmas.’If Lily was surprised by the question, she didn’t show it. ‘You’ve had lots of friends, haven’t you, Dad?’‘’Course I have. Lost quite a few, mind you. But I’m still making more every day, so long as I treat everyone kind-like.’‘The ones you lost, did they treat you poorly?’ The daughter’s voice grew small.‘Some of ’em. Other times you grow apart, and’s nothing much one can do then. He has journeys and ends for all of us, you know. Thank goodness you never heard it from your Nan’s mouth, but there were some lads I’d hang about at your age. Nasty buggers, but I couldn’t’ve known then, could I? Maybe I didn’t want to. Got ourselves caught up in the wrong business; trouble here, there. One day, I woke up, and it was like a switch: something particular happened, and I knew that there’d be change. We all stopped seeing each-other, and that was that. I was miffed, of course. But loss always invites gain, love, and I found my true path after that: found the church, your mother, you and your sister. The friends you choose are a mirror to yourself.’Lily chewed her lip again. ‘What if they don’t choose you?’George smiled gently at that. ‘Their loss, isn’t it?’ Seeing that she had become lost in her own head, he gave her a hug, announcing that his bed was sorely missing him, and left his daughter to her thoughts.What was plaguing this mind, lately so quiet and pensive? Nothing but what concerns most of us at that age: friendships forming fissures at every breath they take. What was once a solace to troubled minds, after years of careful nurture, had but lately been torn asunder by opposing souls, now hardly a mutual tolerance between old companions. These were the thoughts troubling young Lily Evans, for the first time betraying a fresh young mind to the doubts of human nature.