1s 11d for a yard of rayon —
Eva stares at the pinks and greens
in the draper’s window,
that’s up from last month.
She turns and walks up York Street.
Tram fares are up, price of bread,
price of mutton, “Paper, Miss?”
Eva smiles, “No thank you.”
“Leaving Results today, Miss?”
“No thank you.”

Eva has seen the results,
all fifteen letters of her name
stamped in black type on the bursary list.
“Well?” says her mother,
“Just missed a distinction in French.”
Eva’s mouth holds the twist of a smile.
She has seen her father
white from exertion,
stumble up steps,
hand clutched at his chest.
She knows the word
that hangs in the air
between them,
angina,
and knows
that hope
is a thing to be swallowed,
to hold in the belly
until it turns sour.

Stomach knotted in place,
Eva walks up York Street
pausing to note
what the shop windows tell her today
about the cost of living.