The Blind Light

by Stuart Evers

  Carter leans in to Drum. A smell of cigarettes, of dried blood. He looks unhinged, glass-eyed, still drunk, or drunk again.

  ‘You said stick close—’

  ‘That’s what I said, yes. I said stick close, no matter what.’

  Carter drinks his drink and smokes his smoke.

  ‘And did you?’ he says.

  There is a feeling of test, as though he is being examined. It’s difficult to know whether he is about to be set upon by Carter, or embraced. Drum would accept the hiding. He is deserving of it. Part of him wants it. That part of the mind to which he has no access.

  ‘Of course you did, Drum. Even after everything, you kept your promise,’ Carter says. ‘What I said . . . that was unforgivable. But you stuck by me. I knew you’d save me. I was sure of it.’

  Carter raises his glass.

  ‘To sticking together,’ Carter says.

  Drum wants to tell him. Wants to say that he did not stick close. That he saw what was happening and he let them have their punches, their kicks. An accident, Drum being close. Just an accident.

  ‘Anyway,’ Carter says. ‘Now tell me. You’re not really going to marry that girl, are you?’

  23

  Under the clock tower, people milling past, errands to run, quick in the chill. She looks at the minute hand turn. Past one o’clock now. To be expected, not to make it out on time. She will give him an hour. She will give him a minute or so longer. She waits until the clock tower tolls again, then sets off home.

  Home now, but not home. Abandoned once, abandoned forever. She is seething rage. She feels the sparks of it, the spits from the fire, her heels clack like she is crushing bones. She passes closed pubs and locked shops, factory workers returning home from the early shift. Outside the old milliner’s she stops. She stops and rings the bell for the upstairs flat. The door opens and there is Nick, wild-haired, woken from post-pub nap.

  ‘Hello, my dear,’ he says.

  ‘You were right,’ she says. ‘Of course, you were right.’

  ‘Come on in,’ he says. ‘Do, please, come in.’

  He closes the door behind her. A stout door with locks. She follows him up the stairs. Perhaps here to stay. Perhaps here she will be safe. Yes, perhaps here.

  24

  Drum holds his glass in front of him, out still in toast, unsure whether to deny or confirm. There is a clock, its face cracked, its hands halted at just before ten o’clock. He looks at his watch. It is just after one. He is late. Should be there now with her. Under the clock tower, taking her arm.

  ‘How did you know we were engaged?’

  Carter opens out his arms wide. ‘I didn’t, but I could tell. All that furtiveness. The need on your face. There wasn’t anything else it could have been. But you’re not really going through with it, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Drum says. ‘Yes, I’m going through with it.’

  ‘Is she up the stick?’ he says.

  ‘No,’ Drum says. ‘No, nothing like that.’

  Carter stands and walks the glass-danced floor, kicks at a stool that disintegrates beneath his shoe.

  ‘Oh, Moore, you poor old skate. Why would you do such a thing? You’re young. You can do anything, go anywhere! Christ, if I had your freedom, I wouldn’t be throwing it away on some barmaid from sheep-shagging country.’

  ‘You’re getting married,’ Drum says. ‘You’ve been engaged this whole time!’

  ‘And that’s my cross, Drum. I can no more stop that from happening than I can stop the bomb. Daphne and I will get married and there’ll be kids and there’ll be a house and a job, all the rest of it. But I am going to live, do you understand me? But I’ll only be able to do that in the shadows. You? You can do it in the light! I’m stuck with this. You’re not.’

  Believed this, clearly. The ire in the eyes and the tapping of the foot. Another test, of sorts. Convince Carter, make him see. Because you love Gwen, and whatever doubts you’ve had before, you know that. Know that, somehow. Why else be here and not on a transport home?

  ‘I love her, James.’ How weak that sounding, so hopelessly wet. Carter kicks another stool, a more resilient one that scuttles across the floor.

  ‘You hardly know the girl, you daft old sod. She’s not even bloody pregnant! Look around you, Drum. Look at this place. You know what it all means. You know what this place is telling you. It’s telling you to live. All those places you’ve never been? You can go there now. You’ve got the world to go at!’

  Drum laughs. For the first time, he wants to call him out. Call him a bastard. Tell him how ridiculous he really is.

  ‘With what?’ Drum says. ‘With what, exactly? Fresh air and the savings from Service?’

  Carter sits back down across from Drum, puts out his hands, as though wanting to take Drum’s in his.

  ‘You only have to ask,’ Carter says. ‘A job. Whatever you want, I can get it for you. I can organize something, put in a word for you. You only have to ask. You know that. All you have to do is ask. Anywhere you want to go, anything you want to do. Just ask. I owe you that. He could have killed me, that bloke. Any one of them—’

  ‘You don’t owe me anything,’ Drum says. ‘It’s not all balances and accounts, debits and credits.’

  ‘That’s quite naive,’ Carter says. ‘Noble, but naive.’

  He could ask for anything. At that moment, it’s clear that’s what is on the table. He can ask him for a job. Ask him to take him from factories and fumes and industrial actions. Only have to say. Only have to form the words.

  ‘I just want to go home, James,’ Drum says. ‘I just want to marry Gwen and go home.’

  And put like that it sounds mealy, put like that it sounds petty and small. He doesn’t know Gwen. He doesn’t want to go back to Ford’s, to the estate, to the pub on a Friday, a fish and chip supper afterwards. Carter is right. Carter doesn’t know what he is talking about.

  ‘I offer you the world,’ Carter says, ‘and you choose Dagenham.’

  Carter refreshes the drinks, looks around the barroom, as though there are pretty girls waiting for him to romance. He smiles.

  ‘It was worth a try,’ he says. ‘At least now I’m sure. You looked like you might hit me for a moment; just for a split second I saw that boy who almost kicked a man’s head clean off. Congratulations, Moore. May you be eternally happy.’

  A toast, silent, save for the clank. He will smell of ale when he meets his future father-in-law. Something Gwen will notice for sure.

  ‘I need to go,’ Drum says. ‘I’m meeting Gwen.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Carter says. ‘No, that isn’t the plan. I have the car out front. It’s still our One, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got it all planned. I’ve booked us a hotel in the Lakes. Fishing and champagne. Doing it in style. My treat.’

  ‘I’ve got to meet Gwen,’ he says. ‘I promised.’

  ‘We’ll call her from the base. She’ll understand.’

  ‘No,’ he says.

  And meaning no. Saying no. He can buy mints to freshen his breath. He could buy flowers for Gwen. Saying no and meaning no. Never once has Carter mentioned fishing on their One, never mentioned it before. Saying no and meaning no.

  ‘What difference does a day make?’ Carter said. ‘What’s one day going to hurt? Call her and tell her there’s been complications and you’ll be with her tomorrow. I’ll drop you back myself. Easy as pie.’

  Carter raises his glass, expectantly. Just a day. When put like that, what difference a day? Gwen sure to understand. And a little white lie. Two years should not just be forgotten with a snap of the fingers. And when will he see Carter again? A lifetime to be with Gwen: how long left with Carter? They never did make it fishing. They never did catch those carp.

  ‘I’ll need to call her,’ he says. ‘She’ll be waiting. I’m already late.’

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘We’ll stop in at the office on the way. It’ll all be fine. Trust me.’

  They get up from the table and open the d
oor, the town bright under the floodlights. On the way up the high street, past the ruins and the beached machinery, they talk about Ireland and the shoot-out they narrowly won; Korea and the masked assassin; Cyprus and the uprising. They pass the library, the church, the fishmonger’s and bakery, their bitten brickwork and open roofs. They walk and they share a bottle between them, the brown ale glinting in the artificial glow.

  The Stars Shine Down from Heaven

  1962

  Friday 26 – Sunday 28 October

  1

  The chances are he helped build his car; the odds good his fingerprints are beneath its paintwork. So many chassis, so many doors, and his dabs on them all. As a young man, he took pride in that, took pride in seeing Fords out on the road; offered a mental salute towards their chrome and steel. I made you. You came along the line, and I made you. Hubris perhaps, but he still sometimes feels that same creeping joy: on seeing two lovers in a Ford Anglia, all smiles and sex; or on passing a day-tripping family, four heads mutely singing behind steamed-up windows. Scant and fleeting, but still there: a reminder of what the working week is for.

  ‘Remember, they’re not just machines,’ an old hand on the line said, not long after he’d started at Ford’s. ‘The cunts are dreams too.’ A wink then. Pursed eyes, red-tinged from fume.

  ‘Henry Ford told me that himself.’ A laugh, close followed by cough. His name was Curtis. Talk to me of dreams, Curtis.

  Chances are he helped to build his car; the odds good he riveted the door of the car that will not start. His first attempt was met with silence; the second with a dying low; the third, full out with choke, a further failure. In the stone-cold weather, a little hesitancy to be expected, no need for panic.

  ‘Not today,’ he says. ‘Not today.’

  A fifth attempt, a come on of encouragement, a threat of vengeance, and the engine catches: a roar as he pumps the accelerator; a mewling as his foot pulls back. Never in doubt. The surprised heater blows hard against the fogged windscreen as he places a tender, thankful hand on the dashboard.

  Eyes down, closed and then open: a pair of wet size-nine prints on the rubber mat beneath the pedals. A vandalism that. Grandpa has recently cleaned the interior: it is spick, span, Bristol fashion. Grandpa words. Must have done so as they were packing. The footwells and seats have been swept; the dash buffed with beeswax polish. Grandpa drives twice a year but valets the car as though he chauffeurs royals to the races. For them – for him – a clean car and a spare tyre; a glove compartment stacked with roadmaps. All for them – for him – though it is Grandpa’s car too. Fifty–fifty, at least in name; half the money his. The roll of peppermints in the door’s compartment, a couple removed and the paper twisted to a fine point, all Grandpa’s though. His, but happy to share. Happy to share with anyone.

  He wipes the condensation from the inside of the windscreen. Hazardous, Grandpa warned him, in this weather, unsafe such a long trip.

  ‘The weather’s changing, Gramps,’ Drum said.

  ‘Not what I hear,’ Grandpa said.

  They were standing in the sitting room of his great-aunt’s house, of late his grandfather’s house too, though there was nothing of him there save for a picture of his wife on the mantle. The plum-and-milk sofa had antimacassars; there were pastoral prints hanging in gaudy frames; the room smelled of lilac and baking. In silence, Drum embraced his grandpa, surprising him: the old man unwilling at first, then accepting his arms, beating his palms on Drum’s back, manly like.

  ‘We’ll be back soon,’ Drum said. ‘You take care, now.’

  The old man laughed, big laugh on him, stoop shoulders rocking inside a beige cardigan.

  ‘Take care? It’s not me who’s pricking on up north in this weather,’ he said.

  Vi came through from the kitchen with tea on a tray, a plate laid with just-cooled biscuits. Drum kissed her goodbye, held her close enough to claim a smudge of flour from her cheek.

  ‘Sorry, Vi,’ he said, walking to the front door. ‘No time for tea. Must rush.’

  He paused at the door, hand on the lock. He wanted to fix them at that moment: their biscuits dipped in their tea, saying their crumb-mouthed farewells. Enough.

  A photograph of them, along with other snaps, is in an album buried in the stuffed boot. Drum and Gwen haven’t been away for a weekend since Anneka was born, and his suggestion they should pack for all eventualities went unquestioned. They divided the tasks: Gwen filling a suitcase for her and little Annie; Drum responsible for the rest. Bags are strewn across the back seats, a space left beside them for the too-small carrycot in which they hope Annie will sleep. Inside the house, Gwen is getting Annie off to sleep as Drum warms the car, opens out the maps, plots again the route; a thin finger tracing the hours ahead. Six hours. Six hours maybe more.

  North of St Albans, west of Bedford, the map dampens. A single teardrop falling on Hertfordshire, dissolving the county. The others he catches, hands quick to his eyes, the tears making tracers: strafes of yellow, glitches of red. He beats his fists against the steering wheel; enough just to smart, enough just to heat them through. The roll of peppermints rattles in the door, almost rhythmic. How long it lasts.

  Quiet now, still and quiet now; staring at the Ford logo at the centre of the steering wheel. How he would like to sound the horn. How he would like to hold it down and yowl in its wake. He grips the wheel; knuckles white as lard. He stays like that for time: straight-backed and shallow-breathed, heart slowing, the tightness of his chest unclenching, not sounding the horn. Looking down at the map, not sounding the horn. Listening to the idle of the engine, not sounding the horn. Eyes straight ahead, watching the street, ten white knuckles not sounding the horn.

  From the paper roll, he loosens a peppermint and sets it on his tongue, holds it there like communion wafer. He makes an O with his mouth and his inward breath freezes with mint, ices his teeth. He takes the map from the dash, Hertfordshire remaining damp and obscured.

  He follows the roads they will take. Six hours at least. Better to travel than arrive. A laugh at that. A poster at the plant, an illustration of a Ford Edsel, a family inside: American, unmistakably. In the canteen, framed on the wall. One of many. So many posters. So many advertisements. Better to travel than arrive. The cunts are dreams too. Talk to me of dreams, Curtis.

  2

  Anneka went down easily, her afternoon nap the only time she was sure to sleep. Twenty months old and still at night never more than four hours straight. Waking in the dark, hungry mouth for breast, open mouth for scream, lately now articulating short sentences, but Mama, mostly. Loud in the silent, night-time house – Mama. Shuffling from bed, Gwen moving light-footed, dodging creaking floorboards, into her daughter’s room – Mama. Anneka standing with her fists gripping the bars of the cot – Mama. Gwen hoisting her up and carrying her to the single bed – Mama. Gwen out with her breast, then the sound of jaw. Lying there all hours of night, feeding her daughter’s sucking mouth; her biting, mischievous mouth. A different girl in the light and day. A nocturne, aye.

  At the kitchen table Gwen smokes a cigarette. In front of her are cheese sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, a hand of bananas, a thermos of tea, milk in a bottle; beside them a list of items not to forget, its entries scored and ticked, double-entry certain. Annie is in the carrycot in the sitting room. Four maybe five hours ahead in the boxy car. How many to be filled with scream; how many with Annie under her coat, suckling for want of entertainment? Her own fault. Should have weaned by now. Not even a radio in the car. Just talk and tea and the look as Gwen lights a cigarette; Drum cracking the window, the brief pleasure hardly worth the silent reproach. Four, maybe five hours. Jesus wept.

  Another week, another day even, she would have refused him. There were enough reasons against: Annie’s cold and cough, the weather, the distance, the company at journey’s end. All good excuses, all solid, practical objections. Another week, aye.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to say,’ Drummond said over Wednesday
’s chops. ‘I got a letter from Carter this morning. They’ve finally fixed up the house and wondered if we wanted to visit this weekend.’

  He’d already accepted; she saw that in the glance up from his dinner. She wanted to say it was short notice, but didn’t. That what she’d have been expected to say. She instead cut the fat from the lamb, forked it to the side of her plate.

  ‘It’ll be fun!’ he said, perhaps hearing her unvoiced response and pushing through with whatever he’d already prepared. ‘A little playmate for Annie, good food, nice walks. It’ll be good to get away. Forget about things for a time.’

  ‘Things?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Things.’

  So light, and so casual. Just things. What things to forget; what things to winnow away from. Things hiding a myriad; things hiding a multitude. She knew what he meant. The strikes at work. The second child they were not yet expecting. Him muttering to himself as he lit the fire of a morning. Him unable to concentrate on his library book of an evening. Him sitting in the small chair in Annie’s room, watching the two of them sleep. Things, these. Things.

  And enough, these things. Making sense, these things. No reason to say no. No real reason. No reason other than she would rather do anything else. But no reason to disappoint. No reason to drag it out the evening.

  ‘Won’t you be needed on the picket?’

  This cruel.

  ‘They won’t miss me,’ he said. ‘Won’t even know I’m gone.’

  This a lie. A straightforward tell, the scratching of the throat, one she’d come to know since the move to Dagenham.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I can picket the morning, and then we can drive up in the afternoon while Annie sleeps.’

  She looked down at her fatless chop.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. And that face. Delighted boy-child face. Lifting his eyes, scrambling his features, erasing days and weeks from his forehead. That face.