‘They’re Masons,’ Winnie whispered to Ralph, grabbing his hand. ‘Watch them when they shake hands. They do this with their finger.’
Ralph pulled his hand away. ‘Stop it!’ Her finger, moving in his palm, felt curiously naked, like something squirming under a stone.
Winnie giggled. She was off duty and had already drunk two glasses of champagne.
‘That’s a high-up policeman,’ she whispered, ‘and that’s Mr Something who’s ever so important, he’s got that factory down at Woolwich where the girls go yellow from the explosives, my friend Elsie works there, her face is yellow as custard. And that’s another bigwig. He’s got a wholesale business down at the Borough Market. His daughter’s got a club foot.’
Ralph gazed at Winnie with awe. Servants knew more than anybody else, yet he never saw Winnie gossiping in the street. It seeped into them by a sort of osmosis, the thing that plants did. His father had told him about it.
‘And they say the Mayor’s coming.’ Winnie lowered her voice, as if they were in church. ‘He’s coming to drink their health.’
‘The Lord Mayor of London?’
‘One of them. It might be the Southwark one. Mr Thingy.’
‘Oh yes,’ said a voice, ‘Mr Turk’s got his finger in a lot of pies.’
They swung round. Alwyne Flyte was standing beside them. He must have felt his way through the crowd. They could smell the mildew on his jacket.
‘But who cares?’ he said, gesturing around. ‘This lot will soon be extinct.’
‘Ssh!’ hissed Winnie. ‘They’ll hear.’
‘They don’t look very extinct to me,’ said Ralph.
‘Oh yes, when the time comes they’ll be first for the chop. You mark my words.’
Ralph was pressed against Winnie’s side. The room was too crowded for them to move. Just for a moment they felt like a huddle of conspirators, hemmed in by the stiff, rustling bustles of the lady wives. The hats, loaded with feathers, were a menace; the brims kept bumping into their faces. It was very hot.
Alwyne said: ‘Tell me what Mrs Clay’s wearing – beg pardon, Mrs Turk. I’ll wager she’s the best-looking woman here.’
Winnie nodded. ‘And the tallest.’
Eithne had taken off her hat. They could glimpse her on the other side of the room. She was pressed against the wall, smiling and nodding but somehow not in residence.
‘She looks ever so lovely,’ said Winnie. ‘She’s wearing her cream tea-gown, it’s trimmed with lace and there’s a thin blue stripe in it.’
Its inhabitant, however, had the look of a sleepwalker. Winnie had noticed this before, with brides. She felt a stab of envy. How wonderful it must be to love, and be loved in return! Her mistress had moved into a charmed country whose borders were closed. She had slipped away from Winnie, she had slipped away from them all and was already living in the future where they would feature in a more marginal, less necessary role. Her attention would now be devoted to her husband. The newlyweds were going to Brighton for a week’s honeymoon and then Mr Turk would move in as master of the house. Mr Clay’s suits had already been removed from the wardrobe and given to some distant relative. Winnie was filled with trepidation.
‘There’s going to be trouble ahead,’ said Alwyne.
Winnie jumped. Maybe the blind had a sixth sense. They could certainly hear better, their ears growing sharper in compensation for their loss of sight. Alwyne was always picking up on things which had passed Winnie by.
‘Mark my words,’ said Alwyne.
Ralph didn’t reply. He had been very quiet, the past few weeks. There had been no repetition of his outburst at dinner but he had continued to refuse meat, which had caused some difficulties in the kitchen. Mrs Clay, however – Mrs Turk – had not remarked on this but had used her cheese ration to prepare him lumpy yellow sauces which she poured over the vegetables. Motherly love was a wonderful thing.
Winnie drained her glass. It felt odd, not to be helping. Lettie was worming her way through the bodies, searching for food. Winnie felt a rush of affection for the lodgers. For a week they would have the house to themselves, and she would have the responsibility of looking after them. Mrs Turk had given her full instructions.
Just then they became aware of a stir in the room.
‘Mr Harbottle’s arrived,’ whispered Winnie. ‘He owns the jewellery shop, he’s a friend of the Mayor.’
The guests fell silent in expectation. Men stood to attention; ladies brushed crumbs off their busts.
But the great man didn’t appear. Mr Harbottle leaned towards Mr Turk and whispered in his ear. Mr Turk’s face reddened with annoyance; he turned, and muttered something to his bride.
The word spread in an instant. The Mayor wasn’t attending because his brother-in-law had shot himself. Mr Harbottle, with the sorrowful relish of those imparting bad news, was acquainting guests with the details in a sonorous voice. The man had been wounded at Gallipoli, it appeared. That very morning he had blown out his brains with his service revolver.
In the shocked silence Mr Turk’s voice came across loud and clear. He was speaking to the nearby guests, attempting a joke.
‘Didn’t he know it was my wedding day?’ he boomed. ‘Really, the fellow had no consideration. He could have waited till tomorrow!’
Eithne stared at her husband. Somebody tittered. There was an uncomfortable silence and then people started talking again in the stagy manner that follows an unfortunate moment.
Alwyne Flyte bent his head. His shoulders were shaking.
‘Oh Alwyne!’ said Winnie. Her heart ached for him. The poor man; did nobody in the room realise what he had been through? How could Mr Turk talk like that? It was shameful.
Lettie was squeezing past, carrying a plate of sandwiches. Winnie grabbed one. She took Alwyne’s hand, opened the fingers, and placed the sandwich in it.
‘It’s egg and pickle,’ she said. Tenderly she closed his fingers over it. ‘I’m so sorry. Mr Turk shouldn’t have said that.’
Alwyne raised his head. Winnie realised, then, that he was shaking with laughter. She was taken aback. With his spare hand he wiped his eyes, dislodging his spectacles.
‘The man should get a medal,’ he chuckled. ‘Crassness on that scale is positively heroic.’
‘Mrs Clay doesn’t look best pleased,’ said Winnie.
Alwyne bit into his sandwich. ‘I don’t expect she married him for his soul.’
Winnie froze. How could he say that, in front of the boy? Such a crude, suggestive remark, he should be ashamed of himself! She looked anxiously at Ralph.
Ralph, however, nodded in agreement. ‘I believe he’s really quite rich. How can a man have all that money when he’s just a butcher?’
The danger had passed. Winnie relaxed. She realised, however, that she was wet with sweat – under her armpits, trickling down between her breasts. Life was much simpler when she was working – just being a maid, doing her job.
Alwyne turned to her. He spoke with his mouth full. ‘Any chance of getting your hands on more of that champagne?’
*
Winnie didn’t know how it happened. For the rest of her life, when she remembered that evening, she blushed with shame and a sort of dumb incomprehension.
She was drunk, of course. So was Alwyne. The guests had long since gone and the surly waitresses had cleared the glasses and even, it seemed, washed them up in the kitchen. They had gone too. Everybody had gone. Ralph had gone to bed. The lodgers had gone to bed.
All the lodgers but Alwyne.
She and Alwyne had remained in the back room, like two pieces of driftwood when the tide had retreated. They sat on either side of the fireplace, which Winnie had sealed off for the summer with a piece of corrugated card. The room rocked gently around them.
‘They’ll be in the Ship Hotel now,’ she said.
Alwyne nodded.
‘In Brighton.’
The clock struck eleven. They sat there in silence, no doubt imagining the
same thing: a big double bed; clothes strewn about the floor. It was very close; Winnie had opened the window but the room was stifling.
‘You been to Brighton?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Nor me.’ She felt a lurch of self-pity, then a deeper wave of sorrow for Alwyne. He would never see Brighton now. There were two piers, she had seen photographs, and a promenade. Alwyne would live in darkness for the rest of his life. War was so cruel. And its casualties were not just physical. Only she knew what went on in the Spooners’ room upstairs.
‘There’ll be plenty of canoodling when they come home,’ said Alwyne. He stretched out his hand for the bottle; Winnie pushed it in his direction.
‘Have you ever been married?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Never found the right girl.’
‘Would she have to be a communist?’
‘That’s purely theoretical now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let’s be honest, Winnie. Who would want a man like me?’
‘Oh I don’t know. There’s so few boys left that girls are desperate for anybody.’
Winnie blushed. Alwyne burst out laughing.
‘I’m so sorry, sir –’
‘Don’t call me sir!’
‘I’m a little bit tiddly.’
‘I do love you, Winnie. Know something? You’re the only person who keeps me sane.’
Winnie was startled. Yet he spoke so naturally that she wasn’t embarrassed. Alwyne had always treated her with familiarity. Just now she liked it. In fact, she was starting to like him.
Alwyne pushed the bottle across the table. ‘Go on, have another one. It’s Sunday tomorrow.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, while the cat’s away …’
Winnie gazed at his ripe red lips, nestling in the tangle of his beard. She poured herself another glass; some of the champagne slopped on to the table. Who cared? She didn’t, and Alwyne couldn’t see anyway. She felt reckless laughter bubbling up.
‘And what about you, Winnie? Have you got a sweetheart?’
‘Oh no.’ The laughter drained away. ‘Nobody will ever marry me.’
Alwyne raised his head. ‘And why would that be?’
Winnie took a breath. ‘Remember when you asked me what I looked like?’
He nodded.
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘I look like a horse. Worse than a horse. I love horses. What I mean is …’ She stopped. She knew it was going to come out in a rush but there was no stopping it. Like the moment when you knew you were about to vomit.
‘Archie was the butcher’s boy and I was soft on him,’ she blurted out. ‘I thought he liked me too. He used to stop by in the kitchen and talk to me. He had ginger hair and such a smile it lit up the place, it made me feel special. I thought he was the one for me.’ Winnie stopped.
‘So what happened?’ he asked softly. ‘What happened with this Archie?’
‘One day I was walking out, I was walking under the bridge where they played football and there he was, my heart turned over. And he stopped, they all stopped.’
‘Go on.’
‘I thought he was going to say something like hello Winnie but he looked at the other boys and they looked at him and then they started making this noise.’ Winnie paused.
‘What noise?’
‘A sort of whickering noise, like a horse makes when it recognises another horse. A whinnying noise. Winnie, Winnie he said, he was making fun of me, he was egging the other boys on.’ Winnie started to cry. ‘And then the penny dropped. I felt my legs give out, it was the shock of it, and when I got back to my room I looked in the mirror and I knew he was right. I’d never really looked at myself. I know that sounds funny but I hadn’t. It was like in the Bible story when Eve saw she didn’t have any clothes on. The scales fell from my eyes. He was right and nobody would ever love me because I’m ugly. I’ve got this big long face, it’s not like a horse, horses are beautiful, it’s just a big long face and I’ve got a great big jaw like a spade, I look like a man, and I know there’s terrible things in the world but this is my thing and I’ve got it for ever.’
She sat there, sobbing. Alwyne stubbed out his cigarette.
‘Don’t cry.’ He stood up and felt his way round the table. He was a little unsteady on his feet. ‘Please don’t cry.’ He fumbled for her, feeling her shoulder, and reached down for her hand. ‘Come and sit next to me.’
He raised her to her feet. Winnie, too, could hardly stand. Her head swam. They moved across the room, supporting each other like invalids, and sat down heavily on the settee.
‘You have a beautiful voice,’ he said. ‘I love it when you read to me. You have a beautiful voice and a beautiful soul, and that means you’re a beautiful person, in all the ways that matter. Can I touch your hair?’
‘Wait a moment.’ Winnie fumbled with her pins. Her hands weren’t working as they should. Finally she got the pins out and dropped them on the floor. Her hair fell down over her shoulders.
‘Actually, my hair is quite nice,’ she said. ‘It’s brown, but pale brown.’
His face came close to her. She could smell the tobacco on his breath. It thrilled her – the maleness of him, the foreignness. He pressed his nose into her hair and breathed in its scent. When he let out his breath, the warmth spread through her body. She started trembling.
‘You smell so young,’ he murmured. Could he smell her sweat? She could. His hand was stroking her hair. His thigh was pressed against hers.
‘I shouldn’t,’ she whispered.
‘Oh yes you should.’ His voice was low and coaxing. ‘You know that, Winnie, don’t you?’ He mesmerised her – his hands, his breath, the press of his body.
‘I bet you’ve done this a lot,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘I expect I have.’ He shrugged. ‘But not for quite some time.’
‘It’s a shame,’ she said. ‘If you cleaned yourself up a bit you’d be quite handsome.’
Alwyne burst out laughing. He flung his head back and shook, helplessly.
‘I didn’t mean –’
‘You’re a caution, Winnie.’
Winnie laughed, shakily. She must be drunk, to say a thing like that. But Alwyne didn’t seem to mind. And in fact it was true. He was quite old, of course – he must be nearly forty. But somewhere, under the wild black hair and wiry beard, he looked as noble as a sheikh. And he was hers! This full-grown man was hers. It was her body that was causing him to breathe hoarsely, for now he was pressed against her, his hands moving over her shoulders and down her arms. His hands were trembling too. He took off his spectacles and dropped them on the floor. His eyes were closed, and with his hands he was bringing her alive, like ripples spreading when she dipped her finger in a pond.
‘Wait,’ she whispered. Disentangling herself, Winnie stumbled to the door. She shut it, and jammed a chair under the handle. As she did so she had a moment of clarity. She thought: I’ll show Mrs Clay that I can do it too. She’s not the only one, her and her Ship Hotel.
She thought: I’m going to do it because the Germans might bomb us to smithereens tomorrow and I’ll never know what it feels like. That silly runty Archie can go hang.
She thought: this man might be blind but only a blind man would have me anyway, and I can give him pleasure, it’s the least I can do after all he’s sacrificed for my country. Don’t I owe him that? In fact, it’s my duty.
All this was jumbled in her head; it made her dizzy. Winnie made her way back to the settee, knocking over the table but she didn’t care because Alwyne was waiting for her, his arms outstretched. She knelt between his legs, which spread open for her. He pulled her towards him. She felt herself passing over a threshold; beyond lay empty space. She could feel herself falling, and he was taking her with him.
They kissed. His lips were soft and ripe; it was like finding a berry in a hawthorn hedge. Winnie kept her lips closed but then his tongue was in her mouth and she
surrendered, pressing herself against him, feeling his fingers struggling with the buttons down the front of her dress.
He’s blind! He can’t see how plain I am. But she didn’t feel plain, she felt beautiful, his hands were making her beautiful, and now they were growing more urgent, his breath was quickening and she couldn’t be bothered to help him with the buttons. They keeled over, on to the floor, and Alwyne was pulling up her skirt and her petticoat in a workmanlike manner, oh yes he’d done this before often enough, and his fingers were probing inside her drawers. Winnie gasped. She squeezed her eyes shut, joining him in his blindness She knew how it was done, of course, she had seen Lord Elbourne’s stallion servicing the mares, but still it was a shock, the big thing nudging between her legs, as solid as a rolling pin. Such an old man, his body soft from sitting around all day, and the thing so solid.
‘Oh Winnie, Winnie my love,’ he gasped, and pushed it in.
Winnie yelped.
The dog must have heard. Far away, in the other world she had left behind, Winnie heard him scratching at the door, trying to get in.
*
Their room overlooked the sea. The manager was a friend of Neville’s and had reserved them the finest apartment in the hotel. It had two windows, swathed with glazed, striped curtains held back with tassels the size of pineapples. Everything smelt new. It smelt of somebody else’s responsibility. It had a bathroom all to itself which Eithne could walk in and out of whenever she chose – she, who had spent a lifetime on freezing stairs, waiting for the click of the door. She could walk in and out of it naked, if she fancied, and after a day or so she lost her shyness. It had a rosy-marbled wash-basin, mottled like meat. Thick white towels hung over a radiator which pumped out heat day and night, and in May too. The bath was so large they could sit in it together, which they did, soaping each other and drinking tea from cups balanced on the rim. Inch by inch they became acquainted with each other’s bodies. She combed the hairs on Neville’s legs with the nail-brush, first parallel lines then crosshatching them like an etching.
In The Dark Page 9