In The Dark

by Deborah Moggach

  Neville was her husband. She had to get used to the word all over again, to the new taste of it in her mouth, to this powerful, urgent body that possessed her. Sometimes, in the midst of their lovemaking, they drew back and gazed at each other in wonderment.

  ‘You are the woman of my life,’ he said. ‘You’re the woman I’ve been waiting for.’ He stroked her breasts. ‘Know something? Thinking about these kept me awake at night.’

  ‘Are they worth the wait?’ she asked. ‘You don’t want your money back?’

  Outside it was raining; the sea and sky merged into one grey blur, but they didn’t care. They seldom roused themselves to go out. Stupefied, the mere thought of dressing exhausted them.

  ‘I want to show you off,’ he said. ‘I want to show them what I’ve got. I want to take you down the Palace Pier and see their faces,’ he said, and fell back on the pillows, pulling her with him. They ordered meals to be sent up to their room, it was their own little world, becalmed in time, cut adrift from the past.

  When Eithne tried to remember her first marriage it slipped through her fingers, like snatching at minnows. How had it been with Paul, in the early days? Oh she had loved him, she remembered the tenderness but there had been no greed like this, no passion that stopped her breath. She had loved him in a motherly, protective way, he was such a sensitive soul. Too good for this world, she now thought, for she had long ago forgotten the fractiousness and disappointments.

  Far away, outside the windows, far away through that inpenetrable mist the war had claimed Paul and he was becoming as unknowable as if they had never met. He had already left her, some time before he died. During his brief leave he was already absent. Now this great bull of a man, her lover, her lover, her husband, had blocked the view. Eithne had no energy to look beyond him; Neville sucked her into him and she was lost.

  They talked during the afternoons as they lay naked on the bed, sweating in the heat. Later, she could remember little of what they said. She told him about her Irish mother, who loved poetry and died young, and her father who sold insurance. Neville gazed at her as she spoke, smoothing her eyebrows with his thumb, tracing the veins in her wrist, inspecting her. She loved it when he sized her up. She remembered that first day in her kitchen, his head cocked sideways as he watched her make a fool of herself over the sausages.

  ‘I couldn’t stand you,’ she said, ‘I told myself I’d never go near your shop.’

  ‘You did, did you?’

  ‘Lording it over me.’

  ‘How long did it take, eh? Two days, if I remember.’

  She jabbed him with her elbow. He rolled her over and bit her shoulder.

  It was mainly Neville who talked. He told her about his vision for the future. When the war was over, he said, life would never return to how it had been. The world had changed for ever. Though stirred by his words Eithne couldn’t quite envisage this. For a start, she couldn’t believe the war would ever end. It was like chronic bronchitis; how could one imagine being well again? Nor could she imagine anything changing. Her life, bounded by the four walls of her house, was so focused on the struggle for survival, its daily grind and petty decisions, that there seemed no possibility of other possibilities, she simply had no energy for them. But Neville flung open the door; fresh air rushed in.

  ‘Mark my words,’ he said. ‘There’s big opportunities out there, for those that want to grab them.’

  Eithne had no idea about his plans, not then. She simply gazed at him as he lay propped against the pillows – a magnificent beast who had come to her rescue. He was hers, he was here. Gratitude flooded through her. My heavy fetters have become daisy chains. Her mother had read her that, in a poem.

  On the fourth day they bathed and dressed and made their way downstairs for dinner. Eithne, her legs like jelly, had to steady herself on the banister. In the lobby men caught her eye. They knew. She gave off a scent like an animal. With a spasm of guilt she realised: I haven’t thought about Ralph since Saturday.

  In the saloon bar Neville ordered champagne. Eithne was discovering that she had a strong head; yet another thing that Neville admired about her. ‘I like a woman who can take her drink,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing mimsy-pimsy about you, my love.’

  At the next table sat three young men drinking beer. They gazed at Eithne with a frank appreciation that was as foreign as their uniform. Neville struck up a conversation with them. It turned out that they were American servicemen, just arrived and en route to France. America had recently shipped over a large number of reinforcements. These boys were blond and fresh-faced; big fellows packed with muscle. Bouncing with confidence, they looked a different species to the British soldiers returning from the Front.

  ‘Now we’ve arrived we’ll get that Hun licked,’ said Clarence, the tallest of them. He had sloping shoulders, like Ralph, and a prominent Adam’s apple. ‘General Pershing has their number, so you guys don’t have to worry any more.’

  Neville ordered them a bottle of champagne and drank their health. Clarence was studying to be an architect. When he returned, he said, he was going to work in New York City, the greatest city on earth, the city of the future. ‘There’s buildings being put up fifteen, twenty storeys high, beautiful buildings framed in steel. Now they’ve covered the railroad in Park Avenue you should see the stuff coming up there.’ He said there were apartment hotels where people lived all the time, with dining rooms, and bachelor apartment buildings with no kitchens because everybody ate in restaurants. They had doormen who took in the parcels. There were great hotels that had lobbies filled with shops.

  Neville lit a cigar. He was not to be outdone by these Yankee whippersnappers. ‘There’s buildings like that in London.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Eithne.

  ‘There’s blocks of flats,’ he said. ‘Victoria, St John’s Wood. They got a porter. That’s what we’ll be building when this war’s over. The servants, they’re not going to be coming back, not now they’ve seen what life’s like. People are going to have to look after themselves, my love, the war’s broken it up like Humpty Dumpty and it won’t be put back together again.’

  ‘That’s what Alwyne says.’ Eithne turned to the Americans. ‘He’s my lodger, he’s a communist, or an anarchist, or something of that kind. He’s been filling my maid’s head with all sorts of nonsense.’

  ‘It’s every man for himself now,’ said Neville, blowing out smoke. ‘It’s not what you’re born, it’s what you do with yourself. There’s money to be made, big money for those who’re prepared to stick their neck out. It’s not just you –’ he poked his cigar in their direction – ‘who live in a land of bleeding opportunity, if you’ll pardon my French.’

  Nibbling a cheese straw, Eithne gazed at her husband. How mature he looked, how experienced and manly, compared to these scrubbed young boys who were going out to face God knew what! Simply sitting with him in company thrilled her, that they had emerged from their rumpled bed, from their secret life, to sit in public with these fellows, the smell of roasting meat wafting in from the dining room. Neville was bragging a little, trying to be cock of the roost but Eithne didn’t mind, she would indulge him anything because she knew that after dinner he would take her upstairs and hoist up her skirts and give her such pleasure she thought she would die.

  ‘This is my fiancée,’ said Clarence.

  Eithne jumped; she had been miles away. The American passed her a photograph.

  ‘Her name is Emily,’ he said. ‘This is her and me standing outside the Astoria Hotel, New York City. We’d just celebrated our engagement.’

  Eithne inspected the photograph. Emily was a plain little creature. She clung to Clarence’s arm, proud to have got him. Their eager faces touched Eithne’s heart. ‘She lives in Brooklyn Heights, her father’s in the fur trade,’ said Clarence.

  Many months later Eithne would remember these words. At the time, however, she just felt a comradely bond with the couple. They too had found love. She was pleased for th
em, of course, but with a certain careless condescension she felt its glow must be a timid thing compared to her own fierce furnace.

  It never crossed her mind that the boy might not return to claim his bride. Nor that the buildings he dreamed of designing might never be erected in his beloved city. Other buildings would rise up, floor after floor of them, piling into the sky, but none of them Clarence’s.

  *

  While the cat’s away. It was the strangest week of Winnie’s life. For it didn’t happen just the once, with Alwyne Flyte. At night he crept down to her room. In his bedroom slippers he was as quiet as a cat – no blunderings, no bumping into the furniture. For a year now he had felt his way about the house, his blind-man’s fingers knew every inch. And there was no need of a candle, of course, to arouse suspicion; for him it was always the middle of the night.

  Winnie had him in her thrall. She didn’t actually enjoy what he did, huffing and puffing on top of her; he was surprisingly heavy and there really wasn’t room for the two of them in her bed. But Alwyne wanted to do it and she was happy to oblige. Besides, it wasn’t unpleasant and sometimes, when he closed his lips over her nipple, when he sucked at her like a baby and his beard rasped her skin, she felt a spreading warmth that mildly resembled the sensation she could produce herself when she was alone.

  Her deepest pleasure, however, came from the pleasure she gave him. Such a simple thing it was, to open her legs, and look what happened: a grown man – an intellectual – was reduced to helplessness! She knew she should feel wicked. It was a sin, she had been told that in church often enough, but the poor man was mutilated. The real sin, the big sin, was what had caused it. Even as they lay in bed, men and horses were being blown to pieces – innocent horses that should be cropping the grass. How could it matter, with the world turned upside down, that she was bringing a moment’s happiness to one of its victims?

  Besides, with her mistress out of the house, Winnie felt a heady sense of freedom. It was harder work, of course – the cooking, the cleaning – but she didn’t mind. It was a relief doing it on her own, with no suspicious looks. She was a practical young woman: what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over. Oddly enough, she felt only a mild sense of guilt. This week was already so curious, a gap between one life and the next, that Alwyne’s nightly visits seemed hardly stranger than everything else. Sometimes she even felt a bond with Mrs Turk, that they were both having a honeymoon, of sorts – a thought so funny that she had to stop in the middle of her scrubbing.

  It was Ralph who made her feel uncomfortable. Until now there had been no secrets between them. Ralph was a serious, quaint boy, and young for his age. If he found out, he would be shocked to the core. It did seem shocking, when Winnie thought of it. But it was so rum that during the daylight hours she found it hard to believe that it happened at all. Alwyne’s manner hadn’t changed; he remained stubbornly himself: over-familiar, bullying, teasing her about the suppers which in the absence of Mr Turk’s supplies had reverted to their old meagre stodginess. Nobody noticed a change between herself and Alwyne, but then why would they? The lodgers lived in their own little worlds and Winnie was grateful for their self-absorption.

  Ralph, however, was a different matter and she found herself avoiding him. She set him tasks that he could do on his own – scouring the front steps, mending breakages, running errands. Nor did she ask for his help in spring-cleaning Mrs Turk’s bedroom, a major operation which she undertook on her own, washing the woodwork, beating the carpets, turning the mattress on the big brass bed, in preparation for the newlyweds. It was exhausting work and she had no time to speculate on the imminent arrival of Mr Turk, and how their lives were going to change when he was installed. Her only concern was to impress him with the thoroughness of her cleaning. Her future depended on it. If he got rid of her, where would she go?

  So when Alwyne pushed open the door with his stick she barely paused. ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  Alwyne tapped his way into the room, feeling for the bed. He sat down on Mrs Turk’s mattress. For a mad moment Winnie thought he was going to ask her to join him.

  ‘When are they coming back?’ he asked.

  ‘Friday. The day after tomorrow.’

  ‘While we’ve still got the place to ourselves, would you do me the honour of stepping out with me?’

  Winnie nearly dropped her tin of polish. ‘Where?’

  ‘Accompany me to the Albion. Let me buy you a drink.’

  *

  The next morning, the Thursday, the sun shone. It was one of those fresh summer days that felt like the dawn of the world. Outside, the sea shifted like silk.

  Eithne and Neville, roused from their days of stupor, bathed and dressed. Their marriage seemed a wonderful thing to them that morning, a gift given to them as freely as the sunshine. She knelt at his feet, lacing his boots. Already missing his skin, she lifted his trouser and pressed her lips against his calf.

  ‘I’m daft about you,’ she said. ‘I’m as batty as a brush.’

  ‘A brush?’ Neville laughed, pulling her to her feet. ‘What’s batty about a brush?’

  She didn’t know, she didn’t care.

  He suggested a tram ride along the front, to Hove. It was their last day, and they were seized with high spirits. He hoisted her on to his back and gave her a piggyback ride across the room.

  ‘Fancy a tub of winkles?’ he asked ‘Want to see the Floral Clock?’

  There was a tap at the door. Eithne slithered to the floor and smoothed her skirts. One of the bellboys came into the room. He had an envelope in his hand.

  ‘What’s that?’ Eithne’s heart stood still. Something had happened to Ralph! Her house had burned down! It was all her fault, for being so happy.

  The boy gave the envelope to Neville. ‘We found this in the bar, sir,’ he said. ‘Somebody at your table left it behind, last night.’

  Neville opened the envelope and took out the photograph of Clarence and Emily.

  ‘It’s not ours,’ he said. ‘It belonged to that American soldier.’

  But the soldiers had left. They would be on their way to France by now.

  ‘He’s left his sweetheart behind!’ cried Eithne. ‘He can’t go to war without her.’

  ‘Well, he has,’ said Neville.

  ‘We must find him.’

  ‘How?’ They didn’t know his surname. They didn’t know his regiment.

  ‘What can we do?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing.’ Neville shrugged.

  ‘How would you feel?’

  ‘It’s not our concern.’

  Eithne glared at her husband. ‘It’s not your concern because you’re not out there, are you? You’re not fighting.’

  There was a silence. Down on the front a tram passed, ringing its bell.

  Eithne thought: how could I have said that? She turned away. ‘The poor boy,’ she murmured.

  The mood was broken. Eithne thought: a moment ago I was kissing this man’s leg. She gave the photograph back to the bellboy, telling him to leave it at the desk, in case Clarence returned.

  ‘Keep it safe,’ she told him. ‘Promise you’ll keep it safe.’

  The boy left, closing the door with a click.

  Eithne didn’t look at her husband. The energy had drained from her. Suddenly she wanted to go home. She walked to the window and gazed out.

  ‘There’s a storm coming,’ she said.

  ‘What storm?’

  ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I can hear the thunder.’

  ‘That’s not thunder, my love,’ said Neville. ‘That’s the guns.’

  *

  Ralph and Winnie washed up the dishes in silence. After a while he asked: ‘When are they coming back?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Winnie. ‘You’ll be at your class.’

  ‘What about his luggage?’

  ‘That’s coming tomorrow too.’

  ‘Will he have furniture and things?’

  ‘I don’t know.’
She turned to him. ‘Listen, dear, I’ll finish this. Go upstairs and lay the cloth for breakfast, then you’re done. Night-night, sleep tight.’

  She waited for Ralph to reply Don’t let the bedbugs bite but he left without a word. She heard him ascending the stairs slowly, like an old man. Oh Lord, and now it was her turn to betray him.

  Winnie pulled off her apron and inspected herself in the mirror. It was still daylight outside, but the scullery existed in a state of permanent dusk. She peered closer, pinching her cheeks. It seemed silly, smartening herself up for a man who couldn’t see her, but there were other people to consider. She looped her beads around her neck and put on her hat.

  Upstairs the clock struck nine and, prompt as ever, she heard the front door close as Alwyne went out. They had arranged to meet under the railway arch, the only acknowledgement they had made of the illicit nature of the past week. Winnie paused. There was no sound except the tink-tink of the dripping tap. She shouldn’t feel guilty; after all, she was off duty now. She had told Ralph that she was popping out to meet a friend. Even if he happened to take the dog out, and spotted her with Alwyne, that wouldn’t be so odd.

  Winnie let herself out of the door. She climbed the area steps and emerged into the street. The sky was streaked with mares’ tails. It had been a beautiful summer’s day, though she had seen little of it. The air was balmy; scent drifted from the bush that struggled out of a crack in the basement next door.

  Alwyne was ahead of her. She heard the tap-tap of his stick; it echoed as he entered the railway tunnel. Silently he waited for her. He stood in front of the goalpost that Archie had chalked on the brickwork all those years ago, his head cocked sideways as if at any moment a ball would come whizzing through the air, kicked by the phantom foot of a boy long gone. Whinny-whinny … Remembering Archie, her tormentor, Winnie felt a spasm of self-pity. She thought: this is as good as I can expect – a glass of port with a blind man, who can’t see how ugly I am.