The Night Watch

by Sarah Waters

  The lobby was a mess of women’s coats and hats and umbrellas. A table spilt over with papers and unclaimed post. The fanlight, of course, had been boarded up, but the bomb-proofed glass in the door that led to the basement was gleaming turgidly. From beyond it came one girl’s voice, and then others: ‘Primrose…Pansy…Primula…’

  Viv put on her torch. The telephone was further on, in an alcove outside the common-room—horribly public, but over the years girls had unpicked the staples that attached the wire to the wall, and if you wanted to make a private call you could pull the telephone across the corridor into a cupboard, and sit, in darkness, on a gas-meter, amongst brooms and buckets and mops. Viv did this now, drawing shut the cupboard door and propping her torch on a shelf; looking rather fearfully into the cracks and corners, for fear of spiders and mice. Think Before You Speak said a label on the telephone.

  She had the number of Reggie’s unit on an old bit of paper in her dressing-gown pocket; he’d given it to her, ages ago, for emergencies, and she’d never used it. But what was this, she thought, if not an emergency? She got the number out. She picked up the receiver and dialled 0 for the Exchange, letting the dial turn slowly; muffling the clicks of it, as best she could, with a handkerchief.

  The operator’s voice was as bright as glass. The call, she said, would take several minutes to connect. ‘Thank you,’ said Viv. She sat with the telephone in her lap, nerving herself for the ring of it. Then the beam of her torch began to waver: she thought of the battery, and turned it off. She’d left the door open, just a little, and the dim blue light of the corridor showed through the crack. Apart from that, the cupboard was absolutely dark. She could just make out bursts of laughter, and groans, from the girls in the basement. There were bumps, and shivers, and trickles of dust in the walls, as bombs kept falling.

  When at last the phone rang again, the noise of the bell, and the jolt of it in her lap, frightened the life out of her. She picked up the receiver with shaking hands, and almost dropped it. The glass-voiced girl said, ‘Just a moment’; and there was another wait, then, and a series of clicks, as she made the connection.

  A man’s voice came on the line: the switchboard operator at Reggie’s camp. Viv gave him Reggie’s name.

  ‘You don’t know his hut?’ he asked her. She didn’t. He tried a central number. The phone rang and rang…‘No answer, Caller,’ he said.

  ‘Please,’ said Viv, ‘just a minute longer. It’s awfully urgent.’

  ‘Hello?’ said another voice at last. ‘Is that my call to Southampton? Hello?’

  ‘This is an incoming call, I’m afraid,’ said the operator blandly.

  ‘Blast you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  The phone was picked up by somebody else after that; he gave them, at least, the number of Reggie’s hut. The phone rang only twice, this time, and then came a deafening burst of noise: shouting, and laughter, and music from a radio or gramophone.

  A man bellowed into the phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello?’ said Viv quietly.

  ‘Hello? Who’s this?’

  She told him she wanted Reggie.

  ‘Reggie? What?’ he shouted.

  ‘Who’s there?’ came another man’s voice.

  ‘Some girl, calling herself Reggie.’

  ‘She’s not calling herself Reggie, you oaf. It’s Reggie she wants to speak to.’ The receiver was taken by another hand. ‘Miss, I really must apologise—Or is it Madam?’

  ‘Please,’ said Viv. She glanced out nervously, into the corridor, through the crack in the nearly closed door. She put her hand around her mouth, to muffle her voice. ‘Is Reggie there?’

  ‘Is he here? That would probably depend, if I know Reg, on who wants to know. Does he owe you money?’

  ‘Is she sure it’s Reg she wants?’ said the first voice.

  ‘My friend,’ said the second, ‘wants to know if you’re sure it’s Reg you want, and not him. He is making shapes with his hands, suggestive of what he considers must be the lovely colour of your eyes, the beautiful curl of your hair, the magnificent swell of your—voice.’

  ‘Please,’ said Viv again, ‘I haven’t got very long.’

  ‘That won’t bother my friend, from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Is Reggie there, or not?’

  ‘May I say who’s calling?’

  ‘Tell him—tell him it’s his wife.’

  ‘His lady wife? In that case, far be it from me to…’

  The voice became a mumble, and then a distorted shout. That was followed by cheers, and a kind of scuffling sound, as the phone was passed from hand to hand. At last, Reggie’s voice came on the line. He sounded breathless.

  ‘Marilyn?’ he said.

  ‘It’s not her, it’s me,’ said Viv, very quickly. ‘Don’t say my name, in case the operator’s listening.’

  But he said her name, anyway. ‘Viv?’ He sounded amazed. ‘The boys told me—’

  ‘I know. They were mucking about, and I didn’t know what else to say.’

  ‘Christ.’ She heard him rubbing his bristly chin and cheeks with his hand. ‘Where are you? How did you get hold of me?’ He turned his mouth away. ‘Woods, I swear to God, one more crack like that, and—’

  ‘I just called the Exchange,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I called the Exchange.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. No.’

  ‘I can’t hear you. Just a minute—’ He put the phone down and went off; there was more cheering, and more laughter. When he came back, he was breathless again. ‘Those buggers,’ he said. He had moved, or closed a door. ‘Where are you? You sound like you’re in the bucket at the bottom of a well.’

  ‘I’m in a cupboard,’ she whispered, ‘at home. I mean, at John Adam House.’

  ‘A cupboard?’

  ‘Where the girls make calls. It doesn’t matter. It’s just—Something’s happened, Reggie.’

  ‘What? Not your bloody brother?’

  ‘Don’t call him that. No, not that. Nothing like that.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘I—It’s just—’ She tried to see out into the hall again, then turned her head, and spoke more quietly than ever. ‘My friend hasn’t come,’ she said.

  ‘Your what? Your friend?’ He didn’t understand. ‘Which friend?’

  ‘My friend.’

  There was a silence. Then, ‘Christ,’ he said softly. ‘Christ, Viv.’

  ‘Don’t say my name!’

  ‘No. No. How much? I mean, how long?’

  ‘About eight weeks, I think.’

  ‘Eight weeks?’ He was turning it over in his mind. ‘So you mean, you must have been, already, when I saw you last—?’

  ‘Yes, I must have been. But I didn’t know.’

  ‘And, you’re absolutely sure? You couldn’t just have—have missed?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I never have before.’

  ‘But, we’ve been careful, haven’t we? I’ve been careful, every fucking time. What’s the point of being careful, if this happens?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s bad luck.’

  ‘Bad luck? Jesus.’

  He sounded disgusted. He moved the phone again; she imagined him tugging at his hair. She said, ‘Don’t be like that. It’s been hell, for me. I’ve been worrying myself to death. I’ve tried all sorts of things. I—I took something.’

  He couldn’t hear her. ‘What?’

  She covered her mouth again, but tried to speak more clearly. ‘I took something. You know…But it didn’t work, it just made me sick.’

  ‘Did you get the right thing?’

  ‘I don’t know. Are there different kinds of things? I got it from a chemist’s. The man said it would work, but it didn’t. It was awful.’

  ‘Can’t you try again?’

  ‘I don’t want to, Reggie.’

  ‘But it might be worth just trying again.’

  ‘It made me feel
so awful.’

  ‘But don’t you just think—?’

  ‘It’ll make me sick again. Oh Reggie, I don’t think I can! I don’t know what to do!’

  Her voice had been trembling, all this time; now, with a rush, it tightened and rose. She’d started to panic, and was almost crying.

  Reggie said, ‘OK. All right. Listen to me. It’s all right, baby. Listen to me. This is the hell of a shock, that’s all. I just need to think about it. There’s a bloke here. I think his girl—I just need some time.’

  She moved the receiver, and blew her nose. ‘I didn’t want to tell you,’ she said miserably. ‘I wanted to sort it out by myself. I just—I felt so awful. If my dad found out—’

  ‘It’s OK, baby.’

  ‘It’d break his heart. It’d—’

  Pip pip pip, went the line; and the operator spoke. ‘One minute, Caller.’

  It was the girl who’d connected Viv right at the start; or another girl, with the same bright, glass-like voice. Viv and Reggie fell silent.

  ‘Do you suppose she heard?’ whispered Reggie at last.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘They don’t listen really, do they?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How can they, with so many calls?’

  ‘No. I expect they don’t.’

  Silence again…Then, ‘Shit,’ said Reggie, as if wearily. ‘What luck. What lousy rotten luck. And I was so careful, every time!’

  ‘I know,’ said Viv.

  ‘I’ll ask this bloke, about his girl, about what she did. OK?’

  Viv nodded.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re not to worry any more.’

  ‘No. I won’t.’

  ‘Promise me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll be all right. OK? Good girl.’

  They stayed on the line, not speaking, until the operator’s voice came again, asking if they’d like to extend the call. Viv said they wouldn’t, and the line went dead.

  Hello,’ said Kay very softly, an hour or two later. She was stroking Helen’s hair.

  ‘Hello,’ said Helen, opening her eyes.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘I’m not sure…What time is it?’

  Kay got in beside her. ‘Just past your birthday, I’m afraid. Just two o’clock.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Not a scratch on me. We didn’t go out. Bethnal Green and Shoreditch got it all.’

  Helen took her hand and squeezed her fingers. ‘I’m glad,’ she said.

  Kay yawned. ‘I’d rather have gone out. I spent the night doing puzzles with Mickey and Hughes.’ She kissed Helen’s cheek, then fitted herself about her. ‘You smell soapy.’

  Helen stiffened. ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes. Just like a kid. Did you have another bath? You must be clean as anything. Were you lonely?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘I thought of sneaking back to you.’

  ‘Did you?’

  Kay smiled. ‘Well, not really. It seemed an awful waste, that’s all, to be there, doing nothing, while you were here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Helen. She still held Kay’s hand; now she drew Kay’s arm around her—tight, as if wanting comfort or warmth. Her legs were bare against Kay’s; her cotton nightdress had risen, almost to her bottom. Her breasts felt loose and warm beneath Kay’s arm.

  Kay kissed her head, stroked back her hair. She said, in a murmur, ‘I suppose you’re awfully sleepy, darling?’

  ‘I am, rather.’

  ‘Too sleepy to kiss?’

  Helen didn’t answer. Kay drew free her arm. She caught hold of the collar of Helen’s nightgown and, very gently, pulled it down. She put her lips to the bend of Helen’s neck, moved her mouth against the hot, smooth flesh. But she became aware, as she was doing it, of the feel of the threadbare fabric in her hand. She lifted her head from her pillow and said, in surprise, ‘You’re not wearing your new pyjamas?’

  ‘Hmm?’ said Helen, as if from the edge of sleep.

  ‘Your pyjamas,’ said Kay softly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Helen, reaching for Kay’s hand again; drawing Kay’s arm about her and pulling her close. ‘I forgot,’ she said.

  FIVE

  The moon was so full and so bright that night, they didn’t need their torches. Surfaces were lit up, white against black. Everything looked depthless, the fronts of houses flat as scenery on a stage, the trees like trees of papier-mâché touched up with glitter and silver paint. Nobody liked it. It made you feel vulnerable, exposed. People got off the train and turned up the collars of their coats, put down their heads, darted away to darker places. A hundred yards from Cricklewood Station, the streets were silent. Only Reggie and Viv, uncertain of their route, went slowly. When Reggie took out a piece of paper to check the directions on it, Viv looked fearfully up at the sky: the paper shone in his hand as if luminous.

  The house, when they found it at last, was an ordinary one; but there was a name-plate screwed to the door-frame, beneath the bell. The plate looked solid, professional—reassuring, but frightening, too. Viv had her arm through Reggie’s and now slightly pulled him back. He caught hold of her hand and squeezed her fingers. Her fingers felt odd, because he’d got her a gold-coloured ring, which was slightly too large and kept slipping.

  ‘All right?’ he asked her. His voice was thin. He hated doctors, hospitals, things like that. She knew he wished she had come with Betty, her sister—anyone but him.

  So it was she who pressed the bell. The man—Mr Imrie—came to answer it almost at once.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, quite loudly, looking past them into the street. ‘Come in, come in.’ They stood close together in the darkness, unsure of the size of the hall, while he closed the door and rearranged the black-out across its panels of frosted glass; then he led them into his waiting-room, where the light was bright and made them blink. The room smelt sweet: of polish, of rubber, of gas. There were pictures on the walls, showing teeth, pink gums; a case had a plaster model inside it of a single great molar, a slice removed to expose the enamel, the pulp and red nerve. The colours were livid, because of the light. Viv looked from one thing to another and felt her teeth begin to ache.

  Mr Imrie was a dentist, and did this other thing on the side.

  ‘Do sit down,’ he said.

  He took up a sheet of paper and clipped it to a board. He wore spectacles with heavy frames and, in order to see the page before him, he pushed them up, so that they gripped his brow like a pair of goggles on a band. He asked for Viv’s name. She’d taken off her gloves to expose the ring, and now, with a little flush of self-consciousness, gave the name that she and Reggie had agreed on: Mrs Margaret Harrison. He said it aloud, as he wrote it down; and then he kept saying it at the start of every question: ‘And now, Mrs Harrison,’ ‘Well, Mrs Harrison’—until the name, Viv thought, sounded so false and made-up, it might have been an actress’s name, or the name of a character in a film.

  The questions were simple enough at first. When they grew more personal, Mr Imrie suggested that Reggie might like to wait in the hall. Viv thought he went out pretty quickly, as if in relief. She heard the slither of his shoes on the lino as he paced up and down.

  Perhaps Mr Imrie heard it, too. He lowered his voice. ‘The date of your last period?’

  Viv gave it. He made a note of it, and seemed to frown.

  ‘Any children?’ he asked her then. ‘Miscarriages? You know what a miscarriage is? Of course…And have you ever before been obliged to receive the, er, treatment that you’ve come to receive from me?’

  She said ‘No’ to it all; but told him, after a little hesitation, about the pills, in case they made some sort of difference.

  He shook his head, dismissively, as she described them. ‘It’s never worth bothering, if you’ll take my advice,’ he said, ‘with that sort of thing. Probably gave you a tummy upset, did they? Yes, I thought they would have.’
He drew down his spectacles and was left with a phantom pair, marked out in lines of red, on the flesh of his brow.

  He produced a case of instruments, and Viv flinched, growing frightened. He wanted only, however, to test her blood-pressure and listen to her chest; and he made her stand and loosen her skirt, and felt her stomach—felt all about it, pressing hard with his fingers and palms.

  Then he straightened, and wiped his hands. ‘Well,’ he said gravely, ‘you’re a little further along than I should have liked.’ He was dating it, of course, from her last period. ‘I usually recommend this treatment for pregnancies of up to ten weeks, and yours is rather past that.’

  The extra weeks made a difference, apparently. He went to the door and called for Reggie and explained to them both that, because of the added element of risk, he would have to charge them more than the standard fee. ‘A further ten pounds, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Ten pounds?’ said Reggie, appalled.

  Mr Imrie spread his hands. ‘You’ll understand, with the law as it is. The risk I’m running is very grave.’

  ‘My friend said seventy-five. Seventy-five’s all I’ve brought.’

  ‘Seventy-five would have seen to it, a month ago. I dare say seventy-five would see to it even now, were you to go to another sort of man. I’m not that sort of man, however…I’m thinking of your wife’s health. I’m thinking of my own wife…I am sorry.’

  Reggie shook his head. ‘This is a rum kind of way to do business,’ he said bitterly, ‘if you don’t mind my saying so. One price one month, and another the next. What difference does it make to you, it being in there’—he nodded in the general direction of Viv’s stomach—‘two or three weeks longer?’

  Mr Imrie smiled, as if with tremendous patience. ‘It makes a great deal of difference, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, that’s what you say. You’d say the same thing, I suppose, to a chap who’d come to you with a case of—of an ingrowing tooth?’

  ‘I very well might.’

  ‘You would, would you?’

  The argument ran on. Viv stood and said nothing, hating it all, hating Reggie, gazing at the floor. At last Mr Imrie agreed to take the extra ten pounds in the form of clothing coupons: Reggie turned his back and brought out a little stash of them, pressed them into the envelope in which he’d already put the money, and handed them over. He made a snorting noise as he did it.