At the Break of Day

by Margaret Graham

  He sat down on the cushions and she smiled and bowed, then left the room, and he watched her move with her short steps, one in front of the other. He watched the neatness of her body and wouldn’t think of Rosie. She was dead to him now. The ache in his heart was anger, not love.

  He drank the saki that Suko had left, first one glass and then another, and then another until there was softness in the room and an easing of his body.

  It was then she called.

  ‘Jack-san.’

  He rose, his mouth dry, and walked into a small room which was filled with steam from a bath in the centre and the damp heat smothered him, but she was there too, in a white bathrobe, beads of sweat on her face, on her neck, beads which ran down on to her breasts.

  She undid his buttons, slipped his clothes from his body, washed him down with soap, her hands gentle, probing, and he wanted her but she kissed his mouth, then pointed towards the bath. He climbed into the water which was almost scalding.

  She rubbed his back with soft bark and it was as though there had been no past, there would be no future. There was only the present.

  He rose from the water and slid her bathrobe from her shoulders, letting it fall from her body, and the heat he felt was not from the steam, but from within. She was golden, soft and smooth. So small. So very small.

  He held her to him, wetting her, kissing her, tasting her sweat, tasting his on her. Then he carried her out into the room where the futon was already laid on the floor, and there, in the heat and smell and the light of the charcoal fire, he made love to her, gently, softly and then with a passion which swept him from the paper house to the cold hillside in Yorkshire, and when he cried he knew why, but he pushed his knowledge away.

  He was to spend his last days at Suko’s house, she told him. Her grandmother was not there. She had left because Suko asked her to, she told Jack at dawn as they sipped tea from the cups without handles.

  ‘For us to be together, Jack-san,’ she said, then set her cup down, took his from him, and they made love again, and again.

  Suko worked each morning and wouldn’t stay in the village with him.

  ‘I make the flowers bring joy. It is my peace, Jack-san,’ she said, her eyes lowered as she stood before him. ‘You go to your friends. You return at night.’

  Jack drove again to the theatre, walking over the bridge, looking down into a stream with ice clusters at the edge. He looked back down the path. There were cherry trees.

  An old man stopped. ‘In the spring the blossom blooms. Life begins again.’

  Jack nodded and made himself walk into the theatre. He sat and listened and shrank from this culture which was Suko’s.

  They made love that night and the next and there was nothing that was savage, only everything that was gentle. They had four nights left and he whispered that he would come back when the war was over. He would never leave her.

  ‘You’re so beautiful.’

  Jack held her, feeling her slightness against him, seeing the blackness of her hair against the pillow. She shook her head, then told him of her childhood, of her life with her grandmother as the bombs rained down. She told him of the American who had come with the occupying forces and he stiffened. He could smell the charcoal, feel its heat.

  She kissed his mouth. ‘I loved him. He loved me. He went back. He died on a plane which crashed as he landed. I loved him. I will always love him. You love someone. You will always love them. We find comfort with each other, that is all, Jacksan. You will not come back to me.’

  He was standing now, standing over her, seeing her golden skin against the futon. Had her American seen her like this?

  ‘Has he?’ he screamed at her.

  She stood now. ‘Come and lie with me. We are happy together because we both have a heart which belongs to another. We give comfort.’

  She was stroking him now. ‘We give comfort, Jack-san. We cast the shadows from our lives for a while, the pain deep inside is soothed.’

  He felt her hands, her lips on his chest, his belly, his thighs and knew why he had been back to the theatre. It was there, watching the Kabuki, watching the warrior, his face contorted, his limbs stiff and cruel, that he had recognised the savagery that was in his own heart.

  The next day he travelled to Kanazawa, where there was no sign of bombing, where it was as it had stood for centuries. He walked. He stood and looked at the mossy stillness behind an ancient wall. Children were laughing and playing in the distance but he barely heard them.

  He walked on to a cottage, and stood in the doorway as a peasant bowed. He smelt the sweetness of the rush matting, and saw the white of an early-flowering plum set as a symbol of stillness in a world which was mad.

  He walked in the garden which nestled against the base of the eastern hill. It was walled, self-contained, still. There was an ordered stream, a bridge and no wind stirred.

  He could smell again the hops, see the bines, trace the initials on the gate with his fingers. He could see Rosie.

  He drove back to the village, back to Suko, back to her arms and her bed and she held him as he slept and that night it was as though he was a child again and the next night, and the next.

  He flew back on Monday. His shoulder was stiff but what did that matter? He strapped himself into the bucket seat. All around was the smell of the disinfectant that had been sprayed on the plane’s arrival. He clutched the seat belt as the engine roared, swallowed as the plane clawed through the sky. He looked down at the Straits of Korea, and thought of Suko, her body, her sweetness. He thought of the hills he was returning to and then the hills where the bines grew. He had a letter to write.

  He looked at the sea again, and heard a distant echo of Chinese bugles.

  CHAPTER 17

  Norah did not say goodbye the morning Rosie left but Harold came to the end of the yard while Norah dressed in the bedroom. He took Rosie’s arm and told her that he would forward any mail if she let him know her address. He gave her two pounds towards her fares.

  She took it, kissed his cheek, remembered Butlins and told him that he must keep on with his brass rubbing.

  ‘You mustn’t let her take that away from you.’

  Now, as she walked to Woolworths, she remembered how Grandma had tried to stop Grandpa’s visits to the Rose Club, how Norah had tried to cut down his rose bushes. She dropped her cases and ran back, down the street, down the back alley, into the yard, into the kitchen. Harold was packing his rubbing wax into a grip. He wore cycle clips.

  ‘Harold, what about the roses? Can you stop her?’ Rosie was holding the door. She felt the nausea rise but she wouldn’t be sick. Not here, not now.

  He did up the buckles on the bag, walked to the doorway, then into the yard, strapping his bag to the back of his bike, looking round at the roses then back at her.

  ‘I think so. I like them too. Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.’

  He nodded, pushed his bike out into the alley, stopped, looked back.

  ‘I don’t agree with what you’ve done. With the baby and all that. It’s a disgrace. But good luck.’ He mounted the bike, then nodded towards Ollie. ‘Don’t worry. We won’t tell him. Norah doesn’t want anybody to know.’

  He was off then, and Rosie left, looking back, remembering Grandpa shelling peas, his big fingers pushing their way up the pod, her small ones too. And Jack’s hands taking five, throwing them up into his mouth. For a moment she could smell Maisie’s bread and dripping and hear the echoes of the past.

  At the store Mrs Eaves wanted to come with her to look for a bedsit but Rosie shook her head.

  ‘No, I must do it alone but would you ring my office, please? Just tell them I’m ill and I’ll be in tomorrow.’

  She left her bags though, then caught a bus to Soho because that was where she had been with Jack. That was where the music still played, where there was still hope, warmth. It was a place where she would not be judged as she would be elsewhere, down each street, in each shop.

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bsp; On the bus she felt sick, she felt alone, because Jack had always been with her before. She took slow breaths, pushing her hands against her mouth, feeling the clammy sweat on her forehead, the cold which swept through her before the vomit. She pushed herself from her seat, out on to the platform, ringing the bell, stepping off, ignoring the shouts from the clippie. She walked into a side street, and leaned against the wall, breathing, counting till at last it passed.

  She caught another bus and this time the nausea did not reappear. She walked down Berwick Street where they were putting out the rubbish from the restaurants. She stopped, asked if they knew of any accommodation. They shook their heads.

  It was so different in the day. There was no music sweeping out of the cellars, no tarts touting for custom. Instead they were collecting the milk from their doorsteps along with old ladies doing the same. She passed the baker’s where people were queuing for their morning bread and barbers who were already open, already snipping.

  A violinist played in the alley which connected the two street markets. A man stood opposite shouting that Jesus Saves. He grabbed at her arm, pushed a leaflet into her hand. She dropped it like others had done amongst the rotting vegetables and the woodshavings. She walked along the stalls, listening to the woman in a headscarf shouting.

  ‘Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, but what about bleeding me if you don’t buy me spuds?’ The woman was digging into the money pocket of her apron, she wore fingerless gloves, her skin was shiny from the coins, her nails dirty, and Rosie turned away. Jack had been able to charm the birds out of the bleeding trees, one woman had said.

  She walked along the dirty streets, climbing steps to the peeling front doors of four-storeyed houses, knocking on doors but always there were no rooms. She stopped and had Camp coffee in a café. The teaspoon was chained to the counter. The sugar was clumped on the spoon. It was warm, it was sweet. What more did she need?

  She walked in the other direction. It was lunchtime, the pubs were open. Music came from them and laughter. A newspaper seller was packing up for the day.

  Rosie was hungry, tired, but she had nowhere to sleep for the night. She walked on past a newspaper shop. There were advertisements in the window. One was for a room to let. She wrote down the address, asked in the shop for directions.

  ‘Just down the road. Second on the left,’ the man said, serving a Cypriot with a packet of pipe cleaners.

  She found it. Climbed the steps which were crumbling at the edges. There was a basement beneath her, a blanket strung up on a string. The courtyard smelt of tomcat. There were three dustbins. She looked away towards the door which was opening.

  A small woman stood there, with neat hair, neat clothes and a smile which she flicked at Rosie when she asked to see the room.

  They climbed the brown-painted stairs to a room on the top floor at the rear that looked out over the backs of other houses, pubs, and clubs. But she could see the sky. She took it.

  Mrs Eaves came back with her to carry her bags. It was cold and dark as they left the bus but now music was soaring from the basements, castanets from one, swing from another, and Rosie smiled. They used the key that the woman had given her. The light went out before they reached the first landing and they switched it on again but again it went out before they reached her room. Rosie laughed. Mrs Eaves didn’t.

  ‘Come to us, Rosie. Please. You can’t stay here. You might fall. Does she know about the baby?’ She dropped her voice to a whisper.

  Rosie felt the laugh die. ‘No.’

  Mrs Eaves put down the cases while Rosie unlocked the door. ‘Well, she said no children on the card. She might throw you out when it begins to show. Come to me then.’

  Rosie nodded, but she wouldn’t. She was alone now. She would be alone until Jack came back.

  There was only a forty-watt bulb in the light and no shade. There was one blanket on the bed but Rosie had brought her jumper-blankets, and her own sheets.

  There was a sink and a wooden draining board that was sticky with other people’s soap and mess. There was a gas ring and a gas fire which Mrs Eaves tried to light, but the meter had run out. They put money in and it plopped as Rosie held the match to it, flaring blue, then yellow. Its hissing filled the room. There was a table covered in oilcloth, only one chair.

  Mrs Eaves took her to an Italian café for tea. She knew the owner and his wife. They had met in the war when she had come here with her GI.

  They ate baked beans and chips but could smell nothing but coffee. There were onions hanging against the pine-covered walls but Rosie wouldn’t let herself think of Jack and the onion seller in the pub. The other tables were full. Young men with scarves trailing on the floor, wearing old coats, laughing, talking, flicking out rhythms on the tables, talking jazz.

  There was a phone on the wall. It rang. The small Italian who had served them threw his teacloth over his shoulder, grabbed the receiver, and, waving his hands in the air, shouted across the room.

  ‘Luke, for you again. You give them my number. Always my number. You all give them my number. I try to feed you. How can I when you make me your office too?’ He dropped the receiver, it swung on its wire.

  Mrs Eaves laughed and called across, ‘Just the same, Mario, eh?’

  ‘Worse, Anne. Much worse.’ Mario was shaking his head.

  ‘You need more help.’

  ‘I know, I know. You’ll come then, Anne?’ He laughed, and walked through to the back.

  Rosie moved the Worcester sauce and the salt and pepper into a neat line.

  ‘Everyone is so young,’ she said, looking round, moving the sauce bottle behind the pepper then back again.

  ‘You’re young, Rosie.’ Mrs Eaves’s hand was plump and warm and Rosie clung to her for a moment and then sat back, watching Luke at the telephone, laughing, putting his thumbs up to his friends at the table.

  ‘We got the gig. Five pounds!’

  They cheered.

  ‘Not any more,’ Rosie said, touching her stomach.

  That night as she lay in the room, moonlight came in through the gap in the curtains which didn’t meet. She listened to the noise of the house, the banging doors, the shouting from the room next-door. There was a smell of cabbage everywhere.

  She pulled the blankets around her head. The bed was damp. She was alone. But at least she had her job and that would enable her to go forward, to carve out a future for herself and the baby.

  There were shadows as clouds passed in front of the moon. There was the faint sound of a trumpet and she thought of his arms around her, holding her. She ran her own hands across her shoulders, held her arms, pretended they were his hands.

  The next morning she took the bus back to Middle Street and left her address with Ollie and with Harold, then rushed in to work, travelling back to Soho in the evening. She wrote to Nancy and Frank, telling them she had found a place of her own, giving them her address, telling them she wanted her freedom, telling them she was happy. They mustn’t know of the baby. They would be worried and they had enough.

  At eleven the next morning, the Editor called her into the office to offer her the job of Assistant Features Editor. Rosie felt the sudden thrill of success, the pleasure which those words brought, but she knew, clasping the arms of the chair, that she would have to tell the elegant woman in front of her that she was pregnant.

  ‘Will it matter, Miss Stephens?’ she asked.

  It did matter. She was sacked on the spot and told to take her things from her desk and leave at once.

  She did. She packed her shorthand pad and her pencils and walked out of the office and it was not until she was walking in and out of the Soho shops, asking for work, that she really believed that her future had been snatched from her and she had to lean against a pub wall and turn her face to the bricks, because it was all too much.

  It seemed hours that she stood there, but it was only minutes. Then a man came up and asked her for sixpence for a cup of tea and she dragged one out o
f her purse, and gave it to him. He was dirty and old. At least, she thought, she was young, and so she pushed herself away from the wall, repeating that to herself.

  She asked in more shops, more pubs for a job.

  ‘We need a washer-upper,’ said a man with a moustache, flicking his ash on to the floor. ‘You’d need to clean the lavs too.’

  She said she’d call back. She walked and asked again, crossing Archer Street where musicians were gathered outside the doorways of the agents’ and managements’ offices.

  She stopped outside the Italian café where it was warm and clean and light. It was lunchtime. There was jazz oozing out of a cellar two houses away. She listened, holding the icy railing, putting her hand to her mouth, pushing back the nausea.

  The café was full. She pushed through to the counter. Luke was there again, buying coffee for three tables, laughing, throwing shillings on to the counter.

  ‘And one for this girl too,’ he shouted to Mario, nodding at Rosie, who flushed. He smiled and she wanted to say, you might not want to, I’m pregnant. But she didn’t because there was warmth in his look and in Mario’s as he wiped the counter and winked at her.

  ‘I don’t know. A bit of success. It goes to their heads.’

  Rosie nodded, taking the coffee. ‘Thanks.’

  She sat by herself on the bench near the counter, watching the ebb and flow of the young men, and young girls. She couldn’t join in. She wasn’t young any more. How could you be young if you were pregnant? She remembered the contempt in Harold’s eyes and in Miss Stephens’s too.

  Luke sat with the others, then stood up, raising his coffee.

  ‘First gig tomorrow. First bloody gig.’ He was laughing, waving to the others at his table to stand. They did. There was a girl with them, long-haired. She hugged a boy with a beard and he kissed her on the mouth and Rosie turned away, burning her tongue on the hot coffee, but it didn’t matter.

  She ordered toast but with no butter. It made her retch. Mario looked up at her.

  ‘Can you wait? We’re so busy. It gets worse and worse. You no want a job?’