by Rosie Chard
Woman: Won’t your wife be there?
Man: No, she’ll be out. Number twenty-seven. Suit you?
Woman: Okay. Lexington St., right?
Man: Yes, it’s the house on the corner, the one with the big tree outside that looks like it’s about to fall over.
Woman: I’ll be there.
Violet laid her pencil on the table beside her saucer. Violet thought of the voice. Violet forgot to breathe.
CHAPTER
21
“You alright, Bill?”
“Mmm?”
“Are your eyes troubling you? They look a bit red.”
“No, everything’s okay. I’ve probably been surfing the web too long.”
James looked unconvinced. “How’d it go yesterday? – out in the wilds of London.”
“You’re not going to believe this, but I met that bloke, that stalker bloke.”
“What! You mean you went all the way down to the coast?”
“Yeah. I met him.”
James straightened his back. “Why?”
“I . . . curiosity. Like you said, what we don’t find out, we’ll never know.”
“I said that?”
“Something along those lines.”
He straightened his back further. “So, what’s he like? The bloke.”
“He’s an old soldier – you know, the serious type you can’t tease.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“How did you get in touch with him?”
“I wrote him a letter, sent it express delivery.”
“So . . . what did he want?”
“He told me a story.”
“Didn’t think you liked stories.”
“I don’t normally, but this one was . . . kind of interesting.”
“What’d he say?”
I stood up, crossed the room and closed the door.
“Ooh, secret is it?”
I dispatched a withering look across our airspace. “Just don’t want anyone listening in.”
“Walls have ears, you know.” James grew a little.
“Shut up, James. Don’t you want to hear this?”
“Go on,” he said.
I sat back down at my desk; a folder marked Eavesdroppers waited beneath my hand. I began to speak.
Away from the eerie coastal light and squawk of birds rummaging in the gravel pit, the story seemed plain. I tried to give my tale a bit of build up, describing the old man’s black trench coat, his army surplus shoes and grey scarf in loving detail, but James grew impatient, tapping his pen on the desk, so I hurried through the caravan site, rushed across the shingle and only stopped when I reached the sound mirrors.
“Sound what?”
“Sound mirrors.”
“What the hell are they?”
“Early warning system,” I said expertly, “they used them to listen for approaching aircraft before radar was invented.”
“When was radar invented?”
“1937. There are lots of sound mirrors along the south coast. Bloody great concrete things. They’re crumbling a bit, and some are falling into the gravel pits around them, but there are still a few around. They don’t use them any more, so they’re getting derelict. Anyway, the old bloke showed me two of them. A round one and a long curved one.”
I waited for James to take everything in. He had a way of folding his arms when he was thinking and I watched it now, his hands forced into his armpits like a sailor’s knot, ineptly tied.
“Who are they?” he said at last.
“The military of course,” I replied. “He was in the army. He used to man the listening post, the mirror, during the Second World War.”
“Blimey, he must be really, really old.”
“Over ninety, I’d guess.”
“So, what did he hear?” James moved his whole body closer.
“He heard the enemy aircraft coming long before it reached the coast.”
“Is that all?”
Now it was my turn to lean forward. “Don’t you see? He heard something coming before it got there.”
James frowned. “And that means . . . ?”
Our next gathering was hard to assemble. Tom Wilson had block-booked the meeting room for three mornings in a row for a re-enactment of the company core values. This was followed by a round-table analysis of the new mission statement, as revealed by the roughly penned note stuck to the door. Then Jean held an administrative jamboree in there, which involved spreading a terrifying amount of paper out on the big table and littering the floor with paper clips, broken file dividers and string tags. Such was my condescension concerning the whole affair, which I failed to suppress, I was omitted from the cakes that formed the finale and left to eat cheese crackers alone in my office. But finally, I managed to force our usual Friday booking into Jean’s bulging diary (her status as a digital refusnik was legendary) and contacted the eavesdroppers.
I waited by myself in the meeting room, but this time I was accompanied by memories of sounds: the crunch of shingle beneath my feet, the slap of feathered duck breasts on water. And even after the eavesdroppers had arrived and sat down I was stuck in a solitary moment, not even disturbed by the demands of civility. I looked at each face in turn, unsure if they could read my thoughts, worried they’d noticed salt water stains on the rim of my shoes.
Stanley stirred sugar into his coffee. “You alright, Mr. B?”
“Yes, thanks.” The sound of pages being turned filled the room. “Before we start our reports everyone, there’s something I’d like to mention.”
The pages stilled; all ears tuned to me.
“I know we’ve talked of this before, but I just wanted to reiterate that it is important people don’t know you are listening to them.”
Stanley smiled gracefully. “I think we all know that.”
“I know you do. Just be careful. Please.”
I watched them all as their glances fell downwards and they studied their notebooks. Most cheeks were ruddy, but one pair was pale. “You alright, Jack?” I asked.
I expected a quick response from the eavesdropper on the other side of the room, a short cluster of words tripping through his lips, but no, Jack opened his mouth, then paused and held his breath. I held my breath too. The entire table held its breath.
“I’m okay. Why do you ask?”
“You look a little . . . pale.”
“You do,” said Eve, fluffing herself up into a ball of concern.
“I’m fine,” he said.
But he wasn’t. Now that he had our communal attention I could see he was holding the weight of something.
“Your eyes are bloodshot,” Eve said.
“I’m alright. I just . . . ”
“Just what?” urged Violet.
Poor squirming lad, I felt shitty for asking, “Yes, just wh–”
“I think I’m being followed.” He stared down at the surface of the table. Then he picked up a sachet of saccharin and squeezed it between his fingers. I could hear the paper crackle.
“What exactly do you mean by being followed?” It was Stanley who spoke. He’d been on the periphery up until then, distracted by the ribbon in his notebook that refused to lie flat, but now he was interested, the amateur sleuth with a mouthful of fresh fillings.
Jack dropped the sachet onto the table. “There’s this bloke on the Tube . . . he’s always there . . . when I’m there.”
“Perhaps he’s going the same way as you,” said Stanley, his hands propped on the table in a triangle of wisdom.
“No. He’s not.”
I’d never heard Jack speak with such certainty.
“He’s always there,” he insisted. “I don’t always go the same way. I change my route and yet, he’s always there.”
“Are you sure he’s always the same man?” said Missy obliquely.
Jack picked up another sachet and tore the end off. “I’m sure.”
Violet sighed. “Are you certain it’s not just an o
dd coincidence?”
“He was at Oxford Circus at Tuesday lunchtime, then the Angel on Thursday evening and even today, when I took a different line to come here, he was there.”
“What does he look like?” I said, wondering if Jack had always had such short nails.
“He wears a big coat and . . . a hat.”
“That narrows it down,” said Violet.
Jack looked smaller than before.
“It doesn’t matter what he’s wearing.” He took a deep breath; it tightened his shirt over his chest. “What matters is that he is always there and he’s always watching, and he’s always listening.”
Jack’s words equalled us all out. We were no longer a boss and employees, we were a bunch of people worrying about a fellow listener. I longed to find a helpful reply but only platitudes came into my head.
It was Eve who spoke. “Why don’t you give the Tube a miss for a few days.”
“I don’t want to,” said Jack. “That’s my place.”
Stanley seemed to have had an inspiration. “But then you’ll be able to shake him off.”
“If there is a ‘he,’” said Violet.
“Yes!” I’d found my tongue. “You don’t know for sure that there is a he.” The remark sounded less intelligent out than in.
“Shall I come with you next time?” said Stanley. “See what I can see?”
Thank God. “That’s a great idea, Stanley. You happy with that, Jack?”
Jack nodded, miserable as sin.
“Okay. Let’s move on.”
It was hard to move on. Meetings are like stories. There’s a beginning, a middle and an end. And sometimes the end seems to come before the middle. But there’s also a tone. I realised this as I surveyed the eavesdroppers’ sagging shoulders, and when the tone changes it’s hard to change it back again. And when you are the one who is in charge this sapped energy is daunting. It was Violet who rescued us. She opened her notebook, passed a smile round the circle and read us tales from the cafe as if we were children. Not her own children, but rather children she had borrowed for the day. I felt I was there, smelling the coffee, tasting the egg yolk exploding beneath the teeth of the fork, and for a moment I forgot I was supposed to be analysing the eavesdroppers reports; I forgot I should be worrying about Jack.
EVE had an ache in her stomach. She rubbed it in a circle, like her mother had told her to do as a child, but it still hurt. She wished she had a mother still. People would probably scoff at that. People might laugh to hear that a person of sixty-three wanted its mother. But as well as a mother she wanted an Eve. She wanted someone to come to her rescue. But what would they be rescuing her from, people might reasonably ask. ‘Life’ would bore them; they’d be drifting away before she’d have time to explain, and ‘loneliness’ would be laughed at. Everyone is lonely these days. She’d have to think of an original reason for rescue. She thought of Jack. She liked Jack. He was decent. Yet he was worried about being followed. But – she felt a surge of satisfaction at the logic of her thought – wasn’t being followed better than not being followed? Better than being so invisible that not even a man in a big coat could be bothered to tail you.
The yellow washing machine shuddered then revved up into spin cycle, an activity which never failed to make her jump. She sat down on the bench and opened her notebook. She hadn’t written anything since her conversation with Mr. Harcourt in the pub. He’d worried her. Not when he suggested she move to another launderette. No, it was when he’d glanced at the leaflets in her bag and gave her a funny look.
She was wondering if he would be angry if he caught her back in her launderette, when the latch on the door clicked and in walked big back.
She saw him before he had a chance to turn round and see her, so Eve leant further back into her corner and watched. She watched his tweed jacket rise up and his bum crack reveal itself as he bent forward to open his bag and stuff his clothes into the machine. Bare backs make you vulnerable, she thought. When people have seen the delicate skin at the top of your waistband you have a little power over them. In fact, when people have seen your dirty clothes under the harsh lights of the launderette they have some power over you too. She felt a nub of something rise in her chest as she noted the man’s faded boxer shorts and filthy socks tossed into the machine. Vests, shirts, handkerchiefs, every garment made her more intimate with him. And intimacy gave her confidence.
“That shirt looks like silk,’ she said, emerging from behind the dryer.
The man turned. “You what?”
“Silk. It has to be washed by hand.”
He straightened up and looked at her, a shirt limp in his hand. “What’s that got to do with you?”
“I lost a silk shirt to the heat once. It came out like a doll’s.”
“A doll’s what?”
Eve felt her voice shrink. “Shirt.”
The man’s expression was hard to read. Would he kill her there and then? Would he stuff her into the big dryer and set it to high? Then she remembered the bare skin at the base of his back. “Let me show you the label.” It was her kindest voice, the one she saved for girls with abusive stepfathers. She stepped towards him and gently took the shirt from his hand. “Dry clean only,” she said, pointing to the label. The man squinted at the inside of the collar. The gesture set off a little squirt of delight in Eve; he wore glasses.
“You mean I can’t stick it in with the rest?” he said.
“Exactly.” Eve’s thoughts were on the leaflet in her bag, Understanding Washing Codes. Everything had a leaflet. Even old-fashioned clothes had a couple of pages on how to press velvet and rinse out brocade.
The man chucked the shirt back into his bag, pulled a copy of the Daily Mail off the bench and sat down. Just sat. No ‘thank you.’ No ‘that’s really kind of you.’
Eve lowered herself down beside him. Keep at least six inches between yourself and any man, her mother had always warned. The advice had held her in good stead for the previous fifty years but now, settling down beside this man, five inches felt right. After all, even killers needed help with their washing labels; even killers might need the warmth of a sympathetic ear. She glanced at the headlines over his shoulder. Then she said something she shouldn’t have.
CHAPTER
22
I had no idea there were so many different types: big ones, small ones, round ones, long ones. It was a cold Wednesday evening in my flat when I typed sound mirror into my search engine, expecting to be presented with an obscure website untouched for a decade, yet clinging to the hope that I might find out more about the fate of the war-time eavesdroppers. But no, the websites were numerous, extremely detailed and all resounding with boffin-like love. They talked of bearings, graduated scales and counterpoised arms, but no mention of the fate of the hapless Lydd listeners.
Sound mirrors, it transpired, dotted the English coast from Durham to Kent, and round the underbelly of England as far as Selsey Bill. Concave giants tipped up towards the sky again and again. I loved that angle, the angle of reception. There was hope in that angle. Hope and expectation.
Raymond Watt had been vague during parts of his tale. Did I imagine evasive? He said names, he relayed events, but what had he actually said? What was his story really about?
The old man had started life as a listener, he told me as much. He described the devastation of temporary blindness at six years old, but then his story skipped forward to the darkest days of the war when the south coast was threatened nightly by German bombers and he’d spent week after week in front of the mirror, not daring to turn, not daring to stop. With a specially made stethoscope plugged in his ears he’d trawled the mirror’s surface, seeking the loudest spot – the spot of greatest danger. Finally, he’d read the bearings and altitudes of his foe and relayed them to the control room by telephone.
And in spite of the wind constantly shoving his body and the blackness of the sky, he’d had to make a decision. Every night he had to record the location of
the sound and decide who, in the vast dark hinterland of southern England, would live. And who would die.
I checked my watch and pulled on my coat. The stairs down to my building entrance sounded unnaturally loud as I descended so I tiptoed across the final treads before opening the door and entering the street. Dusk falls early in October and I felt a stab of melancholy as I looked up at the tree on the corner, its leaves crinkled and brown, hanging on ageing threads. I turned the corner and walked along Kendall Road, a broad street where the trees grew larger, the buildings taller and the eaves projected shadows onto the bedroom windows. I pressed the button on the traffic light and was watching a woman stretching out her arms inside the house opposite when – bang!
I instinctively slapped my hand over my eyes and waited, my ears tautening, my heart pumping, the traffic lights beeping. I formed a slit in my fingers and peeped through and saw: the street with bins, the cars with empty insides, the trees with leaves. Feeling foolish I dropped my hand to my sides but still did not move. I scanned the street, along the rooftops, across the faces of the buildings, between the trees, down onto the pavement, past the parking meters, the manhole covers, the lamp columns, until I saw it.
A black lump lay on the pavement. A discarded glove? A dead bird? A blob of melted tar? I waited a moment longer, then edged my way towards it. The lump took shape as I grew closer – a small furry back, a leather limb at a broken angle. I knelt down to see.
When I arrived at the surgery my ophthalmologist was seated at his desk with his fingertips resting on his keyboard. “Looking good, Mr. Harcourt.”
I smiled. I’d practiced saying ophthalmologist in the bath the previous night and now I felt embarrassed to see him again. I’d tried learning to spell the interminable word too, but never reached the second ‘O.’ “Thanks. I feel good.”
“Take a seat.” He went over to a small sink and began to wash his hands.
A model of a giant eye sat on the end of his desk. I looked at it. It looked at me. In a moment of panic I recalled my post-op instructions. Had I had a head bath? I couldn’t remember. Had I washed the eye shield and glasses every day with soap and water? Bugger. Had I? It was all such a distant memory. Then I remembered the more obscure instructions. Do not play with children. Do not lift heavy objects. Do not take snuff. I realised I’d need to cover up the fact that I’d mopped my eyes with a grubby handkerchief at one point – a heinous crime in the sterile, glares and haloes world of the eye surgeon.