The Night Following

by Morag Joss

  “Well, you can only do your best, can’t you?” Evelyn said, puzzled.

  “Aye. Now, it so happens I’m getting rid of a bad ’un. Beggar that’s running the Irlam shop, he’s had his fingers in’t till. He’ll be out on his ear come Friday. There’s rooms on the two floors over’t shop and I’ll not take any rent off you. I’ll get you in some help behind the counter but you’re manageress. You’ll do the books and the orders and answer to me for the profits. Daresay little Grace will be a help to you, she’ll know her figures by this time and the stock’s not heavy to lift. You’ll find me a reasonable man.”

  “Mr. Hibb-, Uncle Les, I don’t know what to say. Me and Grace, you mean we’d live over the shop? For nowt?”

  “Aye, but I’m expecting you to keep an-” Uncle Les’s voice stumbled on the word “eye.”“I’m expecting you to keep it all running smoothly. Make sure we’re open prompt, keep the stock turning over, keep the hired girl in line. You’ll get the hang of the ordering and doing the books, you’re a clever lass. That hasn’t escaped my notice.”

  Evelyn tried to stammer out some words of gratitude but Uncle Les interrupted her.

  He cleared his throat. “Nay, don’t thank me. All I ask is I’ll trouble you for your company now and then, you and little Gracie. I’m a lonely man since Mrs. Hibbert passed on and family’s family, when all’s said and done. I like to see a kiddie about the place and I’ve none of my own. Mrs. Hibbert wasn’t able. And a home’s not a home without a kiddie.”

  The night following was thick and humid, the sky as heavy as wax. The matches had gone soft and when I finally got one to light, the shed glowed a thundery yellow and smelled wormy and sulphur warm. Though the weather was not ideal for it, I had a particular plan. I had not attempted it until then because of the noise it would make, but that was no longer a consideration. We had an understanding. He was ready to let me do more for him; I could tell that even before I had read his letters to me.

  Once he was in the attic I made my way upstairs. I went straight to the spare room where I knew he had been leaving his dirty clothes. The place was strewn with them, banked up on the bed and across the floor in a jumble of turquoise, lime, orange, purple, plain, checked, patterned. I had seen him ransack the heaps time after time, although less often since he had taken to wearing the raincoat. There was not a clean stitch left. Everything had been worn until it stank, then dropped on the floor and most probably worn again.

  Back in the kitchen, I didn’t need any light. The feel of the materials told me that most of his things were synthetic. I shoved the first load in and started the machine. Pretty they were, the lights on the dials in the dark, and the machine shook and winked and juddered in a way that was businesslike, and somehow energizing. I ran upstairs and brought down more clothes and waited for the first load to finish. I hauled it out and started the second. If I worked fast then I could get all of it done and out on the line and it might even be dry before I had to leave. Even though there was not a breath of wind, I might get everything in, folded and ready. He would come down to a house smelling of clean clothes.

  There is something robust and proper about a good wash day. Whether on a Monday morning, as happened in my grandmother’s time, or on a warm summer’s night, laundry needs to be tackled, not picked at. It isn’t a job to be slipped through at odd moments so nobody notices it’s happened at all except when, one by one, garments reemerge clean from somewhere; a full, wet clothesline deserves notice as the small statement of competence it is. I believe that the washing of clothes ought to raise the temperature, make the walls run, fill the air as it did that night. So if I had a criticism of Ruth it was this: her arrangements suggested that she laundered on the quiet. I don’t think she even dried things in the proper way, hung outside on a line, because there was only a short length of rope on a hook, coiled against the house wall, that stretched a few feet across the terrace. I guessed her habit was to put things on hangers and leave them dripping in the conservatory or over the bath. I searched the shed and found a decent length of line. I fixed it to the neck of the downpipe at one corner of the conservatory and took it down across the grass and tied it off round the top of the pergola at the far side of the garden.

  It was still dark by the time the first three washes were hung. I walked along the line for a while, smoothing and squeezing garments as I went: his pegged-up slacks and shirts and sweaters, the underpants and socks, a row of shapes so soft and indistinct as to have almost no dimension at all, pasted on the night air like the afterimages of a departed procession of dismembered torsos and limbs. But there was nothing sinister about it. They looked too much like bits of giant puppet to be anything but faintly comical; there was also something amusing, touching even, about masculine clothes separated from their wearer.

  I brought in the first load, chilly to the touch, and ran a warm iron over everything to drive off the damp. The kitchen filled with the watery, cold sweetness of grass and the almost melting tang of hot polyester; it was absurdly thrilling. I went back upstairs and picked up towels and bed linen and put those in the wash, too. Back and forth I went from the machine to the garden, ironing things as they came in. There wasn’t a lot of space left in the kitchen with the ironing board up and mounds of clothing, but during a lull around two o’clock I dragged in one of the conservatory chairs. I made myself tea and sat watching the machine as it shuddered and droned from its corner in the dark.

  I woke up to a stillness inside the house. The machine had stopped. The only sounds were a lashing wind and the rattle of rain coming down against the windows and roof. Outside, the whole line of washing was swaying and the empty laundry basket I’d left out was rolling around on the terrace. I dashed into the conservatory.

  The storm had come on so fast. His clothes and towels were already soaked and being whipped around by the weather, and they were getting muddy too; rain was spiking into the grass and sparking straight back up. All I could see was a squally swirl of shapes and dripping shadows, like dark and darker paint running down the glass.

  I ran outside to the far end of the line and started working my way along, unpegging. Cold sprays of rain bit my face. I slung some of the clothes over my shoulder and dragged other things down into the crook of my arm, but it was like hauling waterlogged creatures in from the sea; I started to go numb under the weight of them and their icy cling. I couldn’t make out anything much; as well as the rain and my running eyes, the drenched washing still on the line cracked around me like flags.

  He didn’t make a sound, so I don’t know what made me turn when I did, but there he was, not six feet away, sidling towards me on the other side of the line, his face set grim against the rain, hair flattened and dark over his skull, and his raised arms draped in laundry. Maybe he didn’t call out because his lips were clamped tight on a row of clothes pegs. They arced out of his mouth like the struts of a stubby, naked fan. I hadn’t thought about the pegs, I’d just yanked them out and let them fall on the ground. I made a movement towards him and then he started, let the pegs fall from his mouth, flipped the wet bundle from his arms onto the grass, and hurried, limping, back to the house.

  27 Cardigan Avenue

  Dear Ruth

  Wish you’d write.

  But thank you, dear. Clean togs welcome.

  Can’t get far on the legs, down to bottom of drive two or three times a day to read Della’s poem is about it.

  I sat on the stairs for a long time today.

  Have had to submit to soup from across the road. Mrs. M’s son The Great Tony the paramedic came over with it-bossy bugger, like mother like son. He also had a shopping list. He said Mrs. M had jotted down some basics and would I run my eye over it and add anything else I could think of. He got my debit card number off me and said he’d get the whole thing fixed up online and I wouldn’t even have to sign for it-Mrs. M would take delivery and drop it all over regular as clockwork, I wouldn’t need to stir. BUT it would do me good to get out and he’d
take me shopping anytime I cared to go.

  I scratched my head over that-can’t recall what I agreed to, list is still here somewhere. Maybe it’s all written down. Could you deal with it?

  Later on was rootling around in some of your heaps and found something on mimosa! WAS it necessary however to hang on to so much paper? Here’s the bit:

  All I Want (Mimosas)

  Maria G. Bracci-Cambini

  to Joan

  May 20, 1983

  From “your Tosca”

  A farmhouse

  that’s all I want

  out of Life.

  A farmhouse,

  and Sun,

  and

  Mimosas

  In a willow-y tree.

  Where, when shadows fall

  and seasons pass,

  an echo of long ago

  will speak to me

  And the mimosa sighing

  On the willow-y tree.

  Who was Maria Bracci-Cambini? And who was Joan? I knew you were fond of mimosa and we both liked a bit of sun now and then, but did you want a farmhouse too, Ruth? You never mentioned it.

  All these words everywhere. I keep coming across things you never talked about.

  I never knew there was such a word as willow-y-willowy, yes. It looks nice, though-willow-y.

  There’s a book out now about punctuation. I expect you’d have bought it.

  Arthur

  THE COLD AND THE BEAUTY AND THE DARK

  1947

  Chapter 11: For the Love of Grace

  “Grace, come and sit next to your uncle,” Evelyn said. “We’ll tackle t’washing up in a bit.”

  Grace was still sitting on her chair at the dining table in the window, scowling. Uncle Les, enjoying his second cigarette after Sunday dinner, downed his glass of port and inspected his fingernails, buffing them absentmindedly against his lapel.

  “Aye, come on over here, lass,” he said for the third or fourth time, patting the space next to him. “You know your old uncle doesn’t like you to sulk. Here, I’ve a bag o’ chocolate éclairs somewhere.”

  Grace sighed heavily but then obeyed, slipping off her chair silently. Evelyn frowned and carried on knitting. She knew Grace moved quietly on purpose, so that Evelyn wouldn’t know where she was. It was two or three years since she had allowed her mother to hug her. Grace had always been a private, reticent child, but why had she, at fifteen, grown so distant and secretive?

  The settee creaked a little as Grace sat down. Uncle Les cleared his throat. The clock ticked on the mantelpiece and Evelyn’s needles clicked. Evelyn heard the whisper of clothing, then a soft squirming sound, followed by a sigh. Grace must be settling herself and relaxing. Maybe her mood would improve. She smiled.

  “Anybody fancy having the wireless on?” she asked.

  Uncle Les coughed and the settee creaked again. “Nay, never mind for Grace and me,” he said. “Gracie’s got her homework to do, hasn’t she?”

  “I needn’t do it now,” Grace said in a low voice. “Later will do.”

  Uncle Les tutted. “Now, now, lass,” he said, “if it’s there to be done, it’s best tackled, eh? While I’m here to help.”

  Evelyn frowned. Grace was ungrateful. It was kind of Uncle Les to take such an interest in her education. He had bought her a desk and chair for her little bedroom, and every Sunday he would spend at least an hour with her there, going over her homework. He admitted that history and science were not his forte, but anything to do with figures and he was a dab hand.

  “I don’t want to,” Grace said petulantly. “I don’t feel well. My stomach hurts. Here.”

  “Eh?” Uncle Les said sharply. “What’s up?”

  “You’ve had a bit too much dinner, I expect,” Evelyn said brightly. “Best ignore it, it’ll pass.”

  “Mother, I’ve hardly ate anything,” Grace said, her voice tightening. “I feel sick an’ all.” She suddenly burst into tears.

  “Why, Grace, whatever is the matter, love?” Evelyn cried.

  “There’s something bad in my stomach!”

  Uncle Les stood up. “Come on, Gracie,” he said with authority. “Give over, now, you’re upsetting your mother. That’s enough excuses. Homework’s got to be done. No, Evelyn, you leave this to me. Gracie, upstairs with you. Now.”

  Later, Uncle Les came down alone. He stood in front of the fire as he spoke, a sure sign that he meant to be taken seriously.

  “Evelyn, love, I’ve had words with little Gracie. She is a bit under the weather.”

  “Under the weather? She’s only a young lass! Maybe she could do with an iron tonic.”

  “An iron tonic won’t do owt,” Uncle Les said. “Iron tonic’s not what’s called for.”

  “I’ll have to get t’doctor to her, then.”

  “Nay, there’s no call for that! There’s nowt wrong with her a rest won’t put right. Now, I know a nice little place just out of Blackpool. Quiet, family run. Folk go there for all sorts, you get a proper pick-me-up-a sea cure plus all your home comforts. Mrs. Hibbert used to swear by it. A week there’ll do Grace a power o’good. And it’s on me, it’ll not set you back a penny.”

  Evelyn bit her lip.“But if she’s poorly she needs the doctor. And a whole week off school?”

  “Well, she’s leaving anyroad come Whitsun, i’n’t she? A week won’t make a scrap of difference. Fresh air, all mod cons. Do her good.”

  Evelyn considered.“Well, it does sound nice. These young girls, they do go at everthing so, these days. They outgrow their strength. Maybe she could do with a rest.”

  Aye, that’s the way to look at it. ’Course, goes wi’out saying I’d like for you to go with her, like, the both of you, treat yourselves.” Evelyn gasped with astonishment. “But another time, eh? With t’shop to mind,” Uncle Les went on, “it can’t be done.”

  “Oh, well, no!” Evelyn exclaimed. “It’s right kind of you to treat our Grace. I’m ever so grateful, Uncle Les.”

  Les took his leave soon afterward instead of staying on for tea. Evelyn was touched at how concerned he was about Grace and told herself again what a blessing he was. He continued to provide them with a home even when their shop earnings were, as he told them, the poorest of all his five concerns. It worried Evelyn that Grace seemed to resent his generosity. In fact, she couldn’t get a civil word out of the girl on the subject of Uncle Les. Her shyness of him had deepened into a kind of sullen dislike, if not actual fear. Evelyn would have to talk to her about it, when she was back from Blackpool and feeling better. Grace was becoming a young woman, far too old for such bad manners.

  Evelyn knitted on alone by the fire, worrying about Grace and wishing she were the kind of mother to whom a young girl would bring her troubles, as she always had to her own dearly remembered Mam.

  The following Saturday evening when Uncle Les called for the earnings, Grace was no less sullen but she was ready with her case packed. Evelyn hadn’t known what to put in, not that Grace owned anything in the way of clothes for a seaside holiday, anyway. Les bundled her into the car and reassured Evelyn that she needn’t worry, Grace wouldn’t want for anything. This place in Blackpool laid on everything and at the end of the week she’d be right as rain again.

  27 Cardigan Avenue

  Dear Ruth

  Well-couldn’t help letting Mrs. M and the nurse in on it, when they made reference to clean clothes-blank stares all round, they just can’t grasp it. Legs no bundle of laughs, by the way.

  Anyway, on the face of it of course it is quite unbelievable. But I’ve got the evidence of my own eyes. Not to mention the clothes. Never thought it possible, I always was the sceptic where any kind of hocus-pocus was concerned.

  You were the one for all that-airy-fairy, I called you, remember? Then you’d say, We don’t know what lies beyond, can’t you just keep an open mind, Arthur?

  I don’t remember you ever saying you would definitely come back if it so happened you went before me, but I don’t remember you
didn’t, either. We didn’t dwell on that sort of thing, did we? I suppose I thought there would be time for that kind of talk when we got older.

  Anyway there’s something in it, obviously, all this “other side” stuff. I don’t pretend to know what. Don’t need to, seeing’s believing and it improves things no end.

  Thank you.

  Not that I wouldn’t appreciate you leaving me a line or two, just to confirm the above.

  By the way-that story of yours, it’s taken an odd turn, hasn’t it? The young girl and that old uncle (filthy animal), that’s a bit off-colour surely, or am I reading too much into it?

  That’s not a criticism, I just didn’t think your mind worked that way. Also, no mention of Overdale since Chapter 8, and that does seem a pity. I’ve found the whole albums of Overdale, why did they go up to the attic in the first place?

  Is that all there’s to be of Overdale in the whole story? I always thought Overdale would make a very interesting setting. Still, up to you. What’s going to happen next is what I want to know.

  Read on, you’d be saying…in fact I can just hear you. I can hear you.

  Arthur

  The next night was quite different, cloudy but dry and calm. When I took out the muddy clothes and sheets I’d had to wash again and put them on the line, I heard some night bird croaking not far away, a round throaty call that opened out as if it were sounding across a long, empty lake, though there was no such expanse of water anywhere nearby. That’s how still it was.

  The other difference was that I entered the house knowing that I was expected. I didn’t watch from the shed or garden and wait until he was occupied upstairs. That seemed an unnecessary formality now.Besides, I had a lot to do. There was enough washing and ironing to keep me occupied and of course I was behind with the general cleaning after my blitz on the laundry. Whenever I could, I paused at the foot of the stairs from time to time and caught sometimes a moving shadow from above. I longed to be shown more. Should I be afraid for him? All that talk in the letters about his legs, and the night before there had been something abject in the set of his shoulders as he walked in pain away from me. I was desperate to know he was all right.