The Blind Light

by Stuart Evers

  Gwen looks down at her glass, away from the hot face of Daphne, away from the frantic movement of the pram.

  ‘Yours is as bad as mine. Peas in a bloody pod the both of them. Did you honestly think I’d invite you up here at a moment’s notice? On a whim?’

  The pram stops. They both instinctively look to it. Hold their breath. No scream. Peace.

  ‘I should go to bed,’ Gwen says.

  ‘No,’ Daphne says. ‘No, stay here. Let’s have a drink. One last drink, yes? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so inhospitable.’

  She pours the drinks, giddy in the light. She looks like she means the apology.

  ‘He invited himself?’ Gwen says to the newly full glass.

  ‘It’s not really his fault,’ Daphne says. ‘He was doing what he thought was right. Don’t they always? Years ago, Jim’s father said he was going to build a bunker under the house. He had plans and everything, the Ritz of bomb shelters, it was going to be. But he never quite got around to finishing it. And Jim has never got around to telling Drum there isn’t a bunker. That there never has been. Instead, he keeps on promising Drum a safety he can’t even offer us.’

  Her laughter. Even closer to Gwen now. The ire. She could strike her. So close.

  ‘So when this whole Cuba thing starts up, James starts to panic. Because he knew what would happen. Drum would be up here like a rat up a drainpipe. Expecting to see the bunker. Protecting you and Annie. The telegram came, but there was no way to get hold of you. No way to stop you coming. The horns of a dilemma right up his jacksy. Genuinely, I don’t know what he fears most: the bomb or having to tell Drum there isn’t a bunker.’

  Gwen could think of Doom Town. What Drum has told of her it. Think of his waking in the night, his constant ear for the wireless. She could think of the drive, his determination, his leaned-forward body as he steered, the white of his skin after the collision. But what the point in that.

  ‘Oh well,’ Daphne says. ‘It’s not the end of the world, now, is it?’

  A slight pause and then a madcap laugh, the brandy in the glass jumping, a hand on an arm, eyes closed and laughing, the boy not waking, the boy not waking at all.

  23

  Drum’s wellingtons pinch his feet as he shields his eyes from the morning glare, the sky looking scrubbed as a mortuary slab. Annie stands beside him, holding his hand, more confident now on her feet, waiting on Carter to join them, to hold the other hand and swing her down to the brook. It was fifty-fifty, Carter said before heading to his early bed, according to Mrs Eyre. A fine clairvoyant, Mrs Eyre. Either it will happen or it won’t.

  ‘Mama?’ Annie says.

  ‘She’s just having a lie-down,’ Drum says. ‘She’ll be back soon.’

  Gwen looked white and wiped out when she woke, first day of period, most likely, another month to wait on. Often angry then, often distant, often blaming, though mainly of herself. He went to kiss her and she gave him her cheek. Best to leave alone. ‘Take Annie,’ was the only thing she said to him as he got up from the bed.

  ‘Mama?’

  ‘Yes, she’s inside. Now, who can see a cow?’ Drum says and points at the Friesians in the next field, cold-looking and sleek. One pisses and steam rises from its yellow arc; the others mooch, butt their snouts against the hard earth. Annie follows his hand and points towards the cows.

  ‘Clever girl,’ Drum says.

  The countryside baffled Drum when at first he saw it on walks with Gwen. It had confused him with the openness of space, the highness of the skies, the broadness of the fields. He knew nothing of the names of fauna or flora, had no clue as to what kind of tree was which, the only one he could name for certain was the yew, for its appearance in graveyards. It was not quite beauty he saw, not quite the divine in blades of grass and hillocks. He did not see himself smaller or larger, as part of a grander plan or insignificant mite. What he saw, he saw filtered through Gwen’s eyes, twisted by her giddy pleasure in the greens and browns and blues. That was divine enough. To appreciate the beauty because of her appreciation, her sense of belonging. The keenness of that. It always seemed implausible a bomb could destroy that, that a work of mankind could rent it so utterly. Looking out now, with Annie, it seems impossible.

  ‘Cow,’ Annie says.

  ‘Very good, Annie,’ he says. ‘Very good indeed.’

  One day she will talk in proper sentences. One day they will have a proper conversation. One day they will argue. One day she will tell him a lie. One day she will tell him she loves him. One day she will tell him she hates him. One day she will be a woman and he will be an old man and he does not know who that man will be. He picks her up and hoists her high so she can better see the cows.

  ‘Dad-dee,’ she squeals.

  He pretends to drop her, catching her at the last moment. They laugh and laugh until he puts her down and sees Carter standing in front of him, something bundled underneath his jacket, a look of gravity on his face, despite the broad smile. Annie takes steps towards Carter, trips on a divot and falls flat on her face. Annie does not cry. Annie is scooped up into her father’s arms and her small boots make dirt footprints on Drum’s coat.

  ‘It’s over,’ Carter says. ‘All bar the shouting. But it’s over.’

  There’s a heat rising across Drum’s shoulders, shooting down into his sternum.

  ‘You’re certain?’ he says.

  ‘The Yanks gave in. Or the Reds. Something to do with Turkey. Either way . . .’

  Drum puts Annie down and Annie totters off. They watch her make a beeline for a stick, pick it up and hit the ground with it, then find another stick and hit the sticks together, a marshal beat.

  Carter unzips his jacket and takes out a bottle. He opens the whisky, drinks and passes it to Drum. They pass the bottle between them as Annie hits her sticks. Drum thinks of the ground beneath his feet, the bunker below the turf and sod. The safety he feels in that moment. The spectacle of it, the sensation of it. Something evaporating, melting like the morning frost, slowly, but thawing nonetheless.

  Drum looks at Annie, playing with the sticks. He watches her and wants to pick her up, kiss her, smell her cold cheeks, the scent of her hair. She ambles towards him with the sticks, like she knows. He picks her up and kisses her. Oh, Annie. Oh, my love. I am back, Annie. I am home, Annie. I will never disappear again, Annie. I promise you, Annie, I will always be here, Annie.

  My Sweet Lord

  1971

  February

  1

  In dark and drear, Coca-Cola red and white; Cinzano blue and red. Flashing the statue of Eros, flashing those in hats and coats, the neon red and white and blue. No rain, but chill wind on dirty pools from the afternoon pour, dead black the sky. A playbill light in red, Vivat! Vivat Regina. Coca-Cola in red and white; Cinzano in blue and red; Skol in red and gold. Bright the lights. Don’t look on them for too long, look too long and the logos imprint on streets, on unclad buildings, on the puddles. Know that of old.

  Once took Nathan to show him the lights, he liked the lights, looking up in gurgle wonder at the Coca-Cola and the Cinzano. The Skol there? No. A new one, the Skol. Never liked the stuff, lager-beer too fizzy, tastes of nothing. An ugly word Skol. Like skull, Skol. All the commuters, all the youth, all got skulls. The men in the bowler hats, thought they’d all been culled, but no, there they are, walking alongside, all have skulls. The men in the bowler hats, the woman in the pink minidress and long red hair, all have skulls. A cunt too, the woman. Every woman. Since when you use that word, even in thought? So horrible a word. Like Skol. All the words to use and Skol and cunt. Disgust yourself with your thoughts.

  On Shaftesbury Ave a pigeon pecks at a rubbish sack, pigeons everywhere, on the concrete and the breeze; gas and diesel, sulphur and fume, thick as steak, smoked as coals. Forgot the smell: rot of tramp, piss of alleyways, burn of flicked cigarettes. Unnerving and beautiful with Gwen, all those years before; now the city flashing darkly, voices in the dark.

  Killing
time, a half-hour early, the pubs inviting, the St James, the Groom, but just coins and a note, still odd in the pocket, in the hand. A few weeks since the changeover, and still unsure about new money. Knew where you were with shillings; knew where you were with tanners. Knew how much you didn’t have. No idea what a pint now costs. What’s that in old money?

  Money the reason to be here. Carter always offering whenever they saw each other, Drum refusing, then quietly accepting. The dance done and folding cash in pocket, an offer to repay, unmeant and ignored. The only reason for coming. Say it enough times and must be true; the only reason to be walking Shaftesbury Ave.

  A longhair playing guitar on the street, ‘My Sweet Lord’. Everywhere that song, ‘My Sweet Lord’, Hari Krishna. Seen the Hari Krishna once, their orange robes and the little cymbals, their faces melted in reverie amongst streets still scarred from bombs. The young man singing, and his guitar just out of tune and new and old coins in his guitar case, a fifty-pence piece, rigged and placed, no one doling out fifty-pence pieces for this.

  Down the Charing Cross Road, past the bookshops, the coffee bars, the trolleys of mildewed paperbacks, stop there to browse, soak up the time. It’s free to browse, always free. Stacks of books, something for Gwen in there, a present perhaps. Guilt present. But no money for books, no money for anything tonight but beer. Money to beget money.

  Hand in pocket: this is a ten pence, this is a five pence, this is a pound note. Twenty pence a pint, a rough guess. A quid fifteen in pocket. Almost six pints, not quite six, five pence short, so save the fifteen or get a half somewhere. Just a half. How can that hurt?

  In to the Roundhouse pub, a half-pint, ten and a half pence. Sip the drink, open the book. The latest from the library, Gwen bringing back the new releases, perk of the job; still disbelieving she works in a library of all places. A Clubbable Woman, a murder at a rugby club. Drink slowly, kill time, turn the page, sip the drink, check the clock.

  A man at the table beside the bar, hair growing out, losing on top, is with a tart, an actual prostitute. The tart laughs and she has a skull, and the skulls of prostitutes . . . what was that? A memory of another book, the thing the killer did to women. The tart she has a skull and a life and a skill, most likely, and we’re all killing time to a greater or lesser extent, aren’t we? Killing time on the strike. Another strike, the longest yet, or so it seems. Strikes harder as you get older, days without work a tense in the shoulder, an imaginary rivet gun in the hand, have that till the day you die, the old ghost of the machine.

  The tart laughing. How much in old money for that? How much in new? Does she take old money or is she strictly new pounds and pence? Perhaps they’re in love. From john to sweetheart, sure it happens. In novels all the time, it happens. Don’t say what it feels like to come home stinking of men though.

  Kissing now, the tart and the john, and good luck to you, tart and john. Good luck john, hope you don’t get a dose. Good luck, tart, hope he’s not kind who wants to see your skull. How long in the city and these the kinds of thoughts. Counting down to meet Carter, to having to make the right kind of conversation: to talk of the kids, of Gwen, of the strike, the fucking strike, and then to listen to Carter talk of his kids, and of Daphne and the job he will only allude to.

  Drink finished and onto Garrick Street, Maiden Lane. Rules’ awning a deep bold red and the doorman outside, whistling. The doorman pivots slightly to allow entry and through the hallway, beyond the stash of umbrellas, Carter is sitting at the bar, martini and cigarette in hand, wearing spectacles now. He waves from the bar and stands but does not put down his martini.

  ‘It’s like coming out of hell and into paradise, isn’t it?’ Carter says.

  2

  The bath is meagre, topped up with kettle-boiled water, just enough to cover his scraped knees. Nate is talking about something that happened at school, an altercation over a football, the reason for the red welts and scratches on his kneecaps. Happens all the time, the falls and damages.

  ‘Did you say sorry?’ she says, and it is a rote response, easily applied to any situation, but clearly not this one, the look on his face.

  ‘She hit me, Mam,’ Nate says. ‘Why do I have to say sorry?’

  ‘I said, “Did he say sorry?” not “Did you say sorry.”’

  ‘It was Lucy, Mam. The one who hit me.’

  Caught red-handed. Guilty, your honour, distraction in the third degree. Concentrate now: smile and sorry and shush. Nate smiling, Nate saying silly Mam. Six years old and proper little man now, proper little boy. Boy that took her tits, gave her the sag in stomach, bundle of joy, quick as an eel, brushing his own teeth these days. Looks like his father, like his uncle, like her father, all of them, all at the same time. Everything to all people. And her ignoring him, not listening, though whatever happened is the most important thing in his life right now.

  ‘Time to get out now, Nate,’ she says. ‘Story-time.’

  ‘But I haven’t done my lengths, yet,’ he says. ‘How will I swim like Daddy and Annie if I don’t do my lengths?’

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Ten lengths and no more.’

  His eyes widen, and he pretends to swim, back and forth, in the small bath. Knowing her vulnerable to appeals as his father’s not there. Better him not there. Bath-time her preserve while Drum’s at work; only taken from her when he’s out on strike. Trying to help. To lighten the load while she’s the only one working. But she misses the routine; the bath with Nate, the calling to Annie so she can bathe in peace while Gwen wrangles Nate into bed, forces him through at least one book.

  Nate lacks concentration, asks questions irrelevant and annoying, something Annie never did. Not that Gwen read to her often; that falling to Drum most nights as Gwen attended to Nate. She’d hear them reading in her and Drum’s bedroom before she went in to say the coast was clear and carry Annie to the top bunk. Annie long since reading her own books, recently in her own room. There are still kisses at the end of night, still the warmth from her breath, but there are secrets now, secret landscapes Annie will not share.

  ‘Annie, my love,’ she says, ‘bath’s free now.’

  It will take at least three more calls before she acknowledges receipt. Lost in Narnia again, rejecting the books Gwen has brought for her from the library. Sometimes picking them up, but never sticking, these books; the ones Annie loved she found herself on a Saturday morning before swimming.

  ‘Coming,’ Annie says and she is there in the bathroom, will not undress until they are both safely in the other room. This modesty is new, there are no signs so far of change, but her best friend Susan has started her monthlies and is wearing a training bra, and Annie is looking at her own body for hints of swelling, growing, hairing. Gwen has talked to her about it all, said all the right things: it’s natural, normal; it happens at its own pace; it happens to some girls much earlier than others, and Annie seems happy for the information, though somewhat surprised it will happen to her. There are no periods in Narnia; there is no puberty under Aslan. At least as Gwen recalls.

  ‘Is everything okay, Mam?’ Annie says.

  ‘What?’ she says.

  ‘Are you okay? You look like you’re a hundred miles away.’

  ‘Yes, cariad,’ she says. ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’

  Annie closes the door. Always closing doors, it seems, these days. She sees her only for a moment before there’s wood between them both.

  ‘Don’t be too long in there,’ Gwen says. ‘Lights out at eight.’

  She settles Nate down on the bed, picks up the two books she is to read to him. Annie able to read at his age; him not yet able. Should not say anything. Should not think anything, but unable not to. Men should read, always thought that. Men who do not, a paucity in their soul. Old Nick’s words, what he’d make of her son, his slovenly southern accent, his estuarine twang, his lack of interest in anything that isn’t a ball.

  Nate lies heavy on her, already lolling, exhausted from running and falli
ng. He will hold out though, resist sleep as much as he can.

  ‘You missed a page,’ he says.

  She apologizes and reads several pages without realizing she has done. He does not complain, so the words must be right. How this happens. Mysteries of parenting.

  ‘Too fast,’ he says. ‘You’re reading too fast.’

  And she is reading too fast, and she is getting words wrong, and she is not okay, Mam. She is not okay. She is remiss in her reading; she wishes only for him to sleep. She wants to go downstairs and drink a gin by the fire, with a book and her own thoughts. She wants to toast herself for her fortitude, and commiserate with her cowardice. She wants silence and calm, and she is still somehow reading her son a book though she is thinking of a man who is not her husband, and what it means to be a mother, and what it means to be a woman, and thinking of what her daughter would think of her. What her husband would think of her. And what it is like to get away with something. Is it ever really getting away with something if you know you have transgressed? And the shame of that, and the life within that, and having no one she can tell. No one to share the weight of it.

  3

  Drummond orders the steak-and-kidney pudding, the cheapest option on the menu; Carter the squab pigeon. He looks upholstered now, Carter, plumped up like a scatter cushion. The moustache has been recently shaved, but his upper lip remains shadowed by its memory. His hair modishly brushes the collar of his shirt, a few lines on his face, here and there, awkward scribbles writing of his coming middle age.

  ‘Is Gwen still working at the library?’ Carter says. ‘Such a hotbed, the library, isn’t it? All that quiet. All that unspoken tension. The silent thrill of it!’