by Pat Barker
A barred window set high in the opposite wall let in a grudging light, but enough to see three figures, draped in white sheets, and lying stretched out on slabs like huge dead fish. A fan churned up the heavy, lifeless air. The muttering had stopped, probably because he’d heard the door open, but then it started again. It was coming from the nearest slab.
As she walked towards him, she saw the sheet wasn’t quite long enough to cover him. He’d grown tall, her boy. Reaching out, she touched the thick yellow soles of his feet. Her fingertips, rasping over hard skin, found no lingering warmth, but farther up, in the folds of his groin, he was warm still. At last, standing by his head, but with no recollection of getting there, she pulled back the sheet and looked into his face. Smiling a little, she waited for his eyes to open, for the moment when he’d know her again, and say it, say that word: Mam.
“And what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
A man in a white coat, Adam’s apple jerking in his throat. Dumbly, she stared, then forced herself to say something, anything. Laundry, she managed to get out at last. She’d been sent to fetch clean laundry.
“Well, you won’t find any in here. The laundry’s back there.”
She could tell he didn’t believe her. Dropping the sheet, she said, “I thought he moved.”
“Moved? Good God, woman, are you mad?” Then, when she didn’t answer: “Where do you work?”
“I’m a ward maid.”
Shouldn’t’ve said that. Now he’d report her to matron and she’d get the sack. There’d been several complaints about her work, already—she was on borrowed time here. She started to edge past him, hardly breathing till she reached the door. He didn’t try to follow her or ask any more questions, just stood and watched her go. As the door closed behind her, she looked back, seeing his accusing face narrow to a crack and finally disappear.
She stood for a minute, gasping for breath. The lift? No, she’d be seen, she was in enough trouble already. Instead, she walked in the other direction, turned right along a side corridor and out through the double doors at the end. There was a ramp leading up to a yard in which the mortuary vans turned, but it was a steep climb. She had to keep stopping to get her breath.
“You all right, love?” one of the drivers asked.
She nodded and, not wanting to attract any more attention, took shelter behind a parked van. Well, that’s me job down the drain, she thought. But perhaps not; he hadn’t asked for her name. Nah, but they’d know who she was. She wasn’t exactly easy to miss. What the hell was she supposed to do now? If she lost the job, she’d be depending on the seances, and it wasn’t enough. Would’ve been if she got her fair share of the house, but she didn’t. Blood-sucking bastards. No, the only way she was going to make money was to go back to the ports, and give them what they wanted: spirits they could see and touch. More cheesecloth up her fanny. Whatever they’d done to her insides that time, it had left a bloody big hole. Which was…convenient. She mightn’t have been much use giving birth to the living, but my God she was a dab hand giving birth to the dead.
All this time, while she was worrying about money and paying the rent, she’d been feeling the soles of his feet, how hard and cold they were, and, at the same time, seeing that purple, howling, convulsed dwarf, whose long, delicate fingers had clawed the air. That’s it. When you come right down to it, what else matters? Oh, my boy. My poor, poor boy.
NINETEEN
The raids came thick and fast, all night, every night. Paul had more or less made up his mind he was going to die and this acceptance freed him from fear and moral scruple. Nothing quite like the proximity of death to make you feel entitled to grab anything that’s going. What he wanted, though, was not easily got. He didn’t want casual sex, still less commercial sex; he wanted precisely what he couldn’t have. The girls he’d kissed and fumbled when he was a boy, the excitement of those first encounters, back home, before he left for London.
Gemma, especially—he thought a lot about her. Buying fish and chips from Sweaty Betty’s, newspaper dark with grease and vinegar, kissing her good night on her doorstep, tasting salt on her lips, pushing her not-entirely-reluctant fingers down onto his groin, then her dad throwing open the bedroom window and demanding to know what sort of time they thought this was. Slinking away, after a final, clumsy kiss, exhilarated, sticky and ashamed.
Living, as he now did, in one room with a gas ring and a bathroom down the stairs, it was easy to feel like a student again. Everything: his clothes, his towels, even, for all he knew, his hair and skin smelled of oil paint and turps. Every morning, when he came off duty, he made himself a cup of tea and went to look out of the window at the sunlit street. The houses had a dazed look, as if buildings, no less than people, could marvel at another day of life. But then—unless he was so tired he really had to sleep—he started work, and he worked most of the day. Sleep was for later, for the afternoon, when the light was changing.
On one particularly fine morning, he opened the window and leaned out into the street. No bombs had fallen here last night, so no clouds of billowing black smoke marred the flawless beauty of this day. And there, in one of the houses opposite, was a girl. She was looking out into the street, exactly as he was doing, chafing her bare arms against the morning chill. As she leaned farther out, he realized she was almost naked, no more than a skimpy camisole half covering her breasts. He felt a delight in looking at her that was both sensual and innocent, and then she turned in his direction and he saw that it was Sandra Jobling. At the same moment, she recognized him. He expected her to withdraw in confusion, but instead, to his amazement, she leaned even farther out, raised her arm and waved.
He remembered kissing her, though now it seemed like an episode in a dream. They’d been going off duty, the All Clear had only just sounded, and he’d been light-headed with exhaustion and relief. Kissing her then had seemed the most natural thing in the world. He remembered the dryness of her lips, the mingled smell of smoke and soap on damp skin. That was only eight or nine days ago, though it seemed much longer. With the destruction of his house, a door had clanged shut, cutting him off from his previous life. From his adult life—curiously, his youth seemed to become more and more vivid every day.
With a final wave, Sandra withdrew into the darkness of her room. From then on, it was a matter of waiting to go on duty. But he worked as usual until the light changed, then snatched an hour or so of sleep, before setting off to walk the short distance to Russell Square. He often spent the last hours before going on duty lying on the grass, watching the sun dip below the trees.
Despite the continuing hot weather, there were signs of autumn everywhere. Rows of abandoned deck chairs lined the grassy open spaces, some of them nursing lapfuls of dead leaves. Ignoring them, he lay on the ground, wanting to smell cut grass and crumbly soil, slept for another twenty minutes or so, then, dry-mouthed and sun-sozzled, set off in search of a drink.
The streets were emptying fast, the day’s spaciousness narrowing to a single crack of light. Soon would come blackout and the wail of sirens, and people were hurrying home to face another night. He was about to turn into the Russell Hotel when a voice hailed him from the other side of the road. Sandra. Oh my God. For a moment he saw her objectively: a stocky, fearless young woman, bright, amused eyes peering through an overgrown fringe. Not pretty, oh no, God, not pretty. What did he care? She was amazing.
She ran across the road, arriving in front of him, breathless. “Fancy a drink?”
There wasn’t an ounce of flirtatiousness about her, but then they were colleagues, co-workers, comrades. Asking a colleague to go for a drink means precisely nothing. He was going to have to play this very carefully.
He nodded towards the hotel. “I was just going in there.”
“Bit posh, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s all right.”
“I think I’d rather sit out.”
They found a pub that had put benches on the pavement. She asked for a
Guinness, though normally she drank bitter: in fact, she could sink a pint of beer as fast as any man on the team. The area round the bar was packed with businessmen, snatching one last drink before returning to wives and children in the safety of the country. He carried the drinks outside and sat opposite her. They didn’t speak much at first, just sat in the sunshine, looking around them with the smugness of stayers-on. It had become a big part of your identity, whether you spent your nights in London or merely came in during the day to work. More important now than sex or class: whether you got on that evening train. Or not.
“Didn’t I see you at the seance?” he asked, feeling the silence had gone on long enough.
“Yes, Angela wanted to go.”
“Funny, I hadn’t got her down as a—”
“As a what?”
Superstitious, neurotic loony. “I just didn’t know she was interested.”
“Just curious, I think. I was surprised to see you there.”
“I met her, in this square, actually, a couple of weeks ago. I was curious. What about you?”
“She used to come to the Spiritualist Church near us, before the war. Me mam goes now and then. It’s not a big thing with her. You know, if she gets a message from me nanna she’s pleased, but she doesn’t make a lot of it. More of a night out, really. She always says if it wasn’t for the spuggies, she wouldn’t get out.”
How easy it was to settle back. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Well, do you think there’s anything in it?”
“Not really, though there are one or two things you can’t quite explain. I mean, for example, me mam and Auntie Ethel went to a seance—Mrs. Mason—and me Auntie Ethel really doesn’t believe in it—I think she’s quite frightened of it, though—anyway, me nanna came through loud and clear. “I’m surprised,” she said, “to see you sat there, our Ethel, being as how you took the ring off my finger as I lay in the coffin.” Well, Auntie Ethel nearly passed out. And as they were going home she says to me mam, ‘You told her that. There’s no way she could’ve known. You told her, didn’t you?’ And me mam just went very quiet. And then she says, ‘How could I have told her? You were alone in the room.’ So that was a dead give-away. And you’ve got to admit, it is odd, isn’t it? I mean, how could Mrs. Mason have known?”
Well. If Auntie Ethel was flashing the ring round every pub in Middlesbrough and some friend of the dead woman happened to recognize it…He nodded. “It is odd.”
“It was the finish of me mam and Auntie Ethel, they’ve not spoken since.”
Good old Mrs. Mason, spreading havoc…“Can I get you another drink?”
“Aye, go on.”
When he sat down again, she said, “I hear you’ve been bombed.”
“Yes, a week ago.”
“Bad?”
“Pretty bad. Not liveable in.”
“So where’s your wife?”
“In the country. We did go to a B&B, but…” He shrugged. “We got bombed out of that too. That’s twice in one week.”
“Will she stay there, do you think?”
“Oh, I think so. The second bomb was a shock.”
Sandra’s tongue came out and deftly removed a mustache of foam from her upper lip. “Good.”
He was left wondering what, exactly, she meant. “You know, the funny thing is, I worked really hard for that house. And do you know, when I looked at it, the only thing I felt was relief? It was like this huge weight…” He flexed his shoulders. “I still feel it. I mean, to be honest, I wish it had been completely flattened because then I wouldn’t have to keep going back.”
“What does your wife think?”
“Oh, she’s devastated.” A pause. “I’m not saying I’m proud of it.”
“You can’t help the way you feel.”
“I know one thing, I’m not going to go and live in a bloody cottage in the country.”
“No, of course not.” She batted away a wasp that was hovering over her glass. “You say you keep going back?”
“Yes, you know, rescuing a few things.”
“So it is stable?”
“Not really.”
He’d spent hours clambering through the ruins, picking up anything he could find, mainly things belonging to Elinor. He had no great desire to rescue his own possessions. At the weekend, he’d piled it all into the boot of the car and driven down to the cottage to lay what he’d managed to salvage at Elinor’s feet. Expiating a guilt he had no reason to feel. Yet.
He caught Sandra looking at him, puzzled by his sudden abstraction. “Anyway, that’s enough about me. How’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know.” She gave a little laugh. “Busy. Tired.”
She wasn’t at ease talking about herself. He could see her making an effort to go on, to reciprocate.
“You missed a few duties.”
“Yes, I went back home for a bit.”
“Nice to have a break…”
She seemed to come to a decision. “Actually, I didn’t really enjoy it all that much, but I just thought I ought to go. Me mam’s not been very good, worried sick about me brother.”
“Where is he? Do you know?”
“Not a clue. He’s in the Marines…”
“Has he just joined up?”
“Oh, no, before the war. He couldn’t get work and when he went down the Labour Exchange they told him he wasn’t entitled to anything because his mother and his sister were working. ‘Is that right?’ he says. And off he goes and joins the Marines. Just like that. And me mam will listen to Lord Haw-Haw. I’ve told her not to, I’m tired of telling her. ‘Where is His Majesty’s ship Repulse? His Majesty’s ship Repulse is at the bottom of the sea.’ Oh God, that voice—it’s like scraping your fingernails down a blackboard. Do you listen?”
“No.”
“Somebody should shoot the bugger. Oh, and the other thing was…” She hesitated. “I had a boyfriend, we weren’t engaged or anything, and he was posted missing at Dunkirk. Of course his mam’s convinced he’s still alive—though I can’t help thinking the Red Cross would’ve found him by now—and of course I have to go and see her, I can’t not, and to be honest…Well, you know. I don’t think we’d ever have got married, but there it is, in her mind we were going to get married, and we still are. I feel such a hypocrite.”
“Well, you’ve no reason to.”
“No, I know. Anyway, I just thought I can’t go on like this, so what did I do?” She raised her glass. “Took a leaf out of me brother’s book.”
“And joined the Marines?”
She laughed. “Nah. Joined the Wrens.” She drained her glass. “I joined up.”
“Good God. I think you deserve another drink.” He picked up the glasses and stood looking down at her. “Something stronger?”
“I’ll have a port and lemon.”
In the last twenty minutes the crowd round the bar had thinned considerably, so he wouldn’t have long to wait. He could see her through the open door. She was tracing a pattern in a puddle of spilled beer, the sunshine finding auburn glints in her brown hair. So she was leaving, then, probably in a couple of weeks. Right from the start the affair, if there was going to be an affair, would be limited; in time and in commitment. Well. He picked up the glasses. That was the one thing necessary to make her utterly irresistible.
He put their drinks down on the table, sat on the bench beside her, closer than before. “Well, there is this: you’ll be a helluva lot safer in the Wrens than you are here.”
She smiled and they clinked glasses.
“By the way, have you told anybody yet?” He meant other members of the team.
“I told bloody Nick. Do you know what he said?”
“Let me guess. ‘Up with the lark, to bed with a Wren.’ ”
Nick was a strange lad. At times he seemed almost simpleminded, but he could spell any word backwards, and tell you in a second how many letters there were. He never looked you in the eye, so it was di
fficult to know whether you were making contact or not. And he was especially awkward around young women. He’d sidle up to them, make remarks he clearly intended to be flirtatious, but which many of the girls found offensive, even, some of the younger girls particularly, intimidating. No doubt about it, Nick was a problem.
“I hate all that,” Sandra was saying. “You know, the ATS being ‘officers’ groundsheets’—and the WAAF ‘pilots’ cockpits.’ It’s just not true. I know a lot of girls who’ve joined up and none of them are like that.”
“No, I’m sure they’re not.” He hoped Nick’s stupid innuendo wasn’t going to produce a backlash of propriety in Sandra. If it did, he’d personally strangle the little sod. “I think a girl who wants to join up should be entitled to respect, same way as a man.”
She smiled at him. “I suppose you were in the last war?”
“Ye-es.” He wasn’t altogether happy to see the conversation turning to his age. “Long time ago.”
Twenty minutes till blackout. A noisy group at the bar were bidding each other good night, setting off to the station, to wives and children and safety. Paul slid his hand along the bench towards her and let it lie there, palm upwards. Silence. He felt a pressure in his throat, he couldn’t breathe. After a while she glanced sideways, smiled again and covered his hand with her own.
TWENTY
Bloody desperate, this. Picking up her bag, Bertha braced herself to face the stairs. Never liked coming home. Every morning, she plunged onto the streets craving light and space. Every afternoon, she crept back, cowed by the vast expanse of sky. Mind, she wasn’t as bad as she used to be. When she first come out, she used to hide in shop doorways, because the bustle was more than she could stand. You didn’t get much bustle in prison, only the one hour a day in the exercise yard, trudging round and round in a bloody circle. You weren’t supposed to talk to the other women, not that she’d have lowered herself, the riff-raff you got in there.
