In The Dark

by Deborah Moggach

  Romance was in the air. Even Mrs O’Malley, confused at the best of times, was starting to suspect a connection between the presence of the butcher and her landlady’s high spirits. ‘Spring’s arrived!’ cried Mrs Clay, when asked the reason for the meal. ‘Isn’t it time we had something to celebrate?’

  An attempt had been made to dress up for the occasion. Mrs O’Malley wore her hat, as if she were just about to catch a tram. Lettie’s hair was tied with ribbons and her mother, normally a mousy creature, wore a turquoise blouse whose tiny pleats had taken Winnie three-quarters of an hour to iron that morning. Only Ralph and Alwyne had made no attempt to smarten themselves up. Mrs Clay advanced on her son with a hair-comb but he ducked away, scowling. ‘Come here!’ she hissed, but then they had heard Mr Turk’s step on the stair and she sat down again.

  Mr Turk and Winnie carried in the dinner: a platter of rump steaks swimming in rich, brown gravy; boiled peas and carrots, a dish of new potatoes gleaming with butter – soaked in butter, drowning in butter.

  ‘Something smells good,’ said Alwyne, leaning forward in his chair. He had tucked his napkin under his chin, the cotton a snowy white against the dense blackness of his beard.

  ‘I’ll let you in on a secret,’ said Mr Turk. He turned and winked at Mrs Clay. ‘And casting no nasturtiums on the good lady’s cooking …’

  ‘Nasturtiums!’ Mrs O’Malley tittered.

  ‘With your meat, you have to seal in the juices,’ he said. ‘Hot pan, hot fat. Brown it on both sides till it’s piping hot. So damn piping hot that when you pour on the liquid the stuff bubbles and reduces.’

  Nobody was listening. All the eyes were fixed on the food. Winnie started serving it out.

  ‘And you’ll do me the honour of drinking a glass of first-rate burgundy,’ said Mr Turk, ‘supplied for me by Messrs Berry Brothers and Rudd, of St James’s Street in Mayfair.’ He fetched a bottle off the sideboard where, already uncorked, it had been set to breathe. ‘Glasses, Ralph?’ He was in high good humour.

  Eithne gazed at him, transfixed. All this – he was doing all this for her. And he was a wonderful cook, who would have thought it? Juniper berries, indeed! Marinades! No man she had ever met had known what a marinade was. Neither in fact did she. Nor could she imagine any man of her acquaintance, especially a man as impressive, as manly, as Neville Turk, donning an apron and rustling up a meal for the motley bunch of souls who dwelt under her roof. Eithne felt a wave of desire so powerful that it stopped her breath. And look, everyone liked him! Even her son was getting up from his chair and doing what he was told; everything was going to be all right.

  Ralph opened the wall cupboard and took out the glasses. Winnie set down the plates in front of each person. When she got to his place Ralph said: ‘No meat for me, please, Winnie.’

  ‘What?’ She paused, the plate in her hand.

  ‘No meat for me. I’m a vegetarian.’

  Silence fell.

  ‘You’re what?’ demanded Eithne.

  ‘The human digestive system is not designed for meat-eating,’ Ralph said, laying out the glasses. ‘Carnivorous animals – lions, cats – have a short intestine, only three times the length of their bodies. This happens because meat decays rapidly, and the products of this decay poison the bloodstream if they remain for a long time in the body.’

  Mrs O’Malley leant towards Lettie. ‘What’s he talking about, pet?’

  ‘This ensures the rapid expulsion of putrefactive bacteria from decomposing flesh,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Don’t be so disgusting!’ snapped Eithne.

  Mrs Spooner picked up a plate and headed for the door. ‘I’ll just take up Mr Spooner his supper,’ she said.

  ‘Human beings, however, have intestines like the herbivores – cows, zebras, horses,’ continued Ralph, sitting down. ‘Their intestines are twelve times the length of their bodies. This is for the slow digestion of vegetable matter, which doesn’t decay and putrefy.’

  Mrs O’Malley put down her fork. ‘I don’t feel very well,’ she said.

  ‘Where did you hear all this nonsense?’ demanded Eithne.

  ‘Alwyne told me.’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to have put him off,’ she replied, looking at Alwyne Flyte who was calmly eating.

  ‘He asked me and I told him.’ Alwyne spoke with his mouth full. ‘Several of my more progressive friends in Bolton have forsworn meat.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t and neither have we. Stop being so foolish, Ralph, and eat up your dinner. Mr Turk has gone to a lot of trouble.’ She turned to the butcher. ‘I’m so sorry, Neville.’

  Neville. A ripple went round the table. Ralph calmly forked up a potato and put it into his mouth.

  Winnie’s heart went out to Ralph, whom she pitied more than she could bear, whom she wanted to protect. But how infuriating the boy was! How could he spoil the meal like that? He sat there eating primly, like a curate.

  ‘Glad they’re not all like you, my boy,’ said Mr Turk. ‘Or I’d be out of a job.’

  Eithne laughed, shrilly.

  ‘Doesn’t explain these though, does it?’ Alwyne turned to Ralph and bared his teeth. A piece of meat was stuck between them. He tapped the pointed tooth beneath his moustache. ‘Doesn’t explain the canines.’

  ‘How do you answer that, young man?’ asked Mr Turk. His jovial spirits seemed undiminished.

  ‘It’s a terrible thing, to slaughter living creatures,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Ralph!’ hissed his mother.

  Mrs O’Malley belched, and carried on shovelling in peas with her spoon. Mrs Spooner reappeared, shadowy as always, and slipped into her place at the table.

  ‘My husband says thank you very much,’ she said to Mr Turk.

  ‘What’s the matter with the man?’ asked the butcher. ‘He ill or something?’

  Nobody spoke. Lettie’s eyes darted to her mother.

  ‘He’s not quite himself, Mr Turk,’ said Mrs Spooner. ‘Not quite the ticket.’

  ‘Who’s for more potatoes?’ asked Eithne brightly.

  Mrs O’Malley patted her lips with her napkin. ‘May I enquire if anybody is going to eat that extra steak?’

  ‘Good God, you can pack it away!’ said Mr Turk. ‘I like that in a woman.’

  Mrs O’Malley giggled and held out her plate. The butcher slid the meat on to it. The dog sat watching her every move, his tail thumping the carpet. Even the cat had appeared; she jumped on to the sideboard and sat there, her eyes fixed on their plates.

  ‘I do hope you’ll come again,’ Mrs O’Malley said. ‘I’m particularly partial to a broiled chicken, if you could see your way to that. Haven’t eaten a piece of chicken since last November.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure, Mrs O’Malley,’ said Mr Turk. ‘Nothing beats a nice piece of chicken, I’m with you on that one.’

  Alwyne turned to the butcher. ‘And which do you prefer, old boy? The leg or the breast?’

  Ralph’s head whipped round. Wide-eyed, he stared at Alwyne.

  Mr Turk seemed unperturbed. He grinned at the blind man. ‘If she’s a good juicy bird, plenty of flesh on her, I’d plump for the breast.’

  The word hung in the air. Winnie stared at Alwyne. How could he have said that? His spectacles flashed in the candlelight as he cocked his head, listening to the reaction. The man was enjoying himself!

  Outside, the daylight was fading. Mr Turk was engaging Mrs O’Malley in conversation, flirting with her and making her simper. Lettie slipped a piece of meat to the dog. Winnie couldn’t finish her food. Breast. Was Alwyne looking at her, with his sightless eyes, when he said that word? Thank goodness he couldn’t see her blushes. He looked so knowing, somehow. As if he knew that she had done that thing in front of him.

  And yet it was exciting! Winnie wanted to do it again, she wanted to goad him. Alwyne was sitting opposite her. She had a strong desire to slide down her chair and stretch out her foot – stretch it out and press her toe between his legs. Watch his face then! Watch his
lenses flash as he turned his head to and fro, seeking the culprit! Winnie felt, again, that throb of power. See who was the servant and who the master! Workers of the world unite – and she just a skivvy.

  Winnie stiffened. The blood was seeping out of her, she could feel the dampness underneath her bottom. And she was sitting on the best chair, the chair that had belonged to Mr Clay’s mother. Winnie had brought it in from the back room, to make up the numbers.

  Winnie’s blushes deepened. Silently, she urged them to finish eating. Mrs O’Malley was still working her way through the second steak. Mrs Spooner was taking tiny sips of her wine, eking it out. The poor woman had few enough pleasures but her niminy-piminy manner made Winnie impatient. Hurry up! Alwyne was moving his fork around the plate, chasing the last errant carrot, but nobody was coming to his rescue. And now Mrs O’Malley was having trouble with her dentures. Only Lettie was restless, twisting round in her chair and making faces at the dog who was sitting beside her, his eyes fixed on her face.

  Finally they finished eating. Winnie readied herself to get up.

  Mrs Clay turned to her son. ‘Ralph, clear the table.’

  Winnie pushed back her chair.

  ‘No, Winnie!’ said Mrs Clay. ‘Let him do it.’

  ‘But madam –’

  ‘You stay there. I’ll help him.’ With a grim look at her son, Mrs Clay got to her feet and started stacking the plates. Winnie knew why she was doing this, of course. She wanted to give Ralph a ticking-off in the kitchen.

  ‘This is your treat too,’ she said, smiling at Winnie. No doubt she also wanted to show Mr Turk how kindly she treated her domestic. Winnie sat there in a torment. The blood was seeping through to the chair, she could feel it. The seat was upholstered in yellow velvet! She had to hurry down to her room and stuff in a new rag, didn’t Mrs Clay understand? She couldn’t sit there a moment longer.

  Winnie stood up.

  ‘No!’ said Mrs Clay, wagging her finger. ‘You’re off duty now, my dear.’ My dear? ‘Stay here and keep Mr Turk happy.’

  ‘Oh, I’m as happy as Larry,’ he said, flashing a smile at Mrs Clay. She was standing in the doorway, radiant in the candlelight. She smiled at him, a smile so dazzling that Winnie flinched, as if she were staring at the sun.

  *

  The dog was doing his business in the middle of the flowerbed.

  ‘I’m going to marry Mr Turk,’ Eithne told her son. They were standing in the little park by the river. ‘I’m going to marry Neville. He asked me last night, after you’d gone to sleep, and I said yes.’

  Brutus squatted, hunched, amongst the daffodils. The turd emerged and dropped to the ground in a coil. It was followed by a second. The stench wafted up to Ralph’s nostrils. He had forgotten to tell them, the evening before, about the impactive effect of meat in the gut. A dog’s digestive tract could deal with it but in humans this led to chronic constipation.

  ‘Say something, my love.’

  The park had been largely dug up for the growing of vegetables. A fence had been erected to separate the flowerbeds from the patriotic cabbages but in truth there was little to distinguish between the two. They all struggled to survive. Besides, in several places the fence had been flattened. Dogs and children had trampled all over the place. The gardener had long since disappeared; the cabbages had stood there all winter and the ones that hadn’t been stolen were rotting.

  ‘He’ll never take the place of your father,’ she said, ‘he wouldn’t want to do that. But he’s a wonderful man, Ralph, he wants to take care of us.’

  ‘Brutus!’ Ralph yelled. The dog had disappeared towards the river. Ralph inserted two fingers into his mouth and whistled. His mother jumped. ‘Boyce taught me how to do that,’ he said.

  Suddenly, he longed to be with his friend. It didn’t matter where Boycie was – Ralph wasn’t stupid, he knew something terrible might have happened to him. But wherever he was, Ralph wanted to be with him. Boyce would have got him out of this. They could be together. He thought: I love you so much I haven’t eaten your little packets of sugar.

  ‘He wants to love you,’ said his mother, ‘if you’ll give him the chance.’

  Brutus came bounding up. Ralph sank to his knees. ‘Who’s my best boy?’ He closed his eyes and felt the dog’s tongue slobber over his face.

  *

  Winnie was making her second attempt to remove the stain. She was scrubbing it with carbolic soap, and hot water containing a few drops of bleach. This was risky, of course. There was the danger that the faint, rusty patch would be replaced by a pale, bleached patch, but Winnie aimed to overcome this by scrubbing the entire chair-seat. If this resulted in a paler yellow throughout, with any luck nobody would be the wiser.

  Mrs Clay was out, with Ralph. The atmosphere at breakfast had been tense. As Winnie kneeled at the chair, scrubbing, she pondered the nature of love. Why, for instance, had she loved Dulcie more than the other horses? What singled out the old grey mare as an object of her devotion? Winnie was fond of all horses, she had grown up with them, but it was Dulcie who touched her heart. When Dulcie lifted her head from the bucket, her muzzle dusted with bran – when she swung her head round and gazed at Winnie, her ears pricked, her eyes deep and moist with recognition – then Winnie’s heart shifted in her breast, she could scarcely breathe for love.

  Where was Dulcie now? How was she managing, away from home, away from everything that was familiar to her? Four years had passed since they had taken her away. They had tied the horses together with rope, in a line, and led them out of the village. Some of the thoroughbreds had played up, thinking they were going hunting. All through the village people had closed their doors; they couldn’t watch.

  The clattering had faded away. Dulcie hadn’t even been shod, she had long since been retired from work. The sound of their hoofs faded and the village was silent. The doors remained closed. Nobody had spoken of the horses again.

  Winnie wiped her eyes with her apron. The thought of Dulcie always brought on the waterworks. She sat back on her haunches. The seat was sodden; the velvet stood up in matted tufts. Only time would tell if the stain had gone.

  The front door opened. Winnie scrambled to her feet and moved to the other side of the room. Sinking to her knees, she began to scrub at an imaginary stain on the carpet.

  She heard Ralph’s footsteps climbing the stairs to his room. The dog followed him. Mrs Clay came in and pulled off her hat.

  ‘Oh, Winnie,’ she said. ‘Oh dear me.’

  With a sigh, she sat down heavily on the chair.

  Winnie froze. The seat was wet. Mrs Clay, however, was too distracted to notice.

  ‘He must like him,’ she said. ‘He will like him, it’s only a matter of time. You like him, don’t you, Winnie? Have you ever met anybody so generous? Weren’t those violet creams delicious last night? He had them sent from Paris. He wants to take care of us all, you too. Oh I love him so much I can hardly bear it, oh Winnie you have no idea. It feels – it feels – like my heavy fetters have become daisy chains. Oh I can’t describe it. I’m so happy I want to die!’

  Mrs Clay got up from the chair and fled from the room. Winnie glimpsed a damp patch on the back of her skirt.

  Chapter Four

  The cow goes with young for nine months, and the affection and solicitude she evinces for her offspring is more human in its tenderness and intensity than is displayed by any other animal, and her distress, when she hears it bleating, and is not allowed to reach it with her distended udders, is often painful to witness, and when the calf has died, or been accidentally killed, her grief frequently makes her refuse to give down any milk. At such times, the breeder has adopted the expedient of flaying the dead carcass, and, distending the skin with hay, lays the effigy before her, and then taking advantage of her solicitude, milks her while she is caressing the skin with her tongue.

  Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management

  The wedding took place in mid-May. Once decided, there seemed no se
nse in delaying things. Besides, Neville was mad to possess her. The thought of Eithne’s naked body, under her skirts, obsessed him. Throughout the day, as he sawed and chopped, he pictured her thighs parting, the sweet moistness between them waiting for his finger. He would slide it in and feel her breath quicken. Slowly, oh so slowly, he would take out his finger and put it into his mouth, sucking the juice of her as she pressed herself against him, whimpering, rubbing her face against him, her hair tangled in his nose, his teeth. As he dismembered a chicken he pictured Eithne spread on the slab beneath him, her head flung back, her legs open. Under his bloody apron, his member stiffened. And meanwhile he joked with his customers, he called out the orders. All day, and throughout his long sleepless nights, her face was in front of him – her sweet, neat mouth; her fine eyes and high cheekbones; her soft brown hair released from its pins, all disordered about her shoulders. Eithne Clay carried herself with refinement but this didn’t fool him. I know you better, woman, than you know yourself.

  But first, before he got his hands on her, there had to be a wedding. As a gesture of respect, this was a quiet event. After all, she was a widow, and many would consider her to be still in mourning. And it was wartime; a lavish celebration would be deemed inappropriate. Most weddings were hasty affairs, carried out when the groom had a few days’ leave; then he was gone, leaving his sweetheart a respectable woman. Chances were that was the last she saw of him. All she had left was the photograph of a young man in uniform, whom she had hardly known.

  For Neville, of course, such circumstances didn’t apply but one still had to acknowledge that there was a war on – a war that had become such a way of life it seemed impossible to imagine that it would ever end. It permeated every home; nobody was immune. Even the Prime Minister had lost his son.

  So there was a simple ceremony, and afterwards a modest wedding breakfast in Palmerston Road. Neville had laid on cold cuts, a crate of champagne and two sulky waitresses. Winnie had made sandwiches. Tuberoses filled the air with their heavy, corrupt scent. Strangers stood jammed into the back room. The dog worked his way through them, sniffing, searching for a pair of familiar legs. Few neighbours had been invited, for Eithne was not on intimate terms with them. The guests were Neville’s – stout, affable men and their lady wives, men whose watch-chains stretched over their stomachs, men of some position in the community.