It was then that he noticed the cigarette stubs. They lay scattered in the grate, five or six of them. Ralph was taken aback. What was Winnie doing, smoking cigarettes?
He frowned, trying to puzzle it out. There was something shocking about the stubs; they were so out of keeping with everything else. But then people had their little secrets, as he himself knew only too well. Who knew what they got up to behind their bedroom doors?
His face cleared: of course, Winnie was learning to smoke. Everyone was doing it, to ward off the influenza. Even his mother was trying it, coughing and spluttering and holding out the cigarette as if it would bite. In fact she had urged Ralph to try it too. ‘It’s horrible to begin with,’ she said, ‘but I’m sure we’ll get used to it.’ Ralph’s fears about her disapproval were unfounded; Alwyne was right, as he was right about so many things. He said the influenza had arrived with the American troops. They had carried it to the Front, where it had unfortunately started killing the very troops they had been sent out to support. Truly, God had some rum surprises up His sleeve.
Ralph heard a noise. Footsteps were descending the stairs.
He got up and went to the door.
‘It’s all right, dear,’ said Mrs Spooner’s voice. ‘There’s nobody here, I told you.’
Ralph heard the hesitant shuffle of bedroom slippers.
‘I’ll make us a nice cup of tea,’ said Mrs Spooner. ‘And would you like some bread and jam?’
She was talking to her husband. Her voice was soft and crooning – a voice Ralph had never heard before.
‘See? It’s quite safe,’ she said. ‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Help him, Lettie. I’ll just put on the kettle.’
Ralph darted back into the bedroom and closed the door. Footsteps approached along the passage and stopped outside, in the scullery. He heard the gush of water as Mrs Spooner filled the kettle.
‘Do you remember that day at Frinton Sands?’ she called. ‘A lovely sunny day like this one! Wasn’t it, Lettie?’
She took the kettle back into the kitchen. Ralph heard her speaking to her husband. He caught the words ‘… rolled up your trousers … oh we did have a fine day, didn’t we love? …’
Mr Spooner replied. Ralph couldn’t hear the words. His wife’s voice brightened. ‘That’s right!’ she said. ‘And you and Lettie made a sandcastle.’
Ralph sat down on the bed. He couldn’t leave now; the stairs were in full view of the kitchen. They would jump out of their skins. The shock of seeing him would send Mr Spooner straight back to bed, probably for ever.
Ralph lay down. He would have to wait until they left. He lay there, listening to their murmuring voices and the clatter of plates.
Mrs Spooner spoke to her hushand, her voice low and loving. He replied. Ralph couldn’t hear what he said, but Mrs Spooner laughed. He had seldom heard her laugh. He listened to the little family eating tea in the kitchen. Through her love, Mrs Spooner was bringing her husband back to life – a pale, trembling wreck of a man, but at least he had come home.
Suddenly Ralph burst into tears. It took him quite by surprise. Once he started he couldn’t stop. He lay on Winnie’s bed, curled in a ball. He cried silently, weeping for his father, who would never come back to him.
*
Ralph woke with a start. Dusk had fallen. He jumped off the bed; Winnie would be back at any moment!
He froze. A sound was coming from the kitchen. He crept to the door and listened.
Somebody was groaning. It sounded like an animal in pain. Mr Spooner was having a heart attack! Ralph opened the door a crack and listened. It was a rhythmic, grunting groan. Somebody was suffering; had anyone called the doctor?
Ralph opened the door and tiptoed out. He peeped into the kitchen.
The room was dim. For a moment he couldn’t make out what was happening. Two figures seemed to be jammed against the dresser.
His mother’s skirt was bunched around her waist; her white petticoat glimmered. It was she who was making the noise. Mr Turk stood, his legs planted apart, his back to Ralph. His shirt-sleeve was rolled up. His bare arm was shoved up inside her, like a vet calving a cow. His mother’s head was flung back; her body shuddered. Yelps came from her as his arm pushed in and out.
Ralph reeled back. He spun round, and stumbled up the stairs.
Chapter Seven
‘I say, waiter! Would you mind closing that door – I don’t want my meat ration blown away.’
Picture postcard
Eithne tapped on Ralph’s door.
‘Your breakfast’s getting cold,’ she said. ‘I’ve boiled you an egg.’
No reply.
‘Big day today,’ she said.
Ralph mumbled something.
‘What was that, dear?’
‘I’ll be down soon,’ he said.
‘Don’t be long.’
Eithne went downstairs. It was Monday morning; her husband, and Mrs Spooner, had long since gone to work. From the parlour came the clatter of plates as Winnie served breakfast.
Ralph was such a good boy. He had been studying hard for his exams, he wanted to do the best for his mother. Sometimes, however, Eithne wished he would take more part in family life. What larks he had missed, the previous afternoon! Neville had rowed her across the Serpentine; he had rolled up his sleeves and grinned at her, a cigar clamped between his lips, his strong hands gripping the oars as they sliced through the water. Here was a man who could take care of them. Ralph would have admired Neville’s prowess. He would – surely he would – have been gratified to see his mother laughing without a care in the world. They had suffered such sorrow together, the two of them. Didn’t they deserve some happiness?
Of course it was also a relief, that Ralph hadn’t been there. Eithne hated to admit this, but it was true. Brutus, balancing on his haunches as the boat rocked, was an easier companion than her son. Animals were a relief, in this respect. Their baleful looks were simply a matter of whether or not you took them for a walk.
Afterwards Neville had taken her for a drive. Work hard, play hard was his philosophy. He drove fast, his foot flat on the floor. The wind rushed through Eithne’s hair; she clamped her hat on her head and gripped the door handle. In the back seat, Brutus swayed from side to side. Horses shied as Neville swerved around them, hooting his horn. No more waiting at bus stops, no more clopping along at a snail’s pace! No more fumbling for pennies to pay the fare. In a trice they were roaring through the streets of Bayswater, through Notting Hill Gate, through streets she never knew existed. London was both suddenly vast and suddenly intimate. Their beautiful shiny Wolseley ate up the miles. They could drive to Blackpool, to Bognor, to Bungay, wherever that was. They could drive up to Stockport where she grew up, where her father still lived, and see his face as they shuddered to a halt outside the house and honked the horn. The internal combustion engine was going to transform the world, Neville said. He called it the eternal combustion engine. Alwyne, back at the house, had muttered the infernal combustion engine but what did Alwyne know? He was blind.
‘Fellas want their freedom,’ said Neville. ‘Mark my words, they’ll all be driving ’em soon.’ He hooted his way through the crowded streets. The motor car bounced over tram-lines; it got stuck in tram-lines – once, good Lord, they nearly got mown down by a tram that sped towards them ringing its bell. They even braved Piccadilly Circus, a chaos of tram-lines like tangled knitting, a stampede of omnibuses and cabs and motor lorries that made Eithne cower, and grab her husband’s arm. Ralph was a boy, he would have loved it. This was his world now, if he’d had the sense to join them. Neville would teach him to drive.
Her husband was good to the boy. Oh, he might be sharpish sometimes but Ralph needed gingering up and only a man could give him the nudge he needed. In the long run, he would see the benefit. Neville was good to them all. Love me, love my lodgers, she had told him, the night he proposed. That meal he cooked them had won their hearts. Everything was going to be all right. Ei
thne had had her doubts but speeding along in a Wolseley blew them away. There was nothing to worry about. The sun was sinking as they drove across London Bridge. It was a beautiful sunset, the sky suffused with pink, the blood-red disk slipping behind the dome of St Paul’s.
Eithne pulled off her hat and flung back her head. Her hair loosened from its pins and whipped around her face. ‘I’m so happy I want to die!’ she shouted.
When she climbed out of the motor car her legs were trembling. She felt sick with desire, ill with it. They stumbled down to the kitchen, to brew some tea. Her husband reached for the kettle but she grabbed his hand and pressed it against her breast.
‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘I love you I love you I love you.’
Leaning against the dresser, she pulled him to her.
Afterwards, when they switched on the light, she saw Ralph’s apron hanging on its hook. It was the green calico apron he wore when blacking the boots. Though empty of Ralph, it was so redolent of the boy that she blushed.
Her dearest son. She loved him so much. What would he think of her? Eithne felt so weak, she had to sit down.
*
Ralph had packed his bag. It contained a change of underwear, a clean shirt, the striped woollen vest that Winnie had knitted for him, his toothbrush and toothpaste, a packet of digestive biscuits, the photograph of his parents that he had extracted from its frame, and a book – Fletcher’s Guide to British Birds – that had belonged to his father. No doubt the birds would be different in France but looking at the pictures would remind him of home. He hadn’t known what else to pack. They would supply him with a uniform, of course. If only he knew somebody else who was joining up. He didn’t want to humiliate himself by carrying a bag that was either too big or too small. If only Boyce or his father were there, to give him advice!
It was eleven o’clock in the morning; a sultry day, threatening thunder. His mother had gone shopping; she had taken the Underground to Whiteleys, to choose material for new curtains. ‘Good luck, my darling little man,’ she had said, kissing him. ‘You’ll pass with top marks, I know you will. And we’ll have a special supper to celebrate.’ She left. He wiped the saliva off his cheek.
It struck him as curious, that at twelve o’clock his fellow students would be sitting down to their final exam. Harry, Roly, the others whose names he had never caught and whose friend he had never become. Maybe they would all go out afterwards to celebrate the end of term and the end of Mrs Brand. They seemed creatures of another world now, a world so irrelevant that it surprised him, in a mild sort of way, that he had ever been a part of it at all.
The house was quiet. Winnie was out at the shops. She had taken the dog. Ralph was thankful for this; the thought of saying goodbye to either of them was something he had been dreading. He loved the two of them more than anything else on earth, they were all that was left to him. Already he missed them.
Ralph put on his jacket. He patted the inside pocket, checking that his money was there. He had one pound five shillings and threepence. This was the sum total of his savings – one pound and threepence – plus the money Mr Turk had paid him for washing his motor car – five washes at a shilling a wash. Once he enlisted, of course, they would give him the King’s Shilling and a warrant, and after that there should be no more expenditure. The army would take care of everything.
Ralph carried his bag downstairs. He took one last look around the hallway and was just about to leave when a voice called from the parlour.
‘That you, Ralph?’
It was Alwyne. He sat at the table, smoking a cigarette.
‘Thought nobody would ever come,’ he said irritably. ‘Do me a favour and find me a gramophone record. Does nobody realise they all feel exactly the same – Mozart, Haydn, the divine Schubert? Just a piece of bloody shellac.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ralph. The fellow seemed to be in a filthy mood. ‘What would you like?’
‘Don’t think I’m up to Schubert this morning. I presume Winnie’s told you about her friend?’
‘No.’
‘The poor girl, she’s in a terrible state.’
‘Why?’ Ralph looked at his watch. It was fortunate that Alwyne couldn’t see him. He really ought to be getting a move on.
‘She’s dying.’
Ralph froze. ‘Winnie’s dying?’
‘No, her friend. Pay attention. Her friend, Elsie, who made the bombs.’ Alwyne stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Find me the Rossini. I’m not up to anything profound just now.’
Ralph searched through the gramophone records. This was most inconvenient. Time was ticking on; he had to get out of the house before Winnie or his mother returned.
He found the gramophone record and slipped it out of its sleeve.
‘Stay with me, Ralph,’ said Alwyne. ‘Listen to it with me, there’s a good boy.’
‘I can’t,’ said Ralph. ‘I’m late already.’
‘Ah yes, I’d forgotten.’ There was a pause. Alwyne looked at Ralph, his face unreadable behind the black spectacles. ‘I want to ask you something. Are you really sure you want to join the drones?’
Ralph stared at him. The blood drained from his face. How on earth did the man know?
There must be a regiment called the Drones. It was probably a nickname. But why did Alwyne presume he wanted to enlist in that particular one?
‘The Drones?’ he whispered.
‘You’re a sensitive lad,’ said Alwyne. ‘I never met your father, of course, but by all accounts you take after him. Do you really think he gave up his life so you can spend the rest of yours stuck on a treadmill counting up other people’s money, clocking in and clocking out like a blithering worker bee?’
It took Ralph a moment for this to sink in. He let out his breath. So that was what Alwyne meant!
‘I’m very fond of you, Ralph. You’re a good boy and I know you want to please your mother. But if one thing can come out of this damned war, surely it’s the liberation of lads like you from the tyranny of the whole blasted system.’
It was late. Ralph put out his hand, to shake Alwyne’s, but realised the man couldn’t see it. ‘I’ve got to do my duty,’ he said.
‘Duty?’ said Alwyne. ‘Your duty is to be a happy and fulfilled human being. That’s what your father would have wanted for you. That’s why we’re on this earth, and let me tell you – God has nothing to do with it. Nobody’s going to believe in Him after this.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ralph. ‘I’ve got to go. Goodbye.’
He hurried out and slammed the front door. He was half-way to the railway station before he remembered that he hadn’t given Alwyne the gramophone record.
*
Ralph waited on the platform. The next train to Dover was at half-past twelve. He had bought a ticket – a single ticket, of course. It was the first time he had paid an adult fare – eight shillings and sixpence.
He had no intention of enlisting in his own neighbourhood. There was a recruiting office in the Borough Road but there was a strong possibility that he might be recognised. Dover seemed the obvious choice. Nobody would know him there. It was within sight of France; the troops set sail from its port. He would be halfway to the Front already.
London Bridge Station was raised above the street. Beyond the waiting room he could see the brick wall of the Hospital for Incurables. For a moment he wondered about Elsie, Winnie’s friend, but dismissed the thought. He couldn’t think about that now. He had to be resolute, and concentrate on the matter at hand. At the far end of the platform a group of soldiers stood, smoking. Their bags seemed about the same size as his – kitbags, of course, and accompanied by helmets and other equipment, but approximately the same size.
Ralph summoned up his courage. He walked to the kiosk and bought a packet of five Woodbines – fivepence – and a box of matches. Winnie had given him some matchboxes – she bought them from the amputees, she had a large collection – but he had left them in his room.
Alwyne said t
hat the crump of the mortars sounded like a fat man falling through a chair. Ralph remembered his father’s letter: We gave Fritz a pretty good bump this time! None of it had sounded too alarming. His father’s letters had mostly been taken up with describing football games and practical jokes: the time, for instance, that their numskull of a CO had pulled out his respirator, to show them how to use it, and found the box filled with dirty socks. Ralph was looking forward to it; the whole thing sounded like a grand adventure. He would go to the Front and kill a hundred Hun and avenge his father’s death. He would stab their guts with a bayonet and become a hero. All this time his mother would be weeping and wailing, wondering where he had gone. She would be inconsolable. She would blame Mr Turk, and throw the man out of the house. Week after week she would sit there berating herself, sobbing for her son. Where had he gone? The first news would be when her brave young hero was mentioned in dispatches. Or when she got a telegram saying he was dead. That would teach her.
He wasn’t going to think of his mother. The train arrived, puffing smoke. It panted, like his mother panted – heavy, groaning pants … her skirt hoisted up. He wasn’t going to think of her. He would think of his father, and how proud he would be. Maybe he would meet some of his father’s fellow soldiers, and they would talk about him. Maybe Ralph would find himself in the very same dug-out his father had used! Stranger things had happened. By all acounts, the Front didn’t seem to have moved much in the last four years.
Ralph got on the train and found an empty carriage. With a jerk, the train pulled out of the station. Ralph pressed his face to the window, waiting to see his house. He had been on the train before, several times in fact, but not of course under these circumstances. This might be his last glimpse ever.
The train rattled along the viaduct. Ralph caught sight of his childhood streets down in the canyon below, unfamiliar from this angle. The people walking there looked so innocent as they went about their business. They moved about in silence; all he could hear was the noise of the train. The smoke dimmed them – billowing clouds of smoke from the engine. If he were a sniper he could pick them off, one by one, and never find out if he knew them or not. Rifles were better than bayonets in this respect. When he joined up he would be given his own rifle; if he was promoted they might give him a revolver too. Some people managed to keep their revolvers afterwards, like that man who shot himself on the day of the wedding.
In The Dark Page 15
