In The Dark

by Deborah Moggach

  The two pounds still rankled, however. It might not have been his own money but he still suspected that he had been overcharged. The girl had taken advantage of his innocence. If that was her special rate for departing soldiers, what even more extortionate sum did she charge a normal person? The comparison with Winnie’s wages struck him as scandalous. Being a prostitute didn’t seem hard work. There was Winnie on her knees all day, scrubbing and polishing, her hands raw. What made it worse was the fact that even should Winnie wish to become a lady of pleasure, it would be highly unlikely that she could find any customers. Nature was indeed cruel.

  Ralph was musing over this as the train slowed down. It was eleven o’clock; they must be nearing London Bridge. Idly he wondered whether Mr Turk would be back again under the arch. He hadn’t asked him about it, of course. The circumstances the day before had hardly been propitious. Besides, his stepfather frightened him; Ralph was now man enough to admit it. Mr Turk had been a champion boxer in his youth, and had the trophies to prove it. No doubt, if asked an impertinent question, he could still fell a chap with a blow.

  After all, there could be a perfectly innocent explanation. Mr Turk could simply need extra storage space. Ralph had no idea how his business worked.

  Apart from the sleeping soldier, the carriage was now empty. Ralph pulled up the blind, opened the window and leaned out.

  The train was puffing along the viaduct, at walking pace. Everything was exactly as it had been the night before. The smoke cleared; Ralph saw the spire of St Jude’s. For a moment he felt dizzy, as if he were caught in a repeating dream. Maybe he had indeed dreamed up the whole thing. For down below there was nothing but darkness. He could see the yard, dimly illuminated by the street lamp. It was empty.

  Ralph remained leaning out of the window. The breeze was refreshing. He even liked the acrid smell of the smoke; after all, he had lived with it for as long as he could remember.

  He watched his street jolt into view – the black mass of the buildings with their scattering of lit windows. He saw somebody moving around in a room. It was funny how they presumed nobody could see them; he felt this himself, when he was at home.

  The train neared his house. He craned out of the window, to look. It drew nearer. The top window – Boyce’s – was dark, of course. So was his own. The window in between, however – Alwyne’s – blazed with electric light.

  Alwyne, the blind man, sat at his table. He was reading a book.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘When it’s too dark to go on fighting – are you free for the evening, can you get to a cinema?’

  Question asked to Lt Bernard Martin,

  North Staffordshires, when home on leave

  Eithne woke late. It was half-past nine by the time she was dressed. The night before, Neville had taken her to Chu-Chin-Chow at His Majesty’s, with a spot of supper afterwards. He had done this to cheer her up. They had discussed Ralph, of course, and Neville had come up with a plan. Again her husband had demonstrated his remarkable generosity of spirit. He had proposed that Ralph work for him in the shop on a menial basis. He can do the deliveries – the boy can ride a bicycle, can’t he? Sweep the floor, make himself useful. I’m short-staffed at present and I’m willing to do the lad a favour.

  That he was willing to forgive Ralph for his behaviour, both towards himself and in the matter of his exam, was so overwhelming that Eithne had thrown her arms around her husband and kissed him in front of the other diners. He was a paragon, a prince among men.

  Ralph had been in bed by the time they returned, at midnight. She had seen the light under his door. He had been out somewhere – Winnie had said so – but Eithne had no idea where he had gone. She was still smarting from the incident in his bedroom. It was terrible to slap him – Eithne had never done such a thing in her life – but she had been goaded beyond endurance. Now she had simmered down she was filled with remorse. They would hug and make it up. They were everything to each other and would love each other until they died. Their present difficulties would soon be smoothed out. She would take him to the Terminus Hotel, where they had always gone for treats. They would sit in the lounge and order peach melbas in tall glasses. She would tell him Neville’s plan, that Ralph would work for him in the shop until January, when he would return to the college and re-take his exams. She had already talked to Mrs Brand about it. Maybe this was even a blessing in disguise. By working alongside Neville her son would get to know him better and see what a fine man he was. Besides, Ralph was bound to be grateful for this opportunity of a second chance.

  Eithne tapped at Ralph’s door. No answer. She opened it. The room was empty.

  Downstairs Winnie had served up breakfast, bless her. The lodgers had come and gone – all but Alwyne, who sat amongst the dirty plates, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Good morning,’ Eithne said. ‘Have you seen Ralph?’

  She blushed. She was always saying this to Alwyne: have you seen? The lodger, however, seemed as unperturbed as usual.

  He shook his head. ‘I heard him go out with the dog.’

  *

  Ralph sat beside the river. He had had to get out of the house. It had been bad enough the night before, hearing Alwyne moving about in the room above. Realising that Alwyne wasn’t blind had made every creak sinister, as if Ralph had discovered that the man had committed a murder. The prospect of actually seeing Alwyne in the morning was too much to bear.

  The shock was still sinking in. Ralph had gone over and over the image in his mind. Alwyne had been reading a book. Ralph hadn’t imagined it. The man had even turned the page as the train trundled past. Why in heaven’s name had Alwyne been lying to him – lying to all of them – for the past year?

  Ralph remembered the countless times he had taken Alwyne’s arm, to guide him down the street. How he had moved Alwyne’s fork to his plate. How they had all performed the hundreds of small, helpful actions that were second nature to them when Alwyne was in the room. It had been part of the fabric of their lives, of the life of the house – the subtle anticipations, the small accommodations they had made as a matter of instinct, the spoken explanations of things they had presumed Alwyne couldn’t see.

  Why had Alwyne betrayed them? Why on earth had he done it? Had the mustard gas fuddled his brain? But the man didn’t seem confused. On the contrary, his mind seemed as sharp as a razor.

  Tell me what you’re seeing, Ralphy my boy. Describe it to me. Incidents kept swimming up – the moment, two days ago, when Ralph had forgotten to give Alwyne the gramophone record and had felt so guilty afterwards. The man must have got up, when he had left, and found it himself! Oh, it was horrible.

  Brutus nosed along the shoreline, where boys were collecting driftwood for kindling. Ralph himself had done this countless times during the winter, when fuel was short. Even this activity, though nothing to do with Alwyne, seemed tainted in retrospect. The man’s betrayal was seeping like poison into every crack of Ralph’s life.

  Sitting on the wall, Ralph gazed at the dog. Despite his distress he noticed how portly Brutus had grown over the past two months, fattened by the meat that he now consumed on a daily basis. Brutus was a middle-aged mongrel with bowed legs but Ralph loved him dearly. Today he, too, seemed a victim of Alwyne’s treachery. Had his animal instincts suspected something was amiss? He treated Alwyne with the same treacle-eyed devotion he treated everybody else. For him there was no distinction between the sighted and the blind, between the innocent and the criminal. Ralph could tell him the truth but Brutus would just wag his tail; he thought the best of everybody.

  Ralph heard the clock of St Jude’s strike twelve. Even this sonorous chime, the punctuation of his growing years, was no reassurance. It was a heavy, sultry day. He had missed yet another meal and though he wasn’t hungry he got to his feet, walked down to the Albion and bought a bag of shrimps from the stall outside the lavatories. He still had two pounds, six shillings and threepence left of Mr Turk’s money.

  The wind ha
d died down. A hush seemed to have fallen over the river, over the whole city. It was as if the beating heart of the Empire had fallen silent in astonishment. Even the gulls were noiseless as they wheeled above him.

  Just then Ralph heard a sound. It was the tap-tap of an approaching stick. He swung round. Alwyne appeared around the corner, making his way to the pub.

  Ralph stood, rooted to the spot. Alwyne wore his usual rusty black coat; his clothes made no concession to the season. Now Ralph knew the truth, every step the man made looked false, as if he were acting. His spectacles glinted as he turned his head.

  Ralph’s heart thumped. He stood only twenty yards away from the fellow. Had Alwyne seen him? If he had, of course he couldn’t show it. The lunacy of this would have made Ralph laugh if he weren’t so frightened. Alwyne paused on the threshold of the pub. He cocked his head, listening. Watching.

  A barge sounded its horn. Perhaps Alwyne was just admiring the view. But the view had Ralph standing in the middle of it. If Alwyne saw him, he made no reaction.

  The dog barked. Alwyne swung round. Brutus ran up to him and nuzzled his hand.

  ‘Hello old boy,’ said Alwyne. ‘Where’s that master of yours?’ He looked around. ‘Ralph? You there?’

  Ralph turned on his heel and fled. He ran up Back Lane, the dog following him. He ran fast, escaping the enemy. As he dodged the children he thought: Alwyne was my friend. I told him things. I told him all sorts of things. He was my friend.

  A horse had gone down in Mercer Street. It had pulled its cart over; potatoes lay scattered on the ground. It lay there, its legs jerking, its belly exposed to public view. A man was trying to untangle its harness but the horse kicked out.

  Ralph pounded up the road towards his house. What sort of things had he done when Alwyne was in the room? Picked his nose, certainly, and wiped his finger on his trousers. Inspected his pimples in the mirror while Alwyne was lecturing him about Bolshevism. What else? A chap reverted to the animal when he presumed he wasn’t being watched. It was too awful to think about.

  When Ralph arrived home he didn’t go in the front door. He couldn’t face his mother, not yet. He ran down the steps into the kitchen.

  Winnie was standing by the table, holding a fish by its tail.

  ‘Mrs O’Malley’s given me a bloater,’ she said. ‘Her friend brought it from Whitstable. She wants me to cook it for her dinner but I’m just about to dish up for your mother and Mr Turk. I’m late as it is.’ She looked at him. ‘What’s up with you, love?’

  Ralph sat down at the table. A dish of faggots sat steaming on the oilcloth.

  He said: ‘Alwyne’s not blind.’

  There was a silence. Winnie put the bloater on the table carefully, as if it would break. ‘What was that you said?’

  ‘Alwyne’s not blind. He’s been pretending. I saw him read a book.’ Watching her face, Ralph felt the rush of gratification a person feels when imparting an important piece of news. ‘He can see us. He can see everything. He’s been pretending, all this time.’

  *

  For once, Ralph was glad to eat with his mother and Mr Turk. There was safety in numbers. The thought of coming face to face with Alwyne, alone, was too unnerving to contemplate. He didn’t tell them the news. Mr Turk was a powerful man; he might do something violent. Besides, it gave Ralph a pleasant feeling of superiority, to know something they didn’t. He felt oddly tender towards the two of them as they sat there in their innocence. In fact, the faggots in gravy smelt so delicious that he almost broke his embargo and joined them in taking one. He resisted the temptation, however; he had his principles.

  Winnie served them as if she were sleepwalking. She knocked over Mr Turk’s glass of water and barely reacted when he sprang back. Her long slab of a face was ashen. She, too, was in a state of shock. Ralph tried to catch her eye, in complicity, but she was miles away.

  As they ate, Mr Turk told Ralph his plan for him to work in the shop. Ralph nodded, dumbly. He couldn’t think of anything he would hate more, but no doubt they had planned this as some sort of punishment – a punishment he deserved even more than they imagined, now he had added to his sins by stealing Mr Turk’s money. In truth, he scarcely registered what they were saying; he had too many other things on his mind. His mother smiled at him in the bright, glassy way he had come to distrust.

  ‘Neville’s very kind, to take you on, and I’m sure you’ll do him credit. You’ll have to get up early, to help Winnie with the chores, but hard work never hurt anyone.’

  Maybe you should do some then, Ralph thought. Suddenly, keenly, he missed the dark days when he, Winnie and his mother toiled together; hungry and cold, but united in their labour.

  As Winnie collected the plates, they heard the sound of the front door. Alwyne had returned.

  Ralph froze. Winnie, too, stood stock still. As the man made his way past the open doorway, Ralph’s mother called: ‘Alwyne? Can I ask you a favour?’

  Alwyne turned. ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Could I bother you for a cigarette? I’m trying to smoke as much as I can but Mr Turk has left his at the shop.’

  ‘Delighted to oblige,’ said Alwyne.

  Stick tucked under his arm, he made his way into the room. With his free hand, he felt for the back of a chair. Ralph watched him closely. The fellow was utterly convincing. He’d had enough practice, of course. Besides, a lot of the time, when he kept his eyes closed, he was blind. And when he wore his spectacles nobody could tell what his eyes were doing; the lenses were too black. Ralph could swear Alwyne was watching him.

  ‘Sit down and join us,’ said Ralph’s mother. ‘We’ve finished anyway.’

  She moved the chair, to make it easier for Alwyne to sit. He fumbled in his pocket and produced a packet of Players.

  ‘Guess how many people have died of the flu this week,’ said Ralph’s mother. ‘Five hundred, in London alone! I heard it at the greengrocer’s.’ She turned. ‘Winnie, fetch the ashtray.’

  Winnie made a small noise. Putting down the dishes, she ran from the room. They heard her footsteps thudding down the stairs. In the cabinet, the glasses shivered.

  There was a silence.

  ‘What’s got into her?’ said Mr Turk.

  ‘She’s upset,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Why?’

  Ralph thought, quickly. ‘Her friend Elsie.’

  ‘Who’s Elsie?’ asked his mother.

  ‘She works at the Woolwich Arsenal,’ said Alwyne, passing her the packet of cigarettes. ‘She’s dying of lyddite poisoning.’

  ‘Maybe she should smoke cigarettes too,’ said Ralph’s mother. ‘It seems to be the cure for everything.’

  Alwyne smiled. ‘I don’t believe that would be wise, in an explosives factory.’

  Ralph’s mother lost interest in the subject. The mention of dying, however, made Ralph summon up his courage. After all, only two days earlier he had left home to face possible death himself.

  It was now or never; he couldn’t carry on like this. He had to tackle Alwyne. He would lie in wait for the man and ambush him when he came upstairs.

  Ralph made his excuses and left the parlour. He went up to his bedroom. Leaving the door open, he sat down on his bed and waited, like a spider in his web.

  It wasn’t long before he heard his mother and Mr Turk leave the house. Alwyne’s footsteps climbed the stairs.

  Ralph’s heart thumped. The footsteps drew nearer. Alwyne appeared in the doorway, on the way to his room.

  ‘Alwyne!’ hissed Ralph.

  The man paused.

  Ralph cleared his throat. ‘Can you come in a minute?’

  ‘I was just going to have my snooze.’

  ‘You can have it later.’

  Alwyne raised his eyebrows. Ralph’s tone startled them both.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Ralph.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Sit down.’ Ralph pointed. ‘There’s the chair. You can see it, can’t you?’

  Alwyne stood
there, motionless. A moment passed. ‘What did you say?’

  Ralph got up and closed the door. He turned to face Alwyne. ‘You’re not blind, are you?’

  There was a pause. Alwyne sat down on the chair. He took off his spectacles. For the first time they looked into each other’s eyes. It gave Ralph a jolt.

  ‘How did you find out?’ asked Alwyne.

  ‘I was on the train. I saw you reading a book.’

  Alwyne considered this for a moment. ‘Silly me. I should have drawn the curtains.’

  Ralph sat down on the bed. His bowels churned, but he had to go through with this. ‘Why did you do it?’ he demanded.

  Alwyne shrugged. It was strange to speak to the man directly, thought Ralph: it was as if shutters had been opened and he was gazing into a room for the first time. ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Ralph.

  ‘Because I didn’t want to join up, of course.’

  Alwyne pulled out his packet of cigarettes and offered one to Ralph. He shook his head. Alwyne lit one. Ralph saw with gratification that the man’s hand was trembling.

  It was taking a while for Alwyne’s words to sink in. So he hadn’t enlisted at all.

  ‘You weren’t gassed?’ asked Ralph, finally.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t fight?’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  Ralph stared at him. ‘Because everyone else does.’

  ‘They’re idiots. This is a fool’s war, run for fools by fools.’

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  ‘I can’t think of a better one.’

  Despite the trembling, Alwyne remained calm. Almost superior, in fact, as if Ralph were asking questions to which the answers were obvious. Ralph felt his grip slipping. There were too many shocks; he needed a moment to catch up with himself.