In the Still of the Night

by Charlotte Lamb

  He made Annie put on his helmet; he didn’t have a spare. She belted her old school raincoat round her waist. The wind drove into their faces and soaked them both to the skin. It took nearly an hour to get there, although he drove as fast as he dared. There was a lot of traffic until they got to the other side of London, the forest outskirts beyond the dormitory suburbs on the east. There the roads were less crowded. The trees on either side darkened the winter sky.

  They arrived to find Mrs East, his grandmother’s neighbour, waiting in the house with the news that she had been taken to the local hospital in an ambulance. Johnny and Annie drove on there at once. The old lady was in intensive care in a small ward. The ward sister saw them and gave them a searching look, her face critical, as if she blamed Johnny for his grandmother’s illness.

  ‘You don’t live with her? A pity. If she hadn’t been alone she might not be so poorly.’

  Johnny’s face grew even more haggard and the woman’s voice softened a little.

  ‘You see, she had a heart attack during the night and must have fallen out of bed, lain there for hours, getting colder all the time. Lucky her neighbour had a key and let herself in when she didn’t get an answer at the front door. Otherwise your granny would have died. As it is, the hypothermia complicates the heart problem. She isn’t very well at all.’

  ‘Do you mean she’s going to die?’ Johnny hoarsely asked.

  ‘We’ll do our best for her. But she is frail and very old, and she hasn’t been eating properly, for a long time, I’d say.’

  ‘Can I see her?’

  ‘For one minute, then you must leave. You can come back tomorrow.’

  He saw his grandmother alone. Annie waited, staring out at the driving rain and grey skies. The hospital was a short drive from the forest, surrounded by trees, all leafless now, black wet branches shining.

  ‘Not a day to die on,’ Johnny said behind her, and he sounded angry.

  She looked round at him and wanted to put her arms round him. His face was drawn, pale, lost. He looked like a frightened little boy.

  ‘Was she conscious?’

  He nodded. ‘Just about. She looks terrible, but she was able to ask me to take care of her cat.’ His voice broke. ‘Typical of her. She may be dying – but all that’s on her mind is that damn cat. I’ll have to go to her house before I take you home, Annie, to catch the cat. Do you think your mother would let me bring it back to your house?’

  ‘Oh, yes, she doesn’t mind cats.’

  They drove back to his grandmother’s house in pouring rain. Buried in Epping Forest, one of London’s playgrounds, an ancient forest where English kings had once hunted, Trafalgar House was Victorian, built in 1830 on classic lines, and later ornamented with a battlement along the edge of the roof and a new Gothic wing with a tower. Ramshackle and eccentric in design now, it stood alone, at least ten minutes’ walk from any other house, on a back road through the forest, half-hidden among ancient trees which creaked and wailed in the wind as Johnny pushed open the gate.

  Annie was shivering, her clothes saturated. The next-door neighbour had gone now, but she had lit a big fire in the long drawing-room which dominated the ground floor of the house. The trees crowding in on it made the rooms dark and full of shadows.

  ‘You’re cold. Take off that wet coat, and come and sit by the fire,’ Johnny said, trying the switch of the central light. ‘Damn, the chandelier bulbs have all gone, I’d forgotten. Grandma can’t get up there to change them. She just uses a lamp in here.’ He walked off and turned on a standard lamp, which gave the room a soft pinkish glow.

  Johnny turned and took Annie’s coat from her, draped it over a chair, which he stood to one side of the fire, where it soon began to steam.

  Annie sank into a deep armchair on the other side of the hearth, stretching her hands out to the flames.

  ‘You need a hot drink,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll make us some coffee while I look for the cat. It can’t have gone far.’

  ‘I’ll make the coffee.’ Annie tried to get up but he pushed her down gently.

  ‘No, you stay in front of the fire. I’ll look out one of my old sweaters for you.’

  She watched him go out, her nerves prickling at being left alone in this shadowy room. With Johnny gone she could hear noises. Stiffening, she listened; somebody was creeping up behind her.

  She jumped out of the chair, whirled round, but there was nobody there. Her sudden movement dislodged the old lace antimacassar on the arm of the chair; it slithered to the ground, and that made her jump, too.

  Everything in the room seemed to be draped with one of these filmy bits of lace – the arms and backs of chairs, the centres of tables. Annie picked up the lace which had fallen and smoothed it back over the arm.

  She had never seen anything like this place. It was like a museum. Her eyes searched the corners of the room, which was crowded with objects: mirrors on the walls, paintings, prints, ornaments, mostly dusty and very old. Heavy red brocade curtains, torn and shabby, hung at the windows, and between them fell ancient lace curtains weighted at the hems with little blue beads to make them hang straight; they were moving in the wind, knocking on the glass.

  There was a dark red Axminster carpet on the floor, but on top of that lay smaller rugs, spread here and there, on which stood sofas and chairs, none of which matched.

  Something shrieked near the window outside. Annie gasped, her heart in her mouth, staring. The long-drawn-out screech came again, and she realised it was a branch scraping along the side of the glass.

  Knees sagging, she looked away towards a a litter of photographs in wooden or silver frames on the mantelshelf. Johnny’s face leapt out at her from one of them; she leaned forward to look at it.

  There was a woman in the picture; she looked just like Johnny, the same eyes, mouth, hair.

  ‘My mother.’

  Annie turned to look at him as he walked towards her with a sweater over one arm and a tray in his free hand.

  He put the tray of coffee down on a table and handed her the sweater. ‘It’ll be miles too big but it will keep you warm.’

  She pulled it over her head; it dropped almost to her knees, old and baggy, but warmth enveloped her with it.

  ‘I guessed it was your mother in the photo – you’re just like her.’

  Johnny’s smile lit the whole room. ‘I wish you’d known her. She would have loved you. In a funny sort of way you’re rather like her, not so much your colouring as the shape of your face, and your eyes.’ Then his smile died. ‘Mum died while I was still at school. It was lucky I had Gran. If I lose Gran, there won’t be anyone left.’

  Annie shyly curled her fingers into his hand. ‘Poor Johnny,’ she whispered.

  Tears came into his eyes, horrifying her. He dropped to his knees beside her chair and put his head down on her lap. She stroked his hair, bent down to kiss his cheek.

  They stayed like that for a long time before they collected the cat and bundled it inside Annie’s raincoat for the drive back to her home.

  As they were leaving, Mrs East met them at the gate of the house, waving. Johnny hit the brakes and the motorbike stopped.

  ‘Hello, Johnny – how is she? I keep ringing the hospital but they never tell you much.’

  ‘I don’t really know any more than you do, Mrs East. They let me see her, and she looked terrible, but they said she might still pull through. They’ll let me know at once if she gets worse.’ He broke off, swallowing audibly, and Annie felt his body shiver against her. ‘I’m going back tomorrow morning. I hope I’ll see her again then.’

  ‘Well, give her my love.’

  ‘I will, and thank you, Mrs East. They told me in the hospital that if you hadn’t found her she would have died.’

  ‘I’m glad I went in when I did; I was thinking of going shopping first. I see you’ve got Tibs.’ Her sharp eyes fixed on the cat’s head poking out of Annie’s coat.

  ‘Gran asked me to look after her.’ Johnny started
his engine again. ‘Sorry, we have to get back, Mrs East. I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘I hope your gran pulls through,’ the other woman called after them, and Annie tightened her arms around him, feeling the tremor running through his thin body.

  Her mother was not too pleased by the cat’s arrival. Their own cat immediately took umbrage at the sight of it and started a fight, but Trudie Lang was sorry for Johnny, so she let the animal stay and it settled down gradually.

  His grandmother died a week later and the house was shut up by the executors; it would have to be sold. Johnny inherited everything, but there was no money and he could not afford to keep the house.

  ‘I’d love to live there, I’ve always been so happy in that house,’ he said unhappily. ‘But I shall have to sell. They say I have to wait for probate before I can put it on the market.’

  ‘But surely that won’t take long? I mean, there is a will and you were her only relative.’

  ‘Lawyers take forever to do anything. In a way, I’m not sorry. At least I can visit it now and then. Once it’s sold it’s gone forever.’

  That winter, whenever they were both free, they drove over on Johnny’s motorbike and spent hours there, pretended they were married, and the house was their home, like children playing house. They brought food with them, chops or steaks, which they cooked in a battered frying-pan on the old range in the spidery kitchen; potatoes they baked in the ashes sifting down through the old iron grating. Annie tossed salads to go with the meal and they ate fruit afterwards. The food was ambrosial: neither of them had ever tasted anything so marvellous.

  Those days were dreamlike. They were both so happy Annie was scared. It couldn’t last, but while it did they both breathed the air, promise-crammed.

  Annie had very little free time towards the end of term, because she had been given the part of Ophelia in a production of Hamlet which her year were putting on in the drama school’s little theatre. They had rehearsals five times a week after school hours during the last fortnight before the first night; you were expected to forget about a private life while you were in a production.

  The play was on for four days; both Johnny and her mother came. Annie hadn’t wanted her mother there; she had been too nervous, too afraid she might forget her lines, dry up, drop something. Having her mother in the theatre was the last straw on a night which she knew already promised to be an ordeal.

  The theatre was going to be packed with parents and friends of the cast, as well as some very important names in theatre who had once been students here and were always invited to any major production the school gave – famous actors and directors whose presence in the audience would attract the attention of agents, theatre proprietors, and, most importantly of all, critics from national newspapers.

  The night went well; afterwards Annie couldn’t actually remember a thing about the actual performance. She seemed to wake up when the cast assembled on stage and there was a sudden roar of clapping. Dazed, she stared out into the auditorium and saw faces. Clutching the hands of those on either side of her, she bowed as they did for several curtain calls, not daring to look at the seats where Johnny and her mother sat.

  Roger Keats came on stage with a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of roses. Annie almost dropped them when he gave them to her. Dumbfounded, she stared up at him and Roger Keats leaned forward and kissed her, his mouth wet and hot, his tongue tip sliding in and out between her lips like a snake going into a hole.

  It was over in a flash, then he was holding her hand, pulling her towards the audience, who applauded again. He kissed her hand, bowing, then gestured to the boy playing Hamlet and stood between him and Annie while the audience clapped, before bringing forward several others from the cast to take special bows.

  Afterwards Annie stumbled off stage into her dressing-room and threw up in the lavatory.

  Scott patted her on the back. ‘I was sick before we went on! Now I feel great. Stage fright’s a funny old game.’

  Annie wished she dared confide in Scott, but she was too afraid.

  A second later, everyone else crowded in, laughing and talking, glasses in their hands. Someone forced a glass on to her. A party had begun on stage for all the important members of the audience. Annie didn’t want to go to it, but was dragged there once she had changed out of her costume.

  Her mother found her way back-stage; she was over the moon, hugging Annie and half-crying.

  ‘It was wonderful. Wonderful.’

  Before Annie had a chance to ask her where Johnny was, Roger Keats grabbed her. She looked up at him, starting to shake again.

  ‘Don’t hide away, little Alice,’ he said in that soft voice which was a veiled threat. ‘Important people want to meet you.’

  Her mother shifted, and he glanced at her, his shrewd eyes narrowing. ‘Ah. Is this your mother?’ Immediately he oozed charm, pressed her hand, said, ‘Yes, I can see the likeness. You’ve got a talented daughter, Mrs Lang.’ He had his arm round Annie’s waist, wouldn’t let her wriggle away. She could feel his fingertips brushing the underside of her breast. ‘I’m looking forward to exploring the extent of her talent, and I’m sure I’m going to be well rewarded. I have a lot of ideas for her. So long as she is ready to learn, it will be a pleasure to teach her everything I know.’

  Trudie glowed.

  ‘Now, will you excuse me for a moment while I take Annie to meet some people?’

  Annie felt as if she was hallucinating. The bright lights, the familiar, starry faces, dazzled her but it was all unreal.

  ‘And this is Derek Fenn – one of the great Hamlets of our time.’

  Annie had heard of the man, but not as a stage actor – wasn’t he in TV? She managed a smile and stood there while the man said something polite, then Roger wafted her on to someone else. To her relief a few minutes afterwards the important guests began to leave and Roger darted off to say goodbye to them.

  Annie hurried to find her mother. ‘Why didn’t Johnny come to the party?’

  ‘He wasn’t allowed back-stage. Mr Keats said it was parents only.’

  Swallowing, Annie said, ‘Let’s go, Mother. I’m so tired.’

  She couldn’t wait to hear what Johnny had thought of her performance, but although he was waiting when they got home, her mother pushed her straight upstairs to bed, and Johnny only managed to whisper, ‘You made me cry.’

  Next day he said a great deal more, but none of it meant as much to her as that first husky whisper.

  After the play she had three days off, and she and Johnny spent most of it together at his grandmother’s house. They were still just kissing, holding each other, touching each other with exploring hands without undressing, but the heat between them kept growing. She knew it would end in making love and she wasn’t scared, the way she was when Roger Keats looked at her; with Johnny she burned to be touched.

  One bright, cold day in December, Johnny pushed up her T-shirt and buried his face in her warm breasts, groaning, ‘I need you, Annie, I need you … you’re all I’ve got in the world now. I love you.’

  She held his head, feeling her insides cave in, a strange satisfied sensation as if he was a baby at her breast, his mouth sucking at her, taking life from her. ‘Darling. Darling,’ she whispered, rocking him on her body.

  He pushed her knees apart and slid down between them, moving on top of her, gasping as their bodies rubbed together.

  Hands trembling, they undressed each other. He was pale and tense, she was so shy she couldn’t look at him, and afraid this was going to hurt. It did; when his hard flesh pushed at her she arched in pain, crying out, and Johnny stopped at once, looked anxiously at her.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’

  She looked into his beautiful, worried eyes and loved him so desperately she would have died for him. She tightened her arms around him and pushed him down again, opening her thighs wider, lifting her buttocks off the carpet to make it easier for him. ‘Go on, darling, go on.’

  As he finally f
orced himself inside her the pain was intense but she didn’t cry out this time. She let the waves of pain wash through her with each thrust until pain became pleasure, she was gasping and arching to meet it.

  Afterwards Johnny lay on top of her, breathing thickly, almost sobbing.

  ‘We belong to each other now,’ he said. ‘Forever. Don’t we?’

  She went on holding him, her cheek pushed against his. ‘Forever,’ she echoed.

  After that they made love every time they went to the house, slowly undressed each other, caressing, exploring each other’s bodies with curiosity and pleasure, before making love by firelight, their pale, naked bodies dappled with moving shadow, while the old trees scraped and scratched at the windows as if wanting to get at them.

  The house already smelt damp and upstairs on the landing mould was growing on the wallpaper, but they were in love and wildly happy with that out-of-all-proportion passion that marks first love.

  They could lie naked together in total silence for an hour at a time, just staring into each other’s eyes, not even touching, just breathing and absorbing each other.

  And then Roger Keats told Annie to meet him in his office after classes one Friday night.

  Her first reaction was to decide to tell him to go to hell, but what if she did? What might he do to her? He had enormous power at the school, he could blight her life.

  The work she was doing, the reactions of her tutors, watching other students perform, had convinced her she did have a chance of making it in the theatre, if she got the right break. She wanted to be an actress more now than she had before she began to train.

  Annie spent that day thinking desperately. She couldn’t just refuse to go; she had heard enough gossip about him at the school to know that he would take his revenge. He meant what he said. He could ruin her career. Get her kicked out of the school. Make sure she got none of the offers which came in every so often for students. Make sure she didn’t get big roles in school productions which were a shop window for agents and producers looking for new talent. Her performance in Hamlet had been noticed, but it was only a first-year production – she had to follow it with better work.