by Angela Huth
They left the city by taxi and drove to the lugubrious small town some miles south where they were to meet Kevin at his factory. Emily was startled by the blackness of the place. She had never seen such dirty old buildings – the grime, you could see, was thick as lichen. No wonder so few people were about. They kept indoors so that they shouldn’t be distressed by the gloom outside.
It had stopped raining. They passed a canal filled with a flat, unshining substance that bore no resemblance to live water. The reflection of a winter sun lay untrembling on its surface, the only bright thing in the townscape. A child in a long scarf played on the bank, dabbing at the water with a stick. But the stick made no ripples in its turbid skin. It remained dead. Emily thought of the stream at home, and she longed to be home, far from this place.
Kevin’s factory, a nineteenth-century converted warehouse, was tall and gloomy as all the other buildings, its façade slit with a great number of small, prison-like windows. Some of them, with a tiny chip of gold light, sparked back at the flaring sun. Most of them were lifeless as the canal. A modern prefabricated wing had been added to the warehouse for offices. The inside reminded Emily of a hospital; the smell of heating, and soft linoleum on the floors so that your footsteps made no noise.
They were led along a corridor. On each side, in glass cubicles, Emily caught sight of girls bent over typewriters, their chubby knees parted, their stiff hair all different shades of yellow. All Kevin’s girlfriends, she thought, perhaps. With all of them around, she didn’t see why he should be lonely in the north. Although, admittedly, none of them was half so pretty as Mama. She pranced along, face excited by all she saw, damp hair curling about her fur collar, a foreigner in this strange place. Emily noticed the typing girls look up as she passed, nudge and whisper to each other, and she felt herself smile.
They were shown to a small office and asked to sit and wait. Mr McCloud wouldn’t be long. Fen lowered herself cautiously on to a steel chair, as if afraid to make a noise. Emily fingered the cold metal of a filing cabinet, which reached to the ceiling. Then she, too, sat on a steel chair. The walls of the office were a nasty green, whitened by the light from a long neon bulb in the ceiling. They listened to the hiss of a gas fire.
‘How long will he be?’ Emily asked, eventually.
‘I don’t know. How could I know?’ Fen’s eyes flicked about, over the calendar of sepia nude women, the dead geranium in a plastic pot, the photograph of some unidentifiable bit of machinery.
‘And what will we do when he does come?’ Emily was kicking the leg of her chair with her heel.
‘He’ll take us round the factory, I expect.’
‘I don’t want to see the factory.’
‘Oh, Emily. Shut up unless you can be a bit more enthusiastic.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘And stop that kicking.’
‘We’ve been waiting for ages. It’s very boring.’
‘We’ve been waiting five minutes.’
‘Well, it’s very boring.’
‘Shut up and be patient.’
‘It’s all very well for you.’ Emily sighed. The filing cabinet was tall as a chimney, grey as smoke. It looked as if it stopped at the ceiling, but probably it didn’t. Probably it went on up through the next storey, and the one after that, a giant bean stalk gone mad-on through the roof and sticking up into the grey old sky like another chimney.
Kevin arrived. Boredom, impatience, silence all crumbled. He took Fen into his arms, their presence filled the small room. Emily kept her eyes on Fen’s face, suddenly efflorescent in the appalling light. Then it was Emily’s turn. Kevin picked her up, huge hands straddling her ribs, top of the filing cabinet level with her vision for a moment – no, it definitely didn’t go on through the ceiling. Kevin kissed her forehead, some nasty kind of tobacco breath. He apologised for keeping them waiting.
She was on the ground again, too hot, opening her coat. Fen was right. The factory was to be inspected. Already they were hurrying along the corridors, just in front of her, eyes looking up in the glass cubicles again.
Kevin swung open a heavy door. The muffled corridor gave way to the vast warehouse of screaming machinery, raw cacophony doubly echoed in the dank air. Emily put her hands to her hurting ears. She trembled. Kevin, turning to her, smiled. He mouthed something to her, but she couldn’t hear what, against the noise. He offered her his hand, but she shook her head.
They walked up and down the lines of machinery. Kevin stopped every now and then to point out something to Fen. She seemed to understand, or at any rate to be interested. The men working at the machines, faces scrubbed of any expression, glanced up at her as she passed them, registering no surprise. Their minds, while their hands worked mechanically, had winged off to other places, other times, so that their eyes were left blank, their mouths dead shapes of lips. One or two of them, at the sight of Emily, and thinking perhaps of some similar child at home, would give a small nod or a twitch of a frozen mouth. But she, in her discomfort, could only scowl back.
For the third time that day she was very cold. Now, too, she had a headache. The orchestra of jagged sound, intent on torturing her ears, brought tears to her eyes. She blinked, ashamed, not wanting people to see. She looked above her where in the high ceiling poles of blinding neon light crossed each other and far, far beyond them a small thread of orange sun puckered the gloom in the rafters. Dazzled, confused, hurting, Emily felt a cry escape her. She knew it came because of the constriction, then the release, in her throat. But she couldn’t hear it. Nobody heard it. It was swallowed in the grander noise. Taking a cold hand from her ear, so that instantly one side of the pain in her head grew stronger, she clutched at her mother’s arm. And Fen suddenly remembered her. She drew Emily towards her, ran a warm hand (how could it be warm in this place?) over her head and cheek. They stopped at yet another piece of machinery that flashed up and down, too fast to see clearly, and Emily shut her eyes against her mother’s sleeve. For a moment she revelled in the familiar smell of flowers, private and frail, but still existing among the public smells of oil and metal. She was comforted by the warmth, the softness of the cloth coat. Then, very gently, Fen pushed her away, and touched Kevin’s arm, pointing to something. Emily muffled her ears with her hands again, and followed them.
She had no idea how long they spent in the factory, or what the machines made, or why Kevin seemed so pleased by it all. It became to her a confusion of rasping sound, hurting lights, inhuman faces : a tide of icy sensations that she struggled to walk against, dreading that the wire within her would snap, and she would cry.
But she didn’t cry, and suddenly it was over. They were outside, darkness now, a livelier fresher kind of cold. Kevin led them to a small car. Emily climbed into the back seat, half occupied by small lumps of strange machinery.
‘That was interesting,’ Fen was saying.
‘You should see it in a year’s time. There’ll be twice the production. Two years’ time there’ll be a second plant.’ Kevin turned to Emily. ‘Afraid that was all a bit boring for you. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right.’ Emily managed a smile, but he probably didn’t see it. In the marvellous quiet her headache had become more visible : a white graph in her head, with peaks and dips of pain, regularly spaced. She wondered if the old waiter would be on his way home too, now, or if he had to stay till after dinner, till the last guest had gone. That would be lonely, in the huge dining room, the piano shut, the lights dim, crumbs and crumpled napkins on the few used tables. Emily shivered so violently that Fen turned round.
‘All right?’
‘Yes thank you, Mama.’
‘It’s been a long day.’ She sounded far from tired.
‘Still, I’ve got some crumpets for tea,’ said Kevin, ‘and I’ve arranged a small room for you all to yourself. It’s not very grand, but it’ll do for one night.’ Kevin was pleased with himself, happy. Emily remained silent. There was no point in saying anything. Mama seeme
d far away, chatting on with Kevin about factories and boring things like that. It would be impossible to tell her that all she wanted was to go home now, immediately, by some magic way that avoided the journey, and get her into her own bed. It would be impossible to say : I wish we’d never come.
Kevin’s flat was the master bedroom in the mill owner’s house, divided recently into three. In its original state, with its high ceilings and elaborate cornices, it must once have had a certain magnificence. Now, partitioned, the rooms were quite out of proportion. Their decoration revealed the landlord had more sense of economy than taste. A geometrically patterned wallpaper in the sitting room made an incongruous base to the plaster curlicues that lapped round the ceiling, and threadbare curtains strained but never quite met across the window. In Kevin’s bedroom the landlord had, perhaps, given way to his private fantasies : black walls were enlivened with gold and silver snakes and stars. Only Emily’s bedroom, not much more than a cupboard, junk piled high round the camp bed, was left with its old grand wallpaper of Regency stripes, much the worse for wear. The boiler still had not been mended, and every room was very cold.
Emily sat on the divan, which Kevin had tried to brighten with a scrum of gay cushions, in the sitting room. She was dazed, tired. Her ankles slumped, so that her feet turned in on the floor. Kevin and Fen, meanwhile, full of energy, lit electric fires, made tea in the minute kitchen (out of which came an icy draught) and grilled crumpets. Then they brought them to Emily, saying she looked pale. They sat on the floor at her feet, eating and smoking and laughing, Fen with her overcoat still round her shoulders, the silvery fur brushing her cheeks. They were kind and friendly, but still talked about boring things. Plans. Something about Scotland. Something about the South of France – Emily hardly listened. The crumpet was burnt and hard, the butter scarcely melted upon it. Her head still ached.
‘Where’s Mama going to sleep?’ she asked, suddenly.
Kevin patted the divan.
‘Here. I’ve slept here myself. Often. It’s very comfortable.’ He patted Emily’s knee. ‘Don’t worry about her. She’ll be fine.’ Emily saw a smile go between them. And as for your bed : it’d win a prize for the most comfortable camp bed ever, any day. Now. What would you like to do? Are you warmer?’
‘Yes thank you.’
‘How about a game of Monopoly? There’s an old set round somewhere, I’m sure.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Emily said. ‘I don’t really like Monopoly as much as I did.’
‘Or Scrabble. I’m better at Scrabble. Or vingt-et-un?’ Emily could see he was trying hard. She hesitated, not knowing what to say.
‘I don’t feel like playing any games, actually.’
‘Then what would you like to do?’ An almost imperceptible impatience in his voice.
‘Yes, what would you like to do, Em?’ Fen was gentler.
‘To go to bed.’
Fen looked at her face. At such moments she was good, quick, unquestioning.
‘Come on, then. I’ll help you. You’ll soon be warm.’
In the tiny room they shut the door on Kevin. Fen unpacked Emily’s case, laying the things on the end of the bed as there was nowhere else for them to go. Emily, still shivering, kept on her vest and pants under her nightdress.
The bed, as Kevin had said, was surprisingly comfortable. But she didn’t like the tall piles of books and records and boxes all round her.
‘What a lot of junk,’ she said.
‘Kevin’s tidied it up best as he can,’ said Fen. ‘It’s only for one night. You are an old grumbler, sometimes.’ She kissed her daughter. ‘Come on, Em. Cheer up. We’ll have a nice lunch on the moors somewhere tomorrow, then we’ll go home.’
‘Good,’ said Emily, and saw Fen sigh. At that moment, Kevin came in, and sat on the end of the bed, making it creak.
‘Tell you what,’ he said quietly, feeling her ankle through the blankets, ‘I thought now might be just the time for the story about the hippopotamus. What d’you think?’
Emily shut her eyes. She couldn’t look at him. She spoke to him with them still shut.
‘Not tonight, thank you very much,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’m awake enough to listen properly tonight.’ When she looked at him a moment later she saw he had understood. She also saw that one of his hands was on Fen’s shoulder, rubbing it beneath the coat. Emily wanted them both to go away, quickly, quickly. She didn’t want to see them any more. She shut her eyes again. They kissed her–flowers, tobacco, tea–and left. She slept. When Emily woke it was completely dark, absolutely quiet. She felt, immediately, very awake. The bed was warm now, but her head still ached.
She lay on her back, unmoving, eyes open. As they grew accustomed to the darkness she began to make out the tall shapes of the piles of things all round her, trees in a night jungle. Trees that might come crashing down on her. The skin under her left eye twitched, tickling, irritating. In the gap between the curtains she could see a star. Where was she?
She knelt up on the bed, drew back one of the curtains. They must be up a hill, somewhere, because far below she could see the lights of a town. Then she remembered. She remembered the whole of yesterday in a single flash, and the memory of the noise in the factory jarred her head. She would get up and ask her mother for an aspirin. It would be impossible to sleep again, like this. And she was thirsty.
She climbed off the bed. The linoleum was cold under her feet but she hadn’t the will to search for her slippers. She crept to the door, pulled it ajar. In the sitting room, by the light of the moon, she could see that the cover of the divan was pulled back. Fen’s clothes were scattered at the end of it, but she wasn’t there.
Strange. They had definitely said they weren’t going out. They wouldn’t have gone out and left her, would they?
Emily felt her heart begin to beat more quickly. She opened her door wide and crept into the sitting room. There she paused, standing in a patch of moonlight that blanched her hands and feet. An icy draught still came from the kitchen.
The door that led to Kevin’s room was not quite closed. Suddenly, from his room, Emily heard muffled voices. Her heart, already racing, now leapt in irregular bounds. She strained to hear the words. All that came to her ears was a dim laugh : Mama. Why would Mama be talking and laughing in the dark?
Emily made no conscious decision, but found herself tiptoeing towards Kevin’s door. On reaching it, she pushed it, fractionally, with a trembling hand. It made no noise, but opened an inch further. Then she thought : Why don’t I just knock and go in? Why don’t I just say Mama, can I have an aspirin? They wouldn’t have any reason to be cross with me. But some instinct forced Emily to keep her silence. She inclined her head towards the door, and put her eye to the gap.
Kevin’s room was the only one with thick curtains. No shafts of moonlight penetrated here : the furniture was reduced to almost indistinguishable shapes. But as she stared, holding her breath, the darkness diluted a little. Emily could make out a shape too big for one person in the bed. Under the covers, it seemed. A sort of relief released her taut body : of course, it was so cold. Mama must have been cold. Maybe Kevin was rubbing her back, to warm her before she went back to her own bed.
Even as such thoughts flicked through Emily’s mind, there came a cry from the bed : Mama. And then a stirring movement and the shape rose, higher. Fen cried again. Kevin’s dark head was thrown back, distinct, wild, just for a second, before it plunged back on to the murky shape of the pillow.
He was hurting Mama …
Emily felt her own cold fingers over her mouth as she suppressed a scream. Kevin was hurting Mama … The floor, ice, glass, under her feet, burning cold as she fled from the small patch she had warmed-what could she do?
In her bed again, the warmth of the sheets all gone, she sat, hunched, arms round her knees, head huried in her hands. Her body shook, arrows cluttered her head, a live wire of pain stretched from her throat down through her chest and into her stomach.
&
nbsp; And then she heard a laugh. Yes, a laugh. Her mother’s laugh. She lifted her head, slowly, to make sure. The noise came to her again. The familiar, warm ripple of her mother’s happiest laugh. How could she laugh, when Kevin had been hurting her?
Mama, how can you laugh when Kevin has been hurting you?
Rigid with cold now, Emily wriggled back under the bedclothes. The various pains in her body and head contracted, blotting out even the confusion. She pulled the sheets right over her head, drew her knees up under her chin till her forehead rested on their bones. Having made herself this foetal world, she found in it no light, no warmth, no comfort, no explanation. And Emily had no notion she was crying until she felt the warm damp of tears upon her knees. She fought for control, something she liked to exercise even in private. But although she bit her knuckles to stop herself, a strange, fearful cry escaped her. She knew she was going to die.
The horror and despair that feed on darkness, inextinguishable at the time, are granted strange mercy when daylight comes. Perhaps this is due to the eternal optimism in the workings of nature, a persistence in the supplying of renewed energy, however, brief, with a new day.
That Sunday morning in the north was, for Emily, less terrible than she had envisaged in her shell of blackness the night before. She was light-headed, drained, but not unhappy. Hungry, even, and warm. There must have been some mistake, last night : but she didn’t ponder upon it. The boiler had been mysteriously mended at dawn. The new warmth was cheering, and there were only six or seven hours till the train back to London. Emily ate eggs and bacon and read her comic.
Later, they drove up on to the moors, sullen with mist. Fen’s spirits seemed to be undaunted by the weather. She was very gay, laughing at grown-up jokes that Kevin kept making and Emily couldn’t understand. They stopped at an inn with lights in its windows even though it was midday. Kevin helped Fen out of the car with great care, as if she was an invalid or an old woman, and took her arm as they ran through the rain to the door. Even inside, he kept his hand on her arm.
