The Night Watch

by Sarah Waters

  He fell silent. Then, ‘Damn,’ he said softly again. ‘Damn, damn.’ And he moved about, so that the wires supporting his mattress flexed and tightened, and Duncan quickly drew back his fingers. He had rolled on to his side, Duncan thought; but though he lay still, there was a tension to him—something charged and furtive, as if he might be holding his breath, calculating. And when he moved again, to draw up the blanket, the movement seemed false, seemed stagey: as if it was being made, elaborately, to conceal another, more secret…

  He had put his hand, Duncan knew, to his cock; and after another moment he began, with a subtle, even motion, to stroke it.

  It was a thing men did all the time, in prison. They made a joke of it, a sport of it, a boast of it; Duncan had once shared a cell with a boy who had done it, not even at night, with a blanket to cover him, but during the day, obscenely. He had learnt to turn his head from it, just as he’d learnt to turn his head from the sight and sound and smell of other men belching, farting, pissing, shitting into pots. Now, however, in the utter darkness of the cell, and in the queer, uneasy atmosphere raised by Miller’s and Atkin’s singing, he found himself horribly aware of the stealthy, helpless, purposeful, half-ashamed motion of Fraser’s hand. For a moment or two he kept quite still, not wanting to betray the fact that he was awake. Then he found that his stillness only made his senses more acute: he could hear the slight thickening, now, of Fraser’s breath; he could smell him as he sweated; he could even catch, he thought, the faint, wet, regular sound—like a ticking watch—of the tip of Fraser’s cock being rhythmically uncovered…He couldn’t help it. He felt his own cock give a twitch and begin to grow hard. He lay another minute, perfectly still save for that gathering and tightening of flesh between his legs; then he made the same sort of stealthy, stagey movements that Fraser had: pulled up the blanket over himself, slid his hand into his pyjamas, and took the base of his cock in his fist.

  But his other hand, he raised. He found the wires of Fraser’s bed again and just touched them with his knuckles, lightly at first; then he caught the tension in them, the hectic little jolts and quivers they were giving in response to the regular jog-jog-jog of Fraser’s fist. He worked one of his fingers about them—clinging to them, almost, with the tip of that one finger; bracing himself against them, as he tugged with his other hand at his cock.

  He was aware, after a minute or so of this, of Fraser giving a shudder, and of the wires beneath his mattress growing still; but he couldn’t have stopped his own hand, then, for anything, and a moment later his own spunk rushed: he felt the travelling and bursting of it as if it were hot and scalded him. He thought he made a sound, as it came; it might just have been the roaring of the blood through his ears…But when the roaring died, there was only the silence: the awful, abashing stillness of the prison night. It was like emerging from some sort of fit, a spell of madness; he thought of what he’d just done and imagined himself pounding, gasping, plucking at Fraser’s bunk like some kind of beast.

  Only after a minute did Fraser move. There was the rustle of bedclothes, and Duncan guessed he was wiping spunk from himself with his sheet. But the rustling went on, the movement became tense, almost savage; finally, Fraser struck his pillow.

  ‘Damn this place,’ he said, as he did it, ‘for turning us all into schoolboys! Do you hear me, Pearce? I suppose you liked that. Did you, Pearce? Hey?’

  ‘No,’ said Duncan at last—but his mouth was dry, and his tongue caught against his palate. The word came out as a sort of whisper.

  Then he flinched. The bed-frame had rocked, and something warm and light had struck him, in the face. He put up his hand, and felt a sticky kind of wetness on his cheek. Fraser must have leant over the edge of the bunk and flicked spunk at him.

  ‘You liked it all right,’ said Fraser bitterly. His voice was close, for a moment. Then he moved back beneath his blanket. ‘You liked it all right, you blasted bugger.’

  FOUR

  Goodness,’ said Helen, opening her eyes. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ said Kay, putting down a tray at the side of the bed, and leaning to kiss her.

  Helen’s face was dry and warm and smooth, quite beautiful; her hair had frizzed up a little, like a sleepy child’s. She lay for a moment, blinking, then pushed herself higher in the bed and drew up the pillow to the small of her back. She did it clumsily, still not quite awake; and when she yawned, she put her hands to her face and worked her fingers into the corners of her eyes, to remove the crumbs of sleep from them. Her eyes were slightly puffed.

  ‘You don’t mind that I’ve woken you?’ asked Kay. It was a Saturday, still early, and she had worked the night before; but she’d been up for an hour and was already dressed, in a pair of tailored slacks and a jersey. ‘I couldn’t bear to wait any longer. Look, here.’

  She brought the tray to Helen’s lap. There was a spray of paper flowers in a vase, china pots and cups, an upturned bowl on a plate; and the pink box, with the silk bow, containing the satin pyjamas.

  Helen went from item to item, politely, slightly self-conscious. ‘What beautiful flowers. What a lovely box!’ She looked as though she was struggling to wake up, be charmed and excited. I should have let her sleep, Kay thought.

  But then she lifted the lids of the china pots. ‘Jam,’ she said, ‘and coffee!’ That was better. ‘Oh, Kay!’

  ‘It’s real coffee,’ said Kay. ‘And, look here.’

  She nudged the upturned bowl, and Helen picked it up. Underneath, on a paper doily, was an orange. Kay had worked on it for half an hour with the point of a vegetable knife, carving Happy Birthday into the peel.

  Helen smiled properly, her dry lips parting over her small white teeth. ‘It’s wonderful.’

  ‘The R’s a bit ropey.’

  ‘Not at all.’ She took the orange up and held it to her nose. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Kay vaguely. ‘I coshed a small child for it, in the black-out.’ She poured out coffee. ‘Open your gift.’

  ‘In a minute,’ said Helen. ‘I must pee first. Hold the tray, will you?’

  She kicked off the blankets and ran to the bathroom. Kay drew the bed-covers back up so that the mattress should stay warm. Heat rose from the bed, even as she did it—rose palpably, against her face, like steam or smoke. She sat with the tray on her lap, and rearranged the flowers, admired the orange—fretting, slightly, over that crooked R.

  ‘What a fright I looked!’ said Helen, laughing, coming back. ‘Like Struwwelpeter.’ She had washed her face and brushed her teeth and tried to calm her cloud of hair.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Kay. ‘Come here.’ She put out her hand; Helen took it, and let herself be drawn into a kiss. Her mouth was chill, from the cold water.

  She got back into bed, and Kay sat beside her. They drank the coffee, ate toast and jam.

  ‘Have your orange,’ said Kay.

  Helen turned it in her hands. ‘Shall I? It seems a shame. I ought to keep it.’

  ‘What for? Go on.’

  So Helen broke the skin, and peeled the orange, and divided it into pigs. Kay took one, but said that she must eat the rest herself. The fruit was slightly sour, and dry—the segments tore too easily. But the sensation of them yielding up their juice upon the tongue was glorious.

  ‘Now open your present,’ said Kay impatiently, when the orange was finished.

  Helen bit her lip. ‘I hardly dare. Such a beautiful box!’ She picked it up, self-conscious again. She held it beside her ear, and playfully shook it. When she began, very gingerly, to ease off the lid, Kay laughed at her.

  ‘Just pull it right off!’

  ‘I don’t want to spoil it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No,’ said Helen. ‘It’s too pretty.—Oh!’ She looked startled. She’d removed the lid at last and, the box being tilted against her knees, the folds of paper inside had parted and the pyjama-suit, like quicksilver, had come tumbling fluidly o
ut. She gazed at it for a moment without moving; then, as if reluctantly, she caught hold of the jacket and lifted it up. ‘Oh, Kay.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s beautiful. Too beautiful! It must have cost a fortune! Where ever did you get it?’

  Kay smiled and wouldn’t answer. She took a sleeve of the jacket and held it up. ‘Do you see the buttons?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re bone. Here on the sleeve, too.’

  Helen held the satin to her face, and closed her eyes.

  ‘The colour suits you,’ said Kay. And then, when Helen didn’t answer: ‘You do like it, really?’

  ‘Darling, of course. But—I don’t deserve it.’

  ‘Don’t deserve it? What are you talking about?’

  Helen shook her head and laughed, opening her eyes. ‘Nothing. I’m being silly, that’s all.’

  Kay took away the tray, the cups and plates and paper. ‘Try it on,’ she said.

  ‘I oughtn’t to. Not without bathing first.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish. Put it on. I want to see you in it!’

  So Helen got slowly out of bed, drew off her threadbare nightdress, stepped into the pyjama trousers, and buttoned on the top. The trousers were fastened with a linen cord. The jacket tied at the waist: it was full like a blouse but, the satin being heavy, it showed very clearly the swell of her breasts, the tips of her nipples. The sleeves were long: she buttoned the cuffs and folded them back, but they slid out of the folds at once and fell almost to her fingertips. She stood, as if shyly, for Kay to look her over.

  Kay whistled. ‘How glamorous you look! Just like Greta Garbo in Grand Hotel.’

  She didn’t look glamorous really, however; she looked young, and small, and rather solemn. The room was cold, and the satin chill; she shivered and blew on her hands. She worked again at folding back the sleeves, almost fretfully—gazing once, as she did it, into the mirror, and then turning quickly away.

  Kay watched her, with a sort of ache about her heart. She felt her love, at moments like this, as a thing of wonder—it was wonderful to her that Helen, who was so lovely, so fair and unmarked, should be here at all, to be looked at and touched…Then again, it was impossible to imagine her in any other place, with any other lover. No other lover, Kay knew, would feel about her quite as Kay did. She might have been born, been a child, grown up—done all the particular, serious, and inconsequential things she’d done—just so she could arrive at this point, now; just so she could stand, barefoot, in a satin pyjama-suit, and Kay could watch her.

  But then she moved away from the mirror.

  ‘Don’t go,’ said Kay.

  ‘Just to start my bath off.’

  ‘No,’ said Kay. ‘Not yet.’

  She got off the bed and crossed the room and took Helen in her arms. She ran her fingers over her face, and kissed her lips. She slid her hands beneath the satin jacket to touch the smooth, warm flesh of her back and waist. Then she moved behind her and held her breasts, taking the weight of them against her palms. She felt the swell of Helen’s buttocks, the sliding of the skin of her plump thighs inside the satin. She put her cheek against Helen’s ear.

  ‘You’re beautiful.’

  ‘No,’ said Helen.

  Kay turned her to face the mirror. ‘Can’t you see yourself? You’re lovely. I knew you were, the first time I saw you. I held your face in my hand. You were smooth, like a pearl.’

  Helen closed her eyes. ‘I know,’ she said.

  They kissed again. The kiss went on. But then Helen drew away. ‘I have to pee again,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Kay. And I really should bathe.’

  The satin made her slippery: she moved from Kay’s grasp, turning her head and laughing, playful but determined, like a nymph eluding a satyr. She went back to the bathroom and closed the door. There was the rush of the faucets, the whoosh of flame in the water-heater; and then, in a minute or so, the rub of her heels against the enamel of the tub.

  Kay took the coffee-pot to the sitting-room fire and put it close to the grate. She went back to the bedroom, cleared away the tray, made up the bed, folded the torn tissue paper. The flowers she set, in their vase, on the sitting-room table, beside the cards that Helen had already received, by yesterday’s post, from her family in Worthing. She moved a chair. Where the chair had stood she saw a sprinkling of crumbs. She got a brush and a pan from the kitchen, and swept them up.

  Kay had lived in this flat for almost seven years. She’d got it from a woman she’d once been lovers with, a woman who’d worked here, more or less—though Kay had never told Helen this—as a prostitute. Kay’s life had been rather chaotic in those days. She’d had too much money; she’d drunk too much; she’d careered from one unhappy love-affair to another…The woman had taken up with a businessman in the end, and moved to Mayfair; but she’d given Kay the flat as a parting gift.

  Kay liked it here more than anywhere she’d ever lived. The flat’s rooms were L-shaped; she liked those. She liked, too, the funny little mews or yard that the flat overlooked. The warehouse next door served some of the furniture stores on the Tottenham Court Road; before the war, Kay had been able to stand at her window and watch young men and women in the workshops painting swags and cupids on lovely old tables and chairs. Now the workshops had been closed down. The warehouse was used for holding utility furniture for the Board of Trade. The fact of there being so much wood there, and so much varnish and paint, made the mews a dreadfully unsafe place. But when Kay thought of moving, her heart sank. She felt about the flat rather as she felt about Helen: that it was secret, special, hers.

  She checked the warmth of the coffee in its pot. On the mantelpiece was a box of cigarettes; that made her think of the case in her pocket. She took it out, and started to fill it. Presently she heard Helen come out of the bathroom and begin the business of getting dressed. She called to her, across the hall. ‘What shall we do today, Helen? What would you like to do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Helen.

  ‘I might take you to a smart restaurant for lunch. How about that?’

  ‘You’ve spent too much on me already!’

  ‘Oh, balls to that!—as Binkie might say. Wouldn’t you like a fancy luncheon?’

  There was no reply. Kay shut the cigarette case and put it back in her pocket. She poured more coffee into Helen’s cup and took it through to the bedroom. Helen was dressed in her bra, petticoat, and stockings. She was combing her hair—combing it carefully, trying to turn the curls into waves. The pyjama-suit lay on the bed, very neatly folded.

  Kay set the cup down on the dressing-table. ‘Helen,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘You seem awfully distracted. Isn’t there anywhere you’d like to go? Not Windsor Castle, somewhere like that? The Zoo?’

  ‘The Zoo?’ said Helen, laughing, but also frowning. ‘My goodness, I feel like a child being offered a day out by its aunt.’

  ‘Well, that’s how one’s supposed to feel on one’s birthday. And you did, you know, mention Windsor Castle—and the Zoo—when we talked about this last week.’

  ‘I know I did,’ said Helen. ‘I’m sorry, Kay. But Windsor—oh, won’t it take an age to get there? Won’t the trains be awful?’ She had gone to the wardrobe and was looking through her dresses. ‘You’ll have to be home for work at seven.’

  ‘We have ages till seven,’ said Kay. Then she saw the dress that Helen was taking from its hanger. ‘That one?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘It’s your birthday. Wear the Cedric Allen one. I like that one more.’

  Helen looked doubtful. ‘It’s awfully smart.’ But she put the first dress back and drew out another, a dark blue dress with cream lapels. It had cost two pounds, two years before; Kay had bought it, of course. Kay had bought most of Helen’s things, especially in those days. A section of the hem was slightly puckered, where it had got worn and had to be darned; but apart from that, it looked almost new
. Helen shook it open and stepped inside it.

  Kay held out her hands. ‘Come here,’ she said, ‘and I’ll hook you up.’

  So Helen came to her and turned her back, and lifted up her hair. Kay settled the dress more smoothly on her shoulders, drew close its panels and, starting at the bottom, began to fasten together its hooks. She did it slowly. She’d always liked the sight and the feel of a woman’s back. She liked, for example, the look of an evening dress on naked shoulders—the tautness of it—the way, when the shoulder-blades were drawn together, it gaped, giving you a glimpse of the underclothes or the pink, pressed flesh behind…Helen’s back was firm—not muscular, but plump, resilient. Her neck was handsome, with a down of fair hair. When Kay had closed the final hook and eye she bent her head and kissed it. Then she put her arms around Helen’s waist, laid her hands upon her stomach, and pulled her closer.

  Helen moved her cheek against Kay’s jaw. ‘I thought you wanted to go out.’

  ‘But you look so lovely in your dress.’

  ‘Perhaps I ought to take it off, if you feel like that about it.’

  ‘Perhaps I ought to take it off for you.’

  Helen pulled away. ‘Be sensible, Kay.’

  Kay laughed and let her go. ‘All right…Now, how about the Zoo?’

  Helen had gone back to the dressing-table and was screwing on earrings. ‘The Zoo,’ she said, frowning again. ‘Well, perhaps. But won’t it look funny? Two women, our age?’