Wake

by Anna Hope

  “The black one?” Di groans. “Oh, God.”

  “Please?”

  “Oh, all right.” She throws herself on her back on the bed, blowing a resigned smoke cloud up into the air.

  “Really?” Hettie scrambles to her feet.

  “Please.” Di puts her hand over her eyes. “Don’t ask me twice.”

  Hettie crosses the room toward the dress and lifts it toward her. It is beautiful. Heavier even than she imagined, and she can feel it now, that skirt falling against her legs, moving against her as she dances with him around the floor.

  “How are you going to get to Dalton’s, then?”

  Hettie turns around, the dress clutched against her. “I’ll take the tube. I’m meeting him there at ten.”

  The words batter the air like typewriter keys.

  I’m meeting him there at ten.

  Incredible. Indelible. No way to take them back.

  “You better look after it,” says Di, sitting up and pointing, “or I’ll have your guts for garters.”

  “I will. I promise I will.” Hettie goes over to where her friend sits, leans down, and hugs her. “Thanks, Di.”

  “Hmm.”

  Hettie folds the dress, stowing it carefully in her bag. “There’s—something else,” she says, straightening up.

  Di raises an eyebrow.

  “Something else I wanted to ask …”

  . . . . . . . . . . .

  The restaurant is smaller than Evelyn remembered it, only five tables, each covered with the same simple cloths, a lit red candle at each. Only one of the tables is taken—an elegant woman and balding man, heads bent over their food. They look up as she comes in, and she can feel the small ripple as they register her presence—a woman here alone. She shakes out her umbrella and puts it in the stand by the door as the waiter comes to take her coat. A prix fixe menu is chalked up on the blackboard: steak and potatoes, tarte tatin.

  She takes a seat facing the window and orders a carafe of wine. When it comes, she drinks half a glass quickly, staring out through the rain-spattered window to the street beyond. She lights a cigarette. The couple at the next table look across at her, and she feels their hot disapproval in the air. She puts it out, and then is furious with herself for doing so. When she lights it again it tastes foul.

  The door opens, and Ed is there, holding a sodden newspaper above his head. He comes toward her, laughing. “Didn’t look out of the window properly. Had no idea it was raining so bloody hard.” Her brother looks pale. He’s dressed carelessly in a jacket and badly knotted tie, as though he rolled out of bed and got ready in the dark. The dining couple look up. She sees the woman sit taller in her seat, lengthen her neck.

  Ed, as usual, seems happily oblivious to the effect he causes. He always has been. At those awful country balls they were forced to attend when they were younger, the twittering girls would queue up for him, but he was always just as happy dancing with her. And, because she hated those occasions—the small talk, the inept dancing, the chaperones, the marriage market of it all—Evelyn was always profoundly grateful for that. He was the best dancer of the lot.

  She twists her watch face around. It’s already twenty past one. “I’m hungry. Shall we order now?”

  “You order.” He waves his hand as he sits. “I don’t mind.”

  “Fine.” She calls the waiter over and orders the steak for them both.

  He leans over, takes a sip of her wine, and makes a face.

  “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.”

  He lights up a cigarette. “So you say.”

  “So,” she can’t resist, “still in bed at eleven then?”

  “Late night.”

  “Easy life.”

  “Whereas you, old thing, are a connoisseur of the rocky road.” He picks up his glass. “This wine, for instance. Can we even call it wine?” He beckons to the waiter. “Can I see the wine list, please?”

  The list is brought. His eyes flicker down the page. “I’ll have the red burgundy,” he says. “Ninety-four.”

  “Let me see.” She snatches the menu back. “That’s two pounds a bottle!”

  “So?”

  “So, I’ve got to get back to the office, Ed.”

  “Come on.” He grins, leaning forward. “When do we ever do this?”

  Not often enough. And whose fault is that?

  The new bottle arrives, along with two fresh glasses. Ed indicates that she should taste. The waiter pours a little into her glass and she drinks, closing her eyes for a brief second. It is delicious. Of course it is. It costs two pounds. She nods to him, and the waiter pours a full glass for them both and moves away.

  Evelyn takes another generous sip. It goes down so easily. Outside, rain is bouncing off the pavement and the soft hoods of the parked motorcars, battering the sodden geraniums in the flowerpots on either side of the door. She sits back in her seat. She is glad to see him, she thinks, her handsome brother. Glad to drink his two-pound bottle of wine. She could just stay here, in the warm cocoon of his ease, and drink this bottle down. Not go back into the rain to the dreary office, with dreary Robin and the rest of the dreary men.

  “So?” His eyes look amused. “What’s all this in aid of, then? Do I detect subterfuge?”

  “Subterfuge?” She colors. “Not at all. I just—” She puts down her glass. “We don’t do this enough anymore.”

  He raises his glass to her. “I’ll drink to that.”

  Their glasses clink.

  “I meant to ask you actually,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  “Are you going to come on Thursday?”

  “Where to?”

  “Anthony’s invitation?”

  She must look blank, because he shakes his head, smiling. “The flat on Whitehall? For the ceremony? The Unknown Warrior? Do you read the papers at all?”

  “Oh.” She wrinkles her nose. “I haven’t thought about it much, to tell you the truth.”

  “I thought we might go down together.” He leans forward. “Make up for Sunday. Leaving you at Paddington. Dereliction of duty and all that.”

  “I don’t know, Ed.”

  It makes her feel queasy somehow. A public burial, all the pomp and state.

  “Don’t you think it’s all a bit …”

  “What?”

  “Hypocritical? As though it could make a difference. Make people forget.”

  “I’m not sure it’s to make people forget, Eves. Surely it’s remembrance, if it’s anything at all.”

  She shrugs. “Perhaps.”

  “Well, think about it. We could make a day of it. Go on somewhere afterward. I’d love to go with you, if you’d like.”

  She is pleased, despite herself. “All right,” she says. “Thanks. That might be nice.”

  The steaks arrive. Thin, peppered, cooked in cream, and steaming, with buttered potatoes on the side. She loads her fork, looks up, and notices her brother isn’t eating. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  He shrugs. “I might eat in a bit.” He opens his cigarette case. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  He smokes, and she eats, in companionable silence.

  “So,” he says, when she has nearly finished. “Come on, then. What’s this really all about?”

  She has a last mouthful of steak and cream, then puts her fork down on her plate. “I had a man,” she says, “come to the office yesterday.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think he was looking for you.”

  “For me?”

  “I think so, yes.” She takes a piece of bread from the basket and crumbles it onto her plate. “His name was Rowan Hind.”

  Her brother’s hand has stopped, quite still, the smoke from his cigarette traveling straight up into the air. She can hear the chink
of glasses from the waiter behind her, the scrape of the forks of the diners to her left.

  “Rowan Hind?”

  “Yes.” She puts the bread and cream in her mouth, chews, swallows.

  He takes a sip of wine. There’s a small groove in the middle of his brow. “What did he look like?”

  “It’s quite an unusual name.”

  “Yes, it is.” He nods. “And I’m sure I’ll remember. Remind me. Any distinguishing features?”

  She leans back in her seat. “Not really.” She takes a cigarette for herself. When she thinks about it, the most distinguishing thing about him was his utter ordinariness. “He was small. Hungry looking. He’d been a private. Invalided out in ’17.”

  “And what was the injury?”

  “Lost the use of his arm.” She lights up. “Though it was still there, in a sling. And nerves, I think, as well.”

  “Right.” He nods. “Well. And why had he come to you?”

  “To find you.”

  He looks astonished. “But that’s ridiculous. How in hell did he know—?”

  “He didn’t. He had no idea I was your sister. It was chance that brought him to me.”

  “And did you tell him who you were?” He leans closer.

  “Of course not. It would have been unethical.”

  She looks at her brother’s face, at the vein beating at his temple, the skin stretched tight across his skull. “But I gave him the address of the records office. If they take pity on him then they might tell him where you live.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Why?”

  He sits back in his chair, takes a big swig of wine, and looks down at his steak; a thin skin has formed where the butter in the sauce has congealed. “Excuse me a minute.” His napkin drops from his lap to the floor as he stands. She leans down to pick it up, and puts it beside his place.

  “Have you finished?” The waiter is at her elbow.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Would you like some dessert?”

  “Thank you, no. I think we’ll just have the bill.”

  She drums her fingers on the tablecloth and drinks down her glass of wine. There’s still most of the bottle left. She pours herself another large glass. Behind her, she hears the sound of a lavatory flushing and a door shutting, and then Ed reappears, standing to her left, just behind her chair. “I should be getting back.”

  “I’ve asked for the bill,” she says, twisting around, her tone conciliatory. “Sit down till then.”

  He sits. His leg is jiggling under the table, making the glasses judder and ring as though a tube train were passing underneath.

  “Ed? Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” He cannot look her in the eye.

  “It’s just odd, isn’t it?” She leans forward. “Why would a private be looking for a you? After all this time?”

  “How should I know?” he snaps. “Come on, Eves. You know what people are like. They get ideas. Fixed in their heads. They can’t move on. Surely you of all people know that?”

  That stings.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He opens his hands. “Take it how you want.”

  “No. Tell me. What? What do you mean?”

  He leans toward her. “Listen, Eves. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you should try to get a bit of air round things. It might stop you brooding quite so much.”

  She can feel the familiar acid of anger seeping through her, turning the afternoon, curdling her steak and wine and cream. “Is that what I’m doing, then? Brooding? Forgive me. I wasn’t aware.”

  He takes another swig of wine and then looks around for the waiter, his face clenched, impatient. He looks just like their father, suddenly. In a flash she sees him, in fifteen years, the same assurance, the complacency, the set of the jaw.

  “What’s the man doing? For Christ’s sakes.”

  “Ed—”

  “What?” He flings her a look.

  “You’re saying you have no recollection of a Rowan Hind?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’ve told you. The name. That’s all. Do you know how many men I had under my command?”

  She doesn’t. “A hundred?”

  He looks scornful. “Two hundred and fifty. There or thereabouts. You think I remember every little private that lost his mind?”

  “I didn’t say he lost his mind.”

  She feels something then, a chill, settle in the air between them.

  Her brother pauses. “Eves,” he says very quietly. “what exactly did you want to achieve by my coming here?”

  “I—” She closes her mouth. She doesn’t honestly know: information of some sort, but what?

  “Leave it.”

  “What was that?”

  “I said leave it. You’re meddling.”

  “Meddling?”

  “Yes. Eves. That job. It’s depressing. For God’s sake, it’s not good for you. It’s not as if you even need to work.”

  “No. Well. We don’t all want to stay in bed till midday. Remind me again—what, other than order decent wines, is it that you actually do?”

  His leg is jiggling again. He puts his hands on the table, as if to still it, but it doesn’t work. “I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” he says. “Shall I?” The air between them feels tinder dry, as though it needs only a spark to set it alight.

  She turns to see the waiter at her shoulder, the saucer and the bill in his hand. She goes to open her bag, but Ed is already up. He throws down some notes and leans across the table, his lips brushing lightly against her cheek. “I’ll see you soon, Eves. I hope you’ll be feeling better by then.”

  He is out of the door by the time she has got to her feet.

  . . . . . . . . . . .

  The shop is small and intimate, tucked away down a side street at the back of Shepherd’s Bush. It smells of shaving foam and leather and men. It took a bit of persuasion but eventually Hettie got it out of Di:

  It doesn’t look like much from the outside. You’d never know it was the place. It looks more like a barber’s. Which is what it is.

  Ignore the men—they’ll stare at you, but don’t take any notice. Just ask for Giovanni. Say I sent you. He’s the best.

  The decision was easy in the end.

  It wasn’t even easy; it was already made.

  And now here she is, sitting in a cracked leather chair, in the middle of a busy barber’s, with what looks like a white tablecloth tucked into her dress and an old Italian man wielding a pair of scissors behind her head.

  “How much?” he says again. It sounds like Howa mucha?

  Hettie can see two men standing, staring at her through the window. But she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care.

  “All of it,” she says.

  He walks around her, a full half circle, lifting hanks of hair and letting them fall. “All. Of. It.” He repeats to himself as he walks, then comes to a stop. “You have beautiful hair.” He says, his eyes finding hers. “But it looks terrible. You look like a horse.”

  “I know,” says Hettie. “That’s why I want it cut.”

  “Not a horse.” He corrects himself. “Little horse.”

  He lifts a handful and holds up his scissors. The blades flash in the afternoon sun.

  “This will be a pleasure,” he says.

  Snip!

  He holds the first hank in his hand. A trophy. A severed pony’s tail. For a moment, she is horrified. For a moment, she expects there to be blood.

  Snip!

  She sees her mother.

  Snip!

  Your father! Your father loved your hair.

  Snip!

  She sees her dad, the lines on his face. The way they softened when he smiled.

  Snip!

  Sorr
y, Dad.

  Snip!

  I’m so sorry that you died.

  Snip!

  Filthy little flapper.

  Snip!

  Snip!

  I’m thinking of blowing your cover.

  Snip!

  Snip!

  Snip!

  Do you like blowing things up?

  Snip!

  The future is coming.

  Snip!

  It’s getting closer.

  Snip!

  It

  Snip!

  Is

  Snip!

  Almost

  Snip!

  Here!

  The shock of the air. Her neck revealed.

  The man steps back. “Beau-ti-ful.” He says.

  “Killing,” Hettie whispers, as her eyes meet his in the glass.

  . . . . . . . . . . .

  “I hope you’ll be feeling better by then.”

  It rattles round and round in Evelyn’s head. How dare he? As though something were wrong with her, as though she were ill, and that is why she has dared to question him—question any of them. As if all of it, the whole bloody war, were nothing more than an extended gentlemen’s club.

  The rain is still falling, and the pavement is hazardous, clogged with pedestrians and umbrellas. She clashes with a man ahead who is moving slowly and she stumbles, catching herself against his heel. She has to grab an iron railing to steady herself.

  “Watch where you’re going, can’t you?” He is old but upright, the bearing of a military man, his ringing voice cutting through even a wet afternoon like this. Evelyn stands, swaying, staring after him. There are too many men like this: They are everywhere, and she is sick of them, of their florid intactness; it is the old who have inherited the earth. “Oh, go to hell,” she spits.

  The man opens his mouth as though to bark a response, and then closes it again. He turns first, impeccably upright, and walks stiffly away. Evelyn is immediately ashamed. She grips the spikes at the top of the railings. The world around her is hazy. Now that she has stopped she is starting to realize just how unsteady she is. How much wine did she drink in the end? Nearly the entire bottle on her own. She’s in her cups, all right. She’ll have to gather herself before she gets back to work. She shakes her watch from her cuff and stares blearily at its face. She’s already late but can’t arrive like this. Her flat’s not far from here; there’s a shortcut she can take if she turns right now. She could go home for a minute and sort herself out. It’s tempting, and it’s much better to be late than drunk. She pushes herself away from the railings and turns on to a side road, moving fast, almost running, skirting the puddles, lifting her umbrella high.