At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  – Sorry. Yes. How is she? I haven’t seen her about much. Is she here tonight? I don’t think I’ve seen her.

  – I’m sure you haven’t seen her (again the gleam in his eyes). She is out with her “war work” but she should be back before the party’s over.

  – What exactly does she do?

  Catherine had been very curious about this from the first time it had been mentioned. Adam knew but could say nothing.

  – Ah! Classified I’m afraid. Apparently Julia, with her connections … is regarded as being entirely trustworthy (again looking at Adam). Important work but rather sensitive. She’ll be here soon, I’m sure. She’s been looking forward to it. Had her dress dry-cleaned for the occasion. Had all her dresses cleaned actually. We must keep up appearances. I must be off to say hello to a few other people. Enjoy the party. Adam, I know you like a smoke. I’ll get one of my people to give you a packet while you’re here.

  And he glided away. Adam didn’t like the look on Catherine’s face. Her eyes had narrowed and clouded, as though she was completing some complex mathematical equation, and he knew well that was a bad sign. She fiddled with her hair.

  – Well. He was a bit queer just then.

  – How do you mean?

  – All that heavy emphasis. As though he was saying something very important when it was only the same old self-important tripe. Or was he trying to say something else?

  – I’m sure that was just old Pemberton being himself (Adam tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice). I wish he wouldn’t rub it in about the Tribunal. We didn’t all get the chances that he got.

  – Hmm.

  He beckoned a waiter and obtained a refill of champagne for them both and then suggested to Catherine that they take a turn around the room to see who else was present. It was crowded now. Little groups of people had gathered around the trays of food and were talking animatedly. Pemberton’s eldest glittered in a red dress. He saw various members of his Chambers and noticed, with the usual shame, that those of his age or a little older or younger were all in uniform. In fact, the majority of those bordering his age group were in uniform. There was no need for uniform at a cocktail party but it carried its own kudos and marked the wearer out from people like Adam. In fact, it was worse than when he passed people in the street and caught their disapproval, for here he was captive to it, naked before their badges of valour. He’d joined the Home Guard but it would have looked plain ridiculous to turn up in ill-fitting khaki.

  The room was spacious. Elegant, as were the people who filled it. He saw one or two High Court Judges in their ill-fitting dinner jackets. His worksuit was shabby by comparison. The women sparkled in diamonds and silk and the war seemed an eon away. He looked at Catherine, standing defiant by his side in the blue dress. It had seen many seasons and he hoped that people wouldn’t recognise it. Or at least be too kind to say anything cutting. All members of his Chambers who weren’t at war were there. His was a moderately sized set but, as Jones said, well respected. They were about sixteen in number. Only about eight of them had avoided active service. Although he had thought of himself earlier that evening as a divorce lawyer, he – and they – did anything that would come along. Crime, running downs, contract cases. It was all money after all. Apart from Adam they could rely on age or Whitehall responsibilities or something equally grand for the absence of a uniform. They could usually rely also on a private income and a trust fund as well.

  He could see Preston and his wife taking centre stage and talking confidently to someone who looked like a Cabinet Minister and Perkins (also working in Whitehall when not at the Bar), gathered with the younger, and uniformed, members of Chambers. He suddenly felt out of place and the desire to socialise left him. Stipples of sweat pricked his face and neck. He wondered when Julia was going to arrive. He had calculated that she would be here by about 8.15 or 8.30 but that was a good forty-five minutes away. He pulled out his Woodbines and shucked a cigarette. His smoke joined the comfortable smog floating over the crowd and he relaxed a bit.

  – Adam! How are you? Glad you could make it. Hullo Catherine.

  Adam relaxed further: it was Jack Storman KC, one of his favourite people in Chambers. Now approaching fifty, he had been in silk for about eight years and had somehow achieved that without making any enemies. Or none that Adam was aware of. He had a bluff, common-sense approach to life and was free from the pettiness and pomposity that annoyed him in too many of his colleagues at the Bar.

  – Good do, this. Must have cost old Jeremy a small fortune. Still, he can afford it. Glad to see you’re both here. Haven’t seen you at one of Jeremy’s functions for quite a while.

  – I don’t think we’re on his ‘A’ list. It’s a bit of a relief to see you here.

  – Oh. Don’t let all that bother you. Mostly, they’re a bit of a bore. The usual people sounding off with the usual stories. You seemed to be having quite a conversation with the old boy. He doesn’t usually give his guests that amount of time. Pretty serious, too, from the look on your face.

  – Oh not really. Rationing. Work. The black market. Usual sort of thing.

  Storman was unconvinced. Of that Adam was sure. He hoped that he wouldn’t start cross-examining him. His skills were well known.

  – Jeremy’s been acting a little oddly lately. Can’t quite put my finger on it. But he seems a bit, well, preoccupied. Made a point of mentioning that you were coming when I asked who would be here.

  – We’re in a case against one another. When I mentioned “work” that’s what I was talking about.

  – Ah! Well, that solves that then. Surprised that Julia isn’t here. Still (motioning to the girl in the red dress) Jenny’s doing a good job as stand-in.

  – Julia will be along later apparently.

  – Good. Always liked her. And she does keep the old boy young. He was a real misery before she came into his life.

  Adam hadn’t seen Storman’s wife.

  – Where’s Margaret?

  – We all of us react differently to what’s going on, Adam.

  – Has she left London?

  – Nothing like that. She wouldn’t leave me behind here. She just doesn’t like coming into the centre. Did I tell you about that time I broke my right wrist and Margaret came with me to court every day so she could take a note for me?

  And then Storman went on to tell them a number of stories about his early days at the Bar – and went out of his way to compliment Catherine on her dress. Peter Preston KC and his wife made their way over to join them. He had the polish and gleam of a marionette, fresh from a good rub with the chammy leather. He leaned over Catherine and gave her a courtly kiss on each cheek, and then nodded a greeting to Adam. Adam looked at his watch and lit another Woodbine.

  – Lovely to see you, Catherine. How’s Deborah?

  – She’s very well. We sent her back out to Edenbridge when the bombing started. She didn’t want to go but Adam was insistent. I suppose he was right to be.

  – Absolutely right. We’ve been doing our best to get people to see sense but they’re ignoring the posters and taking no notice of our radio broadcasts. Don’t want to be taken for mugs again.

  – Do you think we’re past the worst of it now?

  – I’m afraid not. This is just a respite. They’ll be back in force. Have you managed to fix her up with a school up there?

  – We got her a private tutor. An old lady who lives on the farm. She’s doing very well. We hope she’ll be able to follow us up to Cambridge in due course. The war should be over by then.

  – Beauty and brains. She takes after her mother.

  – She didn’t get blue eyes from me. And her hair is darker. I want her to go to Girton but Adam thinks she should apply to somewhere more accessible, like Newnham. He always found Girton something of a trek.

  – He’s never been one for much physical exertion, have you, Adam?

  Adam shook his head affably, dragged on his Woodbine and turned to Cara. She’
d been watching Preston with mild amusement and was in no hurry to speak. She took a sip of champagne and ran her fingers across a blue velvet fleur de lys on her right hip. He was about to speak when he felt a surge of sputum rising with the smoke from his lungs. Somehow he got his handkerchief to his mouth before the coughing started. Catherine and Preston carried on talking. He recovered his composure and folded the handkerchief away. Only Cara noticed the large splash of crimson spreading against the white. She spoke more gently than she usually did.

  – We’ve not seen much of you lately, Adam. Are you very busy?

  – Not really (a stifled cough). Busier than I was. Home Guard work fills up some of the time.

  – Peter’s running all over the place. I think he enjoys an emergency. Most people would be content to be close to the levers of power and forget the Bar, but he wants to have both. He wants to come out with a good war.

  – I’m surprised the Ministry lets him.

  – Oh, he’s very persuasive. He’s already looking beyond the war to his position in the peace. Is it possible to be a High Court Judge and a Cabinet Minister at the same time? Peter usually gets what he wants.

  But not always, thought Adam – and remembered Catherine’s entreaty earlier.

  – I don’t think so. But you’re right: he does still seem to make it down to the Bailey on a regular basis, though he’s pretty cagey about what he’s up to.

  – That’s Peter. Loves a bit of intrigue. Don’t know why he’s so secretive about it. Careless talk costs lives, I suppose.

  He sensed her indiscretion.

  – What exactly is he doing?

  – I suppose I’d keep quiet about it too if my powers of advocacy were sending men and women to their deaths on a regular basis.

  – What?!

  Cara’s voice sank beneath the hubbub:

  – Spy trials. Treason. Our people pick them up, put the papers in order and give them to Peter. He does the rest. Says it’s as easy as shelling peas. He’s got a one hundred per cent conviction rate, which he’s rather proud of. He must shut his mind to what happens when they’re taken below.

  – How long has he been doing this?

  – Oh. Most of this year. He probably started last year but it took a little while to winkle it out of him. He says it dovetails nicely with his other Government business.

  – It must be a lot of work.

  – Not really. I’ve seen the briefs. They’re wrapped in white tape and marked secret but they’re never very bulky. It seems that we’re catching them as soon as they land so they’re usually red-handed. I don’t know how we’re managing to find out about them so quickly. Peter says it’s just good luck but I think there’s more to it than that. That’s one thing I haven’t been able to prise out of him. Doesn’t Jenny look lovely this evening?

  She motioned towards Pemberton’s daughter as she floated from group to group and he sensed that she wanted to move the conversation away from these disclosures. Jenny had come out the previous season into a world of war and uniforms, but she seemed to be thriving on it. Adam saw Preston ushering Catherine towards the parliamentarian.

  – Let me introduce you to Sir Henry.

  Adam saw the pleading look in her eyes.

  – Yes, she’s coping well. Not quite the season Jeremy had anticipated.

  – She’ll probably net a Brigadier. She can look after herself … I think the dress she’s wearing belongs to Julia. I recognise the pattern of sequins.

  – The two of them seem to get along very well.

  – It was difficult at first. But she’s very fond of the children. I think she misses them almost as much as Julia does.

  No one missed them as much as Julia did, of that Adam was sure. She wrote to them several times a day and cherished the scribbles in reply.

  – I believe they both drive out to see them quite frequently.

  – Anything more than that?

  – I don’t know.

  The conversation faltered. Adam delved into his pocket for the handkerchief, felt the familiar viscous slide and discreetly removed his hand. It was 8.35. He saw Catherine in animated conversation with the Minister and looked around at the spinning room … the cawing crowds. No air raid sirens so far. Preston probably knew when and where they were likely to hit. They were probably safe. Where was Julia? The sweat was cold. Cara sensed the lull and gazed around the room running her hand over crimped brown hair.

  – We’ll have to go soon. Peter’s due at the Dorchester. He’s cultivating that man Channon over there. Are you going on somewhere?

  – Just home.

  He caught Catherine’s eye. A slight tilt of her watch hand told him she wanted to leave. Cara saw it and read it. He warmed to her.

  – Peter does go on sometimes. Poor Catherine. What a lovely dress she’s wearing

  Adam was sinking. He had nothing left to say. He was saved by Samuels announcing that Mrs Pemberton had arrived.

  Chapter Four

  Conversations stopped and all eyes turned when Julia entered the room. She wore the attention lightly. In dowdy skirt and serge top she didn’t look out of place amongst the satin and lace. An enormous smile broke open her angular features. Adam felt physically sick.

  – Sorry I’m late everyone. Don’t mind me and enjoy the party. Merry Christmas! I’ve got to get changed.

  But rather than leave the room she circulated. Adam turned back to Cara and tried to resume their conversation but was as conscious of her movements amongst the guests as one would be of a breeze that moved from tree to tree fluttering the leaves behind one. She came nowhere near him. 8.45.

  – Forgive me, but you have an awful cough.

  – I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t been hitting you with it.

  – I don’t remember it being so bad.

  – It’s worse in the winter. It doesn’t like December. Catherine and I went to Marrakesh a couple of years ago and that seemed to help. But it always comes back.

  Adam reached into his pocket, reordered the handkerchief and then used it to wipe his mouth and to wipe away the persisting sweat. He was conscious of a rattling in his chest.

  – Have another cigarette. That should get the stuff out of your lungs.

  Adam shucked another Woodbine, lit up and breathed in deeply.

  – We’ll have to go soon. Catherine wants to catch the 10.08.

  – You really don’t look at all well.

  – I’ll be fine.

  But Adam could feel his gorge rising and knew that what was left of his handkerchief would not help him. The sweats were back and he felt cold and vulnerable. Catherine was still laughing with the Cabinet Minister. His vision blurred and conversational noise undulated around him. Nausea.

  – Would you excuse me, Cara, I’m terribly sorry.

  Samuels directed him to the first floor. He collapsed in front of the toilet bowl and retched. His eyes were closed and streaming … When he opened them the bowl was streaked red. The harsh, antiseptic toilet paper was no use and so he wetted down his kerchief and used that to clean himself, checked for stray spots of blood, and then pulled the chain. His eyes in the mirror were bloodshot and pained so he splashed his face with cold water and reordered his hair. 9.05. He needed to talk to Julia; but this was a disaster. Everyone wanted to talk to her. The written word was enigmatic and would keep him awake. They rarely saw one another now. Better to stay silent than to take risks.

  He emerged onto the landing and paused before heading back down. Photographs filled an alcove. Jeremy and Julia on their wedding day: she looked so young clutching his uniformed arm. Black and white with a hint of sepia. Julia with Stephen. Julia with Sebastian. Julia with Stephen, Sebastian and Agnes. Carefree. That was probably 1936. Julia and Jeremy posing for the society photographer at the 1936 Middle Temple Ball. She was wearing a low-cut backless white dress. He’d already known her for ten years by then – she’d been terribly young when Jeremy first introduced him to her as the new junior tenant – a
marquee had been set up near the rose garden and he and Catherine had attended. They’d been married eleven years and she was still fresh-faced. Free from the disillusionment that now affected her. As always, all eyes were on Julia. But he managed to mark her card and had one of her ten dances.

  Margaret Storman had also been at the Ball but with a tall elegant man, whose face he did not see, rather than her husband. The man had ushered her towards the photographer and left her to have her picture taken alone. Jack’s wife had been radiantly beautiful as she struck the necessary pose. Adam and Catherine had decided that they could not afford a picture.

  Adam knew that he had danced too close, but that had been his first opportunity in ten years. It was a slow waltz. He let his hands slip onto her bare back. His fingers typed their message. Pressing and kneading in a way that could be explained on the drink or the scents in the air – or as nothing. Longing and desire. Morse which, if you didn’t understand the language, meant nothing. Julia, inevitably, understood. When the dance ended she took his hand and led him outside. A foxtrot was starting up inside. Alone, they rounded the corner of the marquee, and, clear of the crowds with the Thames shimmering, she turned into his arms and they were kissing. Astonished and delighted, he let his arm move up to her breast and caressed it through the silk. A body desired seems all the more fragile and … human … when first touched. Then it was over.

  – I’ve wanted to do that for years.

  He glanced up and saw, through the gloom, a slim figure in white tie leaning against a tree. The man slipped away. “Probably a drunk taking some air,” Adam had thought.

  – We’ll be missed.

  And she led him back inside like a co-conspirator. The following morning he wasn’t sure it had actually happened. He could have dreamt it. There was no evidence to substantiate it. Four and a half years on, he remained unsure. Unsubstantiated memories are blown away like dust. If he had wanted to prove it he would not be able to do so. He had no alcove of photographs. No letters. No cards. No outward thing to connect him with her. Nothing. No one would believe it anyway. The record was as clean as his conscience. Nothing.