At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  – Jeremy. Is that you? Is everything all right?

  Her husband tried to speak but began sobbing and bawling uncontrollably. As he wept the stench of whisky grew stronger. Julia began to panic.

  – Jeremy! What is it? Please tell me what has happened.

  – Our daughter! Our daughter!

  He bellowed and moaned these same words again and again. Julia screamed as a growing hysteria gripped her.

  – What is it? Please tell me?!

  – She’s dead!

  Julia screamed again and fell across her bed, wailing.

  – Oh no! No! No! No! Please tell me it’s not true!

  Annie came into their part of the cellar holding a lamp and Julia saw for the first time her husband’s ravaged features. It was if he had aged ten years since earlier that day. She knew, too, that her tear-streaked face must have looked similarly devastated. She climbed to her feet, as did Jeremy, and they hugged one another. She clung tightly to him as though this would make the nightmare go away. He tried to soothe her.

  – She was always so loving and so beautiful. When she went out this evening she seemed to be so full of life?

  – Went out this evening?

  Jeremy looked at her strangely. He looked befuddled by the drink. He spoke to her slowly, slurring slightly, as if grief had taken away her reason.

  – Yes … don’t you remember? … she went out to the Café de Paris with that man Jenkins?

  – You’re talking about Jenny? Jenny? So Agnes is still alive? Oh thank God! Thank God!

  And to her eternal shame she began to laugh hysterically. Agnes was still alive! Agnes was alive! She hardly heard her husband’s roar of anger and grief; hardly saw his fist as it slammed into her jaw. She dropped to the floor where she stood. Two thoughts reverberated through her mind as she lost consciousness: that Agnes was their daughter and that Jenny was Jenny and that now any hope that he would not proceed with his petition was truly lost.

  PART THREE

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  (Sunday 9th March 1941)

  The “all clear” sounded at 12.30 a.m. Cordite and the garlicky smell of phosphorus filled the air. Roberts collapsed, wheezing heavily, at the sound of the siren. They had survived. Barry straightened up and looked across the rooftops at the fires burning all around him. The bombers had departed but searchlights still swung around the sky. Beyond the Temple he heard the bells of emergency vehicles rushing in all directions; the sound of glass falling and breaking. He stretched and felt a layer of sweat shifting against the coarse fabric of his uniform. Then he looked down to where Adam was lying, his body a dark bundle, in the valley of slate. His face was briefly illuminated by a side light from the skies and Barry saw the thick red ooze joining his pale lips to the blackened blue overalls. It was beginning to coagulate. He and Roberts had all but forgotten Adam during the last three frantic hours. He leaned down over him and listened to his laboured breathing before moving him into more of a sitting position.

  They had returned to the roof with sandbags and water to find him sprawled and unconscious, a cigarette in the bloodied hand that was clutching at his chest. There was no time to take him down and so they had moved him, as carefully as they could, into the valley before continuing their incessant battle with the incendiaries. Barry slumped down beside his stricken friend and looked up at the sky. The full moon had shifted in its orbit but still covered everything in a silvery sheen. For long minutes neither he nor Roberts moved or spoke. This was worse than the 29th December. Roberts had fallen asleep and began snoring. Barry looked over at the older man. His tin hat was awry and sprouts of unruly white hair framed his sooty face. He let him sleep.

  It was almost an hour before he stirred and then shook himself awake, confused as to where he was.

  – We need to carry him down.

  Roberts looked over at Adam and groaned.

  Barry took his shoulders and Roberts his feet. He had forgotten how little Adam weighed. His head was lolling to the right and his arms hung limply at his sides, swinging gently as they manoeuvred him down the stairs. He seemed to be at peace. It had been less than five hours earlier that they had been chatting together on the roof.

  Roberts was blowing hard by the time they reached Hare Court, and stumbled over an unexploded incendiary, so they put Adam on the ground and recovered their breath. Barry looked at his watch. It was past two in the morning. They picked Adam up again and dragged themselves to Dr Johnson’s Buildings. The climb to the top-floor apartment was even more arduous than the descent from the rooftop and they had to pause at every floor. Barry fumbled in Adam’s pockets until he found the key.

  They laid him on his bed and Roberts took his leave, shuffling to the door and closing it quietly behind him. The blackout shades were in place and so Barry lit a lamp and looked down at Falling. The blood was dry now and Adam’s breathing seemed a little easier. His face was very pale. Barry got him into a sitting position, cradled him, then began unbuttoning his overalls. Blood on the buttons came away on his hands. As he pulled off the blouson Adam stirred and said, “Julia?” He laid Adam out flat and took the garment to the sink. There was more blood than he had thought. He put in the plug and turned on the tap. It creaked into life and he held the heavy material under the guttering stream. Kneading it made great red blossoms bloom out and stain the water until it was a deep crimson. He turned off the tap, dipped his hands in the sink to clean them, and then went back to Adam.

  He loosened the belt on Adam’s trousers and gently pulled them off. The bed had been made up crisply and tightly and he had to pull back the counterpane and the blankets and sheet underneath, dragging them down under the motionless body before pulling them up over him and tucking him in. He emptied the trouser pockets: two packets of Embassy cigarettes, one full and the other with three gone, and a little crystal paperweight. He put them on the sideboard. It was almost three in the morning. He didn’t want to leave Adam alone so he found a cushion for his head, turned off the electric light, lay down next to the bed and fell asleep.

  Someone was shaking his shoulders. His head was full of strange dreams as he swam back to consciousness. The blackout shades had been removed and he heard the desultory spatter of drizzle against the window and the familiar sound of glass being swept. A thin breeze crept in and feathered his cheeks. He opened his eyes and as he brought them into focus he remembered where he was. Blytheway was looking down at him, his face full of urgency and concern. Dust and ash drifted heavy in the air as sunrays caught them.

  – What time is it?

  – Ten o’clock. What happened?

  Barry told him of the previous night’s events. He had never seen Blytheway look so grave. As he spoke, Adam began coughing in his sleep. They both looked over at him. He looked so thin under the protective peagreen blanket.

  – We must get him to a doctor.

  – This has happened before you know.

  – I know all about that. Do you want to be relieved of your vigil?

  – No. I want to stay.

  – Very well. I’ll make some tea for us. And then I must go and make a telephone call.

  Blytheway’s reputation was well known to all those who worked in the Temple, but although he was always scrupulously polite he gave very little of himself away. If he was honest with himself Barry would say that he, and most of the others, were in awe of him. After they had taken their tea Blytheway exchanged some coppers for a shilling and then left the room. He returned twenty minutes later.

  – Why is it almost impossible to find a telephone box that works? The telephone is a good invention but it has got a long way to go before it works properly!

  They sat in silence next to the bed for the next hour, Blytheway looking disconsolately around the room.

  – This place is a mess!

  Blytheway said eventually.

  – He’d forgotten he was on duty. I don’t think he gets many visitors.

  – That’s absolutely no e
xcuse.

  Barry had draped the overall trousers over a chair and Blytheway went over and picked them up, slapping them to get the dirt out.

  – These haven’t been ironed! I went to the trouble of getting him an iron and an ironing board!

  He folded them and put them on a hanger, then sat down again and went back into his reverie.

  – Why are you here so early on a Sunday morning?

  – I’m afraid I had to come here to bring Adam some rather bad news.

  – That’s the last thing he needs.

  – It can’t be helped.

  Blytheway put his head in his hands, then he turned and looked so deeply into Barry’s eyes that he felt almost frightened.

  – You see, Jeremy Pemberton’s daughter – Jenny – was killed last night … at the Café de Paris.

  He put his head back in his hands. Barry hardly knew Jenny but he had heard of her. Pemberton had brought her to a Ladies’ Dining Night during the last Michaelmas term and everyone had told him afterwards how lovely she was. It didn’t seem possible. Blytheway did not elaborate and so he respected the ensuing silence. Instead they both concentrated on Adam. He lay there without moving. Only the slight movements of his chest showed that he was still alive. Barry wondered at Blytheway’s stillness.

  At around 11.30 there was a knock on the door. Barry opened it to find a man he had never seen before: a tall man wearing a dark jacket, striped trousers and a bowler hat. He had a scar down one side of his face. Blytheway shouted across to him.

  – Caldwell! Many thanks. You have the jalopy?

  – Parked outside King’s Bench Walk, sir.

  – Excellent. Help me lift him. Will you lend a hand, Barry?

  – I don’t think he would want to be moved, Mr Blytheway.

  – He needs medical attention. And my physician should already be on the way to my home.

  – He’d prefer to be here, sir. I don’t think you should be taking him against his will.

  – I’m sorry, Mr Funge … I mean Barry … we’re going to have to use force.

  – He doesn’t want to go, sir.

  – Look, Mr Funge … I mean Barry. I know he will complain. But I also know what I am doing. This is no place for a sick man. Nor is it a place for someone to be when the man he is alleged to have cuckolded – who works less than a hundred yards away – has just lost his daughter. Can you understand that?

  – How did you know my name?

  – I’ve always liked you, Barry. Do you think you’ll go back to being a cabbie?

  – How do you know that?!

  – You gave me a ride in your taxi about fifteen years ago. Don’t you remember talking to me about football and Mr Turnbull? Do you still support the Pensioners?

  – Yeah. I’m still a Chelsea fan.

  – If you take his feet then Caldwell can take his shoulders …

  They dressed him, and as they were buttoning up his jacket Adam stirred.

  – Julia? Is that you?

  Blytheway looked sternly at Barry.

  – I think we shall both forget he said that.

  – No, sweetheart. Only me. And some friends.

  Adam opened his eyes.

  – What happened?

  – We need to get you to a doctor. You’re going to have to stay with me for a few days.

  – No! I want to stay here!

  – Adam. I’m going to have to be firm. I don’t suppose anyone has any morphine?

  – We need to talk about my case.

  – Don’t worry about that. Just for now. You’re in no fit state.

  – But it starts tomorrow. I’m not ready.

  – Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s been put off.

  – Put off?

  – We’ll talk about that later.

  At Blytheway’s instruction Barry and Caldwell manhandled a protesting Adam down to Inner Temple Lane, Barry holding his feebly kicking legs and Blytheway supervising events from behind and carrying Delia the cat, in her cage, and a change of clothes. From there they heaved him, sagging, between them past the church and Lamb Building and towards King’s Bench Walk. Blytheway sneezed and held Delia’s cage at arm’s length.

  – As far as I’m concerned cats should have stayed in Egypt! Do you mind coming with us, Barry? I’ll give you the fare for the ride back.

  – All right, mate … sir.

  The “jalopy” was a large and rather luxurious black car.

  I’m afraid we don’t tend to use it much. It’s usually more convenient to take a taxi. I keep it fuelled and garaged in case of emergency. This counts as an emergency so we can give it a spin!

  They climbed in, Caldwell in the driver’s seat and Blytheway on his left with Adam and Barry in the rear. The car park would usually be full of cars for the Sunday service but it was virtually empty. There was a light drizzle so Caldwell started the windscreen wipers off as he headed for the Tudor Street exit. The car purred as it moved up to Fleet Street and then Chancery Lane. Within fifteen minutes they had arrived at Bedford Square. The brakes crunched comfortably as Caldwell drew up and parked behind a large Bentley before limping out to open the passenger doors. As he did so the driver’s door of the Bentley opened and paunchy grey-haired man, wearing a dark suit with a gold watch-chain across his belly, pulled himself out.

  – Boult! Lovely to see you! Thank you so much for coming.

  Blytheway sashayed over to him and shook his hand. Behind him Barry and Caldwell were lifting Adam out of the car and then supporting him on their shoulders.

  – May I introduce Dr Boult? A fine physician whom I have used for many years. He was introduced to me by a friend who would have nosebleeds at the most inopportune moments!

  – Why has my case been … put off?

  – Unhappy news, sweetheart. Jenny Pemberton was killed last night.

  – What?!

  – There’s nothing to be done I’m afraid. Alnwick, Julia’s barrister, rang me at some ungodly hour this morning to tell me about it.

  – This changes everything doesn’t it?

  – I would think so. Apparently, Pemberton went on a whisky-blinder and knocked Julia out cold.

  – Bastard!

  – Alnwick was gabbling and it was all rather garbled as a result. I think we must reserve judgment. Help him into the house. A room has been made up on the first floor and Dr Boult can examine him there.

  – Did she sign the statement?

  – Yes and no. Apparently she signed it before she left the house. But it wasn’t witnessed so we may have some evidential problems in relying upon it. But that’s for another day.

  Adam tried to stand free of them.

  – Thank you for the cigarettes.

  – I’m afraid you’ve managed to get them covered in blood. I’m sure Caldwell can make them usable.

  – Has the case been postponed or abandoned?

  – Postponed, sweetheart, I’m afraid. If Pemberton has resorted to violence it augurs very badly.

  They grabbed back hold of him and half-carried him, half-pulled him into the house and up the stairs to the same first-floor bedroom he had occupied a few weeks previously. Blytheway continued to carry Delia in her cage, his arm at a right-angle from his body and the look of a bad smell across his face. A large towel and some purple silk pyjamas were lying on the bed. Blytheway put the cat down and then retreated whilst Barry and Caldwell changed Adam into his bed-wear.

  After about five minutes Caldwell opened the bedroom door and Blytheway re-entered with Dr Boult. Barry came over to them.

  – The last doctor who looked at him said that it could be TB.

  – I know about that.

  Barry had no idea how Blytheway could possibly know.

  – Caldwell, would you mind getting some milk for the cat? Dr Boult. Thank you again for coming on this day of rest. Would you mind examining our patient?

  Barry watched as the doctor unbuttoned the purple top and pressed his stethoscope against the feeble chest.
Doctor Boult listened for a while and then forced Adam into a sitting position before taking the top off altogether and tapping various parts of his back. Then he laid him back down, produced a magnifying glass and used it to look deep into Adam’s eyes. He looked over at Barry.

  – You mentioned another doctor. Tell me about that.

  Barry told him of the events of 29th December – of the vomited blood and the discovery of white grains amongst the brick dust. Dr Boult looked at Blytheway and then at Adam.

  – Yes. It is probably tuberculosis. You are lucky to be alive, I think. But you are an infection risk. In my own opinion you should be in isolation. You need at least three weeks’ complete rest. Another attack like this would probably kill you.

  He handed over some morphine, signed a prescription, and left.

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  (Saturday 15th March 1941)

  Bluebells and bright yellow daffodils were beginning to push their way yearningly out from the deep green grass around the gravestones. A breeze made their heads sway. Julia’s face, behind her mourning veil, carried yellowish-blue marks that had not been entirely concealed by her foundation cream, one on the right side of her jaw and the other on her left temple. A gust of wind made her mantilla gust and pout, cooling her cheeks. Her eyes had filled with tears, but the wind was not to blame. Ahead of her, under a colourless sky, the funeral procession in black smudgy imprecision made its way to the fresh-cut grave, piles of deep soil on either side. She walked in slow-step, like a guardsman, the limping figure of Simon Jenkins on her left. Jenny’s coffin swayed and tilted in its own irregular and final dance. In her nostrils she caught the scent of freshly turned loam and the beginnings of the greenness of a new spring.