South of the Lights

by Angela Huth

  ‘No more nights at the Hilton, then?’ she said at last.

  ‘Not unless we want them. Are you pleased?’

  ‘I suppose I am. Here – let’s look in the cupboard.’

  She began to explore the room, opening drawers, counting hangers. ‘There’s everything here, isn’t there? She’s thought of everything. Quite luxurious, I must say.’

  Evans attempted to contain his pleasure.

  ‘Not too bad. Tide us over till we’ve got our own place.’

  Brenda joined him standing at the casement window. They looked down on to the wide lawn. Four men wandered about. One of them made solemn gestures, casting his arms in various directions. Augusta stood a little apart from the men, arms folded under her breasts.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘She said people were coming to see the house today. Thought it might do as an office.’

  ‘Never! Not a place like this. It’d be wicked.’

  ‘Terrible. I don’t suppose they’ll want it.’ Evans turned to her, remembering the time he had recently stood here next to Mrs Browne, her pale face all violet shadows. He had not had the slightest desire to touch her. It was only with a great strength of will he managed to keep his hands off Brenda. This close, he could smell strongly her peculiar scent of corn and lavender water, and the irresistible warmth of her skin seemed to roll off her, almost a tangible thing. They listened to the church clock strike six.

  ‘What about your Dad, Evans? Is he any better?’

  ‘He’s all right. Just a bit of a chill.’

  ‘Hadn’t you better go and see him?’

  ‘He won’t want to see me. Reckon he likes being left alone, when he’s ill.’

  ‘What are we going to do, then?’

  Evans thought for a while.

  ‘Perhaps we should drive out for a bit of food somewhere, then come back here for a while.’ He smiled. ‘Try the place out.’

  Brenda nodded, repentant eyes. Strange, thought Evans, how the terrible events of the night had made her to act just as she did when a chicken died: soft and malleable, looking to him for a lead, making him feel master. Long may it last, he said to himself. Gently he took the part of her arm he had hurt last night, in the fight that now seemed like a bad trick of the imagination.

  They left the room.

  When the office men had gone Augusta remained in the garden. They had said very little, but made copious notes in black note-books, each one stamped identically with a silver eagle. She had said a great deal: all her usual spiel about the enormous disadvantages of the place. But they had taken little notice of her, merely shrugged, and said things could be overcome. What most unnerved Augusta was the fact that they asked no questions. They seemed ominously uncurious, although they made their own small private investigations, digging their heels into the lawn and glancing at the turf as if they were experts in such matters; tapping with their hairy knuckles at the wood panelling in the hall. Augusta, trying to conceal her hostility as their hideous eyes travelled without appreciation over Hugh’s pictures, felt a strength of hatred that chilled her skin in the warm air, and she clutched at herself to stop trembling.

  In the rose garden, now, she fingered the first blooms, yellow petals that deepened imperceptibly into pink, and tried to wipe the memory of the last two hours from her mind. Unless she quickly engaged herself in some practical activity – she would pick and cook a bunch of asparagus, perhaps – there was danger on such an evening of falling into a state of inextricable melancholy. Turning towards the kitchen garden, clattering along the small paths between low box-hedges much in need of a trim, the wild thought then came to Augusta that she should telephone Hugh. Surely he would have some sympathy about the office men? After all, she was not alone in loving the house. Had things been different he would have wanted to keep it, too. Perhaps – she could make a sauce mousseline – he would drive down for dinner. Even stay.

  But by the time she reached the asparagus Augusta admitted to the foolishness of her idea. He would never come. He would never change his mind, now. She started to pick the thin green spears, enough for one.

  Later, awake in her bedroom, Augusta heard footsteps in the room above. Then the churning of the old bed. She was pleased to think someone was enjoying her house again: to guard its pleasures to herself, as she had been doing with reluctance for the last three months, was a terrible waste.

  Rosie was sitting in Henry’s chair in front of the fire when Evans got home soon after midnight. The disturbances of the past night had inflated the pouches of brownish skin beneath her eyes, but she was stoic, calm. She had determined, during the evening, to curb her curiosity and ask Evans no questions. He would no doubt tell her what was up all in good time.

  ‘Your Dad was asking for you,’ she said. ‘He kept saying you’d be back for sure at six.’

  ‘Oh, dear. I thought of coming but I reckoned he’d rather be left alone. How is he?’

  ‘He seemed very restless. I expect it’s the fever. Burning itself out, you know. I gave him a couple of pills. He’s asleep now.’

  ‘You’re not going to spend another night down here, are you, Mum?’

  ‘No. I’ll come on up now. With those pills I’ll not disturb him tonight.’ She gave a small smile. ‘I was just waiting up for you, see if you wanted anything.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ Evans bent down and lightly kissed his mother’s grey hair. ‘You spend far too much time thinking of other people.’ She smelt of oatmeal soap and knitting – grey wool, he recalled it had always seemed to be, as a child: she would put down her yards of grey knitting and clutch him to her oatmealy bosom, always pleased to see him, full of interest in the small events of his day.

  ‘Nonsense. There’s milk by your bed – you look as if you could do with a good night’s sleep yourself.’ The remonstrance, in Rosie’s version of a brusque voice, was twofold: it spanned both his night out and the compliment he had paid her. Praise confused Rosie. Twisting her hands, she remembered she was about to spend her first mittenless night for seventeen years. It was a relief to think that Henry, knocked out by the pills, would not know. She would appreciate, just at first, getting used to the strange new feeling on her own.

  A week later, better but thinner, his normal strength not wholly returned, Henry Evans went to the Star for his Tuesday drink. During the long boring days of his convalescence, body slumped in his chair, mind constantly beside the Leopard, the cauliflower plan had inexplicably turned sour on him. Cauliflowers, he had decided after all, were rarely associated with romance (though he did recall, one shore leave in Marseilles, having a very good French cauliflower cheese with a generous girl called Hélène). However magnificent a specimen, there was something a little absurd about a cauliflower: the originality of his plan, Henry saw in a moment of lucky revelation, might not be appreciated by one of the Leopard’s sophistication. His next inspiration was a canary in a cage – a green canary in a pretty cage made of filigree stuff, like one he had once seen in a junk shop. But the practicalities of carrying out this plan soon killed that idea. Even if he bought the canary, supposedly for the pleasure of the Evans household (and Rosie hated birds) he could think of no way of explaining his snatching it up one day and hurrying it off to the Star. Finally, the perfect solution came to him: strawberries. There were few women on earth who could not be won over by a punnet of hand-picked strawberries. For Henry, of course, would pick them himself. Only a mile from the village lay acres of strawberry fields. He would go there, as he had done so many summers, and collect the finest berries: hands rummaging expertly among the warm evening straw, parting the ferny green leaves, sucking at one or two to test their sweetness. The clear sky would be corded with smoke from the distant chimneys (Henry’s post-fever mind automatically included references to happy days at work, along with his new romance) and he would feel strong with the satisfaction that this back-aching task was all for the possible love of his Leopard. Yes: that was it. Settled. T
wo or three times a week, strawberry season, off he would go. Only disadvantage would be Rosie’s jangling delight at the harvest in the larder. But if he supplied enough strawberries it should be easy enough to steal a single punnet, come the time, without her ever knowing.

  Henry arrived at the pub calmly pessimistic. The Leopard would not be there, of course; but if she was, it would be a surprise beyond all imagining. Henry pushed his way through the door. At once he stopped short, clutching at the back of a nearby chair. There, sitting up at the bar, back to him, alone, was the Leopard: spotted coat, beautiful haze of curly golden hair.

  With incredible speed – Bill behind the bar scarcely had time to notice him – Henry stepped back outside, again. His heart thrashed so fast he felt close to fainting. He leant against the wall, dizzy and sweating.

  In his preoccupation with the strawberry plan, Henry had not fully prepared himself for the shock of surprise: he had girded himself only for disappointment. This amazing turn of events, combined with his physical weakness, stunned him into helplessness.

  In a timeless moment all the old ideas, scorched deeply into his brain during the last week, flashed in strobe lights before his eyes. Canaries? There were no canaries for miles . . . Strawberries? Oh God, they were not ripe. Cauliflowers? The possibility of returning to his original plan brought Henry’s first calm breath. But someone was speaking to him. It was the Boy. What was the Boy doing here?

  ‘Coming in for a pint, Dad? Look as if you could do with one.’

  ‘No, Boy, thanks. No, I – ’

  ‘You all right? You look pretty shagged.’

  ‘I’m all right, just getting back on my feet. Takes a few days. First time out and all that.’

  ‘Well, I’m just going to stand myself a quick one. See you later.’ Evans went into the pub.

  Henry continued to lean against the wall. His breathing was very fast and noisy. He looked wildly about. Precious moments were speeding past. If he didn’t make a decision within seconds, his chance would be lost. But he was in no condition – weak, hollow legs – to hurry home and get the car. His eyes fell upon an old-fashioned bicycle propped up against the pavement, the property of old Joe. Henry made a lightning calculation. If he rode very fast to Mackay, snatched up the vegetables with the promise of payment tomorrow, he could be back here in a quarter of an hour at the most. Old Joe always spent two hours, midday, at his drink. He would never know his bicycle had been borrowed.

  In a trembling rush Henry grabbed at the handle bars, huge hard rubber things – kicked the pedal away from the pavement. It was a heavy, ill-balanced machine, snatching at Henry’s arms as he tried to guide. But the madness of love gave him energy to fight. He swung his leg over the seat, unsurprised at the easy way it soared. He raised his head, and pushed down upon the pedals with crazy strength. Suddenly, he was off.

  Evans always felt a sense of well-being in the lounge of the Star. He liked the smell of hot sausage rolls and cool rubber flooring. He liked the thunk of darts on the cork board – there always seemed to be players – and the small open fire. The beer was good, too: without asking, Bill pulled his pint at lunchtime, gave him a single whisky in the evening. He felt the privilege of being a regular: he knew everybody, everybody knew him.

  Today, a rare thing, there was a stranger in the lounge – a blonde woman in a leopard skin coat, sitting up at the bar. Evans was instantly aware of the slight change of atmosphere her presence caused: voices were fractionally lower, silences between the sips of beer a little longer. It was as if the regulars, usually relaxed, were mutually alert to the possibility of something happening.

  Evans took an empty stool beside her at the bar. Bill passed him his mug of beer. They exchanged a few comments, cricket scores and the miners’ strike. Evans noticed the woman’s drink was a small glass of Dubonnet with a twist of lemon peel. She smoked, holding her cigarette in a long ebony holder between her third and fourth finger. Both the way she drank – frequent tiny sips, and the way she smoked, pecking at the holder so that it clacked against her teeth, indicated she was in a state of some unrest. At one moment she twittered her fingers on the wood of the bar, making a mouse sound with her silver nails. Then she pushed back her fur cuff to glance at a gold watch.

  ‘Do you suppose he’s not coming?’ she asked Bill.

  ‘Couldn’t tell you, madam. Couldn’t tell you what he’s up to.’

  It was the first time Evans had ever heard Bill call anyone madam. He winked. Bill winked back. The woman missed the signal: her spikey black lashes were fluttering down at her drink. Evans realised that both he and Bill were struck by a powerful smell coming from the woman: nervous sweat undisguised by the sickly scent of some hot-house flower. Tuberoses, Evans thought. Bill sniffed.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said the woman, apparently to herself. ‘Really.’

  Evans asked Bill to give him a sausage roll. The woman shifted her position, leant a little further over the bar.

  ‘Give me one of those, too, will you? And one more Dubonnet.’ She pushed her glass forward and turned to Evans. Her eyes were matching starfish, the lashes of each one divided into not more than four or five jet points. ‘Do you recommend them?’

  ‘They’re very good.’

  The woman smiled. One of her middle teeth was chipped at the corner, the colour of a bruise. The skin round her mouth, heavily powdered, puckered into a network of small lines. Friendly.

  ‘I’m famished,’ she said. Then they ate sausage rolls in silence.

  Evans had a further pint. The woman looked at her watch again and turned to him.

  ‘Well, I might as well give up. I’m not waiting any longer. Could you tell me the bus situation in this place? I’ve got to get back to the station to catch the 3.30.’

  Evans rubbed his chin. He was unacquainted with the local bus timetable, but the possibility of being helpful always spurred his adrenalin.

  ‘Don’t believe there’s anything till four o’clock,’ he said. The woman looked alarmed. ‘Bill, when’s the next bus?’

  ‘Four-fifteen.’ Bill was dusting the bottle of Dubonnet. It hadn’t been called upon since the blonde lady’s last visit.

  ‘Oh, Lord. That’s marvellous, that is,’ she said. ‘What the heck am I going to do?’

  Evans had been brought up by Rosie to believe that practical help was often of more value than the sympathy of words. He replied by instinct.

  ‘Well, I’ve got my car out the back. I could run you to the station.’

  ‘You couldn’t?’ The starfish eyes dazzled with relief.

  ‘No trouble. It’s not far. I don’t have to be anywhere till two-thirty.’

  ‘That would be absolutely marvellous!’ She was already slithering down from the stool, pointing her sandalled feet – thin straps round smashing ankles – towards the floor.

  ‘Think nothing of it. Always pleased to help a lady in distress.’

  The woman led the way to the door, head high, scarlet lips parted. Following her, Evans was aware that every eye in the place relished the scene. Christ, he’d be in for no end of a wigging tonight. His blush was uncontrollable.

  In the car the smell of sweat and tuberoses was almost overpowering. Evans opened the window. She wouldn’t think it rude, he thought, considering the warmth of the summer’s day. Starting the engine, he wondered if she was aware of her own smell.

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ he said, ‘why do you wear a great thick fur coat on a day like this?’

  The woman pushed at the collar so that it stood up round her neck.

  ‘I always feel the cold,’ she said, ‘all year round. Think I must have thin blood.’ She gave a slight shiver and smiled her nice smile. Evans, with particular care, turned into the road.

  In retrospect Henry could remember little of the journey to Mackay. The bicycle seemed to have a will of its own, shying at things in the hedgerows, jolting at the slightest touch of the brakes – on several occasions he was nearly thro
wn. But, half-blinded by the sweat in his eyes, scared by the loud wheezing noise in his throat, Henry kept up his manic speed. Although the road seemed interminable, he must have reached Mackay’s house within seven or eight minutes.

  Stopping with a jerk at the gate – almost falling once again – he flung the bicycle on to the verge and ran up the front path. The ring of his feet on the cement enhanced his own sense of urgency. He rang the bell, waited a few seconds, rang again. He heard its silly chimes echo within. No reply. He banged the door. Still nothing. God in heaven . .

  Henry then noticed the blinds in both front windows were drawn. That meant Mackay must be out at the back: he was the sort of man who would draw the blinds if he was not actually in the room. Henry ran again, slamming his way through a series of small gates, a bursting feeling in his chest. But the market garden, its cloches and greenhouses and neat strips of vegetables, was plainly deserted. Henry called Mackay’s name out loud several times, but there was a deadness about the place, a feeling of absolute desertion, and he knew there would be no answer. Tears mixed with the sweat round his eyes. He cursed Mackay out loud, spewing forth a jumble of obscenities unused since his days at sea.

  Once again, he had to think quickly. There was no alternative but to hurry back to the Star, wipe the damp from his face, and join the Boy for a pint after all. From then on he would be in the hands of Fate. But surely, so near to the Leopard, it would not be untoward to offer her a drink?

  He began the return journey, clumsy in his hurry. His previous energy was ebbing away. He tried to pedal fast, but his legs were useless. The ride was a nightmare of slowness.

  Then, as the Star at last came into sight, Henry sighted a further setback to his plans: the Boy’s white Mini was nosing out of the car park. Damn him! He must be stopped. He must return to the lounge with Henry to ease any possible awkwardness. Recklessly he let go of one handle and waved. The whole bicycle lurched as the front wheel swung from side to side, and Henry fought to regain his balance. The car was almost level with him now: in a split second he saw the Boy’s face, smiling, his hand raised in a wave. He saw also, a one-dimensional vision behind the glare of sun on the windscreen, the blonde hair and smiling face of the Leopard, a small ridge of spotted fur round her neck. Then they were gone.