South of the Lights

by Angela Huth

  Today the pain had been stronger than she could remember: typing at her desk, she bent forward a little, hoping to release it, but hoping also that her boss would not notice there was anything wrong. She hated sympathy and she hated days off. With the help of aspirin and cups of tea she would make an effort to disguise the discomfort: the idea of a day in bed filled her with apprehension.

  But by the time she got home Lark was bent almost double in her attempts to quell the pain. She filled a hot-water bottle and, falling back on to the bed, rested it against her aching ribs. She had discovered that on some occasions if she fixed her mind on pleasurable things, happy memories and small hopes, the pain subsided. But this evening there were few good things she could recall: in fact, in the last week she had had more than her share of problems for one who tried to maintain a quiet grey life.

  For a start there had been no lucky break in her singing career: this puzzled her because she was, after all, offering her services for nothing. She had imagined that people would grab at anything for nothing. She had imagined that people would grab at anything free. This was not so in the case of her prospective performance. She had written out a dozen small cards claiming she would be willing to entertain any kind of gathering with a few songs – ‘a vast repertoire’ – she had called it, in return only for but expenses. These cards were prominently stuck in the windows of local shops. To add to the allure she had called herself, simply, Lark: by eliminating the plebeian Jackson she felt she increased her chances. But only one person had shown any kind of interest, and that turned out to be the wrong kind. A gentleman had telephoned explaining he’d like a private cabaret – if she liked to throw in a few songs, well, he wasn’t fussy. The lack of response depressed Lark, but she knew the way to success was a long, hard, soul-destroying one, and there was nothing for it but to be patient.

  Then there was the problem of Evans. She had broken her word to him – not that he was aware of this, or ever would be. But the private knowledge troubled Lark. She had told him she wouldn’t remember their love-making – if you could call it that. And she had remembered it, too clearly. Far from being able to forget it, the memory clung to her all hours of the day. Not an unpleasant memory either – in truth, confusingly, an exciting one. She had never before been taken by a man so large and handsome as Evans. She had assumed such men were reserved for the likes of Brenda, but had always had a secret fancy for Evans, knowing him to be right out of her reach, and knowing he felt not the slightest desire for her. His seduction – and Lark was quite aware that in his anger about Brenda he had used her simply as accommodation – was the surprise of her life. She hoped she had acted with appropriate cool: cool was not what she had felt.

  They had not met since. Indeed, since the availability of the room in Wroughton House, Brenda had not been here much either. Lark missed her. She missed Evans: his heavy feet on the stairs, his friendly teasing, the evenings he came to fetch Brenda. They used to take her with them, sometimes, to Sunday lunch at the Evanses’ cottage, or the occasional cinema. There had been no such outings for a long time. Not that they would be so enjoyable now, were they ever to happen again: Lark would be closely observing Evans’s attentions to Brenda while longing for such attentions herself. Oh, Lordy, what a muddle. So much easier not to fancy anyone, ever, and avoid such confusions. She’d been pretty good at that to date. Perhaps it was now her turn for an era of amorous discomfort.

  Lark shifted her position. The pain seemed no less bad in spite of the heat of the bottle. She wished very much Brenda was here, but supposed it was much nicer for her to be in Wroughton House. Still, when she did return, no matter how late, Lark would call her in. Brenda would be kind and worried – she was always at her best when worried. She would probably, as she had on other such occasions, suggest sending Evans along to cheer Lark up. ‘He’ll come and tell you a bit of post office news, get you laughing no end,’ Brenda would be bound to say. ‘You can trust Evans to take your mind off the pain.’ In which case, Lark decided, she’d do well to stay right here where she was, in bed, tomorrow. Much though she disliked a day off from work, she would sacrifice anything if there was a chance of seeing Evans again, alone, for a few moments. The strength of these new feelings puzzled her a little, but the pain continued to grind too hard into her bones to concentrate upon them. Instead, she put her mind to anticipation. Evans would most likely come at lunchtime. The pain wouldn’t be bad enough to stop anything – that is, if he wanted . . . With an effort she raised herself on one elbow and searched among the bedside cacti for a bottle of geranium nail polish. Can’t let him catch me looking a real wreck, she thought. Nails first, this evening, then a nice glass of neat gin.

  Brenda let Wilberforce kiss her once. As his sour tongue moved over her teeth she remained placid, hating his mouth. When his hands began to scrabble at her breasts she removed them firmly.

  ‘Fucking teaser,’ he said, ‘you deserve a spanking. If you wasn’t so good with the birds you’d be out on your arse.’

  Brenda decided the best thing was to humour him.

  ‘Oh, come on, now, Mr Wilberforce. Don’t be like that. I give an inch and you want a yard. That’s not right, with my boss, is it? You’re lucky to have got anything at all.’ She smiled at him, pushing out her bottom lip. ‘And don’t forget, I’m engaged. Other people’s property. Evans would break my neck if he knew about this – and yours. First.’ She smiled again, apologetically.

  The threat of Evans quickly douched Wilberforce’s present desire. He backed away from Brenda, resigned.

  ‘Creates something terrible in a man’s mind, having a girl like you around and not being able to touch her,’ he said, quite amiably. ‘You’d better be off for now. But bear in mind I’ll not give up trying.’

  ‘You’ll never get me.’ Brenda went to the door.

  ‘Want a bet on it? Bit of persistence and they all give in in the end.’

  ‘Not me, Mr Wilberforce. I’ll be on my way.’

  Brenda went to the chicken shed and the incident quickly left her mind. She had more important things to think about than sods like Wilberforce this afternoon: she had to think about what to do next. Maybe it was the time to make a major decision about her life. That she should go, for instance. Leave this whole crummy joint and go to London, and take a job as a model – so many people had told her she would be a smashing model, hadn’t they? Live it up a bit. And yet, that idea held no great appeal. If luck wasn’t with you, you could come an awful cropper in London, get into drugs and crime and even prison. She’d seen enough of Mum struggling to know that she wanted no kind of struggle herself – ever. Here, at least, was security. Evans might not be the most exciting man in the world, but he was solid and kind. Boring though he was about their future, it was the kind of future Brenda aspired to, (in some moods) so long as she was someone in the community. That was important to her. And which of course she was, and would be, as a couple, with Evans. Every girl in the village fancied him and he never gave them so much as a glance. Every man fancied her and she, well. . . She never quite said yes, put it like that. Certainly, as a couple in the village there would be nothing to touch them. They’d have chickens and children and a quiet life, envied for their looks, perhaps: no great ambitions and no great worries. She wouldn’t be a bad wife, either, if she tried: cooking and dusting, and that. And should she suffer from a little human weakness over the years, not always able to manage to resist, she’d never in a million years spoil Evans’s trust by telling him. That would be barmy. Sure way to upset the applecart.

  Brenda walked up and down between the chickens. She let their clucking trickle over her, a strange sound, half restless, half content, rather like water jerking at irregular speeds over a pile of loose stones. (She must remember to put that in her book of Thoughts when she got home: a book she kept instead of a diary. It was full of the kind of silly thoughts that come to a person’s mind during a day alone, far too stupid to tell anyone. For months now she had been tr
ying to work out exactly what chicken clucking was like – how you could explain it, accurately, to anyone who had never heard it so they would get the sound in their ears. She had had several goes, none of which was any good. This water over loose stones idea was the best yet. Just the sort of thing that would have made Robert, had she told him, laugh at her and pinch her and tell her to shut up while he kissed her.) Robert! She hadn’t thought of him for some months. She lit a Woodbine. His face was dim. How had it been, exactly? She had heard it said that faces you know really well never go from you. But they do. In the end they fade. Well, that was good to know, to have proved, anyway. Bugger Robert like bugger Evans. Everything Mum had said about men was true: even the faithful type like Evans. In the end they let you down.

  Brenda stopped by Daisy, newly queen. She was a sulky bird, Brenda had concluded of late. Her honourable appointment had made no difference to her general apathy. She barely clucked, in the shadow of Brenda’s attention: just lowered her gritty yellow eyelids and looked fed-up. Floribunda, next to her, was much livelier. Floribunda was sprucing herself up as if for a date, murmuring in useless anticipation. Floribunda would have sympathy, were she able to understand.

  ‘Bloody mess,’ Brenda said to her, out loud. ‘This is one hell of a bloody mess, Florrie, isn’t it? All because I go down to the Air Base for a bit of innocent fun, didn’t I? Didn’t do nothing wrong, did I? Well, not so’s you’d notice. Not so anyone’d notice. Just a bit of a snog, nothing much, was it?’ She blew a bulb of smoke through her nostrils. ‘Sorry my love. Get in your eyes, did it? Well, I mean: I mean it’s not my fault if a man gets a hard-on dancing, is it? Nothing I can do about it, don’t you think, Florrie? And what’s the price I have to pay? My faithful old fiancé whips round and gets himself a blonde not five hundred yards from here. Cheekiest thing I ever heard of.’ She paused. The sympathetic chicken seemed to have lost interest, continuing to pluck at her own frayed breast. ‘What am I to do, Florrie? I don’t want him going off, really. Not in the end, I don’t, all things being equal.’

  Brenda let herself cry for a while. There seemed no point in making the effort to stop. The tears released her sadness, but stimulated her anger. She put out the cigarette and blew her nose. One thing for certain – she wasn’t going to have Evans thinking she cared. Oh, no, the last thing she’d ever do was allow him the luxury of thinking she cared. He could go to hell, as far as she was concerned: if he wanted to play it that way, then so would she. There was another do down at the Air Base this evening. Well, she’d tell him. She’d tell him she was going. She’d have her good time while he was out with his fancy lady. That was only fair – if that was how it was going to be, they might as well start as soon as possible.

  And so, determined upon war, Brenda left the chicken shed and crossed the yard to the small building which she liked to call her office. In fact it had been built as a place in which to sort, grade and stack the eggs before they were collected to be sold. Brenda had persuaded Wilberforce to let her install an old table and chair under the window. This, her ‘desk’, she kept tidily furnished with a few biros, the book in which she recorded the daily number of eggs, and an old jam jar filled with whatever flowering weeds were in season in the farmyard.

  Brenda guarded her office jealously. If she was in it when Evans came for her she would join him outside, never invite him in. Wilberforce had never set foot in the place: Brenda would take the book to him once a fortnight in the kitchen, where he made a perfunctory show of interest. When the van came to collect the eggs she handed the boxes to the driver from within. Mean sanctuary though it was, Brenda liked to feel it was a room uncontaminated by any other humans. While in the chicken shed itself she felt a sense of companionship, alone in the office among the eggs-scapes she revelled in a protective shell that she would not wish to be broken.

  In winter the office was unbearably cold but, in her mittens and scarves, Brenda declined to ask Wilberforce for the luxury of an electric fire. In summer, as now, it was stuffy, airless. It smelt of grey cardboard egg boxes, and the groggy light meshed by cobwebs in the window gave no indication of the sunniest day outside. But Brenda liked the gloom. Having hurried through the brightness of the yard, she shut the door behind her, panting hard as if she had run a long way. When her eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light she raised her chin to the small piece of mirror fixed to the one free space on the wall – her only concession, in this place, to vanity. Her eyes and nose glistened with that scaly pinkness that comes after tears, her lips were dry. She licked them, and tossed her head. She’d get Lark to wash her hair tonight, before going down to the Air Base, and she’d try a little experiment with make-up. Give herself bright cheeks and emerald eyelids, perhaps – give them all something to think about. She’d wear her new white cotton shirt and leave most of the buttons undone, and swill the last of her bluebell essence everywhere, not just behind her ears . . . Brenda narrowed her eyes at herself. In a few hours’ time she would look and feel smashing.

  For the moment, there was nothing useful she could think of doing in the office. The eggs were all collected, washed, graded and stacked in their boxes for today. They filled the shelves, waiting for collection next morning.

  Brenda sat down at the desk. The splintery edge of the chair, as usual, caught the back of her knees. Now would be the chance to sandpaper the wood, but she felt disinclined to do so. Instead, she opened the egg book and turned to a clean page at the back. She took up a wettish biro, chewed it for a moment, then began to write.

  Dear Evans – I want you to know i’m going down to the Air Base this evening to another dance because its all over between us and there isnt any reason why I shouldnt do what I like now. Theres no use you thinking you can get away with it so easy going out with blondes because you cant. I saw you with her so theres no use denying it is there? Sorry in a way because it would have been nice being married to you tho I expect I would have made a bad wife and you with your fancy for blondes would have been a bad husband so we can spare ourselves a lot of rows this way. Sorry about this messy pen, I will return the ring if you like. Bren.

  She read it through. It lacked the note of firmness she had intended – but still, it would have to do. She had never been much of a one for letters. Tearing the page from the book Brenda looked around for a drawing-pin. She knew there was no such thing, here, but she meant to stick the note to the door and leave just before five-thirty, sure to miss Evans. The lack of a drawing-pin frustrated her unreasonably: what should she do? Helpless, suddenly, she felt near to tears again.

  Increasingly, Evans found himself much affected by the boredom of his post office job. In the beginning, taking over from the previous postmaster, who had let the business decline into a dreadful muddle over the years, he had found it a challenge. With great energy (and inspired by some vague idea of being required for an interview on Panorama in ten years’ time) he got the place on its feet again – sorted out the files, threw a mass of obsolete stuff away and, best idea of all, installed the deep-freeze full of ice-cream and lollipops. He also took pains with the choosing of the Christmas and birthday cards, and replaced the old-teeth colour of the walls with a wash of pale blue. He knew all his customers by name and made a point of being consistently cheerful, willing and friendly. As a result of his efforts, trade picked up – a little. Except in the few weeks before Christmas the place could never be called lively, and since the catastrophic rise in postal rates Evans had noticed a distinct decline in the sending of letters and parcels. Consequently the hours at work felt long and dull.

  The afternoon Evans had given the Leopard a lift to the station had been particularly oppressive. Maybe this was in contrast to the small flutter of excitement he had felt in driving a strange woman, however undesirable to him, in his car. He couldn’t wait to tell Brenda about the whole incident: they’d have a good laugh . . . As a matter of fact it would be no bad thing for her to realise that strange women in beautiful coats weren’t averse to
his offering them a lift. . . Sometimes, he thought, Brenda made out she had Evans exactly where she wanted him. This might give her a beneficial jolt. Teach her to go gallivanting off to the Air Base . . . Annoyed with himself, Evans put that thought from his mind. He had forgiven her long ago, and disliked the nagging feeling of unquiet that rose within him every time he recalled the incident.

  At five past five, having changed the blotting paper in the two blotters, and dampened the rubber sponges, Evans decided that, at the risk of being sacked, he would leave. He could no longer stand the buzzing flies and the warm stuffy smell of ink and linoleum. Soft evening air was what he longed for: a walk with Brenda round Mrs Browne’s garden (she had given him permission to go where he liked, but so far he had not taken up her offer). They might go to the rose garden. Brenda, like Rosie, was a sucker for flowers. Then they would take a couple of cans of beer and a packet of crisps up to their room, open the window, lie on the bed, and see how things went from there. Evans, locking up, was pretty sure he knew how they’d go: since the famous night she’d been almost insatiable.

  He swung his jacket over his shoulders and walked swiftly to Wilberforce’s farm. Down through the yard, warm familiar manure smell all about him, Evans looked towards the shed for Brenda. No sign of her. Strange. Evenings like this, she usually stood about in the sun, smoking away at her bloody Woodbines in defiance of Wilberforce’s threats. Evans poked his head round the chicken shed door: filthy stench, cluck cluck bloody cluck, but no Brenda. He couldn’t think how she could stand the hens, day after day, let alone feel affection for them. He crossed the yard to her office, cautiously knocked on the door. No answer. He pushed the door ajar, looked in.