South of the Lights

by Angela Huth

  ‘Ah,’ said Henry, inner protest too strong for further words, and sat himself opposite his wife.

  Rosie now had a view of him that sometimes she had dreamed of: a candle flame within inches of his nose, making his white hair sparkle, and deepening the lines on his dear handsome face. How she loved him, still. She could feel the love within her, bubbles racing through her veins so that suddenly her breath came quite fast and she found herself panting. Surely, tonight, reinvigorated by his long sleep in the cinema, Henry’s fancy might turn to things that had been dormant between them for so long. Even now he was raising his hand towards her . . . But it stopped at the candle. He snuffed out the flame between thumb and finger. A brown thread of smoke twisted up into the air between them, and she could hardly see his face.

  ‘Oh, Henry!’

  ‘Bloody thing. What are we doing here, anyway?’

  ‘I thought it would be nice to have a meal out, to round off the evening.’

  ‘Better off at home.’

  ‘Well, we can’t judge till we see what they have to offer.’ Rosie was determined to be cheerful. Henry swung round in his chair and beckoned the waiter.

  ‘La menu,’ he shouted, and Rosie beamed with pride.

  ‘I didn’t know you could speak French,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we could go for a holiday abroad one year.’ The Eiffel Tower and fancy cakes spun before her eyes. With Henry’s command of the language they could order anything they needed and they would be quite safe so long as they took their own lavatory paper and insisted their water was boiled . . . In truth, Rosie did know Henry had picked up a few words in Marseilles, but tonight was a good time to flatter him, and a less talented man might have forgotten things he learned in the war.

  When the menu came Henry said, ‘bon, bon,’ several times, and ‘tray bien’. Then he fell silent. He handed the grubby bit of paper to Rosie.

  ‘Can’t make this out,’ he said. ‘Think it must be bloody Italian.’

  He was right, of course. In the smudged writing Rosie recognised the word ‘spaghetti’ several times. Neither of them had any great partiality for spaghetti, but Rosie was determined this should not spoil the final lap of the evening. Now was the time for her to come to Henry’s rescue, to ease him from the awkward task of decision making. She took a wild shot in the dark, praying to God the Italians were acquainted with ordinary decent food.

  ‘We’ll have two lamb chops with a portion of peas and some plain spaghetti with tomato sauce, if you please,’ she said to the waiter, adding the spaghetti purely out of politeness. For a fraction of a second his pencil hovered doubtfully above his pad. Rosie’s heart thumped. She smiled authoritatively, won the waiter’s respect.

  ‘And drinks?’ he asked.

  One last hurdle. With some relief Rosie saw the words Unlicensed to sell alcohol at the bottom of the menu. She scanned the list of soft beverages.

  ‘Two orangeades,’ she said.

  ‘Bloody hell. I want a proper drink.’ Henry was scowling.

  ‘I’m sorry, we have no licence. You could go down the road to the pub and buy a bottle of wine,’ the waiter said.

  ‘Catch me buying wine.’ Henry turned in his chair again. ‘What’s that you’re drinking, stuff in the glass on your table?’

  The waiter paused.

  ‘Scotch whisky,’ he said at last. ‘I own this place, you see. It’s my private bottle.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, for a consideration . . .?’ Henry smiled up at the proprietor, causing a snip of jealousy in Rosie’s heart: she had not seen Henry so soft since their courting days when he had wanted, that first time in the bluebell woods, to undo the buttons of her blouse.

  The waiter shrugged, scratched at his greasy hair.

  ‘See what I can do, if you like,’ he said, and went away.

  ‘Very obliging fellow,’ said Henry. ‘They’re all right, these foreigners, if you know how to deal with them.’

  But Rosie felt no gratitude to the waiter. Rather, she was filled with dread. It would require all her tact to prevent the demon whisky coming between them. The night was now in danger.

  *

  In the dim light Henry was not able to see too clearly the horrible mess of Rosie’s chin. It shone with a mixture of grease and tomato sauce, which she kept dabbing with her paper serviette. To make matters worse she seemed to think the whole procedure of eating the filthy stuff was funny. Laughing as she spooned the spaghetti into her mouth, half of it would spew out again and hang like worms over her bottom lip. These she would attempt to gather up with her fat grey tongue, thereby splattering her blouse with tomato sauce, and asking for the aid of Henry’s handkerchief, which he refused. From time to time she lifted her glass of orangeade to her lips, bunching up her fingers still in their hideous lace gloves, and closed her eyes in some kind of private ecstasy. She was a disgusting sight and Henry hated her with his whole being.

  With every drink – the proprietor had most kindly sold him all that remained in the whisky bottle – Henry’s feelings of loathing increased. They became strangely tangible, insects crawling on the table between them. He wondered why Rosie could not see them. How could she live with someone so many years and not recognise hate that sprouted from him like a skin disease? How could she be so impervious to his suffering, to the daily torment of his mind?

  ‘How about a sweet?’ she was saying, and ignoring any opinion he might have had on the matter, given a chance, asked the waiter for a strawberry ice with chocolate sauce.

  Henry decided to kill her.

  It occurred to him that he was not by nature a violent man, but if murder was the only way to freedom, then murder it must be. The best way would be to take her up to the woods, mid-week, when no one was about. One bonk on the head and she’d be down on the ground like a jelly. Then it would be easy to strangle her, or suffocate her, whichever took his fancy that particular day. He’d dig a grave and bury her right there, and have all the pleasure of listening to the thrushes singing in celebration as he trod down the earth. He could smoke his pipe in peace, and go home to make his own tea: no more bloody welcomes. They’d come for him in the end of course, and lock him away. But nothing on earth would bring Rosie back to life, and that triumph would remain with him until his own death.

  He swilled the last of the whisky round his mouth, trying to clear the taste of fried onions and tinned peas. His decision made, he felt curiously at peace. Once Rosie was dead, he could pursue the Leopard more openly. Put advertisements in papers. Make enquiries at the Star. In the end, if only for a short time before he went to prison, they would come together: spend a week in Blackpool, perhaps, seeing the shows and walking the pier arm in arm. They’d stay in a nice boarding house, sea views from the window of their room: huge double bed. And late every night, a few drinks inside them, they would make use of that bed: bloody hell they would. Henry would do things to the Leopard she would never have imagined. Things he’d done to that girl in Marseilles, which made her cry sometimes, but beg him for more.

  He paid the bill, scattering pound notes clumsily. Outside, the street lights seemed to be swaying gently, giant fireflies. And the dark buildings were tumbling towards him, crashing down like card houses.

  ‘Steady,’ Rosie was saying. He felt her appalling hand on his arm. Glancing down, he saw she was afraid. Stupid bloody woman. All her fault for making him come out on this daft expedition in the first place.

  Somehow he managed to start the car. They lurched out of the gates of the car park. Rosie screamed, hurting his ears. Henry slammed on the brakes. They missed a passing lorry by a few inches. Swearing, Henry turned to Rosie, shouting it was all her fault. But Rosie merely smiled up at him, eyes full of fear, mouth askew in a courageous smile.

  ‘That was the best evening I’ve had in years, love,’ was all she said, and patted him on the arm.

  Henry could have coped with anything but forgiveness. He felt the swift nausea of guilt, the stab of contrition. Only moments before he had
been planning to kill her, now here she was declaring her pathetic pleasure in the evening. Well, he would make it up to her in his private way: he supposed she deserved that. He would drive as carefully as he was able, and buy her a drink in the Star on the way home. Thus killing two stones . . .

  The view before him had disintegrated into separate scraps, flakes of solid snow. But he tried. He gripped the steering wheel with rigid hands, barely touched the accelerator. Rosie was humming. The Last Rose of Summer, Henry thought it was.

  He managed to negotiate the journey without mishap, but was in no condition to survive the weakness of anticipation that struck him as he entered the saloon bar. He felt his legs unsteady beneath him, and was grateful for Rosie’s arm. Bill, alert to his condition, at once handed him a double whisky, and a shandy for Rosie. Henry swallowed it in two gulps, and felt an unnerving mixture of dizziness and strength.

  He managed to keep his eyes quite steadily on the door. It swung open and shut many times, but the Leopard did not come. On the few occasions that he glanced at her, Henry noticed Rosie looked unhappy. Her face had the same kind of puffed up indignation as when, once long ago, they had gone down to the beach and misjudged the tide. She had scowled at the approaching water, powerless as King Canute to insist on its retreat. The whisky was making his memory wonderfully clear, Henry realised, and smiled to himself, knowing any indication of enjoyment in a pub would annoy.

  They stayed till closing time. The tricky business of negotiating their way to the door was not helped by Henry having to bend himself almost double to ease the burn of disappointment in his chest. Rosie took his arm again, and outside the warm night air struck him savagely, renewing his weakness.

  ‘Shall we walk, love?’

  Rosie’s voice echoed through a tunnel. Henry shook his head. He could never make it, walking.

  Somehow he managed to get into the car. And there, the steering wheel between his hands, a wonderful sense of peace, or rescue, came upon him. This was no Morris Minor, but a ship of war, a destroyer. The kind of vehicle he was used to. If they went with the waves, kept to the swell, they would make it to port without mishap. Through the windscreen the full moon spun like a coin: heads, and he would win the Leopard. Tails, and they would drown. He started the engine.

  But forces of gravity pulled against his ship in a way that was quite surprising. And this particular sea was cluttered with strange hazards he was not prepared for: mighty trees and solid shapes, like houses. He wrenched the steering wheel from left to right, so hard he could feel the pull of muscles in his shoulders. But instead of the sough of well navigated waves, horrible moans came from his left, Rosie’s voice contorted with silly fear. There was a fleeting sensation of having come to rest, of poising on the edge of a wave before it sent them spinning. Henry wondered if they were home. He heard Rosie whimper. Then silence. Something warm gushed out of his ear, tickled his neck. He opened his mouth to apologise to the Leopard, but no words came. A bloody great wave crashed over him, submerging him in its blackness.

  When Henry came round he was instantly aware of the familiar bustle of his wife beside him. She was struggling to open the door. The whole weight of her seemed to have covered his knees, and was uncomfortable. They were in a strange position. Slipped sideways, he thought. Must have been a dreadful storm.

  Rosie turned to him. In the tremulous moonlight Henry could see blood on her cheek and an absurd smile of welcome.

  ‘You all right, love?’ she asked. ‘I think you went out for a moment. We’re in a ditch.’

  Closing his eyes, no will to answer, Henry felt this to be an unnecessary statement of fact. There was nothing wrong with a ditch. The liquid on his neck was warm, and he was quite comfortable if he didn’t move his shoulder. The noise of Rosie banging at the door to open it – stupid woman, she’d never had the knack – was rhythmic and comforting.

  ‘Good thing we’re insured,’ she was saying, ‘there’s bound to be a bit of damage. Blood everywhere.’

  Some time later Henry answered, ‘Don’t worry, it’s all tomato ketchup.’ But by then he was talking to himself. Rosie had managed to scramble out of the car, and was stumbling towards the nearest house for help.

  It came very quickly, or it may have been a long time. Henry neither knew nor cared. All he wished was that people would stop interrupting his thoughts. He heard the whispers of rescuers, and saw faces cracked like mosaics by the moonlight. He felt himself being carried, he felt a searing pain in his shoulder. Then he recognised the steadiness of his own bed beneath him. Safely at anchor at last, he thought. Time now to dream, to tell the Leopard how he had braved the storm, brought them all back to land. She would be quite proud of him, he had no doubt of that.

  ‘My Leopard,’ he muttered out loud. And in the last seconds before sleep he saw not the Leopard’s eyes, but Rosie’s – wide, troubled. Uncomprehending, as always, the silly cow.

  Brenda had had a rough night. It had begun well enough by she and Evans taking their supper on to the lawn of Wroughton House. Mrs Browne had said she would join them, but then she declared she had a headache and was going to bed early. She had given them a bottle of white wine, very cold and tasting of grapes. They drank it in paper cups. Evans said Mrs Browne looked white as a sheet, didn’t she? He wondered if anything was the matter. His note of concern annoyed Brenda: but she kept her silence, not wanting an argument on an evening like this.

  She lay on her back on the grass, smoking Woodbines. She liked the smell of the dry lawn, the boughs of the trees above them moving lazily in the sky, as if some invisible puppet man had little energy left to pull their strings. She liked pushing her hard-boiled egg into a mound of pepper, and sneezing at its sharpness; she liked the warmth in her limbs caused by the wine.

  Evans lay close to her. The church clock struck nine, the sky deepened into shadow colours. Brenda found her thoughts wandering in their usual direction.

  ‘Shall we?’ she asked. Evans’s fingers massaged through her hair, soothing, arousing.

  ‘Not here,’ he said. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘If Mrs Browne looked out of the window, she’d see us.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like that.’

  Brenda drew deeply on her cigarette. She quite liked the idea of Mrs Browne seeing them at it, herself.

  ‘Prude,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t exactly surprise her.’

  ‘Nor it would. But it would be unnecessary.’

  Brenda could see he was trying to be patient, not to cross her. He suggested they went in. It was getting cool.

  But in the bedroom the mood of excitement between them, frustrated by Evans’s refusal to make love outside, vanished. Brenda was left full of resentment: she hated her romantic ideas to be quashed. Instead of undressing she sat in the only armchair and began to chide Evans for the inadequacies of their own house. The subject, she knew, was a red rag to a bull.

  ‘It’s going to have poky rooms, no room to swing a cat. No feeling of country, either, looking outside just to see a lot of other identical houses. No privacy. Prying neighbours, complaining about our hens. And there’s no space on the plan for a washing machine. Where will we put the washing machine? If you think I’m going to spend my life doing all your bloody shirts by hand . . .’ She went on and on, her voice harsh. Evans, at the window, back to her, said nothing.

  Suddenly – she did not notice any precise moment when it happened – the room was dark. She paused. Evans turned to her.

  ‘If you don’t like it,’ he said quietly, ‘if it’s going to be as bloody awful as you make out, you can go.’

  Brenda registered the menace in his voice. She stood up. Perhaps she had gone a bit far, all that wine.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she said, ‘you don’t want to take me too seriously.’ She touched his arm, tried to drag him towards the bed. But he would not move.

  ‘I do, you know,’ he said.

  ‘Come on!’ S
he was being endearing now. She gave him one of her desirous looks: that always won him over.

  ‘No!’ he shouted, and shook off her arm. Brenda recognised his anger, and was annoyed. She could bait him too easily.

  ‘Shut up! You’ll wake Mrs Browne.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  In the dim light from the window Brenda could see him smile, and the smile made her stiffen with misgivings.

  ‘Take me, Evans,’ she said, unbuttoning her shirt.

  ‘I don’t want you, not tonight.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘I tell you, you bitch, I don’t.’

  Brenda buttoned up her shirt again. He was stubborn as they come, sometimes.

  ‘I do believe it’s Mrs Browne you fancy,’ she said, mocking. ‘You seem all concern for her, these days. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.’

  ‘That’s an idea,’ said Evans, ‘the beautiful Mrs Browne.’ His calm was maddening.

  ‘She’s got no tits,’ said Brenda. ‘She’s not your type.’

  ‘Look, would you mind going now? I’d like a peaceful night’s sleep.’ He turned his back again, leaning his elbows on the high window ledge.

  ‘And how am I supposed to get home, may I ask?’

  ‘Walk.’

  ‘While you screw Mrs Browne?’

  ‘While I screw Mrs Browne, if that’s what you like to think.’

  ‘Christ, I despise you, Evans Evans. Fucking sod.’

  She stumbled to the bedside table, picked up a vase of roses and threw it at him. Inaccurate with rage, her aim was wild. It hit a wall, broke on the bare boards round the edge of the carpet. In a shaft of moonlight Brenda could see three yellow blooms in a pool of water. Still Evans did not move.

  ‘Get out before you smash the whole place up,’ he said, and Brenda went to the door. She slammed it behind her.

  Outside, shaking, she was grateful for the coolness of the night air. By the light of the full moon it was easy enough to see her way. She began to walk down the lane. Just outside the village she saw the shape of a car lying on its side in a ditch. As she came close to it she saw it was a Morris Minor, pale green, the same as Henry Evans’s. She wondered if it could be his: he hardly ever went out in it, she knew, but perhaps he had taken it somewhere this evening and had had an accident. It was said in the village Henry was drinking a lot these days, though Evans had never mentioned it. At the sight of the car Brenda felt all her anger spent. Weariness, suddenly. What had it all been about? Should she turn back, climb into the double bed, ask to be forgiven? Should she tell Evans his parents’ car was in a ditch?