South of the Lights

by Angela Huth

  ‘I’ve brought a few eggs,’ she said. ‘Large brown.’

  Augusta turned towards her, her face conveying complete amazement. In spite of its suntanned skin, Brenda observed it was horribly pale. Unhealthy. Remindful of Lark.

  ‘How kind, Brenda . . . I’m quite out of eggs, too, and somehow I didn’t manage to go shopping today.’ She smiled.

  Now she was here Brenda wondered how best to get round to the subject that had brought her. The words she had been rehearsing all day to herself in the chicken house seemed to have fled her mind. There was a long silence while Mrs Browne opened the carton and looked at the eggs.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘I shall boil two for supper.’

  There were built-in cupboards all along one wall of the bathroom, and one of the doors was open. Brenda could see a mass of dresses squashed together: pale colours, mostly. Summer cottons and winter velvets, all muddled. She sighed. Some people had all the luck.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ she asked at last. ‘I mean, your headache, last night. . .? It must have been bad to go to bed so early.’

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you. It’s much better today.’

  ‘You look a bit tired.’

  ‘Do I?’

  Brenda wondered why she didn’t get up – normally she was so full of energy – and suggest they go downstairs.

  ‘Evans and I had a lovely picnic supper on your lawn,’ she said, ‘but then we ended up rowing.’ Augusta looked surprised. ‘It’s often like that,’ Brenda went on. ‘I don’t know what gets into us, really. Anyhow, I hope it didn’t wake you. I made rather a noise, leaving.’

  ‘I heard something, I think,’ said Augusta. ‘But I was awake anyway. Evans saw my light on, actually, and came and asked me if there was anything he could do, which was kind of him. Then the second lot of pills knocked me out.’

  Her resounding truthfulness left Brenda weak and foolish. Well! All that daft worry for nothing. She might have known it, had she thought less hastily. Evans, for all his silly threats, was too decent a man to lay a finger on someone else. And Mrs Browne, of course, was not the type to entertain passes from those outside her own world, even if Evans had been so unwise as to approach her. She felt herself blushing.

  A breeze came through the open window, stirring Mrs Browne’s long hair and making the skirts of some of the dresses in the cupboard to dance a little.

  ‘Lordy,’ said Brenda, to change the subject and disguise her confusion, ‘you’ve got enough in there for a film star, haven’t you?’

  Mrs Browne got up, then. She went to the cupboard and opened the door wider. Several of the lighter materials fluttered quite hard.

  ‘Far too many,’ said Augusta. ‘I never throw anything away. They go back years . . . Goodness knows what I shall do with them when we leave. Give them away, I suppose.’ She took a dress down from the rail and held it out – a chiffon gathering of indeterminate greys: a lot of pretty rags, it looked like, to Brenda. Augusta was swishing it about like a feather duster. ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream sort of dress, I think, don’t you? It might have been worn by Peaseblossom or Cobweb or Moth . . . better than by me.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Brenda, ‘it would look lovely on you, I can imagine.’ She wondered if after all this time alone Mrs Browne had gone a bit funny in the head. Her eyes seemed very large, distant, as if she was addressing William bloody Shakespeare himself instead of her, Brenda.

  ‘It was Hugh’s favourite of them all,’ Augusta was saying, holding it up, unmoving now, in front of her. ‘Where on earth would I ever wear it again?’

  At that moment inspiration struck Brenda blindingly.

  ‘My friend Lark,’ she said, ‘you know about Lark? Well, she’s my friend.’ The impact of her own idea confused her. ‘She’s a singer, a marvellous singer. She’s going to do her first concert in December, some huge hall somewhere, and she’s looking for a silvery dress. I wonder if I could buy it for her? She’s just your size.’

  ‘Give it to her,’ said Augusta, at once.

  ‘No really . . .’

  ‘Go on, please.’ Quite firm, she handed the dress to Brenda.

  ‘That’s terribly kind of you. You can’t imagine how pleased Lark will be. She’ll get you tickets, of course, for the concert.’

  ‘I should like that,’ said Augusta. ‘December . . . I leave in January.’

  Brenda followed her out of the room and downstairs. Enfeebled for a moment by relief at the news about Evans, she was now exhilarated by her gesture towards Lark. Also, she felt that her short encounter with Mrs Browne in the bathroom had established an especial bond between them Evans could never achieve. Boldness overcame her.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, I don’t like to be nosey, but all those parties you used to have . . . all those people here. Why don’t you have them down any more? It would be more cheerful, like. This big house.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Augusta. She stood quite still in the hall, listening to the music from the drawing room. ‘I suppose it’s because I’d like them to remember it as it was.’

  ‘There’s something in that,’ said Brenda, privately thinking the idea was barmy, ‘though how you stick this place all alone I don’t know. I’d go potty.’

  Augusta smiled, and opened the front door. Beside her Brenda was conscious of feeling very large, big breasted, clumsy, too healthy. She understood there was no point in trying to prolong the visit, much though she would have liked to carry on chatting: she’d never met anyone so peculiar as Mrs Browne in all her life. But she looked very tired, and clearly wanted to be alone again with her boiled eggs. They said goodbye and Brenda left. Her plan was to return to the flat and lay the dress on Lark’s bed. She would then go out somewhere for a while, and return later to find Evans waiting for her, a bit anxious, perhaps. It would be no bad thing to make him suffer a little. Then they would have a nice evening to make up for last night. They would take Lark with them – she’d be all of an excited dither about the dress – for a drink in the Star. Later, Evans might be persuaded to go back to the Hilton. They hadn’t been there for weeks, and soon it would be too cold. And tonight she particularly fancied the barn, more than their bed in the attic. She felt randy as a cat. She’d give Evans his money’s worth tonight, if she could keep her hands off him till closing time.

  The bus arrived with lucky timing. Brenda sat on a warm seat whose stuff scratched the back of her thighs, the filmy dress flung over her knees. She lit a Woodbine, blew the smoke slowly out of her nostrils. She felt upon her the admiring gaze of other passengers – warming, to be honest, as she anticipated the pleasures of the evening ahead.

  Lark had not felt so well for weeks. All morning she had hummed at her typewriter, counting the minutes till the lunch hour. Then she had made a dash round the shops in a preliminary search. It was disappointing, as she had told herself it would be. Not the right time of year for silver dresses, they all said. Come back nearer Christmas. But Lark knew she could not wait that long. She decided to go to Luton on her next Saturday off. Or, if that failed, to London.

  She walked back to the flat, singing all the way, the only pain in her stomach caused by hunger. There had been no time to eat anything since breakfast. She planned her evening: a toasted Marmite sandwich and a glass of gin while watching Coronation Street. Then the Elgar concert on Radio 3 while she did her nails and thought more about the dress. She would also make a new list of songs to sing – she had already made three and discarded them. Oh, there was much to do. With a real concert ahead, the tempo of the hours was marvellously changed.

  After the glare of the sun outside it took Lark some moments to accustom her eyes to the dimness of her room. Its shadows were split by the Venetian blinds. Only the massed geraniums shone scarlet as ever. On the bed lay a scant little dress, limp, bedraggled, reminding Lark of a dead bird left out in the rain.

  She paused, blinked – it was still there, no hallucination. She picked it up, not understanding. Wisps o
f chiffon fluttered about, different tones of silvery grey. Without thinking, as if in a dream, Lark ripped off her skirt and shirt, and pulled it over her head. There was a faint smell of expensive scent, the cool swish of the silk lining on her bare breasts. She went to the mirror: face, neck and arms all horribly white and thin, she thought, but the dress fitted perfectly. She stroked its skirt gently with both hands, to check its existence, expecting it to expire like a puff of smoke. But still it remained. Incredulous, she stood without moving for a long time.

  Then, footsteps outside. Brenda! Of course, Brenda. Who else could have done such a thing? Brenda was the dearest sweetest girl alive. She had always known it from the moment she had met her in that café two years ago. For all her funny gruff ways, her forgetfulness and dreadful untidiness, she was the kindest girl in the world

  ‘Oh, Brenda!’ she cried, and flung open the door. Evans stood there, worried face.

  There was no time for Lark to rechannel her delight, to reach for calm. She threw herself upon Evans, clinging to his neck like a small monkey. She kissed his cheeks, his mouth, uttering incomprehensible explanations. For a second she felt him catch his breath, harden. Then, roughly, he pushed her from him.

  ‘What’s up?’ he said. ‘What are you all dressed up like a dog’s dinner for, then?’ His eyes went all over her, puzzled. He followed her into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

  ‘Brenda gave it to me,’ she said. ‘It must have been Brenda, it can’t have been anyone else. For my concert. They’ve asked me to sing, you see.’ She blushed under his look.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Lark,’ he said, eventually. ‘You look smashing, really. Never seen you look like that before.’

  Then Lark was sitting on the bed crying. The surprising tears had come too quickly to check: they dripped on to the dress spotting it like rain. Brenda’s kindness, Evans’s approval – it was all too much. Evans sat on the bed beside her, put an arm round her shoulder.

  ‘Now leave off that noise,’ he said, ‘for heaven’s sake. You’ll spoil your looks.’

  Lark managed a smile, felt her tears wetting Evans’s shirt. I love you, I love you, I love you. Oh, Evans, I don’t half love you.

  ‘Can you get a couple of glasses?’ was all she sobbed, ‘and we’ll have some celebration gin.’

  Evans gave her his handkerchief and went off to the other room. Lark stayed in her dress, and they sat watching television, drinking their gin neat in respect of the occasion. Brenda arrived back some time later and admitted to being fairy godmother, but would not say where she had found the dress. She was surprised Lark did not guess, though her delight was so abundant all rational thought was impossible. Lark agreed to come with them for a drink at the Star. It was only with great difficulty they persuaded her to change back into her old clothes. She would try the dress on for an hour or two every night until the concert, she said, to keep proving its existence. Reluctantly she slipped out of it, head beautifully silvered by gin, now: the best evening for years.

  Much later Evans and Brenda lay at the top of the Hilton. The harvest long over, the barn was almost full of bales of straw. They had had to climb high to find a suitable platform: the rafters of the roof were only a few feet above them. Cobwebs, they could see by the light of the moon, dangled close. The occasional scuffle of mice was the only noise.

  Brenda had been at her most insatiable. Evans had often thought it was not worth letting her have a night off: it resulted in such demands when they met again. But he was proud always to be able to quell her desires in the end. She lay quietly now in his arms, naked, coppery head on his chest, smelling of chicken feed and essence of bluebell, the two scents most dear to him in the world. He hoped she would not draw away just yet and reach for her cigarettes. There were things to tell her.

  ‘Good news and bad news,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mum and Dad had an accident last night. Dad put the car in the ditch.’

  ‘I thought it might have been theirs I saw,’ said Brenda. ‘Are they all right? Why didn’t you tell me before?’

  ‘Didn’t want to. You weren’t in the mood, and Lark full of beans and that. They’re not too bad. Dad bruised, and a cracked rib. He’ll have to be in bed a few days. Mum’s a bit shaken, but that’s all.’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  Evans paused.

  ‘I didn’t like to ask. Dad’s been a bit under the weather just lately.’ So disloyal a confession he would confide to no one but Brenda.

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘That. . . like you said. He’s been a bit under the weather.’

  ‘Don’t let anyone tell you anything else.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Promise, Bren?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Evans drew her closer to him and kissed her hair.

  ‘Funny thing,’ he said. ‘I was in with them a while, this evening, before coming over to fetch you. I was standing by Dad’s bed, Mum was downstairs. He didn’t say much. Well, he never does. Then he takes this fob-watch from the table, a bloody great gold fob-watch, been in the family years, and he says he wants me to have it. He says it’s no use to him any more. It goes all right, right as rain. But he doesn’t want it any more. So I pick it up, listen to its tick, admire it, say that’s very kind, Dad. He looks at me in a funny way, almost as if he can’t see me. Then – you might not like this bit – I don’t want you to leave it to Brenda, he says, or to your son if you have one. I want you to leave it to someone else. A very remarkable woman. You’ll know who I mean if you think about it hard.’

  ‘Who did he mean?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. Couldn’t think for the life of me. Still can’t.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask him?’

  ‘I did. But he didn’t seem to hear. He seemed to fall asleep. Maybe he was asleep all the time, talking in his sleep. Suffering from shock, perhaps.’

  ‘You know what I think? I think he means your Mum.’

  Evans laughed. Suddenly the mystery cleared.

  ‘’Course he does! That’s what he means. Don’t know why I didn’t get it at once. He finds it so difficult saying things straight, Dad. He’s sometimes very puzzling. Anyhow . . .’ He paused to kiss Brenda again. ‘Know what I’m going to do with it?’

  ‘No. What? Go on. Stop . . . all that and tell me.’

  ‘I’m going to sell it.’

  ‘Never!’ Brenda stiffened with shock.

  ‘I’m going to sell it, I tell you. What does my mother want with a man’s watch? What do I want with it? I could get £300 for that watch tomorrow. With £300 . . . Get my meaning?’

  ‘The deposit?’

  ‘The deposit and a bit to spare. What do you think?’

  The very idea was an aphrodisiac to Brenda. She ran a hand over Evans’s cold buttocks, and along his thigh.

  ‘Marvellous. No more worry.’

  ‘So we can be in by January if they keep to schedule.’

  ‘In January . . . That’s lovely. But stop talking about the house just now.’ Brenda sighed.

  Evans raised himself upon one elbow and looked down at her. He picked up a single piece of straw from her stomach and threw it away. She had the largest darkest eyes he’d ever seen, a beautiful shining mouth that teased even in repose. He put a hand over one of her breasts, flicked at the nipple in the way she liked. He had no thoughts now but his love for her, no sensations other than an exuberant calm, knowing he could now provide for her. He would not let her down. She could do what she liked: rant at him, throw things, slam doors, quibble. But she would not shake him off. Never.

  ‘Sorry about last night,’ she was saying, voice husky as when in mourning for a dead chicken.

  ‘Oh, that,’ he said. ‘That was last night, wasn’t it?’

  They quickened simultaneously, as was their way. Their flesh had cooled in the night air. Summer was over.

  ‘I love you, you minx,’ said Evans.
/>
  ‘So you bloody should,’ said Brenda. ‘Now shut up talking, will you, and get on with it.’

  Henry stayed in bed for two days, then, against the doctor’s orders, got up. He ached all over. His ribs were strapped with bandages, one eye was badly bruised, and there were cuts on his hands. It hurt to move. But Henry saw no chance of recovery in the claustrophobic atmosphere of his bedroom, Rosie fussing in every few minutes to rearrange things that were perfectly all right as they were, and being a general nuisance. Besides, the last of the whisky had gone, and Rosie refused to buy more. And what Henry needed, he knew, to get himself back on the road, was a good stiff drink.

  He left the house when Rosie was out shopping. It was painful to walk, and his progress was slow, but he was glad to be out again. It was early October by now: leaves turning, sun still bright in the hard air. Good time, October. Best time of year, autumn. Going to the brickworks, early mornings on his bicycle, Henry remembered enjoying the sharpness of the countryside for a few weeks before the clamminess of November set in. He used to note with some satisfaction the progress in the fields he passed on his journey: Long Corner, a broad sweep of stubble that led up to its barn stuffed with hay, held particular memories that sometimes came dancing back on an October morning. The barn had been built when he was a lad, and had housed many a secret exploration between his friends and their pubescent girls. He himself had lain in the hay with one Lily, a girl of blubbery flesh and breath that smelt of acid drops. She had shrivelled into a mangey spinster, Lily: Henry saw her collecting her pension sometimes. But she kept their secret well, it had to be said. Her watery eyes gave no indication that she remembered those Sunday afternoons when they were both fourteen: but then perhaps she didn’t.

  Lily had given pleasure to half a dozen boys before Henry came along: for him it was the first time, too quick, but unforgettable. With Rosie, of course, it had been quite different. He had always fancied Rosie for her gentle mind rather than her polite body. He had scarcely touched her before they married for fear of ruffling her religious beliefs. She used to whimper, slightly, lying on the ground in the bluebell woods, but if Henry made to reward her desire she would smack at his hand as if it was an insect, chiding at him for being too fresh in their engaged state. He would lie back and think wistfully of the way Lily used to squirm in the barn, and of the passionate girl in Marseilles. Sometimes, home from the brickworks, he would report to Rosie the state of the fields: Long Corner was under plough, he would say, or they’d planted wheat in Bray’s Field. But she never seemed interested: earth, sea, bricks, held no pleasure for her, as Henry learnt over the years, and so had given up encouraging her to understand them.