South of the Lights

by Angela Huth

  Lark said thank you and left the stage. The applause continued, although not everybody could join in.

  ‘I can’t clap,’ whispered an old man near Augusta, ‘in case I break my hands.’ They lay clasped together on his lap, rigid blue.

  After Lark there were to be games and dancing to cover the anti-climax. Evans and Brenda, Augusta saw, had already slipped away. She thought that she, too, might leave. She said her farewells to Mr Roper and the others, and suggested she might drive Lark home. This was a welcome idea, for it would spare the club the price of a taxi.

  Outside the snow was falling more thickly, sticking to the windows of the hall. The cottonwool flakes inside became caricature reflections. Lark was huddled into a coat of shaggy fur, her bony hands clutching at the collar, and at a Cellophane parcel of chrysanthemums. Her face was quite exhausted, but she smiled, incredulous. Augusta suggested that first they should go back to the house and get warm by the fire. She agreed eagerly. Simultaneously they turned for a last look through the snowy windows and saw the old people dancing with much abandon, skirts held above their knees, paper hats all crooked on their heads.

  ‘Do you think they liked it all right?’ asked Lark. ‘I couldn’t see any of them smiling.’

  ‘I think they were too amazed,’ said Augusta. ‘You sang too well for any of us to smile.’

  Lark had never been to the house before. Through the glass panes of the front door they could see the coloured lights smudged among the boughs of the Christmas tree, and the flames still burning brightly in the fire. Inside, Lark stood quietly in the hall, still clinging to her coat.

  ‘What a tree,’ she said at last. ‘Is that all for you? Or are you having a party?’

  ‘I leave in three weeks,’ said Augusta. ‘No party. But I thought I might as well. . . have a tree. We have one every year. Now, take off your coat and sit yourself by the fire. I’ve got some warm mince pies. Let’s have them, shall we? And champagne. We must have champagne. Singers always do, you know, after successful first nights like that.’

  ‘Do they, do they really? Oh Lordy, what a night.’ Lark was laughing, throwing her fur coat on the golden flagstones in front of the fire, making it into a rug. She sat down, drew up her knees to her arms, so that the dress fell about in tatters, Cinderella’s rags. ‘I’ve never been to a place like this before,’ she said. ‘Champagne and Christmas trees and ceilings high as the sky. It must be funny, all alone. Brenda and Evans told me all about it. They love it here, you know.’

  They sat for a long time in front of the fire, eating the mince pies and drinking the champagne. Augusta was anxious to convince Lark how remarkable her performance had been – how it had shaken them all. But she felt inadequate.

  ‘You’re a really marvellous singer, you know,’ she said. ‘I mean it. I don’t understand why you never trained.’

  Lark shrugged.

  ‘Well, I wanted to. But it never worked out like that. I had to earn my living, didn’t I? I had to help out my mother once my father died. Besides, I had these weak lungs. They said I’d never have the strength.’ The firelight and the champagne had brought a flush to her face. ‘Still, I enjoyed tonight. I might do more, if anyone would have me.’

  ‘Maybe I could help,’ said Augusta. ‘I know people who might be able to help you.’

  ‘That would be kind, though I don’t expect you’d have much time with all this moving. Here,’ she added, picking at a chiffon wisp on the skirt of the dress, ‘I know where this came from, you know. Soon as Brenda brought it home for me I knew it couldn’t have come from a shop round here. I knew it came from you – the quality.’ They both laughed. ‘It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. Did you wear it a lot?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Augusta. ‘Hugh liked it.’

  ‘He’s gone, has he?’ Augusta nodded. ‘Swines, men are, aren’t they? Always going. Still, I suppose that’s the risk you take if you marry. Can’t say I’d mind taking the risk, though. ‘I’m always looking out for my chance. There’s a man at my office, a drip always on the end of his nose and smelly breath. He says he fancies me, the silly sod, and he’d give me security if that’s what I’d like. I say that’s not what I want. Not just security. I wouldn’t mind a bit of love thrown in, I say, and he says, poo, that comes. But you can see so often it wouldn’t, ever, can’t you?’ Augusta nodded again. ‘So you go on dreaming about Robert Redford and having the odd screw behind the filing cabinets. But what they don’t realise, those sods who get your knickers down, is how little they’re getting. They like to think you’re all swoony about them. Grateful. Huh! One day I shall say what’s really filling my mind. The dreadful price of tea, or something, just as they’re huffing and puffing. Lordy, this champagne isn’t half going to my head. I am going on, aren’t I?’

  She looked up at the lighted tree, twirled her glass in her hand so that the flames from the fire spun among the bubbles.

  ‘I can imagine the parties you must have had in this house,’ she said. ‘I can imagine the rooms all full of people.’

  ‘They used to come,’ said Augusta.

  ‘Still, it’s nice, the quiet. Though it must be sad selling it. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know really. Go to London. Live in a flat. Try to forget about this.’

  ‘Impossible, that,’ said Lark. ‘I’m telling you. How could you ever get a place like this out of your blood? Here, you know what? Whoever comes next, you’ll haunt them. They’ll see your ghost coming down the stairs, opening the door for them to go away. They’ll feel the draught on their legs, the bastards. They’ll be so shit-scared they’ll leave and you can come back. Don’t you think?’

  Augusta laughed and raised her glass to meet Lark’s.

  ‘Here’s to your ghost,’ Lark said. ‘Now, I must be going. But Evans told me you had a lovely piano. Before I go, would you let me see it? Don’t know what it is, but I love pianos, the great big ones. I’ve always fancied myself leaning in that curved bit of a grand piano, you know, singing at the Albert Hall. Daft as a brush I am, aren’t I?’

  Augusta led the way to the drawing-room. She left the door open but did not turn on the lights because she did not want Lark to remark upon the packing cases. So the room was quite dark, the shadows scarcely broken by the glow from the Christmas tree. Lark went at once to the piano and ran her hand along its mahogany lid.

  ‘Do you play?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I used to. Not now.’

  ‘Go on, try. I can’t play a note.’

  ‘I’m completely out of practice.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Just something. Please. Here I am, aren’t I? Leaning up against a grand piano after all this time. My mother’ll die when I write to her about tonight. She won’t believe it.’

  Augusta sat down on the fat velvet stool. The champagne had mellowed her, and Lark made her want to laugh, or cry, she wasn’t sure which. She felt for the notes, sounding them gently, chords coming back to her. She began a carol.

  ‘I know that,’ said Lark. ‘I sang that when I was a child. I sang in the choir, solo, when I was ten. My Dad, he nearly bust himself with pride.’

  She nestled into the crook of the piano and stretched one arm right across its lid. She hummed for a moment or two, then remembered the words.

  Three kings from Persian lands afar

  To Jordan follow the shining star . . .

  She broke off to sip at her champagne.

  ‘Lordy, I’m drunk as anything, aren’t I? Gin never does this to me. Still, it’s nearly Christmas, isn’t it? Who said you couldn’t play? Now, hang on a tick, it’s coming back . . .’

  And this the quest of the travellers three

  Where the new born king of the Jews may be,

  Full royal gifts they bear for the King,

  Gold, incense, myrrh are their offering.

  Her voice was remindful of a flute played by a hillside shepherd. Accustomed to the semi-darkness by now, Augusta could see
that for all her claims to intoxication, Lark’s eyes shone quite soberly. She had confused drunkenness with the happiness of singing by a grand piano. Perhaps they were almost the same. She ran both hands through her hair, dislodging the Christmas tree star, and laughing. Against the moon panes of the huge windows snow lodged in swooping curves. The church clock struck two. With the confidence of old partners by now, Augusta and Lark began the second verse.

  Augusta refused all invitations to go out on Christmas Day. She stayed quietly in her study packing letters into boxes. It took her a long time because she read each one before putting it away. She hoped Hugh might ring, but the telephone remained silent: he had said he would be abroad with friends. In the old days he would ring from all parts of the world. She ate two kippers and two mince pies for lunch, and watched the snow fall in the garden, and swallowed several pills with a glass of Hugh’s best port to kill the pain in her jaw. She went to bed at half-past four in the afternoon, made drowsy by the pills. Drawing the blinds of her windows, she saw a pattern of coloured lights on the snow in the drive: she had forgotten to turn off the Christmas tree. But she had no further energy to go downstairs again, and besides, she liked the idea of their colouring the snow all night.

  If it had not been for the worry at the back of Rosie’s mind about the extent of Henry’s Christmas celebrations, she would have enjoyed the day very much. As it was, she had to steer the delicate course between remaining on her guard, and at the same time appearing to be full of the Christmas spirit. After church she was overwhelmingly congratulated on the state of the altar, which had taken many days to deck with holly sprayed with gold. She had refused all offers of help, knowing only too well the downfalls caused by inferior artistic effort: and in spite of all the work she had had to do herself, she had managed to find time to advise Mrs Tuffin about how best to decorate the tree, and the vicar’s wife on how to gird the pillars with ivy. Warm with success she returned home to find the turkey cooked to perfection, and Henry sitting in his chair by the fire. He had been to the Star, he said, and treated himself to a couple of cherry brandies, seeing it was Christmas, and had come home early to open the sherry. Rosie swelled with relief. Henry had not remembered to give her a present, but this gesture more than compensated for the omission. To have him sober on Christmas Day was something she had not dared to hope for. In high spirits she set about laying the table, most of which was taken up by a landscape of cottonwool snow and mirror lakes, dotted with small plastic deer and nylon Christmas trees – a little surprise she had been planning for weeks.

  Evans and Brenda and Lark came to lunch. Lark had knitted everybody long scarlet scarves. Brenda, of less imagination, had brought different-coloured tablets of soap from Boots. It occurred to Rosie, as she made her polite thanks, how happy she would have been if Evans had fallen in love with Lark instead of Brenda . . . But it was a disloyal thought and she quickly put it from her mind. She had to admit that when it came to looks there was not much competition between the girls. Lark was a mere scrap of a thing, painfully thin these days, while Brenda was a big strapping girl, well made. And Evans seemed happy enough, full of talk about the new house. She could only hope the marriage would be a happy one: for her part, she would do all she could to help and advise them.

  In the afternoon Evans and Brenda went off for a walk. She overheard Brenda saying something to Evans about always having wanted to have a bash in the snow, and the remark caused Rosie to blush so hard she had to slip away into the larder and pick at the cold Christmas pudding while she awaited the return of her normal colour. Lark stayed with them by the fire, talking to Rosie, because Henry soon fell asleep. Rosie was able to pass on the news that the whole village had been talking about her performance at the old people’s club, and it was certain she would now get many more professional offers. Lark seemed pleased. She ate a lot of Rosie’s cake, the top decorated with a miniature ski-resort fashioned in icing, but declined to stay for supper. She left at six, saying how much she had enjoyed her day, but now felt a little tired and would go home for an early night. Rosie privately thought one of her attacks of indigestion was coming on, and suggested some tablets. But Lark shook her head, declining. She left to walk home, well wrapped up in her yellow scarf, saying it wouldn’t take her long and she could do with the air.

  Henry’s good resolutions did not last quite the whole day. At opening time in the Star he woke up and said he was going for a quick one. He then remembered that by some daft tradition he always invited Rosie to come with him on Christmas Day. He issued the invitation with little grace, and Rosie declined. She could not face watching him downing drink after drink, as on the evening of the car crash, and then having to help him home. No, she said, she would stay at home and prepare a cold supper and watch the Spectacular on television. Brenda and Evans were going to a party, but she would be quite happy by herself until he came back.

  He returned earlier than she expected, a little unsteady, but not half as bad as he had been on so many occasions in the last few weeks. For the second time that day Rosie was elated by relief. She hummed to herself as she fried slices of Christmas pudding – which would sober him up completely – and couldn’t resist observing, many times, what a nice family day it had been. To show her appreciation further, she went so far as to suggest they have a glass of sherry before they went to bed. This Henry refused, and took a swig of whisky from the bottle instead – a reaction to her offer which Rosie had failed to anticipate. Her own glass of sherry had the happy effect of making the day in retrospect even brighter than it might have been in reality. And then, in bed, it was her turn to remember a Christmas tradition.

  Due to Henry’s behaviour in the last few months Rosie had decided to postpone making any overture to him in bed, with or without her mittens. Tonight, although the sherry had made her a little carefree, and she would have done anything to rip the wretched mittens off and curl into his back, naked hands wandering his shoulders, she managed to remember resistance would be the wise thing. She prayed to God for strength, having thanked Him for such a nice day, and kept her hands to herself. But after an hour of wakefulness, sensing from Henry’s slight shifting that he was awake too, Rosie gave in to the weakness of the flesh. Overpowered by the thought that Henry should be rewarded for having made today easy, and wanting to indicate a small part of the great love for him that welled chokingly inside her, she stretched out a mittened hand and laid it on his shoulder.

  The only way that Henry had been able to get through Christmas Day with some semblance of civility was to remind himself every hour that it would, at least, be the last ever such day. He knew this without any doubt. He could not be sure precisely when it had come to him, but some time during the last few weeks a conviction had grown that the New Year was going to bring a change in his fate. This was fortunate, because once the Boy was married, the house without him would be intolerable. Whatever happened Henry would be forced to leave home. But the strength of his new instinct protected him from any qualms on this matter. He was sure Fate would plunge in with nice timing and produce the Leopard – who would, of course, go with him.

  Henry had resisted going to the Star for more than two short visits not as a goodwill gesture towards Rosie, but because he guessed that on Christmas Day, drat it, it was unlikely the Leopard would be visiting a pub some distance from where she lived. Exactly what she was doing he didn’t like to imagine. When pictures of her by a tree with children, a possible husband in the background, came to his mind, he fought against them. By evening he had managed to replace them with images of her, still in leopard coat, swopping presents by some vague fire with her parents.

  But it wasn’t till the clatter of the whole dreadful day was over, and he was in bed, could Henry finally indulge in his fantasies undisturbed. These were of next Christmas. Very clear, they were, too. He and the Leopard would be on a cruise – an inspiration that had come to him from an ad on the telly. Sunny days and balmy nights. Walking the decks under a tropi
cal moon. Palm trees and white beaches, coconuts, deck chairs – did they have deck chairs in the tropics, Henry wondered? And the Leopard would be the toast of the ship, of course. All the men would want to flirt with her and buy her rum punches. But he’d take good care of her, not let her too far out of his sight. If a respectable gentleman asked her to dance (small orchestra in dinner jackets playing The Nearness of You over the Sargasso Sea) – well, he’d probably give his permission. Provided the fellow didn’t look as if he’d be up to any hanky panky, and promised to keep a respectable distance in his waltzing. They’d have a top deck outside cabin, of course: and considering Henry’s naval past he had no doubt he’d be able to pull a few strings when it came to who should sit at the Captain’s table. Ah, it would be the hell of a good time. Something he’d been waiting for all his life, it occurred to him now, though in the past he had imagined no clear details, just a general hankering for something different. They would be drunk on love, he and the Leopard. Age was no barrier to passion. Time would stand still. Though if and when it did start up again, and Southampton appeared on the horizon – why, then would be the moment to go to Cambridge. In fact, if he calculated it all with naval precision, they would time their return for the daffodils by the Cam.

  Henry gave no thought to the money necessary to finance his tropical future. He was of the opinion that if dreams were strong enough to become true, then Fate would play its hand again, and provide. Anything could happen on the Pools in the next few weeks, or – another thought – the Leopard herself might be the daughter of a millionaire. Judging by the coat, this was very likely. Oh, my dearest Leopard, I hope you’ve had a better Christmas Day than me. What wouldn’t I give to have you here with me now, your arms about me, your hands gentle on my skin . . .