The Night Following Page 23

  Evelyn drank some of her tea thoughtfully. “It’s not just the father’s name,”she said, trying to lighten her voice.“There’s the name of the place an’ all. Have we to put ‘the Maud Braddock Memorial Home for Invalids’ as place of birth on the little mite’s birth certificate? That’ll look peculiar. Whoever heard of a baby getting born in an invalids’ home?”

  Uncle Les gave a short laugh. “We won’t need to. It’s not been the Maud Braddock that long. Round here it’s still known by the old name. We’ll put that. The locals call it Overdale.”

  Every day brought more interference. I would come down when it got dark to find that more coloured foliage had dropped through the letter box: shiny, grinning advice about hearing aids, time-share apartments, stair lifts, handy “systems” for “maximizing priceless storage space.” The downstairs rooms became ragged and spoiled with torn envelopes, unfinished lists, unsigned forms. I would stumble across the paraphernalia of Arthur’s leg treatments: towels, open tubes of ointment, bandages and socks left where he had pulled them off. The kitchen filled up with the neighbour’s unrecognizable food in plastic containers, with notes attached: HEAT GENTLY, WILL SEPARATE IF BOILED. JUST POP UNDER GRILL TILL BROWNED. Some lumpy homemade biscuits turned up from somewhere along with a brochure about assisted living. Della left a potted plant and more poetry (just the slant of some people’s handwriting can arouse fury). One night, stuck on the fridge door under magnets, I found a drawing in crayon of a lady with a halo and wings riding a bicycle, surrounded by clouds and flowers. Underneath was written “from Amy and all the Watsons (at No. 48).”

  In dealing with these and other invasions I was holding back, I now see, not merely a tide of encroachment but also the notion that any such staying action could be only that, and would prove, in the end, unavailing. By definition, after all, the besieged have nothing more to play for than survival, and quite possibly the demands of that particular game, all the plucky, ingenious, and inconclusive stratagems to hold off ultimate depletion, are what distract us from its futility. So our way of living did not seem to me so frail that its final breach was inevitable, and I turned over in my mind, with no particular urgency, only the wisdom or practicality of this or that small refinement for its protection. I wrote a note discouraging circulars and callers and stuck it on the door. I left the neighbour’s food out, untouched, on the front step. I did not consider that perhaps a play for time was all our arrangement was or ever could be; I failed to understand that no matter what I did, by little corrosive steps one person or another would be the first to bring it to an absolute end.

  Ignoring every portent, I was attuned only to what seemed significant: the watchful and desirous duet between Arthur and me. After all, it was all we needed, and was surely its own fluent justification- though no justification was owed to anyone-for the simple necessity of two, the impossibility of more than two.

  27 Cardigan Avenue

  Dear Ruth

  The baby, Ruth. The baby in the story. What happens to the baby girl?

  It’s nice having you around again. I wouldn’t say I’m relaxed about it, it takes some getting used to. DOES NOT HELP, does it, these fools popping up. I can understand why you make yourself scarce in daytime. Why WE do. I can’t avoid them altogether because of legs. Keeping curtains closed sends out the general message though.

  Apart from only being around at night, you haven’t come back in what one might call the standard ways, have you? You’re not what anyone could call your average haunter. You’re not scary or tragic, not even mildly SPOOKY, to use a Della word.

  In fact, you don’t seem all that deceased. You’re pretty much as you were. Practical, comfortable, always got something to do. Not saying anything-that’s the only big difference, apart from the fact that I can’t see you, not in the old way.

  Though on subject of seeing and not seeing, this story. I’m getting on well with it now. I keep thinking about that baby.

  What I wonder is would you have shown it to me? I mean if circumstances were otherwise, in the ordinary way? Doesn’t really matter because you have shown it to me, now. You directed me to it. And I know you’re pleased that I’m reading it.

  I like this new way. I like US this way, suits us better than the old way.

  More soon. I even like writing to you, now. I like writing to you when I can hear you around the place and I know you’re nearby, downstairs or in the next room or along the landing.

  Arthur

  It came, inevitably. It came when we felt safest, on a calm, honey-warm early September night. The doorbell rang. As was our custom, Arthur was upstairs and I was in the kitchen, just starting to think about getting his dinner. Neither of us moved. The bell rang again and went on ringing. Then came a series of bangs on the door and a man’s voice. He sounded a bit drunk.

  “Hey! Can you put a light on? Come on, Arthur, I need to talk!” He pressed on the bell again, and then we heard another voice.

  “Tony, leave him alone, it doesn’t matter! Tony, leave him alone!” “I’m not leaving him alone, it’s for his own good! He got a fucking invitation! Hey, Arthur!” The voice dropped to a placatory, treacherous singsong. “Come on, mate, barbie time! You gonna come and enjoy yourself or what?”

  “Tony! Stop it, please-”

  “Tell you what, Arthur, I got a drink right here for you. Get you in the mood, mate. Come on, s’only us and a few friendly faces, what’s your problem?”

  “Oh, Tony-have some consideration!”

  “Wha’s the matter? Look, Mum, does he or doesn’t he need a firm hand? I’m only doing what you said!”

  “I didn’t say bully him! Leave him alone!”

  The ringing and banging subsided and eventually stopped. Then the bell sounded again, tentatively, and above it came the woman’s voice again.

  “Arthur, it’s me, Rosemary. Mrs. M! It’s all right, Arthur, don’t worry. He doesn’t mean any harm. It’s only Tony. Arthur? Arthur!”

  He was still upstairs. The voice became wheedling. I began to tremble.

  “Arthur, would you open the door a minute, dear? I’m so sorry, he didn’t mean it. He wants to say sorry. Arthur, could you please come to the door?”

  The man’s voice added, “Yeah, sorry, mate, didn’t mean no offence. OK?”

  Arthur didn’t stir.

  “Arthur, it’s Rosemary. I can’t go till I know you’re all right.”

  The man called, “OK, so how about you put a light on, Arthur? Show us you’re okay, mate. OK?”

  Only a few feet lay between us and the front door. Those people were just on the other side of it. If Arthur didn’t go down to them they could burst through it and be upon us in seconds, yelling and cajoling, pulling him around. Suddenly I saw that all my efforts to protect us had been pointless. In the end, doors and locks and walls stand for nothing and against nothing. They are only the weakest of defences against any purpose, including urgent and violent goodwill.

  I stood with a tea towel in my hand, straining to hear above the shunk of the washing machine behind me and the hammering of my heart in my throat. Then I heard Arthur’s tread at the top of the stairs. Without thinking about it, I knew the best way to protect him. I ran out to the conservatory and through the sliding door into the dining room. The door from there out to the hall was closed; I opened it a fraction and pressed close against the wall. Through the gap I could see the outline of Arthur’s body, halted on the stairs. Shapes moved under the porch and shadows dappled the hall floor. The woman’s voice came at us again.

  “Arthur, I have your spare key here, dear. I’m coming in, all right? Just to see you’re all right. It’s just me and Tony. Tony’s with me, we just want to see you’re all right.”

  I heard Arthur whimper as the lock turned. Feet clumped across the threshold, lights flashed on. They were in the hall, just out of my sight line. Arthur had slumped down on the stairs.

  “Arthur? Oh, Tony didn’t mean any harm. Did you, Tony? He just wondered
why you didn’t answer our invitation.”

  I pushed the tea towel against my mouth to stop myself from screaming. Arthur pulled himself up and came unsteadily downstairs.

  “Here you go, mate. Lager OK for you?” I heard the snap and hiss of a can. “Oops! There you go then. Get that down you. Do you good.”

  Arthur cleared his throat, giving up an attempt to protest. He had his back to me and I fancy I saw him retreat from them, inclining a little in my direction, to protect me, to explain to me perhaps that he was accepting the drink just to stall them there. He had to submit to their interest in him, not so far as to encourage them to think themselves welcome, but enough to get them to leave with both neighbourly impulses, prurience and conscience, satisfied.

  “Thing is,” Tony said, “Mum’s just trying to help. She’s done this whole barbecue, see? And bugger me, there’s all of us in the garden over there just trying to be friendly and you don’t turn up. Not very polite, mate.”

  “Barbecue?” Arthur’s voice sounded tight with confusion. “What do I want with a barbecue? I don’t know anything about any bloody barbecue!”

  “I did tell you, Arthur,” the woman said. “We said it’d be good for you to see a few of the neighbours. You agreed. There were proper invitations, dear.”

  “I’m busy. Sometimes things slip my mind.”

  “But I wrote it all down. You said you’d come.”

  A few days ago there had been a handwritten card with a drawing of a smoking hamburger and a glass of wine on it. I’d torn it up.

  “Mum’s gone to a lot of trouble. It’s a lot of work, a barbecue. Hey, mate, you OK?”

  Arthur had started to sway on his feet, probably because he’d just tipped his head back to swig some of his drink. I saw him grope for the banister and the can fell from his hand. Tony marched forward and grabbed him and Mrs. M let out a wail. “The carpet!”

  “Whoa, there! OK, mate, let’s get you sat down,” Tony said.

  “Leave me alone!” Arthur said, recoiling. “Don’t touch me! I just got light-headed for a second. Slight loss of balance. Comes and goes.”

  “Need a decent meal, I’d say. You know you’re naughty.” Mrs. M swung past Arthur towards the kitchen. “Where’s there a bucket, dear-under the sink?” He stared after her, ignoring Tony’s arm going round his shoulder. She called out over the sound of the taps, “Shouldn’t stain if I get straight at it. I can pop over for my stain remover if you haven’t any.”

  Of course we had stain remover. She returned, sank down on the carpet between Tony and Arthur, and began dabbing with a sponge.

  “Went to your head, probably,” Tony said with forced cheerfulness. “Sure you’re OK?”

  “Yes. Yes, thank you,” Arthur said, stepping out of Mrs. M’s path. “I’m all right now.”

  “She’s got a point, though. You need a steak inside you,” Tony said. “Red meat, nothing like it. Sets you up. I’m the same.”

  “He is,” Mrs. M grunted from the carpet. “Always has been. I mean, don’t ever give him chicken,” she said, “because he won’t thank you for it.” She got to her feet. “As for fish, practically a dirty word. Well! That won’t take long to dry. Fingers crossed. Sensible colour for a hall. Is it ‘Sahara’?”

  I imagined Arthur staring at her and trying to puzzle out what on earth she was talking about. I realized I didn’t really know what his eyes looked like. There was a silence. Then Tony said, “There’s a few still over there, in the garden.”

  “Yes, you want to be getting back to your guests,” Arthur said.

  “Well…” Mrs. M sighed. “It doesn’t seem right. Wouldn’t you like someone to be with you?”

  Tony took Arthur’s elbow and gave it a shake. “Tell you what, Arthur, why not come on over now? Get another beer. There’s plenty left. You could use a burger.”

  She joined in. “Go on. There’s peach pavlova. Just for a while.”

  “I’m in my slippers.”

  “Don’t matter just to cross the road. Tell you the truth, mate, I don’t feel right leaving you,” Tony said. “Neither does Mum.”

  “Thank you. Well, that is kind,” Arthur said. I could tell from his voice he wanted to refuse, but then they might not leave; they were wrangling, disruptive, insistent people, ready to trample wherever they liked. “Very kind indeed. Thank you.”

  This pleased them. They led him away, one at each elbow, and he went quietly.

  Dear Ruth

  Where’s the rest of it? The story. What happens to the baby? I want to know what happens to the baby.

  I like it now, thinking about the early days.

  I should have put a bit more effort into getting the point of the poetry and I’m sorry for that. This seems like a second chance.

  I’ve been thinking. More comes back about Overdale the more I think. That first night. We lay there looking up at the stars, didn’t we? It was so clear and so cold, and by then I had my arms tight around you trying to keep you warm.

  I remember pointing out some of the constellations. You only knew the Plough. It was after I’d shown you how to spot the Great Bear and the Little Bear and was just moving on to Orion and Andromeda, and you suddenly told me to stop talking and close my eyes. Why, I said, I like looking at the stars, don’t you?

  Yes, you said, but you also liked closing your eyes and not seeing them but knowing they were still there. And when we were lying like that, eyes closed, you said, can’t you just feel where we are? Can’t you just feel the size of the mountain around you and the sky above and just feel the millions of millions of gallons of water flowing through the reservoir down below? Technically speaking Kinder Scout isn’t a mountain and the water in a reservoir doesn’t flow, it’s stagnant, I said, and you punched me in the chest and told me to shut up. Playfully.

  I want to live here, you said. I want to live on a hillside somewhere, surrounded by higher hills and mountains and with water at the bottom. I want to hear the wind on the mountaintops and the water lapping down below every minute of every day and all night long.

  Of course I went along with all that. I said I’d like to live on a hillside, too, and just then I meant it. But I wasn’t thinking only about living. I was so happy at that moment that the thought of death suddenly came to me. That’s to say I allowed it to come, because I felt so free and strong that I didn’t need to keep it away-I knew it could not pin me down and make me feel ordinary and discouraged, just then. I thought-I could die at this moment. If I died on this hillside right now, I’d die with my life well spent (though I was glad I didn’t).

  But if I had, I’d have died knowing all I needed to know-that I loved you completely, and that I was holding in my arms, wrapped up against the cold, all that was, or ever could be necessary to me now.

  Arthur

  Ihadn’t seen before that he can barely walk. In the house it doesn’t show so much. I was watching from the bedroom window and I saw them come back across the road and up the drive, Arthur’s feet edging along in little shuffles, his back bent. Tony, with professional tenderness for the slow and sick, was supporting him by the elbow, taking it slow and letting him rest every few steps. When they paused Arthur would look up and gaze ahead as if the house and I were miles distant and he would reach us only by the greatest exertion.

  As they came through the door Tony snapped on the switches. In the burst of light Arthur vomited, suddenly and lavishly, on the floor. The sour, curdy stench rose instantly through the hall and up into the darkness of the stairs. I had come out to stand on the top step, and I craned forwards just far enough to see him being steered, groaning and stumbling, towards the kitchen. I wanted to dash straight down but I didn’t; I would be needed later, and only then would I be of real use.

  Tony returned and cleaned up the mess, his scrubbing brisk and ill-tempered. When he went back into the kitchen I crept a little further down the stairs, and listened. I could hear snatches of Tony’s voice saying something to do with “doctor” and �
�urgent attention” and “tomorrow,” but I couldn’t make out Arthur’s replies. Then Tony spoke sharply. Arthur, he said, wasn’t being very cooperative.

  “You’re not doing yourself any favours, mate,” he said. “Maybe it’s time you accepted some help.” He paused. “Look, I know what you’re going through. Loss of spouse, it’s bloody awful. I see it all the time. And it’s worse for you. Everybody knows…”

  Arthur began to shout. “You know nothing! You have no idea, you hear me? Nobody knows what this is like!”

  “Hey, hey there! OK, OK-I’m sorry, I put that the wrong way. Look, steady on now,” Tony said. “It’s OK. It’s understandable…”

  Again Arthur interrupted. “Why don’t any of you listen? I don’t care if it’s understandable! I’m going to kill the bastard! You hear? Some fucking bastard took her away and none of you do anything about that, do you? You’re useless, the police are useless. You’re all fucking useless!”

  “Look, hold on a minute. I can see why you feel that way, honest I can. But the police are doing their best. They might still get him. We’re all doing our best, mate.”

  “So bloody what? That bastard’s going to get what’s coming to him. I’m going to get him myself and strangle him with my own bare hands, it’s the only way to get justice in this bloody country! Now leave me alone, will you? Fuck off and leave me alone!”

  As the kitchen door opened I darted back upstairs into the darkness. Tony came out and paused in the hall, blowing out his cheeks. He rubbed at the carpet with his foot, turned back for a moment as if he had one last thing to say, but thought better of it and left.

  A few minutes later Arthur appeared. He raised his head in my direction but I don’t know what he saw. He fumbled along the wall and switched out the lights in the hall. He seemed to have aged. I ventured down far enough to see his outline against the street lamps’ aura from the door but I remained in the shadow of the turn of the stairs and did not move. Then, in the dark, he called for me in a breaking, plangent voice-Ruth!