The Night Following Read online

  Spare room still a mess but my new look is up and running!

  I had on a green shirt and that light blue sweater with the anchor when Carole came. She seemed a bit shaken by the change of style.

  I tried to make a joke about it. I was telling her about the cruise and then I remembered she’s from CRUSE! You know, those coping with loss people, they had a fund-raiser not that long ago. Carole takes it all very seriously anyway. Delivered a stern lecture on the word “cruse”-did I know it’s an Old Testament word for a widow’s jar of oil that never ran dry, blah blah, the point being that support was there as long as it was needed? That’s just the kind of thing Ruth would know, I told her. Then she wanted to know if I cry much. Nosey parker!

  Still, changing subject again, can report headway of sorts. Often as not I see Mrs. Marsden from across the road coming out to catch Carole just as Carole’s going, holding her up chatting, not very considerate of her.

  Anyway, the Mary or Rosemary dilemma solved! Not that she minded me not calling her anything, or not talking at all, but it preyed on my mind. So, brainwave!-now I call her Mrs. M, in a light-hearted manner of course.

  She noticed the new look too! She agreed apricot was unusual on a man except for golf but she said these slacks were really a kind of burnt apricot. She said you had a good eye for a bit of style, in a quiet sort of way. Then her eyes filled with tears.

  Mrs. M’s bossy. Says she keeps her front room gas fire on low till May so I should do the same. Oh, and getting huffy with it-she found something or other of hers in our fridge when she was throwing out the milk (gone smelly, she found it at the back) and got all offended. Didn’t I care for either her leek and potato soup or her sausage casserole? I said, Not really and you can get rid of them along with the milk while you’re at it, thank you very much. Then she peered at me and asked did I have an allergy, my forehead seemed to be breaking out. Psoriasis? Or maybe eczema? I pointed out it wasn’t yet against the law for a man to scratch if he had an itch and if my appearance offended that was her problem, not mine. If looks could kill.

  Bye for now

  Arthur

  Ps Suppose I can’t let Carole see this letter either. So it’s just you and me then. Nicer, I suppose.

  PPS Am not letting her see any of that story you wrote, either, don’t worry. Private , between you and me.

  THE COLD AND THE BEAUTY AND THE DARK

  1932

  Chapter 2: At Mam’s

  A little before seven o’clock Evelyn let herself into the quiet house on Roper Street. As usual Mam had left her two slices of bread and margarine and put a hot water bottle in her bed. It was kind of her, though also as usual, the bread was curling and the hot water bottle was tepid. Evelyn ate quickly, then in the chilly room she changed into her long flannelette nightdress and bed socks. As she rubbed her toes on the cooling stone bottle and closed her eyes, she thought how funny it was that even a cold hot water bottle was better than nowt. Just the kindness had a bit of warmth to it. It wouldn’t occur to Stan that you came off the night shift with freezing feet. But once she explained, he’d be sure to oblige.

  She got up again at two o’clock in the afternoon. She was grateful, these days, for the house being empty when she woke. For the past few weeks she’d been sick first thing, but today she felt fine. She must be getting past the sickness stage and she was grateful for that, but it meant that before long she’d be showing. She had to get a date out of Stan, and soon.

  By the time Mam came in it was getting dark but at last the rain had gone off. Evelyn sat Mam down while she made the tea. Mam called out to her above the wireless with snippets of news and gossip. She always had what she called “the latest” from her work at the Co-op. Everybody went to the Co-op so she didn’t miss a thing.

  “They’re laying off another fifty at Worleyford’s,” she said. “That’ll be it for Meg Throckmorton’s Harry. He’s for it this time.”

  “That’ll not please Meg. He managed to hold on last time.”

  “No, it’ll be hard.”

  “Happen they’ll be teking on again at Marsden’s soon. He might get took on there, her Harry.”

  Mam didn’t seem to notice that Evelyn ate very little. Stan was meant to be coming down after tea, so after she’d washed up, Evelyn went to her room to change. Although she didn’t much feel like going out, she made the effort, rearranging her hair and putting on a fresh blouse and some lipstick. She had just dabbed some “Nuits de Mimosa” on her wrists and was wondering if real mimosa smelled anything like the cloudy, flowery scent from the bottle, when the knocker clacked against the door. She dashed downstairs, pulling on her coat as she went.

  She might have guessed the minute she opened the door and saw him, she thought later. Stan stayed astride his bike instead of fiddling to get his padlock and chain around the downpipe against the house wall, which he would do if he’d had any intention of getting the bus with her down to the Roxy Palace. Added to that, his head was hanging forward the way it did when he had a drink or two in him. Still, he was wearing the bright red scarf she had knitted him for Christmas (with the fancy cable pattern in it, though all he cared about was the colour). But maybe she was seeing what she’d wanted to see. Maybe he really meant it when he said the wearing of red was a political act and who knitted it wasn’t important. Maybe his hair wasn’t done nice and careful for her. More like it was only plastered down with the rain and the back of his hand.

  On top of that he was late. Then she realized he wasn’t on his own. A sudden tiny flare drew her gaze past Stan and she made out the shape of his crony Alan O’Reilly lurking over at the kerb on his bike, lighting up under the street lamp. She crossed her arms and gave Stan a look.

  “Oh, so you’ve got Alan O’Reilly in tow. Coming up the Roxy, too, is he?” she said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. Stan didn’t go in for sarcasm. “Who’s he stepping out with tonight, then?”

  Stan didn’t reply. Evelyn turned back into the tiny hall and set about getting her hat on, a nice little maroon toque.

  “It’s gone quarter past already. Remember main picture starts at twenty to, Stan,” she reminded him, turning to smile so he couldn’t say she was nagging. Brightening her smile even more, she called past him, “Evening, Alan! Who’s the lucky one tonight, then?”

  She was hoping Alan had just met up with Stan on the street and biked along with him. It was possible, just about. Hat fixed, handbag on her arm, Evelyn stepped onto the pavement. Stan wheeled back a little.

  “Can’t stop, sorry. Roxy’s off. Change of plan,” he said. Alan O’Reilly was glowering over his cigarette. He had a way of screwing up his eyes when he inhaled. Mean-looking, Evelyn thought.

  “Where’d you say we’ve to be tonight, Comrade?” Stan said.

  “Told you.” Alan pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket, and read aloud, “Extraordinary meeting called under Clause 7, right of Ordinary Members to call special or emergency meeting for any purpose including but not limited to those listed under Article 14 of Constitution.”

  He dragged again on his cigarette and stared at Evelyn, smoke leaking down his nose. Stan was smirking now, in the way that told her he definitely had already had a few.

  Another of your ruddy meetings? No, don’t tell me,” she said, “planning the revolution again, is it? You and the ruddy comrades? We had arrangements for this evening, Stanley Ashworth.”

  Alan O’Reilly threw his cigarette end into the gutter. “Come on, Stan, it’s gone five.”

  “Nobody asked you, Alan O’Reilly,” Evelyn said. She crossed her arms.“So, this meeting of yours’ll be at the pub, I suppose? Stan?”

  “I’ve got to go,” Stan muttered. “I’m seconding him for Secretary, we’re ousting Percy Johnson. And for your information it’s in the Co-op Rooms.”

  Evelyn fought back tears. That Alan O’Reilly was a bad-tempered so-and-so and he was getting Stan the same way.

  “Very well, then. Go to your ruddy meeti
ng. You’re welcome. But if you think you can make a fool out of your fiancée, you’d better think again!”

  “If a meeting’s called, a meeting’s called. There’s no point maithering on,” Stan said, rolling his eyes in Alan O’Reilly’s direction.“Come on, Evie.”

  “Don’t you ‘Evie’ me! We’ve got certain matters to discuss, Stanley Ashworth, may I remind you?”

  “There’s time enough for that,” Stan groaned. “I won’t be nagged, woman!”

  Alan O’Reilly chimed in, “Got a temper on her, ain’t she? You want to watch yourself, Comrade. Come on.”

  “Good riddance,” Evelyn muttered through her tears. She went upstairs to her room. Stan knew tonight was her last evening off before next week when she changed shifts. He knew they needed to set the date.

  But she wasn’t one to mope. Once she’d washed her face she came back downstairs. Mam had dozed off in her chair, her knitting on her lap. Evelyn took it up and finished the row, then worked one or two more. She was in no mood tonight to get on with her own knitting, which was a pullover for Stan in the same red as the scarf. Mam was making socks in dark green and the light was poor but the needles flew swiftly and smoothly in Evelyn’s hands. She didn’t need to see what she was doing, only to count the stitches. They were all good knitters on Mam’s side, and they all had the same dimples, too. Knitting came as easy as smiling to the Leigh girls, people said.

  Later, she washed through some stockings in the scullery and then she got Mam up to bed with a cup of tea. Afterward she sat on in front of the fire. Some evening out, she thought. I should go to bed myself.

  But then, she reflected, Stan might just call in late on his way back from the meeting if he saw a light on. So Evelyn waited, yawning from time to time and half-listening to the voice on the wireless introducing a dance band from somewhere or other. The rain came on again, harder than ever. She went to the window and pulled the curtain aside. Even the lamp right in front of number 58 on the other side of the street was hard to make out. Surely it was unusual for it to rain so hard you couldn’t even see a street lamp? Raining ink, she thought. Evelyn watched it pour down the window till the glass looked as if it were melting. Then she drew the curtain back, put out the light, and returned to her chair, thinking of Stan pushing his bike past, glancing at the window, and thinking she’d gone to bed. In the dark, she began to cry again.

  He’d be out there, caught in the rain. He could catch his death, and serve him right. But then her baby would never know its father. So in that respect the little mite would be like her, although not quite; Evelyn had been twelve years old when the telegram had come about her Da, “Missing in action, presumed killed,” so she always felt that she should have kept hold of something more of her father to remember than the slow-moving, silent figure she hardly dared speak to. Over the years she tried to forget how the rasp of his boots in the yard and the click of the back door latch struck terror into her. She tried to forget his cruelties, a savage clip round the head or a snarled remark, and also his drunken rages when it was positively dangerous to be around him. She preferred to imagine that he might have come back from the War changed somehow, kind and smiling. She was careful to remember him only from the telegram, a few photos, and four postcards sent from the Belgian front.

  She leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed. Suppose Stan did die and their baby grew up without him. There wouldn’t be much difference, in the end. It didn’t matter whether your Da got a chill on the lungs after a soaking, or laid down his life in the Great War, he was dead and gone just the same. You wouldn’t know his voice. You wouldn’t be able to tell the back of his head in a crowd. You’d never know if he might have been the best father in the world. Whether his name was among The Fallen on the War Memorial or not, you’d just go without.

  I should go to bed, Evelyn thought, blinking. Sometimes it felt as if her eyelids didn’t keep the light out anymore. When she closed them, fireworks started going off across the insides, dots bursting in the blackness. It sounded pretty put like that, coloured stars on the insides of your eyes, but it wasn’t. It could be hard to get to sleep with lights pricking away all the time, popping off like at work, fancy lights flashing all night long. Some of the other girls at Brightaglow said it happened, some people got the flashing lights and some didn’t, but it went after a bit. It hadn’t bothered Daphne past her first three weeks, after all. She would just have to stop going on about it.

  When she woke in her chair, the broadcast had finished and the wireless was crackling. The sound, like a match put to paper and kindling, had sent her into a half-dream that she was lighting a fire. Her eyes were watering now at the fading firelight, and she closed them again. When the stinging subsided, she read the clock. It was gone eleven and the fire had burned down to a few coals. The only other light in the room was coming off the wireless dial, dull and cool and greenish, as if from shining from under water.

  She should have given herself an early night instead of waiting up on the off-chance Stan would drop in. He’d feel bad about tonight when he stopped to think about it. After all, they were getting married. He’d agreed.

  Evelyn went to the kitchen to put the kettle on in the dark for her hot water bottle, and stood thinking her sad thoughts in the soft blue light from the gas. She had turned the gas off and was filling the bottle before it occurred to her it was foolish not to have put a light on. But she managed it fine, as easily as if she could see. She smiled. It was like Mam often said about this little chore or that, turning the heel on a sock or crimping the edge of the pastry on one of her famous meat and potato pies, Oh, I could do it blindfold.

  Evelyn got the stopper on and stood for a while, pressing the bottle against her stomach.

  The earthy aroma of warmed stone and the smells of damp brushes under the sink, burnt matches and potato peelings and gas were as familiar to Evelyn as the back of her own hand. She could breathe those smells anywhere and she’d be straight back in Mam’s kitchen, but nevertheless tonight she felt a bit lost. It definitely did make you a bit nervy and weepy, being in the family way, she thought. She tiptoed upstairs, avoiding the creaky spots. As soon as she was in her bed with her feet on her bottle, she would feel as right as rain.

  Dear Ruth

  Is it going to be sad all the way through, this story?

  I remembered something. You had some poem about mimosa. Where would that be lurking?

  Tried to unearth it but no sign of it in any of the boxes of books or papers. Though would I know it for what it was, if I found it? Occurred to me I might not be clear about what I was looking for.

  Instead, found heaps of stuff from Overdale! Ruth, was it at Overdale you told me about mimosa?

  Later

  Been looking further, still no sign.

  Maybe you took it with you somehow. That’s how it seems. Plus you took away a lot of words on other subjects as well.

  Excuse scrawl, light poor, bulb dead.

  Legs giving trouble.

  Arthur

  I’d done it before, watched from an upstairs window as someone left, and then waited on long enough afterward to feel a reverberating absence imprison me like a circle of spears. But that April evening I was a grown-up married woman, who had struck and killed another human being, so the parallel was a surface similarity only. In fact it wasn’t the same kind of situation at all.

  I was six the night the man I knew as my great-uncle left. He stalked out in a riot of hurled missiles, insults, and breaking glass, leaving a trail of strewn belongings and wrapped presents that shed their bright ribbons and paper across the snow. It was Christmas Eve of 1962. Whenever my mother talked about it, she made a great deal of that. Christmas bloody Eve, can you believe it, Christmas bloody Eve, she would say, as if he had chosen the moment so that particular and perpetual outrage at his sense of timing would stain the day forever, obliging her to rename it. She forgot that he didn’t choose it at all, and he wasn’t around after that to correct he
r, but left because she threw him out. Not literally, for he was a foot taller than she was and strong, even at his age; what she actually threw (as well as the Christmas presents he had shown up with), straight through the windows of the confectioner’s and tobacconist’s corner shop that he owned and my mother ran, were several glass jars of sweets from the shelves behind the counter, some clothes and shoes, two ashtrays and a lighter, a radio, a suitcase, a set of hairbrushes, and a collection of cigarette cards in a biscuit tin. If she could have lifted the cash register, that would have gone, too.

  The part I don’t remember is before. He must have turned up very late; the shop was long since shut and my grandmother and I had gone to bed. I remember my intention to stay awake to see Santa Claus. I remember staring at my bedroom door but I don’t remember seeing it open. Would I, sleepily, in the dark, have mistaken one for the other? Would I have not known the wondrous, real Santa Claus from my great-uncle with his nicotine breath and damp lips, guiding my hand and whispering that maybe he had a sweetie for a good little girl in his pocket?

  I don’t remember anything until I heard weeping and shouting and the stumbling of feet on the stairs. My room on the top floor had only a skylight facing the back so I scrambled out of bed and raced down to the window of the sitting room directly over the shop, overlooking the empty pavement. More snow had fallen. The surrounding buildings were dark and the crossroads of Coster Street and Station Road were deserted. Below I heard the frantic clang of the shop bell and then my mother and uncle lurched out onto the white street, stage-lit from the open door, their voices ringing off the snow.

  She must have attacked first. Already he had dragged her blouse and sweater off one shoulder and was on the retreat, holding a hand to his nose. She waded after him, arms swinging, screaming On Christmas bloody Eve!, and cracked him over one ear. He roared, grabbed her hair, and slapped her, pulling her down, and as she screeched and fell she kicked at him and he fell, too. They staggered to their feet and went at each other again, arms and legs flailing; the elongated blue swords of their shadows clashed twenty feet across the snow and up the walls opposite in crisscross mimicry of the duel. Blood appeared from somewhere-his nose, her lip? not much, a few dark drops spattering the white-and maybe it was the sight of that or fear of where it could end that brought them both to a standstill, panting and soaked and staring at each other as clumps of snow dripped off them. Then from my mother came a long, low wailing that rose in pitch until her voice broke into sobs. She turned back to the shop, slamming the door.