The Night Following (6 page)

Anything could happen. I went back to bed and stayed there, frightened of the purposeless way angles fill houses, frightened of all the minutes and hours of light that fill a single day, flaunting themselves, so brightly colored and jagged with risk, so available for the infliction of damage. I closed my eyes until it was dark.

When night came I got up. The moon reached in through the windows and painted luminous squares across the floors, lit the landing and stairs, laid a white path along the kitchen tiles to the back door. I went outside and kneeled on the ground. I was thinking of nothing, except to wonder if such emptiness of mind is felt by those about to be executed. Damp needles of cold pricked my legs and I pressed my palms down and stretched forward and rested my forehead on the grass, pushing it into the earth till my head was numb. May I not please also be dead? The mushroomy sop of the ground, an ancient, resurrected smell from deep below, seeped into me. I pressed my skull harder and harder into the gritty slide of soil and moss and worm cast, I tore up lumps of turf and rubbed them into my head, as if I could grate myself clean. I had to resist a desire to stuff my mouth with handfuls of mulch. I wanted the earth to soak in through my hair and skin and replace me, cell by cell, and if I couldn’t be replaced I wanted to disintegrate.

Of course, none of these things happened. The garden all around me trembled in the wind. If it had been daylight I might have panicked and run away, but the moon shone and so I stayed, and soon, from the shadows, differing shades of dark emerged and receded, revealing themselves as wavering shapes: soft pillowy mounds and clusters of improbable, irregular domes. After a while my eyes were able to judge more than the simple presence of the trees and shrubs. Under the moon they had become vessels for hoarded light. Around their floating penumbrae I perceived something of their daytime solidity and distance, yet they imposed themselves so gently on my sight, wearing their white haloes like ghosts hinting palely at previous selves. They were so benevolent and colorless. I couldn’t close my eyes against their beautiful absence of color.

The dark and the moonlight shimmered together; leaves hung as chill as the scent of the grass. I released my breath slowly. Again and again I ran my hands through the earth. Whatever might once have been buried here, and however long ago, and whether one night to be exhumed or not, to be seen again or never again uncovered, it all came to the same. All the uncountable particles once so fantastically joined up as to be living people were drawn to this end, reduced to one sodden compound with its familiar, equalizing, watery smell. Every glance and touch and hope, every driving beat that stabbed the heart when love failed, was atomized, finally. I thought of the woman’s body softening and darkening, all its fleshly dreams and shocks melting into some patch of cool degenerative earth solemnly breached and laid open to take her.

I covered my face with my hands and remained there, kneeling on the grass. Time tucked its head under its white wings; all the time in the world lay floating on the lake of the night. I could stay here undisturbed until daylight came bobbing at the edges, bright with malice.

27 Cardigan Avenue
Dear Ruth
Carole’s been again.
I let her in just for the sake of peace. Was going to show her the latest on letter writing front but realized in nick of time I couldn’t let her read the last one. I’m not especially enamored of the woman but there’s no need to hurt her feelings.
She seemed interested in my big cleanup of attic, drawers, cupboards etc. She did have to wade through a bit of stuff to get to a chair but even so I don’t think it’s quite her business to start picking papers up off the floor.
MY
papers off
MY
floor. Papers mainly yours in fact, a load of bumf looking like bits of poems, but you know what I mean. It’s the principle of it. Snatched them away from her before she could get a look-see.
She means well but how can anyone else have a clue what all this is like?
However, getting off the point. Which is—as I’m not up to a regular laundry day, finding myself short on socks and whatnot, I raided spare room and put on some of the new stuff. Can’t say it appeals, but it’s a criminal waste all that new cruise wear hanging about in there getting trodden and crumpled. You’ll remember I was forced to undo all your packing looking for pressure cooker. Of which still no sign, by the way.
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.

   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 color). 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 curb 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 meeting. 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.