In The Dark

  The train clanked along at a walking pace. Where he sat, Ralph was on a level with the chimneypots. It was odd, seeing his neighbourhood from this perspective. It separated his new life from the past. He had lived in Palmerston Road since he was six but from this angle it took him a moment to get his bearings.

  The train jolted past the roof of the Mitre public house, the words along its pediment, TRUMAN AND HANBURY FINE ALES AND STOUT, slap-up close and peeling. It jolted past the back of his street, the soot-blackened rears of the houses that from the front were so familiar. The back yards became smaller as the viaduct curved round, to cut off the terrace at the bridge. Ralph could see his own house at the end, looming through the smoke. There was no sign of life. Boyce’s windowsill was still spattered with white, where the pigeons used to wait for their food. Below was Alwyne’s window and below that his own. Further below, deep in the depths, was the brick extension that housed the bathroom, its blind down, and below that, out of sight, the yard and Winnie’s window. And then it was gone.

  The train picked up speed. The sky darkened as it travelled through the suburbs, through Lewisham and Hither Green. It started to rain. Ralph felt strange, to be here on a normal Monday morning while his fellow students were toiling over their exams.

  He thought: I should have spent more time playing with Lettie.

  *

  The train arrived at Dover Priory at a quarter to three. Ralph alighted and stood on the platform. He wished the journey had gone on for ever. Now he was here he felt his courage drain away. If only he had someone with him, who was doing the same thing! He had a stomach ache, a sure sign of nerves.

  Ralph walked to the front of the train, past the engine belching smoke, and made his way towards the exit. On the next platform lay a row of soldiers on stretchers. A woman stood there, with a child. She handed the child an orange, to give to one of the injured men, but the little boy hid his face in her skirt. She bent down and gave it to the man herself. Ralph saw a bandaged hand rising from the blanket.

  Ralph turned away, quickly. He asked the ticket collector the way to the recruiting office.

  ‘Down the road and turn right, sonny,’ said the man. ‘Past the post office on Portcullis Street, you can’t miss it.’ He didn’t bat an eyelid.

  Ralph walked out into the rain. He wished he had an umbrella but that would make him look a sissy. Men signing up wouldn’t carry an umbrella, would they?

  He could still turn round and go home. He had the money for the fare. He could go home and nobody would be the wiser. But then he would have to walk past all the casualties. Some of them had bandages over their eyes.

  Ralph walked down the road, ducking under the shop awnings. He suddenly remembered being happy. It was the first winter of the war, in the snow, and he was queueing outside Mr Jones’s dairy. Word had got around that some butter had arrived. Ralph’s father was still alive, fighting for his country, and Ralph was helping his mother. Other boys were queuing for their mothers too; he knew several of them from school. All at once they scraped up the snow and threw snowballs at each other. The organ grinder had still been around, then. He had been playing Hello? Hello? Who’s Your Lady Friend?

  How simple it had been, in those days! Freezing cold, Ralph had been, and hungry. But happy. One stray shell had shattered that. One shell and his father was gone for ever, Ralph had to grow up without him, for ever. One shell, or one shot, or whatever it was, nobody would ever know, and Mr Turk had installed himself with his thick legs and his tight trousers and his disgusting animal practices; no, worse than an animal. Much, much worse.

  Don’t think about it. Ralph tried to concentrate on the present moment. His father had joined the Middlesex Regiment but there was no chance of himself following in his footsteps, not now he was in Kent. Besides, the whole enlistment business had become something of a free-for-all nowadays; Alwyne said it had all broken down, due to the high turnover. Ralph would have to take pot luck. But whichever regiment he joined, his new life would be waiting for him. Comrades-in-arms! A marching band! There would be basic training, and then they’d be off to France.

  Sodden by the rain, Ralph walked past the post office, past the Temperance Hall, and arrived at a brick building. TERRITORIAL ARMY was carved in stone above the door. The steps were scattered with cigarette stubs. A board, propped on a stand, said RECRUITING OFFICE.

  Ralph had an urgent need to go to the lavatory. Indoors, it was so dark that he had to pause for a moment, to adjust his eyes to the gloom. He could make out a lady, sitting at a desk. He asked her the way to the recruiting office and she pointed to a door.

  If only his mother could see him now! For he was boldly opening the door and walking into a room. His bowels were churning but that was a trifling matter, considering what he would have to face when he was a soldier.

  He found himself in a drill-hall, dimly lit by a skylight. There were no queues of young men; in fact there didn’t seem to be anybody there at all except a sergeant, sitting at a table. He looked up from his newspaper.

  ‘Good afternoon, young man,’ he said. ‘And what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ve come to join up, sir,’ said Ralph.

  The man looked at him. ‘You have, have you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ralph waited for him to ask for his name.

  ‘And how old might you be, my boy?’

  ‘Eighteen, sir. My name is Ralph John Clay.’

  The man cocked his head, inspecting Ralph. ‘You brought your birth certificate?’

  ‘No.’

  The fellow gazed at him for a moment. He seemed mildly amused. ‘Come back in a couple of years, sonny.’

  ‘But I am eighteen!’

  ‘Let’s have a dekko at that birth certificate then.’

  He wasn’t unfriendly. He just smirked, as if he had seen it all before. Ralph stood there for a moment but the interview seemed to be over.

  ‘Can I go to the lavatory?’ he asked.

  *

  Lettie was waiting outside the Mitre. She was sheltering from the rain in the doorway of the public bar. Winnie, returning home with the shopping, saw her before she recognised her – a little girl wearing battered boots, her petticoat drooping below her skirt, her shawl tight around her shoulders. Her father would be inside. Every so often, nowadays, Mr Spooner would slip out of the house, Lettie trotting beside him, and disappear into the Mitre where he drank himself into a stupor and had to be helped home.

  ‘Hello, Brutus.’ Lettie patted the sodden dog. Winnie gave her a toffee. She felt sorry for the poor mite. Lettie’s two brothers had died, as infants, of the whooping cough. What a burden it was for a girl her age, to take on the sole responsibility for her father, drunk and sober! Lettie had no school, she had no friends. Why didn’t her father just pull himself together? Didn’t the man have any consideration? It was a welcome sign of recovery, of course, to get out of bed, but did he really have to get drunk in the process?

  Winnie’s temper was short that day, but she was upset. Elsie’s condition had come as something of a shock. Winnie had been to visit her in the hospital and for a moment she hadn’t been able to recognise her friend. She had told Alwyne about it but he had taken the opportunity to give her a lecture on the iniquities of war. All she had wanted was for him to put his arms around her.

  Winnie trudged home. There was no dinner to cook that day; both Mr and Mrs Turk were out, and Ralph was at the college doing his exam. She let herself into the kitchen.

  Alwyne was fumbling around, searching for something to eat. The lodgers were supposed to make their own arrangements at lunchtime but Alwyne always knew, with some sixth sense, when the coast was clear.

  Winnie dumped the shopping basket on the table.

  ‘Did you go into my room yesterday?’ she asked, shaking her umbrella.

  ‘No,’ said Alwyne, surprised. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘My bedspread was all pulled about, as if somebody had been lying on it.’

  ‘My dear gi
rl, I would do no such thing. Why would I lie in your bed without you being in it?’

  Winnie was gratified by this sign of his affection. Theirs was such a curious union that she had no idea on whose side the obligation lay, let alone anything resembling love. That it took place under cover of darkness, in conditions of the utmost secrecy, disconnected it from the realities of life. During the day it was hard to believe it had happened at all – indeed, had been happening several times a week for the past two months.

  Yet sometimes she felt that the truth lay the other way round. That the only moment she came alive was when Alwyne lay beside her, stroking her arms and murmuring into her hair. She was desirable! She inflamed a grown man’s passion! He was starting to learn what pleased her. Even more gratifyingly, she was pleasing him. She was putting this broken man to rights, like a shattered vase.

  Not only was she serving him, of course, she was serving her country. War had a heady effect on women; Winnie had seen plenty of evidence of this over the past four years. The gin palaces around the railway stations swarmed with girls only too willing to perform their patriotic duty. Even respectable women melted at the sight of a uniform. Who cared about virtue when in a few days the poor fellow might be dead? When everyone might be dead.

  ‘Shall I make you some bread and dripping?’ asked Winnie.

  ‘Come here.’ Alwyne’s arms waved in the air, seeking her. They reminded her of a sea anemone, waving its tentacles for the touch of a passing victim. She had seen them in the rock pools at Ramsgate.

  Winnie touched his hand. It closed over hers. Alwyne drew her down to sit beside him.

  ‘I hope Ralph passes his exam,’ she said.

  ‘Let’s forget Ralph.’

  ‘I wish he had more friends. I don’t think Mrs Turk should’ve kept him apart from the other boys. She thought he was too good for them.’

  Alwyne’s hand was stealing up her skirt. ‘Mrs Turk has always had ideas above her station,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you sound the snob! And I thought you were a communist.’ Winnie chuckled; his fingers were tickling her. ‘I’ll bet you come from the gentry, for all your talk.’

  ‘It’s irrelevant, my dear. Only this need concern us.’ He slid his fingers inside her knickers. ‘There’s no politics in a pussy, thank God.’

  Alwyne was fumbling with his trousers when they heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Winnie sprang back and smoothed down her skirt.

  Mrs O’Malley came into the kitchen. The old lady looked surprised. ‘I had the impression that everybody was out,’ she said.

  She, too, had been sneaking down for some food. Winnie recovered her breath. ‘Shall I make you some bread and dripping, dear?’ she asked.

  *

  Ralph sat in a pub down by the docks. He had drunk two half-pints of Bass; though considered too young to die for his country, it seemed he was old enough to drink its beer. He had also managed to smoke a cigarette without making a spectacle of himself. A pianola sat beside him. It was playing Burlington Bertie all by itself, the keys rising and falling.

  I’m Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten-thirty

  And reach Kempton Park around three …

  Ralph considered his options. He could join the navy in the time-honoured role of a stowaway, and never be seen again. He could stumble off into the countryside and find Winnie’s village – her family lived somewhere in Kent, he wished he had asked her more questions about it. Once there, wherever it was, he could hunker down in Dulcie’s abandoned stable and wait it out, whatever it happened to be. Or he could go home.

  The pub was filled with smoke and noise. He couldn’t help noticing that nearly every fellow except himself was wearing uniform. Most of them were sailors. They all looked like full-grown men who shaved every day.

  I’m Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten-thirty

  And saunter along like a toff.

  It was Boyce’s favourite song.

  I walk down the Strand with my gloves on my hand

  Then I walk down again with them off.

  The keys rose and fell, played by ghostly fingers. When he was little Ralph had found the pianola a terrifying instrument. He thought it was played by a dead person.

  The Prince of Wales’ brother along with some other

  Slaps me on the back and says ‘Come and see Mother.’

  Maybe Boyce wasn’t dead! Maybe he had been there on the platform, lying on a stretcher and raising his arm to catch Ralph’s attention!

  ‘Feeling lonely, love?’

  Ralph swung round. A young woman had seated herself next to him.

  ‘Not really,’ he said.

  ‘You look like you could do with some company.’

  She wasn’t much older than him. There was nothing youthful about her face, however.

  ‘You going to buy a girl a drink then?’

  Oh heavens, how much would it cost?

  ‘What would you like?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to a glass of sherry.’ She flashed a smile at him, shifting restlessly in her seat, her eyes flickering around the room. He had to admit that she was quite pretty. She had brown curls and a felt hat covered with badges.

  Ralph made his way to the bar. As he waited to be served he sensed the girl’s impatience across the room. It reminded him of the lodgers, smelling meat frying in the kitchen. At last the bar-lady noticed him and poured him a glass of sherry. It cost ninepence. He carried it carefully, so it didn’t spill, and sat down beside her again.

  ‘What’s your name then?’ she asked.

  ‘Ralph.’ He didn’t tell her his surname. Some instinct stopped him.

  ‘I’m Jenny,’ she said, ‘Jenny Wren.’ She giggled. Was it supposed to be some kind of joke? She raised her glass. ‘Bottoms up.’

  She wore a bright green dress and feather boa. Ralph had a grave suspicion that she was a prostitute. He wasn’t stupid. Several of them plied their trade around the pubs in his own neighbourhood. Though alarmed, he also felt a stirring of excitement. What would his mother think of him now?

  ‘You signed up yet, love?’ she asked.

  Ralph shook his head. ‘I’m going there tomorrow,’ he lied.

  ‘Good boy.’ Not only was her hat covered in badges; more regimental badges and buttons were sewn on the bodice of her dress. When she moved, they winked in the gaslight. Ralph couldn’t help noticing, with disappointment, that her chest was as flat as the first picture in the bust enlargement advertisement.

  ‘Army or navy?’ she asked, draining her glass. Goodness, was he going to have to buy her another one?

  ‘I’ll go where I’m most needed.’

  ‘That’s a brave lad,’ she said. She put her hand on his knee. The intention was unmistakable. ‘Want to spend a little time with me, dear? I have a special arrangement for those what’re going to fight.’

  Ralph got to his feet. ‘Actually, I think I’ll get an early night. Big day tomorrow. But thank you very much.’

  She shrugged. Thank goodness she wasn’t offended. In fact, her eyes were already darting around the room. ‘If you change your mind, you know where to find me,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Just ask for Jenny.’ She blew him a kiss and, flicking back her boa, made her way across the room, towards a group of soldiers.

  Ralph escaped into the street. Darkness had fallen; the wet cobblestones gleamed in the lamplight. It was a quarter to nine. He still had enough money for the fare home, if the last train hadn’t already gone.

  *

  Ralph’s carriage was crammed with soldiers, in boisterous spirits. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. He sat beside the window, his bag on his knee. One of the soldiers gave him a liquorice bootlace but otherwise they took no notice of him, for which he was grateful. Some of their uniforms were muddy. Ralph had heard about the lice; the question was, could they hop from body to body? He kept himself pressed against the window. The men sang lustily.

  ‘Three German officer
s crossed the line,

  Parlez-vous,

  Three German officers crossed the line,

  Parlez-vous,

  Three German officers crossed the line, fucked the women and drank the wine,

  Inky-pinky parlez vous!’

  The rude word gave Ralph a jolt. There were no ladies in the carriage to hear it, and the soldiers obviously thought Ralph man enough to take it in his stride. He knew what it meant, of course. Indeed, that evening he had come perilously close to the prospect itself. He had been propositioned by a female who, despite her childish years, must have performed the thing in question many times – maybe hundreds of times.

  Ralph nibbled a digestive biscuit. He wasn’t hungry, however. He felt feverish; his head felt swimmy. Perhaps he’d caught a cold, from getting soaked in the rain. Perhaps he had caught the influenza! Alwyne said people were falling like skittles. He said it didn’t only attack the weakest; it attacked strong young boys too. They got a fever and a pain in their legs and just collapsed. In a few hours they were dead.

  That would solve all my problems, though Ralph gloomily. Instead of being angry with him, his mother would be heartbroken. It would be just as tragic as dying in battle. In fact he could picture the deathbed scene, in all its pitiful detail, more easily than his death in action. There were so many different ways to die in a war, that was the problem, and he hadn’t chosen which one it would be. But all that was theoretical now.

  The songs were becoming ruder. Ralph, blushing, rummaged in his bag and took out Fletcher’s Guide to British Birds. He opened it and found the page for ‘Wren’. Jenny Wren wasn’t the prostitute’s real name, of course. She would have given herself a false one to put her parents off the scent, in case they came looking for her.