When they walked down the street and she took his arm they resembled a married couple. Ralph had grown tall enough to be a husband, and when he shouted at some boy whose ball had nearly hit them it was hard to remember that a mere whisper ago he had been that boy himself. This filled Eithne with both pride and sorrow. For Ralph took his responsibilities so seriously that sometimes she had the feeling that it was her son who was growing up too fast whilst her husband was trapped in time – trapped in a perpetual present of advance and retreat, a war game, a boys’ adventure, whose rules were as incomprehensible as cricket. Somebody had to win, of course, but it all seemed curiously pointless.
And while the men were away, life had moved on. Two years earlier Ralph had been a boy, with a piping treble voice. He had jumped up and down with excitement and urged his father to go and bash the Hun. He wanted to be proud of him, he wanted to show off to the other boys at school. Though Eithne’s feelings were mixed she, too, had been fired with a certain patriotic zeal. Somewhere, deep within her, she longed for her sweet and self-effacing husband to prove himself a man. The thought of him in uniform aroused her. Life was suddenly simple, thrillingly so: he would fight for her and save her from the Germans, he would return a hero, with flags waving and medals glinting on his chest, and she would swoon in his arms. It was as she dreamed a man and woman should be, when she was a girl. Transformed by his bravery, he would whisk her away from this dismal house and forge his way in the world, and they would be happy.
Besides, like everybody else she thought the war would soon be over. Not that the years would pass and her son’s voice would break; that he would reach the age of fourteen and a fuzz would appear on his upper lip and there would be no father at home to show him how to shave. That when his father returned, for a brief week’s leave, it would be somehow a disappointment. There were no altercations; time was too short for herself and Paul to slip back into their old ways. But for the same reason intimacy seemed to elude them. They seemed to be acting at marriage rather than living in it. He was neither a changed man, whom she had to get used to all over again, nor the old Paul with whom she was so familiar. He was inert, like a photograph of himself – a truthful approximation, but an approximation all the same. Eithne couldn’t get a grasp on him. He scarcely seemed to inhabit the house; with him there, it felt like a waiting room.
When Paul departed, at the end of his leave, she had felt a shameful sense of relief, that he could revert to the hero she had fabricated. Of course she was distressed, but not quite about this man. As she kissed him goodbye, she felt stagy. They had stood in the hallway, lost for words.
He turned to Ralph. ‘You look after your mother. She’s a good woman.’ He had never spoken like this in his life.
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’ Sir? There was a silence.
Ralph was too old to be hugged. Paul shook his hand. They were the same height now. Eithne noticed the similarity of their profiles – the beaky nose, the prominent Adam’s apple.
Only the dog behaved naturally. Scenting, beneath the cleaned and pressed uniform, the beloved human within, he jumped up and mounted his master’s leg.
‘Goodbye, old pal,’ said Paul, easing him off. Brutus gripped tighter. ‘Sorry, old chap, wrong gender.’ Paul put him down. ‘Wrong on all accounts.’
Ralph pulled the dog away and held him by his collar. There was another silence. Eithne suddenly remembered the mutton bones; she had left them boiling in a saucepan, for stock, and Winnie was out. Had they boiled dry? She was sure she could smell burning.
Distracted, she kissed her husband on the cheek and the next moment he was gone.
*
The fire had died down but Eithne didn’t have the energy to put on more coal. She sat there gazing at the rent books, the notebook of household accounts, the chits and receipts. They filled her with a panic-stricken torpor. The cat, Flossie, lay asleep on the greengrocer’s bills; she didn’t give a fig.
Outside, the grey day weighed down; it seemed unnaturally still, as if thunder were threatening. What was Ralph doing, up in his room? The boy spent too much time alone. There was no doubt that he missed his father but he seldom spoke of him. Neither of them did. Eithne, if she were truthful, sometimes forgot about her husband for days. The trouble was, he had been away for so long. Of course she felt guilty, that he was out there fighting for his country and yet he didn’t cross her mind for days at a time.
Today, however, Paul was in her thoughts. That was the strange thing. Maybe she had a presentiment that something was about to happen. For as she sat there, the world holding its breath, she heard the creak of a bicycle approaching. It was that quiet. She even heard the sound of it being laid, gently, against the railings.
It was only then that the dog started barking.
*
Ralph found his mother in the back room. She sat very still, as if she were a vessel whose contents would spill with the slightest movement.
‘There’s been some bad news, I’m afraid,’ she said.
Ralph sat down beside her. She took his hand.
‘It’s about your father,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have to be a very brave young man.’
Chapter One
1918
The mode of slaughtering sheep is perhaps as humane and expeditious a process as could be adopted to attain the objects sought: the animal being laid on its side in a sort of concrete stool, the butcher, while pressing the body with his knee, transfixes the throat near the angle of the jaw, passing his knife between the windpipe and bones of the neck; thus dividing the jugulars, carotids, and large vessels, the death being very rapid from such a haemorrhage.
Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management
Eithne was boiling potatoes when the kitchen window darkened. A man was descending the steps. He knocked on the basement door. Eithne wiped her brow with the back of her hand and hurried down the passage.
‘Goodness!’ she said. ‘The great man himself.’
Mr Turk, the butcher, filled the doorway. ‘Morning, Mrs Clay.’ He was in shadow, the great bulk of him. ‘Short-staffed today,’ he said. ‘And seeing I was passing.’
She moved aside to let him in; he seemed to presume it.
‘Brought your bit of neck,’ he said, putting a package on the table.
Eithne’s heart thumped. She knew why he had come to her house in person.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.
‘And what might you be sorry about?’
‘I was coming round tomorrow to settle up.’
Mr Turk leaned against the dresser and looked at her. ‘You don’t have to bother yourself about that.’
‘You’ve not come for the money?’
He shook his head. ‘As I said, I was passing.’
The ceiling felt lower, with Mr Turk in the room. He was a big man, built like a bull, with a florid complexion and thick black hair. It gleamed in the lamplight. Eithne had never seen the butcher out of his shop. It gave her a jolt; the same readjustment she had to make when, as a girl, she had seen her schoolteacher out of the classroom – playing tennis, in fact, in the Stockport Recreation Gardens.
‘I’ve just made a pot of tea,’ she said. ‘Or are you in a hurry?’
‘No hurry.’ Mr Turk pulled out a chair.
Eithne was sorry. It was laundry day, the busiest day of the week. She should be going upstairs to help Winnie with the sheets. However, she was in this man’s debt to an alarming degree. To the tune of one pound, fourteen shillings and sixpence, to be precise, and it was in her interests to keep him sweet.
Mr Turk stretched out his legs. He wore caramel-coloured trousers and a smart black waistcoat and jacket. His watch-chain winked as he reached for his cup.
‘Big place you’ve got,’ he said. ‘A lot of work, I dare say.’
Eithne nodded. ‘Keeps us busy.’
‘But good solid houses, good foundations. Known this street since I was a boy. You own the freehold?’
Start
led, Eithne shook her head. The question struck her as impertinent. Still, she felt obliged to answer. ‘My husband and I had rooms on the top floor. When the old lady died we took over the lease.’
‘Take a tip from me, Mrs Clay.’ He took a gulp of tea. ‘Get your hands on that freehold. Pawn your soul, if need be. Soon this war’ll be over and know what’ll happen then?’
Eithne shook her head.
‘There’ll be a housing famine,’ he said: ‘and know why?’
She shook her head again.
‘Because nothing’s been built for these past four years. And know what’ll happen then? Property prices’ll go through the roof.’ He grinned. ‘In a manner of speaking. If you need any advice, I could put a good man your way. Believe me, Mrs Clay, you’re sitting on a gold mine.’
‘Nothing I can do about it,’ she blurted out. ‘I’ve got no money! You know that perfectly well. I haven’t paid you for two months and I can’t come round tomorrow to settle up either.’
Startled, he looked at her. The sudden intimacy shocked them both. Neville Turk drew his hand across his moustache. In the silence they could hear the water bubbling.
Eithne tried to gather her wits. The man was confusing her but she’d had no call for that outburst. She dropped her gaze, and caught sight of his hand. ‘You poor thing!’ she said. ‘How did that happen?’
He looked at the scar. ‘Knife slipped. Lucky not to have lost a finger.’
‘It must be strange, cutting up dead animals all day.’
‘Stranger if they were alive.’
Eithne laughed. The butcher drew in his breath. Some of her hair had come down, she could feel it tickling her neck.
‘Must drain those potatoes,’ she said, ‘or they’ll be falling to bits.’
‘Can’t have that.’
‘No.’ She stood up. ‘You caught me on the hop.’
Eithne lifted the pan off the range. She felt his eyes on her as she walked out of the kitchen. In the scullery she hastily inspected herself in the mirror. She looked distrait, like a child who had lost her parents in a crowd. She tried to pin up her hair but gave up. If only Winnie would come downstairs!
In the kitchen the butcher pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll be off then,’ he said. ‘Let you get on.’
‘Yes.’
He stood up. ‘Your son in good health?’
She nodded.
‘Hard for a lad,’ he said.
Eithne nodded again. He put on his hat. She was seized by an urge to keep him there a moment longer, to feel again that thrum of intimacy.
‘A new lodger’s moved in,’ she said. ‘He’s blind.’
‘Blind, eh?’
‘He was gassed. The poor man. I have to tell him, at dinner, what he’s about to eat. Just so he knows.’ She laughed, shrilly. ‘In fact, with my cooking, they all need to know.’
Mr Turk raised his eyebrows. ‘That bad, are you?’
She had only meant it as a girlish sort of self-deprecation, to catch his interest. Rallying to her own defence, Eithne said: ‘Well, there’s nothing in the shops, is there? You queue for hours and when you get there it’s gone. And the quality’s so poor there’s nothing you can do to make it taste of anything. We had some sausages last week and they were so full of bread I didn’t know whether to spread them with mustard or marmalade.’
Even as she was speaking Eithne realised what she was saying, but it was too late. Her words had a will of their own. She clapped her hand to her mouth.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ She felt the blush spreading.
But Mr Turk was grinning. Head on one side, eyebrows raised, he watched her with amusement. ‘I knew you were a woman of taste,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’ll let you in on a secret.’ He leaned closer; she could smell his hair oil. ‘I’ve got some top quality bangers, sixty per cent pork, for my favourite customers. I’ll have them put aside. Tell your girl I said so.’
Eithne tried to be grateful, but she prickled with resentment. It was all his fault that she had made a fool of herself.
The butcher bowed his head and was gone. Eithne sat down at the table. She looked at the blood seeping through the parcel. How could the man have led her along like that? Yes, it was all his fault, for marching into her kitchen as if he owned it, for speaking to her with such presumptuous familiarity. It was no way for a tradesman to behave.
He had a carnation in his buttonhole, too, and stank of brilliantine. No doubt he was off to see some fancy woman, he looked the type. In future she would avoid his shop. In fact she would avoid the street altogether, and take the long way round. Winnie or Ralph could drop in the orders.
Even the thought of those two young people, blameless as they were, filled Eithne with irritation. If they had been here, none of this would have happened. And now her morning tasks were all at sixes and sevens and her poor maid was struggling with the laundry alone.
Eithne sat there, recovering her breath. How could her husband have left her like this? She was all alone, with a houseful of people dependent on her. The responsibility weighed her down. Paul had had his shortcomings, but in his own way he had looked after her. She missed his warm body in her bed, and now two years had passed and his very face was beginning to lose definition. She had to resort to his photograph to remember what he looked like.
Eithne’s eyes moistened. This alarmed her; she wasn’t one of those frilly creatures who sobbed at the slightest opportunity. In fact she despised women of that sort. But the world was cruel, horribly cruel. Paul himself used to suffer on behalf of its victims. Once she had found a slug in the kitchen – a large black slug. It must have slid in under the door. Disgusted, she had thrown it into the back yard and sprinkled it with salt. Paul had been deeply upset. He had gazed at the slug which was bubbling and dissolving in front of their eyes. ‘How could you?’ he had cried. ‘Look at its suffering. It’s dying a horrible death, it’s drowning in its own mucus.’
Several of the lads have suffered with the mustard gas, he had written in his last letter. But we have our trusty respirators, the design is much improved now, and last week they issued us with steel helmets. I had grown attached to my cap, which has been my companion for two years, but it’s not much use of course if things get sticky. So, like the snail, we now wear our ‘Battle Bowlers’ and it’s done a world of good for the old morale. My love to you and our dear boy.
On the floor, a trail of slime glistened in the lamplight. Two trails, in fact; they criss-crossed near the dresser. Those dratted slugs.
*
‘Describe them to me,’ said the blind lodger.
‘Who, sir?’
‘The people in this house. What do they look like?’
Winnie was bent over Mr Flyte’s bed, pulling off the sheets. He sat by the window, his face in shadow, but he appeared to be looking at her. His face was turned in her direction.
‘Well, the room above you belongs to Mr Argyle, but he’s not there.’
‘I gathered that. Never heard a dicky-bird.’
‘He’s missing in action.’
‘Ah.’
‘But Mrs Clay has kept the room for him.’
Winnie pulled off the sheet and bundled it into her arms.
‘Then next to him, on the top floor, there’s the Spooners. That’s Mr and Mrs Spooner and their daughter Lettie. They keep themselves to themselves. Mrs Spooner drives an omnibus but Mr Spooner stays in his room.’
‘Why?’
Winnie dumped the sheet by the door. ‘He’s not too well, sir. Lettie looks after him, she’s ten years old, she’s a treasure.’
‘What do they look like?’
‘I don’t know really. Mrs Spooner has brownish hair. The little girl takes after her.’ Winnie unbuttoned the pillowcase.
‘And what about the old lady next to me? In the front room?’
‘That’s Mrs O’Malley. She’s been here for ever.’
‘What’s she look like?’
Winnie pulled out the pillow. ?
??I don’t know. Old.’
‘You’re not doing very well.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Don’t call me sir.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Call me Alwyne. I call you Winnie, you should call me Alwyne.’
Winnie’s mouth fell open. It was fortunate that he couldn’t see her face.
‘All right, sir – I mean …’ She stopped, blushing.
‘Does that make you feel awkward?’
A train rattled past. On this floor, the railway line was level with the window. Winnie looked longingly at the flash of faces. How happy they were in their carriages, and now gone in a trice! She wished Mrs Clay would come upstairs and rescue her. What was her mistress doing, down in the kitchen?
Mr Flyte lit a cigarette. The room stank from his smoking but Winnie supposed he had few enough pleasures left. The trouble was, if you opened the windows on this side of the house the smuts blew in.
‘And what about our landlady, Mrs Clay?’
‘Oh, she’s very handsome.’ Winnie’s voice warmed. ‘I think she’s beautiful. So does everyone. She’s tall, with brown hair –’
‘Not brown hair again.’
‘But hers has got red in it. You can see it in the lamplight. She turns heads in the street, it’s the way she holds herself with her skirt swinging. She’s got a lovely green skirt with braid round the bottom.’
‘Well done, that’s better.’
‘And her green hat with the guinea-fowl feathers.’
Mr Flyte blew out a plume of smoke. ‘And is she a good employer?’
‘Oh yes.’ Winnie stifled the sir. It felt as if her tongue had been amputated. ‘She treats me very well.’ Winnie was a loyal young woman; she wasn’t going to mention Mrs Clay’s moodiness in front of this man even if he was a war hero. Besides, she loved her mistress. Their mutual dependency meant the world to her. ‘Of course it’s hard for Mrs Clay, with her husband dead.’
‘Terrible, isn’t it.’
Winnie nodded. ‘All those young men being killed for nothing. They’re out there fighting and we’ve stopped believing in it and nobody’s told them and they’re going on dying.’