In The Dark

  Alwyne shrugged. ‘When they introduced conscription I decided to get out. So I came to London, where nobody knew me, and passed myself off as blind. With remarkable success, as it happens. It’s not easy, you know. In fact, the whole thing has been the most enormous strain.’

  ‘What about us?’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘How could you do this to us? Lying to us all this time?’ Ralph heard his voice rise, squeakily. ‘We’ve been ever so kind to you.’

  ‘And I’m ever so grateful, young man.’ He blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘In fact, it seems to have brought out the best in everybody. I’ve encountered nothing but kindness, in all directions. It’s been quite an eye-opener, if you’ll pardon the expression. In some ways I’ve rather enjoyed the experience.’

  ‘Enjoyed it?’

  ‘What harm have I done?’

  ‘You’ve lied to people. You’ve avoided fighting.’

  Alwyne’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’m not the only one to have done that, dear boy. Look no further than these four walls.’

  ‘You could have become a conchy.’

  ‘And have some nasty little female shove a feather in my face? A lady who, I dare say, has faced no graver emergency than a ladder in her stocking?’ His ash dropped on to the carpet. ‘Besides, I’ve had my work to do.’

  ‘What work?’

  ‘I’m writing a history of the twentieth century.’

  Ralph looked at him in surprise. ‘But it’s hardly started.’

  ‘That’s no obstacle for a man of vision.’ Alwyne chuckled. ‘Blind men are known for their sixth sense.’

  ‘But you’re not blind.’

  ‘No. I can see particularly clearly. Which is more than can be said for our so-called leaders.’

  Despite himself, Ralph was curious. ‘So what’s going to happen, then?’

  ‘Ah. You’ll have to read my book.’

  ‘How far have you got?’

  Alwyne didn’t reply.

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Page fifteen.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  Alwyne tapped his head. ‘It’s all in here.’

  ‘You’re very slow, considering you’ve got nothing else to do.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent!’ Alwyne snapped.

  ‘Go on then. Tell me.’

  Alwyne sighed. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘I’m not a baby!’ said Ralph. ‘I’m nearly seventeen.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Ralph had a strong desire to tell Alwyne about Jenny Wren but he bit it back. He was supposed to be attacking the man, not confiding in him. Outside, a train rattled past.

  ‘All right then.’ Alwyne tossed his cigarette into the fireplace. ‘I’ll put it in the simplest terms. This war is going to leave Europe in chaos. Reason, beauty and obedience will be obliterated. The ruling classes will be overturned by a series of bloody revolutions, economies will collapse, and what started out as a takeover by the people will succumb to the siren call of the dictator.’

  Ralph gazed at him. ‘How did you do that thing with your eyes? Did it make them ache?’

  ‘You mean this?’ Alwyne’s eyeballs flickered, his pupils rolled upwards. ‘Bloody agony. That’s why I wear spectacles.’ He added, with pride, ‘I painted them black myself.’

  Eyes, Ralph knew, were the windows to the soul. Now Alwyne had opened the shutters, Ralph had to admit that the man looked more twinkling and humorous. More human. Ralph, however, refused to succumb to the fellow’s charm. He said: ‘It’s horrible, what you did.’

  ‘Have you told anybody?’ asked Alywne.

  ‘Only Winnie.’

  Alwyne paused. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘She’s ever so upset.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ralph said: ‘I expect she feels the same as me.’

  Alwyne didn’t reply.

  They sat there in silence. Through the wall, the clock chimed three.

  Somebody sneezed. Ralph and Alwyne jumped. The sound came from under the bed.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said Ralph.

  There was a pause, then a scuffling sound.

  Lettie emerged.

  They stared at her. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Ralph.

  ‘Looking at your magazines,’ she said.

  ‘My magazines?’

  ‘I like the ladies,’ said Lettie. ‘I like their dresses.’ She stood up and dusted down her pinafore.

  ‘Do you do this often?’ asked Ralph.

  Lettie nodded. ‘When you’re out.’

  Alwyne was gazing at her: ‘Have you heard what we’ve been talking about?’

  Lettie nodded. ‘I knew anyway.’

  ‘You knew?’ said Alwyne.

  Lettie looked at him without curiosity. ‘Of course. Anyone could tell.’

  Flossie had come into the room. Lettie bent down and stroked her.

  ‘Have you told anybody?’ asked Alwyne.

  Lettie shook her head, her matted pigtails swinging.

  ‘Let’s keep it to ourselves, shall we?’ he said. ‘Mum’s the word.’

  Lettie nodded, without interest. Alwyne’s faked blindness was no odder than everything else in her life. She left; her footsteps pattering up the stairs.

  They sat there for a moment. Downstairs the grandfather clock struck three. It was slowing down. Ralph should have wound it two days ago. He always wound it on the Monday, it was one of his jobs. Everything seemed to be sliding out of control.

  Alwyne turned to him. ‘The same goes for you, old chap.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t tell anybody, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Why? Because they’ll put me in prison. Or send me to the Front.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t you go? Why are you so special?’

  ‘We’re all special. That’s what’s so terrible, don’t you see?’ He shifted, impatiently. ‘You have no idea, have you?’

  My father was special, thought Ralph. He was special to me. ‘Why should there be one law for you and another for everybody else?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I’ve got more brains.’

  ‘You’re just a coward.’

  Alwyne glared at him. ‘Do you really want to know what happens there?’

  ‘How do you know? You haven’t been.’

  ‘I know, my friend. Trust me.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘There’s young men dying in their thousands, men who had lives to look forward to, and dreams, and unborn babies who’ll never be born now; and know how they’re dying? With their guts spilling out in the mud and their faces blasted away –’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘You really wish that on me?’

  ‘It’s not like that! It’s noble and brave –’

  ‘Don’t be a fool –’

  ‘My father said they played football –’

  ‘Your father lied! And you call me a liar?’ Alwyne’s voice rose. ‘It’s blood and guts and men drowning in the mud, coughing up their lungs. It’s men drowning in excrement, in shit, and crying for their mothers with what remains of their mouths –’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘It’s men with their arms blown off taking three days to die in a shell hole filled with the flesh of their friends –’

  Ralph leapt up and rushed out of the room.

  He pounded down the stairs, two at a time. He needed Winnie. She was the only person who could comfort him now. Winnie was so strong, so solid. He could press his face against her apron and let the tears fall.

  Ralph stumbled down the stairs, into the kitchen. It was empty. The bloater lay on the table.

  ‘Winnie?’

  Silence.

  Ralph hurried along the passage and tapped at Winnie’s door. There was no answer.

  He opened it. She wasn’t there.

  Ralph looked around. The crucifix was gone from the wall. Her small, cardboard suitcase had disappeared from the top of
the wardrobe.

  He opened the door of the wardrobe. It was empty.

  Chapter Nine

  To The Editor,

  Sir, as I was going over the top last week I distinctly heard the call of the cuckoo. I claim to be the first to have heard it this spring, and should like to know if any of your readers can assert that they heard it before me,

  I am, sir, yours faithfully, A ‘Lover of Nature’.

  To The Editor,

  Sir, if you will kindly supply me with the name and address of your correspondent signing himself ‘A Lover of Nature’ I will guarantee that he will not love Nature any more; neither will he hear any more cuckoos. No, sir! Not this spring nor next or any other spring neither. Cuckoo indeed! I’ll learn ’im,

  Yours faithfully, ‘Fed Up’.

  The Wipers Times, Ypres, 1917

  At first Eithne was upset by Winnie’s disappearance. Then she grew angry. After all she had done for the girl. And leaving like that, without a word. It was hurtful, too, after all the years they had worked together, side by side. But then you never really knew, with servants. They lived with you, as close as family, but you could never really tell what went on in their minds. Stories of their cheating ways were two a penny. Eithne had trusted the girl with her life. Neville told her to check the valuables but, to her relief, she found nothing missing. But why hadn’t Winnie given in her notice, if she was unhappy? Or, indeed, collected the half-month’s wages she was owed? Eithne considered calling the police but the problem was she knew nothing about the girl, not even her surname. Winnie’s home village was somewhere in Kent but Eithne knew no more than this. Nor did Ralph, who had been on intimate terms with the maid since he was eleven years old.

  And then, three days later, a letter arrived. I am very sorry to give you trouble, it said. I had some bad news and I had to go away. Please forgive me. You have been very good to me and I think of you in my prayers. Please give my best wishes to Ralph for his future happiness. The darning is on the box by the copper. Winifred.

  It was a relief, of course, to know that the girl was unharmed. But what could be the bad news? It must be about her brother, the one who had gone to France.

  ‘That’s not the reason,’ said Ralph, putting down the letter. ‘She’s written that to save your feelings.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Eithne.

  Ralph looked at her. His face reddened. ‘I don’t think she’s been very happy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ever since … things changed here. I don’t think she liked it much.’

  Eithne’s heart sank. ‘But Neville’s been so kind. I mean, he said her standards left something to be desired but he was right. It was a credit to him that he didn’t sack her.’

  ‘She didn’t like him.’

  ‘That’s not true!’

  Ralph’s blush deepened. Eithne, eyes narrowed, looked at him. She knew him through and through; he was her son. ‘You’re just saying that to upset me.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s another reason. You know something, I know you do.’

  Ralph turned away and switched on the vacuum cleaner. Its roar drowned out any possibility of conversation.

  Eithne started clearing the breakfast dishes. Tempers were frayed that morning. Both she and Ralph were exhausted, and the day had hardly begun. First they had discovered that the range had gone out. The supply of kindling had been used up and nobody had thought to replenish it. The butter was finished because nobody had bought any more, and the margarine was scattered with mice droppings because it had been left out. The laundry basket was overflowing with dirty washing. And that was just the start of it. The whole house was gathering soot: it was breeding in the rooms, on the stairs, it was slowly but surely taking the place over. Winnie, where are you? wailed Eithne. Only now was she realising just how much work Winnie had done, unseen and unacknowledged; how much she, Eithne, had taken the girl for granted.

  And what messy eaters the lodgers were! She should excuse Alwyne, of course. He could hardly help scattering crumbs and ash on the floorcloth, but everything he touched he left sticky with jam – his cup handle, even his chair. The man might be blind, but couldn’t he manage to wipe his fingers?

  The noise of the vacuum cleaner ceased. Eithne heard Ralph swearing – a rude word too. She had no idea that he even knew it. Hurrying into the hall, she saw him staring at something on the hearthrug. Then the smell hit her.

  ‘I thought you’d taken out the dog,’ he said.

  ‘You said you would.’

  A stand-off followed this discovery. Eithne was the first to surrender. She went down to the scullery, to find the mop and bucket.

  Neville had engaged another maid. The girl was supposed to have started work the morning before but she hadn’t turned up. That was typical of servants these days. There was such a shortage that they could behave all high and mighty; a person had to grovel to persuade one to deign to do any work at all. Even charwomen, the lowest of the low, were getting hoity-toity. They were all making bombs at twelve shillings a week. And now it was Saturday, with no hope of any help until next week, at the earliest. As matters stood, there was little possibility of Ralph starting his new job; not for a while. He was needed in the house.

  What made Eithne sad, however, was the loss of their old closeness. Her little helper, her little trooper, had changed overnight into a croaky-voiced stranger with pimples on his chin and expletives coming out of his mouth. The reason for this could not entirely be laid at Neville’s door. It hadn’t been easy for the boy but that was no excuse for the shameful way he had let them all down.

  Eithne thought of the typewriter she had bought him, with such pride. A Remington typewriter, two guineas it had cost, the man said it would last a lifetime. It sat there in her wardrobe; she didn’t know what to do with it. She couldn’t bear to touch it. Or the bowler hat.

  Standing at the tap, Eithne remembered the hopes she had had for her dearest boy. Her darling. She slumped against the sink and wept.

  *

  Ralph sat in Alwyne’s room, drinking a bottle of beer. It was late. This was the first time Ralph had sat down all day.

  ‘I’m dog tired,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t seem fair, you sitting about all day getting flabby while I do the work.’

  ‘Well done, boy!’ said Alwyne. ‘Comrade Lenin would be proud of you.’

  ‘I didn’t mind, when I thought you were blind.’

  ‘There’s no justice in this world, and the sooner you learn that the better.’

  Alwyne was right. There was no justice in a world where his father got killed and Mr Turk stayed alive. Alive and rich.

  ‘I suppose your name isn’t Alwyne either.’

  Alwyne shook his head. ‘I think it’s rather distinguished, don’t you?’

  Ralph thought: We’re harbouring a criminal in the house. A flabby revolutionary with no papers, living under an assumed name. He felt a frisson of power.

  ‘I could tell the police,’ he said. ‘I could tell my mother.’

  ‘But you’re not going to do that, are you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because then you’d have it on your conscience.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s breaking the law.’

  ‘The law’s an ass,’ said Alwyne. ‘Besides, what good would my dying in a shell hole do you?’ He drained his bottle. ‘One less life in the world wouldn’t make a jot of difference to the scheme of things, whatever that scheme might be. Its meaning escapes me these days. It would, however, make more than a jot of difference to me.’

  ‘You just think about yourself.’

  ‘And who else is there for me to think about?’

  ‘Some people aren’t like that,’ said Ralph. ‘Winnie wasn’t. She thought about other people all the time.’ He missed her painfully.

  ‘Poor Winnie,’ Alwyne said. ‘I’m sorry about her.’

  ‘You’re the reason she left, you know.’
/>
  ‘What do you mean?’ Alwyne leaned forward in his chair. ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘It must have given her such a shock, that she’d been looking after you and all the time you were pretending.’

  ‘Ah.’ Alwyne slumped back. ‘Yes, it probably did.’

  Ralph drained his bottle. ‘After all, she did more for you than anyone else did.’

  Alwyne didn’t reply. He picked up a bottle. ‘Want another?’

  Ralph nodded. Alwyne cracked off its cap with the bottle-opener.

  Ralph said: ‘I told my mother it was because she hated Mr Turk.’

  ‘Wise boy.’ Alwyne passed him the bottle. ‘A spot of transference there, I believe.’

  ‘What’s transference?’

  ‘You’re the one who hates him.’

  ‘But you don’t like him either, do you?’

  Alwyne nodded. ‘He’s a tinpot little tyrant.’

  ‘I want to kill him,’ Ralph blurted out.

  ‘What good would that do? Look what happened to Hamlet.’

  ‘He’s changed my mother. She’s not the same person any more.’

  Alwyne tapped out a cigarette. ‘There’s one word for that, dear boy, and you don’t want to hear it.’

  Ralph’s mother and Mr Turk had long since gone to bed. Ralph could almost feel them through the floorboards. He put the bottle to his mouth and drank. His head swam.

  Ralph wiped his lips. ‘I’ve got a deal,’ he said. ‘If you kill him, I won’t tell anyone that you can see.’

  Alwyne paused, the match half-way to his cigarette. ‘What did you say?’

  Ralph took one of Alwyne’s cigarettes, lit it, and inhaled. For a moment he thought he was going to faint. ‘You could kill him,’ he said. ‘Nobody would suspect you.’

  Alwyne shrugged his shoulders. ‘I think you’ve gathered by now that I’m not a man of violence.’

  ‘Boyce would have done it. My father would have done it. They weren’t cowards.’

  ‘They were fools.’

  ‘They weren’t!’

  ‘Poor, misguided fools.’

  How could Alwyne say that? Ralph felt the tears well up. Alwyne mustn’t see! It had been so much easier when he was blind.