In The Dark

  While the building work was in progress Neville planned to show her around the various hotels that were run by customers of his. You can pick up some tips, my love. For she was to become manageress of the Continental Hotel. No point in paying somebody else a salary. He would be on hand, while still running the butchery business. Eithne had rather expected to become a lady of leisure but Neville said that would come later, when the business was up and running, and in fact, once she became used to the idea, Eithne had started to look forward to it. It was the new thing for women to have careers; indeed, it was on this philosophy that their hotel would be built. Neville had promised her a full complement of staff. Already, he said, he had been making discreet enquiries amongst the disaffected waiters and housekeepers of the local establishments. Poaching was par for the course, apparently, in this sort of thing.

  Ralph’s role was already decided. He would pass his exams and help with the accounts. Not run them, of course; Neville had an accountant already, a Mr Postlethwaite, who was experienced in these matters. But her son would be trained up to become an essential member of their team. Eithne had every confidence in Ralph. After this minor hiccup he would knuckle under. And they would all live happily ever after, with potted palms in the lounge.

  Eithne’s spirits were restored. At supper Neville, too, was in high good humour. A Victory Banquet was being planned at the Lodge. Weeks of preparation were going into it and the chef of the Athenaeum club, a famous Frenchman, had been hired at considerable expense to prepare the dishes.

  ‘Cheese soufflé followed by truffles with foie gras,’ said Neville. ‘Followed by salmon aux fines herbes, and Aberdeen Angus beef supplied by yours truly.’

  Mayors from all the London boroughs would be attending, and local dignitaries – Neville amongst them, of course – with their lady wives. There would be speeches and celebrations.

  ‘It’ll beat the other ones into a cocked hat,’ said Neville.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be inviting the soldiers?’ asked Ralph.

  Neville turned. ‘What was that?’

  Ralph flushed. ‘Shouldn’t it be the soldiers having the dinner, not you?’

  ‘Ralph!’ hissed Eithne.

  They were sitting at the little table in the drawing room. Neville wiped his moustache with his napkin. ‘Plenty’s being done for them, my lad. In fact, I took back one of them myself only this week.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Eithne.

  ‘Gingery little chap called Archie.’

  ‘I remember him,’ said Eithne. ‘Always whistling. He used to deliver the meat.’

  Neville chuckled. ‘Couldn’t deliver it now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s got this jerky arm. It’d end up half-way down the street.’ Neville pushed back his chair. ‘Like this.’ He shook his arm, as if shaking water off himself. The dog barked. ‘I said to him this morning, you got a wasp up your sleeve?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s taking the mickey,’ said Eithne, laughing. ‘He was a little devil, if I remember.’

  *

  Neville had exaggerated, to make his wife laugh. But there was definitely something wrong with the boy. Butchery was out of the question. How could the fellow bone a shoulder of mutton with a hand that shook like a drunkard’s? He shouldn’t even be picking up a knife.

  Archie stammered his excuses. ‘It’s only in the one h-hand, sir, and I can feel when it’s coming on. Give me another chance, p-please.’

  Neville shook his head. ‘You should see a doctor.’ The boy was obviously suffering from some nervous disorder; he was as jumpy as a jack-rabbit.

  A week had passed. He had given Archie the more menial jobs – taking down the shutters in the morning, sweeping the floor and scattering fresh sawdust, fetching and carrying. He had even sent him on the occasional errand but the fellow took forever. Once Neville had spotted him standing under the railway bridge, trembling, as a train thundered overhead.

  Neville might have persevered because he was, indeed, short-staffed. However, there was something about the boy that made him uncomfortable. More to the point, his customers were made uncomfortable too. The chap hung around like a spectre at a feast. He always seemed to be standing in the wrong place, getting in the way. There was a gormless look to him – shifty eyes, sweaty pale face. All in all, he made folk uneasy. Neville ran a popular shop, filled with banter and flirtation; the ladies liked it. Archie was bad for business and would have to go.

  Neville broke the news when the shop was opening for the day. No customers had yet arrived. Archie stood there, blank-faced. Above him, legs and shoulders hung from their S-hooks.

  ‘You can collect your wages for the week,’ said Neville.

  Archie’s lip trembled. ‘W-what did you say?’

  ‘I said, you can take your wages. Nobody can say I’m not a generous man.’

  ‘You w-want me to go?’

  ‘Sorry, lad.’ Neville put his hand on his shoulder.

  Archie jumped, as if he had been hit. He shrank back and, pulling off his apron, stumbled out into the fog.

  Will and Ted, behind the counter, looked at each other and raised their eyebrows.

  *

  For the umpteenth time, Ralph was mulling over his initiation into manhood on Jenny Wren’s bed. Four months had passed since the event but it still had the power to thrill him. In fact it had grown more thrilling in retrospect – more intense, more gratifying for both parties and by now of a much longer duration. It had mutated into something on an epic scale. He wondered if he dared tell Alwyne about it, before the man left. The fellow would look at Ralph with quite different eyes.

  The fog was thick, a real pea-souper. Ralph was walking the dog back from the park. It was only five o’clock and already dark – raw and clammy, the street lamps the faintest glow, as if muffled in cotton wool. Vehicles crawled past, their headlights feeling their way through the fog.

  The old resentment flared up again. Ralph tried to work out how much money Jenny Wren must have made since his visit. Three men a night, say, at two pounds each. Ralph had reached Stage Three in his bookkeeping course; he ought to be able to do the sums.

  He was almost upon Archie before he saw him. Bundled up in a coat, the chap stood under a lamp. He was staring into space.

  ‘Hello there,’ said Ralph. He hadn’t seen Archie for two years, not since the delivery boy had enlisted and disappeared to the war. Archie didn’t notice him. He stood there, trembling in the cold.

  Ralph walked on. Maybe Jenny Wren had seen the light and forsworn her wicked ways. Perhaps his own visit had been a turning-point. His outburst of weeping, though embarrassing at the time, had affected her powerfully and she had put her life of shame behind her.

  Ralph let himself into the house. Upstairs, he found his mother all in a fluster. It was the night of the big dinner and her bedroom was strewn with clothes.

  ‘My moiré’s got a stain down the bust! Oh Winnie, I need you!’

  ‘I’ll help,’ said Ralph. He loved helping her dress.

  ‘You’ve got to do the suppers. There’s pickled herrings and some beetroot. Check on the bread. I couldn’t see any when I looked in the kitchen, Mrs O’Malley’s been on the prowl again.’

  ‘I saw Archie just now.’

  ‘Who?’ She pulled another dress out of the wardrobe.

  ‘Archie, the delivery boy. I don’t think he recognised me.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She stood in front of the mirror, holding the dress against herself. ‘Neville gave him the sack today.’

  ‘The sack?’

  ‘He said he shook all the time.’ She tilted her head sideways. ‘Could I wear my jet with this? Would it look as if I were going to a funeral?’

  Ralph went downstairs and started laying the table in the parlour. The front door opened and Alwyne arrived home.

  ‘Ah, it’s only you.’ Alwyne came into the room and took off his spectacles. ‘Couldn’t see a blind thing in that fog.’

  Ralph said:
‘I suppose it’ll be a relief, that you can stop that soon.’ He laid out the place-mats. ‘Except then you’ll have to start doing things for yourself.’

  Alwyne showed him a paper bag. ‘Bought myself some Chivers’s Old English Marmalade. Won’t have that, where I’m going.’

  This was to be Alwyne’s last supper. His belongings were packed. In the morning he was taking the train to the Continent. He still hadn’t told Ralph where he was going.

  Ralph fetched the cutlery from the sideboard. It was tarnished; nobody had polished it for weeks.

  He wanted to tell Alwyne that he would miss him, that nobody else seemed to listen to anything he said. His mother was too busy primping and preening; she hadn’t shown the slightest interest in Archie.

  Alwyne at least gave him his attention. Ralph told him about the delivery boy. ‘Cheeky bastard, wasn’t he,’ said Alwyne. ‘I remember seeing him bicycling down the street, staring at that mongol fellow. You remember him, lived with his mother and walked around holding her hand? Archie was laughing at him so hard he ran straight into a lamppost.’ Alwyne lit a cigarette. ‘Just like Charlie Chaplin. I had to try not to laugh too.’

  ‘That would have given the game away.’

  ‘It would, wouldn’t it,’ said Alwyne. ‘So he’s been fired, has he?’

  ‘They said he shook too much.’

  Alwyne nodded. ‘I saw him in the shop last week. Bugger’s suffering from the shell-shock. Could tell it a mile off.’

  ‘Shell-shock?’

  ‘Those poor boys,’ said Alwyne. ‘Somebody should be looking after them. Nobody gives a monkey’s.’

  Footsteps pattered down the stairs. Alwyne put on his spectacles. But it was only Lettie, coming for her final payment.

  Alwyne thanked her for playing fair. ‘At least one person’s honest,’ he said.

  *

  The Victory Dinner was over. Eithne was so stuffed with food she could hardly move. She took one last look at the banqueting hall – the crystal chandeliers, wreathed in cigar smoke; the milling mayors, their chains glinting.

  A flunkey gave them their coats. Eithne linked arms with Neville and they stepped out, into the night. Headlamps loomed through the fog as the motor cars arrived. Chauffeurs, as dim as ghosts, opened the doors.

  ‘We’ll have one of those fellows soon,’ said Neville. ‘Only a matter of time, my love.’

  Eithne thought: how could I have doubted him? How could I have doubted our life together? A little drunk, she clung to her husband’s arm as they walked towards their car.

  *

  Ralph and Alwyne were down at the Albion, having a farewell glass of beer. The regulars knew Alwyne was leaving and stood him and Ralph drinks. ‘Crying shame, isn’t it?’ said one of them, leaning towards Ralph. ‘War’s over for the likes of us, but he’s got to live with that for ever.’

  Ralph looked at Alwyne as he sat there, feeling for his matchbox. Somebody put it into his hand. The man had missed his vocation; he should have been an actor. He was an actor. He’d made a good living out of it too, thought Ralph as he watched Alwyne drain yet another free pint of mild. For a year he had been trading on people’s goodwill and gratitude; the whole business was shabby beyond words. There was just one way he could have made amends and he hadn’t the spunk for it.

  On the way home Ralph said: ‘You’ve still got time. You could get up early and put some rat poison in his tea and by the time they find out you’ll be gone. Nobody even knows your name.’

  Alwyne chuckled. ‘Any other bright ideas?’

  ‘I relied on you,’ said Ralph. ‘You’ve been a great disappointment.’

  ‘I’ve told you, dear boy. Violence will get you nowhere. That’s one lesson we can learn from this terrible war.’

  ‘But we’ve won it.’

  ‘You think so?’ Alwyne sighed. ‘Oh, Ralph.’

  ‘Stop treating me like a child!’

  ‘Then stop behaving like one.’ Alwyne stopped and turned to him. ‘Take my advice and get out of here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Get away from that man. It’s eating you up. You’ll never grow up if you’re consumed with hatred.’ The muffled church clock struck eleven. ‘Trust me,’ said Alwyne. ‘I know what I’m talking about. Only too well, as it happens. It corrodes you like bloody acid.’

  They walked on through the fog, the blind leading the blind. It was eerily quiet. Far off, on the river, they heard the foghorns.

  ‘Where shall I go?’ asked Ralph.

  ‘Anywhere. Just get out. It’s a question of self-preservation.’ Alwyne spoke with passion. ‘Don’t work for them in that hotel! The place will be the death of you.’

  ‘The death?’

  ‘I’m talking metaphorically, of course. You must have nothing to do with it. It’ll be built on blood, you and I know that only too well. It’s just a shame your mother can’t see it too.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Ralph. ‘She’s the blind one.’

  ‘It’s understandable. She’s in love. Wait till it happens to you.’

  They walked along Back Lane. A bundled-up figure loomed out of the fog, muttering to itself, and disappeared. They arrived at Palmerston Road. Ralph took a breath; it was now or never. ‘It has, in fact.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It has happened to me,’ said Ralph.

  ‘You’ve fallen in love?’

  ‘Well, not exactly love –’

  A loud bang shattered the silence. They froze.

  Alwyne clutched Ralph’s arm. ‘My God! Is that a bomb?’

  Ralph cocked his head, listening. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s a car, backfiring.’

  Sure enough, they heard the putter-putter of an engine approaching. Alwyne disengaged his arm. ‘Silly me,’ he said, with a little laugh.

  They crossed the road, towards the house. Up above them an unseen train rattled over the bridge. Smoke swirled down.

  ‘You despise me, don’t you,’ said Alwyne, his voice flat. ‘I’ve tried to help you, believe me, but not in the way you want and now we’ll never see each other again. I’ll just be another grown-up who’s let you down.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ muttered Ralph.

  ‘I can only talk, you see,’ said Alwyne. ‘It’s all I’m good at.’

  Later, Ralph remembered these words. At the time he just felt a dismal sort of impatience with the man, as they walked towards the front door.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said again.

  ‘It’s not, is it,’ said Alwyne. ‘It’s not at all.’

  Ralph tried to think of a reply. The noise of the motor car grew louder. Two headlights appeared. The Wolseley materialised out of the fog. Ralph’s mother and Mr Turk were returning home from the dinner.

  It all happened in a flash. The motor car pulled up in front of the house. With a final splutter, the engine stopped. Ralph’s mother saw them and waved.

  A figure stepped out, from behind the street lamp – a small, slight figure, dressed in a greatcoat. It was Archie. He lifted a revolver and fired.

  A crack. In the car Mr Turk folded over, as if inspecting something on the floor. Archie melted back into the fog.

  Ralph’s mother screamed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Shall they return to beating of great bells

  In wild train-loads?

  A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,

  May creep back, silent, to still village wells

  Up half-known roads.

  Wilfred Owen

  The back room was filled with people; Ralph had had to bring in chairs from the parlour. All the lodgers were there – even Mr Spooner – coats and shawls over their nightclothes. They sat bundled up like tramps at the scene of a traffic collision. It was freezing cold; nobody had thought to light a fire. His mother sat hunched and shuddering in an armchair. Ralph had tried to put his arm around her, awkwardly, but she hadn’t responded. Her face, when she raised it, looked quite undone, as if her features had
been shaken up and rearranged. It had chilled his blood. Where had her old face gone? He wondered if his own death would create such a reaction. A glass of brandy sat untouched on the table beside her.

  Out in the street the crowd would have got bigger. It would be the talk of the neighbourhood; the talk of London. It would be reported in the newspaper! Perhaps a barrier had been erected; perhaps an ambulance had arrived, to take the body away – the body that a few hours ago had been Mr Turk, living and breathing. Ralph had no idea of the procedure in a situation like this. He hadn’t been in a situation like this before.

  The whole thing seemed to be happening to someone else, in a dream. No doubt the shock would hit him, but it hadn’t caught up with him yet. He listened to the two policemen who were trying to question his mother, but there was something unreal about them too, as if they had just put on their uniforms for the night. They seemed too big for the room, too official. People like that didn’t come into his house.

  It had all been staged, like a theatre show. A show he had imagined for months. The Death of Mr Turk! They were putting it on for his benefit – the performance, the audience of shivering boarders, the weeping woman who sat there in her finery, in the glaring electric light, impersonating his mother. They knew he had longed for this, that he had brooded and seethed for nine months, willing it to happen, so they had decided to oblige him. At this very moment Mr Turk was stepping out of the motor car and dusting himself down. Archie was shaking his hand. They grinned at each other, sharing the joke.

  And in a moment the front door would open and in would step Mr Turk. His eye, and the side of his face, would be back in place. He would look at Ralph and chuckle. Think you can get rid of me that easily, eh, my boy? Everyone would turn to look at Ralph, because they all knew, of course. They were in on it together. Nobody kills me, Mr Turk would say. I’m the one that does the killing, if you remember. Ralph’s mother would cease her weeping; her face would blaze with love. Mr Turk would sit on the arm of her chair, as Ralph used to do, and stroke her hair. She would turn briefly to her son. You’re disgusting, she would say, and then she would turn back to her husband, and Ralph would be forgotten.