Inch Levels (23 page)

A stiff wind blew, and she jammed her hat more tightly over her ears. She could hear a thin, faint wailing: the sound of the wind as it squealed through the barrage balloons suspended high above. She knew this, she had eavesdropped on a conversation on the bus, had listened as they described the eerie sound – ‘it makes me want to squeal back,’ one woman had said to her companion – but still, the sound came as a shock to her, there in the blackness. The skin crept on the back of her neck. Maybe, she thought, I shouldn’t be here at all – in spite of everything, in spite of how bad home has become, maybe I should have stayed there, maybe I should have lived with his fists. Maybe I should have.

But the long cuts and grazes on the back of her legs would not be ignored: they had caused her continual pain as she sat on the bus, they stung now as she walked – and she remembered the scene in the kitchen that same evening: the whip of her father’s belt, and his grunts and oaths. She shook her head: these memories caused her brain to grind to a standstill; no, she was right to leave.

But perhaps – perhaps she should have timed her arrival in Derry for early in the morning. Maybe she should not now be walking the streets of this blacked-out city late in the evening – but no, she was glad she left. Maybes and maybes: she walked faster towards the commercial streets a little distance away, where lights leaked from behind blind windows. She would find something, a dosshouse or something like that – though what was a dosshouse like? – maybe not too pleasant – but she was certain there would be somewhere – there had to be
somewhere
she could stay – and then get a good night’s sleep and then she’d see. Then I’ll get a job, she thought, and then I’ll see.

The blackout made for treacherous walking. She blundered along dark streets, more than once tripping over bicycles and lurking, slinking dogs and sliding on a frozen puddle, and without so much as a single lamp to mark the way. She came across a police patrol: there was no curfew that she knew of, but they stopped her anyway, shining a torch briefly in her eyes, settling down to pass a few minutes with questions.

‘And so, where are you off to, Miss?’

‘I’m just back from my auntie’s house in Donegal,’ she gabbled at them. ‘I’m going home now.’

‘And where’s home?’

Where was home? Sarah racked her brains in the darkness.

‘Chamberlain Street,’ she said at last. She could remember toiling up Chamberlain Street with her mother once, on a shopping trip years before. There was a pause, the sound of a smile as he replied:

‘Well, you’d better get back to
Chamberlain
Street, then, hadn’t you, Miss? Shouldn’t be out walking on your own, should you? Not at this time of night.’

‘No. I’m going home now.’

‘Course you are.’

Sarah heard them laugh as she whisked away. She thought: they can hardly think I’m up to no good, can they? Some kind of spy? – and she blushed as she realised what they actually thought – what? a girl out walking the streets on her own, near the docks, at night? She quickened her step, as a wash of fear came over her. She must find somewhere to stay. Would the patrol help, maybe? She turned to call after them – or rather squeak, for her throat was constricted now with panic. But they were banging on a front door a little distance away: light was shining from around its blackout blinds. The door opened and sharp voices read the riot act to some morose householder, silent and invisible in the smoky darkness. Quickly, she turned the corner and out of sight. No: she would be better on her own. Her panic dissipated as quickly as it had gathered. They would hardly have helped her anyway.

Another corner and now she was on the quays. One side of the wide road was studded with pubs of all kinds, most of them noisy with men’s voices and dense with smoke which leaked from the doorways, which she could smell as she passed quickly along. She had been here before, of course: the quays, the grey river and great crowds of gulls hanging in the air. She remembered. Too dark to see much, but of course she also knew – she’d seen the photographs in the
Journal
– that the quays had changed a good deal recently: changed beyond recognition. The moorings on the other side of the road were thick with frigates and destroyers – she could see bulky shapes looming out of the night.

And here on this side, the footpaths were crowded: men standing outside the pubs and all of them shouting and singing in a medley of accents: English, she could hear and Scots and Welsh – and was that American? All sorts anyway – and for sure no place for her. So she strode on, skirting or pushing through knots of men – and sometimes women too – and ignoring the ribald comments thrown her way, keeping her head down. Maybe it was all good-natured enough, but some of it didn’t sound so – not that she was about to stop and see. But I’ll have to go in somewhere, I’ll have to ask for help, eventually: so she thought, as snatches of songs and fiddle music, along with the forbidden light, leaked from the doors and windows.

The crowds began to thin as she moved along and she came to a final pub – smaller than the others and, it seemed, a little quieter too. She hesitated outside in the frosty darkness for one more moment – before gathering her courage and plunging through the door, through the heavy curtain that hung across the entrance, blackout fabric and draught excluder in one. Into the room, which was small and dim, with only a lamp or two fixed to brownish walls. It took a moment to accustom her eyes to this dim light – and now she took in the rest of the room, the threadbare red and black carpet, the handful of men hunched over the short bar, the groups of others – servicemen, it seemed; mere boys too, some of them hardly shaving yet, hardly older than she was, surely? they should be in their beds – sitting on small wooden stools around the few tables. A country pub, a
shebeen
like a place or two she could think of back home, filled with farmers on mart day and close to empty the rest of the time. A
shebeen
, lacking only the turf fire; here in the middle of the city.

Well, at least she need not lift her skirts and run. She had the measure of such places, didn’t she? What would Father Lynch say, she thought suddenly, if he could see me now? A harlot, a Jezebel – a Bibleful of words; and look what happened to Jezebel in the end – and she girded her loins and ploughed her way through the thick air and her fright and up to the bar. The elderly barman looked her up and down.
Jezebel
too: she could read his mind.

‘Well, love?’

‘Well,’ she said and a moment’s silence.

‘Cat got your tongue?’

Another man, sitting to her right – and a Scots accent. Young and smiling at her – not a very nice smile. A red, congested face and a belly a little too big for him; Sarah turned again to the confused barman.

‘I’m sorry to barge in,’ she said, ‘but I’m looking for somewhere to stay tonight. I don’t know anyone in town; and the hotels are too dear for me, I’m sure.’ Though no reason to be sorry – this was a public house. She was entitled to be here, she must be careful not to sound grovelling – and it wasn’t her fault that her voice sounded shrill, reedy; that her words came out in a gasp, almost a sob.

The barman opened his mouth to speak, but his Scots customer jumped in first. ‘I’m sure we can find somewhere for you to stay.’

She didn’t look at him. ‘I wasn’t talking to you.’

He raised his eyebrows. Then, mockingly: ‘Well, beggars can’t be choosers, can they? Neither can tarts, though maybe Derry girls are getting choosy these days, are they? Lots of men to choose from: too many, maybe. The war’s not all bad, is it?’

She said nothing, but turned again to the old barman. But the other was not yet finished and continued in lazy, mocking tones:

‘There’s always room for nice girls plying their trade. Bed and board for services rendered, is that right?’

‘If you’ve nothing to say,’ Sarah told him abruptly, ‘then hold your tongue,’ and she turned away once more.

‘Bitch,’ she heard him say: and now, suddenly, she could take no more and blindly she turned and pushed through thick air to the thick curtain over the door. It enveloped her, as the darkness had a little earlier, and for a moment she felt as though she was beating against it, like a moth on a lightshade; and then once again she was on the freezing, black street. But she had caught the raised voice just the same: the altercation springing up from the black-and-red carpet behind her; the new, exotic accent; and the disgust in his tones. And now the curtain parted behind her: and dim light and cigarette smoke leaked out, and this same voice, same accent.

‘Excuse me, miss? I know a place.’ She half-turned towards this voice in the blackness. ‘A job, even, if you want one.’

And that was Anthony, from Winnipeg, as she learned later, Winnipeg which was too hot and too cold and too windy. The next day, having as if by a miracle acquired a job and a bed – there in a Nissen hut full of them – and a routine, she thanked him, and said what she had to say about bed bugs and lice; and something worse than bed bugs and lice.

He shrugged at that. ‘Never happened. Don’t worry about things that never happened.’

She did worry, though, just the same. She worried later, at the dance.

*

The stained-glass windows of the Guildhall were blacked out on this Friday night. Of course they were – but to Sarah, standing on the city walls and looking down and across the square at the building’s looming façade, observation of the blackout seemed now to be distinctly half-hearted. The great oak doors were standing wide open, and light and noise were pouring out like liquid into the night; the building was already clearly packed with people, with more lining up to go inside. Gaggles of folk chattered and laughed on the slippery cobbles of the square, their breath white in the frosty air: certainly nobody seemed disturbed by the music, the noise, the floods of light. Was there a war on?

True: most of the people milling around were in uniform, but this was just about the only sign of war. More noticeable was the jolly atmosphere, the loud screeching laughter, the catcalls that threatened to drown out the music. The sailors in uniform in the icy square below were for the most part arm in arm with Wrens or beaming local girls, and the entire crowd was jostling to get into the building, shouting, pushing. A few solo men, with only bottles of liquor for company, staggering and stumbling around the fringes of this bellowing mass of people. And this was – well, it was ironic, for weren’t these Friday night entertainments organised by the local Temperance Society? You wouldn’t know it, she thought: little sign of temperance in a place like Derry at any time, and especially not on a Friday night.

She felt a little nervous as she looked out and down at the scene before her: tea and buns in the afternoon was one thing, but she had avoided these dances; in fact, avoided being out at night at all. But Anthony had asked her to come with him: and he had been so kind, so jolly, that she felt obliged – no, she wanted, in spite of other sensations – wanted to go. And now here she was looking out from the city walls on this bitter night, and pushing her hair from her eyes.

They had been walking on the city walls for some minutes: to get some air; she’d been stuck inside all day; and he, he said, filling out forms for most of the afternoon. It was pleasant to be in the icy air, to take in the view before plunging into the dance. But too soon, he nudged her in the ribs. ‘We should go,’ he said. ‘Can’t stay here all night. You’ll catch a chill.’

‘One more minute.’ She paused, taking note of her tense body, trying with all her might to make it relax. ‘Look – it’s like every last one of them down there is drunk.’

Sure enough, a little gaggle of sailors and Wrens was reeling around the edge of the cobbles below. As they watched, one of the men pitched a bottle against the city walls; it exploded and glass flew as a ragged cheer went up into the dark air.

She flinched.

‘We should go.’ He paused, glanced at her. ‘Do you really want to go?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said and looked at him quickly, ‘of course I do.’ It would never do to behave like a nun or a schoolmistress, after all, and fret over smashed bottles. They could do what they like, these people, so long as they didn’t smash bottles into her face. She imagined her father, sitting with Cassie by the fire in the kitchen at home. She thought of his belt, and heard the blood beating and roaring in her ears. She managed a smile.

*

Anthony watched her smile, he smiled back – with relief, with a good deal of relief: for she had seemed abstracted this evening; all the way down from Creevagh she’d seemed preoccupied, quieter than usual. But now she blinked, smiled, seemed to come back to him, to the present. He led her down the narrow, slippery stone steps from the city walls and into the square. He led her through the melée, through the oak doors and up the broad carved wooden staircase. He led her into the Great Hall, which was brilliantly lit in spite of the cigarette smoke, packed, noisy; the long sheets of stained glass were hidden behind black blinds, but the great organ and polished wood gleamed under the chandeliers. It was all very grand: Sarah stopped again, she seemed flustered.

She seemed flustered, but he knew better than to shepherd her. Some women just do not like it, his mother had told him, they cannot bear it; you need to watch for the signs. And he had already led and directed her – through the square, through the crowds – more than was perhaps wise. Some girls did not like it – and she was one of these girls; he knew this already. So he stood instead and watched her: she seemed glassy now, she seemed removed; and he stood and watched and waited.

Already he had told her about himself, about his family, about Winnipeg, about the flat plains and the cold and the heat. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I won’t pile it on.’ She laughed at that, a relieved laugh: the other boys really piled it on, with their stories of mountains and lakes and blue skies and dry, powdery snow. ‘Go ahead and pile it on,’ she said. ‘It’s all a far cry from this,’ she said, and gestured around at the Nissen huts half-sunk into the earth, at the sound of autumn rain drumming on the roof, at the rivulets of muddy earth outside, cold feet and cold hands.