The Night Watch (37 page)

'I don't know,' said Betty.

'She did,' said Viv. 'I'm sure she did…'

'You could take Epsom salts.'

'I've done that. It didn't work.'

'You could try a red-hot bath, and gin.'

Viv almost laughed. 'At John Adam House? I'd never get the water hot enough. And then, imagine if someone saw, or smelt the gin… I couldn't do it at my father's, either.' She shuddered, just thinking about it. 'Isn't there anything else? There must be other things.'

Betty thought it over. 'You could squirt yourself, with soapy water. That's supposed to work. You have to hit the right spot, though… Or you could use-you know-a knitting needle-'

'God!' said Viv, growing sick again. 'I don't think I could bear to. Could you, if you were me?'

'I don't know. I might, if I was worried enough… Can't you just-lift weights?'

'What weights?' said Viv.

'Sandbags, things like that? Can't you jump up and down on the spot?'

Viv thought of the various uncomfortable ordinary journeys she'd had to make in the past two weeks: the bumping about on trains and buses, the flights of stairs she'd climbed at work… 'That kind of thing won't do it,' she said. 'It doesn't want to come out like that, I know it doesn't.'

'You could soak pennies in drinking-water.'

'That's just an old wives' tale, isn't it?'

'Well, don't old wives know a thing or two? That's why they're old wives, after all, and not-'

'And not old you-know-whats, like me?'

'That's not what I meant.'

Viv looked away. It was quite dark now. From the pavements beyond the garden there was the occasional blur of shaded torchlight, the shrinking and spreading and darting about of beams. But the tall, flat houses which edged the square were perfectly still… She felt Betty shiver, and shivered herself. But they didn't get up. Betty drew in her collar and folded her arms. She said, again, 'You could talk to Reggie.'

'No,' said Viv. 'I'm not going to tell him.'

'Why not? It's his, isn't it?'

'Of course it is!'

'Well, I'm only asking.'

'What a thing to say!'

'You ought to tell him, though. I'm not being funny, Viv, but the fact is, well, him being a married man… He ought to have an idea of what you could do.'

'He won't have a clue,' said Viv. 'His wife-she's kid-crazy. It's all she wants him for. What he gets from me, it's different.'

'I'll bet it is.'

'It is!'

'Well, not in nine months' time it won't be.-Eight months' time, I mean.'

'That's why I've got to fix it by myself,' said Viv. 'Don't you see? If it turns out that, after all, I'm just like her-'

'And you really want to fix it? You couldn't- Well, you couldn't have it, and keep it, or-?'

'Are you kidding?' said Viv. 'My father- It would kill my father!'

It would kill him
, she meant,
after everything with Duncan
… She couldn't say that, however, to Betty; and suddenly the burden of so many secrets, so much caution and darkness and care, seemed unbearable. 'Oh!' she said. 'It's so bloody unfair! Why does it have to be like this, Betty? As if things weren't hard enough already!-then this comes along, to make things harder. It's such a little thing-'

'I hate to break this to you kid,' said Betty, 'but it won't be little for long.'

Viv looked at her, through the darkness. She folded her arms across her stomach. 'That's what I can't bear,' she said quietly, 'the thought of it inside me, getting bigger and bigger.' She seemed, all at once, to be able to feel it, sucking at her like a leech… She said, 'What's it like? It's like a fat little worm, isn't it?'

'A fat little worm,' answered Betty, 'with Reggie's face.'

'Don't say things like that! If I start thinking about it like that, it'll make it worse… I've got to try the pills that Felicity Withers tried.'

'But they didn't work for her. That's why she chucked herself down the stairs! And didn't they make her sick?'

'Well, I feel sick anyway! What's the difference?'

She didn't exactly feel sick now, however. She felt agitated, almost feverish. It seemed to her, suddenly, that she'd been living in a kind of trance. She couldn't believe it. She thought of the days and days that had slipped by, while she'd done nothing. She sat up straighter and looked around.

'I need a chemist's shop,' she said. 'Where can I find that kind of chemist's? Betty, come on.'

'Hang on,' said Betty. She'd opened her bag. 'Hell, you can't just drop this sort of thing on a girl, and then expect her to- Let me just have a cigarette.'

'A cigarette?' repeated Viv. 'How can you be thinking about a cigarette?'

'Calm down,' said Betty.

Viv pushed her. 'I can't calm down! Do you think you'd be able to calm down, if you were me?'

But all at once she felt exhausted. She slumped back again, and closed her eyes. When she looked up, she found Betty watching her. Her expression, in the darkness, was hard to read. There might have been pity in it, or fascination; even a touch of scorn.

'What are you thinking?' Viv asked quietly. 'You're thinking I'm soft, aren't you? Like we said Felicity Withers was.'

Betty shrugged. 'Any girl can get caught out.'

'You never have.'

'God!' Betty took off her glove and tapped like mad at the bench. 'Touch wood, can't you? That's all it is, after all: just luck, good luck and bad…' She fished about in her bag again, looking for her lighter. 'I still say, anyway, that you should tell Reggie. What's the point of going with a married man, if you can't tell him things like this?'

'No,' said Viv, almost soundlessly. They'd gone back to speaking in murmurs. 'I'll try the pills first; and if they don't work, I'll tell him then. And then, if they do, he'll be none the wiser.'

'Unlike you, hopefully.'

'You
do
think I'm soft.'

'All I'm saying is, if he had worn his raincoat-'

'He doesn't like it!'

'That's too bad. You can't muck about, Viv, when you're a chap in Reggie's shoes. If he was a single boy it would be different, you could take chances; the worst thing would be, you'd end up married sooner than you meant.'

'You're making it sound,' said Viv miserably, 'like it's something you think about, something you plan-like buying a three-piece suite! You know how we feel about each other. It's like you said just now, about touching wood. He's only married to another girl through rotten luck, through bad timing. Some things just can't be helped, that's all; it's just how they are.'

'And it'll go on being just how things are, for years and years,' said Betty. 'And he'll be grand, thank you very much; and how will you be?'

'You can't think like that,' said Viv. 'Nobody thinks like that! We might all be dead tomorrow. You have to take what you want, don't you? What you really want? You don't know what it's like. There isn't anything else for me, except Reggie. If I didn't have him-' Her voice thickened. She took out her handkerchief and blew her nose. 'He makes me happy,' she said, after a minute. 'You know he does. He makes me laugh.'

Betty finally found her lighter. 'Well,' she said, as she struck it, 'you're not laughing now.'

Viv watched the spurting up of the flame; she blinked against the plunge back into darkness, and didn't answer. She and Betty sat almost without speaking until it grew too cold to sit any longer; then they linked arms, wearily, and stood.

They had just moved off across the garden when they heard the sirens go. Betty said, 'There you are. That'd put an end to all your problems-a nice fat bomb.'

Viv looked up. 'God, it would. And no-one would know, except for you.'

She'd never thought of that before-about all the secrets that the war must have swallowed up, left buried in dust and darkness and silence. She had only ever thought of the raids as tearing things open, making things hard… She kept glancing up at the sky as she and Betty walked to John Adam House, telling herself that she wanted to see the searchlights go up; that she wanted the planes to come, the guns to start, all hell to break loose…

But when the first of the guns began to pound, up in north London somewhere, she grew tense, and made Betty walk faster-afraid of the bombing, even in her wretchedness; afraid of getting hurt; not wanting to die, after all.

'
Hey, Jerry!
' Giggs was calling out of his window, two hours later. '
Hey, Fritz! This way! This fucking way!
'

'
Shut up, Giggs, you gobshite!
' called someone else.

'
This way, Jerry! Over here!
'

Giggs had heard of a prison being bombed, and all the men with less than six months left to serve in it being released; he only had four and a half still to do, and so, every time a raid started up, he'd drag his table across his cell, climb up on to it, and call to the German pilots out of his window. If the raid was a bad one, Duncan found, the shouts could really unsettle you: you began to picture Giggs as something like a great big magnet, sucking bullets and bombs and areoplanes out of the sky… Tonight, however, the raid seemed distant, and no-one was much bothered by it. The thuds and flashes were occasional, and soft; the darkness thickened and thinned slightly, that was all, as searchlights swept over the sky. Other men had got up on to their tables and were calling to each other, about ordinary things, across Giggs's shouts.

'
Woolly! Woolly, you owe me half a dollar, you git!
'

'
Mick! Hey, Mick! What are you doing?
'

There wasn't an officer to make them be silent. The officers went straight down into their shelter as soon as a raid started up.

'
You owe me-!
'

'
Mick! Hey, Mick!
'

The men had to shout themselves almost hoarse, in order to be heard; someone might call from a window at one end of the hall, and be answered by a man fifty cells away. Lying in bed and hearing them yell was like going through the wireless, finding stations in the dark. Duncan almost liked it; he found, at least, that he could filter the voices out when they began to get on his nerves. Fraser, on the other hand, was driven mad by them, every time. Now, for example, he was moving restlessly about, grumbling and cursing. He raised himself up, and punched out the lumps of horsehair in his mattress. He plucked at the bits of uniform he'd laid on his blanket for extra warmth. Duncan couldn't see him, because the cell was too dark; but he could feel the movement of him through the frame of the bunks. When he lay heavily back down, the bunks rocked from side to side, and creaked and squealed slightly, like bunks in a ship.
We might be sailors
, Duncan thought.

'
You owe me half a dollar, you cunt!
'

'God!' said Fraser, raising himself again and punching the mattress more violently. 'Why can't they be quiet?
Shut up!
' he shouted, slapping the wall.

'It's no good,' said Duncan, yawning. 'They won't be able to hear you… Now they're after Stella, listen.'

For someone had begun calling out: '
Ste-lla! Ste-lla!
' Duncan thought it was a boy named Pacey, down on the Twos. '
Ste-lla! I've got something to tell you
…
I saw your twat, in the bath-house! I saw your twat! It was black as my hat!
'

Another man whistled and laughed. '
You're a fucking poet, Pacey!
'

'
It looked like a fucking black rat with its throat cut! It looked like your old man's beard, with your old girl's fat fucking lips in the middle!Ste-lla!Why don't you answer?
'

'
She can't answer
,' came another voice. '
She's got her gob on Mr Chase!
'

'
She's got her gob round Chase
,' said someone else, '
and Browning is slipping her a length from the back
.
She's got her fucking hands full, boys!
'

'
Shut up, you naughty things!
' cried a new voice. It was Monica, on the Threes.

Pacey started on her, then. '
Moni-ca! Moni-ca!
'

'
Shut up, you beasts! Can't a girl get her beauty sleep?
'

This was followed by the
crump!
of a distant explosion and, '
Jerry!
' Giggs called again. '
Fritz! Adolf! This way!
'

Fraser groaned and turned his pillow. Then, 'Hell!' he said. 'That's all we need!'

For on top of everything else, somebody had started singing.

'
Little girl in blue, I've been dreaming of you
…
Little girl in blue
…'

It was a man called Miller. He was in for running some sort of racket from a nightclub. He sang all the time, with horrible sincerity-as if crooning into a microphone at the front of a band. At the sound of his voice now, men up and down the hall began to complain.

'
Turn it off!
'

'
Miller, you bastard!
'

Duncan 's neighbour, Quigley, began to beat with something-his salt-pot, probably-on the floor of his cell. '
Shut up
,' he roared, as he did it, '
you fucking slags! Miller, you cunt!
'

'
I've been dreaming of you
…'

Miller sang on, through all the complaints, through all the distant roar of the raid; and the worst of it was, the song was tuneful. One by one, the men fell silent, as if they were listening. Even Quigley, after a while, threw down his salt-pot and stopped roaring.

I hear your voice, I reach to hold you,

Your lips touch mine, my arms enfold you
.

But then you're gone: I wake and find

That I've been drea-ming
…

Fraser, too, had grown still. He'd lifted his head, the better to hear. 'Hell, Pearce,' he said now. 'I think I danced to this tune once. I'm sure I did.' He lay back down. 'I probably laughed at the bloody thing, then. Now- Now it seems stinkingly apt, doesn't it? Christ! Trust Miller and a popular song to be so honest about longing.'