The Night Following (11 page)

And there she was: Ruth Mitchell in spectacles and a pale trouser suit, a practical, drip-dry Down Under outfit. Her hair was cut sensibly and a scarf, loosely held in a scarf ring, hung around her neck. Next to her, Arthur stooped toward the camera with his cup in one hand and a bottle in the other, proposing a toast. He was square-shouldered, gaunt, and spoon-jawed. His grin revealed a row of sheeplike teeth that met his upper gum in a row of high arches. His present devastation was analyzed under the subheading DREAMS SHATTERED
.

The garden of his house was not as tidy as the others. A garbage can sat out on the middle of the drive near the end, under a tree. The grass was uncut. There were dark stains in the drifts of fallen petals on the front path and the smell that exuded from them was the familiar sweet stench of dying flowers. In the borders, unidentifiable stalks stood skinny and naked as pencils among sparse flower heads, spent and weather-battered.

I made my way up the drive close to the boundary wall. I was intending to wheel the garbage can farther up, nearer the garage doors, where it would be more convenient. Just as I reached it, something made me turn my head. It was something that eyes weren’t much use for, not a figure nor quite a shape nor barely a movement, but something under a tree on the other side of the garden, more like a shimmer near the ground. It was the aftershock of a tiny disturbance, the merest righting of the surface after a departure just accomplished, the air closing again around an absence. And while I couldn’t tell that it wasn’t caused by something quite ordinary and solid and swift such as a cat, I couldn’t be sure it was, either. Perhaps it was just the passing moon shadow of a branch lifted by the wind. I waited, shivering, for what might come next.

Then, from deeper in the garden over at the side of the house came sounds actual and unambiguous enough, the
crick-cruck
of a gate latch and the scrape and squeak of hinges. Footsteps sounded on the path, and receded. I stepped silently over the concrete in front of the garage and crossed the front lawn. I trailed through the long wet grass, tugging up strands and soaking my feet. I dared not follow at once into the gully between the house wall and the boundary fence so I paused at the side gate, which stood open. There was a faint, human sourness of sweat and exhaled breath lingering there, I was certain of it. I peered up the gully. Something was moving away from me into the darkness of the back garden. I saw no shape or outline. I knew this presence in the way a bat would; I sensed a greater density, a different dark in the dark, swaying ahead of me. I waited for a while longer and then, making no sound, I followed.

At the corner of the house, I crouched against the wall and that’s when I saw him, limping across the lawn, stepping in and out of white light and shadows cast over the grass by the moon. He was tall and rather tottery; in the moonlight his hair and clothes gleamed palely. He was clutching what looked at first like sticks and leaves for the compost heap but was actually a handful of broken flowers picked from the front garden.

Though he was unsteady on his feet and his progress was unhurried, he moved rather fast into the shadow cast by the house, shrugging the light from his back as he would discard a coat. He mounted some shallow steps up to a patio and from there he passed into a long, lean-to conservatory built against the back wall. The interior was unlit and I watched him make his way along it, neither furtive nor afraid, merely discreet, solitary.

I could not bear to see him go. There was a shed set deep in a curve of shrubs against the garden’s back wall and I moved toward it across the grass, becoming, like him, only a swift, darker presence in darkness. It was a small wooden pavilion with a window on each side and a shallow porch; I settled myself on the steps and leaned against the low balustrade. A white lilac tree swayed above and all was quiet but for the rasping of its branches on the asphalt roof. The drowsy, creosotey damp mingled with the sharp sweetness of lilac blossom. I sat shivering with cold, and the house before me was still.

Suddenly lights came on in an uncurtained upstairs room. In the glare of four overhead bulbs that beamed into all the corners, I could see him, carrying armfuls of papers to and fro. His mouth was working, talking to his dead wife, Ruth, I supposed, and when he paused near the window I caught glimpses of his face wretchedly pained and channeled with deep lines. Once or twice he stopped and covered his eyes, and his body shook with weeping. But he kept doggedly at his work, his moving shadow split by the angled lights across the yellow wall. Although it was bright, the room seemed colder and bleaker and lonelier than out here where I sat on the damp step.

I realized that all my pointless roaming was at an end. Who better than I to ease the burden of the poor man’s distress? My being the cause of it bound me intimately to his suffering; surely an obligation to witness and relieve it must be the reason I was still alive. He needed comfort. He needed me, or he would, eventually, and perhaps with urgency and at a time not of my choosing. And it would be a fitting, if only a small beginning, to keep vigil until I could be of use to him. I would have to be here every night. If I failed to watch, his loneliness would increase; if I ceased watching, I would surely find myself responsible for some new disaster. I would stay here, all night if need be, watching his shadow pass forward and back across the room. I would no longer notice the cold. That would be as much, for the moment, as I could do.

   Evelyn got the scissors from Mam, without anyone noticing, after the ceremony, and on the short walk from the registry office to the Co-op Rooms she turned to Stan and told him what she intended to do. He said she was daft but agreed to stand still while she, laughing and with trembling hands, snipped off a few strands of his hair and secured them in the locket. She had already got Daphne to write their initials and the date in minute writing on a tiny piece of paper, and she had set that in the locket, too. She was too excited about getting married to see clearly to do it herself.

It was a grand day, for late February. There was a gleam in the air although the sun didn’t quite come out, as Stan’s mother grumbled. But as Daphne said, it was shining away up there really, behind the clouds, it just couldn’t be bothered with poking through. As one of the witnesses, she had got herself up as fine as you like in an ocher wool dress with matching gloves and her mother’s fox fur. She hated wearing hats and had fixed a spray of artificial carnations in her wiry hair. The other witness was Stan’s uncle, his mother’s brother. He was no end of a swell in his double-breasted suit and spats, with his graying hair slicked down and sliced in a razor-sharp, off-center parting. He owned three shops and had a car and a house in St. Helens. When Evelyn told Daphne this, she giggled and whispered he looked the part, all right. He certainly did, Evelyn thought. He was wearing a generous amount of a heavy cologne that smelled to her like burnt cake and he had pink, immaculate hands. He had come alone. It was known that his wife didn’t keep well.

The tea was a wonder. There were sandwiches galore: ham, egg, and tomato, and dainty bridge rolls filled with fish paste. And thanks to Mam and her squad of helpers drawn from family and neighbors, there was an array of cakes and pastries that brought oohs and aahs from everyone. Urns were filled and emptied, the windows steamed up, and by half past three Evelyn was feeling she’d had quite enough excitement for one day.

But there were still the speeches to hear. Stan’s uncle went first, addressing the “blushing bride”and saying, with a sly wink that really did make Evelyn blush to the roots of her hair, that he hoped their union would be blessed with a houseful of little Ashworths.

Then Stan made a halting speech, thanking Mrs. Leigh for the grand spread and then, goaded by the assembled company, led by his beaming uncle, he finished hesitantly with, “And we are right pleased you could all come today. Right pleased we are, I and my wife.”Afterward he went outside for a smoke. He needed a breath of air after such an ordeal.

Stan’s uncle took them all the way in his car to the railway station in Manchester. Daphne came, too, clutching Evelyn’s bridal posy that she’d managed to catch, mainly because the bride had thrown it firmly in her direction. Daphne and Stan’s uncle seemed to have hit it off and he had invited her along just for the spin and to wave them off.

There were more high jinks at the station. Instead of just leaving them at the entrance, Stan’s uncle marched them into the high, echoing ticket hall, poked his nose at the window, and demanded in a very loud voice and waving his arms, “Two first-class tickets to Morecambe for Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Ashworth! And a nice cozy private compartment, if you please, for the newlyweds!”

His voice boomed all over the ticket hall. Daphne burst out laughing but Evelyn was so embarrassed she wished the ground would open and swallow her up. Stan looked extremely uncomfortable, too, though he smiled when his uncle drew his wallet from his jacket and with a flourish paid up for their tickets. Not content with that, Stan’s uncle turned to Daphne, who, Evelyn noticed for the first time, was holding a brown paper bag, which she handed to him with a smirk.

“Time to do the honors,”he announced, and with a loud laugh he pulled from the bag a bottle of whiskey for Stan and for Evelyn a box of Fry’s chocolates. Evelyn had never seen, let alone been given, such a splendid box: the “Antony”assortment, it said on the lid.

“That’s one of the finest assortments from one of the finest names in the confectionery trade, “Stan’s uncle told her. He tapped on the box.

“That’s not cardboard. That’s a proper lacquered box, that is. Unique to Fry’s. It’s meant for keeping your hankies in after. Or your whatnots, your little bits and pieces, eh? You ladies’ve all got your bits and pieces!”

While Evelyn stammered a thank you, Daphne touched Stan’s uncle’s arm and said, wide-eyed, “What a lovely box of chocs. That’s right generous of you, Mr. Hibbert.”

“Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from, pet,”Stan’s uncle said, winking at her, “if you play your cards right. And call me Uncle Les.”

Evelyn didn’t hear what Daphne had to say to that, because just then Stan announced that they’d miss their train if they didn’t hurry.

   Evelyn’s first thought on arriving at The Haven on the seafront was that it wasn’t exactly posh. They had walked from the station and run into trouble finding it, so it was after six o’clock when they knocked on the door. The landlady smelled of lard and talcum powder. She pointed out, sniffing, that they were too late for high tea but she had left them a flask in the parlor. She made it clear that she was doing them a favor and at great inconvenience to herself.

But at least their room overlooked the front. That was what you were paying for, a proper sea view, Evelyn supposed aloud to Stan, who replied that that was a bit rich when there was bugger all to see except the sea. Evelyn laughed and went to the window. Of course it was drafty, being Morecambe with the breeze straight off the sands. It was strong enough to stir the curtain. Maybe Stan had a point about the view. The daylight was fading and the sea was just the same dark gray as the sky.

She shivered. “It is a bit drafty, Stan,”she said.

“No good moaning to me, it weren’t my idea to come here,”he replied.

“Oh, don’t be so grumpy, Stan!”Evelyn cried. “Not today!”

Stan grunted. “What d’you expect? There’s only a pane of glass between you and the ruddy Atlantic and the ruddy putty’s dropping out, by looks of it.”

Evelyn laughed. “So you’ll just have to cuddle me tighter to keep me warm, then,”she said. “Come on, let’s go down and see what the old harridan’s put out for us’supper, shall we?”

It wasn’t much. A flask of tepid tea and a few soft biscuits, most of them broken, in a tin. At bedtime Evelyn was overcome with shyness and went along to the bathroom to change into her new nightgown. Stan was already in bed, sitting up drinking from the whiskey bottle, when she got back. It was considerate of him, really, not to undress in front of her, she thought, though she had hoped he might ask her which side she preferred. She climbed in nervously at the other side. She was cold, but Stan didn’t offer her a warming sip of whiskey, or a cuddle.

“I’m not used to this, Stan,”she giggled. “It’s amazing, in’t it? I’ve never been in a double bed with my husband before.”

“Bit late to be bashful, in’t it?”Stan said. “Seeing as you’re nigh on five months gone. Good night.”

But obviously, she reflected later, lying awake in the dark, he hadn’t meant any disrespect. He was just stating a fact. Despite the smell of whiskey on him, she had tried to make it clear she wouldn’t object if, as she put it, he wanted to “be a husband”to her that night, but he had pretended not to understand. Wedding nerves, perhaps. Or more likely delicacy, because he probably thought she didn’t really want to but was pretending she wouldn’t mind just for his sake, and what decent man would insist, with his wife in a certain condition? Besides, she was probably bigger than she felt, and that would be off-putting.

In the morning Stan woke complaining of a sore neck because, he said, he had taken the window side and the worst of the draft. Evelyn tried to make light of it. “Oh, well, don’t go saying that to the landlady, will you, Stan? She’ll only charge you for it. A sore neck’s sixpence extra, I bet!”Stan glowered.

Breakfast was adequate. They had porridge and a boiled egg each, both overcooked, and bread and marmalade and tea. At least the dining room was empty and they didn’t have to endure the stares of other guests on the morning after their wedding night. After a walk in the drizzle along the seafront and a look round the few gift shops that were open, they had an early lunch of steak and kidney pie in the Red Rose Café, sitting in the window from where, as Evelyn said, they could watch the world go by, even though there didn’t seem to be much world that day. Then they made their way slowly to the station. Stan’s uncle had given them one-way tickets so they bought third-class seats on the two o’clock back to Manchester. From there they would get the local train to Aldbury.