Andrew Taylor - The Second Midnight

She made a pile of Hugh’s clothes and padded down the landing. She opened his door as quietly as possible. The room was in darkness, as she had expected, but there was enough light from the landing for her to see the chair on the far side of the fireplace. She tiptoed across the floor and laid the clothes on it.

The sensation that something was amiss crept over her. She glanced around the room, her eyes straining to make out the darker shadow which was the bed. Then the realization hit her.

There was no sound of breathing.

She knew at once that he was gone, though she flipped on the light by the door to confirm it. His bed was empty but the covers were rumpled. His Sunday suit was hanging behind the door; the rest of his clothes were on the chair. His dressing gown was gone.

Panic invaded her mind. She had a vivid mental picture of Hugh running away from the house in a blind attempt to escape from his father’s persecution.

The cistern flushed in the bathroom, breaking into her nightmare. Hugh must have gone to the lavatory. Just as she reached the landing, the bolt shot back and Stephen emerged.

‘Is Hugh in there?’ she demanded.

‘Not that I noticed.’ Stephen was wearing a purple dressing gown which he had acquired at a Christmas sale in Richmond; when he wore it, he tended to model himself on the characters of Noël Coward.

Muriel pushed past him to make sure. Stephen shrugged elaborately and walked slowly along the landing towards his bedroom. He was curious about what was happening but the dressing gown prevented him from showing it too obviously.

His mother rushed downstairs and into the dining room. Alfred was slumped in his chair, a cigarette smouldering between his fingers. The nightcap had turned into two, as it so often did these days.

‘Alfred! Help me – Hugh’s gone.’

Hugh was asleep.

This evening, Meg had suggested that he come to her room rather than the other way round, as on the two previous nights. It was difficult to refuse. With the possible exception of Aunt Vida, Meg seemed to be the only person who cared that the bottom had fallen out of his world. She was certainly the only person who dared to talk to him; his father had decreed that, as part of Hugh’s punishment, he should be sent to Coventry until further notice. Another reason was that being with Meg made him warm. A third reason was that it was hard to refuse Meg if she asked you to do something when she was in a certain mood: her dark eyes had a sparkle to them which communicated her excitement to you; her charm was something you could almost touch.

When she had finished in the bathroom, she tapped lightly on his door before going on to her bedroom in the attic. Hugh counted to sixty before he scrambled out of bed and put on his dressing gown.

‘If I’m not back within two hours,’ he whispered to Hiawatha on the bedside table, ‘you’ll find a file marked Top Secret in my dugout. Take it to the General at once. Make sure you hand it to him directly – not to one of the ADCs.’

‘Right, sir.’ Hiawatha would add gruffly, ‘You will take a revolver, sir, won’t you?’

‘Not tonight. Shooting would give the whole show away.’ Major Hugh Kendall glanced down at his muscular hands. ‘There are other ways of keeping the enemy quiet.’

Hugh walked quietly along the landing. He paused by the stairs. The wireless was booming away in the dining room. He climbed up to the attic. The third stair creaked loudly, so he avoided it; the other treads were all right, as long as you kept to the sides of them.

Meg’s room was in darkness. As he opened the door, its characteristic smell swept out to meet him: it reminded him of Aunt Vida’s garden in autumn.

‘Come into bed,’ she whispered.

She moved over to make room for him. He could feel her warmth through her nightdress.

‘Does it still hurt down there?’ Her hand burrowed under his dressing gown and stroked his buttocks.

‘A bit.’

‘Come on top of me, then. If you’re face downward it won’t be as bad.’

They wriggled into the new position. Hugh found it surprisingly comfortable and Meg didn’t complain about the weight. She ran both hands down his back, from the shoulder blades to the top of the thighs and stirred gently beneath him. Hugh’s face was buried in the crook of her shoulder. It seemed to be hard to breathe. He raised his head and Meg gave a little giggle.

‘You know Gerald? The one who looks like Robert Donat? Mary said he didn’t just kiss her – he put his hand on her breasts.’

Hugh yawned. Why Gerald should have wanted to do a thing like that was beyond him. He knew, of course, that ladies’ breasts were somehow taboo: you weren’t supposed to look at them or touch them.

‘You try,’ Meg whispered. A trace of irritation came into her voice when he hesitated. ‘Go on, silly – you’re too young for it to matter.’

Stung by the reference to his age, Hugh laid his hand on Meg’s left breast. To his surprise, it felt quite firm – he had expected it to be fragile. Meg squirmed beneath him, forcing the pressure to increase.

‘Put your hand inside my nightie,’ she said. ‘That’s the proper way to do it.’ She fumbled with the buttons, seized Hugh’s hand and thrust it inside.

‘I’ll make you cold,’ Hugh objected.

‘It doesn’t matter. Rub it.’

He obeyed. Beneath his hand, the nipple grew hard. When he pointed this out to Meg – he was worried that he was damaging it in some way – she said it didn’t matter: nipples often went like that when it was cold. His hand warmed up, but the nipple remained hard.

Two late nights had left them both with a backlog of tiredness. Their breathing became slower and heavier; Hugh’s mind slid sideways into a waking dream. Suddenly he jerked awake.

‘I’d better go.’

Meg’s arms tightened around him. ‘Stay for a bit longer, Hugh. You’re lovely and warm.’

‘Just another minute.’

This time sleep enveloped them both completely. Hugh dreamed that he and Hiawatha were at Buckingham Palace, receiving medals from the King. Neither of them heard the slam of the front door when Stephen came in, or the movements downstairs as he and their parents prepared for bed.

Neither of them heard anything at all until Meg’s door was flung open and her room was flooded with light.

A quite extraordinary thing happened just before breakfast: the telephone rang.

Alfred Kendall was upstairs in Hugh’s room at the time. He broke off in mid-sentence and hurried downstairs. But Muriel got to the dining room first and he was forced to listen to one incomprehensible side of the conversation which ensued. Meanwhile, the smell of burning bacon grew stronger.

‘I’ll come at once,’ Muriel said; her voice was unusually decisive. ‘Meg can pack for me and come over later with the suitcase.’

‘Who was that?’ Kendall demanded before his wife had time to replace the receiver. ‘Where are you going?’

She pushed past him into the smoke-filled kitchen and turned off the gas ring.

‘It was Bunnings, dear. Aunt Vida had one of her turns in the night. A minor stroke, probably.’

The same thing had happened last year. Aunt Vida refused to go into hospital and Muriel had spent two weeks in Richmond looking after her.

Kendall grunted. ‘You’ll have to go, of course.’

It was damned inconvenient but he had no alternative. He knew what women were like: Vida was quite capable of leaving her money to a home for sick parrots, just to spite him; and she would as well, if she felt the Kendalls weren’t giving her the attention she deserved. He also suspected – though he barely admitted the suspicion to himself – that Muriel would go to Richmond whatever he said.