Pat Barker - The Eye in the Door

He looked into the mirror. The overhead light cast deep shadows across his face.

Clumping feet. His own breathing harsh inside the respirator, and then wriggling worm-like across the mud, a voice, sly, insinuating, confidential:

‘What did you think of it?’

A man had come out of one of the cubicles and was staring at him in the mirror. His sudden silent appearance startled Manning. ‘Not for me, I’m afraid,’ Manning said, starting to dry his hands. ‘What did you think?’

The man, who had not moved, said abruptly, ‘I thought it was the mutterings of a child with a grotesquely enlarged and diseased clitoris.’

‘Did you? I just thought it had dated rather badly.’

‘No,’ the man said, as if his opinion were the only one that could carry weight. ‘It isn’t dated. In fact, in terms of what they’re trying to do, it’s an extremely clever choice.’

Manning looked into the mirror, determined not to be thrown by this ludicrous and yet curiously menacing figure. ‘You think enlarged clitorises are a modern problem, do you?’

‘All the discontents of modern women can be cured by clitoridectomy.’

‘It’s a bit more complicated than that, surely.’

It was as if he hadn’t spoken. The man came closer until his face was beside Manning’s in the glass. ‘There are women in this city whose clitorises are so grotesquely enlarged, so horribly inflamed, they can be satisfied ONLY BY BULL ELEPHANTS.’

Silence. Manning couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘Didn’t I see you in the box with Robert Ross?’

Manning turned to face him. Looking him straight in the eye and loading every word with significance, he said, ‘I am from the Ministry of Munitions.’ He touched the side of his nose, raised a cautionary finger and departed.

Walking along the corridor, he was surprised to find himself trembling. The man was a complete lunatic. One didn’t have to be Rivers to diagnose that, and yet he had been, in a rather horrible way, impressive.

In the crush of Maud Allan’s dressing-room, he accepted a glass of wine and edged his way towards Ross. ‘I’ve just met the most extraordinary man in the downstairs lavatory.’

‘Hmm.’

‘No, not “hmm.” Mad. He went on and on about diseased clitorises.’

‘It’ll be Captain Spencer. Grein said he’d seen him.’

‘Who is he?’ Manning asked.

‘The source of all the trouble, my dear. He’s the man who saw the Black Book. Who knows the names.’

‘But he’s mad.’

‘That won’t stop them believing him. The fact is…’ Ross looked around cautiously. ‘She shouldn’t have sued. I know I’m the last person to say that, but —’

‘What else could she have done?’

Ross shook his head. ‘Once they’re in court they can name anybody. ’

‘Are they leaving you alone?’

‘No. I have a police officer more or less permanently stationed in the drawing-room. I’d offer the poor man a bed if I didn’t think it would be misinterpreted.’

When they left, twenty minutes later, Manning noticed Captain Spencer standing under a street lamp on the other side of the road, watching. Manning reached out to touch Ross’s sleeve, then thought better of it, and let his hand drop.

On the train to Manchester, Prior read the Roper correspondence.

Dear Winnie,

Don’t worry about me pet I am orlrite Hettie come home for Xmas and we had a good time even little Tommy purked up a bit and you no what he’s like you notice this new year there wasnt the same nonsense talked as there was last I think last year knocked the stuffing out of a lot of people except that bloody buggering Welsh windbag he dont change his tune much the poor lads

Hettie made me go to the sales with her cos she new I wanted a blowse there was a nice black one no trimings but Hettie says aw Mam your making yourself an old woman anyway you no Hettie I come away with a navy blue with a little yellow rose on it I think it looks orlrite cant take it back if it dont with it being in the sale we bumped into Mrs Warner you no her from the suffragettes and of corse she asked after you but she was only standoffish you could see her wanting to get away she says she thort to much was made of Xmas and turcy was a very dry meat I says well Ive never tasted it so I wouldnt no You no what Ronnie Carker used to say dont you theyre only mecking use of you, Beattie when they go home at night they dont even have to pick their nickers up mind you if Ronnie was there they wouldnt need to take them of either

As regards your late visitor you want to remember youve had a lot of worry with Alfs Mam being bad and then thier Ivy being so funny but whatever you do dont let it go past the fortnite YOU COME HOME otherwise youll end up with some bloody mucky cow with a neck you can plant taties in women like that do no end of damidge Ive seen bits of young lasses dragging themselves round years after

Did Alf get the letter I sent it on thursday but the post is very slow isnt it I spose its the backlog from Xmas if he did get it ask him to send me the stuff as soon as poss if he didn’t tell him not to worry Ill rite again I want it for a man who stopped here just before Xmas he needs it to do somethink a bit risky but only for him he doesnt no anythink about you and Alf so theres no danger of you getting dragged in Anyway wil close now hoping this finds you as it leaves me

Buckets of love

Mam

Dear Mam,

School again, dunno who’s more fed up, me or the kids. The hall roof sprang a leak during the holidays. No hope of getting it mended, of course, and it was blowing a gale today. Absolutely streaming down the panes and no lights on and Weddell rabbiting on about the Empire and how we must all tighten our belts and brace ourselves, though you don’t see him bracing himself much, and he couldn’t tighten his belt not with that belly on him. I just kept praying one of the drops from the ceiling was going to land on his bald pate, but no luck. And all the kids coughing like mad. One starts off and then they all start. So we got ‘Our glorious Empire…’ cough cough. ‘We must fight to the last man.’ cough cough ‘Our valiant lads…’ cough cough . Oh, and he’s worked out how many old boys are in the trenches. Quite a lot, which surprised me, I’d’ve thought they all had rickets. There’s rickets in my class. You know that very domed forehead they get? Once you know to look out for that you realize how much of it there is. And then we have to listen to all this puke about what we’re fighting for. Still, it’s better than it was before Christmas. I really did think I was going to throw up then. Peace on earth to men of goodwill, and how we were all showing goodwill by blowing up the Jerries and saving gallant little Belgium. I tried to tell Standard Six what gallant little Belgium got up to in the Congo, but he soon put a stop to that. I told him I was only doing it to compare a bad colonial regime with the splendid record of our glorious Empire, but I don’t think he believed me. He doesn’t trust me further than he could throw me and that wouldn’t be far. He’s put me on teaching the little ones this term and I don’t think that’s a coincidence either.

8’s been in touch. You know I’ve been worried sick about him ever since he got nabbed, but he says it’s not too bad. One of the lads had a beard and they shaved him with a cut-throat razor. He ended up pretty cut about, but it’s surprising what they can find to laugh at. He says he hasn’t seen our William but of course he wouldn’t with him being in solitary. It might be the last we hear, though, Mam, because he says the guard who smuggles the letters out is being moved.