Sarah Waters - The Night Watch

But of course, he kept well away from north London. He'd picked her up at Waterloo and, having crossed the river and got to the Strand, he headed east. They had places they liked, an hour from the city: villages in Middlesex and Kent, where there were pubs and tea-rooms; little beaches on the coast. Today they were motoring out towards Chelmsford; they were just going to drive, until they found a pretty spot. They had hours together: all afternoon. She'd told her father she was going on a picnic with a girlfriend. She'd stood at one end of the kitchen table the night before, making sandwiches, while he'd sat at the other fixing rubber soles to his shoes…

They wove through the City and Whitechapel; when they started on a wider, smoother road Reggie put the car in a higher gear and moved his hand back to her thigh. He found the line of her suspender, and began to follow it; her dress being thin, she could feel the pressure of his touch-his thumb and palm and moving finger-as vividly as if she'd been naked.

But her mood was wrong, somehow. She said, 'Don't,' and caught his hand.

He gave a groan like a man in torment and pretended to fight against her grip. 'What a teaser you are! Can I stop the car? It's that, you know, or run it off the road.'

But he didn't stop the car. He speeded up. The streets grew clearer. Billboards appeared at the side of the road, advertising Players, Please! and Wrigley's , “Jiffy” Dyes and Vim . She sat more loosely, watching the peeling back of the city-the blitzed Victorian high streets giving way to red Edwardian villas, the villas giving way to neat little houses like so many bowler-hatted clerks, the little houses becoming bungalows and prefabs. It was like hurtling backwards through time-except that the bungalows and prefabs gave way to open green fields, and after that, she thought, if you narrowed your eyes and didn't look at things like telegraph poles or aeroplanes in the sky, you could have been in any time, or no time at all.

They passed a pub, and Reggie worked his mouth as if thirsty. He'd laid out his jacket on the back seat, but got her to reach into its pocket and bring out a little flask of Scotch. She watched him lifting it to his mouth. His lips were soft and smooth; his chin and throat were freshly shaved, but already dark with dots of stubble. He drank clumsily, concentrating on the road. Once the whisky ran from the corner of his mouth and he had to catch it with the back of his swarthy hand.

'Look at you,' she said, half playfully, half crossly. 'You're dribbling.'

He said, 'I'm drooling. It's from sitting next to you.'

She made a face at the idea. They drove on more or less in silence. He kept to the main road for almost an hour, but then, coming to an unsigned junction, followed the quietest-looking route; and after that they took the lanes which caught their fancy. London, suddenly, became almost unimaginable-the hardness and dryness and dirt of it. The hedges which bordered the lanes were high and moist and, though it was autumn, still filled with colour: sometimes Reggie drew close to the side to let another driver pass, and flowers shook their petals through the window into Viv's lap. Once a white butterfly came into the car and spread out its papery, powdery wings on the curve of the seat beside her shoulder.

Her mood began to lift. They started to point out little things to each other-old-fashioned churches, quaint-looking cottages. They remembered a day, years before, when they had come into the country and stopped at a cottage and spoken to its owner, and he'd taken them for a married couple and asked them into his parlour and given them glasses of milk… Reggie said now, as he slowed the car before a little house the colour of creamy French cheese, 'There's space at the back, look, for pigs and chickens. I can see you, Viv, chucking out the swill. I can see you picking apples in an orchard. You could make me apple pies, and bloody great suet puddings.'

'You'd get fat,' she said, smiling, poking his stomach.

He dodged away from her. 'It wouldn't matter. You're supposed to be fat, aren't you, in the country?' He kept an eye on the road, but dipped his head to look at the upstairs window. He lowered his voice. 'I bet there's the hell of a feather mattress in the room up there.'

'Is that all you think about?'

'It is, when you're around.-Oops.'

He swerved, to avoid the hedge; then put his foot down again.

They began to look about for a place to stop the car and eat their lunch, and took a track that led between fields towards a wood. The track seemed well-maintained at first; the further they drove, however, the rougher and narrower it grew. The car bumped about, getting whipped by brambles, and long grass swept and crackled underneath it like rushing water beneath a boat. Viv bounced on the seat, laughing. But Reggie frowned, leaning forward, tugging at the steering-wheel. 'If we meet someone coming the other way, we're buggered,' he said. And she knew he was thinking about what would happen if they were to have an accident, smash up the car, get stuck…

But the track dipped and turned and they found themselves, all at once, in a lush green clearing beside a stream, breathtakingly pretty. Reggie put on the brake and turned off the engine; they sat for a moment, amazed and awed by the quiet of the place. Even after they'd opened the doors and begun to climb out they hesitated, feeling like intruders: for all they could hear was the tumbling of the stream, the calling of birds, the shushing of leaves.

'It sure as hell ain't Piccadilly,' said Reggie, getting out at last.

'It's lovely,' said Viv.

They spoke almost in murmurs. They stretched their arms and legs, then walked across the grass to the edge of the stream. When they gazed along the bank they could see, half hidden in the trees, an old stone building with shattered windows and a broken roof.

'That's a mill,' said Reggie, moving towards it, catching hold of Viv's hand. 'Can you see the shaft of the wheel? This must have been a proper river once.'

She pulled him back. 'Someone might be there.'

But no-one was there. The house had been abandoned years before. Grass grew through the gaps between its flagstones. Pigeons fluttered in its beams, and its floors were covered with bird droppings and broken slate and glass. Somebody, at some point, had cleared a space and made a fire; there were cans and bottles, and filthy messages on the walls. But the cans were rusty, the bottles silvery with age.

'Tramps,' said Reggie. 'Tramps, or deserters. And courting couples.' They went back to the stream. 'I bet this is a regular Lovers' Lane.'

She gave him a pinch. 'Trust you to find it, then.'

He still had hold of her hand. He lifted her fingers to his lips, looking coy, pretending modesty. 'What can I say? Some men are gifted like that, that's all.'

They were talking, now, in normal voices, had lost their sense of awe and caution and begun to feel as though the place was theirs: that it had been waiting, picturesquely, just for them to come and claim it. They followed the stream in the other direction and found a bridge. They stood on the hump of it, smoking cigarettes; Reggie put his arm around her waist and rested his hand on her backside, moving his thumb, making her dress and her petticoat slide against the silk of her knickers.

They threw the ends of their cigarettes into the stream and watched them race. Then Reggie peered more closely at the water.

'There's fish in there,' he said. 'Big sods, look at that!' He went down to the side of the stream, took off his wristwatch and dipped in his hand. 'I can feel them nibbling!' He was as excited as a boy. 'They're like a bunch of girls, all kissing! They think my hand's a man-fish. They think their luck's in!'