Sarah Waters - The Night Watch

He was aware, after a minute or so of this, of Fraser giving a shudder, and of the wires beneath his mattress growing still; but he couldn't have stopped his own hand, then, for anything, and a moment later his own spunk rushed: he felt the travelling and bursting of it as if it were hot and scalded him. He thought he made a sound, as it came; it might just have been the roaring of the blood through his ears… But when the roaring died, there was only the silence: the awful, abashing stillness of the prison night. It was like emerging from some sort of fit, a spell of madness; he thought of what he'd just done and imagined himself pounding, gasping, plucking at Fraser's bunk like some kind of beast.

Only after a minute did Fraser move. There was the rustle of bed-clothes, and Duncan guessed he was wiping spunk from himself with his sheet. But the rustling went on, the movement became tense, almost savage; finally, Fraser struck his pillow.

'Damn this place,' he said, as he did it, 'for turning us all into schoolboys! Do you hear me, Pearce? I suppose you liked that. Did you, Pearce? Hey?'

'No,' said Duncan at last-but his mouth was dry, and his tongue caught against his palate. The word came out as a sort of whisper.

Then he flinched. The bed-frame had rocked, and something warm and light had struck him, in the face. He put up his hand, and felt a sticky kind of wetness on his cheek. Fraser must have leaned over the edge of the bunk and flicked spunk at him.

'You liked it all right,' said Fraser bitterly. His voice was close, for a moment. Then he moved back beneath his blanket. 'You liked it all right, you blasted bugger.'

'Goodness,' said Helen, opening her eyes. 'What's this?'

'Happy birthday, darling,' said Kay, putting down a tray at the side of the bed, and leaning to kiss her.

Helen's face was dry and warm and smooth, quite beautiful; her hair had frizzed up a little, like a sleepy child's. She lay for a moment, blinking, then pushed herself higher in the bed and drew up the pillow to the small of her back. She did it clumsily, still not quite awake; and when she yawned, she put her hands to her face and worked her fingers into the corners of her eyes, to remove the crumbs of sleep from them. Her eyes were slightly puffed.

'You don't mind that I've woken you?' asked Kay. It was a Saturday, still early, and she had worked the night before; but she'd been up for an hour and was already dressed, in a pair of tailored slacks and a jersey. 'I couldn't bear to wait any longer. Look, here.'

She brought the tray to Helen's lap. There was a spray of paper flowers in a vase, china pots and cups, an upturned bowl on a plate; and the pink box, with the silk bow, containing the satin pyjamas.

Helen went from item to item, politely, slightly self-conscious. 'What beautiful flowers. What a lovely box!' She looked as though she was struggling to wake up, be charmed and excited… I should have let her sleep , Kay thought.

But then she lifted the lids of the china pots. 'Jam,' she said, 'and coffee !' That was better. 'Oh, Kay!'

'It's real coffee,' said Kay. 'And, look here.'

She nudged the upturned bowl, and Helen picked it up. Underneath, on a paper doily, was an orange. Kay had worked on it for half an hour with the point of a vegetable knife, carving HAPPY BIRTHDAY into the peel.

Helen smiled properly, her dry lips parting over her small white teeth. 'It's wonderful.'

'The R's a bit ropey.'

'Not at all.' She took the orange up and held it to her nose. 'Where did you get it?'

'Oh,' said Kay vaguely. 'I coshed a small child for it, in the black-out.' She poured out coffee. 'Open your gift.'

'In a minute,' said Helen. 'I must pee first. Hold the tray, will you?'

She kicked off the blankets and ran to the bathroom. Kay drew the bed-covers back up so that the mattress should stay warm. Heat rose from the bed, even as she did it-rose palpably, against her face, like steam or smoke. She sat with the tray on her lap, and rearranged the flowers, admired the orange-fretting, slightly, over that crooked R…

'What a fright I looked!' said Helen, laughing, coming back. 'Like Struwwelpeter.' She had washed her face and brushed her teeth and tried to calm her cloud of hair.

'Don't be silly,' said Kay. 'Come here.' She put out her hand; Helen took it, and let herself be drawn into a kiss. Her mouth was chill, from the cold water.

She got back into bed, and Kay sat beside her. They drank the coffee, ate toast and jam.

'Have your orange,' said Kay.

Helen turned it in her hands. 'Shall I? It seems a shame. I ought to keep it.'

'What for? Go on.'

So Helen broke the skin, and peeled the orange, and divided it into pigs. Kay took one, but said that she must eat the rest herself. The fruit was slightly sour, and dry-the segments tore too easily. But the sensation of them yielding up their juice upon the tongue was glorious.

'Now open your present,' said Kay impatiently, when the orange was finished.

Helen bit her lip. 'I hardly dare. Such a beautiful box!' She picked it up, self-conscious again. She held it beside her ear, and playfully shook it. When she began, very gingerly, to ease off the lid, Kay laughed at her.

'Just pull it right off!'

'I don't want to spoil it.'

'It doesn't matter.'

'No,' said Helen. 'It's too pretty.-Oh!' She looked startled. She'd removed the lid at last and, the box being tilted against her knees, the folds of paper inside had parted and the pyjama-suit, like quicksilver, had come tumbling fluidly out. She gazed at it for a moment without moving; then, as if reluctantly, she caught hold of the jacket and lifted it up. 'Oh, Kay.' She was blushing.

'Do you like it?'

'It's beautiful. Too beautiful! It must have cost a fortune! Where ever did you get it?'

Kay smiled and wouldn't answer. She took a sleeve of the jacket and held it up. 'Do you see the buttons, look?'

'Yes.'

'They're bone. Here on the sleeve, too?'

Helen held the satin to her face, and closed her eyes.

'The colour suits you,' said Kay. And then, when Helen didn't answer: 'You do like it, really?'

'Darling, of course. But- I don't deserve it.'

'Don't deserve it? What are you talking about?'

Helen shook her head and laughed, opening her eyes. 'Nothing. I'm being silly, that's all.'

Kay took away the tray, the cups and plates and paper. 'Try it on,' she said.

'I oughtn't to. Not without bathing first.'

'Oh, rubbish. Put it on. I want to see you in it!'

So Helen got slowly out of bed, drew off her threabare nightdress, stepped into the pyjama trousers and buttoned on the top. The trousers were fastened with a linen cord. The jacket tied at the waist: it was full like a blouse but, the satin being heavy, it showed very clearly the swell of her breasts, the tips of her nipples. The sleeves were long: she buttoned the cuffs and folded them back, but they slid out of the folds at once and fell almost to her fingertips. She stood, as if shyly, for Kay to look her over.

Kay whistled. 'How glamorous you look! Just like Greta Garbo in Grand Hotel .'

She didn't look glamorous really, however; she looked young, and small, and rather solemn. The room was cold, and the satin chill; she shivered and blew on her hands. She worked again at folding back the sleeves, almost fretfully-gazing once, as she did it, into the mirror, and then turning quickly away.

Kay watched her, with a sort of ache about her heart. She felt her love, at moments like this, as a thing of wonder-it was wonderful to her, that Helen, who was so lovely, so fair and unmarked, should be here at all, to be looked at and touched… Then again, it was impossible to imagine her in any other place, with any other lover. No other lover, Kay knew, would feel about her quite as Kay did. She might have been born, been a child, grown up-done all the particular, serious and inconsequential things she'd done-just so she could arrive at this point, now; just so she could stand, barefoot, in a satin pyjama-suit, and Kay could watch her.