Pat Barker - Noonday

Even then, the little group on the lawn was reluctant to move. Lethargy, caused by the emotional upheaval of the past few days, and the need, shared by everybody this summer, to make the most of every last glimmer of sunshine, kept them pinned to their chairs. Only Paul, who still, so many years after the last war, reacted rather differently from most people, jumped to his feet. Splaying his fingers, he peered through them at the sky. “My God, look at them.”

A formation of bombers was coming towards them, fighter planes circling around them like gnats. Enemy fighter planes, there to protect the bombers from attack. Nobody moved; reluctant, even now, to take shelter from a threat they only half believed in. There’d been several raids in the last few months, but most of those on the coast; one or two on the outskirts of London. “Nuisance raids,” the papers were calling them, though presumably they were more than a nuisance to the relatives of those who’d been killed.

Elinor was on her feet too now, shielding her eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many.”

“They’ll be heading for London,” Tim said. “For the docks. I suppose I ought to think about getting back.”

Rachel turned on him. “Why? What on earth can you do about it?”

It seemed impossible the planes should keep on coming, but come on they did. Kenny became tremendously excited and ran round and round the lawn pretending to be a Spitfire, which did rather underline the fact that there were no actual Spitfires in the air.

“Not much resistance, is there?” Elinor said.

“They’re waiting.” Tim didn’t sound at all confident. “Being held in reserve.”

“For what?”

Everybody knew something out of the ordinary was happening, but at the same time it seemed unreal, less threatening than the solitary plane that had flown low over the garden only five days ago.

“They’ll split up, won’t they?” Rachel asked.

Tim shook his head. “I don’t think so, I think this is it.”

Paul looked at Elinor. “I ought to go back.”

“I doubt you’ll be able to,” Rachel said.

“He might,” Tim said. “All the traffic’s going to be coming the other way.”

“What, refugees?” Rachel sounded alarmed.

“Why not? Civilians under fire, there’s always the possibility of panic.”

“Well, as long as they don’t land on us.”

“Not very patriotic,” Elinor said.

“I’ve done my bit.”

It was so obvious what Rachel meant that they all looked round for Kenny, but he’d seized the opportunity to take the last two slices of gooseberry tart and was nowhere to be seen.

“I wouldn’t have thought there’s much point going back tonight.” Tim was looking at Paul. “It’ll be over by the time you get there.”

It was easy, once the drone of bombers had receded, to accept what he said, settle back and enjoy the last of the sun. The shadows now had swallowed more than half the lawn. A single star clung to the topmost branches of the fir tree, and the sky above the distant hill, where the stricken German plane had gone down, was fading to a pale translucent green.

“This is perfect,” Elinor said.

But then, a short time later, a plague of midges descended on bare arms and legs and they were glad to pick up their plates and cups and run for the shelter of the house. Only then, surrounded by the familiar walls and furniture, did the reality of the war reassert itself.

“I wonder if there’s any news,” Tim said.

They all gathered round the wireless, while Tim fiddled with the knobs, producing a great buzzing and crackling interspersed with short bursts of music. After a while, he gave up and tried to telephone several people in London, but it was impossible to get through. He was starting to look uneasy. “I’ll drive up in the morning, see what’s going on.”

As if that was going to make a difference, they all silently thought. They went through into the drawing room, where they decided the sun had definitely fallen over the yardarm and it was high time they had a drink.

Two glasses of whisky later, Rachel was already slightly slewed. She squinted at Elinor, as if a sea fret had suddenly blown into the drawing room. “You’re not really going to drive an ambulance, are you?”

“Ye-es.”

“But, Elinor, you can’t drive.”

“I can, actually.”

“She’s rather good,” Paul said. Well, decisive, anyway.

“I simply can’t imagine it.”

“They wouldn’t let her do it if she wasn’t competent.”

Poor Elinor. When he’d first met her family, Paul had been inclined to think her complaints about them were unjustified, but over the years, he’d seen how consistently her mother and sister undermined her, though he didn’t quite know why she was singled out for criticism in this way.

Mrs. Murchison appeared in the doorway. “I’m off now, madam.”

“Oh, yes, thank you. Where’s Kenny? Is he in bed?”

“I don’t know, madam. I thought he was in here with you.”

“I expect he’s still in the garden. Elinor…?”

“He won’t be out there now,” Elinor said. “It’s dark.”

Rachel waved a hand vaguely at the blacked-out window. “He catches moths.”

“God, yes, and he uses a lamp.” Tim made an unconvincing show of getting out of his armchair. “We’ll have the air-raid warden down on us like a ton of bricks.”

Rachel said, “Frightful little man, always looking for something he can tell me off about, he just can’t wait.”

Paul put his glass down. Elinor said, “No, look, you stay here, I’ll go.”

—

IT WAS A relief to get out of the house. Rachel had been starting to needle her, as she always did when she’d had a few drinks.

The moonlight and the blacked-out windows behind her made the garden seem a wild, even dangerous, place. She could see the attraction being out here at night would have for a child. At Kenny’s age, she and Toby had been great bug hunters: soaking sheets of purple paper in sugar water then arranging them around an oil lamp under the trees. Moths had been Toby’s speciality. She remembered herself as a girl in a white dress with moths fluttering all around her, a blizzard of moths, and Toby saying: “Keep still.” She froze, instantly, and he pointed to a huge dark moth that was clinging to her chest. He bent to look more closely, his pupils in the lamplight tiny pinpricks of black. “Do you know, I think it’s a Death’s Head.” “I don’t care what it is, get it off me.” Jigging up and down, afraid to touch the moth that clung and clung and rubbed its things together. “No, keep still, they’re rare.” So she kept still, while he came closer and closer until she could feel his breath on her neck, almost as if he were the moth and she the flame…

But it wasn’t fair. Middle-aged, now, searching through a moonlit garden for a child who wasn’t hers, she wanted to protest: he was older than me. Two years older. How could I possibly have known? Decades too late for that. Forget, she told herself. Some things can only be forgotten.

“Kenny?”

No reply. She walked round the side of the house to the gate and looked up and down the lane. The moon was bright enough for her to see the black squares of gun emplacements on the river banks. No guns fired tonight, though; no fighter planes in the sky.

Paul came out of the house. “Any luck?”

“No, he might just have gone to bed.”

“No, I’ve checked.” He joined her by the gate. “I hope the little bugger hasn’t run off. Bet he has.”

“No, I don’t think—”

“There was too much talk at teatime about the East End being bombed. His mother’s there, for God’s sake.”