Pat Barker: Noonday

Outside, in the garden, Mrs. Murchison was still calling: “Kenny? Kenny?”

Well, she could call till she was blue in the face; he wouldn’t come in for her.

A murmur of voices drifted across the landing from her mother’s room: so she must be awake. It couldn’t be put off any longer, though even now Elinor stood outside the door for a full minute, taking slow, deliberate, deep breaths, before she pushed it open and went in.

A fug of illness rose to meet her: aging flesh in hot sheets, camphor poultices that did no good at all, a smell of feces and disinfectant from the commode in the far corner. Rachel was sitting on the other side of the bed, her back to the window, her face in shadow. Mother’s nightdress was open at the front: you could see her collarbone jutting out and the hollows in her throat. Her chest moved, not merely with every breath, but with every heartbeat. Looking at her, Elinor could almost believe she saw the dark, struggling muscle laboring away inside its cage of bone. Mother’s eyes were closed, but as Elinor approached the bed, the lids flickered open, though not completely. They stopped halfway, as if already weighted down by pennies. “Oh, Elinor.” Her voice was slurred. “It’s you.”

Wrong person. “Hello, Mother.” She bent and kissed the hollow cheek.

She was about to sit down, but then she saw Rachel mouthing at her. “Outside.”

Elinor slipped quietly out onto the landing and a few seconds later Rachel joined her. The sisters kissed, Rachel’s dry lips barely making contact with Elinor’s cheek. They’d never been close. Toby, the middle child, had come between them in every sense. Looking back on her early childhood, Elinor realized that even then she and Rachel had been rivals for Toby; and Elinor had won. An empty victory, it seemed, so many years after his death.

“Has the doctor been?” she asked.

“This morning, yes. He comes every morning.”

“What does he say?”

“You mean how long has she got? No, of course he didn’t say. They never do, do they? I don’t think they know. She’ll hang on till Alex gets back — and then I think it might be very quick.”

“When’s he coming?”

“He’s hoping they’ll let him out tomorrow. But it depends on the consultant, of course.”

Mother had always used her grandson, Alex, as a substitute for Toby. Was “used” a bit harsh? No, she didn’t think so.

“I expect you’d like some tea?” Rachel said.

“Well, yes, but hadn’t one of us better sit with her?”

“No, it’s all right, I’ll get Nurse Wiggins. Oh, you don’t know about her, do you? She’s our new addition.” A fractional hesitation. “Very competent.”

“You don’t like her.”

“We-ell, you know…” Rachel gave a theatrical shudder. “She hovers. ”

“You need the help, you’re worn out.”

“Wasn’t my idea, it was Tim’s.”

“Well, good for him.”

Rachel glanced back into their mother’s bedroom. “Ah, she’s nodded off again; I thought she might. I’ll just nip up and get the Wiggins.”

Tim had retreated to his study, so Elinor went into the drawing room to wait for Rachel. The farmhouse, which had been shabby, even dilapidated, when Rachel first fell in love with it, was now beautifully furnished. Oriental rugs, antique furniture — good paintings too. Nothing of hers, though. She had three in the Tate; none here.

Rachel came in carrying a tray, which she put down on a small table near the window. Out of the corner of her eye, Elinor noticed Kenny scaling along the wall, trying to avoid being seen from the kitchen window. “I see Kenny’s still here?”

“Oh, don’t talk to me about Kenny; I’m beginning to think he’s a fixture. His mother was supposed to come and get him last Saturday. Poor little devil was sitting at the end of the drive all day. Suitcase packed, everything — and she didn’t show up. And he never says anything, you know, never cries.” She pulled a face. “Just wets the bed.”

“He’s still doing that?”

“Every night. I mean, I know you don’t like Mrs. Murchison, but really, the extra work…” She hesitated. “I don’t suppose you could go and see her, could you? His mother?”

Not your house. Not your child.

“I’m actually quite busy at the moment.”

“Busy?”

“Painting.”

“Oh, yes. Painting.”

That was only just not a sneer. The silence gathered. Elinor reminded herself of how tired Rachel must be, how disproportionately the burden of their mother’s illness fell on her. “You know, if you liked, you could have an early night; I’ll sit with her.”

“No, there’s no need. Nurse Wiggins does the nights.”

So why am I here?

“Would you mind if I phoned Paul tonight?”

“Phone him now if you like.”

“No, he’ll be working, I’ll leave it till after dinner.”

“How is he?”

“A bit up and down. Kenny was disappointed he hadn’t come. I think I’m a very poor substitute.”

“Now that is something you could do. Make sure he turns up for dinner washed and reasonably tidy. He won’t do anything for Mrs. Murchison and I just don’t have the time.”

Kenny. Somehow, whenever she was here, the responsibility for making Kenny behave got passed on to her. Still, it was the least she could do. So after Rachel had gone back upstairs, Elinor went into the garden, first to the sycamore tree and then into the kitchen garden, where he’d built himself a den behind the shed. No luck there either. The night nursery was the next most likely place.

As she climbed the stairs, Elinor was remembering her first sight of Kenny, almost a year ago, the day the children arrived. A busload of them, carrying suitcases, paper parcels and gas masks, with luggage labels fastened to their clothes.

She and Rachel had arrived late at the church hall. It was rather like a jumble sale, all the good stuff disappearing fast, except that here the stuff was children. Pretty little blond-haired girls were popular and not always with the obvious people. You could see why the Misses Richards might want one, but Michael Ryan, who’d lived alone at Church Farm ever since his parents died and seemed barely able to look after himself, let alone a child, why was he so keen? Big, strapping lads, strong enough for farm work, they were snapped up. Older girls went quickly too. A twelve-year-old, provided she was clean and tidy — and not too slow on the uptake — was virtually a free housemaid. And then there were the children nobody wanted: families of four or five brothers and sisters. They’d have to be split up, of course. In fact, it was happening already. Some of the smaller children were wide-eyed with shock and grief.

Then she saw him. Pale, thin, his face slum-white, disfigured by freckles, orange hair, coppery-brown eyes. His trousers were too short, his sleeves too: he had unusually knobbly wrist bones. And a rather long, thin neck. For some reason, that made him seem vulnerable, like an unfledged bird, though closer to — she’d begun to walk towards him now — she revised her impression. Yes, he looked like a chick, but the chick of some predatory bird: an eagle or a falcon. Not an attractive child, but even so, he should’ve been picked by now — he was the right age for farm work.

And then she saw the lice. She’d never seen anybody with a head that lousy. His hair was moving. Made desperate by their overcrowded conditions, lice had started taking short cuts across his forehead. She was about to speak to him — though she had no idea what to say — when Rachel came up behind her.

“They want me to take three. Three. How on earth am I supposed to manage three?”