Pat Barker - Noonday

Only now Kit was back in London, working as an ambulance driver in the same Tottenham Court Road depot as Elinor. This proximity added a new dimension to what had always been a difficult — well, what could you call it? Association? They were now members of the same team: they’d trained together, grumbled together, drunk endless cups of stewed tea together; and now — almost nightly, when she was in London — faced danger together. All this inevitably produced a sense of comradeship that was both intense and impersonal. But it was the same with all the drivers. It hardly seemed to matter whether you liked the person or not. You just jogged along together, because you had to. This was something altogether new in Elinor’s experience, though she supposed the men were familiar with it from the last war. Even so, she’d managed to avoid anything in the way of direct contact with Kit. If they went to the pub, it was always in a group of five or six other people. Sitting around in the depot, waiting for calls, she talked to Violet or Dana. She doubted if she’d exchanged a single personal word with him in the last few months — nor had she wanted to. So she wasn’t particularly looking forward to this evening, but it needn’t last long; she could always say she was tired and needed an early night.

On her way downstairs, she paused to peer into an aquarium that stood in a recess on the half-landing, but, though well stocked with plants, it seemed to be empty. Kit had come out of a door on the right and was looking up at her.

“I can’t see any fish.”

“That’s because there aren’t any.” He came upstairs and took the tray from her. “It’s all for him.” He pointed to a small terrapin lurking at the bottom of the tank.

“Oh, I didn’t see him.”

“No, well, he’s very well disguised, isn’t he?” He hesitated. “When I was a child I used to think that was me.”

“What, rattling around on your own?”

“Felt like it sometimes.” He nodded towards the stairs as if to emphasize the size of the house.

“Must feel a little bit like that now.”

“It does, rather. I mean, I suppose I could live at the club, but…Oh, I don’t know.” He led the way into the drawing room. “Would you like a drink?”

She suppressed a smile: he so obviously needed her to have a drink. “What are you having?”

“Whisky.”

“Go on, I’ll join you.”

The glass he handed her was rather large. Never mind, she could always take it slowly. He was busy drawing the blinds.

She took a sip of whisky and recoiled from the peaty taste. Kit didn’t seem to have heard of water. “Don’t you think the blackout’s worse in summer? In winter you can kid yourself it feels cosy, but…”

“I don’t think I ever managed that.” He sat down, about as far away as he could get while remaining in the same room. “How did you find him?”

“Not good.”

“He had a bad night. We had a bad night.”

“No, he’s not been sleeping well.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Did he tell you about the dizziness?”

“He didn’t have to, he fell over.”

“Oh, as bad as that?”

“He said something about flu.”

“Yes, that’s when it started. Apparently there’s nothing much wrong. I mean, we were terrified at first — well, you can imagine — but it’s nothing like that. Nothing serious.”

“What do you think’s causing it?”

“Well, like the doctor said — flu.”

“You don’t believe that.”

She hesitated. “No, I don’t, not really. I mean, it’s certainly worse if he gets upset about something.”

“He was upset last night.”

“Was he?”

“Yes, he was hiding it well, but looking back, I think he was in quite a state. He met some sort of weird woman in the square — the one weird sister, I think — and she said she could see a ginger-haired boy standing behind him. But Paul was actually looking at a ginger-haired boy at the time — staring at him, in fact — and she obviously picked up on that.”

“Did he tell you about Kenny?”

“He did, yes.”

She closed her eyes. “Oh, poor Paul. That’s the last thing he needed.”

“As I say, he was in quite a state.” He raised his empty glass, asking her if she’d like another. When she shook her head, he got up and refilled his own. “Are you back in town now?”

“Yes — though there’s an awful lot of sorting out still.”

“I was sorry to hear about your mother.”

She thanked him, and then the talk turned to other things. Not, as she’d expected, their shared experiences of driving an ambulance. No, by mutual, unspoken consent, they went right back to their student days at the Slade, before the last war, before his silence after Toby’s death divided them. Rather to her surprise, Elinor began to enjoy it. All those fancy-dress parties, what was all that about? And they’d put so much effort into it…

“Do you remember the last one?” she asked. “We must have been sewing costumes for a week.”

“Was that the one where you and Catherine went as Harlequin?”

She smiled. “Yes, both of us.”

“And you wouldn’t take your masks off, or say anything, so nobody could tell which was which. And you danced with each other all evening, wouldn’t let any of the men break in.”

“Funny, Paul remembers that too.”

“Elinor, every man who was there remembers that.”

“Yes, you were all standing round the edge of the dance floor with your tongues hanging out.”

“Ah, so you did know? Thought you did.”

“Wasn’t why we were doing it though…”

“No, you never took your eyes off each other — all evening.”

Elinor looked down into her glass. “How is she?”

“Pretty good. Well, as far as I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve never regretted the marriage. It gave me Anne.”

“How old is she now?”

“Six. She’s got two gaps in her front teeth. Just here.” He tapped his own teeth. “She’s very proud of them; she was one of the last people in her class to get them. I think she thought it was never going to happen.”

“It’s a nice age,” Elinor said, vaguely. She found it hard to imagine Kit as a father.

“Do you know, I was thinking the other evening — well, the middle of the night, really — the last time the three of us were together — I mean, under the same roof — was the start of the last war.”

“Yes, we went for a bike ride. To see the Doom.”

“And I fell off.”

“So you did.”

“And asked you to marry me.”

An awkward pause. “So you did.”

“God, that was so humiliating.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Kit, you didn’t mean it…”

“No, I meant falling off. Poor old Dad, he used to take me round and round the heath, must’ve run miles. And the minute he let go, off I came. I never did get the hang of it.”

“Well, you seem to have got the hang of proposing.”

“E-vent-u-al-ly.” He moved the lamp a few inches farther away from his face. “Oh, and by the way, I did mean it.”

She shook her head.

“I was trying to remember who else was there. Paul, of course, and, er—”

“Toby.”

Abruptly, it was between them: Toby’s death; Kit’s long silence. But then, just as he was about to speak, the siren set up its awful tooth-jarring wail and so she never did find out what he was going to say.

Sitting like this in silence, listening to the sirens, you felt the darkness deepen. Even with every lamp in the room lit, you were aware of it, pushing against the windowpanes, seeping through cracks in doors and walls, dragging the city back into barbarism. London: no longer one of the world’s great centers of civilization, but merely a settlement on a river, lit by guttering candles after dark.