Pat Barker - Noonday

He remembered kissing her, though now it seemed like an episode in a dream. They’d been going off duty, the All Clear had only just sounded, and he’d been light-headed with exhaustion and relief. Kissing her then had seemed the most natural thing in the world. He remembered the dryness of her lips, the mingled smell of smoke and soap on damp skin. That was only eight or nine days ago, though it seemed much longer. With the destruction of his house, a door had clanged shut, cutting him off from his previous life. From his adult life — curiously, his youth seemed to become more and more vivid every day.

With a final wave, Sandra withdrew into the darkness of her room. From then on, it was a matter of waiting to go on duty. But he worked as usual until the light changed, then snatched an hour or so of sleep, before setting off to walk the short distance to Russell Square. He often spent the last hours before going on duty lying on the grass, watching the sun dip below the trees.

Despite the continuing hot weather, there were signs of autumn everywhere. Rows of abandoned deck chairs lined the grassy open spaces, some of them nursing lapfuls of dead leaves. Ignoring them, he lay on the ground, wanting to smell cut grass and crumbly soil, slept for another twenty minutes or so, then, dry-mouthed and sun-sozzled, set off in search of a drink.

The streets were emptying fast, the day’s spaciousness narrowing to a single crack of light. Soon would come blackout and the wail of sirens, and people were hurrying home to face another night. He was about to turn into the Russell Hotel when a voice hailed him from the other side of the road. Sandra. Oh my God. For a moment he saw her objectively: a stocky, fearless young woman, bright, amused eyes peering through an overgrown fringe. Not pretty, oh no, God, not pretty. What did he care? She was amazing.

She ran across the road, arriving in front of him, breathless. “Fancy a drink?”

There wasn’t an ounce of flirtatiousness about her, but then they were colleagues, co-workers, comrades. Asking a colleague to go for a drink means precisely nothing. He was going to have to play this very carefully.

He nodded towards the hotel. “I was just going in there.”

“Bit posh, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s all right.”

“I think I’d rather sit out.”

They found a pub that had put benches on the pavement. She asked for a Guinness, though normally she drank bitter: in fact, she could sink a pint of beer as fast as any man on the team. The area round the bar was packed with businessmen, snatching one last drink before returning to wives and children in the safety of the country. He carried the drinks outside and sat opposite her. They didn’t speak much at first, just sat in the sunshine, looking around them with the smugness of stayers-on. It had become a big part of your identity, whether you spent your nights in London or merely came in during the day to work. More important now than sex or class: whether you got on that evening train. Or not.

“Didn’t I see you at the seance?” he asked, feeling the silence had gone on long enough.

“Yes, Angela wanted to go.”

“Funny, I hadn’t got her down as a—”

“As a what?”

Superstitious, neurotic loony. “I just didn’t know she was interested.”

“Just curious, I think. I was surprised to see you there.”

“I met her, in this square, actually, a couple of weeks ago. I was curious. What about you?”

“She used to come to the Spiritualist Church near us, before the war. Me mam goes now and then. It’s not a big thing with her. You know, if she gets a message from me nanna she’s pleased, but she doesn’t make a lot of it. More of a night out, really. She always says if it wasn’t for the spuggies, she wouldn’t get out.”

How easy it was to settle back. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well, do you think there’s anything in it?”

“Not really, though there are one or two things you can’t quite explain. I mean, for example, me mam and Auntie Ethel went to a seance — Mrs. Mason — and me Auntie Ethel really doesn’t believe in it — I think she’s quite frightened of it, though — anyway, me nanna came through loud and clear. “I’m surprised,” she said, “to see you sat there, our Ethel, being as how you took the ring off my finger as I lay in the coffin.” Well, Auntie Ethel nearly passed out. And as they were going home she says to me mam, ‘You told her that. There’s no way she could’ve known. You told her, didn’t you?’ And me mam just went very quiet. And then she says, ‘How could I have told her? You were alone in the room.’ So that was a dead give-away. And you’ve got to admit, it is odd, isn’t it? I mean, how could Mrs. Mason have known?”

Well. If Auntie Ethel was flashing the ring round every pub in Middlesbrough and some friend of the dead woman happened to recognize it …He nodded. “It is odd.”

“It was the finish of me mam and Auntie Ethel, they’ve not spoken since.”

Good old Mrs. Mason, spreading havoc …“Can I get you another drink?”

“Aye, go on.”

When he sat down again, she said, “I hear you’ve been bombed.”

“Yes, a week ago.”

“Bad?”

“Pretty bad. Not liveable in.”

“So where’s your wife?”

“In the country. We did go to a B&B, but…” He shrugged. “We got bombed out of that too. That’s twice in one week.”

“Will she stay there, do you think?”

“Oh, I think so. The second bomb was a shock.”

Sandra’s tongue came out and deftly removed a mustache of foam from her upper lip. “Good.”

He was left wondering what, exactly, she meant. “You know, the funny thing is, I worked really hard for that house. And do you know, when I looked at it, the only thing I felt was relief? It was like this huge weight…” He flexed his shoulders. “I still feel it. I mean, to be honest, I wish it had been completely flattened because then I wouldn’t have to keep going back.”

“What does your wife think?”

“Oh, she’s devastated.” A pause. “I’m not saying I’m proud of it.”

“You can’t help the way you feel.”

“I know one thing, I’m not going to go and live in a bloody cottage in the country.”

“No, of course not.” She batted away a wasp that was hovering over her glass. “You say you keep going back?”

“Yes, you know, rescuing a few things.”

“So it is stable?”

“Not really.”

He’d spent hours clambering through the ruins, picking up anything he could find, mainly things belonging to Elinor. He had no great desire to rescue his own possessions. At the weekend, he’d piled it all into the boot of the car and driven down to the cottage to lay what he’d managed to salvage at Elinor’s feet. Expiating a guilt he had no reason to feel. Yet.

He caught Sandra looking at him, puzzled by his sudden abstraction. “Anyway, that’s enough about me. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, you know.” She gave a little laugh. “Busy. Tired.”

She wasn’t at ease talking about herself. He could see her making an effort to go on, to reciprocate.

“You missed a few duties.”

“Yes, I went back home for a bit.”

“Nice to have a break…”

She seemed to come to a decision. “Actually, I didn’t really enjoy it all that much, but I just thought I ought to go. Me mam’s not been very good, worried sick about me brother.”

“Where is he? Do you know?”

“Not a clue. He’s in the Marines…”

“Has he just joined up?”

“Oh, no, before the war. He couldn’t get work and when he went down the Labour Exchange they told him he wasn’t entitled to anything because his mother and his sister were working. ‘Is that right?’ he says. And off he goes and joins the Marines. Just like that. And me mam will listen to Lord Haw-Haw. I’ve told her not to, I’m tired of telling her. ‘Where is His Majesty’s ship Repulse ? His Majesty’s ship Repulse is at the bottom of the sea.’ Oh God, that voice —it’s like scraping your fingernails down a blackboard. Do you listen?”