The Night Watch

He laughed to himself, liking the idea-liking the sound of his own voice, she thought, conventionally; though the fact was, it was a nice voice, and she found she rather liked it, too… 'How would you feel,' he went on, 'about being tied to a chair with me?-I'm only asking out of interest, by the way. I'm not shooting you a line, or anything like that.'

'No?'

'Oh, no. I like to get to know a girl a little, before I start shooting lines at her.'

She drew on her cigarette. 'Suppose she won't let you get to know her?'

'Oh, but there are a thousand little things a fellow can find out about a girl, just by looking at her… Take you, for example.' He nodded to her hand. 'You're not married. That means you're smart. I like smartness in a woman… Fingernails rather long, so you're not on the land or in a factory.' He dropped his gaze, and worked slowly back up. 'Legs too nice to put in trousers. Figure too good to hide you away in some back-room job… I'd say you were secretary to some bigwig-Admiral of the Fleet, something like that. Am I close?'

She shook her head. 'Nowhere near. I'm a common typist, that's all.'

'A typist. Ah… Yes, that fits. Where have they got you? Some government racket or other?'

'Just something in London.'

'Just something in London, I see… And, what's your name? Or is that hush-hush, too?'

She hesitated, but only for a moment; then thought, Where's the harm? and told him. He nodded, thinking it over, looking into her face. 'Vivien,' he said at last. 'Yes, it suits you.'

'Does it?'

'It's a name for a glamour girl, isn't it? Wasn't there a Lady Vivien, or someone like that? In King Arthur's times? I used to know all those stories when I was a kid; I've forgotten them now… Anyway,' he leaned forward to shake her hand, 'my name's Reggie. Reggie Nigri.-Yes, I know, I know, it's lousy. And I've been stuck with it all my life. The boys at school used to call me “Nigger”; now the fellows at camp call me “Musso”. Work that one out if you can… My old grandad came over from Naples. You should see the pictures! He had a moustache out to here, a waistcoat, a handkerchief round his neck; all he needed was the monkey. He sold hokey-pokey from a cart in the street. I've got second cousins twice removed-or something like that-who are fighting, now, for the other team, in Italy. They're probably just about as keen on this ruddy war as I am… Have you got any brothers, Vivien?-You don't mind me calling you Vivien? I'd call you Miss Pearce, but it sounds old-fashioned in times like these.-Have you got any brothers?'

Viv nodded. 'Just one.'

'Older, or younger?'

'Younger,' she said. 'Seventeen.'

'Seventeen! I bet he loves all this, doesn't he? Can't wait to join up?'

She thought of Duncan. 'Well-'

'I would too, if I was his age. Instead- I'm nearly thirty, and look at me. Two years ago I was selling motor cars in Maida Vale, and doing very nicely. Then the war starts up and, bingo, that's the end of that. I got a bit of work with a pal of mine for a while, in the costume jewellery trade; that wasn't too bad. Now I'm stuck in a ruddy OCTU in Wales, being taught which end of a rifle the bullets are supposed to come out. I've been there four months, and I swear to God it's rained every day. It's all right for our CO, he stays in a hotel. I'm living in a hut with a tin roof on it…'

He went on like this, telling her about his duties at the camp, the hopeless squaddies he was billeted with, the hopeless pubs and hotel bars, the hopeless weather… He made her laugh. The boys she met, of her own age, were full of the war: they wanted to talk about types of aeroplane and ship; about Army bets and Navy quarrels. He was past all that. He was past boasting. He yawned and rubbed his eyes again, and his very tiredness seemed appealing somehow. She liked the grown-up, casual way he'd said 'when I was a kid'. She liked the way he'd said her name; that he'd thought it over and said it suited her. She liked it that he knew about King Arthur. She liked the fact, after all, that his uniform didn't fit him. She pictured him in an ordinary jacket, a shirt and tie, a vest. She looked again at his monkey-like hands and imagined the rest of him: swarthy, stocky, with swirls of hair on his chest, his shoulders, his buttocks and legs-

The handle of the door was tried and, abruptly, he fell silent. There came a knock, and a cry: 'Hey! What's taking you all this time?'

It was one of the Canadians. Reggie didn't answer for a second. Then the knock came again and he called out, 'This one's busy, chum! Try another!'

'You've been in there for half an hour!'

'Can't a bloke have a bit of time to himself?'

The airman kicked the door as he moved off. 'Fuck you!'

Reggie flushed. 'Go to hell!'

He seemed more embarassed than angry. He caught Viv's eye, then looked away. 'Nice chap,' he muttered.

She shrugged. 'Don't worry. I hear worse than that from the girls in the typing pool…'

She'd finished her cigarette, and now dropped the end of it, covering it over with her shoe. When she looked up, she found him gazing at her. His flush had faded and his expression slightly changed. He was smiling, but had drawn together his brows as if perplexed by something.

'You know,' he said, after a moment, 'you really are the hell of a good-looking girl… It's like my luck, as well.-Getting holed up with a beautiful girl, I mean, in the one establishment in town where I can't even say, politely, “Have a seat.”'

That made her laugh again. He watched her face, and laughed too. 'Hey, that wasn't bad going, was it, for a bloke who's dead on his feet? You should hear me when I've had some sleep. I'm telling you, I'm a killer…' He bit his lip, and again that look of slight perplexity crossed his face. 'You're not by any chance some sort of hallucination, are you?'

She shook her head. 'Not as far as I know.'

'Well, that's what you say. Hallucinations are clever like that. For all I know, I'm might still be on a bench on Swindon station, fast asleep. I need some sort of a shock. I need a key dropped down my collar, or- I've got it.' He turned and ground out his cigarette in the basin, then drew back his sleeve and held out his arm. 'Give me a pinch, will you?'

'A pinch?'

'Just to prove to me that I'm awake.'

She looked at his bare wrist. There was a point where the smooth pale flesh at the base of his thumb gave way to hair; and again she thought, unwillingly but not unpleasantly, of the swarthy arms and legs of him… She reached and gave him a nip with her fingers. Her nails got caught up in it, and he quickly drew the arm back.

'Ouch! You've been practising that! I think you are a ruddy spy!' He rubbed the spot she'd pinched, then blew on it. 'Look at that.' He showed her the mark. 'I shall turn up at home and they'll suppose I've been in a fight. I'll have to say, “It wasn't a soldier, it was a girl I got talking to in the lavatory of a train…” That'll go down well, in the circumstances.'

'What circumstances?' she asked, laughing again.

He was still blowing on his wrist. 'I told you, didn't I? I've got compassionate leave.' He lifted the wrist to his mouth and sucked it. 'My wife,' he said, over the ball of his thumb, 'has just had a baby.'

She thought he was joking, and kept on smiling. When she saw that he was serious her smile grew fixed, and she blushed from her collar to her hair.

'Oh,' she said, folding her arms. She might have guessed, from the age of him, even from the manner of him, that he was married; but she hadn't thought about it. 'Oh. Is it a boy, or a girl?'

He lowered his hand. 'Little girl. We've got the boy already, so you could say, I suppose, that now we've got the set.'

She said politely, 'It's nice for you.'

He almost shrugged. 'It's nice for my wife. It keeps her happy. It won't keep us rich, I know that… But here, look. Have a look at this. Here's the first one.'

He put his hand to his pocket again and brought out a wallet; he fumbled about with the papers inside it, then drew out a photo and passed it over. It was slightly grubby, and torn at the corners; it showed a woman and a little boy, sitting together, perhaps in a garden. A bright day in summer. A tartan rug on a mown lawn. The woman was shading her eyes with her hand, her face half-hidden, her fair hair loose; the boy had tilted his head and was frowning against the light. He had some home-made toy or other in his hand, a baby's motor-car or train, another home-made toy lay at his feet. Just visible in the bottom right-hand corner of the square was the shadow of the person-Reggie himself, presumably-taking the picture.