The Night Watch

'I want to know about you, first.'

'There's nothing to know. You know it all, already!' He smiled. 'I mean it. Tell me where you've been. You wrote me a letter, once, from a train.'

'Did I?'

'Yes. Just after you'd got out. Don't you remember? Of course, they wouldn't let me keep it; I read it, though, about fifty times. Your handwriting was all over the place, and the paper had a mark on it-you said it was onion-juice.'

'Onion juice!' said Fraser thoughtfully. 'Yes, now I remember. A woman on the train had an onion, and it was the first any of us had seen in about three years. Someone got out a knife and we cut it up and ate it raw. It was glorious!' He laughed, and drank more of his beer, his adam's apple leaping like a fish in his throat…

The train, he said, must have been the one he'd taken to Scotland; he'd been at a sort of logging-camp up there, with other COs, right until the end of the war. 'I came down to London after that,' he said, 'and got some work with a refugee charity-sorting out people who'd just got over here, finding them houses, getting their children into schools.' He shook his head, thinking about it. 'The things I heard would make your hair curl, Pearce. Stories of people who'd lost everything. Russians, Poles, Jews; stories of the camps- I couldn't believe it. What you've read in the papers is nothing, nothing at all… I did it for a year. That was as long as I could stand it. Any more of it, and I think I would have finished up wanting to blow my own brains out!'

He smiled-then realised what he'd said, caught Duncan 's eye, and blushed; and at once started talking again, to cover the blunder up… He'd been at the charity, he said, until the previous Autumn; then he'd started to try his hand at journalism, with a view to writing for political magazines. A friend of his had got him the 'hack job' he was doing now; he was sticking with it in the hope that something more serious would come along. He'd been involved with a girl, for a month or two, but it hadn't worked out-he coloured again as he told Duncan that. She'd been one of the other people, he said, at the charity for refugees…

He spoke seriously, fluently-like a commentator on the radio. His well-bred accent was very marked, and once or twice Duncan found himself almost wincing, knowing that the accent must be carrying across the beach, reaching the ears of other drinkers. He began to look at Fraser and, as he had before, to see him as a stranger. He couldn't imagine the life that Fraser had had, in the logging-camp in Scotland and then in London, with a girl; he could only really picture him, still, as he'd used to see him every day, in the small chill cell at Wormwood Scrubs, with the coarse prison blanket over his shoulders, mopping up his cocoa with his breakfast bread, or standing at the window, his lean white face lit up by moonlight or by coloured flares in the sky…

He gazed down into his glass, then became aware that Fraser had fallen silent and was watching him.

'I know what you're thinking,' Fraser said, when he looked up. He'd lowered his voice, and seemed self-conscious. 'You're wondering how it was for me, working with those refugees, listening to the stories I had to hear-knowing other men had fought while I'd done nothing…' He threw a stone, so that it bounced across the beach. 'It made me sick, if you want to know. Sick with myself-not because I'd objected; but because objection hadn't been enough. Sick because I hadn't tried harder, hadn't tried to find other ways-and hadn't made other people try to find them with me-earlier in the war. Sick, for being healthy. Sick, simply, for being alive…' He blushed again, and looked away. He said, more quietly than ever, 'I thought of you, as it happens.'

'Me!'

'I remembered-well, things you'd said.'

Duncan gazed down into his glass again. 'I thought you'd forgotten all about me.'

Fraser moved forward. 'Don't be an ass! My time's been taken up, that's all. Hasn't yours been?'

Duncan didn't answer. Fraser waited, then turned away as if irritated. He drank more of his beer, then went back to fiddling with his pipe, sucking at the stem, making his cheeks like wineskins again.

He's wishing he'd never asked me here, thought Duncan, prising at a stone. He's wondering why he did. He's working out how soon he can get rid of me… He thought again of Mr Mundy, waiting at home, with the tea ready; looking at the clock; perhaps opening the front door to gaze anxiously down the street…

He became aware, once again, that Fraser was watching him. He looked round, and their gazes met. Fraser smiled and said, 'I'd forgotten how inscrutable you can be, Pearce. I'm used to fellows, I suppose, who do nothing but talk.'

'I'm sorry,' said Duncan. 'We can go, if you like.'

'For God's sake, I didn't mean that! I just- Well, won't you tell me anything about yourself? I've been going on like a lunatic, while you've hardly said a word. Don't you- Don't you trust me?'

'Trust you!' said Duncan. 'It isn't that. It's nothing like that. There's nothing to tell, that's all.'

'You've tried that once. It won't wash, Pearce! Come on.'

'There's nothing to say!'

'There must be something. I don't even know where you live! Where do you live? Up near that factory of yours?'

Duncan moved uncomfortably. 'Yes.'

'In a house? In rooms?'

'Well,' said Duncan. He moved again; but could see no way out of it… 'In a house,' he admitted, after a moment, 'up in White City.'

Fraser stared, just as Duncan had known he would. ' White City? You're joking! So close to the Scrubs? I wonder you can stand it! Fulham was near enough for me, I don't mind telling you. White City…' He shook his head, unable to believe it. 'But, why there? Your family-' He was thinking back. 'They used to live in-where was it? Streatham?'

'Oh,' said Duncan automatically, 'I don't live with them.'

'You don't? Why not? They've looked after you all right, haven't they? You've sisters, haven't you? One in particular- What was her name? Valerie? Viv!' He pulled at his hair. 'God, it's all coming back. She used to visit. She was good to you. She was better to you than my bloody sister was to me, anyway! Isn't she good to you, still?'

'It isn't her,' said Duncan. 'It's the others. We never got on, even before- Well, you know. When I got out it was worse than ever. My oldest sister's husband hates my guts. I heard him talking about me once, to one of his friends. He called me- He called me Little Lord Fauntleroy. He calls me Mary Pickford, too.-Don't laugh!' But he began to laugh, himself.

'I'm sorry,' said Fraser, still smiling. 'He sounds like a regular charmer.'

'He's the sort of person, that's all, who can't bear it when people are different to him. They're all like that. But Viv isn't. She understands-well, that things aren't perfect. That people aren't perfect. She-' He hesitated.

'She what?' asked Fraser.

They were recapturing some of their old closeness. Duncan lowered his voice. 'Well, she's seeing some man.' He glanced around. 'A married man. It's been going on for ages. I never knew, when I was inside.'

Fraser looked thoughtful. 'I see.'

'Don't look like that! She isn't a- Well, she isn't a tart, or whatever you're thinking.'

'I'm sure she isn't… Still, I'm sorry to hear it, somehow. I remember her; I remember liking the look of her. And these things, you know, hardly ever turn out well-especially for the woman.'

Duncan shrugged. 'It's their business, isn't it? What does “turning out well” mean? Do you mean, being married? If they were married they'd probably hate each other.'

'Perhaps… But, what's the man like? What kind of bloke is he? Have you met him?'

Duncan had forgotten this way Fraser had, of catching hold of a subject and niggling away at it, just for the pleasure of thinking it through. He said, more reluctantly, 'He's some sort of salesman, that's all I know. He gets her tins of meat. He gets her loads, all the time. She can't take them home, my dad would wonder. She gives them to me and Uncle Horace-'