The Night Watch

The thought made her restless. How horrible work was, really! Even with Viv to make it bearable, how awful it was to be here, while everything that was important to you, everything that was real, had meaning, was somewhere else, out of reach…

She went into her office and looked at the telephone on her desk. She oughtn't to call at this sort of time in the day, for Julia hated to be interrupted when she was working. But now that she'd thought of it, the idea took hold: a little thrill of impatience ran through her, she found herself physically almost twitching, wanting to pick the receiver up.

Oh, bugger it, she thought. She snatched up the telephone and dialled her own number. It rang once, twice-and then came Julia's voice.

'Hello?'

'Julia,' said Helen quietly. 'It's only me.'

'Helen! I thought you were my mother. She's already called twice today. Before her I had the Exchange, some sort of problem with the line. Before that there was a man at the door, selling meat!'

'What sort of meat?'

'I didn't enquire. Cat-meat, probably.'

'Poor Julia. Have you managed any writing at all?'

'Well, a little.'

'Killed anybody off?'

'I have, as it happens.'

'Have you?' Helen settled the receiver more comfortably against her ear. 'Who? Mrs Rattigan?'

'No, Mrs Rattigan's had a reprieve. It was Nurse Malone. A spear through the heart.'

'A spear? In Hampshire?'

'One of the Colonel's African trophies.'

'Ha! That will teach him. Was it awfully grisly?'

'Awfully.'

'Lots of blood?'

'Buckets of it. And what about you? Been putting out the banns?'

Helen yawned. 'Not much, no…'

She had nothing to say, really. She had just wanted to hear Julia's voice. There was one of those noisy telephone silences, full of the tinny electric muddle of other people's conversations in the wire. Then Julia spoke again, more briskly.

'Look here, Helen. I'm afraid I'll have to ring off. Ursula said she'd call.'

'Oh,' said Helen, suddenly cautious. 'Ursula Waring? Did she?'

'Just some tiresome thing about the broadcast, I expect.'

'Yes. Well, all right.'

'I'll see you later.'

'Yes, of course. Goodbye, Julia.'

'Goodbye.'

Puffs of air; and then the line went dead as Julia put the telephone down. Helen spent a moment with the receiver still at her ear, listening to the faint, gusty echo that was all that remained of the severed connection.

Then she heard Viv coming out of the lavatory, and quickly and softly set the receiver back in its cradle.

'How's Julia?' Viv thought to ask, as she and Helen were going around the office at the end of that day, emptying the ashtrays, gathering their things. 'Has she finished her book?'

'Not quite,' said Helen, without looking up.

'I saw her last book the other day. What's it called? The Dark Eyes of-?'

'The Bright Eyes,' said Helen, 'of Danger.'

'That's right. The Bright Eyes of Danger. I saw it in a shop on Saturday; and moved it right to the front of the shelf. A woman started looking at it, too, after that.'

Helen smiled. 'You ought to get a commission. I'll make sure to tell Julia.'

'Don't you dare!' The idea was embarassing. 'She's doing ever so well though, isn't she?'

'She is,' said Helen. She was shrugging on her coat. She seemed to hesitate, and then went on, 'You know, there's a write-up on her in the Radio Times this week. Her book's going to be on Armchair Detective.'

'Is it?' said Viv. 'You ought to have told me. The Radio Times! I shall have to buy one on my way home.'

'It's only a brief thing,' said Helen. 'There's- There's a nice little photo, though.'

She didn't seem as excited about it, somehow, as she ought to have been. Perhaps she was just used to the idea. It seemed an incredible thing to Viv, to have a friend who wrote books, had her picture in a paper like the Radio Times, where so many people would see it.

They switched off the lights and went downstairs, and Helen locked the door. They stood for a minute, as they usually did, looking in at the wigs in the wig-maker's window, deciding which wigs they would buy if they had to, and laughing at the rest. Then they walked together as far as the corner of Oxford Street-yawning as they said goodbye, and making comical faces at the thought of having to come back tomorrow and do another day, all over again.

Viv went slowly after that, almost dawdling: gazing into the windows of shops; wanting the worst of the going-home rush to be over before she tried to catch a train. Usually she took a bus, for the long journey home to Streatham. Tonight, however, was a Tuesday night; and on Tuesdays she took the Tube and went to White City, to have tea with her brother. But she hated the Underground: hated the press of people, the smells, the smuts, the sudden warm gusts of air. At Marble Arch, instead of going down into the station, she went into the park, and walked along the path beside the pavement. The park looked lovely with the late, low sun above it, the shadows long, cool-seeming, blueish. She stood at the fountains and watched the play of the water; she even sat on a bench for a minute.

A girl with a baby came and sat beside her-sighing as she sat, glad of the rest. She had on a headscarf left over from the war, decorated with faded tanks and spitfires. The baby was asleep, but must have been dreaming: he was moving his face-now frowning, now amazed-as if he was trying out all the expressions he would need, Viv thought, when he was grown up.

She finally went down into the Underground at Lancaster Gate; she only had five stops, then, to Wood Lane. Mr Mundy's house was a ten-minute walk from the station, round the back of the dog-track. When races were on you could hear the crowds-a funny sound: loud, almost frightening, it seemed to surge after you down the streets like great waves of invisible water. Tonight the track was quiet. The streets had children in them-three of them balanced on one old bicycle, weaving about, raising dust.

Mr Mundy's gate was fastened with a fussy little latch, that somehow reminded Viv of Mr Mundy himself. His front door had panels of glass in it. She stood at them now, and lightly tapped, and, after a moment, a figure appeared in the hall beyond. It came slowly, with a limp. Viv put on a smile-and imagined Mr Mundy, on his side, doing the same.

'Hello, Vivien. How are you, dear?'

'Hello, Mr Mundy. I'm all right. How are you?'

She moved forward, wiping her feet on the bit of coconut-matting on the floor. 'Can't complain,' said Mr Mundy.

The hall was narrow, and there was a moment's awkwardness, every time, as he made room for her to pass him. She went to the bottom of the stairs and stood beside the umbrella-stand, unbuttoning her coat. It always took her a minute or two to get used to the dimness. She looked around, blinking. 'My brother about, is he?'

Mr Mundy closed the door. 'He's in the parlour. Go on in, dear.'

But Duncan had already heard them talking. He called out, 'Is that Vivien? V, come and see me in here! I can't get up.'

'He's pinned to the floor,' said Mr Mundy, smiling.

'Come and see!' called Duncan again.

She pushed at the parlour door and went inside. Duncan was lying on his stomach on the hearth-rug with an open book before him, and in the small of his back sat Mr Mundy's little tabby cat. The cat was working its two front legs as if kneading dough, flexing and retracting its toes and claws, purring ecstatically. Catching sight of Viv, it narrowed its eyes and worked faster.

Duncan laughed. 'What do you think? She's giving me a massage.'

Viv felt Mr Mundy at her shoulder. He had come to watch, and to laugh along with Duncan. His laugh was light, and dry-an old man's chuckle. There was nothing to do but laugh too. She said, 'You're barmy.'