The Night Watch

The flat was up, on the highest floor. The staircase windows were uncovered, so they had to climb with only the torch to light them. She felt moisture at the top of her thighs and began to think she must be bleeding: with every step it seemed to her that she could feel the soft, hot release of a little more blood. At last she was sure that it was running down her legs, soaking her stockings, filling her shoes… She stood very still while Reggie fumbled with the keys in the unfamiliar locks, then stood still again as he went about from one window to another, kicking bits of furniture on his way, striking his shins, sending china rattling.

'For God's sake,' she said weakly, when something had fallen and he had stooped, swearing, to pick it up. 'Never mind this room. Do the bathroom first.'

'I would,' he said testily, 'if I knew where it was.'

'Can't you see?'

'No, I can't. Can you?'

'Put a light on, it's just for a minute.'

'We'll have Mother Hubbard coming up from her basement. We'll have a warden at the door. That's all we need.'

He had been fined a pound for showing a light, two years before; and had never forgotten it. The beam of the torch swept wildly about. She saw him move, then strike his head, hard, against the edge of a door.

'Christ!'

'Are you all right?'

'What do you think? Hell! That hurts like buggery!'

He rubbed his forehead, then went on more cautiously. When his voice came again, it was muffled. 'Here's the bedroom. The lav's meant to be off that, I think. Just a minute-' She heard a thud, as he struck his head again. There was the rattle of curtain-rings, and then a click, and then another. 'Oh, to fuck!' he cried. The electricity was off. They needed shillings: he made his way back to her and sorted through his change, went through her purse; then blundered around a second time, looking for the meter…

The coins went in at last, and lights sprang on. She made her way, wincing, to the bathroom. When he saw how gingerly she was moving he came forward to help her, and she pushed him off.

'Go away,' she said. 'Go away!'

She had not bled as much as she had feared, there was only a little staining on the surface of the sanitary towel; but the tip of the gauze, which had been white before, was now the colour of rust. She felt it with her fingers: it seemed looser than it had been at first, and again she worried about it travelling about inside her, getting lost. She got a smear of blood on her hand, and stood to wash it. She looked at the bath, and imagined filling it with hot water, soaking away the pain from her hips. But the bathroom was queer and luxurious, done up with a thick, milk-coloured carpet and with tiles made to look like mother-of-pearl. It made her feel grubby; she thought of the manoeuvres it would take not to leave marks or stains… She shivered, suddenly exhausted; she lowered the lavatory lid and sat back down on it, with her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. She still had her coat and her hat on.

She sat so long, Reggie knocked on the door to ask if she was all right. When she let him in he glanced around with fluttering eyelids, nervously.

He helped her to walk. She had passed through the bedroom before and hardly looked at it; now she saw that, like the bathroom, it was done up outlandishly. There was a tiger-skin rug on top of a carpet, and satin cushions on the bed. It was like someone's idea of a film-star's bedroom; or as though prostitutes or playboys lived here. The whole flat was the same. The sitting-room had an elecric fire built into the wall, surrounded by panels of chromium. The telephone was pearly white. There was a bar, for drinks, with bottles and glasses inside it, and on the wall were pictures of Paris: the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, men and women sitting gaily at pavement cafés with bottles of wine.

But everything was chill to the touch and dusty; and here and there were piles of powder: paint and plaster, that must have been shaken down in raids. The rooms smelt damp, unlived-in. Viv sat, still shivering, in the armchair closest to the fire.

'Whose flat is this?' she asked.

'It's no-one's,' said Reggie, squatting beside her and fiddling with the fire's controls. 'It's a show-flat.-I think one of these elements has gone.'

'What?'

'It's just for show,' he said. 'It's just to show you what your place would be like, if you bought one. They did it all up before the war started. No-one's interested now.'

'Nobody lives here?'

'People come to stay, that's all.'

'What people?'

He turned a switch, back and forth. 'Pals of Mike's, I told you. He was one of the house-agents and he's still got the key. He leaves it with the old mother downstairs. If you've got leave, and nowhere to spend it…'

She understood. 'It's for you blokes to bring girls to.'

He glanced up, laughing. 'Don't look at me like that! I don't know anything about that. But it's better than a hotel, isn't it?'

'Is it?' She wouldn't smile. 'I suppose you'd know. I suppose you bring girls here all the time.'

He laughed again. 'I wish! I've never been here before in my life.'

'That's what you say.'

'Don't be daft. You saw how I charged about, didn't you?' He rubbed his head.

She looked away, feeling desperately sorry for herself. 'It's always the same,' she said bleakly. 'It ends up nasty, every single time. Even now.'

He was still working the switch. 'Like what? What is?'

'Like this.' Her voice dissolved. The show of bitterness, the flood of self-pity, had worn her out. She began to cry again. He left the fire and rose; came to her and sat awkwardly beside her. He took her hat from her head and smoothed her hair and kissed her.

'Don't Viv.'

'I feel so awful.'

'I know you do.'

'No, you don't. I wish I were dead.'

'Don't say that. Think how I'd feel if you were… Does it hurt?'

'Yes.'

He lowered his voice. 'Was it horrible?'

She nodded. He reached, and put his hand on her stomach. She flinched, at first. But the warmth and weight of his palm and fingers were comforting; she placed her own hands over his and held them tight. She remembered her dream about the bull, and told him.

'A bull?' he said.

'A German bull. It was sticking its horn in me. When all the time I suppose it was Mr Imrie-'

Reggie laughed. 'I knew he was a dirty old man the moment we went in. What a sod though, to hurt my girl!'

'It's not his fault.' She got out her handkerchief and blew her nose. 'It's yours.'

'Mine! I like that!' He kissed her again. 'If it wasn't for you, driving a fellow crazy…' He rubbed his cheek against her head. The weight of his hand on her lower belly began to feel different. He had moved his fingers. 'Oh, Viv,' he said.

Now she pushed him away. 'Get off!' She laughed, despite herself. 'It's all right for you-'

'It's hell for me.'

'The thought of- Oh!' She shuddered.

He laughed, too. 'You say that now. We'll see what you think in a week or two.'

'A week or two! You're loopy. A year or two, more like.'

'Two years? I will be loopy. Let a man hope, at least. That's more than they give you for desertion.'

She laughed again; then caught her breath and shook her head, suddenly quite unable to speak. They sat for a minute or two in silence. He moved her hair with his chin and his cheek, and now and then put his mouth to her brow. The room began gradually to warm up. The pain in her stomach and back subsided, until it felt like the deep but ordinary ache one got, every month, with the curse. But she felt utterly without strength.

In time, Reggie stood and stretched. He looked at the bar and said he fancied a drink. He went and picked out a bottle; when he opened it up and smelt it, however, he made a face: 'Coloured water!' He tried another. 'They're all the same. And, look!' There were cigarettes in a box; but they were made of pasteboard. 'What a dirty trick. We shall have to make do with this, I suppose.'

He'd brought a little bottle of brandy with him. He pulled the stopper from it, and offered it to her.