‘Going on about hot water, she’s always on about something, and the old gentleman, what business is it of hers, can’t even die in peace nowadays –’
‘Oh don’t talk about dying. It’s Christmas.’
‘Well, seeing it’s all in, I s’pose his lordship’d kindly give me permission, they’ll be sold out, I wouldn’t wonder and I ’aven’t got a shilling only coppers, if it goes out while I’m gone you can keep warm can’t you, shan’t be a tick, it’s starting to get dark already and not four yet, can you beat it, well I’m off.’
While she was speaking, Gladys had put on for the second time that day her mufflings and coverings and now marched out of the house.
The warmth from Lily Cottage came up faintly but agreeably to meet her as she went down the stairs, and, feeling the need for its comfort, she crossed under the arched doorway into the other house and went out by the other door.
Silent and warm, glowing in its gilt and rose, the witch’s house stood in the falling dusk, waiting for the witch.
Gladys had not been gone five minutes before faint sounds became audible to her sister. Dismissing a first terrified thought that the rackman might be stealing up the stairs, she concluded that the maker of them was Mr Fisher. But she did not call out, because the years of their mutual tenancy had taught her that Mr Fisher did not welcome being hailed by those he called the ladies.
Presently there came a faint tap at the living-room door.
‘Is that you, Mr Fisher?’ called Annie, ‘come in. You must excuse me being in bed, as usual.’
The door gently opened, and there stood the old man, so wrapped in his dead leaf-coloured clothes that he appeared shapeless, leaning against the jamb, with his face even more colourless than usual. He was breathing fast; he half raised a hand in greeting.
Annie looked at him in silence. She knew that he would want to be the first to speak.
‘Good-evening,’ he said at last, and she could hardly catch the words, ‘I was wondering … could you and your sister be so very kind as to give me the loan of a scoop of tea? It isn’t … quite … convenient for me to go out this evening.’ The sentence ended on a gasp.
Annie, who had long had her own views about Gladys’s social manner to Mr Fisher, was thankful that her sister was out. Here was the chance to deal with him in the way he would welcome.
‘Of course. Please help yourself, the canister’s on the sideboard. And please won’t you make it down here? Then p’raps I could have a cup, too.’
Annie’s simple code of manners hardly extended beyond the lavish sprinkling of her sentences with ‘please’.
‘Very kind of you,’ said Mr Fisher, with a stiff inclination of his head, and he shuffled into the room in the faded silk slippers, ‘If I may say so – neighbourly. But you … and Miss Gladys … always neighbourly …’
He began to fumble with the lid of the canister, in a way that would have set Gladys screaming offers of help.
But Annie was silent, and did not even watch, but kept her eyes fixed on the square window opposite her bed in the farther room.
The curtains were apart, and Gladys had refrained, from motives of economy, from putting on the light; behind them, the curve of Parliament Hill showed black against a sky of purple bloom and icy pink.
Mr Fisher had tottered between canister, tap and cooker for a full twenty minutes before the kettle lid began to rattle. Annie refrained from the shriek with which her sister would have greeted this event, and Mr Fisher, left unharried, dealt with it; very slowly but nevertheless safely.
At last the tea was made – and, even as the old man poured on the boiling water, the hissing of the gas-fire ceased, and the two rooms were plunged into half-darkness.
Annie did not cry out. She said gently – and she felt like talking quietly, the dusk was so silent, and the sky above the distant Heath so soft and cold – ‘Could you please switch on the light, if you’d be that kind, Mr Fisher?’ and he shuffled across the room.
But ‘the electric’ had joined the gas in what seemed a shaming conspiracy.
‘Perhaps I might draw the curtain back a little?’ he suggested.
‘Yes, please,’ Annie’s tone was touched with mortification.
Followed more tottering, shuffling and fumbling, then the curtains were drawn, fully revealing the superb fading light, and letting it shine faintly through the room.
She had wondered whether he would take his cup of tea and retreat with it up to his attic. But he first handed her her own cup on a tray, which he found, undirected, on the sideboard; then sat down in the armchair and began to sip, always in silence.
Annie considered apologizing for the behaviour of the gas and decided against it. Keep your poverty to yourself.
Darkness had fallen. Suddenly a shaft of silver light slid over the ceiling, and engines sighed to a stop outside. Annie started, to the peril of her tea.
‘That’s them – the rackman, I shouldn’t wonder,’ she quavered, and Mr Fisher, far from coming out with some manly and comforting remark, merely turned his gaze gravely towards the door, as if anticipating the monster’s immediate entrance.
In a moment they heard the door of Lily Cottage open, and voices, together with sounds suggesting that suitcases were being carried upstairs.
A woman’s voice, harsh and irritable, implored someone to take care for God’s sake. The impression of noisy haste and impatience was disagreeable, coming up into the room where, in the unearthly light, they had been drinking their tea in companionable silence, and Mr Fisher put down his cup and began slowly to get up from his chair.
‘Oh don’t go, Mr Fisher … stay and keep me company … Glad’ll be in any minute … I don’t like the idea of them coming up here and me alone,’ his hostess implored, and, with a reluctance expressed by the extreme hesitancy of his movement, the old man resumed his seat.
They sat in silence, Annie’s eyes staring out through the gloom at Mr Fisher as if in search of human support, and Mr Fisher’s wandering uneasily round the room.
The angry demand for care had been followed at once by a rich glare of light from below, so strong that it poured through the arch and illuminated the sisters’ stairs, and their landing and even made objects dimly visible in the bedroom. Annie sniffed.
‘Quite a saving, that’ll be,’ she muttered. ‘Oh I wish Glad ud come in … s’pose they wanted something?’ – and even as she spoke the familiar voice was heard below.
‘Hullo Peggy, got here then, nice and warm, afternoon Mrs Pearson, I just popped out, there’s always, well, I said, he did say stay while they brought them in but I thought to myself you never know when they’re going to take it into their heads to close near Christmas making up for the rush pleased to meet you, Mrs George, yes, next door, we’re neighbours, got the upstairs place and the old gentleman has the attic I don’t expect you’ll see much of him, keeps himself to himself, well I’ll leave you to get on, those men I don’t mean to tell tales but sulky, well, I said, dumb as well as deaf best to make a joke of it with that sort but brought the things in ever so careful I must say. Well seeing there’s five of you I’ll be toddling, there now! wouldn’t that happen! Just what I said!’
The voice was getting nearer as Gladys climbed the short flight, and the last exclamation was uttered at the door, where she paused to take in the fact that her sister was in the neardark with a visitor.
‘I’ve got one here … shan’t be a jiff … one for each.’
Followed rattling and jingling sounds and gas and electricity flew back into their cages. She hastened to put a match to the pettishly hissing fire, then, having nodded to Mr Fisher without enthusiasm, proceeded to unmuffle, accompanied by a report on what was going on downstairs.
13
Four handsome pigskin cases had been carried up by the man George. A fifth, made of the cheapest materials and with its handle fastened by string, had been dragged up with difficulty and panting breath by its owner, who went about her task with
irritating slowness, and frequent glances about her, as if she found difficulty in realizing where she was. Lily Cottage echoed, in a muffled fashion, with the sounds that accompany resumed occupation.
Having without one word to anybody dumped his burden, George went out, slamming the door after him, and settled himself in the car with a newspaper, reading with an expression of fury that seemed dredged up from some burning private marl-pit.
Mrs Pearson had gone straight to her room, at the back of the house. She felt for the light near the door, switched it on, and looked about her, drawing a breath of satisfaction.
‘Mm … pricey,’ said Mrs George, who had followed. ‘I like all your pink and gold.’ But this was the most she could force herself to dredge up from the family pit. She stood looking round the room with envy unconcealed.
Mrs Pearson went to the bed and lay down, kicking off her shoes, sliding out of her fur coat, drawing the eiderdown over her shoulders.
‘Peggy, love, get me a hot-water bottle. And my cigs. And the matches. In my bag.’
‘You can do that.’ Peggy jerked her head sideways at the other girl, who was kneeling beside one of the cases and attempting to open it. ‘Cigarettes and matches. In her bag – look, over there.’
She turned exasperatedly to her mother. ‘I thought she spoke some English?’
‘So she does – don’t you, Erika? I expect it all seems a bit strange.’
She glanced at the wizened creature, and a smile came over the pretty skull that was her face. ‘But you must talk slowly. “I – want – cigarettes. In – my – bag.”’ She pointed, and Erika went across and opened it and fumbled within. She found the cigarettes and brought the packet across to her employer.
‘Well – sooner you than me – Germans,’ said Mrs George, not troubling to lower her voice.
‘Sh-sh. We’ll get on nicely, once we’re settled.’
‘She looks downright mental,’ Mrs George went on. ‘I hate anything like that round me.’
‘S’sh,’ Mrs Pearson said dreamily again, drawing in smoke. ‘She’s going to forget all that, now. Thanks, lovey,’ as Peggy returned with the hot-water bottle, having found a boiling kettle in the kitchen, thoughtfully set on the cooker by Gladys. ‘Oh, I like being here. I like it already. It’s so quiet. Look at Tom’s roses … Peggy, take Erika and show her her room. Take some roses for her, no, more – take six or seven.’
She watched contentedly while Peggy snatched the narrow pink and yellow buds from the vase, scattering water, and went quickly out of the room.
‘Erika – you go with Peggy. See your room,’ said Mrs Pearson, and Erika slowly moved towards the door.
‘I’ll have a look too,’ said Mrs George, making to follow.
‘No, you stay here,’ said Mrs Pearson tranquilly. ‘You scare her.’
‘I’d scare her all right if she was working for me. Her sort needs keeping down – Germans.’ But Mrs George stayed where she was.
‘No, no, you’ve got it all wrong, she needs lifting up. You’d better go now, Marie, your light’s all jagged. It’s like that with people sometimes. They can’t help it, but they’d best keep away from each other.’
‘Oh if you’re going to talk your nonsense I’m off,’ Mrs George said, her eyes wandering uneasily away from the haggard, smiling face.
The back bedroom in Rose Cottage was small, and completely square, with a high ceiling and a small window; the lightest of primrose paint and green, leaf-scattered wallpaper could not remove a faint suggestion of a cell.
Erika, slowly pushing back hair from her eyes, stood looking around, while Peggy jammed the roses into a vase.
Erika’s eyes moved to the ceiling, to the narrow window, through which shone a dreary orange glare behind dark roofs. She said nothing.
Peggy glanced at her. ‘Go on, draw the curtains. Here …’ she said, as Erika did not move. She went across and dragged them together. ‘You’d better get yourself some English, quick, I can’t be here all the time, and you’ll have to look after my mother by yourself. Can you make tea?’
‘Kaffee,’ whispered Erika, shaking her head.
‘Oh …’ Peggy was quivering like some impatient filly, ‘I suppose I’d better show you.’
‘Mother,’ she flung at Mrs Pearson, as she led Erika, stumbling and pushing at her hair, back into the bedroom. ‘I hope you know what you’ve let yourself in for.’
Mrs Pearson gave a small indulgent laugh. ‘She’ll be all right.’
Mrs George, having put away silk and nylon underclothing in the drawers, was wandering round picking up the little glass grotesques which she had arranged on the dressing-table and mantelpiece, and putting them down again.
‘Well – I’m off,’ she said at last. ‘If you’ll be all right. I can’t say I’d care to sleep here with her. She might turn funny.’
‘She’s all right, her light’s faint but it’s blue. She’s had a bad time. Very bad. I don’t know what I can do for her, but I’ll try. I always wanted a daughter. Peggy’s so independent, she’d never let me help her.’ Mrs Pearson moved her heavy gold curls restlessly against the pillows. ‘I can’t get near Peggy. She’s shut me out.’
Mrs George heard this without any show of interest. She said, ‘Well –’ again, made a gesture of farewell, and announced her intention of ‘looking in again in a day or two’.
‘Yes, do come again, Marie. Phone me.’ Then Mrs George, picking up her coat, went off, as it happened, for ever.
With the shutting of the front door, a hush settled over the house. Mrs Pearson lay still, staring at the glow of the lamp beside her bed. She heard the car drive away; then it was so still that she could hear the distant voice of Peggy, instructing Erika in the kitchen in the next cottage, and certain trampings to and fro, overhead but outside her own ceiling, which she knew must be caused by her neighbour, the stout old woman who lived in Rose Cottage. She turned her face into the pillow and shut her eyes.
‘Mum.’ Peggy’s voice broke the silence; there was no tender questioning note, only a flat repetition of the little name. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’ She was standing by the bed, accompanied by Erika holding a tray.
‘What have you got for me? – thank you, lovey, that was thoughtful.’
‘Cold stuff. This – she can’t make tea,’ indicating the silent figure with a motion of her hand.
‘She’ll learn, dear. I’ll teach her.’ Mrs Pearson sat up. She looked at Peggy wistfully, ‘I suppose you want to be getting along now.’
‘Yes. It’s nearly seven and there’s a film I want to see.’
‘But just tell me you think it all looks pretty.’
‘Oh yes, it looks pretty, all right. ’Bye.’ With her clouded smile and her secret look, armoured in her silence, she went out, shutting the door behind her. Mrs Pearson was alone with her attendant in the rosy box of a room.
She turned to Erika, who had not moved from her place beside the bed. Standing with lowered head, hair falling over her eyes, the tray held stiffly in front of her, she did indeed justify Mrs George’s comment. Her eyes were fixed on the food on the tray.
‘Schatz –’ Mrs Pearson said, and the dull little orbs came round to rest on her face. Mrs Pearson moved her head towards the tray. ‘Help yourself. Essen. Here –’ she stretched out her hand, ‘I’ll have a biscuit and my tea, first.’
When she had helped herself – ‘Take it, go on, take it. Essen – essen.’
Erika slowly picked up the tray and went across to a table by the window and set it down. ‘Dankë schön –’ she whispered, in a meagre voice which seemed the authentic note of her thin, flat body. She began slowly to eat.
‘Go and sit by the fire, schatz –’ said Mrs Pearson in a moment. Erika slowly lifted her head, her jaw suspended in the act of eating, and looked at her, then she recommenced her slow chewing.
There was a longish silence. The room’s warmth and rosy light seemed to deepen; all sounds had ceased from the cottage next
door; once the harsh note of a diesel engine blared from the railway running beyond the Council flats.
‘Go and sit by the fire, schatz,’ said Mrs Pearson presently, very softly; a piece of bread was falling from Erika’s hand and her head was drooping. The murmur seemed to reach her, for without looking at Mrs Pearson she got up, and stumbled across to the fire, where she rearranged herself and resumed her consumption of the food. But her movements became slower and slower, her head fell forward, and gradually she slid down until she was lying in the full warmth, her scanty hair spread about her hidden face.
Mrs Pearson remained motionless, except for her slight movements as she lit cigarette after cigarette or pressed out a consumed one, her eyes fixed on the lamp. They did not close, their lids did not blink; they remained widely spread, with violet shadows beneath them, blue whites and ever-spreading, velvety black iris drawing all the life in her face into themselves; enormous; tranced, in the unchanging light.
There was no sound or movement in the room beyond those slight ones made by the burning of electricity, which give a false impression of life. The stirring of breath from the two human creatures was no more than the faintest flutter. But, when enough time had passed for the room to sink utterly into this silence, there came a change.
It was in Mrs Pearson’s eyes. Something glanced out of them; drew back and vanished, then returned, as if with a pounce of satisfaction, and glared out avidly into the room. The eyes had the expression of a creature that feeds. They settled on every visible object; the sleeping girl, the expanse of pink carpet, each little glass animal on the dressing-table; sucking at them and caressing them, and moving slowly over them, as if what was looking out had been starved for a very long time.
14
A knock on the door sounded; subdued, as if someone meant to recognize the presence of invalidism.
The feeder in Mrs Pearson’s eyes was no longer there. Flash – gone. They turned, in gentle inquiry, to the door. ‘Who’s that? Come in.’