under the stairs. First there was nothing and then the detail swam into view as he lifted the negative in triumph from its bath of fluid and hung it up to dry. All she had to do was look.
Isabel kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed beside the man, on top of the covers. He gave out heat steadily, like an engine, while his weight pressed the mattress down. He was heavier than Philip. At the thought of Philip a pulse of alarm went through her, and then vanished. He was out for the day at least. He’d be miles away. She thought of Philip’s profile, as she’d often turned to watch it while he was driving. She could study every inch of him because he so rarely felt her gaze and turned to her.
The man’s greatcoat lay folded on the chair, but her greatcoat,
the
greatcoat, was no longer there. A thin counterpane covered the blankets, as it had done when Isabel and Philip first moved into the flat. Isabel was lying on top of the bedclothes but she wasn’t cold. There he was, on Philip’s side of the bed, next to her, on his back. She put out her hand and touched his shoulder. The fine wool of his uniform was pleasant against her skin. She felt as if she’d known its touch for a long time. Here they were, the two of them. He’d been outside for a long time, but now he was here in her bed. She thought of the tapping at the window that had broken into her dreams. Maybe, on other nights, he had tapped and she hadn’t heard. He had been waiting for far too long.
I shouldn’t care if I never went outside in my life
, he’d said. Philip was different. He grumbled sometimes when the telephone rang and he was called out, but he liked it too. He would whistle under his breath as he fastened his collar, because the world needed him.
It was as quiet as those days when snow begins with a few desultory flakes and then thickens, thickens until the sky is full of it, muffling streets, cars, houses, footsteps. Isabel had moved a little closer to the man in uniform. Her body seemed to know how to curve itself to his heat. She was quite safe: she knew he wouldn’t wake. She would let him have his sleep.
Time went by. Intently and silently, time fed on the peace of the bedroom. Isabel was asleep.
She woke at three. It was already dusk outside the window. No, it was fog, wrapping itself around the lilac that grew in the backyard, close to the window. Branches pressed up to the glass, dripping wet.
There was nobody beside her. Isabel passed her hand over the bedclothes and thought she detected his warmth, but it might have been the heat of her own body. Perhaps he had made a hollow in the bed; but then the mattress was so old that it went naturally into peaks and valleys. With a swift movement she rolled over and pressed her face to the pillow where he had laid his head. Yes, he was still there. Cigarettes; a smell of engines; something men put on their hair. The greatcoat was lying in its usual place on top of the bedclothes.
Isabel swung her legs over, got up and went to the kitchen. The important thing was to finish making the steak-and-kidney pudding. She tied on her apron and as she did so she heard the landlady’s footsteps overhead.
She must have come home while I was asleep
. All the way to the window Mrs Atkinson walked, went back to the door, and then to the window again. The usual tread, too heavy to be ignored. Isabel switched on the radio, tuned it to the Light Programme and turned the volume up high on
Music While You Work
. Harry Leader’s sax soon took care of the footsteps. Isabel hummed along loudly as she poured a cup of hot water into the sticky gravy, stirred it and set the pan back on the hob. She rolled out the pastry again and this time it held together, flaccid but obedient. The recipe text danced:
Grease the basin … line the basin … pour in prepared meat and gravy … cover and seal
…
She did it all. She was a young married woman in her own kitchen, listening to the radio as she prepared her
Isabel kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed beside the man, on top of the covers. He gave out heat steadily, like an engine, while his weight pressed the mattress down. He was heavier than Philip. At the thought of Philip a pulse of alarm went through her, and then vanished. He was out for the day at least. He’d be miles away. She thought of Philip’s profile, as she’d often turned to watch it while he was driving. She could study every inch of him because he so rarely felt her gaze and turned to her.
The man’s greatcoat lay folded on the chair, but her greatcoat,
the
greatcoat, was no longer there. A thin counterpane covered the blankets, as it had done when Isabel and Philip first moved into the flat. Isabel was lying on top of the bedclothes but she wasn’t cold. There he was, on Philip’s side of the bed, next to her, on his back. She put out her hand and touched his shoulder. The fine wool of his uniform was pleasant against her skin. She felt as if she’d known its touch for a long time. Here they were, the two of them. He’d been outside for a long time, but now he was here in her bed. She thought of the tapping at the window that had broken into her dreams. Maybe, on other nights, he had tapped and she hadn’t heard. He had been waiting for far too long.
I shouldn’t care if I never went outside in my life
, he’d said. Philip was different. He grumbled sometimes when the telephone rang and he was called out, but he liked it too. He would whistle under his breath as he fastened his collar, because the world needed him.
It was as quiet as those days when snow begins with a few desultory flakes and then thickens, thickens until the sky is full of it, muffling streets, cars, houses, footsteps. Isabel had moved a little closer to the man in uniform. Her body seemed to know how to curve itself to his heat. She was quite safe: she knew he wouldn’t wake. She would let him have his sleep.
Time went by. Intently and silently, time fed on the peace of the bedroom. Isabel was asleep.
She woke at three. It was already dusk outside the window. No, it was fog, wrapping itself around the lilac that grew in the backyard, close to the window. Branches pressed up to the glass, dripping wet.
There was nobody beside her. Isabel passed her hand over the bedclothes and thought she detected his warmth, but it might have been the heat of her own body. Perhaps he had made a hollow in the bed; but then the mattress was so old that it went naturally into peaks and valleys. With a swift movement she rolled over and pressed her face to the pillow where he had laid his head. Yes, he was still there. Cigarettes; a smell of engines; something men put on their hair. The greatcoat was lying in its usual place on top of the bedclothes.
Isabel swung her legs over, got up and went to the kitchen. The important thing was to finish making the steak-and-kidney pudding. She tied on her apron and as she did so she heard the landlady’s footsteps overhead.
She must have come home while I was asleep
. All the way to the window Mrs Atkinson walked, went back to the door, and then to the window again. The usual tread, too heavy to be ignored. Isabel switched on the radio, tuned it to the Light Programme and turned the volume up high on
Music While You Work
. Harry Leader’s sax soon took care of the footsteps. Isabel hummed along loudly as she poured a cup of hot water into the sticky gravy, stirred it and set the pan back on the hob. She rolled out the pastry again and this time it held together, flaccid but obedient. The recipe text danced:
Grease the basin … line the basin … pour in prepared meat and gravy … cover and seal
…
She did it all. She was a young married woman in her own kitchen, listening to the radio as she prepared her
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