Read Online The Night Watch by Sarah Waters - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Waters
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Historical, England, World War, 1939-1945, War & Military, London, Great Britain, London (England), Azizex666@TPB
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imagining them all crushed together like that. She moved away, and shouldered the bag. The bottles clinked against the keys. 'Julia,' she called, 'are you ready?'
They went down, and out to the street.
Their house was part of an early nineteenth-century terrace, facing a garden. The terrace was white-that London white, more properly a streaked and greyish yellow; the grooves and sockets of its stucco facade had been darkened by fogs, by soot, and-more recently-by brick-dust. The houses all had great front doors and porches-must once, in fact, have been grand residences: home, perhaps, to minor Regency strumpets, girls called Fanny, Sophia, Skittles… Julia and Helen liked to imagine them tripping down the steps in their Empire-line dresses and soft-soled shoes, taking their mounts, going riding in Rotten Row.
In miserable weather the discoloured stucco could look dreary. Today the street was filled with light, and the house-fronts seemed bleached as bones against the blue of the sky. London looked all right, Helen thought. The pavements were dusty-but dusty in the way, say, that a cat's coat is dusty, when it has lain for hours in the sun. Doors were open, sashes raised. The cars were so few that, as Helen and Julia walked, they could make out the cries of individual children, the mutter of radios, the ringing of telephones in empty rooms. And as they drew closer to Baker Street they began to hear music from the Regent's Park Band, a faint sort of clash and parp-parp-parp -swelling and sinking on impalpable gusts of air, like washing on a line.
Julia caught Helen's wrist, grew childish, pretending to tug. 'Come on! Come quick! We'll miss the parade!' Her fingers moved against Helen's palm, then slid away. 'It makes one feel like that, doesn't it? What tune is it, d'you think?'
They slowed their steps and listened more carefully. Helen shook her head. 'I can't imagine. Something modern and discordant?'
'Surely not.'
The music rose. 'Quick!' said Julia again. They smiled, grown-up; but walked on, faster than before. They went into the park at Clarence Gate, then followed the path beside the boating lake. They approached the band-stand and the music grew louder and less ragged. They walked further, and the tune revealed itself at last.
'Oh!' said Helen, and they laughed; for it was only 'Yes! We Have No Bananas'.
They left the path and found a spot they liked the look of, half in sunlight, half in shade. The ground was hard, the grass very yellow. Helen put down the bag and unpacked the cloth; they spread it out and kicked off their shoes, then laid out the food. The beer was still cold from the frigidaire, the bottles sliding deliciously in Helen's warm hand. But she went back to the bag and, after a moment's searching, looked up.
'We forgot a bottle-opener, Julia.'
Julia closed her eyes. 'Hell. I'm dying for a drink, as well. What can we do?' She took a bottle and started picking at its lid. 'Don't you know some terribly bright way of getting the tops off?'
'With my teeth, do you mean?'
'You were in the Brownies weren't you?'
'Well they rather jibbed, you know, at Pale Ale, in my pack.'
They turned the bottles in their hands.
'Look, it's hopeless,' said Helen at last. She looked around. 'There are boys over there. Run and ask them if they have a knife or something.'
'I can't!'
'Go on. All boys have knives.'
'You do it.'
'I carried the bag. Go on, Julia.'
'God,' said Julia. She rose, not graciously, took up the bottles, one in each hand, and began to walk across the grass to a group of lounging youths. She walked stiffly, rather bowed, perhaps only self-conscious, but Helen saw her, for a second, as a stranger might: saw how handsome she was, but also how grown-up, how almost matronly; for you could catch in her something of the angular, wide-hipped, narrow-breasted figure she'd have in earnest in ten years' time… The youths, by contrast, were practically schoolboys. They put up their hands to their eyes,
They went down, and out to the street.
Their house was part of an early nineteenth-century terrace, facing a garden. The terrace was white-that London white, more properly a streaked and greyish yellow; the grooves and sockets of its stucco facade had been darkened by fogs, by soot, and-more recently-by brick-dust. The houses all had great front doors and porches-must once, in fact, have been grand residences: home, perhaps, to minor Regency strumpets, girls called Fanny, Sophia, Skittles… Julia and Helen liked to imagine them tripping down the steps in their Empire-line dresses and soft-soled shoes, taking their mounts, going riding in Rotten Row.
In miserable weather the discoloured stucco could look dreary. Today the street was filled with light, and the house-fronts seemed bleached as bones against the blue of the sky. London looked all right, Helen thought. The pavements were dusty-but dusty in the way, say, that a cat's coat is dusty, when it has lain for hours in the sun. Doors were open, sashes raised. The cars were so few that, as Helen and Julia walked, they could make out the cries of individual children, the mutter of radios, the ringing of telephones in empty rooms. And as they drew closer to Baker Street they began to hear music from the Regent's Park Band, a faint sort of clash and parp-parp-parp -swelling and sinking on impalpable gusts of air, like washing on a line.
Julia caught Helen's wrist, grew childish, pretending to tug. 'Come on! Come quick! We'll miss the parade!' Her fingers moved against Helen's palm, then slid away. 'It makes one feel like that, doesn't it? What tune is it, d'you think?'
They slowed their steps and listened more carefully. Helen shook her head. 'I can't imagine. Something modern and discordant?'
'Surely not.'
The music rose. 'Quick!' said Julia again. They smiled, grown-up; but walked on, faster than before. They went into the park at Clarence Gate, then followed the path beside the boating lake. They approached the band-stand and the music grew louder and less ragged. They walked further, and the tune revealed itself at last.
'Oh!' said Helen, and they laughed; for it was only 'Yes! We Have No Bananas'.
They left the path and found a spot they liked the look of, half in sunlight, half in shade. The ground was hard, the grass very yellow. Helen put down the bag and unpacked the cloth; they spread it out and kicked off their shoes, then laid out the food. The beer was still cold from the frigidaire, the bottles sliding deliciously in Helen's warm hand. But she went back to the bag and, after a moment's searching, looked up.
'We forgot a bottle-opener, Julia.'
Julia closed her eyes. 'Hell. I'm dying for a drink, as well. What can we do?' She took a bottle and started picking at its lid. 'Don't you know some terribly bright way of getting the tops off?'
'With my teeth, do you mean?'
'You were in the Brownies weren't you?'
'Well they rather jibbed, you know, at Pale Ale, in my pack.'
They turned the bottles in their hands.
'Look, it's hopeless,' said Helen at last. She looked around. 'There are boys over there. Run and ask them if they have a knife or something.'
'I can't!'
'Go on. All boys have knives.'
'You do it.'
'I carried the bag. Go on, Julia.'
'God,' said Julia. She rose, not graciously, took up the bottles, one in each hand, and began to walk across the grass to a group of lounging youths. She walked stiffly, rather bowed, perhaps only self-conscious, but Helen saw her, for a second, as a stranger might: saw how handsome she was, but also how grown-up, how almost matronly; for you could catch in her something of the angular, wide-hipped, narrow-breasted figure she'd have in earnest in ten years' time… The youths, by contrast, were practically schoolboys. They put up their hands to their eyes,
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