Read Online The Night Watch by Sarah Waters - Free Book Online Page B
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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against the sun, when they saw her coming; they rose lazily from their places, reached into their pockets; one held a bottle against his stomach as he worked with something at the top. Julia stood with folded arms, more self-conscious than ever, smiling unnaturally; when she came back with the opened bottles her face and throat were pink.
'They only used keys, after all,' she said. 'We might have done that.'
'We'll know next time.'
'They told me to “take it easy, missus”.'
'Never mind,' said Helen.
They had brought china cups to drink from. The beer foamed madly to the curving porcelain lips. Beneath the froth it was chill, bitter, marvellous. Helen closed her eyes, savouring the heat of the sun on her face; liking the reckless, holidayish feel of drinking beer in so public a place… But she hid the bottles, too, in a fold of the canvas bag.
'Suppose one of my clients should see me?'
'Oh, bugger your clients,' said Julia.
They turned to the food they'd brought, broke the bread, made little slices of the cheese. Julia stretched out with the bunched-up canvas bag behind her head as a pillow. Helen lay flat and closed her eyes. The band had started on another tune. She knew the words to it, and began quietly to sing.
' There's something about a soldier! Something about a soldier!Something about a soldier that is fine!-fine!-fine! '
Somewhere a baby was crying from a pram; she heard it stumbling over its breath. A dog was barking, as its owner teased it with a stick. From the boating-lake there came the creak and splash of oars, the larking about of boys and girls; and from the streets at the edges of the park, of course, came the steady snarl of motors. Concentrating, she seemed to hear the scene in all its individual parts: as if each might have been recorded separately, then put with the others to make a slightly artificial whole: 'A September Afternoon, Regent's Park'.
Then a couple of teenage girls walked past. They had a newspaper, and were talking over one of the cases in it. 'Mustn't it be awful to be strangled?' Helen heard one of them say. 'Should you rather be strangled, or have an atomic bomb fall on you? They say at least with an atomic bomb it's quick…'
Their voices faded, drowned out by another gust of music.
' There's something about his bearing! Something to what he's wearing! Something about his buttons all a-shine!-shine!-shine! '
Helen opened her eyes and gazed into the luminous blue of the sky. Was it crazy, she wondered, to be as grateful as she felt now, for moments like this, in a world that had atomic bombs in it-and concentration camps, and gas chambers? People were still tearing each other into pieces. There was still murder, starvation, unrest, in Poland, Palestine, India -God knew where else. Britain itself was sliding into bankruptcy and decay… Was it a kind of idiocy or selfishness, to want to be able to give yourself over to trifles: to the parp of the Regent's Park Band; to the sun on your face, the prickle of grass beneath your heels, the movement of cloudy beer in your veins, the secret closeness of your lover? Or were those trifles all you had? Oughtn't you, precisely, to preserve them?-to make little crystal drops of them, that you could keep, like charms on a bracelet, to tell against danger when next it came?
She moved her hand, thinking this-just touched her knuckles to Julia's thigh, where no-one could see.
'Isn't this lovely, Julia?' she said quietly. 'Why don't we come here all the time? The summer's nearly over now, and what have we done with it? We might have come here every evening.'
'We'll do that next year,' answered Julia.
'We will,' said Helen. 'We'll remember, and do it then. Won't we? Julia?'
But Julia wasn't listening now. She had raised her head to talk to Helen, and her attention had been caught by something else. She was looking across the park. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes and, as Helen watched, her gaze grew fixed and she started to smile.
'They only used keys, after all,' she said. 'We might have done that.'
'We'll know next time.'
'They told me to “take it easy, missus”.'
'Never mind,' said Helen.
They had brought china cups to drink from. The beer foamed madly to the curving porcelain lips. Beneath the froth it was chill, bitter, marvellous. Helen closed her eyes, savouring the heat of the sun on her face; liking the reckless, holidayish feel of drinking beer in so public a place… But she hid the bottles, too, in a fold of the canvas bag.
'Suppose one of my clients should see me?'
'Oh, bugger your clients,' said Julia.
They turned to the food they'd brought, broke the bread, made little slices of the cheese. Julia stretched out with the bunched-up canvas bag behind her head as a pillow. Helen lay flat and closed her eyes. The band had started on another tune. She knew the words to it, and began quietly to sing.
' There's something about a soldier! Something about a soldier!Something about a soldier that is fine!-fine!-fine! '
Somewhere a baby was crying from a pram; she heard it stumbling over its breath. A dog was barking, as its owner teased it with a stick. From the boating-lake there came the creak and splash of oars, the larking about of boys and girls; and from the streets at the edges of the park, of course, came the steady snarl of motors. Concentrating, she seemed to hear the scene in all its individual parts: as if each might have been recorded separately, then put with the others to make a slightly artificial whole: 'A September Afternoon, Regent's Park'.
Then a couple of teenage girls walked past. They had a newspaper, and were talking over one of the cases in it. 'Mustn't it be awful to be strangled?' Helen heard one of them say. 'Should you rather be strangled, or have an atomic bomb fall on you? They say at least with an atomic bomb it's quick…'
Their voices faded, drowned out by another gust of music.
' There's something about his bearing! Something to what he's wearing! Something about his buttons all a-shine!-shine!-shine! '
Helen opened her eyes and gazed into the luminous blue of the sky. Was it crazy, she wondered, to be as grateful as she felt now, for moments like this, in a world that had atomic bombs in it-and concentration camps, and gas chambers? People were still tearing each other into pieces. There was still murder, starvation, unrest, in Poland, Palestine, India -God knew where else. Britain itself was sliding into bankruptcy and decay… Was it a kind of idiocy or selfishness, to want to be able to give yourself over to trifles: to the parp of the Regent's Park Band; to the sun on your face, the prickle of grass beneath your heels, the movement of cloudy beer in your veins, the secret closeness of your lover? Or were those trifles all you had? Oughtn't you, precisely, to preserve them?-to make little crystal drops of them, that you could keep, like charms on a bracelet, to tell against danger when next it came?
She moved her hand, thinking this-just touched her knuckles to Julia's thigh, where no-one could see.
'Isn't this lovely, Julia?' she said quietly. 'Why don't we come here all the time? The summer's nearly over now, and what have we done with it? We might have come here every evening.'
'We'll do that next year,' answered Julia.
'We will,' said Helen. 'We'll remember, and do it then. Won't we? Julia?'
But Julia wasn't listening now. She had raised her head to talk to Helen, and her attention had been caught by something else. She was looking across the park. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes and, as Helen watched, her gaze grew fixed and she started to smile.
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