The Hours Before Dawn Read online

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  ‘For God’s sake, Louise, what the devil are you doing down here? What’s happened?’

  Mark’s voice was loud and anxious, raised above the crying of his son, as he stood at the scullery door in his pyjamas. Louise blinked in bewilderment. For a moment she could only stare at the scullery window, barred by some careful previous tenant against burglars. The bars stood silhouetted against the dawn sky, and Louise said stupidly: ‘They’re just like the teeth. That’s what must have made me dream about the teeth.’

  Mark stepped forward and shook her roughly by the shoulder. ‘Wake up!’ he cried, his voice sharp with anxiety. ‘Wake up! Come back to bed! What is all this?’

  Louise fumbled hastily for her returning senses.

  ‘Baby was crying,’ she explained. ‘I had to bring him down or he’d wake everyone up. I’ve been bringing him here for several nights now. Not to wake everyone up.’

  Mark pulled her to her feet, anxiety, as often happens, making him lose his temper.

  ‘You’re killing yourself over that damn brat!’ he exploded, steering her across the kitchen and out into the hall. ‘We never ought to have had him! I told you from the start that two was enough—’

  Louise didn’t answer. She was too dazed to listen properly; too dazed even to talk sense herself, for she heard herself saying, mechanically: ‘Harriet, get back into bed!’ Why had she said that? Had she heard a movement from upstairs? – Footsteps? Too tired to explain it, too tired even to think about it, she crept into bed, leaving Mark to put Michael back into his cot. He wouldn’t cry any more now that the dawn had broken. With the first shrill stirrings of the birds Michael always fell into a deep and tranquil sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was thoughtful of Mark to switch off the alarm so that Louise should have an extra hour’s sleep after such a night. It was thoughtful of him, too, to get his own breakfast and to bring her a cup of tea when he left for work at half past eight. The only trouble was that by half past eight the girls also should have had their breakfast; should, indeed, have been almost ready for school instead of lying peacefully in their beds reading comics. Thus it happened that Louise was able to produce only the thinnest pretence of gratitude for all these attentions; and as she leapt out of bed and dashed into the girls’ room, leaving her tea half slopped into its saucer, she knew very well that Mark’s feelings must have been hurt. If only there was more time! Hurting someone’s feelings was so often the quickest thing to do – the shortest route from one task to the next.

  She knew, too, as she hustled the girls from their beds, that she was defeating her own purpose by all this hurrying. Harriet, perhaps, would stand up to it – would get herself sketchily dressed and then stuff herself with bread-and-butter in time to set off at ten to nine and run all the way to school. But Margery! Heaven help those who tried to hurry Margery. Even as she scolded, Louise knew exactly how it was going to be. With every exhortation from her, Margery would grow more exasperatingly slow and clumsy. Bit by bit she would become incapable of buttoning her dress – of finding her socks – even of putting on her shoes … and finally she would be sitting on the floor in floods of hopeless tears. Precious minutes, and even more precious self-control, would then have to be expended on comforting her, and then everything would have to be started again from the beginning. And, of course, there hadn’t been time to give Michael his orange juice, or change him, or anything; his yells mingled with Margery’s tears and with Louise’s more and more strident instructions. And just at this point Miss Brandon had to appear on the stairs, neatly dressed and ready for school. She stood for a moment hesitating, as if about to intervene – whether with criticism or an offer of help Louise could not tell. Nor could she tell which of the two would have infuriated her most, and so it was well that Miss Brandon thought better of it and went on her way down the stairs.

  It ended, of course, in Louise dressing Margery herself, as if she was a baby, and then running with her all the way to the school gates, pulling her by the hand and scolding. All the time she knew exactly what she looked like. No lipstick; hair scarcely combed; the shapeless old coat failing to hide her overall as she ran. She knew how she sounded, too, her voice shrill and ugly as she hustled along the dragging, tearful child. So many mothers just like this had she watched and despised; so many children just like this had she pitied as they took the brunt of their mothers’ late-rising and mismanagement. And the more clearly she saw the picture, the more infuriating became Margery’s sniffs and stumbles. By the time they reached the school gates she could joyfully have driven the child inside with a resounding slap.

  And after all this, here was Margery kissing her goodbye. Kissing her wetly, passionately; hugging her as if in boundless gratitude. Had the little girl really not noticed that all the scolding and misery she had suffered that morning had been entirely her mother’s fault? Or, noticing, had she so quickly forgiven? Or was the whole question of no importance to her – a mere ripple on the surface of that deep pool of self-absorption in which all lives begin?

  Louise returned the little girl’s kisses, and no longer felt ashamed of herself. Bent double like this, with Margery’s arms locked tight about her neck she too was in that underwater world; she too could scarcely feel the ripples.

  And perhaps I’m there all the time, really, she thought confusedly as she hurried home through the rain-spattered streets. ‘At least,’ she amended, ‘three quarters of me is – all the part that needs to deal with the children – really deal with them. It’s just my head that’s above the surface, worrying at it intellectually—’

  ‘Mrs Henderson, excuse me, I don’t want to make trouble. Anyone will tell you that I’m not one to make trouble, but really, there are some things that no one could be expected to stand.’

  Louise looked up. If only she hadn’t been staring at the pavement all the way up the road she would have seen Mrs Philips coming out, and would certainly have managed not to be turning in at her own gate at exactly the moment when Mrs Philips was coming out of hers. Unless, of course, Mrs Philips had engineered it deliberately; in that case, no amount of dawdling, hurrying or plunging into the tobacconist’s at the corner would have been any help. Louise knew when she was out-manoeuvred; and she stopped, looking as puzzled as she could at such short notice, and with Michael’s yells already resounding in her ears through the open bedroom window.

  ‘It’s that baby of yours,’ continued Mrs Philips. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with him, I’m sure, and of course it’s not my business. Though, of course, if a complaint was to be made in some official quarter, and if they were to ask me the circumstances, me being the nearest neighbour, you understand, well, I wouldn’t feel it was right to hold anything back. I’m telling you frankly, Mrs Henderson, I wouldn’t feel it was right.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Philips—’ began Louise, and then stopped helplessly. How could Mrs Philips, in her leisurely, well-ordered solitude, be made to understand the kind of rush and scramble that had made it necessary to leave Michael at home alone?

  ‘And it isn’t just this morning,’ continued Mrs Philips inexorably. ‘Though, of course, he’s been screaming ever since breakfast time. Hasn’t stopped for a moment. It’s given me a bad head, Mrs Henderson, a real bad head.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Philips—’ Louise wished she could ever think of any other answer. So far as she could remember, ever since she had lived here, these five words were the only ones she had ever managed to contribute to a conversation with Mrs Philips. Even their very first introduction of all, on the day when the Hendersons had moved in, had been over the question of the children’s footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs.

  She hurried indoors and up to Michael’s room. Through the window she could see Mrs Philips still standing attentively by the gate. And though she couldn’t see them, Louise was aware that the lace curtains at her other neighbour’s window were stirring a little as Mrs Morgan peeped out, all agog. Praying, n
o doubt, that the Henderson baby would go on crying louder than ever, and that Mrs Philips really would make a Complaint. Mrs Morgan knew all about the possibilities opened up by a Complaint. Shouted insults – the police – furniture on the street – even the throwing of bricks. Why, some of the happiest days of Mrs Morgan’s life had been ushered in by nothing more than a Complaint.

  Understanding all this, Louise was not surprised that Mrs Morgan should seem a little down-hearted as she greeted her over the garden wall a couple of hours later. For Michael had been as good as gold for those whole two hours, and was still sleeping peacefully; and Mrs Philips had been heard actually humming as she weeded her rockery in the front. The morning that had begun with such belligerent promise looked as if it was going to peter out quite amicably, and so Mrs Morgan beckoned to Louise with something less than her usual gusto.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Louise, so dispiritedly that Mrs Morgan perked up at once. Perhaps it hadn’t all blown over, after all? Perhaps it only needed a little stirring up?

  ‘Don’t you mind her,’ she admonished with heart-warming partisanship. ‘Don’t let her upset you, dear. She don’t know nothing about it. She’s never had no kids of her own.’

  ‘Hasn’t she?’ said Louise. ‘I didn’t know. I don’t really know anything about her. I’ve never really talked to her, you see, apart from these rows—’

  ‘Talk to her? Nobody can’t talk to her!’ declared Mrs Morgan encouragingly. ‘None of us is good enough for her, that’s what it is, duck. She don’t even pass the time with you if you happen to meet down the shops. Keeps herself to herself, that’s what she does.’

  Louise had lived in this road long enough to know that while Keeping Oneself to Oneself could be a virtue of the highest order in Mrs Morgan herself, or in her Very Good Friend, in Mrs Philips it was a vice deserving the uttermost of neighbourly criticism. Mrs Philips’ other shortcomings as a neighbour were then enlarged upon in a manner very soothing to Louise’s wounded pride; though as these shortcomings turned out to have extended over a period of nearly thirty years, the balm to her pride was purchased at the price of her second largest saucepan, whose charred bottom she only smelt through the back door after it was too late.

  Luckily it was Tuesday, and only the children would be home for lunch. As she transferred the un-burnt parts of the potatoes to her third largest saucepan, Louise felt oddly unperturbed. It really had been worth it. It had been such a comfort to bask in Mrs Morgan’s eager partisanship; to allow herself to believe, for the space of half an hour, in all the very worst about Mrs Philips. Even though she knew very well that any minute now Mrs Morgan would be embarking on an exactly similar conversation with Mrs Philips herself, only this time with Louise as the victim. Undisciplined children, they would say: Hopeless fool of a mother: No consideration. And they would compare notes about their nerves and their headaches. Mark always said that Mrs Morgan was a back-biting old hypocrite, but then a man couldn’t be expected to understand. It wasn’t hypocrisy. Mrs Morgan really did feel warm and protective towards you, and hostile to your enemies, all the while it was you she was talking to. It was completely genuine. The only trouble was that as soon as she began talking to your enemy, she at once felt warm and protective towards her instead; and that was genuine, too.

  The third largest saucepan came to the boil, and as Louise turned it down, Mrs Morgan’s cracked, excited voice came to her once more through the window. No doubt she and Mrs Philips were at it already. Reluctantly drawn to try and hear the worst about herself, Louise peeped round the scullery door. But no: it wasn’t Mrs Philips out there. Mrs Morgan was leaning over her further wall, with her back to Louise, deep in resounding conversation with an invisible Miss Larkins – or maybe it was Miss Larkins’ niece, Edna? – somewhere indoors. I’m sure it’s about me, thought Louise, as listeners usually do. Me and Mrs Philips – I suppose it makes a good story….

  A shrill cackle of laughter from Mrs Morgan seemed to confirm this view – but it wasn’t resentment that made Louise grow suddenly tense and let the saucepan lid go clattering to the floor. It was fear: sudden, unreasoning fear. That laugh reminded her of something – something horrible, and unpleasantly near.

  In a second she remembered. It was that stupid dream, of course, that nightmare which had haunted her restless, exhausted vigil last night, right here in the scullery. That senseless, tormented laughter came back to her with horrid clearness, and the agonised words, too: ‘Don’t make me laugh! Don’t make me laugh!’ The words seemed familiar, as if she had just recently heard them – not merely in the dream, but in real life, too.

  Well, and why not, indeed? It was a commonplace enough phrase nowadays, with its cynical, couldn’t-care-less sort of undertones. Anybody might have said it.

  And then, quite suddenly, she remembered who had said it. Standing outside on the pavement, suitcase in hand, looking at Mark’s mother’s ridiculous little car.

  It had been Miss Brandon.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It seemed that Mark had suddenly become worried about Louise’s broken nights. He had known about them theoretically for weeks, of course – had, indeed, often complained bitterly about his own unavoidable share in them – but it was only after discovering her in the scullery last night that he began to display real concern on her behalf.

  And if only this concern hadn’t taken the form of coming home unexpectedly to lunch just as Louise had got everything cleared away, she might have been deeply touched by it. As it was, she enjoyed his solicitous embrace with only a quarter of her mind; the other three quarters were already busily ransacking in imagination the refrigerator and the depleted store of tins, racing to have an answer ready for the inevitable next stage of his greetings:

  ‘I’m starving, I can tell you! I missed lunch at the canteen to dash back here. What is there? Something good?’

  Louise hadn’t the heart to tell him that there were four teaspoonfuls of sieved spinach warming through in a teacup – Michael’s first course. The girls had finished their sausages and fried potatoes and gone back to school half an hour ago. There wasn’t even any potato left.

  ‘I’ll make an omelette,’ she hazarded, trying to remember how many eggs there were left, and at the same time to smile brightly and welcomingly. For after all, it had been terribly sweet of Mark to worry about her and dash home like this.

  But the bright smile did not quite come off; and neither did the calculations about the eggs. Mark already seemed deflated even before he realised that his lunch was to consist of a tin of baked beans and a warmed-up sausage. And by this time Michael’s spinach was far too hot, and would have to be left to cool again. So Louise had to placate Michael by picking him up and carrying him on her left arm wherever she went. She heated and dished up the beans clumsily, with one hand, watching whatever gay hopes Mark had come home with fading one by one. He spoke only once:

  ‘Do you remember, before we were married, I used to come to your flat for lunch on Saturdays? You used to knock up the most marvellous little snacks then, when you got in from work. With mushrooms and things.’

  And though he didn’t pursue the subject, Louise felt the tears coming into her eyes. It had been fun, once. Even the three strenuous hours needed on Friday evenings to get the said snacks into a state in which they could be so nonchalantly ‘knocked up’ at one o’clock on Saturday – they had been fun, too. And in those days, with the April sun shining like this, she would have been wearing a new summer skirt and a white sweater, not this eternal overall.

  Yet what could one do? What could any woman do? Not even the most brilliant fashion-designer had so far devised an outfit suitable both for fascinating a jaded husband and for having sieved spinach spat on to it. And yet, Louise knew, it wasn’t only gaiety and glamour that Mark was looking for. He had come home really anxious about her; ready to be protective and tender. If he had found her utterly helpless and defeated, appealing to him for help, that would have done just as well as glamour
– perhaps even better. But somehow she hadn’t been able to do that, either. I just haven’t the energy to be helpless, thought Louise dismally, as she watched the last of the spinach trickling from the corners of Michael’s mouth.

  ‘Well, what do you say? Shall we go?’

  Louise blinked. Even sitting on a hard kitchen chair for five minutes was enough to make her drowsy now; apparently she could even doze over the shovelling of spinach into that obstinate pink mouth….

  ‘Go where?’ was the best she could do, and she watched Mark stifle a sigh of impatience.

  ‘That film. The one I’ve been telling you about. And I must say, I thought you’d have been keen, too. It’s just your kind of film. At least, it would have been once. Honestly, I don’t know what you do like doing nowadays.’

  It was on the tip of Louise’s tongue to answer truthfully: ‘I just like sleeping. Nothing else. There’s nowhere you could take me – no entertainment on the face of this earth – that would mean a row of pins to me compared with a few hours’ unbroken sleep.’

  But, of course, she couldn’t say it. Not with Mark’s blue eyes already looking so hurt, so baffled.

  ‘I planned it specially,’ he was saying, ‘because it seems to me you’re overdoing things. I thought you needed a night out. I thought you’d enjoy it.’

  ‘Of course I’d enjoy it!’ Louise assured him hastily. ‘I’d love it – it would be marvellous….’ Her tongue gabbled on glibly, expertly, striving by itself to smooth the disappointment from his face, while her mind busied itself with rearranging the afternoon and evening. The ironing would have to wait then, yet another day. The stew would have to go on at once if they were to have supper so early – in fact, it should have gone on an hour ago. Perhaps it would be better to save it for tomorrow and just have bacon and eggs tonight. No – that wouldn’t do – it must be something that could be got ready well beforehand, because Michael’s meal would have to be squeezed in, too, just before their own supper – as late as possible or he would be wanting another feed long before they got home. And what about fetching Harriet from her dancing class? Perhaps Mrs Hammond would do it – or was Vicky Hammond still at home with chicken-pox? But even if not, Harriet still wouldn’t be home till nearly seven, too late for this early supper. Perhaps she had better miss the class altogether this week? Oh, but that would never do: she was to be the Third Rabbit in the Easter show, and tonight’s class was practically a dress-rehearsal; and besides, Miss Walters would be giving out the pattern for the rabbits’ ears. Could Harriet be trusted to bring the pattern home safely if Louise didn’t fetch her herself? And if not, would Louise be able to design a pair of ears that would do well enough? If only Miss Walters wasn’t so exacting about the children’s costumes – really, it was ridiculous – anyone would think it was a Royal Command performance at Covent Garden, not just a bunch of six-and seven-year-olds prancing about in a church hall. And yet, on the other hand, they really did look rather sweet all dressed exactly alike, with their plump little legs and grave faces….