The Hours Before Dawn (7 page)

The dreamlike feeling was gone now, and she was awake; but Oh! so wearily awake! She was so tired that her whole body seemed to be swaying, rocking, and when she lay down it was as if she was being sucked into heaving, bottomless water. ‘All conquering sleep.’ The phrase drifted into her mind – was it some quotation from the classics? And had the author of it been inspired by a weariness as deep as hers? Across the span of the centuries Louise reached out for the solace of a fellow-sufferer. But uselessly; for that long-ago poet had managed to put his torturing sleepiness into immortal verse; not, like Louise, into muddling the laundry list and snapping at the children.

W
hat’s more, that poet was wrong. This was Louise’s first dazed thought as the relentless, intermittent crying from Michael’s room forced her to battle her way back to consciousness a couple of hours later. For weeks now she had fought this nightly battle, and each night it grew a little harder. Each night, too, she would pause for a little in the midst of the struggle, allowing herself to think: Perhaps he’ll stop: perhaps if I lie here and do nothing about it, he’ll get tired and drop off again. He wouldn’t: she knew with absolute certainty that he wouldn’t, and yet the thought still gave her a sort of respite; gave her time to collect the strength needed to open her eyes and to move her limbs again.

Two o’clock. It was always two o’clock. There was no need, really, to peer into the little phosphorescent dial; no use, either, to cherish that flickering hope that possibly, this time, it would be three, giving a hope that his habits might be slowly changing.

The cries, which had been irregular, were continuous now, and growing louder. She must go to him, at once. If she delayed any longer Mark would wake up too, exhausted past endurance, and she would have a row on her hands as well as the crying baby.

The linoleum was icy on her bare feet as she felt about in the darkness for her slippers; her heavy dressing-gown gave, as always, its odd assurance of support, as if its enveloping warmth was a sort of relic of the blessed sleep which was gone. Clutching round her its delusive comfort, Louise padded through into the next room, and set herself to the nightly routine as one might set a machine in motion.

The routine had changed since Miss Brandon’s arrival. As Mark had pointed out, one couldn’t expect a stranger to put up with this nightly disturbance; and after that first night of
hearing
doors reproachfully opening and closing, Louise had evolved a new method. Instead of feeding Michael in his own room, and then rocking him, patting him, senselessly pleading with him, and at intervals trying to settle him back in his cot, she now took him straight down to the kitchen and sat with him there. Sounds seemed to carry upstairs less from here than from the sitting-room, and if his screams became really
impossible
, she could always carry him through into the scullery, thus putting two doors between him and the rest of the household. There she could sit, her feet propped on the mangle, her head drooping against the draining-board, and jig her baby up and down – up and down; while behind her the taps dripped in the darkness. There she would stay; and presently she would be neither sleeping nor waking; neither thinking nor at peace; scarcely aware of the cold striking up from the stone floor. And her head would sink further and further over the throbbing
little
body … the screams would become part of an uneasy dream…. People, crowds of people, shouting, calling,
demanding
… rushing for a train in a station full of screams and whistles and roars…. And then, quite suddenly, she would start awake, cold and deadly stiff, to find the baby relaxed and quiet in her lap, and the dawn breaking in the queer shapes and shadows of a downstairs room at this uninhabited hour.

Tonight Louise took Michael straight to the scullery. The comfort of the warm kitchen was out of the question with him screaming as loud as this. This time, even feeding him did not bring the usual temporary peace. He seemed restless, aggressive, pulling away from her breast, and would not settle to sucking steadily. Of course, it probably wasn’t a feed that he needed at all – everybody said he was far too old to be needing a night feed. Except, of course, the people who said he was far too young to be denied one. Oh, there was so much advice to be had; and it was all so kind, and sound, and sensible. All the problems of child management seem to be solved, mused Louise, except the one problem which confronts
me
. Is that why I always feel so guilty when I’m talking to Nurse Fordham? She knows the answers to so many questions – it seems
dreadful
to bring just the question that doesn’t fit any of her answers. As if I’d done it deliberately. Like going into a smart dress shop when you weigh about fifteen stone. Of course they can’t fit you – and it’s
your
fault, not theirs…. ‘No, Moddom, nothing like that at all, I’m afraid.’ … It was Nurse Fordham’s voice that rang so genteel and scornful in Louise’s ears … Nurse Fordham who was advancing across the deep pile carpet, a slinky model gown draped over her arm….

Louise started awake, and clutched Michael more tightly. Somehow, one never actually
did
drop a baby, however much one drowsed and dreamed, but all the same there must be a risk. And this hard stone floor, too. She should have brought down a blanket to spread at her feet, just in case. Or an eiderdown. Yes, an eiderdown would be better. Only the floor was so dirty; you couldn’t put an eiderdown on a floor like that. Thursday was supposed to be her scrubbing day; had she missed scrubbing it last Thursday? No, of course she hadn’t, she remembered it very clearly, particularly the slimy scantiness of that old worn cloth. She would need a new cloth. Oh, most certainly she would….

Louise found that she could think about the new floor cloth better with her eyes shut…. She could think really hard…. But wait: this
was
a new cloth, wasn’t it? New and white – but why so big? And so stiff? What is it that is stiff and white? A shroud? No, of course it couldn’t be a shroud; no one would use a shroud for scrubbing floors. It must be a sail. A canvas sail for a ship….

Oh, but it was so heavy to work with! It needed all her strength to pull it out of the pail, heavy and dripping. Her arms ached. She had been scrubbing for hours, surely, and still the unwashed floor stretched ahead … yards of it … acres of it … all thick with grease and old sodden rubbish.

She must clear it all, though. They would make her. They were watching her even now, their eyes fastened on her, murderous, and without pity. Such eyes! All the hatred of the whole earth must be mirrored in those eyes … those bared teeth coming closer, closer … she could feel the hot breath on her face, and it smelt of hatred….

Panting, gulping with fear, Louise awoke. For a second she thought the baby had slipped off her lap while she slept. But no; if anything, he seemed even more securely pressed against her than before. She clung to him in relief, sat up straighter; but even now that she was fully awake shreds of the nightmare still clung about her. The smell of hatred still seemed to hang like steam in the chill of the scullery; she seemed still to feel the damp threat of it on her cheek.

But at least Michael was quiet now. She staggered to her feet and cautiously, painfully, she carried him upstairs again, the giddiness of sleep compelling her to feel with her toes for every step.

But it was no use. The moment she bent towards the cot, Michael began to yell again. If she had been alone in the house it would have been worth putting him firmly in the cot and
leaving him to it; something in the quality of the yells now told her that they would exhaust themselves in ten minutes or so. But ten minutes would be quite enough to rouse the household; there was nothing for it but to set off down the stairs once more.

She reached her uninviting destination, and sat down again on the chair by the sink. As she settled her feet against the mangle and leaned her head against the draining-board in the now familiar position, she felt for a moment that she was
settling
right back into the nightmare; as if it was waiting there, to go on for her exactly where it had left off.

But Louise knew the cure for this. She had only to shift her position a little, and the nightmare would shift too. As if it could only catch the people who were in one particular
attitude
; and now it must depart frustrated, and hover over the towns and cities of the world – waiting – watching – peering – until at last it found another woman with her feet propped against another mangle, her head resting on another
draining-board
. And perhaps that woman, too, would not have washed up the supper last night; she too would have the smell of stale tea-leaves in her nostrils, would see the stacks of dirty saucepans looming at her in the darkness, huge, like towers, like lumpish, shapeless bodies, with little gleaming eyes where the street lamp caught the curve of the enamel. Brown eyes of course, the saucepans were brown; it was only common-sense that their eyes would be brown, too. Green saucepans would have had green eyes. Brown eyes, so brilliant and so hard. Enamel eyes, with all the hatred of all the earth mirrored in them….

But this time, as the face approached, Louise knew it was only a dream. She tried to cry out, to wake herself. She even knew that Michael was in her arms, and she clutched him more tightly to protect him from the nightmare. Closer came the face, and closer; and Louise saw now that the malignant eyes
were filled with tears; the face was stupid with grief, sobbing, crying; and the tears poured down in great swollen streams. Suddenly the twisted mouth opened. ‘Don’t make me laugh!’ it shrieked; and again, in rising agony, ‘
Don’t make me laugh!
’ And a moment later it
was
laughing, showing great teeth, pointed as nails – teeth set wide apart, like bars…. And louder came the senseless laughter – louder – louder – until it seemed to fill the room….

*

‘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.

I
t 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, no 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.