The Night Following

come today. Right pleased we are, I and my wife.” Afterward he went outside for a smoke. He needed a breath of air after such an ordeal.

Stan’s uncle took them all the way in his car to the railway station in Manchester. Daphne came, too, clutching Evelyn’s bridal posy that she’d managed to catch, mainly because the bride had thrown it firmly in her direction. Daphne and Stan’s uncle seemed to have hit it off and he had invited her along just for the spin and to wave them off.

There were more high jinks at the station. Instead of just leaving them at the entrance, Stan’s uncle marched them into the high, echoing ticket hall, poked his nose at the window, and demanded in a very loud voice and waving his arms, “Two first-class tickets to Morecambe for Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Ashworth! And a nice cosy private compartment, if you please, for the newlyweds!”

His voice boomed all over the ticket hall. Daphne burst out laughing but Evelyn was so embarrassed she wished the ground would open and swallow her up. Stan looked extremely uncomfortable, too, though he smiled when his uncle drew his wallet from his jacket and with a flourish paid up for their tickets. Not content with that, Stan’s uncle turned to Daphne, who, Evelyn noticed for the first time, was holding a brown paper bag, which she handed to him with a smirk.

“Time to do the honours,” he announced, and with a loud laugh he pulled from the bag a bottle of whisky for Stan and for Evelyn a box of Fry’s chocolates. Evelyn had never seen, let alone been given, such a splendid box: the “Antony” assortment, it said on the lid.

“That’s one of the finest assortments from one of the finest names in the confectionery trade, “ Stan’s uncle told her. He tapped on the box.

“That’s not cardboard. That’s a proper lacquered box, that is. Unique to Fry’s. It’s meant for keeping your hankies in after. Or your whatnots, your little bits and pieces, eh? You ladies’ve all got your bits and pieces!”

While Evelyn stammered a thank you, Daphne touched Stan’s uncle’s arm and said, wide-eyed,“What a lovely box of chocs. That’s right generous of you, Mr. Hibbert.”

“Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from, pet,” Stan’s uncle said, winking at her, “if you play your cards right. And call me Uncle Les.”

Evelyn didn’t hear what Daphne had to say to that, because just then Stan announced that they’d miss their train if they didn’t hurry.

Evelyn’s first thought on arriving at The Haven on the seafront was that it wasn’t exactly posh. They had walked from the station and run into trouble finding it, so it was after six o’clock when they knocked on the door. The landlady smelled of lard and talcum powder. She pointed out, sniffing, that they were too late for high tea but she had left them a flask in the parlour. She made it clear that she was doing them a favour and at great inconvenience to herself.

But at least their room overlooked the front. That was what you were paying for, a proper sea view, Evelyn supposed aloud to Stan, who replied that that was a bit rich when there was bugger all to see except the sea. Evelyn laughed and went to the window. Of course it was drafty, being Morecambe with the breeze straight off the sands. It was strong enough to stir the curtain. Maybe Stan had a point about the view. The daylight was fading and the sea was just the same dark grey as the sky.

She shivered. “It is a bit draughty, Stan,” she said.

“No good moaning to me, it weren’t my idea to come here,” he replied.

“Oh, don’t be so grumpy, Stan!” Evelyn cried. “Not today!”

Stan grunted. “What d’you expect? There’s only a pane of glass between you and the ruddy Atlantic and the ruddy putty’s dropping out, by looks of it.”

Evelyn laughed. “So you’ll just have to cuddle me tighter to keep me warm, then,” she said. “Come on, let’s go down and see what the old harridan’s put out for us’ supper, shall we?”

It wasn’t much. A flask of tepid tea and a few soft biscuits, most of them broken, in a tin. At bedtime Evelyn was overcome with shyness and went along to the bathroom to change into her new nightgown. Stan was already in bed, sitting up drinking from the whisky bottle, when she got back. It was considerate of him, really, not to undress in front of her, she thought, though she had hoped he might ask her which side she preferred. She climbed in nervously at the other side. She was cold, but Stan didn’t offer her a warming sip of whisky, or a cuddle.

“I’m not used to this, Stan,” she giggled. “It’s amazing, in’t it? I’ve never been in a double bed with my husband before.”

“Bit late to be bashful, in’t it?” Stan said. “Seeing as you’re nigh on five months gone. Good night.”

But obviously, she reflected later, lying awake in the dark, he hadn’t meant any disrespect. He was just stating a fact. Despite the smell of whisky on him, she had tried to make it clear she wouldn’t object if, as she put it, he wanted to “be a husband” to her that night, but he had pretended not to understand. Wedding nerves, perhaps. Or more likely delicacy, because he probably thought she didn’t really want to but was pretending she wouldn’t mind just for his sake, and what decent man would insist, with his wife in a certain condition? Besides, she was probably bigger than she felt, and that would be off-putting.

In the morning Stan woke complaining of a sore neck because, he said, he had taken the window side and the worst of the draft. Evelyn tried to make light of it. “Oh, well, don’t go saying that to the landlady, will you, Stan? She’ll only charge you for it. A sore neck’s sixpence extra, I bet!” Stan glowered.

Breakfast was adequate. They had porridge and a boiled egg each, both overcooked, and bread and marmalade and tea. At least the dining room was empty and they didn’t have to endure the stares of other guests on the morning after their wedding night. After a walk in the drizzle along the seafront and a look round the few gift shops that were open, they had an early lunch of steak and kidney pie in the Red Rose Cafe, sitting in the window from where, as Evelyn said, they could watch the world go by, even though there didn’t seem to be much world that day. Then they made their way slowly to the station. Stan’s uncle had given them one-way tickets so they bought third-class seats on the two o’clock back to Manchester. From there they would get the local train to Aldbury.

On the train, Stan read the Racing Post while Evelyn lay with her eyes closed. They were stinging again and she hadn’t slept well, being unused to sharing a bed with Stan. She thought back over her Big Day. It had been grand, really. She counted herself lucky. Nobody was having big weddings any more and only the well-to-do had proper honeymoons. She fingered the slim gold band on her finger and felt the locket at her neck. It wasn’t, as she’d reassured Mam, as if she had ever wanted a big shindig, anyway.

It was the paling of the darkness or the birdsong that woke me. The ground was dusty with a dew like powdered pearls, only a degree away from sugary white frost. Some small creature had paddled across the grass leaving the dark threads of its tracks. I blinked, and tears rushed to the cold surface of my eyes and made them sting. I sneezed and yawned and tried to stretch my back, and then a sudden flash drew my attention to the house.

The sun had just struck the lowest glass panes of the conservatory, and the curtains at every window stood open to the glare. I ached so much I could hardly stand, but I had to get away from the sight of the house so exposed and penetrated. I prayed that Arthur was asleep and would not feel it. I prayed that even though he would have to wake and know again she was gone, he was now asleep and for a while untroubled by thoughts of Ruth. As I crept across the grass I whispered to him that I wouldn’t be away for long.

My clothes were soaked and freezing and I was miles from home. I wanted to crawl into the shed and hunker down in a corner until it was dark again, but I didn’t dare. It was hard to negotiate my way back; by night I had walked this way easily and freely, now I stumbled and tripped. Buildings and walls and turnings and parked cars loomed out and crowded me. The sky was flaring lilac and orange and pink, and light was shoving in everywhere. It was coming fast, another day of sights I could not bear, a day of breakages, of choking dust and blinding commotion, of futures torn up.

My own house sat in the morning sun, exuding-because it contained -nothing. I barged in and stood gasping for breath in the kitchen. The clock ticked flatly. It was just after six. My heart was hammering with the ecstasy of knowing I’d had a narrow escape. Upstairs, my quiet room waited, where curtains could be drawn against the light until night came again. I started to shake while I was undressing and my damp clothes amassed on the floor where I dropped them.

After a few hours I got up. I looked at myself in the mirror, and in the dimness of the curtained room I was