The Variations by Patrick Langley

Author:Patrick Langley [Langley, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fitzcarraldo Editions
Published: 2023-09-07T00:00:00+00:00

III. SELDA

I. 1937–1956

Late evening in a two-up-two-down in Clay Lane. Small concrete yard but no garden. Stove to the right of the kitchen, cupboard to the left. At the back, a freestanding bath covered with a wooden tabletop, on top of which are a bucket of coal and a saucepan of milk. In the corner stands a shrouded cage containing Buttercup, the pet budgie. The windows are blacked out with sheets. Edward has done his nightly inspection to ensure there are no gaps or holes through which the glow of their paraffin lamp might be seen. It’s a clear, cold night. Glancing quickly through the bathroom window, a full moon brightens an almost cloudless sky, glaring silver on the frost in the garden. He takes this as a good sign. The Germans would have to be mad to fly on a night like this: for the anti-aircraft gunners on the ground, he thinks, it would be like clay pigeon shooting. Pop pop pop!

The kitchen air, steamy with potato-water, smells of snuffed wicks and carbolic. Next door, in the living room, a large wooden dining table has been pushed against the wall, beneath which Edward and Maud sleep most nights, in what they’ve taken to calling The Hutch. Its sides are reinforced by a wardrobe on one end, a suitcase on the other, and a strip of rabbit wire to protect from splinters and other debris, should a bomb land nearby (if it lands on their roof directly, the table will form the lid on a mincemeat pie). The windows closest the bed are blacked-out and boarded up with removable wooden shutters, which Edward made by hand using screws and salvaged wood. On windy nights, the shutters’ hinges croak and rasp. From hooks on the walls hang Maud’s five-piece collection of zithers and lyre harps. Nothing Edward says can persuade her to part with them. Some are beautifully made from glossy wood, others cobbled together from petrol cans and screws.

The compromise: two suitcases, stationed at the front door. They are packed with essential supplies, with coats, hats, underpants, biscuits, a few pound notes, a tin of cocoa (Maud seems to think this is vital), two of pilchards, Edward’s mother’s necklaces. On the table beside them are gas masks, two for them and one for when the baby arrives. Edward finds the look of the latter, its cyclopic oval panel like the window of a furnace, more disturbing even than his and his wife’s insectile plague-doctor equivalents.

He watches the stovetop kettle with dark, unfocused eyes with his hand on his chin, idly thumbing his moustache. Maud is at the table beside him. Hard to tell if pregnancy or war has caused more stress. Either way, she has barely slept in two weeks, and it shows in her pallor, her puffiness. She looks almost as dreamy as Charles does.

‘I can feel something,’ she says, resting her hand on her bump.

‘It won’t be yet, will it? He’s not due.’

‘You don’t know it’s a he.’

‘I know alright.

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