The Night Watch by Sarah Waters Page A

smiling, moving his own lips slightly; for he was awfully deaf. The baby was struggling in his arms, reaching for the pop-guns, wanting to get down. When Viv drew close her father held him out to her, glad to give him up. 'He wants you, love.'
    But she shook her head. 'He's too big, that one. He weighs a ton.'
    'Give him here,' said Pamela. 'Maurice- Howard, don't just bloody well sit there-!'
    The racket was terrible. Viv said she was going to go and take her shoes and stockings off. She went into her bedroom and closed the door.
    For a second she just stood, not knowing what to do with herself-thinking that she might start crying, be ill… But she couldn't start crying with her dad and her sister in the other room. She sat on the bed, then lay down with her hands on her stomach; lying down, however, made her feel worse. She sat up again. She got to her feet. She couldn't shake off the shock of it, the upset of it.
    Hush, Vivien .
    She took a step; then tilted her head, hearing a noise above the muffled din of the radio, thinking it might be Pamela or one of the boys, in the hall. But the noise turned out to be nothing. She stood undecided, for almost a minute, biting her hand…
    Then she went quickly to her wardrobe and drew back its door.
    The wardrobe was filled with bits of rubbish. There were some of Duncan 's old school-clothes there, hanging up beside her dresses; there were even two or three ancient frocks of her mother's, that her father had never wanted to throw away. Above the rail was a shelf, where she kept her sweaters. Behind the sweaters were photograph albums, old autograph books, old diaries, things like that.
    She tilted her head, listening again for footsteps in the hall; then she reached into the shadows behind the albums and brought out a little tobacco tin. She brought it out as naturally as if she reached for it every day, when in fact she'd placed it there three years before and hadn't looked at it since. She'd pressed the lid down very tightly then, and now the joints in her wrists and fingers felt weak. She had to get a coin, and prise away at it with that. And when the lid was loosened she hesitated again-still listening out, anxiously, in case someone should come.
    Then she drew the lid off.
    Inside the tin was a small parcel of cloth. Inside the parcel of cloth was a ring: a plain gold ring, quite aged, and marked with dents and little scratches. She took it up, held it for a second in the palm of her hand; then slipped it on her finger and covered her eyes.
    At ten to six, when the men who ran the candle-making machines turned off the pumps, the sudden silence in the factory made your ears ring. It was like coming out of water. The girls at Duncan 's bench took it as a signal to start getting ready to go home: they got out their lipsticks and their compacts and things like that. The older women started rolling cigarettes. Len took a comb from his trouser pocket and ran it through his hair. He wore his hair a bit spivvily, swept back behind his ears. When he put the comb away he caught Duncan 's eye, and leaned forward.
    'Have a guess what I'll be doing tonight,' he said, with a glance down the bench. He lowered his voice. 'I'm taking a girl to Wimbledon Common. She's stacked like this.' He gestured with his hands, then rolled his eyes and gave a whistle. 'Oh, mama! She's seventeen. She's got a sister, too. The sister's a looker, but got less up top… What do you think? You doing anything tonight?'
    'Tonight?' said Duncan.
    'Want to come along? The sister's a heart-throb, I'm telling you. What kind do you like? I know loads of girls. Big ones, little ones. I could fix you up, like that!' Len snapped his fingers.
    Duncan didn't know what to say. He tried to picture a crowd of girls. But each one was like the little figure of wax that Len had made earlier, with curves and juts and waving hair, and a rough blank face. He shook his head, beginning to smile.
    Len looked disgusted. 'You're missing