The Black Halo (78 page)

She took in more coal and filled all her buckets. She hoovered the house and dusted the furniture and the pictures. She stood for a long while gazing at a photograph of her mother who was
wearing a white blouse and black skirt: the face was very determined and there was a big brooch at the throat. Her hate for her had disappeaed and she could almost begin to understand her. After
all, who wanted to be old, to be a nuisance? Who wasn’t frightened of being put in a home?

She herself might end up in a home when she grew old and weak. But that, she hoped, would not be for a few years yet since she was only fifty-four. Her whole life, she realised, had been
meaningless and without substance; she might as well not have been born. She had hardly any memories to recall, except ones of childish deprivation.

One night when she had come home from a school dance she had found her mother crouched in a corner of the living-room. ‘Whore,’ she had shouted. Her father took her into the kitchen
and said: ‘Your mother is not well. You had better sleep in the spare bedroom.’ It had been a full moon that night too.

She stood at the door watching the clothes balloon from the line. She found it a special pleasure to watch them as if they were sails of different colours. But the pegs had them fixed and no
matter how much they might have wanted to float all over the countryside they couldn’t do so. They flapped and swelled and sometimes on calm days they hung like motionless pictures, flat and
rectangular in an airy art gallery. She had given away most of her mother’s clothes to that Red Cross woman who had called shortly after her mother’s death.

The kitten didn’t come that afternoon either. It was odd how even thinking of it gave her something to do, a possible future. But it was as it had always been in the past; the future was
in the waiting. No, she would not go in search of it, she was too proud for that, its coming would have to be a voluntary one. They said that, more than dogs, cats chose their owners.

It was they who decided whether to come and stay with you. Maybe if Raymond had been really serious about her he would have come and stayed with herself and her mother. And now he was married to
a girl in Glasgow much younger than himself. All her boyfriends had been frightened away by her mother. She could be very dour, strong-willed, and savage in her hates.

She often thought of that day when she had tried to run away. Actually there had been nothing at all wrong with her mother – she had faked what looked on the surface like a heart attack.
She could see the train turning the corner when her mother ran out screaming. She should have stayed till her mother was out of the house, at church perhaps, before making her effort to escape. It
was odd that she had made the attempt when there was a chance of her mother catching her.

That night she looked out again but there was no sign of the kitten and the moon was still bright and clear. There was the last fragrance of roses in the air. Soon it would be harvest time, with
its sharp stubbly forsaken fields.

The next day there was a high wind and she felt that it was lucky that she had brought the washing in. The windows shook in their wooden frames and a fence billowed and swelled. Buzzards were
tossed about the sky. The grass swayed to one side in the power of the wind.

I’m frightened, she thought, Lord knows what will happen. She didn’t know much about repairing doors or fences and suddenly the house felt vulnerable and helpless. It was about three
o’clock in the afternoon that she saw the kitten. It was moving stealthily through the garden, now and again caught by a draught of wind that ruffled its fur. She opened the scullery door
even though the wind was rushing through. ‘Come in, you stupid beast,’ she shouted. She heard the banging of the windows, and the linoleum on the kitchen floor lifted like a blue
wave.

And then the kitten was at the door, bedraggled and drenched, for suddenly it had started to rain furiously. She watched it enter and then shut the door behind it against the force of the wind.
The kitten went over to the saucer and lapped the milk and then looked up at her. Cautiously she bent and tried to touch, it but it struck out with its needly paw. Its eyes were wild and cold and
inhuman.

But she knew that it would return. Whenever it was in trouble it would return. And then gradually it would come more and more often. Eventually it would grow fat and never leave the house at
all. It would stop its sudden flurries and rushes and settle down in a basket. It might have memories of past encounters with other animals but these would fade. And in fact it would sense that
wild kittens were its enemies.

‘I shall call you Safety,’ she said in a wheedling voice, that she hardly recognised as her own. It was really very beautiful, so black and so groomed. Its eyes like pieces of
jewellery gazed at her.

She was suddenly surprised to find herself crying. What was she crying for? She couldn’t understand it. And all the time she was crying the kitten was staring at her unwinkingly. If she
touched it it would attack her as if it hated her. It would strike with its needle-sharp claws. She wiped her eyes and got a ball of wool. ‘Pretty Safety,’ she said, ‘pretty
Safety.’ It watched the swaying ball with disarming intensity, its head held on one side.

The night before their son’s passing-out parade they stayed in a hotel not far from the air base where the ceremony would take place.

‘How’s the leg?’ she asked. Gerald didn’t answer. These days when he did talk it was mostly about money, about the decreasing value of his pension; or was abrupt and
ironical when she bought a new hat as every woman had to do now and again.

‘If you happened to have a cat you could swing it in here,’ she commented as the two of them eased their way into the small hotel bedroom which they had entered at midday after their
long train journey. Outside the window she could see the two Dobermann pinschers, long-legged and somehow obscenely naked, which the landlady had mentioned.

Trevor had sent them a photograph of his flight, all sixty of them, sitting with peaked caps like visors, their hands resting in regulation fashion on their knees. After his history of untidy
bedrooms and raucous music, he seemed settled happy and proud. Gerald had not looked at the photograph. Her own memory of 1940 was one of young scarved pilots and bright blue skies. At least she
had made him put on his best suit for the occasion and he really looked quite smart. She had saved up to buy a new costume for herself: it was made of red velvet.

Saving on taxis they took the bus out to the base and she herself talked for a while to a harassed-looking woman who told her that her son had wanted to leave in the fourth
week and only a prolonged phone call from his older brother had made him stay on: ‘And now,’ she said proudly, ‘he is passing out.’ It seemed as if she couldn’t bring
herself to believe it. There was also a man from Dorset who told the two of them that he himself had served, of course, in the Navy, and that he had enjoyed it very much. Leaning over to Gerald, he
said, ‘My father was a sailor, you know. He was hardly ever at home, and so I decided that I would treat my own sons right.’ Gerald didn’t answer: Norma thought that as he stood
there speechlessly in the cold he seemed to be like someone who had suffered a stroke. She saw him smiling ironically as the Welsh woman gabbled on about the benefits of service life. ‘At
least you know where they are,’ she said in her sing-song voice. ‘And they learn discipline, don’t they?’ Her Welsh husband told the bus driver that they were all there to
join up. The driver laughed, but not a great deal; it was possible that he had heard the feeble joke many times before from nervous parents.

When they arrived at the base, they were all ushered into a room where coffee was served, and they were handed a programme by a young pale airman who looked too frightened to speak. He called
Norma, ‘Ma’am’ and Gerald, ‘Sir’. She saw through the window a plane lying out on the field, and the flat panorama of the English countryside. They sat at their table
drinking their coffee, and not saying very much. She examined carefully the clothes the other women were wearing and concluded that her red velvet costume made her seventh in the league but that
her rings came twenty-sixth. Gerald on the other hand came quite high in the ranks she had made in her mind, as he had, naturally, a handsome appearance which seemed to conceal the inexpensiveness
of his suit. A grey-haired sergeant came in and told them about the morning’s programme. In a short while they would re-enter the bus and be taken to the seats at the edge of the square where
the parade would take place. He said, introducing himself, ‘I’m the one who’s been polishing your boys’ boots.’ All the parents laughed. It was like being in school
again. Gerald was flexing his leg under the table and was, as usual, silent. She thought, not for the first time, that it was a great strain being married to him. She glanced at the programme:
everything had been timed to the minute.

After about a quarter of an hour they went into the bus and were taken to the square. There was in fact a fleet of buses, each painted air force grey. When she got off the bus,
she felt the wind cold and bitter, though luckily it wasn’t raining. If it had been raining, the parade would have been held in a hangar. ‘Oh, look,’ she said excitedly to Gerald,
‘I can seen them. Do you see them over there? They must be rehearsing.’ But Gerald didn’t look. They sat beside each other in the front row and she took out her camera. There was
a cheer when a young girl, possibly the girl friend of one of the aircraftsmen, crossed the square in a slit skirt which was practically blowing around her carefully coiffured hair. An officer
stood on the dais and tested the microphone. ‘I am the chap who’s been bringing early morning tea to your son,’ he said. They all laughed dutifully. A corporal took his place and
also tested the microphone. ‘One two,’ he said. ‘Can’t you count to three?’ the officer shouted. ‘Three,’ said the corporal, stony-faced. Why, they were
all comedians. The officer looked nice and relaxed and young. She thought he might be a flight lieutenant, but she didn’t really know. Another man, with a crown at his sleeve, marched
extravagantly across the square, as if he were flapping wings and trying to get off the ground. The young officer stood on the wooden dais again, and told them, ‘The reviewing officer will
arrive in a blue car whose headlights will be on. You are expected to stand. You are also expected to stand when he leaves.’ Gerald’s face twitched and she turned back to the square
again. Maybe the training hadn’t been so harsh after all: these officers and NCOs looked quite human. She checked that her camera was ready.

Then she saw them, led by the band, all in grey, arms swinging very high, boots shining, buttons glittering. There were four flights, and they took up their position by their
markers making quick scurrying movements as they got into line. An officer with a sword stood in front of them, and they stood easy after being at attention. They were facing her but she
couldn’t see Trevor at all. At first she thought it was the spectacled one at the extreme right of the front rank, but, no, it wasn’t, though he looked very like him.

People were standing up and peering and wondering where their own sons were. She felt part of a group, united by common preoccupations, though she had never seen the other parents in her life
before. Now and again Gerald would shiver in the cold. Then the reviewing officer was driven to the dais, the car arriving in an arrogant curve round the perimeter of the square. The driver opened
the door for him, and his assistant, whatever rank he was, accompanied his superior to the platform. They both stood there, still and proud. The reviewing officer had a sword dangling at his side.
Indeed, all the officers had swords.

The one who had been in charge of things marched briskly up to the reviewing officer, came to attention and said in a loud voice, ‘Permission to carry on, SIR.’ She couldn’t
make out what the reviewing officer said but assumed that he had agreed. The flights came to attention and the reviewing officer descended the dais, his assistant discreetly accompanying him, and
moved between the ranks, pretty quickly, only stopping to speak to some recruit. As he left a flight behind, it stood easy. The reviewing officer, whose rank she could see from her programme was
Group Captain, also apparently had a degree from Cambridge. He moved briskly and competently and with a natural air of authority. Gerald’s brother had gone to Cambridge and was now on
television in Canada: she didn’t like him much. The reviewing officer returned to the dais. She saw that Gerald’s knuckles were white.

Then the flights began to march to the music. They were all carrying rifles, with bayonets attached, and they all seemed to have become automatons in weeks. Where are you, Trevor, she thought,
frantically searching for him. But all the recruits looked alike, each with his ominous peaked cap, pale, distant, almost aloof, listening to commands from other people who had swords in their
hands. It was frightening how tidy and proficient they had become. They presented arms and ordered arms and everyone was supernaturally precise, even Trevor whom she had at last identified. And the
proudest moment of all was when two planes (limited perhaps by the Thatcher budget) flew overhead in a sudden roar and then were gone as quickly as they had come. Trevor looked like all the others.
She didn’t like his tidy unshadowed poise.

After a while the reviewing officer spoke to them. He told them that he and the officers and NCOs were all proud of what they had accomplished: they could all hear from the cheering how proud
their parents were of them as well. They had now joined a great family in which every job was important, from cook to pilot. They were a credit to everyone, a future full of possibilities was ahead
of them, he himself was proud of them.

Then they marched off, eyes turned towards the reviewing officer. I don’t like this, she thought, I don’t like this. Seven weeks ago my son was telling me where I could get off,
earning money not a fraction of which he gave me, coming in late, leaving lights burning through the night even though he knows that we don’t have much money, keeping the volume of his record
player high even though he knows his father doesn’t like it. And now here he is, entirely transformed, cold, disciplined, remote, in a world of his own which I have never entered and never
will.