Sometimes Late at Night

by DiMick

Sometimes, late at night, I'd lie there and think back over the day just gone...All the usual rubbish that runs through your head when you're trying to sleep. But mostly, I'd lie there and try very hard not to think about her. Uploaded from Tumblr by request

Sometimes, late at night, I'd lie there and think back over the day just gone. I'd think about what I had for lunch, and how one of the men had stepped on my foot in the canteen queue. I'd think, quite often, about Gladys' latest drama. I'd think about how many bombs I'd built, how much that earned me piecemeal over and above my baseline pay, and what I'd spend it on this month. I'd think about where those bombs were going, who they'd hit, and whether over there in Europe somewhere a German me lay also in her bed thinking the same things. You know, all the usual rubbish that runs through your head when you're trying to sleep. But mostly, I'd lie there and try very hard not to think about her.

When I finally forced myself to sleep, my dreams would take over and I could no longer maintain my defences. Images, real and imagined, of her ran rampant through my unconscious mind: the first smile in the morning, the way the trousers of her boiler suit fitted sweetly over her curves, the lock of hair that always came loose, sitting at Leon's piano with her head thrown back, her laughing and dancing, in a bathing suit, the last smile at night. And yet, it wasn't the way she had her hair, her smile, or the ways she dressed that caught my attention. Of course, those things didn't go unnoticed. It was her personality that grabbed onto my heart.

Perhaps a noise outside would wake me, and I'd lie there, again, trying desperately not to imagine the scene just five feet from me, not to wonder how she sleeps – on her side? her front? tucked into a ball against the horrors of her dreams? I knew she dreamt too, for sometimes I would hear her cry out in the night and would have to fight every urge in my body that told me to get up, go to her, hold her hand and smooth her hair back from her face. I never did. Go to her, I mean. Firstly, I knew she would be embarrassed. Secondly, and most importantly, how could I trust myself to stop there? To stop at holding her hand, smoothing her hair. How long would it have been before I dropped a kiss on that forehead, or her hands, or, eventually, on the sweetly sleeping parted lips?

In the morning, in the streetcar, I'd ask her, "Sleep well?" and she would always answer yes, although the strain around her eyes gave the lie away. I'm sure, now, that she realized I knew she was lying, but back then she'd smile and shake herself a little and ask me the same, and we'd go on in our shared imagining that everything was fine. And so, despite the offer, we never did share a bed to ward off the nightmares. Until the last night, that is. After the parental showdown, the comfort of another person's night time presence was too tempting to ignore, for either of us. We both of us changed and, awkwardly, climbed into my small bed. There was just only enough space for us both to fit, and I held myself rigid to stop from touching her, from kissing her, from exposing the deepest part of myself. Facing away from her, I prepared myself for a sleepless night, filled with memories of the confrontation and with the feelings her closeness caused. Then I felt the soft press of her breasts against my back, the ruffle of her breath on my neck, under my hairline, and her hand came around my waist and held me tight against her. I dared not move, or speak, or even think too loud, in case I startled her away. There were no dreams for me that night, and I was unaware of any for her, either.

Now that she's gone from me, my nights are ever more full of her. My dreams are just replays of my life, over and over behind my eyelids, in full and glorious Technicolor. The more I try to scrub her from my heart and thoughts, the more my dreams cling fast around her. I know I moan her name in my sleep – I have woken myself several nights with it – and every morning I search the faces of the others to see what, if anything, they have heard, awaiting the condemnation and disgust I know I will find there. So far, I seem to only have disturbed my own nights. I know that it is merely a matter of time before my secret escapes into the wider world, and then I do not know how I will continue in it. I think if that happens, when that happens, I will stop at nothing till I find her, and apologise, and not give up until she forgives me. I'll beg on bended knee, in words and actions, in song if needs be. Slowly, cautiously, I'll win back her trust and friendship. We'll go dancing and to the movies, and to Gladys' wedding and her children's christenings. Then, when we've built enough bombs, saved and scrimped, I can hold her to her promise and we'll buy that house. By then, of course, I'll have tamed my heart and there'll be no dreams, no muttered names or longing glances. We'll grow older and settled, and have a dog, and roast pork on a Sunday. Maybe. It's a pleasant fantasy.

And if, in time, she finds someone else, someone she loves, who will look after her and worship her with a less damaged soul, I will not stand in their way. The thought grates, and I push my plate away from me, and stand back abruptly from the table. I have no stomach for dinner, or company, right now. The others look at me strangely, but I am in no mood to care. I retreat to the safety of my room, my bed. I want to cry, to lay there and sob away all my foolish actions, the things I did in haste and now repent at leisure, but I know that I will be sought out soon, and do not wish to be seen so vulnerable. A noise behind me makes me turn; there's a silhouette in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. I cannot tell by the darkened shape who it is, but then they speak and I know without a doubt.

"You have strayed off the straight and narrow, daughter of mine," my father says. "The ways of God are no longer your ways. His house is no longer your house. You break the Commandments, you consort with deviants, you defile your soul with impure thoughts. You think I can't see the sin inside of you too?" He drags me out of the bed, and into the hallway. The switch, never far from his grasp, is in his hand. He is still preaching, my family his audience, the switch his prop and support. I know that this is going to go hard with me, I am to be an example – the prodigal son not welcomed back with open arms, but with condemnation and exhortations to save my wreckaged soul. My father is quoting Proverbs: Do not withhold discipline from your child; if you strike him with a rod, he will not die. If you strike him with the rod, you will save his soul. The switch strikes down on my back through my dress every other word – I have learnt to count the words, the rhythm, of beatings. My mother is screaming, and the boys are looking on, silent in disbelief. Later, I will think that they have never seen this before. Later, I will remember how this used to be, hidden and silent, behind locked doors. Later, I will remember this and pity my brothers, for today they have lost their innocence. The knowledge spurs me to move, to fight back, something I have never done before. I think, perhaps, that it is Kate Andrews who resists, not myself, not Marion. That the person I pretended to be now exists in reality, and she will not stand for this.

Somehow, the switch is in my hand, Kate Andrews' hand, now. I raise it and bring it thrashing down. I am shouting now too, but in the din I cannot tell what I am saying. He moves, arms raised to defend himself, or perhaps to attack, and the switch lands soundly across my father's face. It breaks with the force of the blow. All that is left in my hand is the end, and I throw that at him too. Evil ends require evil means, and the switch is that no more. He reels back in pain and surprise, and I feel sick at the red welt rising rapidly across his cheeks. But now is no time for repentance or regrets, they must come later. I grab my coat from its place by the door and fly hurriedly, and with no words of goodbye, out of the trailer and into the night. I wander the streets, aimlessly. At any moment I expect the police to come, arrest me for assault, for battery, for treason against my kin. They don't. I have no money, no spare clothes, no papers. I have nothing I need to begin again, and as I walk the conviction grows stronger in my mind – I must return to my father's house one final time.

I return to the house, and take up a position across the street in the shadow of the overhanging buildings. I wait as it gets darker. The night is closing in, and with it the temperature is dropping fast. I only brought my thin summer coat with me on my frantic flight, and I begin to shiver. I am quite cold by the time I see my parent's lights go out; my breath forms white clouds in front of me, as if I had been smoking, and my hands are numb and immobile, clenched into tight fists in my pocket. I still wait, hoping to make sure everyone inside is asleep before I make my move. When there has been no movement for some time, I cross the street, painfully forcing my hands out of their balled fists as I go. At the door, I try not to fumble with the key in the lock, but my hands are clumsy, and it is at the third attempt that the door clicks softly open. Inside, I pause and wait. My heart is racing, and breath comes shallowly now, but I hear no noise, no one moving. All is quiet and I creep along the corridor to my room. As silently as I can, and without turning the light on, I begin to pack - my dresses, my Bible, the photograph of my mother from the dresser, the hairpin Betty bought me. In the half light, a step behind me makes me jump, and turn around, the hairpin digging into my palm as my hands snap back into fists again. This time, in the doorway stands my mother. She steps forward, and cups my cheeks in her hands.

"I have been waiting for you," she says. "I wanted to say goodbye, one last time. And to give you this." She presses a purse into my hand, and I know, without looking, that it contains more than she can afford to give. Before I can protest, she places her finger over my opening mouth, and shakes her head. For a moment, I do not want to leave. I think if I just crawled into bed, and pretended tomorrow that nothing had happened, life would carry on fine, and I would not have to leave my mother behind me. As Marion I will have things Kate Andrews will never have – a family, a past, my own name. But I have been Marion, and I have been Kate, and Kate has many worthy things of her own, and Marion's memories besides. For the second time today, then, I must leave my family home. This time, I know that I will not return, and will not see my mother or brothers in this life again. I have gone no more than fifty yards when I cannot help but turn, and take one last look at the place I grew up. I see my mother watching me from a window. She waves, then turns away and retreats into the darkness behind her. I too turn, and head out into the glow of the street lamps.

The girls in the boarding house are surprised at my return. They flock around me, asking where I've been, and why I'm back. They do not look surprised when I ask where Betty is, and I can see some turn to each other and titter behind their hands. Working, they inform me; another double shift, or perhaps this one is a triple, she's been working hard for months. Their sidelong looks tell me they must have heard our scene in the hallway, my father's shouting, my recitation of our evils, her fervent declaration of love. I leave my bags outside her door, and wait. The room opposite, once mine, is now full of another girl's things. I can see, through the part-drawn curtain, piles of makeup and hair nets, glossy magazines, things that neither Kate nor Marion ever had, and the room is so changed it is hard to remember it being mine. I have been there for some time, perhaps an hour, perhaps longer, when I hear familiar footsteps coming along the hallway. My hand goes to my hair, checks the pin is in place, smoothes down the front of my dress, pulls my coat tight around my shoulders.

As she rounds the corner, Betty looks up and sees me there, outside her room. Her step falters for a second, and I smile at her, as brilliantly as I can, but it is not returned. She continues to her door, and then stands there, looking somewhere in the region of my feet. She has not spoken, and I know that it falls to me to make the first move here. The hallway is suspiciously deserted, where moments ago it had been full, and I know that ears are listening. I push aside the curtain, and pull her into the room with me. She stands away from me, awkward, her hands firmly in her trouser pockets. The old, easy familiarity between us has gone, and I know that it is only myself to blame. I take a step towards her, and she retreats, stopping against the wall, uncomfortable now and unsure. How opposite we have become since we first met. Then she was confident, full of swagger and ambition and drive, and I was the one who needed reassurance; now it is me who is full of future plans and expectations, now I must calm and soothe and reassure her. I reach out, and pull her hand from her pocket. At first, she resists but then relents, allowing me to bring her hand to my lips, where I, in conscious imitation, kiss her palm and smile. I do not need to see her face to know how it looks, with hope boiling just under the surface, for she was never very good at removing her heart from her sleeve.

"I'm sorry," I say, and she nods. Our fingers lace through one another, and, for the first time, she allows herself the beginnings of a smile and I know I am on my way to forgiveness. With my free hand, I reach up and touch her cheek, run my thumb over the line that forms between her brows. Her smile slips a little, and her breath hitches. I reach up and press my lips to hers. I have only been kissed once before, and we both remember that, and I worry, for an instant, I will not do it right. But underneath me her lips part, and I taste the wetness of her mouth. It surprises me, the wetness, although I don't know why it should, and I cannot dwell on it long for she shifts now, and pulls me closer, and kisses me with a fierceness I had never known I missed.

I tell her of my escape, of the way I had to leave, and can see her jaw tighten with some repressed feeling. She wraps me closer to her, and holds me tight, as if her arms could be my shield against the world. I lie in her arms, no longer facing away, legs wrapped together in the single bed. I'm tracing her face with my fingers, committing every feature to memory, in case this happiness does not last. She removes my hand, holds it in her own, and turns to me, our faces mere inches apart.

"I wanted to be the one to save you," she says. "I wanted, finally, to be your hero. But I suppose, in the end, you saved yourself." She's right, of course, but only partially. For, you see, I think I may have saved us both.