lots to talk about. But it hasn’t worked like that and she doesn’t hold it against you. It’s a dull street, that’s all. A dull street, a dull town, a dull country. We’re pretty dull here compared with lots of them, aren’t we?’
‘And she has a feeling for drama like your brother?’
‘She likes the applause and the gasps when she has something good to tell.’
‘Something good?’
‘Ah, you know what I mean. Don’t fold up. Don’t start moralising. I mean good and bad at the same time. Everyone likes sparks and fire-bells. Why else would they come running?’
‘And the screams?’
‘There were no screams. And no one was hurt.’
‘There would be bigger crowds for screams, I can tell you that.’
The girl sat still and watched him. After a while she sighed, took the comb from the pocket of her jacket and drew it smoothly down one side of her head from the middle parting, bending her head right over so that the hair swung out away from her neck and ear. Her upturned eyes showed a rim of white round the lower lid and gave her a look of fixed surprise.
‘It’s not quite dark enough yet,’ she said, ‘and maybe not the right sort of day – but often, when I do this, I can get not just crackling, but actual sparks as well. Frost and darkness are the best. I know,’ she smiled, ‘that it can’t happen often with men. There’s got to be plenty of hair for it – something you haven’t got. But more spectacular still …’ she paused and smiled again into the dim room, ‘is the last thing I take off at night. It’s not just sparks but flashes. The quicker it’s done, the brighter. If I rip off the vest and toss it away I can get great, blue flashes that sting my arms and back. And if the room is absolutely black it’s like lightning – crackling, stinging lightning. But the stuff’s got to be silky, nylon and that sort of thing. Nothing dull or thick. Not everyone believes this. People can get very stuffy about electricity too, you know, as though it ought to be confined solely to lamp-bulbs.’
‘There’s your brother now,’ said the man, unstiffening to the sound of the key in the front door.
‘Is it? There’s another thing. Some people think you’re getting sexy if you say “sparks in the hair”. “Electricity” is as good as an invitation, and if it’s electricity and underwear they’re waiting to be eaten up.’
‘Yes, it is them,’ said the man. ‘I can hear the girl too.’
‘… Waiting to be eaten alive or ready to pounce themselves. It comes to the same thing,’ said the girl. ‘No, that’s my mother’s cousin. She’s got a key and comes in on Tuesday nights if there’s anything she wants to watch. No, it’s early for them yet. The sad thing about those ones – whether they’re waiting or pouncing – is they’re still dull, terribly dull and sad.’
‘You’ve little idea at your age how tired people can become,’ said the man.
‘At my age! Some of my friends are as tired right now as they’ll ever be. Tireder, for instance, than my mother ever was or ever will be. Tired wasn’t what I was talking about. It was dullness. A mean, suspicious, greedy, beady-eyed dullness, if you can imagine that!’
The man gave a laugh. He put his hands to his face and rubbed it hard for a moment, first his forehead, then his cheeks. He was breathing quickly.
‘What’s that for? Are you cold?’
‘Maybe. I’m trying to wake up, warm up. Anything to scrub off those words.’
‘Those words were meant to go over your head. They’re nothing to do with you. Not one of them landed on you – so you can stop scrubbing.’
Abson’s hands were suddenly still, his fists clenched at the sides of his head. He turned on her angrily exclaiming: ‘And you! Look – you can stop nagging! Stop lecturing me!’
‘That’s better,’ said the girl, leaning her elbow on the table so that now the other wing of hair hung down to touch his papers. ‘I don’t mean to nag. I think a lot of you, and a lot about you. And do you know how I think of you? I think of you as a sort of dark spark.’
There was a tremendous crash from the outer door on the word ‘spark’ and a sound of voices filled the hall. The wall behind them rattled with the buttons of overcoats being flung at the pegs on the other side, and there was a thumping on the wainscoting where heavy shoes were kicked off.
‘That can’t be just the two of them,’ said the girl, straightening up and folding her hair back behind her ears. ‘Maybe they’ve brought the whole group back. There’s five there at least. Do you hear five?’
‘But have they got to have the wind through the whole scene?’ a voice was calling out plaintively in the hall. ‘And has it got to be a gale? Two pages! Tenderly! Have you ever tried speaking tenderly with a howling gale at your ear?’
‘A dark what?’ said Abson.
‘It’s the last scene,’ said the girl. ‘They’re talking about the bit where the two of them – I told you about the sailor and this woman – they’re waiting for news of his son in the storm. There’s a bridge been blown down or something.’
‘A dark what did you say I was?’ said the man.
‘Just a minute,’ said the girl. ‘Listen! How many actually are there? I’m not going out there till I know. If it’s five then it means Ben’s around. I’m not going out there if that Ben has attached himself again. Well, it can’t be helped. I’ll never know if I don’t look, will I? Are you coming out?’
‘Not yet,’ said Abson.
‘Later then,’ said the girl. When she opened the door a brilliant shaft of light and noise cut through the dark room. The man inside had a glimpse of a boy sitting on the bottom stair taking his boots off and a young woman leaning against the wall unknotting a headscarf. The girl’s sudden appearance in the hall caused a moment’s silence then a burst of acclaim from at least five voices. She passed through them, leading the way into the other room and they went after, dropping the boots and waterproofs, shaking the rain from their hair. They followed her and the door closed beyond. Suddenly the hall was silent. It was quite silent and empty.
A long time later the group in the sitting-room heard steps going upstairs – or rather the boy who had sat taking his boots off on the stairs heard them. He was now leaning with his elbow on the hearthrug eating toast and he held up his knife with the butter on it for silence.
‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘I’ll get him,’ said Mrs Imrie, and she went out to find him already round the corner of the stairs. ‘Why, you can’t go up yet. It’s early. Aren’t you taking a cup with us before you disappear?’
‘For a few minutes – with pleasure,’ said Abson, coming down slowly.
Like her daughter, Mrs Imrie felt that politeness at this moment was a mistake. Why ‘pleasure’ with his face? With his reluctant steps? She had once had someone who, called down like this, had stuck his head in the door, made hideous faces at a group of old ladies and withdrawn. And been loved for it.
‘Creaks on the stairs,’ remarked the boy at the fireplace, watching Mr Abson who was now sitting with a cup of tea in his hand. ‘That reminds me.’
‘Go on!’ voices encouraged him. ‘Give us the story!’
‘No, it’s not a story. There’s nothing to it.’
‘Go on!’ they shouted.
‘Not a story – not an experience even. A sensation. A stirring of the hairs of the head. It was this perfectly ordinary suburban villa belonging to a schoolfriend’s family – an ordinary red and yellow brick affair.’
‘All right.