The Night Watch by Sarah Waters Page A

it, catching hold of Viv's hand. 'Can you see the shaft of the wheel? This must have been a proper river once.'
    She pulled him back. 'Someone might be there.'
    But no-one was there. The house had been abandoned years before. Grass grew through the gaps between its flagstones. Pigeons fluttered in its beams, and its floors were covered with bird droppings and broken slate and glass. Somebody, at some point, had cleared a space and made a fire; there were cans and bottles, and filthy messages on the walls. But the cans were rusty, the bottles silvery with age.
    'Tramps,' said Reggie. 'Tramps, or deserters. And courting couples.' They went back to the stream. 'I bet this is a regular Lovers' Lane.'
    She gave him a pinch. 'Trust you to find it, then.'
    He still had hold of her hand. He lifted her fingers to his lips, looking coy, pretending modesty. 'What can I say? Some men are gifted like that, that's all.'
    They were talking, now, in normal voices, had lost their sense of awe and caution and begun to feel as though the place was theirs: that it had been waiting, picturesquely, just for them to come and claim it. They followed the stream in the other direction and found a bridge. They stood on the hump of it, smoking cigarettes; Reggie put his arm around her waist and rested his hand on her backside, moving his thumb, making her dress and her petticoat slide against the silk of her knickers.
    They threw the ends of their cigarettes into the stream and watched them race. Then Reggie peered more closely at the water.
    'There's fish in there,' he said. 'Big sods, look at that!' He went down to the side of the stream, took off his wristwatch and dipped in his hand. 'I can feel them nibbling!' He was as excited as a boy. 'They're like a bunch of girls, all kissing! They think my hand's a man-fish. They think their luck's in!'
    'They think you're lunch,' Viv called back. 'They'll have one of your fingers if you're not careful.'
    He leered. 'That's like a girl, too.'
    'The sort of girls you know, maybe.'
    He rose and shook water at her. She laughed and ran away. The water struck the lenses of her sunglasses and when she wiped them, the lenses smeared.
    'Now look what you've done!'
    They went back to the car for their picnic, leaving the car's doors open. Reggie got out a tartan rug from the boot and they spread it on the grass. He brought out a bottle of gin and orange, too, and a couple of beakers-one pink, one green. The beakers were meant for children, Viv knew: they were rough against the lip where they'd been bitten and thrown about. But she was used to that sort of thing; there was simply no point minding. The gin and orange had become warm in the car: she swallowed, and felt the glow of it almost once, loosening her up. She unwrapped the sandwiches. Reggie ate his in great, quick bites, swallowing the bread before he'd chewed it, then biting again; talking with the food still on his tongue.
    'This is that Canadian ham, isn't it? It's not too bad after all.'
    He'd pulled at his tie, undone the button of his shirt. The sun was on him, making him frown, showing up the creases in his forehead and beside his nose. He was thirty-six, but had recently, Viv thought, begun to look a little older. His face was sallow-that was the Italian blood in him-and his hazel eyes were still very handsome, but he was losing his hair-losing it not neatly, in a round little patch; it was thinning all over, his scalp here and there showing luminously through. His teeth, which were straight and very even, and which Viv remembered as having once been dazzlingly white, were turning yellow. The flesh of his throat was getting loose; there were folds in the skin in front of ears… He looks like his father , she thought, watching him chew. He'd shown her a picture once. He could be forty, at least .
    But he caught her eye, and gave her a wink; and something of her old, pure affection for him flared up in her heart. When they'd finished their sandwiches he