A Dark Corner

CELIA DALEA Dark Corner VALANCOURT BOOKS Dedication: To Juliet O’Hea, good friend A Dark Corner by Celia DaleOriginally published in the United Kingdom by Macmillan in 1971First U.S. edition published by Walker in 1972First Valancourt Books edition 2023 Copyright © 1971 by Celia Dale All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the copying, scanning, uploading, and/or electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher. Published by Valancourt Books, Richmond, Virginiahttp://www.valancourtbooks.com ONE It took Mrs Didcot some time to get to the front door, partly because, as usual, she had the radio on and did not at first hear the bell, partly because, when she did, she thought it was children playing tricks again, and partly because her legs were bad and it was difficult for her to move at all, especially between the crowded furniture of the kitchen. As she supported herself round the table the knocker fell twice, gently. ‘All right, all right,’ she muttered, ‘I’m coming.’ She got into the passage and eased herself along it, hearing the letterbox flap rattle and then the bell again. ‘Who can that be? All right, I’m coming . . .’ She reached the door and opened it.It was an overcast evening and pouring with rain, so that she shuffled back a step, half-closing the door against the deluge and the tall, dark figure which said, with white teeth, ‘I’ve come about the room.’‘What’s that? What room? We haven’t got no room.’‘It says on this paper there’s a room.’‘What paper?’ She opened the door a bit and leaned forward, peering at the paper held out to her by a dark hand. The rain spattered her face and the young man coughed, hunching his shoulders.‘I haven’t got my glasses. What’s it say, then?’‘It says you’ve got a room.’‘It can’t do. Here, you’d better come in.’ She moved back, steadying herself on the door handle, and the man stepped in. He began to cough again, bringing out a handkerchief and holding it to his mouth. She reached out and switched on the light, weakly harsh in its warped shade. The young man had nothing on his head and the rain sparkled on the close black hair and the shoulders of his plastic lumberjacket; his jeans were soaked dark.‘What’s it say, then?’ she repeated.‘It says “Room to let, no facilities, reasonable, apply Johnson 6 Wardlow Crescent”.’‘This isn’t Wardlow Crescent. This is Wardlow Road. You got the wrong address.’‘You don’t have no room?’‘No, dear, you got the wrong address. Where’d you get that paper, then?’‘The newspaper shop at the corner. I bin to two others but they said they was let. Where’s Wardlow Crescent, then?’‘It’s the other way, up past the Conveniences and round on the left and then it’s just past the Odeon. You could take the bus.’‘No, I’ll find it.’ He wiped his face and his head and put the handkerchief away.She looked him over. ‘That’s a shocking cough you got there.’‘It’s okay.’‘You don’t look too good. Would you like a cup of tea?’He nodded.‘Come on, then.’ She turned and began to shuffle along the hall. ‘I’m a bit slow because of my legs.’They came slowly into the kitchen, where the radio still chatted and a stronger light shone down on a litter of saucepans, crockery, newspapers, ornaments. The room was warm, for the gas fire gave out a hoarse heat.‘You sit by the fire, dear, and get yourself warm. What a night, eh? You wouldn’t believe it was August. Nice weather for ducks, my Gran always said, and I used say Well, it’s all right for the ducks.’ She moved about, filling the kettle, setting it on a roaring gas, rinsing a dirty cup and finding a second one, spooning tea into a big brown teapot with a rubber spout.The youth sat hunched to the fire, holding out his long fingers to its heat, his knees sharp in the jeans which had begun to steam a little. His face had a mauvish tint and from time to time he shivered.Propped up against the table waiting for the kettle to boil, she stared at him. ‘You’re looking for a room, then?’‘That’s right.’‘Well, you come to the wrong address. Wardlow Crescent’s what it says there.’‘Yes. You know it?’‘I know Wardlow Crescent but I don’t know no Johnsons. They’re all new people round here now, I don’t know none of them, and of course I don’t get out much, not with my legs. We used to know a nice lot of people, real neighbours they were, when my mother was alive. Lived here all her life, she had, hardly ever bin up to the West End till she was married. Not in this house, of course, in one of them little cottages got bombed in the war, round King’s Crescent. We’d moved here before that, though. When us kids started coming they needed more room, see, and you could buy one of these houses for a couple of hundred pounds. Won’t bear thinking of, will it? They earned good money too, master joiners did – that’s what my dad was, a master joiner, a real craftsman. Not what you’d call real money now, but it did us all right and we’ve still got the house. Where d’you come from?’‘Wolverhampton.’‘No, I mean where was you born?’‘I told you – Wolverhampton.’He began to cough again, sinking his head between his shoulders so that he seemed curled in over his chest. The kettle screamed and she filled the teapot, reaching across the draining-board for the milk bottle, and then easing her way round the table to her armchair by the fire.‘You ought to do something about that cough.’‘First I got to find a room.’‘Haven’t you got no home, then?’He shook his head and,