All the Beauty of the Sun (23 page)

He said, ‘You're from Belfast, aren't you? My mother came from Belfast. She'd take me to see my grandmother for the summer holidays and I'd come back with the same accent you have.'

She glanced at him, only to look away as though even meeting his eye was inappropriately familiar. Quickly she said, ‘What will you do?'

‘About what?'

‘Paul.'

He laughed shortly. ‘Take him home.'

‘Do you want me to tell you where he is?'

‘Maybe he's back at his hotel, eh?'

She stared down at her drink. ‘Yes. Probably.'

She was just like those little girls who would befriend him, who perhaps sensed his otherness as children seemed to. He remembered his first holy communion, how he'd been made to walk down the aisle with a little girl on his arm, a blonde little girl in a white dress and veil. He smiled; he would tell Paul this.

He said, ‘I used to go to a church with my mother and grandmother on the Falls Road. St John's. Do you know it?'

She nodded.

‘I was a good Catholic boy in Ireland, not so good in England.' He thought of Matthew, the good priest giving the last rites to men at the dressing stations early in the war, his faith ebbing away with each death. He had asked him why he stopped being a priest and Matthew had told him, ‘I began to feel like a coward. Dying men were calling me Father –
Father
,' he laughed bitterly, ‘I was just a frightened boy, quaking with fear, garbling the sacrament because I was so scared of all the blood. How could I go on like that?'

Matthew. He had told Matthew that he loved him and he wondered if this was true. Paul loved him, such a deep feeling he had never been able to fathom, and perhaps his own love for Matthew was only a pretence, an attempt to feel what Paul felt, to be more like him. He had been jealous of Matthew at first – who was this man Paul travelled to see so faithfully? The letters they exchanged were long and sometimes Paul would say
Read this
– laughing as he passed him Matt's latest letter, full of jokes and cleverness, nothing to hide, nothing but this easy friendship. And when Paul was in prison Matthew would visit him when he was well enough, and afterwards he would meet him in a pub in the shadow of Durham Cathedral, drinking amongst all the hard drinking men. He had loved Matthew then, he was sure; it was easy to love Matthew when he was well. It was Matthew who had told him how much Paul needed him, Matthew who had said, ‘When I see him it's you he asks after. You're in his heart, Patrick.'

He looked at the pies again; perhaps they didn't look so bad, and he was hungry. He smiled at the girl. ‘I'll fetch some knives and forks, and then we can eat, and you can tell me about where you grew up.'

Chapter Thirty

I
RIS KNELT BESIDE THE
folding bed the hotel had put up in the room and covered Bobby more snugly. She kissed his head. ‘Sweet dreams, sweetheart.' He was almost asleep, his eyelids heavy, he was no longer sucking his thumb with such concentration. Margot didn't like him to suck his thumb; it annoyed her new husband, who thought that it was a babyish habit. Well, he was a baby still, she told Margot. She would stand up for Bobby because it seemed that his mother wouldn't; perhaps Margot saw too much of the Harris boys in her son.

When she was certain he was fast asleep, Iris stood up and went to the bed. George held his hand out to her and she lay down beside him.

Quietly she said, ‘Let's run away with him.'

He rolled onto his side to look at her. ‘Where shall we go?'

‘Anywhere. Cornwall – Land's End … John O'Groats. Doesn't matter.'

He gazed at her; almost dusk, the curtains were open still and the light was soft and flattering; she thought how young he looked, young enough to be mistaken for Bobby's father without a second glance, without any question. He frowned, and she put her fingers to his mouth, but he drew back a little.

‘He would miss Margot.'

She laughed and felt like crying. ‘Of course he would.' Bobby had cried a little for his mother as she'd bathed him. ‘Tomorrow,' she told him. ‘As soon as you wake up, we'll go back on the train – you loved the train – and after the train Mummy will be there, waiting to give you a big hug.' Perhaps not a big hug, perhaps only a
Were you a good boy? I hope so, Bobby.
But he had been soothed, he had been a good boy; too good, she thought. His step-father had warned him often enough.

George rolled onto his back. ‘Cornwall is beautiful. I took the boys there when they were quite small. Hotel by the beach, ice cream everyday … Padstow, that was it …' He closed his eyes. ‘Lucky with the weather, Robbie and Paul brown as berries … They always took to the sun.'

He seemed to be remembering, picturing that beach; his two sons tanned by the sun. A nerve twitched almost imperceptibly in his cheek and he put his hand to it. He said, ‘Robbie was such a bright boy – I wish you'd known him better, before the war … And brave! I remember he would swim far out to sea … climb the cliffs like a little monkey – little monkey making my heart stop. Half the time I hardly knew where he was and Paul was so watchful of him, in awe of him …' He looked at her. ‘Paul not as bright, not as brave, not then … later, when he had to be, not then … I don't want you to have the wrong idea of them, Iris. The war changed them but they would have changed back, I think, become my boys again … No. Perhaps not, not entirely mine …'

He pulled her into his arms and she rested her head on his chest; he stroked her hair. She thought she might sleep but didn't want to; she wanted only to stay up all night with him. His heart beat steadily, and this was soothing. Outside on the street a young man laughed; a girl answered with some remark she didn't catch; there was only the boy's laughter moving off, away. She thought of Robbie in his greatcoat and cap, his puttees and shiny, shiny boots; she had thought him handsome and dull and not brave or bright. Bobby's father, climbing cliffs, brown as a berry, swimming out to sea; one day she would tell Bobby about Robbie Harris; but George would have already told him; somehow he would find a way around the lies they had told.

‘Yes, we could run away with Bobby,' he said.

‘Where shall we run to?'

He was silent for some time and she thought he was tired of this game, and that he may even have fallen asleep, but his hand became heavy on her head as if to hold her still. ‘Tangiers.'

George had described Paul's house to her: how he imagined it, at least, its thick white walls and flat roof, its narrow, shuttered windows, tiled floors and heavy wooden doors, some doors opening out on to a courtyard where a table was set in the shade of a fig tree, where a fountain splashed and cooled the air. The fig tree and the table and the fountain: these were the things about his son's house he knew for certain, the things that Paul had written about and painted for him. The rest he only imagined. She imagined the heat at noon, the blinding sun; the sun was all she could imagine of that country; she had never taken to the sun as Paul had.

‘I miss him,' George said. ‘Every day I think,
go to him
,
just pack up and go – what's to stop you
? Every day. Nothing to stop me … I just think, why stay? Why stay when Paul would welcome me, I'm sure. And if he lived alone out there … but then he wouldn't be
out there
, would he? He'd be in Thorp, with Margot and Bobby …' He lifted his hand from her head. ‘I don't go to my son because he lives with a man. I am just as bad as everyone else.'

She knelt beside him. ‘Come home with us tomorrow.'

‘Yes, I'll go home. Paul won't want me to hang around here.' Quickly he said, ‘I'm sorry, Iris. Sorry that this is the end of it. How shall we get along, do you think, once we're back in Thorp? Will you avoid me? Shall I cross the street when I see you or behave as I always have?'

‘As you always have.'

He laughed painfully. ‘God help me. God help me, I don't think I'll be able to do it.'

‘We'll be friends again.'

He nodded, mute because of the tears she could see in his eyes. She kissed him, and he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly.

Chapter Thirty-one

E
DMUND WATCHED
P
AUL DRESS
. He said, ‘Where are you going?'

Paul turned to him, frowning, thin and drawn in the unforgiving light of a sunny morning, unkempt because his hair stuck up a little and he hadn't shaved. A few days ago Edmund would have thought he was nothing, no one; he wouldn't have looked twice at such a man. Now he didn't want to let him out of his sight ever again.

Paul stepped towards the bed. ‘Edmund, go back to sleep.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘To see my son.'

‘Will you come back?'

‘Yes. Yes, of course.'

‘Promise?'

He sat on the bed, reaching out to press his hand against his cheek. ‘Yes, I'll come back. Yes, Edmund, yes. Go to sleep, it's early …' He kissed him. ‘Go to sleep.'

Edmund sat up. ‘I love you. Believe me?'

‘Yes.'

He watched Paul put on his jacket, smooth back his hair quickly in the mirror and shove his wallet into his pocket. He watched him hesitate at the door and look over his shoulder; Edmund thought he might get up, one last kiss and the erotic sensation of his nakedness against Paul's clothed body, his arms around him. Perhaps Paul would come back to bed then, stay a few more hours. But he was so tired and Paul was closing the door softly behind him; he heard his quick footsteps on the stairs. Edmund rolled onto his side, his arm stretching out to that warm place where Paul had slept beside him.

* * *

The sun was shining, that careful English sun he missed so much, and the London streets were crowded, men and women going to work in the sunshine, and if he caught a girl's eye she would smile at him as girls often did, and he would smile back, speculate a little, not seriously, only if, perhaps, maybe … There was promise everywhere. His life could take any direction, any direction at all, but always forward, with Edmund, no more looking back, no more memories that Edmund couldn't smile away; there would be new memories, a future full of them. He would never leave England again but take some rooms with Edmund – a better place with light and space to work, that looked out over rooftops to the river. He would paint the views Turner painted, the sun slipping into the Thames, briefly dazzling the cool evening sky; there would be softer colours, a different, calmer light; there would be winter and then spring, always changes, new beginnings. And there would be Edmund; smiling, carefree, only-in-the-present Edmund.

Paul stopped; he was smiling and breathless with this smiling. In a dress-shop window he caught sight of himself; he could be Edmund's age with all this smiling. He could be eighteen again and never have blasted Jenkins' brains all over his face. But Jenkins wouldn't have survived, he wouldn't have, his was a mercy killing. Tell yourself this, that you didn't kill him because of his crying, his horrible, infectious fear. You killed a man because you had to – a kindness; you were a good soldier, you were good at something.

But look at yourself in the dress-shop window and you could be eighteen again, fresh from Edmund's arms, his scent still on you, his breath still inside you; you could be his age. His age. With all his smiles, that lack of experience, he could be no more than eighteen. You step closer to the window, dumb with realisation. Eighteen. He is eighteen. So young, too young. Perhaps it doesn't matter how young he is. When you were eighteen the bodies were piling at your feet; perhaps he is older, twenty; when you were twenty you had shot Jenkins; this doesn't matter. Edmund will be immune from your past.

He could not love anyone more than he loves this boy, has never loved anyone more, he knows this. Edmund has taken him back in time and he is eighteen and the sun is shining, and there are new fashions in the dress-shop window, a smiling boy reflecting back at him as the traffic moves past him, around him, handsome men and smiling women at the start of a sunny day.

The window is cool against his forehead, his breath mists the glass; he is smiling still but there is something deeper, harder, colder inside him; he can't smile this coldness away, even Edmund's smile at this distance cannot warm him enough; he is cold and sinking deeper into coldness, and there are voices in his head he can't quiet, voices of the other prisoners so close to his ear, warm on his neck,
easy, easy
grunting, snuffling voices, triumphant, shunting themselves deep and hard so that they will always be inside him –
there there easy easy don't make this hurt more than it has to.
There is a stink, there is iron on his bitten-through tongue and stone cold beneath his face: the flags will press an imprint into his cheek, a graze, a gentle graze because he is giving in to the ground, the cold, the grunting, snuffling voices
easy easy easy
. He calls out for Patrick, but quietly so they won't hear him; Patrick who should only be a step away, was only ever a step away, but has gone from him now because he has been so faithless, so wicked and faithless he deserves this punishment.

‘Young man.'

There is another reflection in the window, between his and the mannequin in its pale lilac dress. Lilac is the colour this season, it seems, and he cannot take his eyes off this dress, its lacy shapelessness; the glass is no longer cool, no longer soothing, only warm and hard beneath his forehead; the coldness is all inside him and the dress is so ugly, he must concentrate on it and not this man behind him who is wearing such fine clothes, a tall man, blond and beautiful. He can smell him: he is expensive, upright, twice his age but fuckable, certainly; perhaps he's followed him for a purpose; he looks as if he might have
purpose
. He might be mistaken; he sometimes is, not often. But not everyone fucks about as he does; he should remember this, remember this, think of Edmund, remember him.

The man spoke again, a rising inflection as though he was preparing to be mistaken. ‘Young man?'

Paul stepped away from the window. He can't do what this man wants him to do, not now, perhaps not ever again. ‘Sorry, excuse me.' He made to step past him but the man caught hold of his arm.

‘Wait. A moment, if you will.'

‘I'm sorry, I have to go –'

‘Yes. In a moment. I won't keep you.'

His voice was soft, that cultured English voice that could make his insides curdle with fear or lust: the colonel's voice, the medic's voice, the judge's voice. Edmund's voice but older, colder, still a trace of him though, a trace. He managed to look at him; he was unmistakable. ‘Dr Coulson.'

‘Sir Richard, but Dr Coulson once, yes. I'm pleased you understand who I am – it makes this a little easier. Would you mind awfully?'

The man led him into the doorway of the shop, its closed sign turned out amongst the advertisements for silk stockings. There was no sun here, only deep shade, a mosaic of terracotta tiles beneath their feet, scraps of bus tickets and sweet wrappers blown into the corners. Paul kept his eyes on the wrappers swirling in a sudden breeze. Coulson was so tall, he might lean on him. He must not; he must concentrate and not make it worse for himself.

Coulson said, ‘I'm so sorry, I don't know your name –' he held up his hand although Paul hadn't thought to speak. ‘And I don't want to know your name. I only want to say this: you must keep away from Edmund. You must, because if you don't you will find yourself in a police cell. Now, I'm sure you had no intention of seeing him again, I know how men like you behave, I'm sure you wonder what the fuss is about, a nineteen-year-old innocent couldn't possibly detain you long. So, all well and good, as long as you do keep away from him from now on. You do understand me, don't you? I will go to the police if you don't stay away.'

The sweet wrappers blew around their feet, dry and rustling and raggedly bright like the scraps that would sometimes be caught on the barbed wire; odd, the things that could be snagged on the barbs. He began to shake; he would lean on this man; he would, if he didn't concentrate.

Coulson said, ‘You do understand. I've seen men like you, wrecked by prison, and you wouldn't survive, by the look of you. Now, I need to hear you say that you will keep away from my son. All right. So speak up now.'

Paul lifted his head. Perhaps he hadn't heard him correctly. He frowned.

Coulson sighed. ‘Listen, my boy, I very much pity you. I think you may have seen service, am I right? No doubt you fought alongside my older sons and that's why I haven't gone to the police already. But I lost one boy and I will not,
will
not
lose another for whatever reason. Now, please tell me you will leave my young son alone. I must hear you say it.'

Paul stepped past him, out into the sun again; he wouldn't be made to speak; no one had ever made him speak, not even Jenkins with his crying and pleading, not even the prison warders, or the men who shared his cell, who came to his bed at night. Not even this doctor, a man who wanted his voice along with everything else, everything, all of him. He couldn't be made to speak, there had to be a little pride left.

He could hear Coulson calling after him; his voice was so like Edmund's but older. Edmund was a boy, so young, too young, and he could remember his smile if he tried very hard, but it was slipping away from him. There would be a memory in time, warm as a patch of sunlight to fall back on; enough, more than he had ever had before.

He walked quickly, quickly. His son was waiting; he would say goodbye to him, lift him into his arms and say goodbye.

Edmund heard the voice but it made no sense except in the persistent repeat of his name, the soft command: ‘Edmund, wake up now. Wake up, Edmund, please.'

His father stood over him, smelling of outdoors, frowning and pretending to be cross with his
Late again, Edmund
face, only his eyes giving him away. Edmund groaned, pushing his hands across his face, catching Paul's scent on his fingers, making him smile. He smiled at his father, puzzled as to why he should be here, but he was here, one of his occasional appearances, like an actor with a bit part in his life. ‘Papa.'

‘I've come to see you.'

‘So I see.'

‘I've come to tell you the man who was here is gone. He will not come back. You will not look for him. He won't be found.'

Edmund sat up. He would get out of bed, but he was naked. He stank; his room was stuffy and cold at the same time, and his father was dressed warmly in his outdoor coat, yet smelt of the cold. He could hardly understand what he had just said, because it seemed so unlikely that his father should look so unchanged and still know that he had changed so much. He stared at him until his father sat down on the bed where Paul had sat and reached for his hand, holding it tightly between his own so that he thought he might be dreaming, an odd, untimely dream.

‘Perhaps it's time you came home now, Edmund. Your mother misses you so. Home for the summer and Oxford in October. I wish my own life was ahead of me so wonderfully.'

‘No.'

‘Yes.' He smiled at him. ‘Shall you argue like a child, Edmund? Shall I have to put my foot down? Enough now. Time to come home. I shall send the car for you, for your things.' He looked around, then back to him. ‘A year, I promised you a year, it's over now.'

‘He'll come back.'

‘No, Edmund, he won't. How could I allow it? What kind of father would I be if I didn't watch over you?'

‘Watch …?'

His father stood up. ‘I must go. Get up now, bathe. The car will be here this afternoon.' He went to his shelves and looked at the books. After a moment he said, ‘He was very decent about it. A decent young man. Really, Edmund, you mustn't lie about your age, he was shocked. And you might have got him into very serious trouble. Very serious trouble indeed, I know how indiscreet you are – boys like you are always indiscreet. And I think a man like that doesn't need any more trouble than he has already, don't you?' He turned from the books to look at him. ‘You might go to the bookshop and thank Barnes on my behalf. Thank him for his kindnesses. Be back here for the car at two o'clock. Don't leave your lovely books behind.'

He was gone. Edmund fell back onto the bed. He thought he might wind back the last few minutes, say something, do something that would change the present so that he could still believe he would see Paul again. His father had seemed so much larger than life standing over his bed, dressed in his coat … Perhaps he had dreamt him, just as he had been dreaming that Paul had gone; Paul had found him out and he had gone.

In this dream of his he seemed to be confusing Paul with Neville because Paul was in uniform, his eye restored, and he was saying, ‘I'm dead. What do dead men say?' And he was gone, his father there instead, insisting, insisting as though nothing had changed at all.