All the Beauty of the Sun (3 page)

‘No.'

Next to him, Ann said, ‘He is, Paul. He's a wonderful artist.' She glanced at him. ‘But he's given up. Like this –' she dropped her head to the table as though exhausted, groaning a little – ‘oh, it's too hard, too hard!' Raising her head again she said, ‘He just won't try any more.'

‘Won't I?'

She mimicked him, her voice gruff. He knew that she was drunk, that he should laugh, really, and not be hurt at all. She was gazing at him, her face hectic with colour. She looked angry enough to make even more of a fool of him, but it seemed that she realised she had gone too far because she looked down at the glass of wine in her hand. Quietly, she said, ‘I don't think people should give up, that's all.'

He had never told her that he had given up; he wanted her to think that he could begin again at any time and that this inactivity was just a breathing space, a gearing up to some great work he was planning. But she had seen through him, of course, and now all he wanted was to get away from her. She represented a nonsense idea he had about himself, one that he should absolutely discard. He stood up so suddenly that his chair toppled over, and in a moment he was out on the street, struggling to light a cigarette as the matches broke in his fingers.

He smoked the cigarette but still couldn't face going back inside. He would smoke another to give himself more time. About to strike a match, a voice beside him said, ‘Here.' A lighter was held out to him, and he turned to see Paul Harris standing close by, his face lit by the quivering flame, a face of angles and hard lines, gaunt, severe. Edmund thought how like one of his own paintings he looked in this flare of dramatic light; he was, Edmund realised,
picturesque
– Raphael might have used him as a model for the tortured Christ.

Edmund looked away quickly, realising he had been staring; drawing on the lit cigarette he stared ahead, hoping that if he said nothing, if he didn't even look at him, Harris would leave him alone. He very much wanted him to; Harris was unnervingly intense, making him feel as though they were both waiting for some momentous event, a dawn execution perhaps. Then he thought that perhaps he should say something – speaking would break this ridiculous tension – but whatever he thought of seemed crass; all he could do was to wait for him to go back into the restaurant. But the man went on standing beside him; from the corner of his eye Edmund could see the glowing tip of his cigarette as it moved to and from his mouth.

He thought of walking away but in truth he didn't know if he really could leave without saying something to him, without leaving some impression of himself other than that of a boy who spoke so pompously and stormed out of restaurants. Besides, if he left, Ann would move on. She would go home with Lawrence Hawker. He knew that would be the end of his relationship with her, such as it was. He couldn't decide if this mattered.

Clearing his throat, Harris said, ‘I'm staying at the Queen's Hotel, quite close to the gallery. Do you know it?'

Edmund supposed he had half expected this, somewhere in the pit of his heart. Why else was he still standing here? The evening had been leading up to such a moment; perhaps his whole life had been leading up to this. Now Harris was about to give him the shove he needed. Harris seemed impatient to do this, to not waste any more time. But he needed more time; he needed to lean against the wall and steady himself, to think clearly and carefully; there was much to consider. How would he feel tomorrow, for instance, after it was done with? How would he face his father, even if he could bring himself to go home after such an act? Absurdly, he thought of his honeymoon night and the dirty secret he would have to keep from his innocent bride. He wondered if it would even be possible to live with a woman happily whilst keeping such a secret. He wondered if it would be possible to live at all, afterwards, tomorrow when he would still be able to feel Harris's touch on him, smell him, taste him still.

He glanced at Harris, wanting to make sure that he was as extraordinary as he surely had to be. The man was unsmiling, deadly serious, handsome in a way that seemed complicated to him, as though he could go on looking and looking and still not understand what it was about his face that sent such a charge through him. And so he looked and looked and realised that no one else mattered,
nothing
else mattered; he had reached an understanding: this was what he wanted, this man.

Briskly Harris said, ‘Have I made a mistake?' His impatience made him unlikeable, dangerous even; not that it mattered: he was extraordinary, not real at all, but a man he'd invented. Edmund had to look away, aware that he had been staring. Harris repeated, ‘
Have
I made a mistake? I don't often.'

Often
. He did this often. Of course he did – he supposed there could be no restraints to his kind of promiscuity. This encounter would mean little to him and that was good; there really was no substance here.

Edmund cleared his throat. He forced himself to meet his gaze. ‘No. No mistake.'

Harris looked relieved but all at once vulnerable too – and younger than he had thought back beneath the bright lights of the gallery, only a handful of years older than he was. He really was beautiful, if a man could be described so, and he wondered how he hadn't noticed as soon as he had seen him – he usually had an eye for beauty. Perhaps his lust had blinded him, that hot filthy feeling, running him through with want.

This beautiful man placed his hand briefly on his arm and Edmund jumped so that Harris grinned at him and became boyishly ordinary. ‘Steady. I don't bite. Not enough to break skin, anyway.'

‘No, no. I'm sure. Sorry.'

‘
Sorry
.' Harris laughed as though he found him as sweetly charming as a shy child. He was standing too close so that Edmund recoiled, afraid he would touch him again; he wasn't quite ready to be touched, to have his skin bristle so, as though he had been stripped of a protective layer; he wasn't ready to lose so much control; he could be mistaken after all. But Harris seemed not to notice that he had stepped away from him and was saying, ‘Listen, Edmund, I've made my excuses already, said my goodbyes. Say an hour? The Queen's Hotel, room 212. Yes?'

Edmund nodded; he knew that if he spoke his voice would be a broken, feeble travesty of itself. It was shaming enough that he was nodding, acquiescent, that he wasn't punching Harris's face in, because surely this wasn't what he really wanted, he
had
to be mistaken. But he had an erection, he couldn't be so mistaken, and even if he wasn't he didn't have to be governed by lust. No, he didn't have to do anything he didn't want to do. He drew breath, was about to speak, when Harris turned and walked away.

Chapter Four

P
AUL HAD SAID
, ‘D
AD
, I wish you hadn't come.' He had taken George's arm, guiding him to a less crowded part of the gallery. ‘I'm sorry … It's just –'

‘Just what, Paul? Am I embarrassing you?'

In his hotel room, Paul remembered glancing past his father's shoulder, to the portrait of Patrick on their bed. He had felt sixteen again, as though George had discovered him masturbating. He had even felt himself colour – something he hadn't done for years. But even through this embarrassment, he had noted that Patrick's portrait had gathered a seemingly appreciative group.

‘I'm really pleased to see you, of course,' Paul had said.

‘Of course.'

‘Really. But it's a shock – how did you know I was here?'

George hesitated. ‘He wrote to me. Patrick wrote to me.' Paul heard the effort it took for his father to say Pat's name, but he seemed to recover himself quickly enough because his voice had an edge of impatience as he went on, ‘I wonder why he didn't tell you. Did he want my turning up like this to be a shock, do you imagine, or was it just some kind of practical joke he played on us both?'

‘A joke? No, he wouldn't make fools of us, you should know better.'

‘Should I?'

‘Yes.' Trying to keep the anger from his voice, Paul said, ‘He shouldn't have troubled you.'

‘
Trouble
? You're my son, Paul. For God's sake, boy – I
wanted
to see you, to see your work –'

Paul had laughed, wanting only to dismiss his
work
, fumbling in his pocket for the fresh packet of cigarettes. As he was about to take one from the pack, George stopped him. ‘Don't, not now. I won't have you fiddling about with those things while I'm talking to you.' He sighed. ‘You're very thin. Are you well?'

He'd shoved the cigarettes back into his pocket although he'd craved one, needing to take a great, calming lungful of smoke; he was shaking. From the moment he had seen his father he had been shaking because all he could think about were the questions he had to ask, how he might phrase them and still sound like a normal human being and not a wreck of grief and guilt. He cleared his throat, looking past his father as he managed to ask, ‘How's Bobby?'

‘He's well.'

Paul heard the note of softness in George's voice and forced himself to meet his gaze. ‘He's all right?'

‘Yes! He's a fine little boy.'

‘They let you see him?'

George smiled bitterly. ‘From time to time.'

‘Often?'

‘As I said, Paul, from time to time. He understands who I am, if that's what you mean.' After a moment he added, ‘I show him your photograph. I say,
That's Daddy.
I say,
Your Daddy loved you very much.
Is that all right, Paul? Am I saying the right thing to him?'

‘Yes.' He had heard how sullen he sounded and tried to sound less so as he said, ‘Yes. Thank you.'

‘Don't thank me! I have to lie! I have to lie to your son that you died! He asks me if I'm sad! How do you imagine that feels? And for God's sake, don't cry. I won't have you crying over this. If you'd behaved with more backbone, if you'd stood up to them and hadn't run away with that man –' George broke off. ‘I'm sorry. Please don't cry.' Stepping closer to him he had put his hand on his back, saying intently, ‘Paul, pull yourself together, don't make a show of yourself, not here.'

His father had taken a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into his hand. ‘Come now. There's nothing to cry about. Bobby's such a good boy, and so like you. Oh, Lord. I'm making things worse, aren't I?'

Yes, he had made things worse, so bad in fact that Paul had to go outside. Even there, on the dark street, he couldn't cry openly. His throat had burned with the suppression of tears. George had followed him, but at least he was silent, awkward and angry still – Paul was certain of his anger – but silent. Until, at last, George had said, ‘I shouldn't have said what I did. I know you didn't run away … I'm truly sorry.'

On the hotel bed, Paul pushed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes:
no backbone; run away;
his father's words kept coming back to him, repeating in his head like a playground taunt.

From his pocket he took out a photograph George had given him and traced his finger around Bobby's face. ‘I took him to Evans's
,
' his father had told him, ‘that studio on the High Street. Evans gave him that funny little toy dog to hold.' Sitting on a child-sized wicker chair, Bobby clasped the dog to his chest and looked solemnly at the camera. Paul stared at him, trying to make out the resemblance George said was there; he couldn't see it, try as he might.

He got up and placed Bobby's photograph in an envelope, sealed it and put it in a pocket in his suitcase. He went into the bathroom and washed his face in cold water, avoiding his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Going to the bedroom window he lifted the curtain aside and looked out on to the street; the pavements were shiny from the London drizzle, reflecting the hazy lamplight. He wondered, without much caring, if that boy Edmund would come.

He let the curtain fall back and lay down on the bed again, the springs creaking a little. The boy's weight would make them complain even more, quite a body he had, and tall; he had always preferred tall men: big, strong, handsome men – dark or blond but muscular, hairy, well hung. He liked it best if they hadn't shaved for a little while so that their bristles scoured his skin. He liked it when they grasped his hair and forced his face down to their thick, impatient, greedy cocks; he liked it when they called him
fucking little queer, dirty, cock-sucking little bastard.
To be humiliated, to have his guts soft with lust and fear, his own cock so hard and crushed in a fist – that was what he wanted more than anything else. There was nothing he wanted more; nothing was more important, nothing. Nothing. Unbuttoning his flies, his hand grasped his flaccid cock. He closed his eyes and tears ran down his face.

Margot, his wife, had cried and shouted, ‘Why did you marry me? Why, when you knew, you knew …' She was sobbing, hardly able to get the words out. All at once she was flailing at him with her fists. ‘You're filthy! You've made me filthy! Everyone knows! They all know how filthy dirty we are!' He had tried to hold her, but she pulled away from him furiously. ‘I hate you. You'll never,
never
see Bobby again.'

On the hotel bed, he buttoned his flies and wiped his face impatiently with his fingers.
No backbone
. And no self-respect, his father might have added. He had got on his knees to his wife, as though that would have made any difference, and he had begged for his son. She had only been even more disgusted. Could that have been possible – could her disgust have been greater still? Her disgust had been palpable; she had quaked with it, she'd pressed the back of her hand to her lips as though her mouth had filled with spittle. He thought how if she had been anyone but Margot she would have spat in his face.

The room was becoming cold. When he'd first come in he had switched on the light, a single bulb hanging from a fraying cord in the centre of a ceiling yellow from all the thousands of cigarettes that must have been smoked on this bed. After a few minutes of this unforgiving glare he had switched it off again – the thin curtains let in enough of the streetlight. The only furniture apart from the creaking, too narrow bed was a wardrobe and a bedside table where he'd placed his glasses in their case, his cigarettes and lighter and a pile of pennies and half pennies that had seemed so shockingly foreign and heavy when he'd first arrived back in England. Only his suitcase by the door looked smart and new, a present from Patrick. ‘Leather,' Pat told him, ‘no cardboard rubbish. And there – see – I had them emboss your initials on the side.
F.L.
'

F.L.
He was Francis Law now, not Paul Harris any more, although sometimes he used his real name. He felt more like Paul in England. Francis belonged to Patrick, to their house in Tangiers. If he ever left Patrick, left Morocco, he would revert to being Paul and wouldn't care if the past came back to kick him in the teeth.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and he sat up, listening, but the footsteps carried on past his door. If the boy didn't come he would go out; there was a likely-looking place near by, an underground public lavatory, its wide flight of steps divided by an ornate iron balustrade and lit only dimly by a streetlight a few yards away. Risky business, though. You never knew if a policeman might be watching, or even waiting inside, a smooth-faced boy used as bait, but easy enough to spot, if you weren't too stupefied by nerves and desperation. He would go to a pub first, a shot of Dutch courage, and he might even be lucky – have no need to scuttle down those slippery-looking steps into the piss-stinking darkness because there might be the right kind of man standing at the bar. This man might catch his eye, nod, comment on the weather perhaps. Such an encounter would be unlikely but not hopelessly so.

More unlikely would be the chance of this stranger being as handsome as the boy he'd met tonight; not a boy – this Edmund wasn't that much younger than he was; young enough, though; young enough not to have seen service, he was certain of that, relieved there was no possibility that he had ever been a fellow officer.

Very occasionally during his encounters, a man would take a guess at his likely past and ask him which regiment he'd served in. Not that there was ever that much conversation, although a few liked to talk, if the conditions allowed. One had even asked, ‘Where did you lose your eye?'

‘It popped out one morning over breakfast. Gave the wife a start, I can tell you.'

Silly bastard for asking. He supposed that if he had told him how he'd lost his eye the man would've had an excuse to talk about his own war wound, the ragged scar he'd glimpsed as he was tugging at his underwear. And of course a response would be expected: ‘
Ypres, you say? That's a coincidence – I got shrapnel in the thigh at Ypres. Gassed too? I know, I know. Ghastly, wasn't it? I thought my lungs were being burnt right out of my chest!'

The only other man's war he knew about was Patrick's, and only the part – those last few months of 1918 – that they had survived together. He didn't want to know about the rest of Pat's war, couldn't bear to think of it. Often he wondered how Patrick had survived so long, such a big man, such a difficult target to miss. ‘Christ, it's Goliath,' Corporal Cooper had exclaimed on seeing Sergeant Patrick Morgan for the first time. Paul remembered smiling to himself, enjoying the look of astonishment on the corporal's face. That Patrick had joined their platoon cheered everyone; he supposed they had all forgotten Goliath's fatal flaw.

Again, he heard footsteps in the corridor outside. These steps were more hesitant than the last; he should have recognised that those others were too brisk, too sure of their direction. These footsteps were quieter, cautious. Paul got up from the bed, catching sight of himself in the mirror set in the wardrobe door; he had been thinking about Pat and he should have looked guilty; instead he noticed how eager he looked. He paused, making an effort to appear less predatory, and tried to push Patrick from his mind as he turned from the mirror and went to open the door.