All the Beauty of the Sun (5 page)

Paul had laughed then, as though he had been afraid to before. Leaning over him, he brushed the plaster from Edmund's hair. ‘We've damaged the wall.'

‘
You've
damaged the wall.'

‘Weren't we in it together?'

‘Yes. Of course. I'm sorry.'

Paul had laughed again, picking another piece of plaster from his hair. ‘Don't be sorry. Don't be …' He had gazed at him and Edmund realised it was the first time Paul had looked at him properly, carefully, tenderly, he supposed, so that a feeling he'd had earlier came back to him with this one look: Paul was the only person in the world he would ever care about again.

In the café, Edmund remembered how he had reached up to touch Paul's face, tracing the outline of his mouth, and how he had almost said, ‘I love you.' But how could he love him? He was never so reckless, never so cavalier with the truth; and, astonishingly, this did feel like the truth, a truth best left untested by words that anyway seemed too trite; words he had said before easily, without thinking.

Paul had gone on smiling. He'd said, ‘You were about to say something?'

‘No.'

‘You're a very good-looking boy. You know that, don't you?'

He'd referred to him as a
boy
too easily; there had been that touch of loathsome feyness in his voice and it had made him angry that Paul could switch like that; it was terrible that this man was suddenly everything, then just as suddenly nothing. Worse than nothing: a man he could easily despise. Edmund had known that he could have turned away from him then, climbed out of bed, taken his time to dress, and when it came to say goodbye he wouldn't have looked at him. He shifted away a little.

Immediately he'd wanted Paul to pull him back, to say something in the ordinary, classless voice he used in the restaurant: he wanted him to be
ordinary
. Christ: he wanted him to be
manly.
Perhaps he should just say, ‘Make love to me but don't speak. If we never speak to each other that would be for the best. And perhaps if you only wear the clothes I choose for you, and if you never become tired or ill or ridiculous or older than you are now …' He'd covered his face with his hands, dismayed, but this seemed too unlike him, too theatrical, and he dropped them again. Paul smiled at him, tender again, and Edmund had looked away at once, afraid of pitying him. ‘I should go.'

‘Should you? Why not stay the night?'

‘No, I should just go, that's all. Just go …' He'd made himself look at him. At once, overwhelmed by him, he said, ‘I love you.'

The hammering on the door began then, at that moment, as if to save them both.

In the café, as he buttered his toast, Edmund realised that Paul seemed not even to understand what he had said, but had looked towards the door fearfully. The hammering went on. Paul had turned to him, making a sign that he should be silent, and got up; going to the door, his voice was calm and measured as he said, ‘Who is it?'

‘Open this fucking door before I break it down! I know you're in there, Coulson. Get out here now, you fucking little pervert.'

Paul turned to him. Angrily he'd said, ‘Do you know who it is?'

‘Joseph Day – he was at the gallery, the restaurant – he must have followed me –'

‘Weren't you careful? For Christ's sake! Get dressed and get out before the porter calls the police.'

‘I'm sorry – I don't know what he's doing here –'

‘And I don't care! Just be quick –'

The door burst open and Day staggered in, almost falling, obviously drunk. Recovering himself, he shook his head, staring at Edmund's nakedness before barking out a laugh. ‘Fucking hell.' He turned to Paul. ‘Been having a smashing time, the pair of you?'

Paul turned away and began to gather his clothes. Coldly he said, ‘Would you like to sit down? A glass of water, perhaps? You're obviously rather over-excited.'

‘Listen to him. The wee shite thinks I'm
over-excited.
You think this will excite the police, do you?'

Paul took his wallet from his jacket. Taking out a few folded notes, he said, ‘How much do you want?'

He snorted. ‘I don't want your money. I just want to see that this one gets what he deserves.'

‘Get dressed, Edmund,' Paul said. ‘Take your friend home, get some coffee inside him and sort out whatever the problem is between you.'

‘The problem? The problem is he's messing about the best girl that ever lived! A girl he doesn't deserve. The problem is he's buggering a nasty little pervert like you.'

It had seemed to Edmund then that Paul changed again. No longer contained, no longer caustic, no longer anything other than a mass of furious energy, he almost leapt on Day, pushing him hard so that he staggered back. ‘You foul-mouthed bastard! Why did you come here? What does he deserve? A good hiding from you? Is that it? You want to start with me?' He pushed him again. ‘Come on – you're not scared of me, are you? A
pervert
like me?'

Edmund had pulled on his trousers. He stepped forward. ‘Day, just leave, please. Please, Joseph –'

He hadn't seen the punch coming. In the café Edmund touched his black eye, the humiliation still fresh enough to make him wince at the memory: Day had knocked him out.

He had come round on the floor, Paul kneeling beside him. He had helped him to his feet and sat him down on the bed. Through his befuddlement, he sensed that Day had gone; the bedroom door was shut as though he had never been there at all. He might have imagined him except that his brain felt as though it was too tightly encased within his skull and his eye had swollen closed. Paul handed him a flannel wrung out in cold water.

‘Press this to it.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Be quiet.'

‘Really. I'm really sorry.'

Harshly Paul said, ‘I told you to be quiet.'

He had hung his head; his mouth had filled with saliva and he concentrated on swallowing back the bile rising in his throat, but there was too much and he spewed at Paul's feet. ‘Sorry,' he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Don't shout at me.'

‘Shout at you? For Christ's sake don't talk like a child! Lie down. You should lie down.'

‘I'm all right. I'll go.' He made to get up but Paul pushed him back.

‘Lie down. I don't want to be blamed if you fall dead in the street.'

He did as he was told. After a moment, Paul lit a cigarette and Edmund turned painfully to see him lie down next to him, leaving a hand's breadth of space between them, as much as the narrow bed would allow. ‘I'm sorry,' he repeated.

Paul was silent. Edmund wondered if he should repeat his apology again, but his silence was too discouraging, too stonily tight-lipped; he could see that Paul's hands were trembling. When his cigarette was finished, Paul got up. He fetched towels from the bathroom and began to clean up the vomit.

‘Let me do that.'

‘Rest. The sooner you're rested the sooner you can go.'

‘I don't want to go.'

Paul straightened up and took the towels back to the bathroom. Edmund heard the taps running, the slap of the cloths as Paul threw them into the bath. He got up unsteadily and stood in the bathroom door.

‘Forgive me?'

‘I'll walk you home.'

‘Would you?'

Paul had gazed at him for a moment, and in the café Edmund wondered if he only imagined his hesitation as Paul said, ‘Yes, I'll walk back with you, of course.'

* * *

As they walked in silence, Edmund had wondered if this escorting meant that Paul felt some responsibility and that he didn't blame him entirely for Day. It wouldn't be fair if he blamed him; he couldn't have known that Day would follow him.

In the café he cringed over this childish petulance. His brother Neville would sometimes tease him over such behaviour and call him a monstrously spoilt brat. He had thought of Neville last night, too, as he walked beside Paul, because the two of them were much the same height and build, very much the same age, he would guess. And Neville could be silent like this too, judgemental and superior. Neville had often disapproved of him; in his brother's eyes he lacked moral fibre. But he was so much younger – Neville might have made allowances, just as Paul might.

He remembered that he had looked at Paul resentfully. He couldn't help saying, ‘It wasn't my fault.'

Paul had glanced at him. ‘Please be quiet.'

‘Stop telling me to be quiet! Why are you so angry with me?'

He ignored him.

‘Paul, I can't bear this –'

Paul stopped. ‘I'll leave you here, I'm sure you'll be fine.'

‘No. Please, wait … Don't go.'

Paul laughed shortly, glancing away. Meeting his gaze he said, ‘Edmund, I'm sorry. You're a nice boy –'

‘I'm not a boy, stop calling me a boy!'

‘All right. You're right. You're not a
boy
. Now, get yourself home, go to bed. Thank you for tonight.'

‘Don't thank me. Christ, you'll want to pay me next. Who do you think you are?'

‘Goodnight, Edmund.'

He'd made to turn away but Edmund had caught his arm. ‘You can't just walk away from me.'

‘Why not?' Paul had sighed. ‘What do you want?'

‘I don't know. You. Don't look like that.'

Paul had smiled as though he had made a bad joke, shaking his head at the poorness of it. ‘You want me? What would you do with me? Where would you keep me? How would you expect me to behave?' He lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke on a long breath as he said, ‘Because I've a feeling you don't like homosexual men, Edmund. And I know I can be that arch little shirt-lifter I noticed you wincing at. Although you do wince quite discreetly, I do notice and it does make me feel like dirt, if I'm honest, because I would much rather be respected than have false feelings flung at me.'

‘Not false.'

‘No?'

‘No.'

‘So, you love me? Edmund, I'm flattered. What shall we do now?'

‘Don't patronise me.'

‘I mean it. What shall we do? I'm in London for a few more days at least. I'm quite up for a bit of love – I take what I can get. Could I ask if I'm expected to love you back?'

Edmund had looked away, unable to bear his scrutiny. ‘I didn't wince.'

‘It's all right. Most men make me wince, too – I'm sure I let my own horror slip from time to time.'

‘Most of the time you're like any other man.'

Paul laughed bleakly. ‘Thanks, I do my best.'

‘I didn't mean it like that! All I meant was … All I meant was … I don't know. Maybe I can only look at you sideways.'

‘I don't know what you mean by that, Edmund. But I would think it's probably a little insulting, if I wanted to think about it.'

‘I don't mean to be insulting. I just want, with all my heart, to see you again.'

‘I don't know.' Vehemently Paul said, ‘Don't
you
want to be
like any other man
? When I was your age –'

‘You talk like an old man – like my bloody father! You're not that much older than me – the war didn't make you a sage.'

Paul laughed, a genuine, surprised laugh, just as he had laughed in that hotel bed, so that Edmund had groaned with the despair of wanting him so badly. Touching his swollen face, Paul said, ‘So, you want with all your heart to see me again? That may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.'

‘It's true.'

‘Then all right, I would like to see you again, too. But with not so much of my heart … I'm sorry, but I feel I have to be honest, since you've been so honest with me.'

‘As long as I can see you.'

In the café, Edmund paid his bill; he left a tip for the waitress, more than he normally would, and he thought guiltily of Ann as he walked out on to the street, turning up his collar against the relentless rain. But the guilt was fleeting; nothing mattered except Paul.

Chapter Six

P
AUL ASKED
, ‘W
AS YOUR
hotel comfortable?'

George placed his menu down, took off his spectacles and folded them into his pocket. ‘You know, whenever I'm in London I have the bitter feeling that I haven't done enough with my life.' Pleased to see Paul looked surprised, he said, ‘I slept well, so yes, the room was comfortable. Yours?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good.'

The hotel Paul had chosen to meet him in for lunch reminded George of the hotels his own father would take him to when he had been a medical student at St Thomas's in Westminster. These hotels were the kind of places where he supposed men took their mistresses: tucked away from the main drags, impressive but not overtly so, discreet and well ordered. He couldn't imagine an irate husband able to make a scene in such tasteful surroundings; the fine china, the sparkling glass and silver, the deep carpets and dark panelling would all conspire against the cuckold, making his jealousy seem petty and ill mannered. But then, George thought, perhaps men didn't take their mistresses anywhere, but kept them in dreary little flats close to convenient tube stations. What did he know? He had slept with one woman in the whole of his life, Paul's mother. Living his day-to-day life in Thorp, the belief that he hadn't had enough sex was a small regret; here in London, reminded of other lives he might have lived, that same regret grew to near overwhelming proportions. He had to marshal all his sensible arguments and excuses to convince himself that he had made the right choices, bolstering himself with the idea that his care for his two sons had to matter more than anything else. Sitting across the table from Paul he wondered if he had taken the best care, but for the life of him he didn't know what he could have done differently.

Paul had placed his menu down too and was signalling to the waiter. He ordered wine, asking the kind of questions that always seemed to please wine waiters, making them flower from poker-faced boredom into articulate life. This waiter was no exception, and Paul charmed him, which was also unexceptional; his son could be charming when he had a mind to be. The waiter called Paul
sir
often, once leaning quite close to him to point out a wine on the long list. They smiled at one another and George watched all this with uneasy interest, because although he knew Paul was capable of anything, he'd never seen him in action.

When the waiter had gone, Paul unleashed his being-gracious-to-waiters smile on him. ‘Well, here we are.'

He must have slept well, George thought, because he seemed so much happier than he was last night, the kind of boyish happiness that he hadn't seen in him for many years, since before the war. But his evening had been successful, all his paintings sold, all those people telling him how wonderful he was, no wonder his good eye was so bright. George looked down at his starched white napkin, still folded on the table in front of him. If he could watch his son closely unobserved there were times he couldn't quite meet his eyes; times when he wasn't strong enough to hide his concerns.

‘Dad?'

He looked up at him. Paul had always resembled his mother when he was a child. Even now, when he was so changed, her ghost was still there in his face, in his good eye. He wondered how he might have talked to Grace about Paul, because an explanation would have been necessary. He wondered how she might have reacted; he hadn't known her long enough or well enough to guess.

George unfolded the napkin and spread it over his knee. ‘Last night went well. You must be very pleased.'

‘I'm sorry I didn't invite you. But I thought … Well, actually I thought no one would come. If it had been a wash-out–'

Another waiter came and took their order. The wine waiter uncorked the wine at their table, pouring a small measure for Paul to taste. When this rigmarole was finished with and they were alone again, Paul said, ‘I'm very glad you're here.' He raised his glass. ‘It's good to see you.'

George raised his own glass. He sipped the wine and it was delicious, just as he expected their lunch to be delicious, just as there wasn't a stain on the starched cloth or a smudge on the cutlery, just as the rain stopped and a sudden shaft of sunlight dazzled the silver cruet and made the white flowers in their tasteful arrangement appear cleaner and more beautiful. Paul had chosen well. As his son unfolded his own napkin, George noticed his manicured fingernails and his cuff-links that were milky green opals, lustrous, translucent against his immaculate cuffs. The fine tailoring of the dark suit he wore made him appear older, a little broader, a little less like the slight boy he had appeared to be last night. George wondered why he hadn't worn this suit to the opening; perhaps he hadn't wanted to stand out too much from a Bohemian crowd, perhaps he had wanted to pretend to be more like such men and women who didn't care for appearances but only for their Art. Touched by this thought, George said, ‘You look very dashing.'

‘Do I?' Paul smiled. ‘Dashing? It wasn't the look I was aiming for.'

‘Which was?'

‘Oh, I don't know. Seriousness, I think.' He picked up his glass only to put it down again. ‘I suppose I wanted to look as though you don't have to worry about me.'

‘I'm not worried. You look happy. Successful.' He raised his glass again, smiling. ‘I'm very proud of you.'

Their meal arrived, rare steak and sautéed potatoes and thin green beans, and they ate and talked about Thorp and George's medical practice so that George realised that he had memorised an entertainment of anecdotes for Paul and that he must have been hoping that they would be as easy as this together, as easy as they had been before the war, in that too-brief period between Paul leaving boarding school and joining the army. There were times even during the war, on his rare leaves home from the front, when they were friends like this; he had always
liked
his son as much as he loved him, and at this moment he loved him terribly, a love that made him fear for his own life – what would he have left if Paul was gone?

But Paul had gone of course; although not dead, but so far away, to a place he would never visit,
could
never visit. He thought of that man: Patrick, who had come to his home, stood in his kitchen, the great, intimidating height and breadth of him blocking out the light from the window as he said, ‘I'll take care of him. I know how to protect him, keep him safe. I promise you, Dr Harris, on my life. I would rather die than see him hurt again.'

Such histrionic words, but said with such calm and conviction – Patrick Morgan truly was a paradox of a man. What could he have done except agree that Paul would be safer in a country that wasn't England? He could have said no, and this man, with his love for Paul like a carefully contained but agitating force inside him, would have done what he had to do anyway. George guessed that Morgan had come only out of a calculating courtesy, no doubt reasoning that it was best to have an ally who would help convince Paul that leaving everything he loved was for the best.

The waiter cleared their plates. Paul lit a cigarette, having first asked him if he minded. He did, but he said nothing. Paul ordered coffee and pulled a face as he tasted it. ‘I'd forgotten how bad coffee is in England.' For a moment, he seemed far away, preoccupied by a memory that George guessed must be pleasant from the look in his eye, a memory of Morgan, perhaps, and the foreign coffee they drank together in a house he imagined resembled the houses pictured in a child's bible. ‘
There is a courtyard with a fountain,
' Paul had written to him, shortly after he arrived in that alien country. ‘
The sun bleaches everything clean
.
I am well.
' The letters they exchanged were stilted, at least in those early days of his exile. Paul never wrote of Morgan, of course, or only obliquely.

Pushing away his coffee cup, Paul said, ‘What time's your train?'

‘Half past three. Plenty of time.' George acted on the urge, perhaps prompted by the wine, to reach across the table and cover Paul's hand with his own. Paul smiled at him.

‘I'm all right, Dad. Honestly.'

And perhaps it was the wine that caused him to say, ‘You could come home –'

Paul withdrew his hand. ‘No.'

‘No? Why not? It's all forgotten – that business. And now Margot is remarried, settled, she might be happy for you to see Bobby –'

‘No, Dad. Please. Let's not spoil this afternoon.'

But he couldn't see the point in stopping, and besides, the words were coming too quickly, as though he had rehearsed them as he had rehearsed the amusing stories. ‘Margot is happy, I'm sure. And happiness helps people to forgive. You don't have to live in Thorp, but close – at the seaside, perhaps, where we used to go when you were a child.' He must have been drunker than he thought because he laughed with the excitement of such an idea. ‘You could paint the sea!'

Paul was gazing at him, allowing him to babble on until George realised how still his son had become, as though he was keeping some fierce emotion in check. Dismayed, he trailed off. ‘I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me.'

‘I understand that you had to ask. I would have, if I were you.' Paul laughed slightly. ‘Paint the sea, eh? That cold, grey sea.' Suddenly he said, ‘I dream of home – at night, I mean. You're in this dream and Bobby is still a baby and Margot has given him to us for good, she doesn't want him any more. And you'd think that this would be a marvellous dream, wouldn't you? But I only want to run away and I wake up and all I feel is relief …' He stubbed out his cigarette and looked up at him. ‘Patrick thinks I'll stay in England now. He thinks I'm brave enough not to run away again.'

‘He's right!'

‘No. Usually, almost always in fact, but not about this.'

Paul summoned the waiter and asked for the bill. Turning to George, he said, ‘Let me get this – it will be the first time I've bought you a meal. It will make me feel like a grown-up.' He smiled, handsome, ironic, more
grown up
than anyone ever deserved to be so that George felt soft with pity and love for him.

‘Paul, my home is always your home.'

‘Thank you. That means a lot to me.' Glancing away towards the tall windows looking out over the sunny street, he said on a rush of breath, ‘It's just that I couldn't survive without Patrick.'

George tried to keep the scorn out of his voice and failed. ‘Paul – of course you could –'

It seemed that Paul forced himself to look at him. ‘I couldn't. I know it must sound terribly melodramatic to you. Terribly
wrong.
But I don't want you to have any hopes for me, Dad.'

‘You were
married
, Paul – and I know you were happy with Margot. You could be happy like that again –'

‘I shouldn't have married her.' He had never said this before, and it was as though he realised that there was too much truth in this statement, a truth that was too painful to be aired, too full of renunciation, because he stood up quickly. Too brightly he said, ‘I'll walk with you to the station. It will make a change, me seeing you off on to a train.'

On the train going home George thought about them standing on the platform at King's Cross, with a few minutes to spare before his train arrived. The station was crowded, and full of all the smell and noise and grittiness that never failed to take him back to the war, when Paul would stand beside him in uniform, anxiously looking down the track as if only afraid of being late.

As though Paul had been remembering the same scene, he had said, ‘I used to imagine I'd come back –
if
I came back – to girls with flowers, to brass bands and bunting … Can you imagine Thorp Station decked out like that?'

George had laughed. ‘No.'

‘I'd imagine the station and the bunting, but I couldn't imagine myself beyond that, at home, being
me
.' He'd smiled at him. ‘I'll write to you.'

Those were always the last words they'd say to each other, even from the earliest days of Paul going off to boarding school, another uniform swamping him. George would let him go, standing on a platform until the train was out of sight, reluctant to go back to his empty house. Perhaps this is what he should have done differently: he should have kept him by his side, taught him at home, made him his own and no one else's; and later he should have maimed him in some small way, just enough that the army wouldn't want him.

Resting his head back on the train seat's antimacassar, George closed his eyes. The wine had gone to his head, thickening his brain; he hoped he would sleep away the long journey home, only to be woken by a kindly guard at Darlington. There, he would make his connection home to Thorp, a short fifteen minutes away, hardly time for him to pull himself together enough to be Dr George Harris, smart, straight-backed, dignified, and if not a pillar of the community, then respected by his remaining patients, despite his son's disgrace.

George opened his eyes. Disgrace was the word Paul had used; Paul had stood in his study, still white with the shock of spending a night in a police cell, and with odd, stilted formality had said, ‘I'm sorry to have brought this disgrace home. If you want me to leave –'

George had only stared at him, slack-jawed with fear for his son, only managing to say, ‘Where on earth would you go? Leave where?'

Paul had bowed his head, trembling; he had never seen anyone tremble so delicately, so thoroughly from his head to his feet, grasping the back of the chair he should have been sitting on, his knuckles white. George knew he should have gone to him, but at the time he felt he didn't have the strength to stand up, and so the strength of the anger in his voice surprised him as he said, ‘You have a wife! A son! What were you thinking of?'

Paul had only shaken his head.