War Damage (12 page)

The sound of their spoons against the porcelain rang loudly. Afterwards his mother lit a cigarette. His father frowned. ‘Vivienne, how often have I told you, smoking is
dangerous
. There's new research—'

But on this issue Vivienne was robust. ‘Darling, that's ridiculous! It soothes my throat.'

Charles's father made an incoherent sound of exasperation and stood up. Perhaps wanting to placate him, Vivenne said brightly: ‘Arthur Carnforth was here this afternoon, you know, he teaches at the school. He has a very high opinion of Charles, darling. I'm sure he can give him a lot of help.'

John Hallam scowled. ‘What on earth was he doing here?' Charles noticed the look that passed between his parents with a sudden lurch of dismay. Had Carnforth said something …

‘Mr Carnforth doesn't know the first thing about my work. He's an art master, for Christ's sake!'

‘Don't speak to your mother like that, Charles.'

Vivienne cast a nervous glance at her husband.

John Hallam glared. ‘I know you never listen to a word I say, Vivienne, but I have never liked the man and it's a great pity you've taken up with him again – most unfortunate he turned up at the school. I'm astonished they'd employ him, quite honestly.'

‘Why, Dad?'

But his father didn't answer. He got up from the table. ‘Well, I've got work to do.'

‘But John …' and Vivienne's dark eyes seemed larger than ever as her pleading gaze fixed on her husband. ‘He's an old friend, that's all.'

‘I know you ran around with that crowd before the war – you and Buckingham and Carnforth, the infernal triangle. But I thought things had settled down. I thought you'd finally seen through Buckingham … oh, I know you're upset because of what happened, but I thought … and then the moment he's – gone, Arthur Carnforth turns up again and he's even worse.'

Vivienne was whiter than ever. ‘That's unfair,' she said in a low voice. She looked at Charles. ‘You'll understand when you're older, darling.'

In the horrible silence, Charles thought: Dad wishes he hadn't spoken in front of me.

Then Vivienne said, as though nothing had happened: ‘You'd like some coffee, dear?'

‘Bring it up to the study, would you? I've some papers to look at – for the Glasgow conference next week. Oh … no, the ladder … I'll take it up myself.'

Charles stood up, trying to escape his swarming thoughts, he had to get away, be on his own. He climbed the ladder. Unable to concentrate on his maths he switched to Latin, but that was no better. Freddie's murder intruded all the time. And what had his father meant about Carnforth? ‘The infernal triangle.'

He didn't like the way Carnforth had smiled at him either, seated like a toad in the dust-sheeted drawing room. Suppose the next time the art teacher went to the annexe things had been moved … had the room been disarranged in the excitement of the moment with Harry Trevelyan? Everything about Carnforth was sickening. And Freddie had loathed him – Charles was sure about that. He could always tell what Freddie was feeling.

Not any more.

At nine o'clock he climbed down the ladder and looked in on his mother in the drawing room where she was listening to the news.

‘I'm having trouble concentrating. I'm just going for a walk to get a bit of fresh air. Okay?'

‘Don't be long, darling. You don't want your father to think you're slacking.'

There was an autumn chill in the air this evening. He thrust his hands in his pockets and walked to Primrose Hill, where he climbed the grassy slope towards the concrete bunkers left over from what had been anti-aircraft positions during the war. Now they were full of disgusting mess and at night couples came there, leaving cigarette packets, sweet papers and what he knew were spent condoms. But this evening the bunkers were deserted. He walked on, hardly knowing what he was looking for, and yet knowing all too well; but in the whole park there was no one. He followed the perimeter right the way round, passing the remotest corners. There was not much cover. He wandered stubbornly on for longer than he'd intended.

ten

T
HE HEATH WAS PEACEFUL
under the mild, white sky, but as Regine walked across the meadows along a familiar path she was imagining its night-time transformation, when darkness shrouded the encounters of strange men, and cloaked crime and murder. It seemed hardly less unreal than the idea that she was on her way to meet Eugene.

It was impossible. Eugene was dead.

He must have chosen the Heath because it was near where she lived, to remind her of the threat he posed. She should have insisted on meeting him in town. A bar or a restaurant in town would have been safer. But how had he known where she lived?

After the telephone call … it was impossible. But his voice was unmistakable.

Like everything else in Shanghai, their marriage was not to be taken too seriously. They had fun, to begin with at least. And later on, when he seemed to be mixed up in so many schemes, they'd simply drifted apart, floating in different directions on the oily currents of Shanghai's many worlds. For beyond the cocktails and the dances and the picnics and the days at the races, Shanghai
was
deadly serious.

In the dark undertow there were so many things she hadn't known about, hadn't cared to know about. What looked like froth on the surface had really been the scum surfacing from the invisible life in the depths, the predators … the cruelties of a million hopeless lives, the warlords menacing the countryside, the charming British escorts who turned out to be counter-intelligence men … and Eugene had been swept away by the currents, everyone said the Japanese were so cruel, he could never have survived …

A mist was coming down and Cato had disappeared. She shouted and whistled, then called again, but her voice echoed eerily across the vacant fields and through the ragged copses. She reached a clearing, where the fog hung between trees deformed and bent in gnarled, preposterous shapes.

Then, out of the mist came a blurry figure, who dragged a reluctant Cato along by the collar. When Cato saw her, he began to leap frantically and bark and whine and as dog and man drew near she felt she might faint.

He smiled, the old, familiar, crooked smile: ‘Roisin – darlin'! After all these years!'

She stared at him, her stomach hollowing out and cramping up at the same time, a horrible feeling: fear attacking your body when your brain was quite numb. It was him; exactly the same, but so painfully different. ‘We were to meet up by Kenwood!' Her voice sounded squeaky and hoarse. The way he'd emerged from the trees like that had given her such a fright – and yet it was so like him, to make an arrangement and then do something completely different. He was never where you expected him to be.

Cato barked and leapt up against her, and this gave her time to steady herself, so that it seemed as if she only swayed because the dog had pushed against her. She hid her face by bending over the poodle. ‘Bad boy, Cato. You are a
bad
boy, aren't you.'

‘I always had a way with dogs – even those wretched curs in Shanghai.' In the wood's dull twilight he seemed insubstantial. They walked towards the open meadow beyond the tunnel of trees. She was shaking, but tried to step steadily alongside Cato as he jumped and pulled at the leash. She felt as if the blood were draining from her body. God, he looked so much older …

‘Aren't you going to ask me how I came back from the dead?'

She laughed shakily. ‘Are you back from the dead? I think you're a ghost. I think you've come to haunt me.'

He didn't laugh.

They came out into the open. ‘Jesus, but it's quiet around here. Shall we walk down the hill? There's a café at the bottom.'

So they walked together like a normal couple down towards the row of shops and the houses. The mist swathed Regine in a veil of unreality. Yet she managed to hold a normal conversation, asking him what had happened, how he'd got away, how long he'd been back in England, what he was going to do now, her voice a little strained, but her shaking under control. No straight answers to her questions, of course; you never got a straight answer from him.

She kept glancing sideways surreptitiously, and the strange thing was he still had that jaunty walk of his, despite his bedraggled appearance. The pathos of it almost drove out her fear, replacing it with an awful sadness.

Everything about the café was perfunctory: battered chairs and tables, a few stale-looking cakes behind the glassed-in counter, a depressed-looking waitress.

She sat opposite Eugene. In the bleak electric light she saw his suit was shabby, his shirt collar frayed. His eyes were redrimmed and his hair hadn't been cut for a while, so that it sprang in unruly waves from his scalp. His smile was the same as ever, but his teeth were stained and one was missing. And he'd been so proud of his teeth!

She had to try to take charge of the situation. ‘This is rather a shock, you know. I was so certain you were dead.'

He smiled then. ‘Don't sound so disappointed!'

That time in the club, he'd been smiling then too. In a dinner jacket – that's what he'd been wearing, the last time she'd seen him. They were at the club, but she wasn't even sure he was running it any more. They sat on the velvet banquette with the Chinese man and the girl in her cheongsam, with a gardenia in her oiled smooth hair. The man wore an expensive western suit. He smoked a cigar and when he opened his mouth his gold teeth gleamed. The Chinese girl said something, but it must have been the wrong thing, because her companion slapped her across the face. When she reeled back from the blow her smile was as fixed as ever.

Afterwards: It's lucky he doesn't like redheads, darling. He wouldn't be taking no for an answer, you know.

And if he had – liked redheads?

Oh … Teeth flashing laughter. You know you're always safe with me, darling.

He'd always been dapper, always … now …

‘You look as if you've had a hard time,' she said.

She could see he was offended, still a dandy at heart. His hand moved along his chin, but he didn't answer her implied question. The tea urn hissed behind the counter. There was one other couple in the café.

‘Have you come back for good?'

Eugene looked away as if into the distance. ‘That's a rather stupid question, if you'll forgive me saying it. Do you think I could go back to Shanghai with all that's going on? Or had you not noticed there's a full-scale civil war?'

His irritation unnerved her again. She sipped her metallic tea and watched him wolf a Bath bun. ‘How did you manage to get back home?'

He lit a cigarette. ‘Home! This isn't home. To be sure I'll be back in Ireland as soon as I can. God, what a dingy hole London's become! Doesn't it make you weep?'

‘It's all right.'

Another silence. Then he said: ‘Of course, you've done well enough for yourself, or so I hear. I'm told you lucked out this time around – didn't pick another feckless devil like me.'

She was alert now. ‘Who told you that?'

‘You know I'd not dream of upsetting your apple cart.'

Cato sighed and heaved by Regine's feet.

Eugene was watching her, still smiling. ‘That way you had – playing with your hair like that – that was always a sure sign something was by way of worrying you.'

‘What are you doing now?'

‘You're full of questions, Roisin. Like I said, I'm on my way back to Ireland, but there's a few things I have to sort out on the way.'

‘I couldn't believe it was you on the phone.' Sweat gathered under her arms.

‘Aw – did I upset you, Roisin?' He took a squashed packet of cigarettes from his pocket, fished one out. ‘You still don't smoke?'

And now his mood seemed to change again. ‘Sitting across from you – Holy Virgin, but it brings back Shanghai. I loved the old place.' He looked away into some invisible distance again and his face darkened. ‘Of course it all changed when the Japs …' He didn't finish the sentence. ‘You remember the racecourse! Holy Jesus, that was a scene!'

‘You certainly loved the horses!' He couldn't keep away from the racetrack. One day he'd have banknotes coming out of every pocket, the next there'd be no money for food and she'd have to pawn the presents he'd given her the week before.

She watched his hands as he smoked. The nails were long and dirty. The sides of his fingers were cracked and nicotinestained. ‘Shanghai was wonderful,' she agreed, going along with his mood.

‘Not so good later on.'

‘Are you really not going to tell me what happened to you, how you got away – how long you've been back in London?'

‘It would be a long story – and a tedious one.' Pause. ‘And cruel.'

He never told her what was going on – he'd be there, then gone for weeks at a time. But it was terrible to see him so brought down, it was embarrassing – she didn't know where to look, what to say and she wanted to be away from this place, this shabby café and this wreck of a man who was her legal husband. But her feeling of pity for him was a weakness, she mustn't feel sorry for him, he was too dangerous, a terrible threat. ‘How did you know my phone number?' she asked.

‘Oh, Roisin – the telephone directory, of course.'

She took the bull by the horns. ‘You need money, I suppose.'

‘Oh …' and his gesture was magnanimity itself. ‘That's awfully kind – as it happens I had a bit of bad luck with the horses yesterday, but I wouldn't want you to think – you believe me, don't you, darling, your secret is safe with me – but to be sure, there's no secret, is there? I'm sure you waited the full seven years.'

The silence opened as deep as a well.

‘How much do you want?'

‘Roisin, now, you're being very blunt.'

There was another silence. She was watching him. His gaze flitted to and fro. He fidgeted, picked a flake of tobacco off his lip.

‘Something terrible happened,' she said. ‘Freddie was killed.'

The white face stared across at her. He frowned. ‘Killed? How? Oh God, that's terrible, I was hoping – I was going to look him up.' He passed his hand across his face. ‘Poor Freddie. Jesus …' He picked a cigarette out of the packet on the table and she saw his hand was shaking a little. ‘In the war, was it? Or an accident?'

She shook her head. ‘He was murdered.'

‘
Murdered
!' Eugene stared at her, drew deeply on his cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. Again he looked away as if he saw not the corner of the café, but was gazing into some far-distant place – or the past. ‘Freddie – Jesus.' There was another long silence.

Then suddenly he pushed his chair back. ‘I must be going. But – I'll need to see you again, Roisin. There's things we have to talk about …'

‘What things?'

‘Oh … not bad things, sweetheart, nothing for you to be worrying yourself with. Suppose we meet here again, in this café, same time next week? What do you say? I'll ring you anyway.'

‘No!' she cried, too hastily. ‘Don't ring. You must have an address, I'll send you – what I can.'

He smiled. ‘It's never a good idea to be sending money through the post. I'll be here, same day, same time, next week.'

The café door opened and shut. He'd gone, leaving her to pay. Well, it was only one and sixpence. She sat on. The other couple had looked up when Eugene left and now they looked at her. A self-assured, elegant woman in a fashionable jacket; she didn't belong in a place like this.

Eugene was dead. The more she saw him in her mind's eye walking slowly up the clearing with Cato straining away from him, the more he seemed like an apparition. It had been uncanny. He'd suddenly
appeared
. It was one of his jokes, coming out of the woods like that instead of waiting at Kenwood. He'd always been a trickster, the joker in the pack … and like so many of his jokes, it wasn't really funny.

Cato trotted faithfully beside her on the lead as she walked back across the darkening Heath and reached South End Green. ‘How did he find us, Cato? Cato, what am I going to do?'

He hadn't frightened her in the old days, not at first anyway. And she wasn't frightened of him now, of course, that would be ridiculous … and yet he'd changed, she couldn't put her finger on it, but he'd been different and not just because he was shabby and poor. And somehow he knew – how did he know? That hint – you waited the full seven years. But she hadn't. And he knew. Knew she was a bigamist.

Whatever happened, Neville mustn't find out.

She hurried up Downshire Hill. Neville was going to be late this evening and she'd arranged to go round to see Dinah; Alan was away on some outside broadcast. She needed to be on her own, to think, to work out what to do, but it would look odd to cancel. No one must guess. If only she could have talked to Freddie. Freddie would have known how to get out of this jam. There was no one else who could help. She could tell Cynthia, Cynthia was discreet, but she had troubles of her own.