2 The Imposter (3 page)

“It’s been good to get to know you, Doc,” he said.

“Doc?”

“Doctor? The medicine?”

Edward had almost tripped up. “Oh yes, of course,” he said, remembering to smile. “Doc––very good.”

“Listen––I reckon we ought to keep in touch. We’ve got plenty in common.” He shadow-boxed for moment, firing out a gentle combination. “The noble art and all that.”

“That’s true.”

“I’m thinking about keeping it up, doing a bit of sparring. You should come along, once your foot’s better.”

“It’s nearly better now,” he said. There had been nothing to do on the voyage home except put his feet up and read and the rest had done wonders for the wound. “I’d love to.”

“Here, hold on.” He took his travel pass and a pen from his pocket. He scribbled a number on the docket and handed it to him. “You should be able to reach me here. Give me a ring when you’re settled. We could have a spar and then go for a pint.”

“Capital idea.”

“That’s settled, then.”

Joseph pulled him in and pounded him on the back. “Good to meet you, Doc,” he said. “Enjoy being home. And call me––alright?”

Edward said that he would, and he meant it.

3

EDWARD TRANSFERRED ONTO THE UNDERGROUND. When he emerged from Tottenham Court Road station half an hour later it was into a warm dusk. The damage that had been done to the city since his departure was difficult to credit. Even now, with peace a year old, windows were still missing and there were holes in roofs. Some buildings had been pulverised, as if crushed by a giant’s fist. Others, the remedial work more advanced, had been removed neatly from the surrounding terrace as one would remove a slice of cake. It was as if they had never even been there, weeds already growing in their foundations. A fine film of dust thickened the city’s usual smog, coating everything with a patina of grime.

He passed into Soho. He had grown up on its exciting grill of good-time streets and he retained fond memories of it. It was like a tiny international resort with an ozone of garlic, curry, ceremonious sauces and a hundred far-flung cheeses. The war had not changed it. The carrier cans in the windows were still full of salad and cooking oil and you could still find dozens of Spanish cheeses, snails, octopus and Chinese cheesecake. There was Dijon mustard; Rajah-like Eastern dishes costing pounds or modest four-bob curries; sex books; strip-tease shows; exotic clubs and thirty-odd different kinds of bread. Edward walked towards his destination and passed a woman reverently dusting bottles of wine, adorned with a whole picture gallery of labels, handing them to her small son who squatted in the shop window arranging them for display. Outside, the father stood, both arms extended, directing the whole operation like a temperamental stage manager.

Eating was still a serious business and there remained sophisticated restaurants that laid on discreet shabbiness like a sort of make-up, knowing that serious gourmets do not bother much about decor. The Shangri-La was one such establishment. It was on Dean Street, one of the bisecting thoroughfares that ran north-to-south, connecting Oxford Street to Shaftesbury Avenue. It had twenty tables offering eighty covers and a small bar. Edward’s father had taken out a loan for a hundred pounds in 1936 and had spent it on a thorough refurbishment: wooden panels had been fitted to the walls and intricate stained-glass windows had been installed. The carpet, table clothes and curtains were all in dark colours and a fire burned in the grate. The intention had been to make something that felt exclusive, the kind of cosy clubbable charm that one might find in a Mayfair private members room. It had worked, to a point, but that was back then; now the carpets were tatty and the edges of the curtains had frayed. The room, like the city outside, looked faded and tired, like an elderly relative who had seen better days.

Edward made his way around to the kitchen entrance.

The small kitchen staff was busy. Jimmy Stern was working in front of the range, chopping vegetables, two large saucepans sending clouds of steam up to the ceiling. He was slick with sweat and his whites were slathered with blood and grime.

“Hello, uncle,” Edward said.

The old man gaped at him, dropping his knife.

“You want to be careful with that––you’ll have your finger off.”

Jimmy hugged him and then released him, clutching him by the shoulders so he could look him up and down. “Good lord, Jack––you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

It was the first time he had been addressed by his real name for seven years. It took a moment for him to reply, “It’s not Jack anymore, uncle, remember? It’s Edward.”

“Hell, I forgot. Edward––?”

“Fabian.”

He chuckled. “Edward Fabian––that’s right. We really should have found you a better name.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers. I was in a rush. It wasn’t like I could wait around for something better to come along.”

The two nodded at the thought of it. Edward Fabian had been the victim of one of the first Luftwaffe bombs of The Blitz. He had been a promising medical student, just graduated from Trinity Hall, Cambridge. Jimmy had a friend in the coroner’s office and he had been paid a pound to look out for a casualty who matched Jack’s height, build and hair colour. Fabian had been the first to meet the criteria, and they had simply switched papers. The local council was at sixes and sevens as the bombs fell and it had been easy to cover their tracks. Fabian’s body had been cremated hastily and that was that: as far as the authorities were concerned, Jack Stern had died in the wreckage of a collapsed terrace. Jack had become Edward.

“What do I call you? Jack or Edward?”

“Edward,” he said. “It’s been years. I’ve got used to it now. And Jack’s dead. Let’s not tempt fate.”

“When did you get back?”

“Last week.”

“And you’re out?”

“I am.”

“Properly? For good?”

“I’m officially demobbed. I’m a free man.”

Edward noticed a new, manic quality to his uncle. Jimmy had always been highly-strung, prone to mood swings, but it seemed that he was wound even tighter than usual.

“Have you eaten?” Jimmy asked.

“A sandwich on the train.”

“‘A sandwich on the train.’ That’s not good enough, is it? Go and find a seat. I’ll fetch you something.”

Edward was hungry and didn’t complain. He made his way through into the restaurant. It was quiet, just a few diners quietly going about their meals, cutlery ringing against the crockery. He checked his watch: it wasn’t late. They should have been much busier.

Jimmy brought out a plate of Baked Pig’s Cheek and sat down opposite him. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing special.”

“It’ll do fine.” Edward sliced a piece of pork and put it into his mouth. He chewed; it was rubbery and dry, barely edible. Jimmy had prepared an excellent apple sauce to mask the poor quality of the meat but there was only so much he could do.

“So? How was it?”

“Up and down” he said. “Some days were good, some were bad. Most of the time it was boring.”

“Boring?” Jimmy said.

“You’d be surprised.” He had no desire to talk about the war and changed the subject. “How have things been here? It’s quiet.”

“Slow.”

His face showed the signs of strain and worry. “Are you making money?”

“Not really. Not enough.”

“What do you mean?”

He dismissed the question with a brush of his hand. “We don’t need to talk about that now––you’ve just got back. It can wait.”

This was more than enough to make Edward nervous. “No, tell me.”

Jimmy slumped a little. “It’s been difficult. Bloody difficult. We’ve been losing money. The rent, the cost of staff, the ingredients.” He pointed at Edward’s half-finished plate of food. “I can’t charge proper prices for that. The food is the same as a National Restaurant. Worse, probably. It’s impossible.”

“It’s not so bad,” Edward said, poking at the remnants of the meal.

“I’m not an idiot, Edward. It’s awful. You saw the menu? The beef is horse, we don’t have any bread…”

“Bread isn’t rationed?”

“It wasn’t during the war. Soon as we bloody well get through that, though, and it is. Ridiculous. The vegetables need the mould cutting out of them and the snoek––my God, if there’s a worse tasting fish than bloody snoek I haven’t had it. Who’s going to pay a quid to eat that? Look, I was going to tell you tomorrow but I might as well get it out of the way now. I’ve had to make some difficult decisions.”

“Like what?”

“I sold my house. There was no more money. I would’ve had to close otherwise.”

“When was this?”

“January.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There was no point in worrying you about it.”

“But—”

“There was no point, Edward,” he said firmly. “You were out of the country—what good would it have done, you fretting about it over there?”

“How much did you get?”

“There wasn’t that much to be had. I’d already remortgaged twice.”

“How much is left?”

“Not much.”

“Anything?”

He shrugged disconsolately. “Fifty quid.”

Edward could hardly believe what he was hearing. This was not the return he had been expecting. There was more to ask about the state of the restaurant, but it could wait. Jimmy looked tired: blue-black bags bulged beneath his eyes and his skin was pallid and grey.

“Where are you living?”

“Here. It’s not so bad.” Jimmy stared out of the window, his conviction unpersuasive.

Jimmy fetched a bowl of spotted dick and custard for dessert. Edward felt deflated. He also felt a little shocked. Things were different, and not for the better. The last customers left. Jimmy shut the door and switched off the lights. Edward put on an apron and helped him clean the kitchen. They worked in silence. The news had shaken him, and it was going to take some time to absorb.

“Where do we sleep?”

“In here,” Jimmy said, opening the storeroom door and stepping aside to let his nephew pass. A bedroll had been laid out on the floor between shelves of produce, bags of flour and rice. A hurricane lamp rested on the floor. Jimmy knelt down and lit it. He worked his boots off.

Edward lowered himself to the floor. “Did anyone come around for me?”

“After you went? Of course they did. The police were here just about every other day and when I convinced them I didn’t know where you are I had the others to deal with. I preferred the police.”

“What did you say?”

“That you were dead. I think they believed me in the end.”

“And that was that? No-one else?”

“The last one was a private detective. Three or four years ago. I think it was just routine by that point. There hasn’t been anyone else since.”

Edward extinguished the lamp, lay down and stared into the darkness for a good half an hour, unable to sleep.

“Are you awake?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Jimmy said.

“How’s my father?”

There was a pause, and then Edward heard his uncle give a long sigh. “Not good. Getting worse. You’ll have to go and see him.”

The day was a terrible anticlimax and, now, it ended with worry.

4

AFTER SEVEN YEARS IN THE SERVICE Edward’s body had become conditioned to rising before first light. It was a habit he would never grow out of and, that second day home, he awoke at four. He had slept fitfully, anyway, waking up and each time finding himself surprised that he was not under the canopy of the jungle and that he couldn’t hear the chirping of the crickets. It took him several moments to remember where he was.

His earliest childhood memory was of the kitchen: the clouds of steam, the smells, the clamour and clatter of preparation. The first thing he could remember clearly was an image of his father, wearing an old-fashioned cook’s smock with a huge tureen of soup cradled between his elbows. He could see the flour on his arms, his glasses pushed up on his forehead and sweat pasting his thinning hair to his crown; a cleaver brought down onto the bloodied carcass of a pig; his mother going around the dining room to adjust cutlery by infinitesimal degrees; the sound of her calm voice as she explained to a customer why their dinner was delayed; the bitter taste of chocolate that he furtively licked from a bowl. He could remember being taken through the kitchen as a young child, the heat that was as wet as water, the waves that pulsed out of the open ovens, scorching the back of the throat and crisping the hair inside the nostrils each time he took a breath. And, most evocative of all, the smells: roasting meat, the intense aroma of the bread oven, pastry sweetness.

Edward used the customer bathroom and changed into a pair of checked trousers, chef’s jacket and clogs. He put on an apron but couldn’t remember how to tie it. Jimmy corrected him, crossing the strings at the back, tying it at the front, the bib tucked inside. He paused at the front of house, took the reservation book and thumbed through it. Today promised to be much busier than last night. Perhaps there was hope. Even a broken night’s sleep had reinvigorated him and he felt full of determination. He was home now and he wasn’t going to let the restaurant fail without a bloody good fight.

It was still dark outside when they got to work. Edward opened the door to the kitchen and switched on the lights. It hadn’t changed a bit while he was away: a long, thin space with the service line arranged against one wall with a narrow pass-through opposite it. Six months after acquiring the restaurant, his father had knocked through two of the walls and extended the kitchen into what had once been a store-room. There was a cold station next to the exit door, a row of deep-fryers, two big ranges, a pull-out broiler, a salamander, a brick hearth for charcoal grilling. Opposite, and separated by a slender work space, was a long stainless-steel counter with wooden cutting boards, sinks and a new Frigidaire at the end. He lit the ranges, flames curling up the blackened wall, and Jimmy switched on the steam table. There was no way for the air to circulate in the kitchen and within five minutes the temperature had ticked up to an almost unbearable level: a wall of radiant warmth on one side and clouds of wet steam rising on the other. He remembered his first proper session in the kitchen as a fourteen-year old pot boy: he’d fainted dead away in the broiling swelter.