All the Beauty of the Sun (12 page)

Edmund had brushed passed him, squeezing his hand briefly. ‘Ready?'

Ready to go out into the damp spring air, to walk side by side to a
little place
Edmund knew. Greek.
‘They do a very weird thing with leaves.
'

Yes. He knew of stuffed vine leaves:
koubebia.
These were nothing like the ones he had eaten in Athens. And the lamb – he had such a hankering for lamb – was nothing like the lamb he ate at home. Nothing was as it should be and everything was as he remembered: the soft rain and washed-out sun; the belting rain and cold and skies the colour of iron bars, and the blossom everywhere, making a Japanese painting of almost every window, even the barred windows that looked out on to yards.

He shouldn't have remembered that window and the shadow bars but it was very easy to be back in his cell where he had concentrated all his memories by working on them so diligently. He could tune out the clatter and clangs of the prison, all its stinks, the stifling Augusts and the cold despair of Christmas, and revisit taking his pistol from its holder and pressing its barrel to Jenkins' left temple. In his cell he could begin to see those things he hadn't properly noticed at the time: how small Jenkins' hands were, and soft like a child's when he'd tried to rub some warmth into them, how clean Jenkins' fingernails were compared with his own – his own hands were filthy compared with his, and too quick and furtive. He could see how shrouded the moon was and that there were no stars and no sound but the ringing in his ears from the single shot. One shot, not two – he began to doubt himself, perhaps he had shot him twice? No, he should think more carefully, remember exactly in careful detail the specifics: the clean, small hands and the missing button on Jenkins' tunic and how, when he licked his parched lips, he tasted blood and thought he might have hurt himself, not thinking about this blood as clearly as he might.

In his cell he would watch the sun move the bars across the wall and remember the smell of churned earth and muddy, stagnant water: hadn't he sunk a little into this oozing quagmire, hadn't he believed that it might claim him, although perhaps the mud had been too slow for that. And when the ringing inside his head stopped wasn't the sound of his own breathing indecently loud, like that of a monster? A monster he couldn't see, of course he couldn't see himself, only his hands moving about Jenkins' body, feeling for a heart beat … No, no need, only going through his pockets. Yes, he did that: he searched him for letters, for photographs, for cigarettes and matches, for something he could use or keep or throw away, he hardly knew what might be important, after all. He had an idea he would write to his mother; he also thought he might hand himself in and so evidence would be needed. He didn't think he would get away with it.

Outside the King's Head, Paul pressed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes. He felt that his legs were about to buckle and he leaned against the pub wall. He imagined turning to face the wall, rolling his forehead against the brick, whimpering for Patrick; it took all his strength not to do this. But if he did Pat would hear him and run from the house and crouch beside him as he lay curled up beside the fountain in the courtyard. Patrick would stroke his back, his hair, murmuring, ‘I'm here now. I'm here.'
Where were you?
A step away, that's all, always close by. A letter hidden in his shoe or under his mattress; he could read his letters even in the dark of his cell, like Braille. Patrick was always close by, and there waiting for him outside the prison gates like a vision, one he couldn't trust, too astonishing to be true.

He took a deep breath and stood up straight. He had survived, hadn't he? All those memories of Jenkins, all that concentrating on the details of Jenkins – he had survived this self-inflicted punishment – not much to survive after all, but still, he was here. Wasn't he strong now, even away from Patrick? He took a long drag on his cigarette. There now. Stiff upper lip, what? Not everything they had been taught was bollocks. He smiled. In fact he could laugh his head off at that one.

He tossed his cigarette down; he wouldn't light another from its stub; he was fine. He was fine. He wouldn't think of Jenkins or Patrick; he wouldn't think of Matthew and his ravings that had seemed like the true words of a prophet. He wouldn't think of crouching in that trench, not caring at all that Jenkins was crying as he pressed his pistol to his head. He wouldn't remember murdering Jenkins. He didn't have to remember it any more, not ever again. In fact he would make a great effort not to think of the past at all.

He thought of the barmaid, Ann, Edmund's girl. Hawker was right, he should apologise: apologising would be a kind of penance, perhaps the kind of penance Matthew would give: abase yourself, pay for your sins in humiliation, be free of the guilt, at least the small amount of guilt he felt for what he had done to this girl. He thought of Edmund in her bed and his jealousy was quick and painful, an epiphany; he had never been jealous in his life before; he must love Edmund if he wanted him so wholly, so entirely for himself. He must love him, despite the filthy feeling Matthew's words had left him with.

Lighting another cigarette, he inhaled deeply and went back into the pub.

Chapter Thirteen

S
HE WASN'T FAT, NOT
really, not very; she was plump, perhaps. Iris frowned at her reflection; she knew that when she took off her corset there would be red weals on her skin, flesh that resembled pastry with that orange-peel effect above her private hair. Her
pubic
hair – she shouldn't mince words, not even in her head, bad habit. She was not to be prissy. Besides, he was a doctor and had seen it all before.

Standing in front of her bedroom mirror Iris turned sideways, splaying her hands over her stomach. Perhaps she could go to George corset-less so there would be no red marks; knickerless, without stockings or garter; perhaps run across the road only in her dressing gown, like wee Willie Winkie … Barefoot? With a candle, its flame cupped by her hand, but if she saw someone she would have to blow the candle out, hide behind a tree, shivering amongst the graves, all those angels and crosses and obelisks, all the dearly departed, George's own wife amongst them;
Grace Harris, beloved wife and mother
. Grace who had pushed out Paul and fell back dead before he even cried, Grace's doctor being so busy saving the baby he barely noticed the mother. ‘He was frantic,' George said, ‘and so was I. But she just gave up. Gave up. Nothing I could do.'

She'd thought how unfeeling he was to say that Grace had given up; he had surprised her because he seemed caring. But his wife's death had been a long time ago, and he was a doctor, men she often thought to be impatient in the face of frailty. She forgave him, but didn't forgive herself for the ridiculous rush of pride she had felt at her own perseverance in childbirth.

He had told her about Grace's death years ago, before she met Paul or Robbie, before she had seen those two boys in their officer uniforms and greatcoats, impersonating men. Two brothers of the same height, same build, with the same dark, too-short hair beneath their eye-shading caps. No wonder Margot fell for them both, one after the other, quick as spit-spot. If she had been seventeen she would have fallen for them herself, although she would have guessed how dull Robbie was.

And, even at seventeen, she would have guessed that Paul was not quite right. All the same she would have fallen for him, hoping for some change, just as Margot had. She would have bought a pretty dress and some silk and lacy nonsense, a lipstick even: she would have
made
him see her; but it would all have been for nothing, a waste of time and money and tears. ‘I love him,' Margot had said, and the tears fell down her face just as they had when she was a little girl, unchecked, her nose all snotty. ‘He says he loves me! He says he does!' Perhaps he did. He loved Bobby. That was love. All that terrible, raw affection, as if he'd never loved anyone in his life.

She turned away from the mirror. Of course she would dress. She had bought new underwear – silk and lace that would be just as wasted on George: these garments would be off in no time, she knew this. It wasn't vanity to know how much he wanted her; she wanted him as much. Their courtship – she couldn't think of the last few years as anything else – had been too long, too agonised.

That morning Daniel had said, ‘I'm not sure about going to see Reverend Carter. What if he doesn't remember me – he's quite senile now...'

Too loudly she had said, ‘You can't let him down!'

‘Let him down? But if he doesn't remember me … I don't know …'

‘He'll remember you – you say yourself even the senile have moments of awareness.'

‘I do say that. You're right, of course. Of course I must go. It's only that I don't like leaving you here alone.'

‘It'll be fine. I'll be fine.'

He didn't notice the rush of smiles her relief brought, only nodded absently and turned away, searching his desk for something. She left the room before he could ask her if she had seen whatever it was he had lost, running up the stairs to look across the cemetery to George's house. He wasn't home, he was hardly ever home, but seeing Parkwood helped her to feel she might see him at any minute. Any minute he could walk up the path, up the short, shallow flight of steps with the loose slab that rocked when it was stepped on. She would watch him take his key from his pocket and unlock the door, perhaps stoop to pick up the post from the mat as he walked inside. He might turn and look towards the vicarage – he had once, she remembered, once he caught her out; he had turned and raised his hand as if to shield his eyes from the sun so that he might see more clearly. But she could have only been a shadow – the distance between their two houses that little bit too great. She could only hope that he had sensed her watching.

That afternoon she had waved Daniel off at Thorp Station. The station master had tipped his cap at her as she walked out, smiled at her as though he understood that now she was a free woman, one with a spring in her step, she could do as she wished: not go home, perhaps, but to Robinson's Department Store, browse around the dress floor before taking the lift to the top floor café, where the tables looked out over the High Street and waitresses in lacy white aprons would call her madam. She could order tea and chocolate éclairs because there was no supper to cook or spoil. Or she could go straight home and read a book in the bath, turning the hot water tap on and off with her toes until there was no more hot water to be had, no one banging on the door to ask what on earth she was doing in there so long. No one to ask anything at all; no one glowering in their study, or worse coming out of their study, wanting cocoa, wanting something, they didn't know what, couldn't pin it down, neither could she, a different life, perhaps, one that hadn't run into the buffers.

At least she knew what she wanted even if she also knew the fulfilment of that want wouldn't change anything. She would still be the vicar's wife when she left George's house, still dutiful to Daniel and the parish, still Margot's mother and Bobby's grandmother. Nothing would truly change, she would only know a little more about George. She would know if he was shy or bold without his clothes, or padded around naked quite unselfconsciously. She paused, struck by this thought; she would know another man's body, and this was astonishing to her after so many years of Daniel.

George was not like Daniel, but shorter, slimmer, more elegant and not at all untidy; his voice was lighter; he had more hair on his head and less in his nose; his eyebrows were tamed; his ears were smaller, as were his feet. He was younger than Daniel, only by a year or two, but it showed. And he had a different smell, of course; George's smell was soapy, near clinical, a smell that wasn't his own, unlike Daniel, who smelt only of himself, of nothing very much, a faint whiff of sweat perhaps, pipe tobacco sometimes. George wore rather good suits: she suspected that clothes were his one indulgence; Daniel wore his cassock, sometimes stained with soup, always faded, his dog-collar cutting him off at the neck so that she wondered how he bore it day after day. In the same way she bore her corset, she supposed. One became used to life's discomfort.

Leaving the station that afternoon, she had smiled back at the station master, happy because that was the first moment in a long list of moments that she had looked forward to: the moment Daniel was gone and she could allow herself to show her excitement. The next moment would be standing in front of her mirror, bathed, dressed, powdered, finished. The next – perhaps the best – would be the moment George saw her, the moment she saw him, his lovely face. After that she couldn't think further, couldn't really imagine following him upstairs to his bedroom and closing the door behind them. She had never been upstairs in Parkwood. She thought of Grace falling back dead on the bed. She closed her eyes and bowed her head because the guilt she felt was like a slap across the face, snatching her breath away.

She pressed her hands to her body and breathed in. She wouldn't feel guilty; she wasn't doing any harm, not even to Daniel who would never know and never suspect. She loved George, and had loved him for a very long time, and she knew him so well, almost as well as she knew Daniel. Tonight she felt she would know him better than she knew her husband.

At five to seven she let herself out of the house. She walked quickly, as she always did – no one would think anything of her hurry. But there was no one about, and even Oxhill Avenue was quiet. She closed Parkwood's gate softly, but didn't go up the wobbly steps to the front door but around to the back. The light was on in his kitchen and she put her hand to her chest in relief, smiling and smiling as she opened the door.

He didn't walk around naked at all. He wore a beautiful silk dressing gown, tied loosely with its tasselled cord, although his feet were bare and she worried he might catch a chill because Parkwood was a cold house as well as a gloomy one and only his bed was warm. He had given her another dressing gown to wear, an older, warmer garment, the one he used when he couldn't sleep and got up in the night to make tea, he said, and to stare across the road to see if there was a light on in the vicarage. He had smiled, drawing her into his arms, and she had felt the spring of the hairs on his back beneath the smooth silk; his hairiness had been a surprise, his toughness, his strength and stamina, all a surprise as though she had expected him to be somehow insubstantial; before that evening he had only ever been his face, his voice, his hands; she hadn't known him at all.

In his kitchen, wearing the silk robe, he said, ‘I've made soup, and there's that good bread from Marshall's. Is that all right? Is that enough? I wasn't sure.'

‘I wasn't expecting you to feed me … You made soup?'

‘Now you look terrified.'

‘No! I'm sure it will be delicious.'

‘Well, the boys always liked it.'

She had heard him refer to his sons in this way occasionally. But now the informality of it touched her; more than that, he had made her feel as though they were her sons, theirs. She sat down at the kitchen table, drawing his red tartan dressing gown closer around her, watching as he lit the gas beneath a pan and moved from the pantry to the stove, setting out the loaf of brown bread, butter, plates and spoons and knives in front of her. He smiled at her from time to time; once he had to walk around her to fetch a breadboard from the dresser and he placed his hand lightly on her shoulder, brushing his lips against her hair.

He placed a bowl of soup in front of her and she breathed in its steam: leek and potato. She smiled up at him and without thinking said, ‘Daniel's never cooked a thing in his whole life.'

‘He's always had you to do it for him.' He smiled and she realised it was all right that she had mentioned her husband; they had always talked about him, often alone in this kitchen, at this table.

Relieved, she said, ‘Yes, I suppose he's never even needed to learn to boil an egg.'

He sat down opposite her and cut some bread. ‘I can't stand boiled eggs. I do make a good omelette, though. That's what we'll have tomorrow night.'

‘What else do you do?'

He glanced at her from buttering bread. ‘I can't cook much else, really. I live on bacon and cheese and bread … I eat too much cake, which is very bad. During the war Paul would say he should be sending me food parcels, not the other way round. Have some bread.' He frowned, ‘Are you as hungry as I am?' He laughed. ‘You look very beautiful. You're here, and I can hardly believe it. When I was making the soup … I thought,
this is an awful lot of soup for one
.'

‘You thought I wouldn't come.'

He hesitated. ‘Yes, I thought you might not come … But you're here … Anyway, we'll eat the soup – and I have cake, I always have cake.' He reached out and squeezed her hand. ‘And then we'll go back to bed, yes?'

His eyes were so bright that she laughed. ‘Yes, we'll go back to bed.'