All the Beauty of the Sun (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-six

G
EORGE WENT TO
P
AUL'S
room and knocked gently on the door. Room 212, the receptionist had said, that mannered, painstakingly polite man who nevertheless had raised his eyebrows so expressively when he'd told him that
Francis Law
was Paul's alias
.
At that moment George had understood why Paul had chosen this hotel; even walking through its anonymous-looking door into its dim, neat lobby was like walking into an exclusive club; for Paul it must have felt like an oasis; the calm of acceptance, of no questions asked, must have been an enormous relief. He had felt the same kind of relief himself.

George knocked again, a little more urgently this time, although he knew instinctively that Paul wasn't in his room, that he wouldn't have been able to settle after he brought Bobby back. He had looked as though he would run right out of the hotel and keep running, such was the energy that seemed to charge through him. Only Bobby's presence helped a little to keep that energy in check. Paul had knelt down in front of his son so that their faces were level. Taking both his hands, he said, ‘I have to go now, Bob. Perhaps tomorrow –' He had looked up at him, ‘You'll be here tomorrow?'

George had stepped towards him. He had an idea that he would catch hold of him when he got to his feet again; he would hold him and make him be still, keep on holding him until he was calm and still, as he used to hold him when he was a child and had woken from bad dreams. But Iris had stepped forward; she had said, ‘We'll be here.'

Paul had turned to her. He had clambered to his feet with none of his usual grace, as though some inept puppeteer was controlling him; his face was ugly with hatred as he said, ‘Do I look like a dead man to you?'

‘Paul, please –' George had taken another step towards him, but couldn't bring himself even to touch his arm. This man was too unlike his son, too much like a man he would make an effort to avoid.

Without looking at him, only stretching out his hand as if to stop him coming any closer, Paul said, ‘I'll come back. I'll come back to Thorp and take him when you least expect it and you'll never see him again. Do you understand? I will take him. I
will
do this. Tell Margot, tell your husband. Don't think any of you will have any peace from now on.'

Iris had put her hand to her throat, her face so pale that George went to her; but he couldn't touch her, either. He only stood uselessly, emasculated by the hate-filled power of this man.

When Paul had gone, George had slumped onto the bed, unable to look at Iris, who had gone to Bobby, who was taking off his coat, speaking to him too quickly, with too much bright reassurance.

George stepped back from the door to Paul's room. About to turn away, to go back upstairs to Iris and Bobby, he reached for the handle. The door was unlocked, and he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

‘Paul?' He went to the bathroom, cautiously pushing the door that stood ajar. On the threshold of these two rooms, he turned to face Paul's bed.

The bed was made, neat and tidy like the room itself. Nervously, George went to the wardrobe and opened its doors; there were Paul's shirts, the suit he had worn when they'd had lunch together, his silk ties coiled carefully on the wardrobe's shelf, beautiful ties in jewel colours. There was a leather box and he opened it: cuff links, tie pins, a gold signet ring. He picked up the ring and saw the two Ps engraved, entwined. George gazed at it, turning it around and around; he slipped it on his own finger, the third finger of his left hand; it fitted, slipping easily over his knuckle. He wondered why Paul didn't wear it, why he left it in a box. He thought of Patrick, who had told him how much he loved his son, of Paul saying,
I can't live without him, Dad,
as though this was not just a romantic figure of speech but the literal truth: he would die without the man who had met him at the prison gates, who had taken him in a taxi to Durham Station, who had turned to him as he followed Paul on to the train and said, ‘I'll take care of him. I promise, Dr Harris, I'll take care of him.'

George took off the ring, replacing it in the box, putting the box back on the shelf and closing the wardrobe door softly. The air inside the wardrobe had smelled of Paul – no, of
Francis Law
– Paul had only ever smelled of soap, carbolic or sometimes
Pears
or
Lifebuoy
, whatever soap he'd bought for the bathroom at Parkwood, neither of them caring. But Francis Law, he was quite a man about town, urbane, wearing his experience lightly. And such experience! Such knowledge of the world: a man who had lived in countries George had never even dreamt of visiting, had barely known existed; a man who knew exactly how to dress, how to carry himself, how to behave in whatever hotel he found himself in – how to find the appropriate hotel in the first place. Francis Law, the artist who could sell out an exhibition of his work to other men who behaved with the same urbane air as him, men who were the opposite of George himself. Although he had lived and worked in London he'd only ever wanted to go home to Thorp, to Grace, the girl along the road, whose parents knew his parents, who was so shy and sweet that even his father was careful of her.

His father. Even on his death bed that man had been laughing at him; his father, a man with
experience
, who could have become Francis Law just as easily as Paul could – more easily perhaps, not having Paul's more unique experiences to bring him down to earth.

George sat down on the bed and stared out of the window. Paul would come back to this room, he had to, there was the ring in the box, and he wouldn't leave such a thing behind, not when he had deliberately brought it with him. Paul would come back, to this hotel where eyebrows were only raised ironically, and he would be here, waiting for him, alone, because Iris would not stay now, would not keep Bobby here close by a man who could transform into the very devil, a vengeful, pitiless sprite, cursing those who had crossed him, who had killed him if only in their heads and hearts.

He went to the window and looked down on to the empty, shadowed street. Paul would come back, or Francis; he didn't much care which, he knew both, he was caught between them, could reach out to either of them.

Iris stepped inside Paul's room; she was shaking, a pulse throbbing in her head, a fearful, metallic tingling on her tongue; she had never been as scared as this. But there was only George there, sitting on the bed, his back to her, staring out of the window at the prison-like building across the road.

Cautiously, she said, ‘Did you speak to him?'

He stood up, seemed to make an effort to stand up straight, to make a show of not minding that she was still here in this hotel. ‘No, Iris. He wasn't here. I hardly expected him to be here.'

‘Where might he have gone?'

‘I don't know. I've really no idea.'

She turned to go. ‘I've left Bobby alone. I should go to him in case Paul comes back.'

‘Iris –' He exhaled sharply. ‘I'm sorry. What Paul said – you know he wouldn't have meant it – he's just so angry … He loves Bobby.'

‘Yes, George, I know he loves him. And now I know just how much he hates us too.'

He stepped towards her. ‘Iris … I have never been rash, never in my life, until these last few days. I don't know what I'm doing, what to say –'

He was disclaiming their relationship. She felt as though he had slapped her across the face. Yet she heard herself say stiffly, ‘It's all right, George. We've both been rash. Now, I must get back to my grandson.'

‘He isn't at any risk, Iris,
wasn't
at any risk. He was with
Paul
– he wouldn't hurt him.'

‘No. But he might have taken him. Might still, I think.'

As she turned to go he said, ‘I'll stay in this room tonight. If Paul comes back then I'll ask if they have another room.'

She nodded. ‘I think that's for the best.'

For the best not to make love to him again, ever again; for the best to be alone as Daniel's wife for the rest of her life, no more intimacy that wasn't the intimacy of her marriage.

Half way up the stairs to her room on the next floor, Iris stopped. She thought of her bed at home in the vicarage, how in the darkness Daniel's hand would go to her breast and how she would turn to him so that they were face to face in the darkness, her nose brushing his as he stroked back her hair. There would be such an intense look in his eyes, so serious, as though desire couldn't be taken lightly, as though it was too deep inside him even for words. At most he would murmur her name, a whispered word lost in a kiss, his hand moving down her body, slowly and patiently so it seemed that he thought she would stop him, never expecting her to want him as much as he wanted her. Afterwards he would roll away and reach across the bed for her hand, squeezing her fingers lightly,
goodnight
, he would say. No darling words, there was never any need for words; in a moment he would be asleep, his hand becoming limp in hers, and she would move away from the heat of his body, sleepy too but thinking of the next day, its busyness whirling away before her. Daniel would begin to snore; she would touch his back lightly and he would stop and the bed would creak beneath his weight as he turned over,
goodnight
repeated as though he was dreaming it, his voice thick with sleep.

On the hotel stairs, she gripped the banister rail. She closed her eyes and saw Daniel's face, and it was as though her infidelity had torn a hole inside her, damaging her beyond repair. She gripped the banister and bowed to the pain of it, gasping with shame so that she didn't hear him, only felt George's arm around her waist, helping her upstairs.

Chapter Twenty-seven

P
AUL FELT HIMSELF BEING
shaken awake: they had come for him: he would be taken to the showers where the blood could be washed away more easily, Prison Officer Barker's hand clamped against his mouth, frog-marching him along, quick with anticipation – perhaps Barker loved him, wanted him urgently, because he could hear a voice close to him saying, ‘Quiet, quiet,' a loving voice, full of alarm. The voice became calmer, softer, ‘Quiet now. Everything's all right. Hush … hush, that's it, that's it.' There was a hand on his chest, another on his face; they had come for him: he fought back.

‘Paul! Stop now, stop … It's all right. It's me, Edmund …'

Edmund. He stared at him, disorientated; Edmund. He closed his eyes and fell back onto the pillows that were too warm, too creased and sweaty from his dreams. He covered his face with his hands. Edmund; he had witnessed this, too, then: the shouting out, the fighting with apparitions, the bloody idiotic drama of it all. Edmund, who was too young, much too young, his only fault was that he was too young, born too late, lucky boy. Too young to be kneeling over him now, frightened and appalled by his histrionics; too young; what had he been thinking of? Himself, of course.

‘Paul?'

He lowered his hands; covering your face was nothing, if not drama. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Why?' Edmund laughed a little, making Paul ache for him. ‘It's not something you can help, is it?'

Paul made to get up but Edmund pushed him down again. ‘Give yourself a moment.'

Edmund's hand was on his chest and Paul lifted it away. Despite himself, he held on to his wrist, not wanting to relinquish him yet; he could feel his pulse, strong and steady, perhaps a little too fast. He had held other men's wrists like this, counting as a life pulsed away despite his frantic reassurances, his hasty tourniquets. Could he not have been calmer and less scared; not a speeded-up, charged-up version of an officer, but considered, careful, calm? And then he could have saved them. He could have, he could have.

‘Paul?'

‘I have to go.'

‘Then I'll go with you, see you safely back.'

He was still holding Edmund's wrist, his fingers only just meeting around it, his flesh firm beneath his touch, his veins blue: blue blood and no calluses, and if he turned his hand over to see his palm he knew there would be a long, long life line.
In fifty years' time
. How could he live without such optimism, without the warmth that drew him out of the past and into the present? He should live in the present, day by day, and the past could be done away with because Edmund had no part in it; he was only part of the present, and the future perhaps, those fifty years. How could he live a day without him?

‘I should go, Edmund.'

‘You keep saying that.' Edmund lifted his wrist as if to show him that his fingers were still gripped tight around it. ‘You say it.'

What should he say now; that he should go because he was bad for him, because he was weak and had cried? That he had a child he missed and missing him was a pain that never went away? And why would Edmund want to be with someone like him, whose pain made him angry every day? Why would Edmund want to be with a man who couldn't be optimistic, or even know if he truly wanted those fifty years? And he couldn't tell him about his past, all the mess of it, he could only look at Edmund's face, the extraordinary warmth of his smile; only look at him and know that he would be himself with this man, the self he had thought he would be before the
past.

‘Edmund.'

‘Say my name like that again. Always say it like that.'

Paul closed his eyes. ‘Edmund …'

Edmund kissed him and he could feel the warmth in his kiss, hear it in his voice as he murmured, ‘Stay with me. Stay, stay.'

Patrick stood at the hotel's desk and the receptionist nodded towards his bag. ‘Do you need any help with your bags, sir, or is that all the luggage you have?'

‘This is all I have, thank you.'

‘Room 214, then, next to Mr Law's room. I hope you'll be comfortable.'

‘Is Mr Law in, do you know?'

‘I believe he may be.' The man glanced over his shoulder at the compartments for the room keys. ‘His key's not here, so he might well be in his room. Here we are, sir, your key, room 214.'

Patrick took the key and found he couldn't move; he had made a mistake in coming here. Paul would only be astonished, angry. He could imagine how angry he would be, so light on his feet with anger, buoyed by it, unable to be still for it. Always so graceful and quick he would suddenly be beyond grace and quickness, soaring with a kind of mania, running at him, pushing at him, shouting ‘Tell me why you're here? Here, with your bloody jealousy and possessiveness! Here, because you don't trust me! And you can't tell me you don't trust me and say you love me in the next breath.'

He could hear this rant, feel Paul's hand pushing at his chest, at his shoulder, but he would stand firm as Paul pushed against him, and eventually he would calm down and he would say, ‘Will you let me speak now?'

‘Mr Morgan?'

Patrick looked at the receptionist. ‘Sorry. Long journey.'

‘I quite understand, sir. Second floor, to your left.'

Patrick paused outside Paul's room; he thought that perhaps he should wash away the long journey before seeing him, before he became the wall Paul had to bounce off. Bastard, he thought, angry little bastard who wouldn't let up, wind down, stop. He raised his fist to knock and stopped himself. He would wash first, shave – he wouldn't be the unkempt man Paul liked him to be when he was angry; he would look and smell respectable, calm, less likely to push back. He would give himself time.

In his room Patrick looked around: a double bed, a wardrobe, a chair, little else. Paul would be comfortable in such a stark place; he had always preferred the unadorned; at home they lived so simply he found he hardly had to work at all because there was so little to spend money on; even Paul's tailor came inexpensively at home. Good clothes were Paul's only luxury and cigarettes his only necessity; he hardly ate, preferring to spend the time working; he would live on fresh air – no, on smoke. Patrick felt the familiar feeling of defeat creep over him so that he couldn't resist lying down on the bed; he would close his eyes for five minutes.

But sleep wouldn't come. He got up and paced the spartan room; knowing that Paul was only a step away was torture. He went back to stand outside Paul's door, raised his fist and knocked this time, called his name, softly, then more loudly, knocking again, not caring about the noise he made, about how angry Paul might be. Perhaps he might not be angry, but pleased – why shouldn't he be pleased? Overjoyed, he might say,
Let's pack up and go home now, at once.
He knocked and knocked but there was no answer.

Patrick went back to his room and ran a bath. He thought about unpacking, but only left his small suitcase open on the bed. He wouldn't be staying long, whatever happened.

He bathed, wrapped a towel around his waist and shaved, brushed his teeth and combed back his hair, kept very short because otherwise its curliness made him feel and look like someone he wasn't. Even so, his hair wasn't as short as Paul's was. ‘Grow your hair a little,' he'd say, wanting to add, ‘you're not in prison now, why look as if you are?'

But he didn't look like that prisoner, not really. Patrick remembered how Paul had looked the day of his release, as broken as he imagined a Catholic martyr would look after a few months with Protestant torturers. He hadn't believed it possible that a man could look so broken and still be able to walk, although he couldn't walk far. He limped and couldn't lift his gaze from the ground, as though terrified to meet anyone's eye.

Patrick remembered how he had raced across the road as they closed the prison gate behind Paul, how Paul had backed away from him, from an embrace which must have seemed to him overwhelming, frightening: just a great big man running at him. With hindsight, Patrick wondered what he'd been thinking of to do such a thing, but he knew he had only needed to hold him, that he didn't know then that Paul had changed beyond any imagining.

For weeks Paul wouldn't allow himself to be embraced; Patrick had had to keep all his relief, all his need inside and not let it spill out all over him because Paul couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear to be touched, talked to, even looked at. Couldn't bear it if he left his side, couldn't bear being by his side; Paul was scared of noise, of crowded places and groups of men, of lone men who looked at him wrongly, who looked at all. He would find Paul trying to make himself invisible, standing very close to a wall, his hands scrabbling at the mortar, his forehead rolling against the bricks; he would keen.

He had never heard such a noise before: keening, like a trapped, wounded animal; Paul would make this noise and within it Patrick would hear the fractured syllables of his name. He would take his hand, gently, gently, and lead him away to somewhere quiet, if he could find such a place on all the noisy stations, all the busy ports, the trains and ferries, the foreign, confusing streets. He would hold his hand as though he was a little child and not care if anyone saw them. Two men holding hands, one so slight, so damaged – everything damaged so there were times when Patrick could hardly bear to be near him. He was ashamed that Paul's keening made him want to block his ears, ashamed that he longed to pull his hand away, run away, far away from so much pain. He thought he might go mad alone with Paul, that he might kill him and then kill himself because there seemed no other escape. He thought how Paul would finally be at peace.

In front of the hotel bathroom mirror, Patrick stared at his reflection. He was thirty, in his prime, he supposed, and fit – he had always been fit; fit for slaughtering pigs and butchering their heavy carcasses; fit for running towards the enemy lines, bayonet fixed. He'd been worked hard since he was fifteen, since his father took him out of the grammar school and put a meat axe in his hand. He was tall and strong with all that hard work and there were men at home in Tangiers who had loved him much more than he had loved them, who loved him still –
wanted him
still, men who asked why he was so faithful to Paul. He could have anyone,
anyone
, they told him, yet he stayed with Paul, who wasn't good enough for him, they said, who was, they said, a selfish little drama queen. I know, he'd say. I know. No accounting for taste.

Those men would be surprised to know that sometimes he couldn't stand the sight of Paul and he would have to get out of their house and walk and walk until he was too exhausted to be angry with him. Sometimes there wasn't even anger, only boredom and impatience. But not often; most often Paul was just Paul, a fragile version of the shockingly beautiful, recklessly brave man he had fallen for so desperately in 1918.

Lately he had even begun to see in Paul that calmer, sweeter man he had become after the war, during those few months of his marriage when every Wednesday and Saturday evening they would be together. During those evenings he fell in love with him properly, confirming to himself what he had known all along: this wasn't just lust – he really did love this man, his voice, his manner, the gentle grace of him. More than that, he loved Paul for the way he made him feel about himself: whole; right. Until then he had only felt that he was wrong and had never believed that there would be a man like Paul who would love him and be loved in return.

Decisive now, Patrick dressed; he put on his coat because outside a wind had started up, throwing rain at the hotel's rattling windows. He took his key and closed the room's door behind him, going swiftly down the stairs and out on to the street to search for him.