All the Beauty of the Sun (7 page)

‘No. Half an hour, perhaps.'

Paul took his watch from the bedside table. ‘Six o'clock.'

‘Have you an appointment to keep?'

‘No.' After a moment Paul asked, ‘Have you?'

‘No.'

‘So,' Paul drew breath and exhaled heavily. ‘So …'

He was being dismissed. The realisation came to him with a jolt, his stomach lurching as though he had tripped on stairs. He got up at once, too ashamed at his own foolish lack of sensitivity to be still. Making a great effort to be calm he said, ‘I should go.' He began to dress, remembering how idiotically he had behaved last night, cringing as he recalled how uncontrolled he must have seemed to him.

Paul reached for his cigarettes, a careless action that all at once incensed him. Shoving his arms into his shirt with such force he almost ripped the cloth, Edmund said, ‘Is there ever a moment when you don't smoke?'

Paul shook out the match, squinting against the smoke. ‘It's childish, isn't it?'

Edmund stared at him. ‘What is?'

‘Smoking like I do. I do so enjoy it, though.'

‘It makes you stink.'

‘I daresay.'

‘It's probably all you care about.'

Paul laughed. ‘Probably.'

‘Because it shows in your work, you know – your lack of care.'

‘You're right.' Flicking ash, he said, ‘Absolutely right.'

‘Why do you paint?'

‘Money.'

‘Liar.'

Paul gazed at him and Edmund allowed himself to meet his gaze brazenly, as if he didn't care that he might have hurt him. He was still standing at the end of the bed, the same place he had stood last night, the same crack in the lino sharp against his sole, the same perspective on Paul, in bed, the sheets hiding him from his waist to his feet. He would paint him like this, sex soiled, weary, his cigarette burning to a long quiver of ash between his fingers. He would have to keep putting down his brush to fuck him, but this would be serious work, he had no doubt about that.

Edmund turned his back on him and pulled on his trousers. He had hung his jacket on the hook on the door, and he remembered how nervous he had felt when he'd taken it off; he should have left then; he should have behaved decently and not given in to his lust. He swung round to face Paul.

‘You were right, last night. I do despise men like you.'

‘Do you? You make a bloody good show of disguising it.' Paul stubbed out his cigarette. Evenly he said, ‘Why don't you just fuck off?' He looked up at him. ‘Fuck off back to that girl, you spoilt little bastard. I'm sure she'll make you feel better about it all.'

‘All what? What the hell would a second-rate, jumped-up little nobody like you know about anything?'

‘I'd really like you to go now.'

‘I bet you bloody would.'

‘Keep your voice down.'

‘No – everyone should know what a fake you are.' He glared at him, breathless and knowing how shamingly red his face would be, he could feel it burning. He also knew that if he blinked, the tears would fall down his cheeks and he would be gasping, as blind, deaf, and breathless as a child in a tantrum. All at once Neville was standing in front of him, telling him what a brat he was and why didn't he just bugger off somewhere far away from him. Swiping at his eyes impatiently he said, ‘Why did you paint those bloody pictures?' Paul was silent and he repeated, ‘Why? You must have known, you must have –'

‘Known what? What was I supposed to have known?'

Edmund wiped his eyes again, making an effort to control his voice as he said, ‘We have to look. Is that what you think? We have to look at the corpses –'

‘No. You don't have to look.'

‘And if I don't look, what then? You can call me a spoilt little bastard, is that it – as though I don't know anything? Every painting in that exhibition was facile, sentimental –'

Paul got up and began to dress; his face had drained of colour and Edmund could see that his hands were trembling over the buttons of his shirt. The cuff-links he had placed down so carefully earlier, when Edmund had wanted only to tear off his clothes, glinted in a sudden shaft of sunlight as he struggled to thread them into his cuffs. Paul had transformed again, this time into a frail, humiliated boy. Remembering the scar on his thigh and how often his fingers would go to his false eye, Edmund felt all his anger breached by pity. He crossed the room quickly, making to take the cuff-links from him. ‘Let me do it.'

Paul jerked away. ‘I'd much rather you left.'

‘No – listen, I'm sorry –'

‘Please go.'

‘No. Paul, listen, please. Please, I'm sorry – that was wrong of me, to criticise your work like that, and maybe I'm jealous …' He laughed tearfully. ‘I don't know … It's just that you make me weak … Weak in the knees, heart …
head
. And now I just sound like some bloody silly song –'

‘You sound like a fool. Crying over a man you don't know – it makes me wish I hadn't picked you up.'

‘
Picked me up
?' Edmund wiped his eyes, horrified at his tears. ‘Is that all I am? Someone you picked up? You do this all the time, don't you? Well I don't –'

‘No, I know you don't.' Angrily Paul said, ‘Stop crying. For Christ's sake I can't stand it! I don't know what this is about but it's nothing to do with me.'

‘It's
everything
to do with you! You must know how much I want you.'

‘Well, you can't have me.'

‘Why not? I know you're attracted to me. And the sex –'

‘Let's not talk about that.'

‘Why?'

‘Because it's just sex – nothing. Sex is nothing at all –'

‘
Nothing
? What – am I terrible at it or something? Christ. Maybe you could teach me all you know!'

‘Just go. Go back to your girl.'

‘She's not my girl – I'm not interested in her.'

‘And I'm not interested in you! Do I really have to spell it out?'

‘Yes. Yes you do. Because I see the way you look at me – and you can pretend to be a swine but I know you're not like that, I know that you … you
like
me and I didn't mean to say those rotten things about your work –'

‘But you did say those things.'

‘And I'm sorry I hurt you.'

Paul laughed emptily. He sat down on the bed and lit another cigarette; his hands still trembled and Edmund had to suppress the urge to kneel at his feet and beg for forgiveness. He took a step towards him and Paul looked up to meet his gaze. After a little while he said, ‘I didn't think the paintings would sell. I was prepared to make all kinds of excuses for them if they hadn't sold, but mainly I thought I would imagine that they hadn't been
understood.
' He laughed again, looking down at the tip of his cigarette. ‘But of course they were understood – you understood them. Even the men who bought them knew exactly what they were buying: titillation.'

Unable to help himself, Edmund knelt on the floor and took his hand. ‘Paul, you're a fine artist –'

He drew his hand away. ‘Edmund …' Searching his face he went on, ‘I saw you at the window earlier –'

‘I thought you were asleep.'

‘You looked so unhappy I was afraid to say anything.'

‘I wasn't unhappy. I'm unhappy now, thinking how much I've hurt you.'

‘You haven't
hurt
me. Not really.'

‘Not really?'

Paul smiled crookedly. ‘I'm happy. I sold out – I can afford to buy you supper.'

‘Do you want to?'

Paul looked away as though he couldn't bear to meet his gaze any longer. He cleared his throat. ‘I don't know, if I'm honest.' He looked at him. ‘Do you want me to be honest?'

‘Yes –' Edmund attempted to laugh. ‘Put me out of my misery.'

‘I can't stand it when you say you love me. This isn't
love
, Edmund.'

‘I won't say it again.'

Paul nodded, glancing away again. He was collarless, his shirt unbuttoned; there seemed so much intimacy in this almost-dressed state, as though they had lived together for many years. Edmund had the urge to take his hand again, to press it to his lips, at the same time knowing that the better thing to do would be to pretend that they
had
lived together so long. The cuff-links were on the bedside table, he could pick them up and say,
here, it's easier if I do it – you fumble about so
. He could keep up the pretence by asking casually,
where shall we go for supper? You choose, but not that place we went to last time.
He could pretend easily; he could even imagine keeping up this coolness as though they'd had any sort of ordinary conversation and would spend the evening simply being easy with each other, forgetting any carelessness because they knew what deserved forgiveness and what could be overlooked. Edmund knew he could be this actor and there would be no overwrought, overly dramatic scenes; but in his heart he wanted to take Paul's hand and press his palm to his lips and be wild with emotion, begging him to understand that he loved him. But it seemed he could play out neither of these acts. Cautiously he said, ‘All right, shall we go out? Find somewhere to eat?'

Paul nodded. ‘All right.' There was a note of relief in his voice as he said, ‘Yes, all right.'

Chapter Eight

G
EORGE WASHED HIS HANDS
at the basin in the corner of his surgery. He dried them thoroughly, taking his time. The young woman he had just examined came out from behind the screen, her face flushed. She smoothed her skirt over her hips, picked up her handbag and sat down on the chair angled beside his desk, her feet neatly together, and her back very straight, the handbag held primly on her knee. George thought of the ways women took the news he was about to give her: they would be pleased, anxious, dismayed; some would cry, he had known others to laugh with excitement, to thank him as though he'd had anything to do with it. This girl would be quietly pleased, he thought, satisfied that she had at last lived up to expectations after some years of marriage. This girl's husband waited outside, a young man the same age as Paul. Paul had known him, had said that he was
a good chap – dull as can be, but there you are …
George frowned to himself – when had Paul said such a thing with such pompousness? During one of his leaves, he remembered, when he and Paul had bumped into this man on the street, both officers in uniform, both of them awkward as school boys, as though they felt it was bad form to be away from the front.

George sat down at his desk. He smiled at the girl. He said, ‘You're right, you are pregnant. Congratulations.'

She nodded, bowing her head to hide her smile.

There was nothing much more to say. A few minutes later and he saw her to the door, and the young man whom he remembered as a plainer, less glamorous version of Paul, sprang up from his seat in the corridor, a look of anxious expectation on his face.

She was his last patient of the evening, and he locked up the surgery and walked the short distance home. Since his return from London the horse-chestnut tree in his garden had begun to scatter its pink-eyed blossom to the ground and the daffodils Paul had planted before he first left for France had withered. ‘When the flowers are over,' Paul had said, ‘leave the leaves to die back naturally.' George had wanted to tell him that he would be back to take care of them himself, but he'd kept quiet, not wanting to tempt fate. That winter of 1916 he'd believed that the war would go on and on, already his oldest son had been at the front for eighteen months, and those months had seemed like his whole life; he'd hardly been able to credit that he'd had a life before 1914.

He walked up the path to Parkwood's front door, noticing the thickening buds on the lilac that had sown itself in the flowerbed like a weed. Paul would have rooted it out: for Paul there was a place for everything and everything should be in its place. George stopped to look more closely at the clusters of tightly closed, white blossoms that would soon block out a little of the light from his study. Each year he imagined cutting down the lilac, each year he put it off, just as he put off any work in the garden. He couldn't help thinking that the garden belonged to Paul, that it was his project, one he shouldn't interfere with.

In the kitchen, he lit the gas under the kettle and went into the pantry to hunt out something for supper. There was some ham drying out in its wrapping paper, half a loaf of bread, a little butter and jam and the hacked remains of a fruitcake. He picked up a tin of sardines, turning it over and over, deciding between the oily fish and the curling ham. He put the tin down gently, keeping still and quiet as he heard the back door open, her voice calling softly, ‘George?'

He stepped out into the kitchen, suppressing the urge to smooth back his hair to make himself appear more presentable – he knew he would only look vain, preposterously so. Instead he smiled the ordinary smile he used on his neighbours. ‘Iris. How are you?'

She glanced over her shoulder anxiously. ‘I've brought Bobby to see you.'

George felt his smile break into a grin. He stepped past Iris and lifted his grandson into his arms, kissing his cheek and breathing in his familiar smell. He sat down and settled Bobby on his knee.

He frowned at him. ‘Bobby, you look like a poorly boy to me.' Taking a handkerchief from his pocket George wiped Bobby's runny nose. He looked up at Iris. ‘Has he caught a cold?'

‘Yes. And not sleeping very well – he's exhausted, poor thing. Margot's left him with me so she can get some rest – she's exhausted too.'

George wiped another bubble of snot from Bobby's nose. ‘You should be tucked up in bed, Bobby.' To her he said, ‘You shouldn't have brought him out. Margot should have kept him at home. She should know better –'

‘We wrapped him up warm, and it's such a lovely day –'

‘He's not strong, Iris.'

She laughed slightly. ‘Yes he is! Of course he is –'

‘No. He's like his father – he nearly died of pneumonia when he was Bobby's age.'

‘He's fine, George. He has a slight cold, that's all. And Margot was at the end of her tether …'

He looked up at her again. Trying to keep the contempt from his face and voice he said, ‘At the end of her tether? She has one small child to look after, that's all, and you told me that new husband of hers has employed a housekeeper –'

‘Margot's pregnant.'

The shock must have shown on his face because she said quickly, ‘Sorry, I didn't mean to tell you so bluntly. But I won't have you criticising her. It's not fair, and you know it isn't.'

Bobby gazed at him anxiously. George bowed his head, kissing him. ‘It's all right, Bobby, everything's all right. Will you let granddad take a look at you?' He set Bobby down, went to his bag and took out his stethoscope. ‘Let's listen to your chest.'

‘George – there's no need. He has a cold, that's all …' Awkwardly she said, ‘Besides, Margot's doctor has examined him. There's nothing to worry about. Truly.'

George couldn't help himself. ‘Walsh has seen him? You know that man's a drunk, don't you?'

‘He's not –'

‘You think I don't know what kind of a man he is? An excuse for a doctor. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to examine my grandson myself.'

George unbuttoned Bobby's shirt; he remembered how close he was to this child when Paul and Margot lived with him, when he'd take Bobby upstairs to bed so that his son and daughter-in-law could be on their own for a little while. Undressing Bobby, dressing him again in his nightclothes, tucking him into his cot, he would hear Margot and Paul's voices from downstairs, her sudden laughter at something Paul said; a quiet broken by the sounds of a meal being prepared; Paul's quick tread on the stairs as he came to kiss his son goodnight. They had been happy then, it wasn't just his memory casting a rosy glow over the past. And he had been so close to Bobby; he remembered how sturdy he had been, the firm, baby chubbiness of him. As he put the stethoscope to his chest, having first warmed it between his hands, it was even more obvious that Bobby had long since passed that babyish stage; he was becoming a gangly little boy; George had missed his transformation.

Bobby's heart beat normally; his lungs were clear. George took the stethoscope from his ears and coiled it back into his bag. Too briskly, he said, ‘There's some medicine I can give you if he develops a temperature.'

‘It's all in hand, George, really.'

The kettle was whistling and he went to the stove and turned off the gas. ‘I was about to make some tea. Would you like a cup of tea, do you have time?'

‘Of course I have time.' After a moment she said, ‘I didn't mean to blurt out the news about Margot like that. I'm sorry.'

‘No reason to be sorry. Besides, it's not really a surprise – she's been married a little while now.'

‘You looked shocked.'

‘Did I?'

‘Yes, and I'm sorry – I should have told you more carefully.'

He spooned tea from the caddy into the pot, forgetting to warm it first, wanting to pick up the pot and throw it against the wall. What would she make of him then? That he was no better than that evil-tempered fool she was married to, and so he bit down hard on his anger and made the tea, going to fetch milk from the cold shelf in the pantry. ‘Do you take sugar?'

She sighed. ‘No, George, you know I don't.'

He poured weak tea into a beaker for Bobby, adding a little sugar. Handing it to him he said, ‘There's a good boy. And do you know, I'm sorry I have no biscuits, but I could make you some bread and jam, how's that?'

‘Let's not spoil his supper, George.'

He glanced at her. ‘There's some fruitcake. Would you like some? Shop bought, I'm afraid.'

‘No, thank you.' Quickly she said, ‘Please don't be upset …' She bowed her head and George saw that she was crying.

‘Iris … don't. I'm sorry.'

‘You have nothing to be sorry about.' Impatiently she said, ‘Oh look at me, behaving like this. I never cry.'

It was true he had never seen her cry; he had imagined she was the kind of woman who never would, or only in private. This not crying was one of the things he admired about her.

‘Something's happened?'

‘No.' She wiped her eyes. ‘No, not really. Margot's not very well – morning sickness, you know …'

‘That's all?'

She gazed at him as if trying to decide if she should go on. At last she said, ‘She's very unhappy with that so-and-so she married.' Bitterly she said, ‘I never liked him. Daniel thinks he's marvellous, of course, all but pushed Margot into his arms … And poor Margot thought no one would ever look at her after what happened.' She looked away. ‘Sorry, but it's true. After what Paul did she thought her life was over.'

George went to a box of toys he had brought down from the attic weeks ago; he took out tin soldiers piled in a wooden truck and gave them to Bobby. As Bobby began to take the soldiers out of the truck George said, ‘I'm sorry Margot's unhappy. Sometimes, at the beginning of pregnancy –'

Iris was scornful. ‘Don't tell me what it's like to be pregnant. It's not the baby making her cry.'

‘She didn't have to marry him –'

‘No, she didn't, not like she had to marry your son! My only wish is that she'd never ever set eyes on either of your boys.'

‘Then we wouldn't have Bobby.'

‘But she's my daughter, George. And I know that Paul only wanted to do what he thought was for the best when his brother was killed … We should have stopped him, we should have sent Margot away as soon as we found out she was pregnant.'

On the eve of Paul's wedding George had told him, ‘I know the baby isn't yours. I know it's Robbie's and that you feel you have to do this for his sake. You don't.'

And Paul, only weeks out of the asylum, had shaken his head, not saying anything at all, because he hardly spoke in those days, but also because he wouldn't admit that the child wasn't his. However unconvincing the lie he and Margot told, he had always stuck to the lie: his dead brother's child was his. He would marry the girl his brother had courted and seduced and there would be no argument. George couldn't help but admire his loyalty. He couldn't help but be grateful that Robbie's child wouldn't be lost to him.

George sat down opposite Iris; he had the urge to take her hands but only said, ‘I'm sure Margot will be fine. She's a sensible girl –'

‘Sensible! You know she isn't sensible! Any sensible girl wouldn't have married Paul.' She looked down at her hands. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean that … You know I liked Paul.' Managing to smile at him, she said, ‘I haven't asked you how he is. How was your trip – you saw him? How did you get on?'

‘Well.' He thought of Paul in his beautiful clothes, a grown, sophisticated man, so changed from the boy Iris had known.

Iris glanced towards Bobby. ‘Might he visit you here?'

‘No.' He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice as he said, ‘Don't worry, there won't be any scenes.'

‘Well, that's good. Good. It's for the best.'

‘Quite.'

She sipped her tea. Bobby went to her and she lifted him onto her knee, taking the toy soldier he offered her and stroking his hair as he rested his head against her breast. He thought that Bobby could be her child, she looked young enough to be his mother, and he wanted to say so, but felt that she would think he was trying to flatter her. She looked up and caught his eye. ‘Is Paul happy?'

‘I think so.' Remembering the lunch they'd shared, he added, ‘He's changed. Well, of course he has. Prison would change anyone.'

‘Was he with …?'

‘No. He stayed in Tangiers.'

Iris nodded, turning the toy soldier over and over in her hand before standing it up on the table. The little model was of a Dragoon Guard, the paint chipped from the tiny face almost as if the expression had been deliberately destroyed. There were many of these soldiers, all chipped or somehow damaged; they had belonged to his father, and he had played with them himself but only in the most desultory way. Robbie and Paul had played with them all the time; he remembered the elaborate games his sons invented, their armies opposed across the sitting room rug. He had always known that Robbie would join the army; it was all he ever wanted to do. Paul, to his surprise, was almost as keen, even before the war began.

‘George?'

He looked up at her from the soldier on the table; it was as though all she had wanted to do was gain his attention because she only smiled a little, picking up the toy again and handing it to Bobby. After a while she said, ‘When I see soldiers like these I'm always reminded of that fairy tale – do you know it? I used to read it to Margot –
The Little Tin Soldier
.'

‘Yes, I remember it: the soldier burnt in the fire until only his heart was left.'

‘Yes. Sorry, that's terribly sad.' More briskly she said, ‘Enough of sadness. Quite enough.'