Armistice (18 page)

Jonathan drained his cognac and confirmed the flask was
empty by holding it upside down. Philomena could see that the large quantities of spirit taken in such a short time were acting as a sedative. He reached in a pocket and withdrew another flask that he proceeded to open.

“Don't,” she said. “You're killing yourself this way, instead,” she admonished. “Lie down.”

“Hmm?” mumbled Jonathan, his eyelids becoming heavy.

“You're almost out. Lie down on the bed.”

“I gotta go,” mumbled Jonathan, stumbling.

“Lie down,” she repeated, laying hands on him.

Jonathan had no strength and no balance. He couldn't resist being steered to the bed. It was a very awkward maneuver. Both parties were anxious to avoid over-familiarity. Jonathan lowered himself down to sitting on the bed and proceeded to lie down. He tried to keep his feet on the floor, which meant he was twisted, his back on the bed, his thighs and calves to the side. Philomena, in a businesslike fashion, slipped his shoes off, lifted his legs onto the bed so he could lie straight.

“Might you be sick?” she asked.

“I hope not,” said Jonathan, attempting a feeble smile. “I need all the alcohol to enter my bloodstream.”

She helped him wriggle off his coat. Almost out, he tried to speak: “Promise me …”

“Promise you what?”

“You must never …”

She bent closer and believed that he said, “not all his fault” but she couldn't be sure.

She stood looking down on him for a good while until sure he was asleep. She went to the chair and pulled it up to the window. It was a still night. Her hands moved slowly in the air, circling.

A bit later she tried to sleep in the chair.

A bit later she lay on the bed alongside Jonathan, making sure they couldn't touch by placing a pillow between them.

Later, still unable to sleep, she was propped up on one elbow. In repose Jonathan's hair had fallen off his forehead, revealing a scar. She traced the straight line of it in the air, just above it, thinking that it might be from the wound he received when he met Dan. After a while she fell asleep.

Jonathan woke, bleary-eyed, mouth familiarly furry. Warm breath was kissing his ear. Shocked, he sat up and looked down on the slumbering form nearly next to him. A pillow separated Philomena's body from his.

He carefully extricated himself, easing himself down the bed between her and the wall and off the end. He took up his coat and hat and slipped on his shoes without bothering to do up the laces. He looked down on her. Her stomach gently rose and fell. When he went in closer to her face, he could discern a tiny feather that had escaped the counterpane. It vibrated as she inhaled and exhaled. The privilege he felt being able to see her asleep filled him with tenderness.

“Sleeping beauty,” he breathed.

* * *

When Philomena awoke she was alone. The photo of her was still lying there, next to Dan's and the sheaf of papers. Jonathan hadn't taken it back.

She rose and removed Felicity's clothes, put on her dressing gown, went down the hall for a wash and came back to her room and dressed as herself. Downstairs at hotel reception she booked another night in the same room.

She went to a cafe and ate breakfast, relieved to not be the only female so doing. She tried to think clearly about what she most wanted and how she might achieve it. Outside in the street a coalman's wagon threatened to shed its load because the horses had taken fright. A motor car was trying to reverse out of the range of the animals' flailing hooves. Philomena thought of Jonathan: infuriating, a drunk, and damaged; but also intelligent, attractive and humane. She thought of Dan. There was a glass of water by her on the cafe table. She drained it and put it upside down on the table, her index finger upon it. She asked Dan if he'd been murdered by Anthony Dore. If the answer was yes she asked Dan to move the glass. To make the glass move … It didn't. Was the wet on the glass a hindrance? She tried with a dry glass … Still nothing. She shook her head, looked around, thinking that if anyone had witnessed that display they'd be entitled to think her deranged.

When Anthony entered Felicity's hotel and approached reception he had a box of chocolates tight under his arm. He smiled at the porter—not the one he'd seen the previous night—and asked for Felicity by forename. “Surname?” the porter asked. Anthony didn't know. The day porter frowned and said that as far as he knew there wasn't a woman by that forename in the hotel; he didn't generally know guests by their forenames. Anthony asked if it was possible there was a young female guest with green eyes. The day porter's eyes narrowed. He was clearly suspicious. Perhaps this woman was in room four oh seven, ventured Anthony, closely watching the day porter's expression for any sign that he was right. Did sir believe that a woman named Felicity, in possession of green eyes, stayed in room four oh seven? asked the day porter. Anthony had to reiterate that he didn't know. So let me get this straight, said the day porter. There's a woman. She's named Felicity—is sir sure of that? Yes. Felicity has green eyes? Yes. Sir's not sure she stays here, but thinks she might be in four oh seven. Why did sir think such a woman might be in that particular room?

What could Anthony reply to that? I followed her but lost her then eavesdropped on a man and woman entering that room? Better to say nothing. The day porter tapped a fingernail on the desk, took up a pen. What was sir's name, first name and surname? Anthony felt his confidence drain away. There was no question of giving his real name. It was all he could do to look the impertinent fellow in the eye. Upping his accent a couple of notches Anthony gave the porter a false name, and himself a title. The day porter's eyes narrowed further and he wrinkled his nose, sniffed, as if fraud was an odor. It was clear that he wasn't going to give this obvious conman anything. Would sir care to leave a note and the chocolates in case the day porter discovered a guest was named Felicity and she had green eyes, and if so, she was the Felicity with green eyes to whom sir referred? Anthony Dore stared at the impudent cur for a few moments without seeing any sign that he might crumble. He left without a word. The day porter shook his head.

Philomena stood, smiling, on the raised triangle of pavement in the center of Piccadilly Circus, enjoying the sunshine on her face. She closed her eyes and it felt warmer. In her ears the roar of circulating motor traffic, the clip-clop of horses, the grinding of cart wheels on the road, the verbal buzz made by crowds of strangers. Feeling the wind rise, she opened her eyes. Angry-looking clouds, off-white and slate, sped in from the north and crossed the blue-gray sky. When they passed in front of the sun the temperature immediately dropped. She
shivered. Three young soldiers seated on the top deck of an omnibus doffed their caps to her. She blushed and turned away, and felt guilty that she'd been caught standing still, dreaming. With purpose in her step, she set off.

The American woman's art gallery was in a part of London that looked similar to parts of Manchester but felt quite different. The capital had a sense of vast spread, of mass, but no topography, hills that Philomena could either see or sense, no natural features or boundaries bar the river. In London, she had no sense of how long she would have to walk to get out of it. By the open door of the art gallery hung a hand-painted sign proclaiming “Participation Event” in large letters. She lined herself up so she could see inside. A handful of people looked on as others wrestled with something at floor level. She drew closer until she could make out that they were fashioning a sort of relief out of brown clay. She didn't see the gallery owner until she heard the American voice inviting her in. “Come and have a look,” the woman called, completely unselfconsciously. A few members of the audience looked up toward her and smiled. They were dressed arty, the men in soft suits, the women in Romany colors. Philomena timidly entered.

There were three people wrestling with the clay: one middle-aged woman and two young men. They were on the clay and in it. Molding it, tearing it, shaping it. It was a kind of landscape. Philomena could see that the woman was guiding the young men, but they were instigating what emerged. She took that it was a depiction of a battlefield, with trenches and
chewed up ground, and lumps, little lumps everywhere on its surface. As she bent closer she was startled to realize that each was recognizably a figure of a man. She looked to the American woman.

“It's great, isn't it!” she enthused.

One of the young men began to drive his heel into the clay, grinding something down. The mood darkened. The other soldier joined in with him and the energy levels leapt. They couldn't grind or stamp hard enough. All the spectators took a few steps backward. One of the soldiers hurt himself he was stamping so violently—he clutched his leg. The other went to him and put his arm on his shoulder and they stood there, chests heaving, like beasts that had been running.

After she left the gallery Philomena headed for Jonathan's chambers. She wanted to tell him about the clay landscape. From Jones she discovered that he was in court. When she seated herself in the public gallery a man was in the dock, mid-speech. Jonathan was in his seat, and the other barrister, the prosecution, was on his feet, nodding as the man in the dock went on: “So then I went round. I admit I went round there but that's where their story and mine diverge because their story is a story whereas my story is the truth.”

Jonathan looked up toward Philomena. He had a brightness in his eyes. He looked at the man in the dock and back to Philomena. He gestured with his hands, mouthed something. She cupped her hand to her ear and gestured, “What?” Jonathan made a weighing gesture with his hands and she
guessed that he was asking her if the man was being truthful. She watched the man properly for a bit longer.

“They say that when I went round or from their point of view came round I was in a rage; they said in fact that they expected me to be in a rage, which indicated that they thought I had some justification to be in a rage—”

Jonathan looked up and she gave the thumbs down as her verdict on the veracity of that individual.

A powerful voice boomed out: “Is this going anywhere?”

She looked toward the owner of the voice, the judge. The smile fell from her face and she half rose from her seat. She recognized him, from two previous sightings; in court, presiding over Jonathan's previous case, and he was the older man she had seen leaving Anthony Dore's address. Jonathan raised his palms toward her and patted the air, a “stay calm” gesture, and he was mouthing, “Wait for me.”

In the area where public and professionals mingle Jonathan sat down beside Philomena and confirmed that the judge was indeed connected to Anthony Dore. He was his father. And previously, he had been Jonathan's mentor.

“What?!” was all she could say.

Jonathan ran his hand through his hair and bent forward to lean on his knees as if he had belly cramps. He started saying something else that only came to her as a mumble. She had to incline toward him in order to hear: “I was in judge Dore's chambers before the war. When I met Anthony Dore that day in the trench I guessed he must be my mentor's son.”

Her mind was racing to assimilate the ramifications of all this new information.

“If I'd revealed at the time that I knew his father, it might not have happened. There were several times when I almost managed to get it out, but the moments passed. Anthony Dore is nothing like his father—that's why I didn't say anything to you. Why bring the father into it? It didn't seem important—if Anthony Dore killed Dan, his father had nothing to do with it.”

“Does he know about your allegation?”

“I don't know,” said Jonathan. “If he does he's never let on.” He shrugged and spread his hands. “What difference does it make? Judge for a father or no judge for a father, there isn't any proof against Anthony Dore.”

Irritated that Jonathan had not only withheld relevant information but was also telling her how to interpret it, Philomena snapped, “What were you trying to say last night when you fell into your self-pitying drunken stupor?”

Jonathan looked sharply at her. “I was too drunk to remember.”

“Something about me promising to never something. Not his fault or something.”

“Did I say that?”

“That's what it could have been.”

“I've no idea what I was saying. When I'm drunk, there are doors in my mind that aren't open when I'm sober.”

They turned away from each other.

“What else haven't you told me?” she snarled sideways.

Even though nobody had called for him, Jonathan stood and said that he had to get back. There followed a wretched moment when either he or Philomena might have reached out, but neither did. Jonathan walked away. Philomena felt like weeping, or smashing something.

Jonathan entered the private areas of the courts and sank down onto the first available bench. He leaned forward again, his head in his hands. He hadn't any dope on him. He couldn't have a drink. He was miserable. Someone halted by him.

“Everything all right?” asked Judge Dore.

Jonathan sat up and rose to his feet.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

The judge searched Jonathan's face, unconvinced.

“We're due in. I should sort yourself out.”

Jonathan nodded and the judge smiled and moved on. But something occurred to him and he came back.

“Is it a problem at your new chambers?”

“No, sir,” replied Jonathan.

“Shame, we might have tempted you back.” A mischievous twinkle came into the judge's eye. “In that case, in my experience, there are only two things in life that can induce that sort of abject misery in a man: women and money.”