Armistice (6 page)

“Sorry I'm late,” he said, as he sat.

“You're not really,” Philomena replied.

The waitress came to their table. They ordered some food and Philomena accepted the offer of a glass of red wine. As the waitress took the menus she shot her a look as if to say she thought Philomena was handling the situation impeccably.

Still shaken, and preoccupied by the strange episode outside, she murmured: “So, you're a barrister.”

“Yes,” said Jonathan, nodding, and he added unnecessarily, “I was before the war. Well, I could hardly have qualified since the war. And you sew.”

“I'm a seamstress, yes. High class.”

Jonathan looked slightly sideways at her to see if she was being ironic. But no, she gave no indication that she was being anything other than straight with him.

“I'm a high-class seamstress. I work on expensive garments and fabrics. Alterations for the wealthy, mostly.”

Jonathan located her hands, resting on the table. Was he wondering at her wedding band? She let him look, determining that the strange movements of her hands that had begun after she heard of Dan's death must cease at some point. Philomena had an image of Dan's mother, her stifled cry on seeing her son's fiancée stumble into the shop to tell bad news—was Dan ever intending to end his estrangement with his parents? A few hours later, lying on her bed looking
out at the bright, night November sky Philomena had noticed her hands moving independently of her. First thought was that they were ghost-sewing, doing the work she had planned to do over the previous two days but forgotten about. But her hands weren't doing anything so prosaic. They had taken on a life of their own. This strange innovation, because she felt dislocated anyway, hadn't alarmed her. It was another novelty in the terrible new world.

As if in the distance she heard Jonathan say: “And Dan's family have a shop?”

“
The
shop, in their village,” she replied. “They have
the
shop.”

She watched Jonathan absorb this piece of information then drift. Was he remembering when Dan told him his parents were shopkeepers? Or something else about Dan? Or was he thinking about something else entirely? Was she boring him? Was he very rude? She felt a surge. “Where did you go?” she asked, belligerently.

“What?”

“I said, where did you go? You went out of the back door.”

Jonathan appeared to be about to protest that he hadn't done any such thing but at that moment the waitress returned with their drinks and it was clear from her expression that she had heard what Philomena had just asked and wasn't going to stand any nonsense, that is, corroborate any lies Jonathan might be trying to tell, no matter how many times he'd been there and how many times he'd winked at her.

“I had second thoughts about meeting you. But here I am.”

“Why did you have second thoughts?”

“Because the war's over.”

“I won't restart the war; I'm not meaning to make life at all difficult for you in any way. And I'll be gone tomorrow,” stated Philomena.

“I know,” said Jonathan, replying to all statements.

Thinking of going home the next day, Philomena felt a pain in her heart. She could see into his eyes. The strangeness of them wasn't because the edges of the iris weren't fixed. Due to streaks of gray in the brown, they looked as if they had movement, like thick smoke trapped in glass. She thought; those are fall-into eyes. What would you see if the smoke cleared? Trouble.

Needing to take in the whole of Philomena, Jonathan leaned back slightly, to widen his focus.

“You know,” she said, deliberately taking any sadness out of her voice, “I was up there at home and I, I just couldn't … anymore. So I came down here. I'm not tragic. I'm a war widow—not even a widow! I'm one of the ‘surplus women' you hear about.”

One of the single female diners glanced ruefully across. Philomena made what Jonathan took to be a clan gesture, a little nod of greeting. She lowered her voice.

“Two a penny. So I thought I'd come down here and try to talk to his friends, the men, and the women—if there were any. Were there any women?”

Jonathan shook his head. How brusque she was. But perhaps less brusque, more blunt, not unlike the girls he grew up amongst.

“I've seen Dan flirt, you know. I've seen him in action,” said Philomena. “It was all right women wanting him as long as I was there to beat them off.”

“He only ever talked about you,” reassured Jonathan.

“Yes, but I wasn't there, was I? When he was feeling frisky. We all feel frisky from time to time.”

Jonathan tried not to laugh but “frisky” was such a perfect word to describe Mr. Case.

“Not that I was unfaithful,” continued Philomena, “but … you know.”

“If that's what you're worried about,” offered Jonathan, “I can put your mind at rest.”

“I mean,” continued Philomena, “I wouldn't have minded, given the circumstances. Not minded too much, anyway. So there. Thank you.”

Why had she asked that about other women? She hadn't planned to. Was she worried that another woman had figured? Was that what Major James and Jonathan were anxious about? She had a definite sense of something pulsing in Jonathan, some incident or detail about Dan that he wasn't offering up to her. She felt a little bit of the overwhelming feeling that immobilized her against the cafe window return and she raised herself slightly off the seat of her plain wooden chair as if in preparation to leave. Jonathan grabbed her arm and just as quickly let go of it.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Sorry for what?”

“Grabbing you,” said Jonathan, “but I thought …”

“It's all right,” she said.

“Are you okay? I thought for a moment that—”

“How could I be un-okay?” she said, using that new American word clumsily. “You only grabbed my arm.”

“I grabbed your arm because I thought you were feeling—”

“Feeling what?” she demanded. Relenting, she remarked, “We're all feeling all the time, aren't we?”

“I thought you were about to go—”

“If I did you wouldn't be able to stop me,” she said. “And I'd go out of the front, not the back like some.”

Then she regretted saying all that, because it sounded too harsh and spiky, not like her, and he looked wounded. Rather than waiting to allow the ill feeling to pass in its own time she dived straight in to change the mood: “Are you in court tomorrow?”

“Yes,” replied Jonathan.

“On what charge?” she said, as deadpan as she could.

He looked at her, puzzled. Her eyes crinkled and the corners of her mouth curled up and she laughed, which made him smile. He'd not imagined her laughing. It was a sudden enlightenment.

She has a beautiful, beautiful mouth, and an enviably unselfconscious throw of the head. She's full of surprises. But you wouldn't have saddled yourself with a dimwit, would you? And of course, she is striking. Not pretty-pretty, or beautiful, but very attractive
.

The atmosphere between them completely changed. As the waitress put Philomena's plate down Jonathan saw that she gave her a “going well, then?” look, which Philomena either
didn't notice or ignored. But the waitress, as she went about her business, kept looking over, perhaps drawn, like Jonathan, by the sparks now glinting in Philomena's bright green eyes.

They tucked into their food in companionable silence. Between mouthfuls Philomena rummaged in her bag with one hand and slid out a clutch of envelopes.

“There's a couple of letters here that mention you.”

“Really?” Jonathan exclaimed, delighted.

Philomena continued to rummage one-handed. “You know; Jonathan did this, Jonathan did that.” Her hand found the envelope she sought. “He had another friend,” she said. “Anthony Dore.”

Even though she wasn't looking directly at Jonathan she couldn't fail to register the impact that this name made.

“What's the matter?” she asked, wondering if some awful tragedy had befallen Anthony Dore.

“The matter about what?” snapped Jonathan. Mistake. Relax jaw. Unclench teeth. “Anthony Dore. Yes.”

“He was another friend of Dan's,” said Philomena.

“Dan said that?” asked Jonathan, too casually.

From this moment Philomena knew that her quest, her fate, had led her here. She knew that she was meant to travel to London, to meet Major James, then Jonathan, and now the challenge was to discover exactly what was being concealed from her. There was a purpose; there was a future to which she was attached.

“You had quite a strong reaction to Anthony Dore's name,” she said.

“Just eat your food.”

“I beg your pardon?” she retorted.

“I meant eat it before it gets cold,” said Jonathan, unconvincingly. “Who else?”

“What do you mean, who else?” asked Philomena, being deliberately obtuse.

“Which other friends did Dan mention?”

“All the other friends were killed,” she replied. “He'd write to me mentioning a friend he'd made. Later he'd mention that they'd been killed.”

She could tell that Jonathan's mind was working furiously, turning something over and over. He set to eating, chewing fast. He filled his mouth and chewed and swallowed, filled his mouth again while also trying to speak.

“Look, it's best if I tell you—”

“Tell me what?”

Infuriatingly, Jonathan loaded his fork again and almost added another mouthful, but when he saw her scowl he paused.

“I don't know what to tell you. What did the army say?”

“About what?”

“About Dan?”

“I don't know what you mean,” she said.

Jonathan looked at her, mouth open, panting slightly. He appeared hounded—shrunken one second, full of something the next; clearly struggling.

“You want to tell me something,” she said, gently.

Was he going to tell her? What was he going to tell her?
And how? And when? Where to begin? It was too much: “I thought you said you were a seamstress, not the fucking Inquisition,” snapped Jonathan, in his most native accent yet.

Refusing to be put off, Philomena allowed a pause before asking in deliberately level tones, “Tell me about Anthony Dore's friendship with Dan.”

And when Jonathan didn't reply: “Treat me with respect, please. Respect me.”

“In what way am I not respecting you?” asked Jonathan.

She looked deep into his eyes, trying to increase the pressure on him. Her brilliant green boring into his smoky brown.

“What sort of thing do you want to know?” he asked.

“That's a trick question,” she replied, “because I don't know what I don't know. I don't know what I need to ask about.”

Jonathan was gazing back at her. She was someone he'd never imagined existing before. Although terrified of Philomena and what he might tell her, he also felt lifted, exhilarated even. He tried to relieve the pressure with a joke.

“Are you sure you're not a barrister?” which was pretty weak, because being a woman she couldn't be one, of course.

But she wasn't having it anyway. “I'm not sure about anything,” she replied, tartly, which with her stern look made sure he understood that she wasn't going to let him off. Jonathan chewed the food in his mouth. He swigged some wine, and became thoughtful. He grew unable or unwilling to look Philomena directly in the eye and she guessed he was preparing himself. Choosing his words with minute care,
he said: “Anthony Dore is a captain. He was there when Dan died.” He stopped.

“They knew each other,” said Philomena, prompting him.

Again Jonathan meticulously weighed his words before saying: “Dan died after I'd got to him. It wasn't instantaneous, but it was pretty quick.”

He looked at Philomena as if that were all he had to say.

Go on, she thought, more than interested as to why Jonathan had strayed off the subject of Anthony Dore. You can't begin to say something, and in that way, then just stop. For pity's sake!

“Go on,” she invited calmly, and watched his face crumple and line and he looked away.

“There was a feeling …”

“What did you say?”

“There was a feeling,” repeated Jonathan, turning back so she could hear his lowered voice.

“What feeling?” she asked, her hand going to her breastbone as she scented he was about to divulge something momentous.

“A sense,” said Jonathan, clearly wavering on some brink.

“A sense of what?” she almost cried, tears filling her eyes.

“You're going to try and speak to Anthony Dore?” whispered Jonathan, glancing around furtively.

“No. I don't know. Maybe. Yes.”

“I have to be very careful what I say,” said Jonathan, infuriating her. “There was a fuss …” He appeared to lose his nerve. His hands flapped: “Look, I can't—”

He rose from the table and reached in his pocket.

“Please!” she implored.

“I can't. I'm sorry. Please leave me alone.”

“Leave you alone? What do you mean, leave you—”

But Jonathan exited by the front door and was swiftly enveloped in the darkness. What on
earth
?!

Philomena realized that she was half out of her seat as if to go after Jonathan, and that the whole cafe was silent—everyone was watching her. She shuddered, or shook herself, sat down fully on her seat, deliberately picked up her cutlery and resumed eating, trying not to look upset. The waitress appeared at her shoulder.

“Are you all right, luv?” she asked, quietly.

Philomena nodded several times, but was unable to look her in the eye.

Once her solitary meal was over, in an attempt to work off her disquiet Philomena decided to try to walk back to her hotel. She kept to the main, well-lit thoroughfares, aloof to any looks she was getting. At the Aldwych she changed her mind. Instead of turning toward her hotel, she headed in pursuit of a particular landmark. After a while she knew from her map that she should be nearing St. Paul's Cathedral but its foot—massive as it was—actually took some finding, it was so hemmed in by inferior buildings. Even though she hadn't been to church in ages she felt awe as the dome rose higher and higher, until it was as a mountain peaking above her, darker than the sky around it. None of the other people she saw about were behaving like her, like a tourist—they were all en route in that incredibly busy way everyone seemed to have in London. How much time had to pass before a person new to London EC4 became complacent about the fact that they were passing St. Paul's Cathedral? People can get used to anything: beauty, grandeur, grief.