My Dear I Wanted to Tell You

by Louisa Young

  Weep as much as you like mother I am and it is going to be all right

  ‘But your lovely face …’

  new face now mother plug-ugly like dad

  She giggled. Howled. ‘But you can’t talk …’

  He said, fairly clearly despite the goblins, ‘Actually, I can talk.’

  She howled.

  He hugged her. I can do this.

  ‘You come back and live at home when they’ve finished with you,’ she said, later.

  No, mother.

  ‘You’ll stay here tonight, at least.’ He wrote:

  I’ve things to do mother. Sorry. I’ll be back soon and I’ll write to you.

  He didn’t know where he would be spending the night.

  ‘But it’s nearly Christmas, Riley,’ she said. She had thought he was back for Christmas. That the war was over and her son was back for Christmas. Her disappointment flooded and eddied over her previous confused joy. There were too many feelings for one face, but Riley could hardly see beyond his own relief and gratitude. She’d seen it, she still loved him. Had he doubted she would? It didn’t matter.

  Not demobbed yet,

  he wrote.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said.

  He wrote,

  bit by bit eh mum? You know I’m safe anyway.

  His smile was almost comfortable.

  ‘You’re smiling.’

  Yes, mother.

  ‘You look almost happy.’

  Working on it, mother.

  *

  I have to learn to look at people looking at me, to see what they need from me, and to give it to them. My face gives an outlet for everything else – the fear and the loneliness and the long years apart; it gives a visible focus for it. I am always going to remind them of the war, and they will thus always remind me, and I am never going to be able to forget anything.

  *

  It was a cold evening, dreary. The glowing glass roof of the station stood out like a gigantic beetle against the purple sky. Shop lights smeared and dissolved, golden and gassy white in the watery air. The pavement was greasy, the street quiet. No horse-drawn cabs – no cabs at all. Riley hesitated a moment before ducking into the station, pulling his scarf round his face as he entered the underground world, hiding himself from it and it from him. The corridors were tiled and lit up. It’s nothing like the trenches, he told himself. Completely different. Nothing to worry about.

  His mother had tired him. Travelling had tired him. Seeing the hotel in Victoria had tired him. The National Gallery had put him in a state of shock. Botticelli’s Venus and Mars – the beautiful creamy girl, the naked sleeping soldier – had given him an erection, which had amazed and confused him. Heart and soul, body and feet, he was tired.

  Not the tiredest you’ve ever been, though, eh?

  Walking up behind Regent Street he stopped a moment to look in the window of a small gallery, showing photographs: stark, extreme images of moonlight and flowers, racks of trees, drops of rain, yet as far from the usual look of these things as the war was from a pink sugar mouse: an extremity of richness in the metallic black and luminous white that reminded him, shockingly, of nights on the fire-step, and which yet were profoundly peaceful. He noted the photographer’s name, Steichen, and stared at them for a long time. Inside, there were portraits: Matisse, concentrating on a serpentine figurine he was modelling; Bernard Shaw laughing behind his hand. The pictures glowed, and their dark radiance burnt the Botticelli out of his mind.

  He had wanted to visit Sir Alfred, for Christmas, for the symbolism of it. He wanted to give everyone the present of the news: that though his face had been massacred his soul had not. He was not going to indulge a fatuous faux-modesty: he knew that it would make everyone happy to see him survive this. They’d be happy to see anyone survive it. It wasn’t personal. Except where it was, and then so much the better.

  But he was tired. He would write to Sir Alfred, give him notice of the situation, visit him later. As he made the decision, he felt a pang for the warm handshake, the manly embrace, the cry of matronly concern from Mrs Briggs, the weight of Messalina’s dear heavy head on his knee, that he would not, after all, be having that evening.

  His own words to his mother came back to him. Bit by bit, eh?

  And: Things to do. It was likely to be a long night. He had prepared a few notes to hand out as required. He would not be trying out his tender new speech on strangers in public places.

  Sitting on the tube, he raised his hat and stroked his scalp with his fingertips, ruffling the hair, feeling the granulated scar of the bald strip like a road sliced roughly through a jungle. I’m glad I’m not dead. He got off at Piccadilly Circus, and rose again to the surface, to the world. He stopped a moment at the entrance to the station and breathed carefully. World. People. Streets. City. Light. Dark. Drunks. Buses. Women. Music. Festivities. Traffic. Christmas. Laughter. Chat. Shouting. Men.

  He breathed.

  I have killed. I have saved. Normality does not care. Now I must walk city streets, push through a door, push through a crowd.

  He went first to the Trocadero. Approached the ticket booth. Wanted to smile. Attempted to put some kind of courteous smile in the angle of his shoulders as he approached out of the dark wet night in a greatcoat with a scarf wrapped round his face. He felt like a bank robber in a silent movie as he handed over his note.

  I am sorry, I cannot speak to you directly as I am injured. Do you know if a jazz saxophonist called Sidney Bechet is playing tonight? And if so, where? And if not, do you know of anyone who might know? Thank you.

  The girl, young, pretty, knowing, glanced at the note and said, with a tut of sympathy and a nasal curl, ‘Aaoow,’ as if to a kitten with a hurt paw. Then she called behind her, ‘Billy!’ and a man appeared.

  ‘Sidney Bechet?’ he said, pronouncing it ‘Betchit’, rather than the French way Locke used. ‘Coloured feller? I’d try the Forty-Four, Eduardo’s, the Turquoisine, if you know it …’

  It was early for the clubs, so Riley first quartered the area. He dodged away from the more crowded streets, leant in doorways when necessary, pacing himself in the face of so much humanity. A square mile of pubs lay before him, any one of which Locke might or might not be in. The John Snow, the King’s Arms, the Nellie Dean, the Admiral Duncan, the Pillars of Hercules, the Sun and 13 Cantons, the Intrepid Fox, the Blue Posts, the Carlisle, the Coach and Horses, the Dog and Duck, the Element, the Red Lion, the other Red Lion, the Angel and the White Horse … It was a long time since he’d been in a pub; a long, long time since his mum used to send him on this round looking for his dad.

  He had to prepare for the mere fact of a room full of people. Pausing before the first door – how would it be? Full or empty? Loose women or nancy boys? Army or students? Quiet and staring, or raucous and celebratory? Happy sad angry upforapunchup fucking suicidal or all of the above?

  Breathe. Push. Flinch – regroup.

  It was, above all, crowded: a wave, a huge almost physical barrier of noise and warmth and breath, laughter, social cacophony, bodies, clattering, smoke, light. The sheer force of human emotion in a confined space, of crazy glee, of triumphalism, of drunkenness, mad relief, desperate loss, bereavement, wild happiness, this night of all nights, Christmas 1918. He should have thought it through. He was in no condition to trail through the pubs in the heart of London on this night of all nights. This was a stupid night to do it. And Peter could be anywhere.

  He forced himself to slide in. He gazed round, and he had to leave. He developed a technique: in through one door, manoeuvre through, looking, looking, out of the other, lean on the wall, breathe.

  He’d said he’d do it, so he did it, for Peter and for Rose. You’ve killed, you can save. In the quieter pubs he handed over another note: ‘I don’t suppose you know Peter Locke? Tall, blond, a major, thirty or so?

  Several knew him. He’d been in the Star and Garter earlier.

  So Riley had to continue.

  At cl
osing time, he went straight to the Turquoisine. He couldn’t afford the Forty-Four and he couldn’t stand in the street outside – he’d fall over, he was so cold and tired. Billy at the Trocadero had told him the address. He climbed the unlikely stairs, almost staggered in, sat at the bar. The room was crowded, the music low. He looked at no one, just wrote a new note. ‘Brandy. Please.’

  The barmaid – black-skinned, fine-eyed – laughed at him. ‘Honey, I surely cain’t read this in this dim light.’

  Riley turned his eyes to her. She was beautiful. He had never seen a black woman before. (Men, yes, in France – and Williams the Nigerian, at Sidcup.) He had never met an American woman. He would have loved to talk to her.

  He made a vague gesture around his face, his mouth, a floating movement followed by a cut-throat slice, a shrug, and the half-smile, the eye smile, which was all he could offer.

  ‘Cain’t talk?’ she said. ‘Well, hell, honey, why didn’t ya say so?’ Then came the gasping laugh of appalled embarrassment at what she had said, her realisation that he had forgiven her even before she said it, his realisation that his forgiveness (as opposed to the punch in the mouth the barman in Wigan had had) was based not only on her beauty but on the fact of a smile. With the pointing at the brandy bottle, and the working out of what he wanted, a friendly atmosphere arose between them. Riley pulled out his metal straw, and slid it between the folds of his scarf.

  The girl eyed him. ‘That baid, huh?’ she said. He gave her a palms-up gesture of futility. He wanted to tell her that he would chat with her if he could … vicious circle. She eyed him a moment more, then leant over and looked at him closely, taking in the scarf, the heavy-laden cuffs, the cheekbones, the grey diamond eyes. She lowered her long lashes, and raised them again, very close to him. He could smell soap and warmth and something sweet. Quite seriously, she said to him: ‘You still cute.’

  His straw was still in his mouth, and he sipped his brandy, and he felt the coldness circling his heart, which might at any time descend on him again to protect him from all this stuff, this human stuff, which hurt you and … What’s the opposite of ‘hurts you’? Not ‘comforts you’ … ‘Pleasures you’ sounds like it gives you a hand-job … Why isn’t there a word for ‘makes you happy’? ‘Brings you joy’? He sighed, lingering on the fact that this moment had the opposite of hurt him.

  In the doorway a lean Chinese man in a white suit was standing, smiling. A voice came from behind him: ‘For Christ’s sake, Mr Chang, move on in, would you, so we can get some bloody service?’

  The man moved aside, and Riley looked up, and there was Peter.

  The very sight of him softened Riley. Look, there he is. Alive, here, now. Like a ghost. The ghosts of the others danced across his mind, but he watched Peter, as he carefully approached the bar, calling out, mildly, elegantly: ‘My usual, Mabel darling, my darling Mabel.’ He brushed past Riley as he moved to the bar, next to him. He was very drunk.

  Mabel glanced up at Riley, her eyes kind, apologetic – for Peter’s condition, perhaps, or for the end of their little moment – as she poured a glass of whisky.

  Riley watched him a little longer. He found he was smiling. He leant on the bar, scribbled a note, and passed it to Mabel.

  Say to him, Peter, look, here’s Riley Purefoy come to take you home.

  She took it into the light to read, then looked up and said, in the unsurprised, unsurprisable tone of the bar-keeper in the face of other people’s drama: ‘He won’t want ta go home.’

  Riley heard a touch of resignation in it too. Well. That was not his business.

  He wrote:

  he hasn’t been home since coming back from France wife and child Christmas future perhaps even. please

  The girl rolled her eyes up to the ceiling and stared at it for a while, as if trying to keep something in. She stared, and after a while she swallowed. Then: ‘Hey, Peter,’ she said. ‘Sweetheart? Look, here’s Riley Purefoy. Look.’

  Peter turned.

  ‘He’s goin’ ta take you home now, honey. You’re goin’ ta go home and have a good rest, and I’ll see you later.’

  Peter stared at her. ‘But I want to hear you sing,’ he said. ‘And I rather hope Mr Chang, Mr Brilliant Chang, has a little something for me …’ He swayed slightly as he looked around.

  ‘I ain’t singing tonight,’ Mabel said gently. ‘And Mr Chang has left. You go on with Riley. Go on now.’

  ‘Riley?’ said Peter. He turned, and his drunk eyes saw. ‘Jesus Christ, Riley. Riley. Jesus Christ, Riley, how are you? Oh, God, I heard. I’m awfully sorry, Riley – not – I— Oh, God. Mabel, this is Riley. We were …’ He paused on ‘were’, giving it full weight. We were. We were. ‘Over there,’ he said finally.

  ‘He cain’t talk to you,’ Mabel said. ‘His face is hurt. But he’s goin’ ta take you home. Go on now. Don’t worry – go on home.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Peter, mildly, and Riley touched the woman’s hand for a moment, before taking Peter’s arm.

  She passed over his hat. ‘Bye, honey,’ she said, as they moved away, in a voice that made Riley glance back. Then they were out of the club and down the stairs and in the street. At the doorway Riley looked round for a cab, and Peter suddenly, like a broken scarecrow lurching in a high wind, flapping perilously down the darkness, made a bid for escape.

  Riley caught him up easily, and clutched at his coat. Peter was flailing, long skinny limbs everywhere. Riley feared hurting him, as one would a daddy-long-legs. It seemed Peter’s legs might just snap off.

  In Riley’s moment of concern, Peter swerved, and made to hurtle off again. Quickly, Riley came round in front and, with a ‘sorry about this’ under his breath, punched him. As Peter spiralled down, Riley caught him, held him, then hitched him over his shoulder, awkward and heavy. Where’s the stretcher-bearers when you need them?

  Four cabs didn’t stop for him before one did. ‘He’s injured, not ’runk,’ Riley said to the driver – but the man clearly thought Riley was drunk too. Riley registered that this was going to be another fucking issue, but he was not interested in resenting it now. He dumped Peter in the back, dug into his pocket and found a soft, expensive, sign-of-real-officer-class wallet containing money and – aha – visiting cards. Riley handed one to the driver, who sniffed and held it out to catch the light of the lamp.

  ‘Sidcup!’ he yelped. ‘I ain’t driving to blimming Sidcup …’

  Riley proffered a five-pound note.

  ‘Well,’ said the cabbie.

  Peter, despite the rattling and shaking, slept. Riley stared across at him. Look at us. Jesus Christ, just look at us. And we’re the lucky ones.

  Then he lay back and thought: I did it. I did something. I did it.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Locke Hill, Christmas Eve, 1918

  All afternoon rain had streaked heavily against the dark glass of the french windows, hurtling off the flagstones on the terrace, furrowing into the lawn, battering the huge withered burnt-orange rosehips that bobbed wildly in the sharp wind. The world had turned, and the seasons, and now it was Christmas Eve, and the child was to be born, again, who was given by his father for the redemption of sin, if you care for all that, which of course some people still did, though Rose didn’t. It seemed to Rose that religious faith, which had previously been shared out equally, now desperately swamped half the world while the rest wondered, sadly, bitterly, or with bereft bewilderment, how the notion of God could ever have offered them any comfort. Riley had given Rose an answer to the religion question that made sense. Clearing around his bed, right at the beginning, she had picked up his notebook; it had fallen open, and her eye had been caught:

  Ainsworth and Burgess that night talking about God: Christian nations slaughtering each other across the world, Love Thy Neighbour, how can he allow all this to go on, etc etc. Ainsworth insisting on hope as the only hope; Burgess cynical. Answer is simple. Man made in God’s image, men stupid violent murderous destructive, ergo God stup
id violent murderous destructive

  When she’d read that, Rose had stopped short and had had to sit down for a moment. If that’s how he was thinking, my God (she noted that she still needed him to swear by), were they all?

  Rose just knew that there had been enough giving of sons. The idea of rebirth and a new season, on top of everything, was exhausting. Of course she was happy: the war was over. She’d half thought she wanted to stay at the hospital, to be with everybody, but in fact she was glad to have a little leave, and to be at Locke Hill tonight. If nothing else, she’d get a quiet evening and a rest. And if Riley did find Peter … Well, there were plenty of ifs. She wasn’t expecting anything.

  In town everybody seemed mad with joy. All the singing and dancing and the vicar in tears, Mrs Bax going on about cracking open her champagne from 1908, the young people quite hysterical, and the expectation, the absolute palpitations, because the boys would be coming back! And some of them were back. One or two looked very well.

  But the war was over. And Tom was home, though things were not … well … instinct will carry them through, won’t it? Given time? Everything must get better now. Actually, Rose had been quietly impressed by the news, via Mrs Joyce, that Julia had not even invited her mother to stay the night: had just given her a cup of tea, and sent her back to the station.

  She’d drawn the curtains across against the weather, and built up the fire. Peter’s cello, propped up by the window, glowed softly. The narcissi blossomed in their Chinese bowl, white and heavenly like tiny angels’ wings. The good firewood burned slowly in the grate: seasoned apple from the orchard, which Julia had saved for when Peter was here, or expected, which meant a certain amount had been wasted, but not even Julia would suggest that was inconsiderate of him.

  So everything was nice.

  Rose had made soup for supper. He never wants a big dinner when he’s been in town. Lord, even I am talking as if I know what he’s feeling … and as if he’s coming.

  Good that there’s a chicken for tomorrow – quite a coup—

  The telephone rang, and Rose started.