“I’ve a case, a client, you know,” Jonathan apologized to her. “An appointment. Sorry …” Jones withdrew discreetly.
“Can I make an appointment with you?” she interrupted. “I mean is there another time today or tomorrow before I go—”
“There’s not much more I can tell you,” said Jonathan, more sharply than you’d expect. She narrowed her eyes. Yes, there was more he could tell. And there were things she could tell him. They could play “Did Dan ever tell you about the time that …?” They could exchange anecdotes: “One day, Dan did/said/laughed about such and such” and they could confide; “What is your favorite/least favorite thing about Dan?”
She said: “I’d like to, just, talk. I haven’t … There isn’t … It’s not—” Now it was her turn to be unable to complete a sentence.
“Well, you know,” came in Jonathan, putting down his worry pen, heading for the door, “it’s there in my letter and whatever you received from the army—”
“Please,” she asked firmly, arresting Jonathan’s movement toward the door by her voice alone. He stopped mid stride, watched her stand up, appeal: “I’d just like to—” Those eyes were looking right into him—say something to make them stop.
“Yes, yes, yes. Of course. I’m being stupid, and impolite. I’ll write an address for you.” He returned to his desk. “It’s a good cafe. Small—less busy than a Corner House—we’ll be able to find each other. Ask my clerk, Jones, how to get there. Six thirty do you? And bring anyone you are traveling with.”
“I came alone,” she said, raising her chin.
“Oh,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Well, why on earth not?” speaking almost to himself, giving her an image of him arguing aloud when alone.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly full of anxiety about going for a meal in an unknown place with this bewildering man. Her hands, one gripping her bag, must have started their telling movements in the air again because she realized Jonathan was watching them. His demeanor had changed once more. He’d resumed a persona she recognized from the courtroom: slightly distracted and thinking deeply, considering. She became very self-conscious, felt herself blush, abruptly moved toward the door to cover it, saying: “Six thirty, then.”
And before Jonathan Priest could move Philomena Bligh opened the door out of his padded room and entered the corridor beyond. On her way she sensed him moving to be in the doorway behind her, felt his eyes on her back.
CHAPTER FOUR
A few yards along the corridor Philomena turned a corner, thought she heard the soft click of his door shutting. No longer under Jonathan’s scrutiny, as she proceeded she tilted her neck both sides to release tension. She had a strong sense of events unfolding, forces stirring into action. Lengthening her stride, she felt acutely aware that the war, and now the aftermath, were driving large-scale changes, and she felt part of this. But she also intuited developments that were personal to her, to do with the wider world but in some way about her in particular; her stride faltered and she came to a halt. It was as if, she thought, she had been set an as yet unarticulated quest, and that if she followed her instincts she would learn what it was. Or were any thoughts of a quest just wishful thinking, a way of tricking herself into optimism?
Just take the next step. Do the next thing.
She asked Jones for the location of the cafe and while he drew it in on her map she took the opportunity to ask the way to Anthony Dore’s address, which Major James had given her. Jones lined her up along his sharp nose, said: “That must be quite a place,” and held her eye for a few seconds, as if hoping she would elaborate. Philomena took his reaction to the address to mean that it was one she was too humble to be likely to frequent.
She walked down to Fleet Street again and turned right this time, west. Walking efficiently in London was still a challenge to her, but passage through the crowds was becoming easier as her peripheral vision rapidly evolved to the standard required. At the northern end of a bridge over the brown-green Thames, looking down its span, it slipped into her mind that nobody from home knew where she was. In fact, nobody in the world knew. Loneliness suddenly lumped in her throat and she took a few moments in the lee of a police box to steady herself. Around her, humanity poured in every direction—even upward in the case of the tribe of urchins who ran alongside, leaped on, and cheekily ascended the curved stairs of a speeding motor bus. Their glinting eyes and smiling faces pleased her, and she allowed their glee to warm her heart. Her mood swung. Her anxiety at being alone, anonymous and unreachable by home began to be replaced by almost relish that she was, in some sense, free amongst the multitudes, none of whom seemed at all bothered by her.
As she continued to thread her way west, every few yards or so a narrow gap between buildings appeared, some, even in daytime, artificially lit, but others—the perversely enticing ones—fading to pitch dark, dangerous-looking corridors. Should she try to contact Captain Anthony Dore before meeting Jonathan? Dan had never mentioned him. She paused at a bright shop window. In it were all manner of scissors. Some were mounted on a revolving display. They took it in turns to glint in the steady electric light. Very good for work—one day she and Jo would have electric light—but not so good as gas for heating, she’d heard. And how much was it costing? Dread to think. No wonder their scissors were so pricey.
According to the map the cafe was around the next right turn, but it took some searching for because the row in which it was situated was in such a state of disrepair. Scaffolding along both sides, hammerings and bangings and indistinct shouts. The street was narrow, which made the terraced buildings climb higher, and the shallow pavements were barely wide enough for two people to pass. The feeling was that the sun’s rays never hit the ground except, perhaps, at its zenith in summer. The large mirrors fixed to the walls, angled to catch whatever light there was and redirect it in through the windows, bore this out. Philomena listened to the sounds of work being carried on around and above her. Inside, the cafe—or dining room—looked welcoming. Yes, she thought she could meet Jonathan Priest there.
She set off to return to her hotel for a wash and brush up, then stopped. She should go to Anthony Dore’s address now, perhaps even see if he was at home. Studying the map again in the light of the scissor shop she began to piece together what she knew so far of London geography. Her hotel was over there. Jonathan’s chambers were there, Major James’ offices were there, The Conduit cafe was there. Already she was getting a picture of London and her place in it. She began to walk, and the nearer she got to Anthony Dore’s address the grander the buildings became, until each house seemed more like several homes amalgamated. She felt very conspicuous because she was obviously not a servant—her clothes were too beautifully tailored, but, if challenged, what was her business thereabouts? In a square with private gardens at its center, Philomena kept near to the railings and their overhanging foliage. She couldn’t imagine ever entering one of these grand houses by the front door. What was she doing there? She saw herself as a diminutive girl in a children’s picture book. She’d wandered into a land of giants. These were giant’s houses. Behind the windows, giants were looking down on her, a speck of a creature who should not lift her eyes above the horizon of her own world.
Jonathan met his new client, destroyed his defense, created a new one, then took himself off to an obscure Picture House where he felt it was his extreme good fortune to have the place entirely to himself. Up on screen the heroes in a series of short films escaped death or serious injury over and over again in various comedic episodes, none of which made him laugh. But to laugh wasn’t the reason he was here. It was dark, and warm, and better than being home alone. As a falling house narrowly missed one hero because he’d bent down to pat a dog a second man entered the cinema auditorium and almost immediately began to laugh uproariously. Jonathan felt irked by this noise, this too-loud laughing. His pleasure was being ruined by the newcomer’s ostentatious expressions of appreciation. While he had to admit that his own beh
avior in this public cinema showing comedies was perverse, he also thought the man was being ridiculous. Why laugh like that when there’s only one other present and they’re not laughing at all? For God’s sake! He feared that at any moment the man might turn to him to demand, “Did you see that? Did you see that?” when all he wanted was to watch the screen alone, or as if alone, and brood. This desire thwarted, Jonathan experienced a flash of anger, but rather than remonstrate with the other fellow, who was after all behaving more appropriately than he was, Jonathan vacated his seat, leaving the other man to laugh too loudly alone.
He headed for the cafe, The Conduit. Once there he took a seat at a table and began to drink inexpensive red wine, French, and he waited.
Arriving opposite Philomena could look from the darkness into the brightly lit cafe without being detected. It was busy inside—most of the twenty or so tables were occupied, some by couples, not speaking, one by a group of men in office suits, talking over each other, and to her relief, two by single female diners, also office workers by the look of them; and there was the one at which Jonathan sat.
As she crossed the street, he drained his glass and refilled it from the bottle. He seemed to be drinking without much pleasure. What was his life like? Nobody ever asks anyone that, do they? What’s your life like? Up at home nobody asked such a question because everyone thought they knew what your life was like. It was like their life. Dan hates that—Philomena caught herself—Dan had hated that. Dan would never have returned and remained there.
Stepping forward to put her hand on the cafe door handle, a terrible feeling overwhelmed her. She found herself absolutely stricken, unable to move. Without warning, inertia had invaded and made her rigid. She would have toppled but fortunately there were only inches to go before her shoulder met the glass of the cafe window, where she leaned, wide-eyed.
From inside the cafe Jonathan stared out at Philomena. He had been about to take another swig of wine—the glass was still inches from his lips, held there because he was gripped, watching her in some sort of distress. Her eyes were open but her focus was elsewhere. The top of her chest rose and fell rapidly. Jonathan put down his glass and, continuing to watch her, he stood. But instead of going to help Philomena he looked over his shoulder toward the back of the cafe, to the door marked exit. He imagined Philomena as being on the edge of a great hole of sorrow, a terrifying void that he knew, only too well, existed, and that he believed could receive and accommodate all the many souls that fell into it without any prospect of it ever being filled. Glancing again at her, seeing that she was coming to, Jonathan threw some money down on the table, seized his hat, and skedaddled.
When Philomena entered the cafe Jonathan was nowhere to be seen. She looked around for him, blinking to clear her vision. The waitress approached and Philomena explained that she was due to meet someone. Indeed, he was here a few moments earlier. At that table.
“Ah, yes,” the waitress replied. “He’s gone, I think.”
“Gone?”
“He’s left money for his bill.”
“Gone where?”
The waitress showed she was sensitive to the implications of what was unfolding by smiling apologetically and discreetly indicating the rear exit. Philomena looked suitably baffled.
“Would you like a seat?” asked the waitress. “Would you like to eat? Are you sure he was the man you were expecting?”
Mumbling that perhaps it wasn’t him, Philomena accepted a seat at a table, and a menu to hold. The Specials: Leg of Beef Soup, Sausage and Mash, Steak and Onion Pie. What was that smell behind the food? Fresh paint. The place was immaculate. Chairs, tables, all new. And what had been that smell she’d inhaled when she leaned on the glass? Fresh putty, yes.
Outside, in the darkness opposite the cafe, watching her, Jonathan mused on opposing magnets again; she approached, he was forced away. Another man headed for The Conduit. When he entered it Philomena glanced up, then her eyes went back to the menu she was holding. The normality of her reaction reassured Jonathan. Perhaps she wasn’t as needy as he had felt. Perhaps it was his own feelings, his needs that he was projecting onto her. He made himself cross to the cafe and go in, all set to pretend to Philomena that it was his first entrance. He winked at the waitress to gain her compliance.
“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?”
Armistice Page 4