Paper Moon

by Marion Husband

  Bobby had sat up then. The room had spun and spun. He didn’t have time to make it to the sink in the corner of the room but threw up all over the floor.

  In the kitchen, Bobby lit another cigarette. He used to wonder how Mick Morgan had found out what Vickers had done to him, whether he could smell it on him at breakfast, or whether his metamorphosis was so complete that it would have been blindingly obvious to anyone.

  In the hotel’s bleak little lounge Morgan had gazed at him for some time. Behind his wheelchair a mounted stag’s head watched with startled eyes and Bobby remembered keeping his own eyes fixed on it, unable to look at the man in front of him. At last Morgan said, ‘You’re never to go near my son again, do you hear?’

  He’d frowned, unable to understand what Hugh had to do with it. Morgan went on looking at him, his expression unreadable, so that when he finally did understand he’d imagined there was a chance of changing his mind.

  ‘Sir, you can’t mean that.’

  ‘Yes, I can. Now, I want you to promise – you won’t write to Hugh and you’ll return his letters unopened. During the holidays in Thorp you’ll stay well away from my house and won’t try to contact him at all. Is that clearly understood?’

  ‘Hugh’s my best friend –’ Bobby felt his eyes fill with tears. The horror of the previous night was still raw, but it also felt distant, the details hazy as if it had happened to someone else. He had an idea that if he could only convince Mick Morgan he was the same person who had played Captain Palmer everything would be back to normal. Stepping towards him he said, ‘Sir, I haven’t done anything, truly. Honestly – whatever you think …’

  Morgan wheeled his chair backwards a little, reclaiming the distance between them. ‘Bobby, I’m not going to argue. I know what kind of boy you are and it’s a pity and I feel sorry for you and for your future, I know how difficult life is for men with such a perversion. Now, will you promise me you won’t see Hugh again?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘All right. Then I must tell him what happened here last night. He has to know about you, for his own protection.’

  ‘Know what about me?’ Frightened, he struggled to keep his tears in check. ‘Nothing happened! I swear to you.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me! Why can’t you people behave? Why do you have to lie and make excuses for yourselves? Isn’t it enough your own lives are ruined without attempting to ruin everyone else?’

  ‘I don’t …I haven’t …’ He wiped the tears from his face with his fingers, too confused and ashamed to think clearly. ‘Please, please don’t tell Hugh.’

  ‘Then you must promise. You won’t see him again, ever. You must make me your most solemn promise, and I’ll make my promise to you that I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. You promise?’

  Bobby nodded, unable to speak for the effort of suppressing his tears.

  A little more gently Morgan said, ‘Will you be all right? I’ve had the hotel order a taxi to take you back to school. There’s a note here saying it was my fault you were kept out after curfew.’ He held out an envelope. Impatiently he said, ‘Take it. You don’t want to be in any more trouble.’

  In Parkwood Bobby covered his face with his hands, all the shame he’d felt then as terrible as ever. He remembered how much he wanted to make himself invisible as he waited for the taxi, how he’d slunk in the corner furthest away from the curious looks of the receptionist. He’d stunk, a grown man’s filthy stink of vomit and cigarettes and sex.

  He lit another cigarette, catching sight of his father’s picture on the mantelpiece. Lieutenant Paul Harris wore a uniform exactly like Palmer’s. Reaching for the photo he studied his features carefully. Everyone used to say how alike they were and he knew that it was one of the reasons his stepfather hated him: he was a living, breathing reminder of his mother’s shotgun wedding that had ended so ignominiously and made such titillating gossip for his stepfather’s new neighbours. Redpath just couldn’t seem to get over the scandal and the frequent beatings he gave him were always treated as an opportunity to remind him of his bad blood.

  He traced his fingers over the photo. His father was photogenic – Jason would’ve adored him. Bobby could understand why his stepfather would despise such a man.

  Bobby placed the photograph down on his knee. For a long time he gazed at his father’s face. For the first time in his life he missed him so badly; it was like a new, surprising grief and he drew breath at the sudden, extraordinary depth of pain. Holding the photograph to his chest, he bowed his head and wept.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EACH THURSDAY AFTERNOON NINA was left in sole charge of Antoinette Modes. From one-thirty to closing time at six she would be lucky if she saw two or three customers and it would be an achievement if she actually sold anything. The shop used to specialise in evening wear, clinging bias-cut satin dresses in dark jewel colours, the softest kid shoes and long, buttoned gloves that could be dyed to match. Tiny evening bags were displayed in a square glass display case in the centre of the shop floor, each bag heavy with jet beads or embroidered with bright, exotic flowers and fantastical birds of paradise. Antoinette Mode bags had been famous amongst a certain London crowd, the badge of a risqué sense of style.

  The glass case displayed only black leather gloves nowadays. The slinky dresses had long ago been replaced on the racks by A-line, knee-length skirts and functional jackets, their cloth cut to suit the dictates of rationing. There were even slacks hanging where the tea-dance dresses used to be displayed. Nina trailed her fingers along the row of trousers in navy blue or grey worsted cloth. She suited trousers – when she wore them she felt she could become someone else, someone quick and practical and self-reliant, the kind of girl who assembled engines or drove ambulances or flew Hurricanes or Spitfires across country to whichever base they were needed. Bobby had told her about such girl-pilots and at first she hadn’t believed him. When he’d assured her such women really did exist her jealousy had been intense. She wondered how long it could be before he would fall in love with such a dashing creature. She had felt soft and useless and out of step because the war frightened her more than it seemed to frighten anyone else.

  Nina went to stand behind the shop counter. The clock above the door showed ten to six, although it felt much later. Mid afternoon she had wondered how she would get through the rest of the day, the dead hours stretching ahead of her, a test of endurance. By five o’clock she allowed herself to think of the small pleasures of home, and now, at almost the end of the day, she could tell herself that perhaps the job wasn’t too bad, she’d got through the day after all.

  She sighed, tired, longing for a hot bath; she hoped the bus would be on time and that she wouldn’t have to stand. She pictured walking up the stairs to her flat and letting herself in, finding it as it should be: everything in its place, exactly where she’d left it. There would be none of Bobby’s possessions cluttering her space – no suitcase that was too big to be hidden away, no suits and shirts and ties hanging from her picture rail because there was so little room in her wardrobe. The camp bed he’d slept on had been returned to her downstairs neighbour, it was no longer an obstacle to bang her shins against. Even the scent of him had faded away; she wouldn’t be dismayed by the sleepy stuffiness that told her he had spent the day in bed. Bobby still smelt of hospitals and sickness; when he undressed for bed she had found the sight of his pale, too-skinny body repellent.

  She went to the door and locked it, turning the sign to Closed. Walking back through the shop she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror and stopped. She looked at her reflection critically, turning sideways and pressing her splayed hands against her belly. It was flat, almost hollow; her hips bones protruded a little and her breasts were too small. Her body didn’t give away the fact that it had nurtured a child. She thought of Hugh Morgan, bowing his mouth to her nipple as his hand moved between her legs. He had no idea of her past and didn’t care. Unlike Bobby, she could disappoint him and it wouldn’t
matter.

  She had taken the afternoon off work the day Bobby was finally released from the last convalescent home. The day before she’d managed to buy a single pork chop and she remembered the cold, satisfying weight of it in its greased paper wrapper as she carried it home and her sense of achievement at being able to feed him properly. She’d served it with a potato and mild, white cabbage, dressing the meat with its sticky juices from the frying pan. The fat was browned and melting, the flesh tender when she’d pressed a fork against it. Her mouth had watered. She’d taken a piece of bread and mopped up the residue from the pan, eating it greedily and furtively as Bobby sat down at her table.

  As she set the plate in front of him he’d said, ‘Aren’t you eating?’

  ‘I ate earlier.’ She sat opposite him. She had wanted him to be astonished and grateful but he had only frowned, his hands hesitant over the knife and fork.

  ‘Nina, I’m not very hungry. Why don’t you have this?’

  She’d laughed, wanting to hide her hurt and anger from him. ‘I’ve eaten! Besides, it’s for you. I bought it for you.’

  His hands were still over the cutlery. After a moment he met her gaze across the table. ‘I’m sorry, but I’d rather you didn’t watch me eat.’

  She had got up at once. She tried to busy herself making tea, rigidly keeping her back to him, her ears straining to hear the clatter of his knife and fork against the plate. There was only the ordinary quiet of her flat. At last he got up. She tensed, unable to turn to face him. Not for the first time since they’d met, she wished him miles away.

  Softly he said, ‘Nina, I’m sorry. Sit down, please. Talk to me.’

  She looked at the tea caddy in her hand. ‘Eat your supper.’

  She heard him take a step towards her and forced herself not to cringe, standing up straighter as she spooned tea from the caddy. ‘Sit down, Bobby. Don’t let your meal go cold.’

  ‘Sod the bloody meal!’

  She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, forcing out tears. She laughed brokenly. ‘You do know I had to sleep with the butcher to get that chop?’

  ‘Don’t say things like that.’

  ‘It was a joke.’

  He fumbled to light a cigarette. ‘Shall I go? I could find a hotel.’

  ‘I want you here.’

  It wasn’t really a lie. For weeks she’d anticipated looking after him. She would nurse him back to full health; she would help him face the world again; she would be a comfort and a support, full of empathy and understanding. She had expected what little awkwardness there was at the start to be easily overcome. Impatience hadn’t figured in her plan.

  ‘Eat your supper, Bobby. Please don’t waste it.’

  He sat down meekly and began the slow process of cutting up food and putting it in his mouth. He chewed as though the meat was leather, all the time keeping his head bowed over the plate. She watched him despite what he’d said; his hair seemed thinner, cut too short, the brutal cut emphasising the way his ears stuck out a little too far. In the dim light from the standard lamp his disfigured face was as expressionless as a Greek tragedy mask, his eyes dull. He wasn’t beautiful any more and his ugliness felt like a betrayal.

  In the shop, Nina turned away from the mirror. This was her evening for telephoning Bobby and she wondered if she would tell him that Hugh had been jealous and angry just as he’d predicted. She remembered Bobby’s silence when she had first mentioned Hugh’s name so that for a moment she’d thought the line had gone dead. When at last he spoke it was in his officer’s voice, the one she imagined him using when dismissing a subordinate.

  The telephone was kept in the little office at the back of the shop. A respectful space was cleared for it on the scarred and tea-ringed desk. Large and black, most of the time the phone kept a dignified silence, its rare, surprisingly shrill ring causing her heart to leap in panic. In the whole of her life the telephone had brought only bad news.

  Sitting down at the desk, Nina lifted the receiver and dialled Bobby’s number. The receiver was heavy, the warm smell of Bakelite a reminder of phone calls from senior RAF officers. Their news had been delivered in the quick, apologetic tones of authority as she listened dumbly at the end of a crackling, sympathy-distorting line.

  She held the receiver hard against her ear, listening to the persistent impertinence of the ring tone and imagining the hallway in Bobby’s house where he’d told her the phone was kept. He’d told her he sat on the stairs to talk to her, and she pictured him casually holding the telephone in his lap, its cord snaking across the floor. She listened and was about to hang up when Bobby finally answered.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NINA SAID, ‘I DREAMT about Joan last night.’

  Her voice was so quiet Bobby had to press the receiver hard against his ear. From her tone he sensed that she was smiling, the kind of smile that wobbled on the edge of tears. He heard her draw breath and his hand closed tight around the receiver, willing her not to cry. His other hand twisted the telephone cord, worrying it into knots as he avoided his reflection in the hall mirror that showed his own eyes red from crying. When he spoke he knew his voice would be hoarse. He closed his eyes, listening to Nina quietly pull herself together.

  At last she said, ‘Do you remember that little outfit Jason bought her? The one with the sky-blue pixie hood?’ Her voice was too bright. After a moment she said cautiously, ‘Bobby? Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice broke and he cleared his throat. ‘Yes. I’m here.’

  ‘In my dream the hood was too small for her. She’d grown …’ There was another silence and then, ‘We went out shopping for a new one to replace it but I lost her. You were there. You helped me search. We were in the Army & Navy store. In the haberdashery department. I was sure you’d find her!’

  ‘Nina, it was just a dream –’

  ‘I know. It was so vivid, though. And you were in uniform, still. There was a baby-sick stain on your shoulder.’

  He had woven the telephone cord through his fingers tightly and weals appeared on the skin. As she described more of the dream he carried the phone over to the stairs and sat down on the fourth step, his feet firmly on the hall floor. Her dream was full of sound and colour and the frantic, muddled logic of the dreamer. He knew that in the dream his face and hands were still intact because such a miracle was possible in dreams. But the miracle she most wanted couldn’t be realised. Even in Nina’s dreams the dead couldn’t be brought back to life.

  She drew breath. ‘Bobby?’

  ‘I’m listening, sweetheart.’

  ‘Do you remember that song you used to sing to her?’

  There were lots of songs. He flexed his fingers as much as he could and watched the cat cradle of phone wire expand. In his ear her voice was cautious.

  ‘Bobby?’

  ‘Which song, Nina?’

  ‘Paper Moon.’

  He closed his eyes tight, fresh tears welling behind them. He remembered Joan laughing as he sang and bounced her on his knee in time with the sad, jaunty words. Trying to keep the tears from his voice he said softly, ‘Paper moon, cardboard sea…’

  ‘Your voice sounds different.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’ve been crying!’ He could hear the awe in her voice

  ‘No. Nina, don’t cry, please.’

  Her sobs became muffled and he imagined her pressing her handkerchief to her mouth and nose, one of those tiny squares of off-white Irish linen with the deep edges of scratchy lace. The handkerchief would smell of her perfume and face powder, a sweet, erotic scent. He listened to the sniffling sounds she made and rhythmically bumped the side of his head against the wall.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last.

  ‘Don’t be.’

  She laughed painfully. ‘You sound awful!’

  ‘I might have a cold.’

  ‘You haven’t been … upset?’

  ‘No. I haven’t been upset.’

 
; ‘Would you tell me if you had?’

  ‘Depends.’ He made himself smile, knowing she would hear it in his voice. ‘I made a fool of myself in a shop yesterday. A child of a shop assistant mistook me for an old man so I threw a display of ties on the floor.’

  ‘Oh, Bobby, you didn’t!’

  She sounded so appalled that he laughed. ‘There’s worse – my mother caught me in the act and insisted on taking me home.’ Remembering, he felt again the humiliation, although at the time he had felt only rage and frustration and self-pity. He unwound the wire from his hand and stared down at the fresh red marks. He realised that selfishly he had brought the conversation round to himself. It hadn’t been his intention. In his mind’s eye he could see her shoving the lacy hanky into her sleeve and sitting up straighter as she assumed the posture of sympathetic listener.

  Carefully he said, ‘I remember the blue pixie hood. She looked so sweet in it.’

  ‘It made her eyes look even bluer.’

  ‘I told Jason blue was for boys. I’d never seen him look more scornful.’

  ‘Very scornful, then.’ After a moment she said, ‘Sometimes I think the pain will never get better.’ She laughed slightly. ‘And sometimes I forget altogether. Isn’t that terrible? Though it’s not really forgetting, it’s just –’

  ‘Getting on with your life.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe.’

  He was hopeless with other people’s pain, even hers. Even the most carefully chosen words sounded glib to him so that often he couldn’t bring himself to say anything and all he could do was hold her. She would rest her head against his chest and allow him to stroke her hair and they would end up in bed, their lovemaking taking on a frantic energy as if all their pain and grief could be excised by an orgasm.

  Quietly she said, ‘Are you still there Bobby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have been crying, haven’t you?’