As she approached him he held the door open for her. ‘Was I really all right, Miss?’
‘Fishing, Redpath?’
‘No, Miss!’ His blush deepened. Quickly he said, ‘I wasn’t sure, that final scene …’
‘What about it?’
He let go of the door. ‘It seems, well, I don’t know … a bit too dramatic?’
Jane smiled to herself. At first she’d worried that he was too modest a boy to carry off Captain Edward Palmer’s excesses. Finally, however, his modesty was exactly what had counted in his favour. He brought humility to the role, a trait she’d come to realise it sorely needed.
Buttoning her coat she said briskly, ‘It’s a very dramatic scene. Palmer’s done this terribly noble, selfless thing.’
‘I understand that – but perhaps he wouldn’t be so, well…’
‘Spit it out, Redpath.’
‘Showy?’
Jane laughed. ‘He’s very wordy, I agree. But that’s how the part’s written. And who are we to argue with the great poet?’
Flatly he said, ‘Nobody, Miss.’
‘That’s right.’ She wound her scarf around her neck and pulled her gloves from her pocket. ‘Now, I have a home to go to even if you don’t.’
He stood aside. As she was about to go he said hurriedly, ‘When he was at school my brother played the part in front of Michael Morgan himself.’
Jane paused. Although she was tired and longed to be home, her curiosity got the better of her. ‘Did he get to meet him?’
‘They already knew each other.’ The boy glanced away, obviously embarrassed. Managing to look at her he said, ‘He’s actually only my half-brother. He’s been away, in the RAF. Fighter pilot. He was shot down …’
She nodded, remembering the gossip she’d heard in the staff room.
‘I know he would have been a terribly good Palmer, much better than me –’
‘I’m sure you’ll be just as good.’
His voice became even more rushed as he said, ‘I thought, since he knew Michael Morgan and everything, I thought – if it’s all right with you – that we could ask him to a rehearsal. He might be able to give me some tips –’
She frowned at him. ‘I don’t think you need any tips, Redpath. Besides, how do you think the other boys would feel about having someone sitting in like that?’
‘They wouldn’t mind. I asked them …’
‘Did you now? Before you asked me? You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Sorry, Miss.’
‘So your brother knew Michael Morgan?’
‘Yes! He used to go to his house and everything.’
‘And you don’t think he would mind giving up his time to watch you rehearse?’
‘No! He’s not working …’ He trailed off blushing again.
Jane smiled. She liked this boy more each time she spoke to him. ‘All right. Ask your brother to sit in one afternoon, if you wish. I don’t mind. Now, let’s go home. We’re finished for today.’
* * *
Home for Jane was a small, semi-detached house across the road from ThorpPark gates. The house was newly built when they bought it, its empty rooms smelling of fresh plaster, putty and paint. She remembered standing in its bare, sunny front room and turning around slowly, her arms out-stretched to gain a true measure of her brand new space. There were no lace curtains at the window, no rag-rugs on the floor, and when she’d laughed at this liberating starkness the noise had seemed so indecently loud she’d covered her mouth with her hand. She’d vowed then that she wouldn’t clutter her home with the ugly china dogs and Toby jugs, cushions and crocheted doilies that covered every surface of her mother’s terraced house. When she’d stopped turning, excited and dizzy, she’d caught Adam watching her from the doorway, his handsome face clouded by the grief that in those days she couldn’t begin to fathom. She remembered how quickly he’d subdued her that day, as though she was a drunk confronted by a policeman.
Walking up the tiled path to the house, Jane took her key from her handbag, holding it out like a weapon ready to stab into the lock. As she opened the door she called out loudly, ‘It’s me.’
She stood in the hallway, listening, uncertain if he was home. Occasionally he would disappear for hours, returning late at night, and she would listen to him creep up the stairs, closing his bedroom door so softly as though terrified of waking her. In the morning he’d have such a look of shame about him his whole body would seem bowed. Remembering, Jane shuddered and caught sight of herself in the hall mirror as she pulled off her gloves. She looked away quickly. Her face was pinched and prissy, condemning. No wonder the boys called her Stony Mason.
In the kitchen, Jane went to the sink to fill the kettle. Through the window she could see Adam on his hands and knees in the scrubby, unproductive patch that was their vegetable garden. He was frowning and his glasses had slipped far down his nose, his hair flopping into his eyes. She watched him, able to appreciate his lean, wiry body, just as she might appreciate a fine sculpture in a museum. His arms were particularly well formed and his hands were strong and expressive even as he reached out to grub up a dandelion. Gentleman’s hands, her mother had called them.
Setting the kettle on the stove, Jane lit the gas and sat down to take off her shoes. She kneaded the bunion forming on the side of her foot, absently looking around her. The kitchen was her favourite room, small and square with a tiny table and two chairs pushed against one wall. Taking up most of the wall opposite was a Welsh dresser, the first piece of furniture she had ever bought. Over the six years of her marriage she’d filled it with her finds, Royal Doulton plates, Wedgwood cups and saucers, a Spode server and a tureen in the blue of forget-me-nots. Most of the pieces were seconds, found in flea markets and in the dark, poky junk shops that lined the narrow alleys running off Thorp High Street. The tureen, however, was perfect, part of a discontinued dinner service bought in a sale. She had wanted it for its colour, because some colours had the power to thrill her, those rare colours that brought back snatches of scenes from other lives she’d lived.
Occasionally Adam would examine a new find, holding it up to the light to test the fineness of the porcelain, turning it to read the maker’s name. He appreciated expensive things, even those flawed in the small ways that made them affordable. Years ago, she had mistaken this appreciation for interest, but he had only smiled politely at her enthusiastic description of why she thought a cup or plate beautiful. Nowadays she didn’t try to explain and, anyway, her finds were becoming rarer. All her spare time and effort was taken up in queues for food. She sighed, remembering that she’d forgotten to shop for supper.
From the back door Adam said, ‘You’re home.’ He looked mildly surprised and she knew that he’d lost track of time in the garden, worrying over the endless problems besetting a headmaster with too few teachers and too many pupils. Since becoming head at the beginning of the war lines had appeared on his face, grey hair at his temples. All the same, he looked younger than his fifty years.
Jane got up and made a pot of tea. Washing his hands at the sink Adam said, ‘How was rehearsal? That Redpath boy – he’s coping still?’
‘Yes.’ She stirred the tea, in a hurry for it to brew. She would take her cup upstairs and drink it as she waited for the bath to fill. It was what she always did when she came home, one of her ways of avoiding Adam’s school-talk.
Just as she was about to go Adam said quickly, ‘So you think Redpath is up to the mark?’
She looked at him. ‘Adam, you’re not going to interfere in the play, are you?’
‘I’ve more important things to worry about.’
From the kitchen door she said, ‘I think there’s an egg in the larder. Feel free to have it for your supper.’
In the lounge bar of the Grand Hotel the pianist played I’ll be Seeing You. Nina glanced around. A couple sat at one of the tables, leaning together so that their foreheads almost touched, the man’s hand on the woman’s knee. They bot
h laughed, drawing apart suddenly, each mirroring the other with empathic precision. The barman caught her eye. Casting a glance in the lovers’ direction he turned back to her and smiled wryly. ‘What can I get you, Miss?’
She had taken off her wedding ring and had forgotten to put it back on again. Fingering the place where it should have been she said, ‘Gin and tonic, please.’
‘If you’d like to sit down I’ll bring it over.’
She sat furthest away from the piano, in the corner with the clearest view of the doors. That morning Hugh had moved out of Bobby’s house in to the hotel and before he left she’d agreed to meet him here. She hadn’t expected Hugh to be late and it occurred to her that he might not come down from his room at all. Despite their lovemaking last night, this morning he’d seemed cool. Over breakfast the atmosphere between Bobby and Hugh had made her heart quicken with anxiety. She had almost expected them to come to blows and guessed that only the presence of Bobby’s brother stopped them. She sighed, barely acknowledging the barman who set her drink down gently on a coaster in front of her. It seemed naïve now to have expected Bobby to behave towards Hugh as he had towards her husband Nick.
Bobby had said, ‘There’s a man I want you to meet.’
He’d been driving, changing down the MG’s gears as he took a bend too quickly. Moving up the gears again, he glanced at her. ‘He’s very sweet. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone sweeter.’
It was April 1940. She remembered that daffodils were in bloom on the verges, a yellow blur of flowers as Bobby sped along, faster and faster until she thought they might take off. It never occurred to her to be frightened, he was so confident, as though the car was part of him. The top was down, her hair blowing across her face so that she wished she’d worn a scarf, her cheeks chilled by the rush of disorientating air. The sun shone so brightly it hurt her eyes and there was a smell of petrol fumes and new grass. Beside her, in his uniform and officer’s cap, Bobby lit a cigarette, hardly taking his eyes from the road. Earlier, as he’d helped her into the low car, he’d smiled and kissed her. Although he’d spent the morning in her bed, she wanted him again, a greedy, urgent want that made her knead his thigh as he drove out of London and along the Kent lanes.
He’d stopped the car. Taking a blanket and picnic hamper from the boot, they walked a little way along a wooded path until they came to a clearing. Primroses grew in thick blue and yellow clumps and daffodils and narcissus bloomed beneath the branches of spindly mountain ash. When the blanket was spread on the earth the layers of dead leaves beneath it made a soft bed. Bobby lay on his side next to her, gently resisting her efforts to draw him closer.
‘This man,’ he said. ‘His name’s Nick O’Rourke. He’s a Canadian and so homesick he showed me photographs of his Mom and Dad.’ Bobby picked up a twig, poking it in the ground as he said, ‘Mom and Dad, brothers and sisters. A whole tribe of them. They’re farmers, in Toronto …’
Nina pressed her fingers to his mouth but he drew away. Propping himself up on his elbow he said, ‘There’s something extraordinary about him, something … generous. He’s such a good pilot. Knows all the tricks, I couldn’t teach him very much.’
Coldly she said, ‘But you think I could?’
Falling on to his back he stared up at the sky. After a while he turned to look at her and the thin branches of the trees cast a pattern of shadows over his face, disguising his expression. Softly he said, ‘He’s a good person. I feel ashamed, sometimes, when I’m around him, when I remember…’
‘We’re not ashamed! We should never be ashamed – you said so.’
He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes and held the case out to her but she shook her head. After a while, exhaling smoke, he said, ‘We drove over to the Rose & Crown yesterday, that little place I told you about the others haven’t discovered yet. He told me about his childhood. Like something out of Huckleberry Finn.’
He got to his feet suddenly, pacing as though he couldn’t keep still. Picking up another stick he snapped it in two, throwing the pieces high into the air. ‘He told me that the others think I’m stand-offish. Well, I didn’t need him to tell me that. I know what they think of me and it’s a sight bloody worse than stand-offish.’
She remembered scrambling to her feet and going to him. She’d slipped her arms around him, pressing her cheek against his back and the reassuring roughness of his tunic. Her hands linked across his chest and she could feel his heart pounding as though he’d been running. She held him tighter, needing him to be calm again, afraid of the mood he was working himself up to. She held her breath; from hard won experience she knew it was best to be as silent as possible.
At last his hands covered hers. Painfully he said, ‘I don’t care what they think.’ He spun round to face her so suddenly she stepped back. ‘There’s a dance organised at the mess tonight. Come back with me. I want to show you off to them.’
On the other side of the hotel bar the pianist stopped playing only to start after a heartbeat’s pause on Moonlight Becomes You. Nina sipped her drink, remembering how Bobby had introduced her to Nick, how, with his hand light on the small of her back, Bobby had propelled her towards him, smiling as he said, ‘Nick, this is Nina, an old friend. Nina – isn’t Nick the most handsome man you ever saw?’
Embarrassed, Nick had laughed. He’d frowned at Bobby before turning to her. ‘Bob says you two go way back.’
The mess hall had seemed unusually bright, crowded with airmen and WRAF who danced and flirted enthusiastically under the stark electric lights. There were only a few civilians, all young women, shyly clustering around the edge of the dance floor. From the stage a girl sang Paper Moon, her voice sweet and clear and smiling through the sad words. She noticed that the singer couldn’t keep her eyes off Bobby, the song’s sentiments sung directly at him. Nick had grinned at her. ‘Looks like Bob’s made a hit with someone.’
Bobby cast her a quick, questioning look. She nodded an almost imperceptible consent as the familiar dull ache settled around her heart. She could stop him, if she could find the courage, she could stop him seducing this one girl, this one night, and he would be amused or angry or both. He would remind her that they were both free to do as they chose.
As she’d watched Bobby walk away to stand closer to the stage Nick said, ‘Would you like to dance, Nina?’ She remembered he put a particular emphasis on her name, the two syllables rising and falling in his soft, North American accent. When he took her in his arms on the dance floor he seemed shy of her and he held her lightly, as though Bobby had told him she was breakable.
‘Nina?’
Hugh Morgan stood over her. Startled, Nina looked up at him and he smiled awkwardly. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. I fell asleep again.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She stood up. Glancing towards the courting couple she said, ‘Let’s go somewhere else, shall we?’
‘I don’t know if there is anywhere else. I don’t think Thorp has a restaurant except the one here in the hotel.’
‘There’s a pub across the High Street, I passed it as I came here.’
‘The Castle & Anchor? It’s rough –’
‘I don’t mind. Anywhere but here.’
Hugh brought her a half-pint of beer as she’d requested and frowned as she sipped at its creamy head.
‘Is it all right?’
‘Yes. I enjoy beer.’
‘Well, good. A cheap date, I like that.’
‘You say horrible things.’
He laughed bleakly. For the first time she noticed how weary he looked, how dark the rings were beneath his eyes. There was a gleam of sweat on his forehead and he wiped at it discreetly with his handkerchief. He glanced around the busy pub uncomfortably. She wondered if he’d ever set foot here before. The Castle & Anchor was like the pub close to her London flat that she visited occasionally with Irene: noisy and warm, its air hazy with cigarette smoke, its brown varnished walls decorated with mirrors advertising Beefeater Gin and Guinness
. She could relax there, by the coal fire in its ornate grate, she could be one of the girls that Irene collected around her, ordinary and loud and brash – the girl she might have been if not for Bobby.
She said, ‘Is the hotel comfortable?’
‘It’s all right.’ He offered her a cigarette and when she declined lit one for himself. ‘It’s a bit down on its luck, the Grand. I remember it used to be … grander.’ Quickly he said, ‘It’s fine. The bed’s fine.’ After a moment he asked, ‘What did you do today?’
Bobby had said, ‘We could go for a drive, if you like. The sea’s not far away.’
She hadn’t seen the sea for years and he had seemed relieved at her enthusiasm as he said, ‘It’ll be quiet there, off-season. We’ll have the beach to ourselves.’
‘Bobby took me to Saltburn.’ She met Hugh’s gaze. ‘We walked along the pier and had fish and chips. Then later we had tea in one of those big hotels along the front.’
He nodded. ‘The Queens? The Queens does Bob’s kind of teas, all crustless cucumber sandwiches and iced fancies. Does the dining room still have the cherubs on the ceiling? Right up Bob’s street, that kind of thing.’
Bobby had smiled at the garishly painted ceiling. ‘I’d imagined they would have painted it over by now, that someone would have thought it unseemly during the war.’ He’d glanced at her. ‘I used to wonder how such fat angels got off the ground with such small wings.’
Hugh said, ‘Did you have a nice time at the seaside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dad used to take us there – to Saltburn. Me and Bob, and Mum to push Dad’s chair. Looking back I can’t believe how long-suffering Mum was – I’m only surprised she didn’t leave him sooner.’
‘Do you ever see her?’
‘Not often. She lives in Cornwall. Near that cottage I told you about.’
Paper Moon Page 11