Paper Moon

by Marion Husband

  She sipped her drink, aware of his eyes on her. The silence grew more strained. At the bar a group of men laughed loudly and Hugh glanced over his shoulder towards them. Eventually he said, ‘I had a rotten day, if you’re interested.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He snorted. ‘God knows why I’m here. I can’t say I wasn’t warned.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Thorp. Coming home.’ Taking a long drink from his pint of beer he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He seemed to make an effort to lighten his voice. ‘Odd that you went to the seaside. I’ve thought about the sea all day. If I’d known you were going I might have come with you.’

  ‘You would have been welcome to.’

  ‘Of course. All friends together.’

  He bowed his head, rolling his cigarette around the rim of the ashtray in the centre of the table. After a while he said, ‘I was offered a job today in a bank. If I go to night school and sit exams eventually I could make it all the way up to branch manager. I’ll be expected to sit exams. I was an officer, you see – can’t get away with just being a lowly clerk the rest of my life.’

  ‘Will you take the job?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘Listen, why don’t you stay with me at the hotel tonight? Bob wouldn’t mind – he’s had you to himself all day …’

  ‘No, Hugh. I’m here to see him.’

  ‘And to hell with me?’

  ‘He doesn’t have anyone else.’

  ‘He doesn’t need anyone else. Please, Nina.’ He began to cough and he pulled out a handkerchief to cover his mouth. His face became pale, the cough racking his body. The film of sweat on his forehead became more obvious and his eyes were brightly feverish. ‘I think I may be coming down with something.’

  ‘Do you want to go back to the hotel?’

  He nodded. As he got up he leaned on the pub table for a moment before falling in a dead faint to the floor.

  Bobby said, ‘You were right to bring him here, of course. You couldn’t leave him alone.’

  He had helped her walk Hugh from the taxi into his house and upstairs. Semi-delirious, Hugh had fought against them but Bobby’s strength had surprised her and between them they managed to undress him and put him to bed. Bobby had pressed his hand to Hugh’s forehead. He’d looked up at her, concerned. ‘I’ll call a doctor.’

  The doctor had left a few minutes ago and Hugh was sleeping fitfully. In the kitchen Bobby poured her a cup of tea and they sat beside the dying fire. Her hands were still trembling.

  ‘I didn’t know what to do. He looked so ill –’

  ‘Doctor Maynard said it’s only ’flu. He’ll be fine.’

  ‘He fainted!’

  Bobby laughed. ‘He used to faint when we were children, in infants’ assembly. I used to think he only did it to get out of singing hymns.’

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘No.’ He sighed. ‘Poor Hugh. Have you eaten?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Are you sure? I could make you a sandwich.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Hearing the irritation in her voice she said more calmly, ‘I’m sorry. I know you don’t want him here.’

  ‘I don’t mind, under the circumstances. At least he’ll be staying in his own bed.’

  She looked away, ashamed. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘I’ll get over it

  ‘All the same, I’m sorry. It was unforgivable and you have a right to be upset.’

  ‘I’ve no right at all.’ After a while he said too lightly, ‘You never did tell me what you thought of his father. Did the great poet live up to your expectations?’

  ‘He’s very charming. Charismatic.’ She smiled, remembering how Mick Morgan read his poetry in the bookshop. He had used the book only as a prop and read from memory, word perfect, each inflection and emphasis exact, his attention focused on his audience. She’d noticed how the other women in the shop watched him and guessed they all felt as she did, that he only had eyes for her.

  Bobby said, ‘I suppose he looks old now, does he?’

  ‘Not really. Early fifties, I’d say. His hair’s still very black –’

  He snorted. ‘He dyes it. He’s the vainest man I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Why do you and Hugh dislike him so much?’

  Fumbling to light a cigarette, he glanced at her. ‘Hugh dislikes him? Really?’

  ‘You know what fathers and sons are like.’

  He drew deeply on his cigarette. At last he said, ‘Mark’s starring in his school production of Theory of Angels. He’s Captain Teddy Palmer. He wants me to sit in on a rehearsal and give him a few tips.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I played Palmer at school, too. Won a cup for best performance.’

  She laughed. ‘You never told me that before! So, will you help Mark?’

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt it.’

  ‘You should. Why not, anyway? It will be fun.’

  ‘Fun!’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Fun having a lot of sixteen-year-old boys not know where to look when they meet me?’

  ‘Most people behave well.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Bobby, remember what Doctor Baker said – you have to live your life without worrying about other people. And sometimes you only imagine that others are staring – most of them are too wrapped up in themselves to notice you.’

  He became quiet and she fought the urge to say more of the bright, encouraging words she had said so often in the past. She knew that some people did stare at him, but more didn’t. Most people were kind: she firmly believed this, but Bobby believed in unkindness. ‘He expects the worst from people,’ Doctor Baker had told her. ‘It will make it worse for him when he leaves here.’ The doctor had gone to the window of his study and looked out on the hospital grounds where other men like Bobby sat drinking beer in the sunshine. ‘Our expectations of others are usually met, I find,’ Baker said. He had laughed suddenly. ‘If only I could get Bob to stop taking himself so bloody seriously!’

  Gently she said, ‘Go to the rehearsal, Bobby. Mark’s so proud of you – anyone can see that. Don’t let him down.’

  He turned from staring at the fire to look at her. ‘I should go and see how Hugh is. That doctor said I should keep an eye on him.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HUGH WAS SLEEPING. HE had kicked the blankets away and Bobby covered him again. His hair clung damply to his forehead and his cheeks were flushed, his eyes moving restlessly behind their closed lids. As Bobby stooped over him he mumbled anxiously from his sleep and Bobby touched his arm lightly. ‘It’s all right, Hugh. You’re safe now.’ He knew he was dreaming of the sea; earlier as he had helped Nina undress him, he had cried out orders to his men and his voice had been full of the kind of terror he recognised from his own dreams.

  He sat down on the chair beside the bed. Already the room smelt of Hugh’s sickness although yesterday it had smelt only of dust and old, darkly varnished furniture. The house had five bedrooms in all and two attic rooms. He had hardly set foot in the attics since he was a child and he and Hugh built dens amongst the abandoned metal bed frames once slept in by long-forgotten maids. His school trunk was there, his father’s trunk too. Inside the trunks there would be keepsakes his grandfather couldn’t bring himself to throw away but couldn’t bear to have around. The cup he’d won for playing Palmer was stored in his trunk. Bobby had hidden it away himself before he left for London.

  The day he left his grandfather had said, ‘Write to me – let me know you’re safe, at least.’

  ‘As long as you promise not to tell them where I am.’

  ‘Bobby, please don’t do this – your mother will worry so!’

  ‘No she won’t!’ He had laughed and even to his own ears it sounded forced. He was sixteen; it was the month after the play, after Henry Vickers. He had almost not gone home for the summer at all, had almost boarded the London train from the small station in the village near h
is school. But he had needed to see his grandfather again, to show his new self to him and be assured that his grandfather still loved him. He’d stayed only one night in Parkwood and his grandfather had watched him with increasing concern. If he’d stayed any longer he might have found him out.

  There was a movement from the corner of the bedroom and the kitten Mark had rescued appeared from its hiding place. It sat watching him and he held out his hand until it approached him cautiously. He scooped it up on his knee. The animal purred loudly, bumping its small, bony head against his hand. He thought of the stray cats that stalked the London alleys where the bins of expensive hotels spilled scraps of chicken and cheese rind, shrimp and oyster shells and scraped out jars of caviar. He remembered the homeless men who searched through the waste of such high-class dinners. He had almost been one of them: by the time Jason found him in that Soho café almost all his money was spent.

  Sitting in the café he had known that Jason was watching him, had been watching him from the moment he came in with the last of his pennies in his pocket, just enough for a cup of tea. He had taken his cup to a corner table and sat with his back to the man who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off him. The intensity of his stare made him feel unclean; his flesh crawled and he hunched further inside his coat, wanting to make himself small and unworthy of notice. He remembered that a feeling like stage fright gripped him, causing his hands to shake a little as he sipped his tea. Looking back it seemed right and proper he should have felt that peculiar kind of nervousness – he performed for Jason; whenever he was with him everything he did was an act.

  Jason had sat down opposite him. He didn’t speak but after a while ducked his head to look into his downcast face. He smiled slowly. ‘Hello, you look hungry.’

  Bobby had turned away to the café’s window. Outside rain had begun to fall, a heavy summer downpour that sent rubbish scuttling along the gutter in a fast-moving stream. He watched the rain run down the grimy glass, willing the man to go away. Instead he heard him strike a match and smelt his cigarette smoke. He made himself turn to him, and put on his best Captain Palmer voice.

  ‘I’d prefer it if you sat somewhere else.’

  The man laughed. ‘Really? Would you really prefer it?’ His voice was soft and cultured, as though he’d spent time working on it and expunging any betraying accent he once had. He was blandly handsome, his complexion pink and well scrubbed and closely shaved. He took off his trilby hat and placed it on the chair beside him before smoothing back his red hair. Ash from his cigarette fell to the table and he brushed it to the floor with the side of his hand, smiling apologetically. Bobby caught a whiff of cologne, subtle and expensive as the diamond ring he wore on his little finger.

  Calling out to the man behind the café’s counter he said, ‘Pedro – egg and chips for the young man here, if you don’t mind.’ He looked at him ‘Bacon, sausage?’ He nodded as though Bobby had ordered the meal himself. ‘Excellent choice.’ Raising his voice again he said, ‘The full works, Pedro, please. Fried bread, too.’

  Holding out his cigarette case he said, ‘Do you smoke?’

  ‘No. And please, I don’t want anything to eat.’

  ‘Yes you do! Christ – you look starving! What’s your name?’

  Bobby kept silent and eventually the man said, ‘Listen – whatever your mother told you about never talking to strange men, forget it. Tell me your name – I won’t steal it from you.’

  Bobby looked down at his cup. ‘Bob.’

  ‘Bob? Oh well, it’s a start.’ He sat back in his chair, frowning as he studied him. ‘Have you run away from home, Bob?’ Gently he said, ‘Do you have somewhere decent to stay?’

  ‘Please leave me alone.’

  A plate of food was set in front of him. Although he was hungry Bobby ignored it. Finishing his tea he stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ The man grabbed his hand and held it tightly. Appalled, Bobby tried to pull away but the man only laughed. ‘Don’t look so horrified! Look, sit down and eat your dinner. You don’t want to offend Pedro, do you? He’s not a bad cook, really.’

  ‘I don’t want your charity!’

  ‘Oh, it’s not charity. More an investment, I’d say.’ He was still holding his hand, his grip tightening. Not knowing what else to do Bobby sat down and the man released him. ‘There, that’s a good boy. Now, eat up. You look like you might pass out from hunger.’

  In Hugh’s bedroom the kitten turned in circles on Bobby’s lap, kneading his thighs with its claws unsheathed so he felt their pinpricks through his trousers. After a while it settled down to sleep. In the bed, Hugh rolled on to his back and flung his arm out so that his fingers almost brushed Bobby’s knee.

  Jason had watched him eat and Bobby remembered the satisfaction he seemed to take from his watching. Despite his hunger the food became a trial he had to get through, each mouthful a lump of gristle to be swallowed quickly. All the time he kept his head bowed, studiously avoiding the man’s gaze.

  When he’d almost finished the meal, the man said, ‘I’m Jason, by the way.’

  He ignored him, pushing his plate away. Bacon rind curled in a pool of hardening egg yolk and the chips he couldn’t bring himself to go on eating took on the filthy, waxy appearance of food tossed into the gutter. The little he had eaten sat like a stone in his stomach and he felt disgusted at himself. He was afraid of what this man – Jason – would want in return. He remembered the tenacity of his grip, the greedy look in his eyes as he watched him. He remembered Henry Vickers and his breath against his ear. As always the memory panicked him and he found himself saying hotly, ‘I’m not a queer!’ He felt his face burn, hating the way his voice had risen like an angry child’s. Jason laughed as though astonished.

  ‘No? Well, all right. I wasn’t sure. Although you are a very beautiful boy.’ He gazed at him, a different, cooler look and Bobby felt he was looking for faults he could rectify. At last he said, ‘I’m a photographer.’ Taking a business card from his pocket he shoved it across the table. ‘I’d very much like to take your photograph. I will pay you, of course. I’ll pay you quite a lot, actually.’

  Hugh mumbled in his sleep. Opening his eyes he looked directly at Bobby. He frowned. ‘Bob?’ In groggy, dreamer’s disbelief he said, ‘It is you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Bobby touched his still outstretched hand. ‘It’s all right, go to sleep.’

  In the café a group of men had come in, labourers who had been digging up the road a little further along. Rain had soaked their donkey jackets and they left muddy footprints from the door to the café’s counter. They smelt of tar and coal braziers; they filled the place with their smell and bulky bodies and the man turned his cool gaze on them, as though they were a tableau to be lit. Keeping his eyes on the men Jason said, ‘Come to my studio.’ He looked at him. ‘No strings. I just want to take your picture.’

  Remembering, Bobby closed his eyes and rested his head against the chair’s high back. He remembered how scared he’d been at the idea of being penniless in London, but more scared of going home to another of his stepfather’s beatings. That morning he’d gone from hotel to hotel, asking for a job in the kitchens, the only job he thought himself even half-capable of. He had been met with hostility or amused contempt. There was no work to be had, and besides, he didn’t look like a dishwasher: he was a posh little public schoolboy, soft and useless.

  After Jason had left him alone in the café he’d picked up his card and read it carefully, turning it over in case there should be any more clues on its back. The card was thick, its edge sharply serrated, its print boldly stark. Jason Hargreaves: Photographer. Hargreaves seemed to him a safe, ordinary name. He traced his finger over the indent the name made on the card and read again the address typed in smaller print in the left hand corner. His studio was only a few doors away. He looked out of the window; the rain had stopped. He would go there, he decided, he would be paid to have his picture taken. After everything that had happened to him such payme
nt seemed inevitable. He remembered that on his way out he caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the counter and thought how terrified he looked.

  There was a tap on the bedroom door and he opened his eyes to see Nina standing in a pool of dim yellow light from the hallway. She whispered, ‘How is he?’

  Bobby got up and went to her. Just as quietly he said, ‘He’s sleeping. I’ll sit with him tonight.’

  ‘I should – I feel responsible for him being here.’

  ‘No, you look tired. Go to bed.’

  She smiled tearfully. ‘I’m sorry – it’s a mess, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  He drew her into his arms and held her, careful not to hug her as tightly as he wanted to. He kissed her cheek and stepped back. ‘Good night, Nina.’

  ‘Good night.’ She pressed her fingers to her lips then touched them to his mouth and he had the urge to stop being so carefully polite, to grab her and kiss her properly, his body hard against hers, his hands clutching her head so that she couldn’t escape him. She would give in to him of course, out of pity and for the sake of old times, but she would be repelled, too, hating the feel of his claws and his thin, bloodless lips. She would probably squeeze her eyes shut and think of Hugh.

  He turned away from her and closed the bedroom door behind him.

  In the morning Nina went into the kitchen to find Bobby’s brother making tea. He smiled shyly. Glancing towards the window he said, ‘Bobby’s in the garden. I was just about to take him a cup of tea. Would you like one?’

  She went to the window and watched as Bobby walked across the lawn and sat down on a bench that encircled the base of a horse chestnut tree. He hunched forward, his hands grasped between his knees, and the tree’s white, candle-like blossoms scattered petals on the breeze to catch in his hair. As though he sensed he was watched he looked up and she smiled, holding up her hand in greeting.

  Beside her Mark said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh – yes, thank you.’ She smiled at him. ‘Do you come here every morning?’