Wiping his eyes he said, ‘Is he coming?’
She smiled at the way he could never bring himself to speak Bobby’s name. ‘No.’
He looked vindicated. Bobby’s absence from the funeral was more evidence of his thoughtlessness. All the same he pretended surprise. ‘He’s not? Oh well. We’ll say he’s not up to facing people. We’ll say he’s indisposed. Everyone will understand.’
‘He sends you his condolences.’
Davey snorted. ‘Would you like a drink, Nina? Sherry?’
As he poured their drinks he said, ‘Do you have an escort for the funeral? Perhaps that wonderful man I saw you with? Hugh Morgan! I suppose having a father as famous as Michael Morgan makes him a celebrity by default, wouldn’t you say?’
He handed her a schooner of sherry. Nina sipped at it as Davey waited eagerly for her response. It would be easy to gossip with him about Hugh. They could have one of their bright, bitchy conversations that took apart their victim and reduced him to a set of affected mannerisms. But Hugh was her secret; to speak about him at all would be a betrayal. She couldn’t allow Hugh to be exposed to the particular light Davey would shine on him: he might become ordinary again and the man she’d left waving at Thorp Station someone she’d invented.
Davey said, ‘He doesn’t write poetry too, does he?’
She laughed, thinking of Hugh and his hatred of his father’s work. ‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘No. Didn’t look the type. He looked like a man of action, to me. Will he be coming with you to the funeral?’
‘No.’ She met his gaze. ‘He’s in Thorp, with Bobby. The two of them are old friends.’
His eyes widened. ‘No! He’s knows him? They’re friends? I can’t believe a man like him would be even associated with a man like Bobby Harris.’
She looked down at her drink. Already she felt as though she’d said too much. Davey looked amazed, his grief temporarily forgotten as he seemed to consider all the questions he might ask her. Nina said quickly, ‘If there’s anything you’d like me to do, Davey, any arrangements to be made, I’d be happy to help.’
His eyes lingered on her face as though he was appreciating a much-valued possession. His gaze swept over her, taking in her silk stockings, the dark suit she’d chosen so carefully for its sombre modesty, the little veiled hat made from sleek, oil-black feathers. His smile puckered. ‘Look at you. So smart. I remember when Jason introduced us. Little waif, he called you, little Irish ragamuffin. He told me how he found you in that dreadful little café on
Percy Street
without the price of a cup of tea. You were so …’ He frowned. At last he said, ‘Unspoilt. Then you met Bobby Harris. Only this morning I was looking at pictures of you and Bobby and remembering how he used to correct the way you spoke, the way you walked, even the way you dressed. You’re his product, Nina, I always thought he made you someone you’re not meant to be. Even Jason regretted introducing the two of you.’ She remembered Jason saying, ‘Bobby’s something of a worry to me.’
It was the spring of 1940. They had been strolling through Regent’s Park, Jason stopping occasionally to photograph the ducks or the small boys pushing boats out on to the water. She remembered how sunny it had been, the trees newly in leaf, and that she’d worn a pale green silk dress that draped softly and made her feel like a shapely, elegant woman with hips and breasts rather than a stick-thin child. Bobby had chosen the dress, holding it against her in the shop and explaining why the colour suited her.
As they’d walked towards the park gates Jason had said, ‘You do know Bobby’s not right in the head, don’t you?’
Outraged, she’d laughed and immediately he snapped her picture. Lowering the camera he gave her a triumphant smile only to frown thoughtfully. ‘No, Bobby’s definitely not right. Damaged – I think that’s the word.’
She remembered how he’d taken her hands. ‘You’re so lovely, my darling. Don’t let him make you think you’re as damaged as he is.’
Davey got up suddenly. ‘Listen – there is something you can do for me. Some old acquaintance of Jason’s is arriving at Waterloo this afternoon. Would you meet him?’
Every time he returned to England his faith in his long ago decision to leave was re-born. He hated the cold and the damp and the fog. He hated the hostility of strangers, their pinched, closed-in expressions and their look-twice suspicions. But if he hated England, England had hated him in return.
Standing outside Waterloo Station, beside the flower seller where Jason’s lover had told him to wait, the cold of the pavement seeped through the soles of his shoes and rain began to spit from a gun grey sky. He looked up at the dense clouds, thinking of Samir and his longing to see London, how he had begged to be allowed to accompany him. He tried to imagine the boy’s brown feet on the filthy pavement, unable to picture him in shoes. On the streets at home Samir wore sandals and his feet bore a tide mark of white, sandy dust. Here in England the boy would freeze to death, or else wear the heavy boots he himself had worn at his age: army boots, made weightier by Flanders’ mud. He closed his eyes and felt the rain on his face. He couldn’t bear to see the boy subjected to this country.
The Easter-time scent of daffodils competed with that of exhaust fumes and he thought of buying flowers for Davey, a bunch each of daffodils and iris, a contrast Jason would have appreciated. He wondered about the etiquette of flowers in England, if a man could be seen carrying them on the street without being jeered. He sighed at his paranoia and wilful distrust of his once fellow countrymen. Men like him were hated wherever they went, whether they carried flowers or not. He had to remind himself that it was really only the weather in England that was crueller.
The woman behind the flower stall said, ‘What would you like, sir?’
He suspected she smiled at him only because he looked like someone who would buy two dozen roses. He wore a black cashmere coat over a Savile Row suit, a silk tie in the deep, velvet blue of violets. His shoes were handmade. Lately flecks of grey had appeared in his hair so that Samir said he looked wise as Solomon. He felt old suddenly, England’s weariness creeping into his bones.
The flower seller was looking at him expectantly, smiling still. He thought of Davey and his love of flamboyance and bought an armful of yellow roses.
Davey had said, ‘His name’s Francis Law. I don’t think it’s his real name.’ He smiled at Nina enigmatically. ‘I think he’s a spy.’
Francis Law was waiting exactly where Davey had told her. He had described him accurately: a slight, elegant man who carried himself like a general and looked as though he might own the world. Only the roses were a surprise. He cradled the flowers in one arm and she saw him glance at his watch as she approached. Nina quickened her pace, all at once feeling nervous; she was late and he obviously wasn’t the type used to being kept waiting.
Breathlessly she said, ‘Mr Law? Hello – I’m Nina. Davey sent me to meet you.’
Shifting the roses from his right arm to his left he held out his hand to her. ‘Nina. Hello. I’m Francis.’
His hand was hard and dry. She noticed how tanned he was and how striking he looked amongst the pasty-faced commuters leaving the station. He smiled at her, drawing his hand away. ‘Nina, Davey very kindly invited me to stay at Jason’s flat. But I think it might be considerate to stay at a hotel given the circumstances. I usually stay at a hotel very near here. I know you must have had a tiresome journey across London so perhaps you’d care to have lunch with me there?’
In the hotel the roses were given to a porter to be put in water and Law frowned as he watched the boy carry them away. ‘They seem inappropriate now.’
‘Jason loved roses.’
‘I should have telephoned Davey and insisted that I stay in a hotel. I feel I’ve wasted your time.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Well, I hope lunch makes up for your inconvenience.’
They followed a waiter into the dining room. Only a handful of tables were occupie
d, all the diners men. Heads turned towards her as the waiter pulled out her chair, a few eyebrows raised in mild disapproval. As she sat down Francis Law smiled at her as though they were fellow conspirators.
He took out a silver cigarette case and held it out to her. When she declined he slipped the case back into his pocket. The waiter had handed them menus and he glanced at his cursorily. ‘I hear the rationing is still very bad?’
‘Yes.’
‘I haven’t been to England since before the war. I live in Tangiers – I suppose Davey told you?’
‘No, he didn’t.’ He had hardly told her anything at all, only that Jason had always been mysterious about this man. But Jason liked secrets, real or invented. ‘Did you know Jason well?’ Nina asked.
‘Yes, we met before the war. We were good friends – pen friends on the whole, although he and Davey visited me late last year, before he became ill.’ He looked at the menu again. ‘The roast beef, I think. I’d recommend it, Nina.’
She realised how hungry she was and her stomach rumbled a little. He grinned and suddenly he looked boyish, all of his seriousness falling away. ‘I think we’ll have something to start as well, and pudding and cheese,’ he said. ‘We’ll get the better of this rationing business, eh?’
Over coffee he said, ‘Where do you and your husband live, Nina?’
‘I’m not married.’
‘Oh – forgive me. I noticed your ring.’
She looked down at the thin gold band on her finger. ‘I’m a widow. Nick was killed in 1940. He was a fighter pilot.’
‘I’m sorry.’ After a moment he said, ‘Was he a friend of Bobby’s?’
She had told him about Bobby as part of the long story of how she knew Jason. He’d listened attentively as she told him how Jason had encouraged Bobby to learn to fly, how she suspected he had paid for the lessons because Bobby wanted them so badly and he could never bear to see him denied anything. Now she wondered why she had told him all about Bobby and so little about herself.
Francis was watching her, his first cigarette of the afternoon sending pale wisps of sweet, expensive smoke up to the high ceiling. Meeting his gaze she said, ‘Bobby introduced me to Nick. They were in the same squadron. Bobby said we were made for each other.’ She looked down at her coffee cup. ‘I don’t know whether we were or not. Time would have told, I suppose.’ Quickly she said, ‘I don’t think I miss him as much as I should. Bobby –’ She stopped herself. ‘May I have a cigarette?’
As he lit her cigarette Francis said, ‘I saw Bobby’s portraits in Jason’s studio before the war.’ When she looked at him in surprise he said, ‘More than attending the funeral, my reason for being here is to see him.’
For the first time since they met she saw him as the kind of man Bobby would despise, the kind who would walk into Jason’s studio to buy one of the artful photographs Bobby posed for. She thought of the photograph that he would be most likely to choose: Bobby sitting naked on a bed, sideways to the camera, a sheet barely covering his groin. He was leaning back, the weight of his body resting on his splayed hands. His head was bowed in submission. Disappearing into shadow, the bed was skilfully disordered, a pillow placed casually at Bobby’s feet. A moment after Jason had taken the shot Bobby had looked up at her, his eyes blank as a sleepwalker’s.
Her coffee was cold now, too strong and bitter but she sipped at it anyway, wanting to avoid this man’s eye. She imagined him holding Bobby’s likeness to the light. He would admire it in private before hiding it away to be shown only to those he thought discerning enough. She hated him suddenly; she wished she could leave without appearing rude.
Law stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I didn’t go to the studio for the reasons you think, Nina.’
She set her cup down gently. ‘In that case how do you know what I’m thinking?’
He signalled to a waiter for the bill. ‘Nina, shall we sit in the lounge? It’s a more private place to talk.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EVERY LUNCHTIME BEFORE PUDDING was served Jane left the clattering, controlled chaos of the school dining hall and walked into town. She needed this escape. Outside the confines of the school she could take a break from the tight-lipped, too-stern school marm she became the moment she stepped through Thorp Grammar’s gates. Even so, the smell of the school clung to her and the sweaty plimsoll stink was made worse today by the smell of baked fish dished up for lunch. The smell seemed trapped in her clothes and hair; she felt tainted by it; it seemed to be a mark of her failure to be desirable.
Desirable! She smiled bitterly as she walked along the High Street. Since she’d met Bobby Harris she had become obsessed with her own plainness. She thought of all the glamorous women he must have known and how even the most gorgeous of them must have thrown themselves at his feet. She pictured him dancing to some slow, sentimental song with an aristocratic girl in his arms. The girl would be as incandescently lovely as one of Arthur Rackham’s fairies; she would be called Annabel or Diana and would be madly in love with him and swoon when he kissed her. In his uniform he would look brave and vulnerable at once and Diana would be terrified for him every moment they were apart.
Jane turned down one of the alleys that ran off the High Street. She stopped outside Mellor’s Curiosity Shop and gazed at her ghostly reflection in the window. She could make more of herself, she supposed. She could wear more feminine clothes and have her hair styled. Her figure was still good, she didn’t have the round belly and heavy breasts that made most women her age appear matronly. She was as slim as a girl and like a girl she had never borne a child, she had never even felt a man’s hand on her thigh as his eyes questioned hers. Inexperience made her as brittle and insubstantial as a blown egg.
A group of women from the sugar factory approached her on their way back to work. They wore their hair in turbans, their overalls showing below the hem of their coats. They laughed, a loud burst of raucous noise, and Jane stepped closer to the shop window and drew her arms into her body in an effort to become smaller. The women jostled past in the narrow space, trailing the scent of spun sugar. She glanced after them. Perhaps if she had left school at fifteen and taken work in a factory she would be married to a man who gave her his pay packet each Friday afternoon and took her to bed every Saturday night. By now they would have half-grown children about to leave school themselves. She would be one of the sugar girls, reeking of sweetness and buoyed by camaraderie. Jane sighed, touching her hair that was drawn back too severely beneath her mouse-brown felt hat. Perhaps she would buy herself a lipstick in a bright, bold colour.
Jane waited in the school hall for her actors to arrive. She glanced at her watch then up to the clock above the stage. They were late and she went to the hall doors and looked up and down the corridor. A few minutes ago the school had been full of boys jostling each other to leave as quickly as possible, now the corridors were empty. Her footsteps echoed as she walked back into the hall.
She sat down on a chair in front of the stage. Taking a compact from her handbag she flicked it open and peered at its mirror. She should have known better; the mirror was too small, smudged with fingerprints and dull with old face powder, and her reflection was unflattering. She snapped the compact closed. If Bobby Harris turned up he could take her as he found her. He was just a boy anyway, younger than her by ten years at least. She had romanticised him because of his lovely voice and shy manner and because in the war he had been brave and his courage had damaged him so badly. But he was still only a boy, even if she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Behind her a voice said, ‘Hello again.’
She leapt up at once. Bobby Harris smiled at her. Looking to the empty stage he said, ‘Am I too early?’
‘No – the boys are late. Sometimes a master keeps them back for one reason or another. Some of my colleagues think the school play is too frivolous to be taken very seriously, especially when the fifth form has exams coming up …’ She trailed off, aware that she was gabbling. He was sti
ll looking at the stage as though he was afraid he would have to perform on it. About to say something, he stopped as the boys clattered into the hall.
Mark Redpath only glanced at his brother and she guessed he didn’t want to set himself outside the group by being over-friendly. Instead he looked afraid that inviting Bobby might not have been such a good idea after all. Jane smiled at Mark reassuringly but her own nervousness made the smile thin and sickly.
Bobby Harris sat down next to her. Mark took centre stage and his brother watched him intently. To her surprise Mark seemed to gain confidence from this. His major speech about the girl he left at home was performed directly to Bobby Harris, word perfect. The other boys picked up on Mark’s confidence and the scene became charged with emotion so that Jane felt a thrill of excitement. At the end of the act she stood up and applauded enthusiastically.
‘Well done, boys! All of you!’ Grinning, she glanced over her shoulder at Bobby Harris. ‘What did you think?’
He stood up. ‘Mrs Mason, would you excuse me?’
He turned and walked out of the hall. Jane looked at Mark. He was frowning, concern mixing with disappointment. He made to get down from the stage but she motioned that he should stay where he was. ‘Start on the next act,’ she said. ‘I won’t be long.’
She found him outside. He was sitting on the steps leading up to the main entrance, a cigarette ignored between his fingers, his head bowed. She stepped towards him cautiously. He seemed to radiate unhappiness and she almost turned back into the school, afraid of the infectious depth of his despair. On the brink of turning away he looked up at her. It seemed as though he’d been crying.
Paper Moon Page 16