Paper Moon

by Marion Husband

  ‘It sounds like he loved you.’

  He remembered how often Jason would say just how much he loved him. ‘I know he didn’t want anything to get in the way of his taking my photograph. He said finding me was like finding the key to his creativity. He said I was a screen he could project anything on to. I didn’t really understand, but it didn’t matter. He took his pictures of me and I posed as I was told to, but in my mind I was flying, doing everything I’d been taught during my last flight. During my next lesson my instructor would tell me I was a quick learner.’

  Uncomfortably aware that he’d talked for too long he said, ‘So, that’s what I did in London before the war.’

  ‘It sounds exciting.’

  ‘Flying is.’ He smiled. ‘As for photographers, cameras, modelling – that’s all so boring you’d think your brains had fallen through a hole in the floor.’

  She laughed and he imagined reaching across the table and taking her hand and wondered what she would do if he did. The way she looked at him was puzzling; it gave him the idea that adultery was nothing to her. And yet she seemed shy, was awkward around him in a way that had nothing to do with the way he looked. Gathering his courage he covered her hand with his own.

  She remained still, ignoring his touch. At last, as he was about to draw away and apologise she said, ‘My life hasn’t been nearly so exciting. In fact sometimes I think it’s passed me by and I did nothing to stop it, just observed its going.’ Hesitantly she said, ‘I’m thirty-four. That’s a lot older than you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nine years, that’s all.’

  ‘All!’ She looked down at his hand on hers. ‘My husband often goes out on his own. Often he doesn’t come home until very late, three or four in the morning. He has his own life and I have mine, such as it is.’ After a moment she looked up at him. ‘You have the most lovely voice, did you know that? I bet women have told you that.’

  ‘No, you’re the first.’ He smiled but she avoided his gaze and glanced towards the clock on the dresser.

  ‘I suppose you have to go?’

  ‘I don’t have to. Would you prefer it if I did?’

  She laughed desperately. ‘This is so silly isn’t it? All this pussy-footing around. I should be brave and say what I want, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t. You’ll think I’m ridiculous.’

  He held her hand more tightly. ‘Say it, Jane.’

  ‘I want you to stay. There. I think you’re lovely and I want you to stay.’

  Still holding her hand he stood up. She stood too, stepping around the little table and leading him upstairs.

  At her bedroom door he hesitated. ‘It’s not your and your husband’s bed, is it?’

  She shook her head, not daring to look at him. He still held her hand and she knew that if he left now she would feel his touch for days, her body unable to forget how much she ached for him. She expected him to go, had expected all evening that he would leave as soon as he politely could; she’d imagined him sighing with relief as he drove away. But he had stayed and in his beautiful voice he had said enough to make her think he was seducing her. She had never been seduced, and perhaps she was wrong, perhaps it wasn’t even his words but the timbre of his voice and the humour in his eyes that made her forget her propriety. Her propriety! That was an Adam word; thinking how much he influenced her she remembered how impressionable she was. Angry with her own silliness she said, ‘I’m being foolish!’

  He let go of her hand and stepped back as though giving her the space to decide what to do next. When she managed to look at him he smiled, kindly, she thought. He was being kind to her. She looked away, humiliated.

  He said, ‘Jane, I think you’re lovely, too. I think you’re the loveliest woman I’ve ever met.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘Look at me.’

  She did and he laughed brokenly. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t look. I should go.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Your husband –’

  She kissed him and at once he was pulling her into his arms. He held her tightly; she could feel how slight he was. She wondered how he would look naked and felt her insides soften with want.

  She said, ‘Lie down on the bed with me, let me undress you.’

  He held her face between his hands. ‘Are you sure?’

  She nodded. ‘Quickly. We should be quick.’

  Nina was singing Paper Moon, spot-lit on an empty stage. Beside him one of the Gestapo officers stood up suddenly and began applauding, his hands ostentatiously high. The officer stopped and turned to look at him, frowning as though considering the solution to a problem. At last he said, ‘I think we shall burn you.’

  The other officer laughed, delighted. ‘At the stake, like Joan of Arc!’

  Nina stopped singing. She smiled from the stage and an unseen audience threw flowers. The pyre was lit at his feet. His hands were tied; he panicked and fumbled and struggled and wept, but suddenly there was nothing but sky beneath him; he couldn’t understand where the fire came from. Nina watched him from the ground, far below, her head tilted, her hand shading her eyes against the bright flames.

  ‘Bobby. Bobby … hush now, hush …’

  Jane Mason knelt beside him. He stared at her, so disorientated for a moment he thought that this was some new twist on the familiar nightmares. He was sitting up and she held his shoulders, her face close to his. She smiled and her eyes were soft with concern. ‘It’s all right. Just dreams. Just dreams.’

  He lay down and turned his head away from her, ashamed of what she’d witnessed. He had begged for his life, he knew, begged and pleaded and made promises, the entire time struggling to open the Spitfire’s canopy as the fire leapt around him. God became real, capable of saving him, God and Christ and all the angels and saints. He had begun his own litany as his plane spun and the canopy opened. How scared he had been, how shamingly afraid.

  Jane still knelt beside him. He could sense her watching him, her concern. Forcing himself to look at her he attempted to smile. ‘Did I scare you? I’m sorry.’

  ‘You didn’t scare me.’ Reaching out she pushed back a strand of his hair that had fallen across his forehead. ‘Is Nina your girl?’

  ‘No. Not any more.’

  She lay down on her back and pulled up the sheet to cover her breasts. Earlier he had taken the grips from her hair and now it was dishevelled, a mass of wild curls framing her face. He remembered how her hair had surprised him as it fell about her shoulders, that there had seemed too much of it to be contained so neatly in the chignon she wore. Both naked on her bed, he had pushed his fingers through the curls until they pressed against her scalp and she had groaned and arched her neck and body, so responsive he had felt his own excitement quicken and become impatient. Too soon he had cupped her breast and felt her whole body stiffen. It was as though she was afraid of some pain to come and he drew back, resting his hand on the soft mound of her belly. Until that moment she had kept her eyes closed but she had met his gaze then.

  ‘I’m a virgin,’ she’d whispered.

  He’d had to go over her words in his head. Understanding, he was ashamed of the new intensity of want he felt: he wanted to take her at once, roughly so he could feel her tear. It would be over quickly and then he could start again and make good.

  Instead he had asked, ‘Do you want to stop?’

  ‘No. I don’t know. What if you can’t … if I can’t …’

  ‘I’ll be slow,’ he said. He wondered how much coercion there was in his voice, how much desperation. He was so hard; he had never been so hard, he wondered if this was how rapists felt and if he could stop himself spreading her thighs and breaking into her. He rested his forehead against her astonishing hair and felt her hand on his hip.

  She whispered, ‘I do want to.’ She was crying and he lifted her hand away and held it as gently as he could. Not wanting to, he thought of Nina, the way she flung back her head when she straddled him, the slow way she licked her li
ps and closed her eyes and pressed her hands against her breasts and groaned with such satisfaction, like a man. He exhaled sharply. It had been so long since anyone other than doctors and nurses had touched him. In his mind’s eye Nina smiled wantonly, play-acting the whore. He couldn’t bear it any longer. Guiding Jane’s hand he closed her fingers around his erection.

  She was tentative at first but then her grip tightened, her whole fist closing around him. She would bring him to climax too soon with a jerk of her wrist, and he was just about to lift her hand away when she released him. She knelt and her hair fell to hide her face as she bowed her head and took him into her mouth.

  He gasped in surprise. Blindly she reached up and took his hand as her lips and tongue worked with such exquisite delicacy that he pulled his hand away from hers and grasped the sheets, arching his body to thrust deeper. He was beyond care for her, for anything but his own release. Raising himself on one elbow he grasped her head. He came, bucking against her, his orgasm going on and on and annihilating him.

  He had fallen back, throwing his arm across his face. His fingers grasped the metal bars of her bed frame. His chest had heaved like that of a man saved from the sea. Unforgivably, briefly, he had slept and his nightmares had disturbed her and brought Nina openly into bed with them.

  They lay side by side, both staring at the ceiling. He tried to think of something to say that would make him feel less disgusted with himself. Sorry was all he could come up with. He felt she would be slighted by an apology.

  She broke the silence. ‘We have to get dressed. He may be back soon.’

  ‘Jane –’ He looked at her. ‘You were so wonderful – incredible …’

  She sat up and rested her cheek on her raised knees, meeting his gaze. Her curved spine displayed its bumps; she looked pale and delicate and he thought of the sprites in Arthur Rackham drawings. Despite his guilt he had an urge to reach out and stroke her but the steadiness of her gaze stopped him. Eventually she said, ‘You were shocked by what I did.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No girl has done that to you before.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. It seemed natural. A natural thing to do.’

  ‘I lost control.’

  ‘I wanted you to. I wanted you not to have to worry about me or about being careful, after what I told you. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. I should have kept quiet.’

  He sat up. Needing to reassure her he said vehemently, ‘No – you were right to tell me if you were afraid.’

  ‘I was ashamed.’

  He was filled with such a feeling of tenderness for her that he had to look away in case she thought he pitied her. He caught sight of his reflection in her dressing table mirror and looked away quickly. He had forgotten himself for a moment; he didn’t need such an ugly reminder.

  He thought of her husband, undoubtedly queer, as Hugh and his school friends had guessed. He wondered if he had told her before they married, if some arrangement had been worked out between them, or if his failure to consummate their marriage had been a total humiliation. Either way he felt angry. Queers should be killed; they should be rounded up and gassed like vermin. He thought of Jason, the exception, and clenched his fists. His anger was so childish, so bitter and full of hurt. He wished he could leave it in his childhood where it belonged.

  ‘Bobby?’

  She had moved across the bed to kneel behind him and he turned to look at her.

  ‘Please don’t call me Bobby. Mark calls me that – my family. I hate it. Bob, I prefer Bob.’

  ‘All right.’ Gently she said, ‘We have to get dressed.’

  When they’d dressed and she stood with him at the front door, he kissed her impulsively, tasting his own dark scent. Holding her face between his hands he said, ‘Will you be all right?’

  She nodded. ‘He won’t guess anything.’

  ‘I don’t care about him!’ He let his hands fall, exasperated with his inability to articulate how he felt. He needed a cigarette to calm himself, he needed to seem strong and confident so that she would know she could rely on him. Instead he was desperate to be in her bed again, mindlessly making love to her. He wanted to find her husband and smash his teeth down his throat. Agitated, his hand went to her face and she turned to kiss his palm.

  ‘I want to make love to you,’ he said. ‘I want to make you feel as I did.’

  The hallway was dark and he searched her face to try to discover what she might be thinking. He couldn’t tell and so he said too quickly, ‘Come to my house tomorrow after you’ve finished at the school.’

  ‘Yes. All right.’ She smiled shyly. ‘Go now. I’m afraid he’ll find you here.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  NINA WOKE FROM A dream that someone was knocking on her door. Sleepily she peered at her alarm clock. It was almost midnight. The knocking went on, real and gently insistent. Her heart began to hammer as she tried to imagine what emergency there could be for someone to call so late. She sat up, staring at the door. After a moment she called out, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Nina. Hugh.’

  Tossing the bedcovers aside she got up and went to the door. Just for a moment she hesitated before drawing back the chain and bolt and turning the key. He could wait, long enough to know that she wouldn’t rush for him, but also so that she might compose herself. He mustn’t see that she had been frightened.

  As soon as she opened the door he was hugging her. He smelt of the cold outside, of stale train carriages and too many cigarettes. His coat was rough against her sleep-warm cheek. Suddenly she remembered that the night-dress she wore was horribly matronly, its flower-sprigged flannel covering her voluminously from her throat to her ankles. Even Bobby had never seen her in it. She pushed away from him, turning her back and picking up her dressing gown from the bed. Putting it on she said, ‘I didn’t think you were coming until tomorrow.’

  ‘I couldn’t wait. I caught the first train going to King’s Cross.’ He laughed, sounding exhausted. Rubbing his hand across his unshaved chin he said, ‘It stopped at every station. I think I could have walked faster.’ He grinned. ‘It was worth it, though. Every minute.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Toast? I have some bread, it’s only a day old.’

  Again he nodded. He seemed unable to take his eyes off her, or speak in case that might break his concentrated looking. She sighed. ‘Hugh, put your bag down, take off your coat. We can go to bed after you’ve eaten.’

  Driving him to Thorp Station Bobby had said, ‘You won’t come back, will you? Will you go to Cornwall?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Impulsively Hugh said, ‘The cottage is empty – why don’t you take a holiday there? It’s so quiet this time of year – you’ll have the beach to yourself –’

  ‘So no danger of frightening any tourists, eh?’

  Hugh sighed. ‘I didn’t mean that.’ Frowning he said, ‘You don’t look so bad, you know.’

  He snorted. ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself, Bob.’

  ‘And you think skulking on a Cornish beach is going to make me feel good about myself?’

  Exasperated, Hugh turned away. They were passing the cemetery and he watched as its rooks were startled into the air by some unseen presence. Lighting two cigarettes he handed one to Bobby. ‘We had some good times at the cottage when we were kids.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bobby changed down gears as they approached a junction. He smiled slightly. ‘We did.’

  ‘Do you remember going out in that little fishing boat, the time Dad was so seasick? Christ, he was angry with himself!’ He laughed, remembering how green Mick had become. It was the first time he remembered thinking he could do something that his father couldn’t. The pride he had felt in his own sea legs had stayed with him for days. Suddenly he realised that the only other holidaymaker on that boat who hadn’t thrown up was Bob. At the time Bob had been more concerned for Mick tha
n he was, enforcing his belief that Bob was more suited than he was to the role of Mick’s son.

  Carefully Hugh said, ‘I’ll visit Dad when I’m in London. He’s beginning to ride high again with this new collection.’

  Without taking his eyes off the road Bobby said, ‘Nina told me.’

  ‘He asked about you when I saw him last.’

  Bobby shook his head, smiling bitterly. ‘Liar.’

  ‘Why should I lie about that?’

  ‘I don’t know, Hugh, it’s your lie.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake! You’re right, I lied. He didn’t ask about you. He’s still angry with you, though, about something or other.’

  He watched Bobby, waiting for an explanation at last. His running away had caused a flurry of gossip amongst his parents’ friends. Of course everyone had known all along that Redpath had beaten his stepson, had actually seemed to hate him. Of course everyone had felt sorry for the boy – and he was so beautiful, wasn’t he? So courteous and bright – who wouldn’t be proud of him? Instead, Redpath had driven him away to God knows what dangers such vulnerable boys could find themselves in.

  But Hugh had known that it wasn’t anything to do with Redpath. Bob had become immune to his stepfather’s bullying; he treated him with such contemptuous detachment that Hugh had been awed. Hugh knew Bob’s absence had everything to do with Mick. Whenever one of his parents’ friends speculated about Bobby, Mick would go into one of his thin-lipped, hard-eyed silences that Hugh so dreaded.

  They had almost reached the station and Bobby had remained silent, the atmosphere between them in the car so oppressive that Hugh couldn’t stand it any longer. Hugh cleared his throat and Bobby glanced at him.

  Bobby said, ‘You know why I ran away, Hugh. School had finished, I wasn’t clever enough to stay there any longer and I couldn’t face going back to live at home. Simple as that.’