Paper Moon

by Marion Husband

  ‘Will you come back?’

  ‘Yes.’ To assure him he had taken his hand. ‘Yes, of course.’

  He had drawn his hand away. ‘What if he hates you?’

  ‘What if he doesn’t?’

  Looking out over the oily River Tees, Francis remembered how Patrick had frowned at him until he had felt like a spoiled child about to be reasoned with. Eventually Patrick had said, ‘Shall I come with you?’

  Francis had almost wept then and he hadn’t wept for years, not since that day in prison when he read the letter that told him he wouldn’t be allowed to see Bobby again.

  He lit a cigarette and drew smoke deep inside him. In Durham Gaol he had made himself think of his imprisonment as just an extension of the war, except there were no snipers aiming for his head, no bombardments to shatter his nerves. His gaolers could do their worst but at least he would survive his three years’ hard labour for buggering a stranger in a public toilet. His lawyer had pleaded for leniency: his client was a veteran of the war who had lost an eye fighting for his country. There had seemed something comical about that; there were sniggers in court as though a one-eyed queer was the punch line to a dirty joke the judge wouldn’t get. The judge said gravely that he was a disgrace and that his fine war record had been nullified by such a depraved, disgusting act. His father had shouted from the public gallery that this was not justice, that there was no justice any more. For his own part he had bowed his head, meekly accepting. He had always known that fucking men would lead him to this.

  In Durham Gaol he didn’t expect his wife to visit him. He expected the divorce papers, her only response to his letters. When the letter came advising him that Bobby was to be adopted by his new stepfather he had cried for days, openly and without inhibition. During his next visit his father said, ‘Perhaps it’s for the best – imagine how the child would feel if he knew the truth about you.’

  The truth was that he was a homosexual, a queer, a fairy, a shirt-lifter, a sodomite. That stranger in the public convenience had a sweet, lost expression, and he had looked young, even younger than he was. There had been something irresistible about such innocence.

  Francis crushed his cigarette beneath his shoe. He remembered how Patrick had waited for him outside the prison gates, how he had silently taken his small suitcase from him and helped him into the cab. Together they left England the next day, crossing the Channel to Calais just as if the war still raged and they were returning to their platoon. Throughout the long journey to Tangier, Patrick broke into his silences to speak of his house with its tiled floors and shutters to keep out the heat, its courtyard where the fountain cooled the jasmine scented air. The sun would heal him, Patrick said, it would make him strong again. On his first night of exile in his new country, in Patrick’s tiny, whitewashed house that smelt of heat trapped in stone, Patrick had wept as he’d undressed him, tenderly exposing his skinniness, his deathly prison pallor. They hadn’t made love for years, and wouldn’t for months; he stank of fear, he was frail and sickly and repellent and thought of no one but himself. Even Bobby was forgotten for a while.

  For a long time all he did was sit in Patrick’s courtyard, watching the shadows lengthen. The light was different here; he found himself stirred by its intensity. As he became stronger he began to draw the little birds that came to drink from the fountain’s edge. Without comment, Patrick bought him paper and paints and brushes. He painted the birds over and over and thought of prison, of a particularly sadistic guard who had such an imagination when it came to the sexual humiliation of his prisoners. The birds became tamer, he would throw down crumbs and they would hop around his feet. Patrick began to call him Saint Francis, smiling so that he might smile too.

  One day he’d told Patrick, ‘I don’t want to be called Paul any more. They’ve decided Paul Harris is dead – well, so be it.’

  He’d taken his mother’s maiden name and the Christian name Patrick had chosen for him. Francis Law. It was the name on the first painting he sold, a portrait of Patrick half-naked and asleep on their bed. Other buyers came forward; he sold the pictures of the birds, and those of the young servant boy who cooked and cleaned for them. He began to gain a reputation amongst his fellow ex-pats for painting decorative pictures, perfect for their tasteful, modern homes. He painted beautiful pictures of Patrick and the boy and the little birds and all the time he remembered the prison guard and the men he’d killed and seen killed on the battlefields of France. The memories were too vivid to be ignored. He began to paint them in dull, realistic colours. In these paintings the men were even more beautiful than Patrick was and some of them were dead, and some of them were Paul, painted by Francis.

  To his surprise these paintings sold. In England Mick Morgan’s war poetry had become so popular that people queued outside bookshops to hear him read. Morgan’s play about the war ran for years in the West End and Francis’s paintings were seen by some as the antidote to Morgan’s popularisation. It became chic to own a Francis Law; whereas Morgan was read by the masses, Law was appreciated by the discerning few. These few paid large sums to prove how unsentimental they were.

  After his first exhibition in London one cold spring afternoon in 1930 he walked from the gallery where all his paintings had been sold and found himself at the door of Morgan’s Kensington flat.

  For a while he’d hesitated, even walking back along the street, believing that his courage had failed. But he had to do this and he’d turned back again. Before he could change his mind he pushed hard on the bell above Morgan’s name. He made himself think of Patrick, who would only be exasperated by his nervousness, but all the same he jumped as the door opened.

  A man smiled at him. Francis had heard him laughing before he opened the door and he was still smiling, his voice bright as he said, ‘Hello! What can we do for you?’

  ‘Is Mr Morgan in?’

  ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.’

  ‘He’ll see me.’

  ‘Will he?’ The man raised his eyebrows. ‘And who are you?’

  Behind the man’s back Mick Morgan said, ‘It’s all right, Henry. I know him.’

  Henry looked put out. After a deliberate hesitation he stood to one side.

  In Morgan’s living room Henry said, ‘Are you going to introduce us, Mick?’

  Morgan turned to Francis. Without bothering to keep the contempt from his voice he asked, ‘What do you prefer to be called nowadays?’

  ‘Francis.’

  ‘This is Francis, Henry. The man who lives with my brother.’

  ‘So you’re Francis! The artist everyone is talking about! Well – pleased to meet you, at last.’

  Francis said, ‘I’d like to talk to you alone.’

  ‘Well – don’t mind me, I’m sure!’

  Mick sighed. ‘Henry, just give us a few minutes, eh?’

  When he’d gone Mick said, ‘You have two minutes. Say what you have to and go.’

  Francis ignored him. Going to the window he watched Henry walk along the street before turning to Mick. ‘Why are you living with a queer?’

  ‘I don’t live with him! For Christ’s sake! He’s my assistant – a bloody good one too. He’s not usually so silly – I should imagine you brought out the worst in him – you usually have that effect.’

  ‘May I sit down?’

  ‘Do what the hell you want.’

  Francis sat. Anxiously he asked, ‘Do you still go home to Thorp?’

  ‘I’m not about to abandon my family like you did.’

  ‘So you go home often?’

  ‘Why?’

  Taking a deep breath to steady his nerve Francis said, ‘I’m worried about Bobby.’

  Mick snorted. ‘Are you? Rather late in the day to be concerned, isn’t it? How old is he now, nine? Ten?’

  ‘I heard his stepfather treats him badly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

  ‘I know!’ Trying to keep his anger in check he repeated m
ore calmly, ‘I know. My father writes to me.’

  ‘Then perhaps your father should do something about it.’

  ‘He can’t deal with this. He’s quite frail now.’

  Francis thought of George, his father, and how badly he had aged since 1918. It was frightening how enfeebled he had become, a fate Francis could envisage for himself were it not for Patrick. Reading his father’s letters had always made him feel ashamed of himself but lately they had disturbed him. He wrote how withdrawn Bobby had become, how his stepfather treated him cruelly. In his last letter he’d written that he’d noticed bruises on Bobby’s arms. Reading the letter Francis had felt sick with rage. He had wanted to leave for England immediately and confront Redpath. Patrick had persuaded him to stay, to do nothing that might hurt Bobby further. Patrick had said, ‘Perhaps Mick could help.’ Francis had seized on the idea that Patrick’s brother could help him. Now, sitting in Mick’s flat, he felt indecently exposed to his contempt.

  Mick said, ‘I’ve met his stepfather – what’s his name – Redpath, briefly. I didn’t like the man.’

  ‘Would he hurt Bobby, do you think?’

  Mick avoided his gaze. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Would you go and see Bobby? If Redpath knew Bobby was watched over –’

  ‘You want me to look out for your son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and see him for yourself?’

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t? No one would keep me from my son!’

  ‘They’ve told him I’m dead.’

  Mick laughed in disbelief. ‘They told him what?’

  ‘They decided it was better than telling him I was in prison.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I thought you knew. I thought Patrick had told you.’

  ‘Patrick and I have lost touch – you should know that, given it’s your fault.’ He shook his head as though trying to make sense of what he’d been told. ‘So – they told him you were dead? And you just allowed them to?’

  ‘I wanted to see him, when I was released, but I was ill then, and Patrick … Pat …’ He remembered how Patrick had persuaded him that it would be wrong to disrupt Bobby’s life, and that he had allowed himself to be persuaded. After three years in prison he had felt incapable of standing up to anyone, not even this man who loved him so much. Redpath would have demolished him completely.

  Mick said, ‘Don’t bring Patrick into this. If you blame any of it on him I won’t help you.’

  ‘Will you help me? Not me, but Bobby? I know it’s a lot to ask –’

  ‘Does Pat know about this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How is Pat?’

  ‘You should write to him.’

  ‘And endorse the filthy life he’s living?’

  Francis exhaled sharply. ‘Mick, my son needs someone to watch out for him. Please help me.’

  ‘I’ll help for the boy’s sake. He’s a good boy – well-mannered.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Don’t smile like that – you’ve no right to claim any credit for him.’

  Francis stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘Will you write to me from time to time, let me know how he’s getting on?’

  Grudgingly he said, ‘Yes, all right.’

  As he was about to leave Mick said, ‘Will you tell Pat you’ve seen me?’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  He looked away. After a moment he said, ‘Remind him he has a nephew he should visit.’

  Beside the river Francis remembered how he had waited anxiously for Mick Morgan’s first letter. It arrived after several weeks telling him that Bobby had been sent away to boarding school and that it was better that he should be away from Redpath. He included a photograph of two small boys in swimming trunks standing shoulder to shoulder on a beach, their hair wet from the sea, both of them grinning for the camera. On the photo’s reverse Mick had written only Hugh and Bobby – August 1930.

  Francis stood up. A few yards ahead of him a flight of stone steps led from the river path to Thorp High Street. From the High Street it was only a few minutes walk to the house were he was born and where his son now lived alone. His son. He wondered what he would say to him.

  The stone steps had a handrail. He held on to it, shaky as an old man. As he crossed the High Street the sun came out. Grateful for the excuse he disguised himself behind sunglasses.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  JANE HAD KISSED HIS scars, those where the surgeon had harvested skin to graft on to his face and hands, and Bobby had squirmed, embarrassed, wanting her to pretend not to notice. He wanted to be perfect for her, handsome. He wanted to show her a picture of himself in uniform, standing beside his Spitfire. ‘This is me,’ he would say, ‘as I was.’ No such picture existed.

  She hadn’t wanted to eat with him, afraid to stay too long in case her husband suspected something. He had kissed her goodbye and she had slipped out the back door furtively. He had wished she hadn’t looked so guilty, as though she felt she really was betraying her useless, disgusting husband.

  In the kitchen Bobby threw the cold, stewed tea down the sink and swilled out the pot. He opened a tin of pilchards, filleting the strip of bones from each fish and feeding them to the kitten weaving between his legs. He made a sandwich and ate it ravenously, messily. It seemed a long time since he’d felt hungry like this. On his lap the kitten purred loud as a generator; he held out his damaged fingers for her to lick. Like Jane it seemed the little cat didn’t mind about his ugly hands.

  In the second hospital they sent him to he had asked the surgeon, ‘I’m going to lose my fingers, aren’t I?’

  The surgeon had looked up from examining Bobby’s left hand. ‘Not if I can help it.’’

  His hand lay on its sterile pillow, newly unwrapped from its bandages and stinking of green meat. Despite the stench the doctor smiled, pleased with his handiwork. ‘Most of the grafts have taken. You’re lucky – so no more defeatist talk.’

  Waiting to soak his hand in a saline bath, the nurse covered her mouth and nose with a surgical mask against the stench. He was freezing suddenly, saliva watering his mouth. Fighting back his rising nausea he’d closed his eyes and felt the doctor’s light touch on his shoulder. ‘We’ll take the stitches out tomorrow. Try and rest.’

  The kitten curled on his knee. He began to stroke her and she settled trustingly to sleep. He closed his eyes, thinking of Jane and the lies she would have to tell to her husband. Inevitably, pessimistically, he imagined that she would change her mind about leaving Adam Mason, a man who had a career that could support her, who could face up to the world and not be scared of his own shadow. A man who wasn’t so sickeningly damaged.

  He looked down at his hands and remembered the nurse who had covered her mouth and nose against his stink. As she’d dressed his hand after the saline bath, he’d caught her eye and she’d lowered her mask.

  ‘You’re going to be all right, you know. Other pilots have left here to fly again.’

  He tried to imagine climbing into a cockpit and being on standby, strapped in and ready and waiting for an instant departure. He would have taken a discreet piss beside the plane but, all the same, nervousness would make him feel the need to go again. But he was strapped in and one of the ground crew had helpfully arranged the parachute over his shoulders – how astonished the man would be if he unbuckled himself and ran away! He would have to sit tight. Soon an arm would signal from the commander’s cockpit and that would be that.

  He thought of those other pilots the nurse had mentioned – those men who, guessing his otherness, had kept their distance from him. He imagined them climbing into their planes again happily – scornful of being told they were only fit for ground duties, and remembered his terror as he scrambled from his burning plane; the torturous agony as his burnt hands struggled to pull the ripcord that would open his parachute. The mere idea of flying again had made him want to cry with fear.
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br />   The nurse had said, ‘Lieutenant Harris? You will fly again, you mustn’t worry that you won’t.’

  Knowing she expected some response he said, ‘Perhaps the war will be over soon.’ It was the best he could do. All he could think of was the pain to come, the sensation of red-hot needles being forced beneath his fingernails. As he had during other procedures on his hands he would think of Christ enduring the torture of the crucifixion, but that would make him whimper, softly at first, and then, to his shame, more loudly. He was sure the nurses thought he was more cowardly than the other men were.

  He lifted the kitten from his knee and got up. He made tea and carried his cup out into the garden, the little cat following him, pouncing at a leaf tumbling across the lawn.

  Despite Mark’s efforts the garden appeared overgrown and so long neglected he wondered if it could ever be tamed. He looked back at the house and saw that the guttering had finally fallen away. There was not enough money to fix all that was wrong with Parkwood, but even if there was he had no will to restore it. The house had never truly been his home. Lately he had come to feel like the forgotten caretaker of a building that had outlived its usefulness.

  He sat down on the bench that ran around the base of the horse chestnut tree and lit a cigarette. Jane would be home now. He checked his watch and saw that it was almost five o’clock; her husband would be back from the school. He had an urge to go to their house and ask him how he could have been so cruel to marry a woman like Jane, but he knew he would end up making a fool of himself. All he had left were anger and frustration; he imagined how incoherent his rage would make him. Mason would think he was an idiot; worse, Jane would realise he was no more grown up than the boys she taught.

  But he had been a husband and a father, both in all but name. When Joan died the pain he felt made him believe he had actually become ill. At her funeral he had carried her little coffin into church and was sure that when he set it down in front of the altar his heart would explode inside his chest and he would drop dead. After the funeral tea, when Nina had retreated to bed and all the other mourners had left, Jason had made him stop clearing up and sit down.