Jason took his hands in his. ‘I wish you were my son, Bobby. I wish I could make you understand how much I want to help you through this.’
He had been unable to speak in case he should start to cry. He wouldn’t be able to stop crying if he started. He drew his hands away and searched through his tunic pockets for his cigarettes. ‘I’ve been refused leave.’
‘They can’t refuse! My God, Bobby! They must give you compassionate leave for this!’
He’d laughed tearfully. ‘Perhaps if she’d been my real daughter.’
‘Real! Of course she was yours! Go sick – tell them you’re sick to death –’
‘I can’t.’ He’d managed to smile. ‘I’m absolutely indispensable to the war effort, apparently.’ Tears stung the back of his throat. He had an idea that he would walk out into the lanes that surrounded Nina’s cottage and howl with pain. Only the cows would hear him.
Jason said, ‘This will pass, Bobby. The pain will lessen in time –’
‘I think my heart –’ He stopped himself saying it. Admitting to a broken heart sounded like a line from a cheap song. Besides, his heart didn’t feel broken; it went on beating, treacherously keeping him alive. The pain encompassed all of him. He wondered if he curled up tight and breathed carefully it might let up a little.
He’d lit a cigarette. Eventually he’d said, ‘Flying will help. I can’t think about anything else when I’m flying.’
The next week he had been shot down. He remembered the farmer running across his field towards him, the burst of flames as his plane crashed beyond the man’s barn. For a moment he’d imagined the farmer was about to berate him for destroying his crop but there was only horror on his face. He must have looked a sight, he supposed, even then, before his body realised properly what had happened to it.
The kitten leapt up to sit beside him and companionably they gazed out over the garden. If Joan had lived she would have been almost six; he would have hung a swing from one of the trees for her and built a Wendy House. If Joan had lived he would have asked Nina to marry him. If he hadn’t been burnt she might have said yes.
He heard someone clear their throat behind him and he sprang to his feet, surprise making his heart beat too quickly.
A middle-aged man stepped towards him. He was wearing a pair of dark glasses. No one wore dark glasses in Thorp, they were absurd, and despite his surprise at being disturbed he suppressed a smile as he wondered if this stranger had been mistaken for a blind man and helped across roads. Curtly Bobby said, ‘Were you looking for someone?’
Francis heard himself say, ‘I was looking for Doctor Harris.’
Bobby drew on his cigarette. Exhaling he said, ‘Doctor Harris died.’
Francis nodded. He was shaking. He had always expected to recognise Bobby no matter what; now, standing in front of him, he realised he would have walked right past him in the street and only felt the fleeting pity he would feel for a stranger whose life was so ruined. He wondered if perhaps this wasn’t Bobby after all, but some friend he had met in a hospital that cared for burn victims. Burn victims! Francis felt ashamed that he could think so abstractly about him.
Carefully Francis said, ‘Are you Doctor Harris’s grandson?’
‘Yes. Did you know my grandfather?’
‘Quite well.’
Bobby held out his hand. ‘Bob Harris. How do you do, sir?’
‘Francis Law.’ He shook his hand.
‘I’m sorry if I broke the news of my grandfather’s death abruptly.’ He glanced towards the house, only to smile at him shyly. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve just made some.’
‘Then yes, thank you.’
Stepping inside the dark, untidy kitchen was like stepping back into his own past. Francis half expected his father to be sitting in the chair by the fire, ready to tell him that he smoked too much, or, in a more oblique way, that the life he was living was all wrong.
Francis took off his sunglasses and looked around. The kitchen was unchanged – it even smelled the same, making his memories all the more vivid. He might have only walked out an hour ago. He sat down, the grief he had refused to acknowledge over his father’s death suddenly overwhelming.
Bobby said, ‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ He managed to smile. ‘Could I have a glass of water, perhaps?’
He noticed that Bobby allowed the tap to run for a while before filling a glass and remembered that the first flow of water in this house was always brackish. As he handed him the glass Bobby said, ‘You weren’t expecting to see my grandfather as a patient, were you?’
‘Do I look ill?’
‘Yes, in all honesty.’
Francis sipped at the freezing water. Although it was a speech he had been rehearsing all day his voice quavered as he said, ‘Actually I came here to see you, Bobby. Your grandfather wrote to me and asked that if ever I was in Thorp I was to look in on you.’
Bobby laughed. ‘To make sure I was behaving myself and not playing with matches? I don’t think granddad ever thought of me as older than ten.’ He sat down in the armchair opposite. ‘Are you Francis Law the painter?’
‘Yes, I am.’
He didn’t seem surprised. ‘Granddad mentioned you once or twice. He had one of your paintings.’ He glanced up at the square of less faded wallpaper above the fireplace. ‘He took it to his bank at the start of the war. He told me he wanted to make sure it was kept safe – I think he thought there would be more bombing in Thorp. I’m afraid I haven’t got around to fetching it back.’
‘Sell it.’
Bobby raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you think I should?’ After a moment he said awkwardly, ‘Do you think it might be valuable?’
‘Immodestly, yes.’ Francis smiled and found himself studying Bobby’s face, wanting to see if any likeness remained. He remembered how beautiful he had been as a baby; there had been times when he would crouch beside his cot just to watch him sleep. He had carried a photograph of him in his wallet and when he’d been arrested it had been taken away from him, never to be returned.
He must have been staring too hard at him because Bobby became self-conscious, lighting a cigarette and drawing on it deeply before clearing his throat.
‘Your painting – the one granddad had – it was of a soldier on his bunk.’
Francis nodded. He remembered sending the picture to his father after his first London exhibition, all the time wondering what he would make of it. The soldier lay on his back, one arm dangling over the side of his narrow bed, a cigarette smoking between his fingers. In the foreground was a table on which an oil lamp cast a mustard-yellow glow. Beside the lamp was a pile of letters. He’d called the painting Letters Home. He’d wanted his father to look at the picture and think of him not as its creator but as its subject. He’d wanted his father to understand that there were times when the trenches were quiet, times when he could smoke and think in peace.
Bobby said, ‘I don’t know if I should sell the painting – he loved it so much it would seem wrong, somehow. I think it reminded him of his sons. They fought in the first war.’ After a moment he said, ‘How did you know my grandfather?’
‘I was raised in Thorp.’
‘Was he your doctor?’
‘Yes.’ It wasn’t a lie, not really, but it must have sounded like one because Bobby looked at him suspiciously.
‘Granddad talked about you sometimes. He admired your paintings a great deal.’
‘Did he? That means a lot to me.’
‘Will you paint this last war?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Not your fight, eh?’
‘That’s right.’
Too lightly Bobby said, ‘I heard you were a pacifist?’
‘Do you think that was wrong of me?’
‘Terribly.’ Flicking cigarette ash at the fire he said, ‘Do all painters stare at people?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Well, at least you do it ope
nly. If you’re curious I was a Spitfire pilot. I didn’t bail out quick enough.’
‘It must have been very frightening.’
Briskly Bobby said, ‘I should ask for your autograph or something, shouldn’t I? Aren’t you very famous?’
Francis realised Bobby wasn’t about to recognise him, as, in his wilder moments, he had hoped he would. But why should he? Bobby truly believed his father was dead. No one expected dead men to climb out of their graves and introduce themselves.
Bobby said, ‘What brings you back to Thorp?’
‘As I said – to see you.’
‘Honestly? Why? Did my grandfather really tell you what a hopeless case I am?’
‘He was concerned for you.’
‘Yes, well. He needn’t have worried. I’m all right.’ He smiled, dropping some of his curtness. ‘I may even have turned a corner.’
‘That’s good.’
‘I’ve met a girl – she’s …’ He trailed off as though he’d said too much.
‘She’s …?’
Bobby tossed his cigarette stub into the fire. ‘She’s very nice.’ Standing up he said, ‘I’m sure you don’t want me to keep you, Mr Law. Although it was very kind of you to come and see me.’
Hurriedly Francis said, ‘Bobby, if there’s anything I can do for you, if there’s anything you need –’
Bobby seemed puzzled. After a moment he sat down again. ‘Mr Law, I don’t know what my grandfather told you, but if you’re looking for a charity case I’m sure there are many more deserving than me.’
‘I know you don’t need charity.’
‘Then what are you offering?’ As if he’d come to a sudden understanding he said, ‘Do you want to paint me? I could be your muse – I have the experience.’ His voice was heavy with sarcasm. Angrily he said, ‘Why not just come straight out with it? You think I’d make a bloody good subject for one of your anti-war pictures. Well, I’m not anti war – the last war or any other. I won’t be used.’
‘I didn’t come here to ask to paint you, Bobby.’
‘Stop using my name like that! No one calls me Bobby unless they’ve known me all my life.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Bobby looked ashamed of his outburst and Francis said gently, ‘If I was to paint you – and I would like to – it wouldn’t be because I wanted to make some political point.’
‘What other point would there be?’
Francis attempted to smile. ‘No point at all, I suppose – art for art’s sake?’
‘Christ!’ Lighting another cigarette he said, ‘You sound like Jason Hargreaves.’ Glancing at him from shaking out his match he said, ‘He was a photographer – I modelled for him.’
Francis said, ‘Would you model for me?’
‘You really want to paint my portrait?’
‘It would be a great honour.’
Bobby laughed as though embarrassed. ‘Would you make me look as I am or more idealised?’
‘I’d paint what I see. A courageous man.’
Looking away Bobby said, ‘Would I have to go to London?’
‘No. My studio is in Tangier.’ He smiled. ‘You could treat it as a holiday.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I would pay your expenses, of course.’
‘And if I wanted someone to come with me?’
‘Then I would pay for her, too.’
He drew on his cigarette, seeming to consider. Eventually he said, ‘I won’t go unless she wants to.’
Francis stood up. The idea of Bobby in his studio, in his house, was overwhelming and he needed to be alone to think about it. ‘I should go,’ he said. ‘Perhaps if I come back tomorrow for your decision?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
AFTER SCHOOL THE NEXT day Jane said, ‘I thought I’d go to the cinema.’
Adam looked up from the exercise book he was marking. ‘Do you want me to go with you?’
Putting on her coat she said, ‘It’s only a romantic comedy, it wouldn’t be your cup of tea.’
Adam returned to his student’s work. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was yours, either.’
‘You think I’m not romantic?’
Adam sighed. ‘I didn’t say that.’ He took off his glasses and pushed his palms against his eyes. ‘Jane, has something happened?’
Trying not to sound too guilty she said, ‘Happened? What could have happened?’
Dropping his hands away from his face he said, ‘Jane, please. I know you weren’t ill yesterday. I came home at lunchtime to see how you were and you weren’t here. Your room smelt of perfume.’
‘I felt better – I went out to cheer myself up.’
‘Wearing perfume?’
‘Why not?’ Angrily she said, ‘Why shouldn’t I dress up occasionally and feel feminine?’
‘No reason at all.’ Gently he said, ‘Take your coat off, sit down.’
‘Why?’
‘Please, Jane.’ He attempted to smile. ‘I can talk to my wife, can’t I?’
She sat down opposite him, keeping her coat on as a small act of defiance.
Closing the exercise book Adam pushed it away. ‘Sometimes I think I love my work too much. I think it means more to me than anything else in my life, ever. Do you think that’s pathetic?’
‘I don’t think anything about you is pathetic.’
‘No? I haven’t been a husband to you, though, have I?’
‘And do you want to start being my husband?’
He avoided her gaze. At last he said, ‘How’s the play coming along? First night on Thursday – are they ready?’
‘I think so.’
‘And that boy – Bobby Harris? Has he helped at all?’ When she didn’t answer he said, ‘Is he a bit of a dead loss?’
‘No!’ She frowned at him. ‘It just turned out that –’
‘What? Wasn’t he very interested?’
Coldly she said, ‘No, he wasn’t interested. He’s a grown man – why would he want to spend his time with schoolboys?’
‘Or their teacher. Of course he wouldn’t. I was only surprised he consented to it in the first place.’
Jane stood up. ‘I’m going. I don’t want to miss the start of the film.’
As she was about to leave he called after her, ‘Jane, let me know what the film is like – I might want to see it myself after all.’
In bed with Hugh, Nina rested her head on his chest and concentrated on the strong beat of his heart. She’d thought he was asleep but she felt his hand on her head, his fingers gently curling into her hair. Quietly he said, ‘I adore you. You know that, don’t you?’
She held her breath. There was something he wasn’t able to bring himself to say – words that seemed like a weight suspended above her, about to fall. She would be killed, her heart crushed. His heart went on steadily.
Eventually he said, ‘I miss the sea.’
She breathed out. His hand was heavy on her head, its restless stroking finished with. She thought of the battleships that sometimes appeared in newsreels; the grey, industrial bulk of them had always made her feel afraid. The sea was a bleak, cold waste, and the metal ships seemed as unforgiving of human frailty as giant machines. She’d heard how their boilers exploded and scalded men to death, how their blasted holds flooded to drown trapped men. Ships that looked invincible gave up too soon and sank with all hands. She thought of the saying Jason used when his day was going badly: ‘Worse things happen at sea.’ She never doubted it.
Hugh said, ‘Nina?’ He lifted his head from the pillow to look at her. ‘You’re not asleep are you?’
‘No.’
‘If I re-joined the navy –’ more quietly he said, ‘I can’t settle on shore. I’ve tried.’
She wanted to tell him that he hadn’t tried hard enough, for long enough, that he should keep trying because she didn’t want him out of her sight for more than a few hours a day. She didn’t want to see him wearing a uniform, or hear him call ano
ther man sir and salute. She thought of Nick’s funeral, the senior officers following his coffin that they’d had draped in the Canadian flag. Beside her, Bobby was not Bobby but an RAF officer, stiff and correct as a tin soldier.
She got up and put on her dressing gown, wrapping it tightly around her. Sitting on the edge of the bed she said, ‘I want a baby, Hugh.’
He scrambled across the bed to kneel at her side. ‘Of course! I want children too. It won’t stop us having children –’
‘But if you’re not here with me –’
He pulled her to him. ‘I’ll make you pregnant before I go.’
‘That’s what Nick did.’
She stood up and went to the sink to fill the kettle. She could feel him watching her. When she caught his gaze he said, ‘I won’t be killed, Nina. I’ll always come home to you.’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘I will!’ He sprang up. Naked he stood in front of her. ‘I’ll have a career – a real job that I’m good at. I’ll be a captain – I’ll have my own ship.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll have you piped aboard, you and our six kids.’
‘I just want an ordinary life, Hugh.’
‘You’ll have it. I’ll make you proud of me –’
‘Proud! I was proud of Nick, of Bobby – I’ve grown out of being proud of men in uniform wanting to kill each other!’
‘I’m not a soldier, Nina.’
She stepped away from him. They had made love all afternoon, their bodies smelt of each other’s; one of her long blonde hairs caught in the dark hairs on his chest. She picked it off tenderly. His body was beautiful, like the painting of the muscular figure of Christ about to be flogged that hung in the convent’s hall. The tattoo on Hugh’s arm seemed to glow red and gold in the dim light, the fire-breathing dragon a jewelled, magical creature, his talisman against ill fortune. She touched the dragon’s curving tail.
‘The war’s over,’ he said.
She nodded, watching her finger trace the dragon’s spine. She looked up at him. ‘You’ll be safe?’
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