Duster in hand, Margot stared out of Paul’s bedroom window. Girls turned a skipping rope in the street, their chanting carrying on the still air as the rope lashed the cobbles. She thought of Paul dancing with Edith, remembering how Robbie had squeezed her hand too tightly.
‘I’ll start to get jealous if you don’t stop staring at my brother.’
‘I wasn’t!’
He laughed, his own eyes on Paul. ‘It’s all right. He has the same effect on everyone.’
‘And what effect is that?’
‘You were the one staring at him, Margot. You tell me.’
Bristling she said, ‘I was only thinking how arrogant he seems – can’t even be bothered to hide his boredom.’
Robbie lit a cigarette, shaking the match out slowly as he watched Paul dance. After a while he said, ‘He only got home yesterday. He goes back the day after tomorrow. I expect he’s exhausted.’ He looked at her. ‘I would expect so, wouldn’t you?’ After a moment he laughed. ‘Don’t look so sulky. I want you to like Paul. I know you and he will get on fine.’
A week later Robbie was back in France. Just before the armistice he wrote to tell her Paul had been wounded. Would you write to him? He gets so few letters. Dad tells me the nurses read our letters to him and it’s the only diversion he has. I can only imagine how truly bored he must be …
She had tried to compose a witty, entertaining letter fit for an unknown nurse to read to a bored, blind man. The task had been too difficult. The half-page she wrote had lain abandoned on her desk. Eventually she threw it on the fire.
From the kitchen Paul called her name and she ran downstairs too quickly, making herself breathless.
Standing in the passage he frowned. ‘Are you all right, Margot?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you sure? You look pale.’
‘Never mind me. Tell me how you got on.’
‘I start next week. Scary, isn’t it?’
‘It’s wonderful. Congratulations.’ She stepped towards him, only to stop, unsure of herself.
With sudden decisiveness he said, ‘I think we should go and celebrate.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll take the train somewhere. The seaside.’
‘It’s winter.’
‘So? Come on, I’ll buy you lunch in the Sea View Hotel.’
The sea was out, the beach a wide expanse of dull yellow sand they shared with only a few seagulls. She walked ahead of him, from time to time stooping to pick up a shell. Her dark wool skirt brushed the sand and a strand of hair escaped from her navy blue tam-o’-shanter. She tucked it impatiently behind her ear, turning to smile at him before looking out at the still, grey sea.
‘I feel like we’re playing truant,’ she said. ‘No one knows we’re here and they’d disapprove if they did.’
‘I’ve felt like that all my life.’ He lit two cigarettes and handed her one. ‘In the army, even at boarding school, I was always expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder and say, “Harris, you idiot, what are you doing here? You should be somewhere else”’
‘I would’ve hated boarding school.’
He thought of Robbie holding on to the sleeve of his brand new blazer in the school hall. George had told him to hold his hand but that wasn’t done. With each word Rob spoke he jerked his sleeve until he thought he would pull it from its seams. Don’t cry. The others will think you’re a baby if you cry. He was seven. Despite Jenkins’s best efforts over the next fourteen years he hadn’t cried once.
They began to walk again, keeping to the firm, wet sand at the edge of the water and following a trail of spiky seagull footprints. When the headmaster had offered him the position he’d almost told the man he’d changed his mind, that the very thought of setting foot in a classroom again made him want to throw up. Instead he’d heard himself accept, meek as ever. He sometimes wondered if he’d agree to anything. Such a sense of duty he had! From the corner of his eye he glanced at Margot. He knew she’d be pleased that he’d got himself a nice, middle-class profession. He smiled to himself bitterly, hoping she was the type who could manage on the slave-wage he’d agreed to.
Above them on the front was the Sea View Hotel, its grand Edwardian façade shuttered for the winter.
Paul said, ‘Sorry about lunch.’
She glanced up at the hotel. ‘I was wearing the wrong hat for it, anyway.’
‘I imagined it would be decked up for Christmas, all lights and flunkies.’
‘Perhaps next year.’
‘The Grand Hotel is holding a New Year Dance. Shall we go?’
She looked down at her bump. Hesitantly she said, ‘Would it be seemly?’
‘Are you supposed to hide away?’
‘No, but …’
‘I think I’d like to go dancing.’
‘All right.’ Avoiding his gaze she nodded. ‘I’d like that, too.’
‘Good.’ He slipped her arm through his. ‘Now, let’s find a nice warm café and have a cup of tea.’
All the cafés were closed, their windows opaque with condensation, their doors locked. They walked up and down the promenade and along side streets lined with little shops advertising candy rock and ices, their windows decorated with miniature Union Jacks for the victors’ sandcastles. All were closed. The whole town seemed deserted, all life stored away for the winter beneath a dustsheet of grey sky.
‘There’s a pub along there.’ Margot smiled. ‘You could buy me a port and lemon.’
‘Are you sure? It looked a bit rough.’
She laughed. ‘That’s all right. I’ve got you to protect me.’
* * *
The King George was as hostile as he’d suspected, the landlord eyeing them suspiciously as he settled Margot at a table furthest away from the men leaning against the bar. Taking off her hat and mittens and unwinding her scarf, she looked around curiously. Her face was pink from the cold sea air. She looked too young to be in such a place.
He bought a port and lemon and a pint. As he went back to the table, Margot lit a cigarette, shaking the match out and tossing it into the ashtray like a practised smoker. Picking up her drink she laughed. ‘Down the hatch.’
‘Down the hatch.’ He clinked his glass against hers.
‘I’ve never been in a public house before.’
He lit a cigarette. ‘They’re usually a bit nicer than this.’
She looked around her again, at the dark brown walls, the spluttering gaslights that made the absence of comfort or warmth even more obvious. Too lightly she said, ‘I suppose you’ve been in lots of places like this.’
‘A few.’
‘In France?’
‘They’re different over there.’
‘How?’
‘Just different.’
‘You don’t want to talk about it. That’s all right.’
He laughed. ‘Over there they call them cafés. They put tables on the pavements outside and serve wine and food.’ He looked at the barman slowly twisting a dirty cloth into a pint glass. Turning back to Margot he said, ‘You can order a cup of coffee and a glass of cognac and sit and watch the world go by.’
‘And French women go by?’
He took a long drink. Wiping away a beer froth moustache he caught Margot’s eye and smiled. ‘Thirsty.’
‘You’ve almost finished it!’
Draining what was left in the glass he stood up. ‘I’ll have another while you finish that.’
As he returned with a second pint Margot asked, ‘Have you ever been to Paris?’
‘No. I haven’t been anywhere, really.’ He laughed shortly, lighting another cigarette. ‘Nowhere exciting, anyway.’
‘I’ve never even been to London.’
‘Then one day we’ll go. Perhaps if you’re with me I won’t get so lost.’
‘You got lost?’
‘Hopelessly.’ He smiled at her. ‘Didn’t you go on holiday when you were a little girl?’
‘Once. We
went to Scarborough for a week.’ Quickly she said, ‘What did you do in London? Were you on your own?’
‘Yes, on my own. I was on leave, early in the war, ages ago. I didn’t have enough time to get home and back so I got lost in London.’
‘All on your own.’
He laughed. ‘Yes, completely. Very sad.’
‘But on your other leaves, what did you do?’
‘I didn’t have many. There was that one, in London, one other when I came home and slept for two solid days, and that last one, when I met you.’
‘But the army sometimes held receptions for officers, dances, that kind of thing …’
He frowned at her. ‘Who told you that?’
She blushed. ‘Robbie.’
‘I think that was before the war.’ He gazed at her, her sweet embarrassment making him smile. ‘Margot, I left school and like an idiot joined the army almost at once. Unlike Rob, who was his regiment’s pride and joy, I was never invited to balls or the general’s parties.’ Gently he said, ‘You were the first girl I danced with in my life.’
She looked down, running her finger around the rim of her glass. ‘But you’re such a good dancer.’
‘We were made to dance together, at school. I was usually the girl.’
She smiled at her drink. ‘May I have another of these?’
As he took Paul’s money the landlord jerked his head in Margot’s direction. ‘On honeymoon, are you?’
‘Visiting.’
The man laughed. ‘Visiting, eh? We don’t get many visitors this time of year.’ Handing him an overflowing pint he said matter-of-factly, ‘We’ve a room here. I do a nice cooked breakfast if she’s up for it.’
Paul sat down and Margot said, ‘What were you talking about with that man?’
‘The weather.’
She smiled, closing her eyes as she took a long sip of her drink. ‘I feel quite light-headed.’
‘We should get you something to eat. You shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach.’
She smoothed her skirt over the small bump. After a moment she said, ‘That man was talking about me, wasn’t he? Saying what a hussy I must be for drinking and smoking and …’
‘And?’ Paul smiled.
‘And going out with soldiers.’
‘Soldiers?’ He looked around the darkening, shadow-filled pub. ‘I don’t see any soldiers.’
‘You.’ She sighed. ‘You know what I mean … anyone can see you were a soldier … especially when you wear that coat.’
Finishing his drink he hauled her to her feet. ‘I think we’d better go and find you something to eat.’
Along with everywhere else, the fish and chip shop was closed and they walked towards the station, both sobered by the cold evening air. Margot looked at him sheepishly. ‘He wasn’t talking about the weather, was he?’
‘He thought we were on honeymoon.’
‘Honeymoon? Here?’ She looked at him, astonished. ‘Who would come here on honeymoon?’
Carefully Paul asked, ‘Would you have liked a honeymoon?’
‘I don’t know.’ She blushed. ‘I suppose I thought it wasn’t appropriate somehow.’ Brightening, she smiled at him. ‘I’d like to go dancing at New Year, though. I think that would be nice.’ She laughed slightly. ‘Remember when we danced together at my party?’
He remembered the feel of her in his arms, her body so stiff, as though he repelled her. Although he’d bathed in almost scalding water he’d imagined he stank, that itchy, lousy smell, sweet as decay. She had smelt of steamed roses. He smiled to himself, remembering how much he had wanted to lead her away to some quiet place just so he could breathe her calming scent in private.
Margot was laughing. ‘When we danced you looked so pained and bored, I told Robbie I thought you were very rude.’
Recollecting himself he said, ‘And Rob agreed.’
‘No. No, he didn’t.’
‘He told me I should buck up.’
‘It was a terrible party, anyway. You had every right to look bored.’
‘I wasn’t bored.’
‘No. I realise that now. You’re just shy, like me.’
She stopped walking and turned to face him, holding his gaze for so long he imagined he could see himself in her eyes, a slight, shy boy trying to live his brother’s life. At last she reached up and touched his cheek. ‘You look so sad, sometimes. I’m so sorry, Paul, for all this.’
Her hand was cold and he pressed his face against it, turning to kiss her palm. She groaned softly, a low needy sound and he pulled her into his arms. He kissed her, tasting the sweetness of port wine as she held him tightly. She must have felt his erection through their clothes because she made that same raw noise again.
Holding her face so that she’d meet his gaze he said, ‘Let’s go back there …’ He searched her eyes, smiling because they were so bright and large. Kissing her again he said, ‘Let’s have a honeymoon.’
‘Shall we?’ She seemed shy suddenly, glancing away towards the dark sea and the distant lights of ships. Managing to look at him she said awkwardly, ‘I think you’re terribly handsome, you know.’
Taking her hand he led her back along the street towards the lighted windows of the King George public house.
The bed was hardly wider than a single bed, its sheets smelling of rainy back streets. There were thin, satin-trimmed pink blankets gathering in deep furrows at their feet and trailing on to the floor. The room was too warm for blankets; it seemed to have sucked up the heat from the room below, drawing it through the cracks in the floorboards just as it drew the laughter and chatter from the bar. Naked, with only a sheet covering her, Margot lay still, listening. Laughter rose and fell; greetings and insults were exchanged. Paul slept on, mumbling anxiously at a sudden burst of noise.
The landlord had been deadpan when they arrived back at his pub. Taking a key from a hook behind the bar he had led them up a steep flight of stairs and along a short corridor, its carpet as sticky as his pub tables. His swinging lantern cast his huge shadow on the wall ahead of them, a hunched, scary monster, intensifying her nervousness. Unlocking the room he’d stood back, smiling broadly at Paul only to resume his poker face as he handed him the key.
Paul turned to her as soon as the man had left. ‘You don’t have to go through with this.’ Taking out his cigarette case he sat down on the bed and lit two cigarettes at once. He handed her one and she noticed his hands were shaking. ‘We can still go home, if you want to.’
There was a chest of drawers beside the bed, the only other piece of furniture in the room. Balancing the cigarette on its wooden edge she took off her hat and began to unbutton her coat. Without another word Paul got up, keeping his back to her as he began to undress. Naked, he climbed into the bed, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling until she climbed in beside him. The sheets were cold and she shivered.
He turned on his side, drawing her close to him. His erection nudged her belly and she was shocked into stillness, afraid as she remembered the hot, tearing pain of that first time with Robbie. From the pub came a shout of laughter and he held her even tighter.
He smelt of musk, nothing like his usual scent. The smell made her want to bury her face in his chest and the pits of his arms. He was hairier than she had expected, his chest covered in coarse, springy hair, jet-black against the paleness of his skin. She curled her fingers into it and he pressed her hand flat against his chest. His heart beat steadily beneath her palm and he kissed her.
‘You taste sweet, of port and lemonade. It’s delicious.’
‘You taste of cigarettes.’
‘Sorry. Such a filthy habit.’
‘You were smoking the first time I saw you. Just standing in our garden, staring out into space, smoking. You looked so sophisticated.’
‘And you thought “What an arrogant boy”.’ For a while he was silent and she shifted in his arms until her head rested on his chest. He stroked her hair steadily. At last he said, ‘I feel clums
y, a bag of sharp bones.’ He hesitated, then, ‘Should I just hold you? Would you prefer it if I just held you?’
Her disappointment surprised her. Carefully she said, ‘We’re married, now.’
‘I’ve never done this before.’
He shuddered and she sat up a little, causing the sheet to fall away from her. Daring herself to be bold she took his hand and pressed it against her breast. Her nipple hardened against his palm and he closed his eyes, before pulling her down on top of him.
Going home on the train Margot fell asleep, her head resting on his shoulder. Paul avoided eye contact with the other passengers. Dishevelled and unshaven, he imagined he stank of sex, that everyone must surely be able to smell it on him. He closed his eyes, Margot’s body a weight against his. She smelt only as she always did, of fat, blowsy roses.
As the train trundled towards Thorp, he thought of Adam, feeling the same guilt he always felt on the very few occasions he’d been unfaithful to him. He opened his eyes, staring out of the window, remembering.
He’d been sleeping in a chair beside his hospital bed, and had woken, startled at the sound of Adam’s voice.
‘I’m sorry,’ Adam said, ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’ He’d stood over him, smiling with all the awkwardness of any visitor to an asylum, although he’d visited often. ‘Here.’ He held out a package. ‘I bought you some sweets.’ Pulling up another chair Adam sat down, watching uncomfortably as, one after the other, Paul ate all the toffees he’d brought.
‘You’ll be sick.’
‘Would you like one?’
‘No, I bought them for you. I just didn’t expect you to eat them all at once.’
As though he thought he wouldn’t be heard above the rustle of wrappers, Adam waited until the last sweet was finished. ‘I heard about Rob. I’m so sorry, Paul. I don’t know what to say.’
The toffees had made his tongue raw. All the same he craved another. He looked down at the empty wrappers on his lap, feeling through them for one he might have missed.
‘Paul? Did you hear me?’
‘Yes.’ He looked up at him. ‘Robbie’s dead. There’s nothing to say.’
The Boy I Love Page 7