Laying this dismal outfit on the bed she sighed. She was twenty and would look forty. Paul, wearing the evening jacket now hanging alongside her clothes, would look young and dashing and all heads would turn towards him. They would wonder what he saw in such a dowdy girl.
It was easy to imagine that there had been a sophisticated, older woman in his past. Paul had a gentleness that she imagined could come only from experience; that night in the pub he was slow and careful, making her feel she was as much in control as he was. Robbie, on the ground beside the Makepeace tomb, had acted so quickly that the shock had made her frigid. Although his kisses had softened her, even though she instinctively opened her legs, no one had explained the mechanics of it, that penetration had to be forced to overcome her body’s resistance. She’d felt something give inside her and heard Robbie’s gasp of triumph. Frightened, she’d laid still and stiff beneath him, hating the way he screwed his eyes tight closed as though he was the one being hurt. It was over quickly, that one and only time with Robbie. She had bled a little and in her innocence the idea of pregnancy hadn’t even occurred to her until she’d realised she hadn’t bled since.
After that night in the seaside pub, Paul had moved into her room, although he hadn’t made love to her again. Lying beside him as he slept his troubled, talkative sleep, she worried that he might be repelled by her pregnancy; she felt huge beside him, fat and unlovable although he treated her with the type of kindness that could easily induce self-pity. She had an idea that Robbie would have been sterner with her. She wondered if Paul would be easier to love than his brother, suspecting that he might be.
Going to the window she looked out on to the street, straining her eyes against the dusk to see him. She had expected him home an hour ago and she began to worry. He still seemed frail to her; he may have fallen or fainted, he may have stepped out blindly in front of a tram. She exhaled sharply, afraid all over again for her future.
He appeared then, as though she had conjured him, walking quickly. Margot stepped back from the window. She would pretend not to have noticed the time. Drawing the curtains she began to dress for the dance.
Chapter Eleven
IN THE HOTEL LOBBY Patrick looked around, trying to guess which corridor would lead them to the ballroom. It would be too bloody easy for the bastards to put up a sign. But then this whole expedition was a crazy idea. They probably didn’t even allow wheelchairs into the hotel. There was bound to be some regulation excluding them. He breathed deeply, trying to control the anger that had been building inside him all day.
Evenly Mick said, ‘Patrick, perhaps we should ask that porter over there.’
‘People are going in that direction.’ Hetty smiled at Mick, her pinched little face white with cold and nervousness. ‘I’m sure it’s that way.’
Mick began to wheel himself along the corridor that Hetty pointed at. He smiled over his shoulder. ‘Come on, you two. Looks like they’ve started without us.’
Outside the ballroom a table had been set up. A girl sat behind it. Ignoring Mick she turned to Patrick. ‘Tickets?’
Patrick rummaged in the pockets of his dinner jacket, disturbing the smell of mothballs. At last the three squares of thick, jagged-edged card were found and handed over. Inspecting them as though they might be forgeries the girl said, ‘If you want to hand your coats in, the cloakroom’s along there.’
‘Do you want to hand your coat in, Hetty?’
‘Of course she does!’ Mick laughed. ‘And so do we.’ To the girl who was adding their tickets to a small pile he said, ‘Thank you.’
She ignored him. ‘It’s two pence for each coat.’
Handing in their coats, Patrick looked back at the girl.
‘Miserable little bitch.’
Mick frowned, glancing at Hetty who was preoccupied with peering into a tiny hand mirror taken from her bag. ‘Don’t talk like that in front of her. And cheer up. We’re meant to be enjoying ourselves.’
‘She didn’t even look at you. Bloody rude!’
‘I don’t care! You’re just making it worse by going on about it. Now smile, you’re upsetting Hetty.’
Tables were arranged around a dance floor, a candle flickering on each one. Above the floor a net was suspended, captured balloons bumping against each other in the rising draught. On a stage at the far side a five-piece band played American Ragtime.
Mick grinned at Hetty. ‘I’d ask you to dance, but …’
Hetty smiled back. ‘I think we should find a table first. Catch our breath for a bit.’
‘Good idea.’ Manoeuvring his way towards the tables Mick looked back at them. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Quietly Hetty said, ‘It’s nice to see him so happy.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Patrick looked at his brother grimly as Mick pushed a chair out of his way, apologising to the party whose table it belonged to. No one moved to help him – they all seemed too shocked. Surprisingly, Hetty laughed.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘The cavalry’s cleared a route for us.’
I look all right, Hetty thought. I look nearly pretty and I’m sitting with the two most handsome men in the whole place. She smiled to herself and surreptitiously glanced at Patrick. He was staring at the dance floor, his face as poker-straight as his back. She wouldn’t worry that he hadn’t smiled this evening, he was obviously concerned about his brother. They’d overheard a woman tut-tutting that such people really shouldn’t be out in public places. Mick had pulled a face at the woman’s back and she had laughed out loud.
Mick leaned a little closer to her. ‘Has it lived up to your expectations?’
‘I think it’s lovely.’
He laughed. ‘I’m pleased. I would have to complain to the manager if the hotel had let you down.’
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Once. A cousin’s wedding.’ He lit a cigarette. Tossing the spent match into the ashtray he smiled at her. ‘Have you been here before?’
‘Me? No, never.’
‘But you knew about the balloons.’
‘Our Albert used to work here. He told me.’
He nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on her face as though trying to memorise her features. She found herself gazing back at him and he smiled slowly before looking down at his cigarette. ‘Why don’t you ask Patrick to dance?’
She laughed awkwardly. ‘He should ask me.’
‘He should.’ Leaning across her he tapped his brother’s arm. ‘Patrick, dance with Hetty.’
As though he had been given an order, Patrick stood up and held out his hand, wordlessly leading her on to the dance floor.
The Grand Hotel was just as Paul remembered it when George would take him and Robbie for lunch on the last Sunday before the start of a new term. His father imagined this was a great treat. Neither he nor Robbie could bring themselves to tell him they were both dreading the return to school too much to enjoy it.
The porter remembered him, asking after his father as he took Margot’s coat and led them along a corridor. They by-passed what looked like a queue to hand in tickets and another queue for the cloakroom and were ushered into the ballroom. The porter grinned as though he had shown them into the Palace of Versailles. He shook Paul’s hand, ‘Very glad to have you safely home, sir.’
Margot scanned the room. When the porter had gone Paul asked, ‘Have you seen someone you know?’
‘Edith Briggs. You remember her from our wedding? And Catherine Taylor. She said Ann would be here too.’ Smiling suddenly, she pointed at two girls dancing together. ‘Yes. There’s Ann and Winifred.’
Paul lit a cigarette, taking his time so she wouldn’t notice that his hands were shaking. Watching the two girls dancing together he realised with a sinking heart how few men there were to partner the women and that he’d be expected to dance with all her friends. His hand went to the glass eye and he drew on his cigarette deeply.
Margot smiled at him, her eyes bright with excitement. ‘Shall we go and sit with
them?’
Hetty said, ‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ She’d been concentrating on her dance steps, looking down at her feet. Now she looked up at him, smiling anxiously.
She smelt of violets, sickly as cheap sweets; even her hair, a frizz of mousy curls, smelt of violets. She wore a dress of brown crushed velvet, reminding him of the skin of small rodents; he could feel her bones though its thin pile and imagined that he could hear her heart pounding fast as a vole’s. He had forgotten how tiny she was, or perhaps he hadn’t realised; in the shop she was quick and capable, larger than life in that enclosed space behind the counter. Here, on this half-empty dance floor, he felt like a giant dancing with a small child.
He looked up at the balloons. They would float down and be burst under foot with deliberate violence. It would take all his courage not to hide from the explosions under the table. He imagined cowering behind the cover of the starched white tablecloth. Mick would pull him out by the hair.
Smiling, Hetty waved at Mick. Mick waved back and went on watching them through a haze of cigarette smoke, his hand beating time to the music on the arm of his chair. Patrick remembered that dancing the waltz had always been one of the few things he could do better than Mick, that and slaughtering pigs.
Hetty laughed, still smiling at Mick. ‘Mam said he could be charming when he wants to be, when he’s not getting upset.’
‘He treats your mother badly.’
‘You heard about the liver and onions, then?’
‘He told me. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ She smiled at him. ‘No onions, next time, eh?’ He laughed and her smile broadened. ‘That’s better. You’ve looked ever so worried since we got here.’ Very briefly she put her finger on his lips. ‘And don’t say sorry again. It’s all right. I was worried, too.’
‘About?’
‘Showing myself up. Not being posh enough.’
‘Posh enough?’ He laughed. ‘Posh enough for what?’
Nodding her head towards a group of young women giggling amongst themselves she said bitterly, ‘Them. I bet none of them ever worked a day in a shop. See that one laughing? She’s just moved in a couple of doors down. Newly wed and at least four months gone. She’s nowt to be snotty about, that one.’
Patrick frowned at the girl. ‘Is she snotty? She looks like a good sport.’
‘Good sport?’ Hetty snorted. ‘You sound like one of them.’
He looked again at the girl. She stood next to a young man, only slightly taller than she was so that her head rested easily on his shoulder as she leaned into him. They held hands, he supposed that’s what newly weds did, but then the girl snaked her arm around her husband’s waist, drawing him closer. It was a sensual display for such a public place and Hetty laughed.
‘No wonder she had to get up the aisle double-quick.’
The girl’s husband looked around, as though he sensed they were watched. He stared straight at Patrick.
Later Patrick wondered how he managed to find his voice but at that moment he heard himself say, ‘I know him. He was an officer in my platoon.’
‘Oh? Should you say hello?’
He barely heard her. He was staring at Paul, a taste like gunmetal on the tip of his tongue, that sweet softening of his guts already starting.
Margot was saying, ‘Oh, the new curate’s awful! He has red hair!’ She laughed, showing off, making him want to lead her away somewhere quiet so that she might calm down. ‘Most curates are dismal, but Martin!’ She laughed again. ‘Martin’s just awful.’
Edith said, ‘What a pity,’ and blushed.
Paul smiled at her absently, still shocked at seeing Morgan. He forced himself to watch him walk off the dance floor. It was definitely him: not many men carried themselves like Sergeant Morgan. He walked as if he owned the world.
Jenkins had said, ‘Have you seen the new sergeant, Harris? I think we should send his photograph to the Kaiser. Immediate German surrender.’
Lying on his bunk Paul said, ‘He’s surly.’
‘Surly, eh? Just your type, I’d say.’
Margot and her friends laughed, startling him back to the present. He lit a cigarette from the butt of the last, remembering Morgan lying beside him, still as stone as German voices joked in the nearby trench. His face, like his own, was covered in mud, like a blacked-up minstrel, only the whites of his eyes showing. A shell exploded and the minstrel eyes had fixed on his, mirroring his own fear. As the earth rained down he felt Morgan’s arm on his back, his huge hand protecting his head by pressing him down further into the stink of those killed before them.
He looked up to see Morgan leave. Excusing himself to Margot, he followed.
Morgan sat on the hotel steps, his hands clasped together between his knees. Standing a few feet away, Paul hesitated. Shock had made him forget what his Christian name was. All he had ever called him was Morgan or Sergeant. Using either would make him sound like a prig.
He took a step down so that his feet were at the same level as the other man’s thighs. After what seemed like a long time Morgan said, ‘Hello, sir.’ He got up. Even standing on the step below Paul, he still towered over him. He took out his cigarettes and lit one, tossing the match down. Seeming to make a great effort to look at him, only to look away again, he said, ‘How are you?’
Paul cleared his throat. ‘Fine. You?’
Quickly Morgan said, ‘What do you think about all those balloons?’
‘Balloons? Oh … I suppose they’ll make a few bangs.’
Morgan sat down on the steps again. ‘It’s too hot in there, I felt sick.’
Paul sat beside him, judging a careful space. ‘Do you feel all right now? You look a bit green.’
Morgan laughed shortly, flicking cigarette ash at the space between his feet. ‘I’m all right. Pulling myself together.’
He hadn’t changed very much over the months. His hair was a little longer and he was cleaner and more closely shaved. He was the type that could shave twice a day, the type that would always have the shadow of a beard. Types like Hawkins cursed him as a ruffian. The fact that the army couldn’t find a uniform big enough to fit him properly only added to the look. Now, however, his evening suit appeared to be tailor-made, cut so that it showed off his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He’d undone his collar stud as though about to undress and the bow-shaped ends of his black tie lay flat against his starched white shirt. The cloth of his trousers strained across his thigh and Paul’s cock hardened despite himself. He remembered how attracted he’d been to this astonishing man, how difficult it had been to be around him and the tension in the air whenever he, Jenkins and Morgan were together. Jenkins’s innuendoes had never let up; he’d felt like smashing his teeth down his throat.
After a moment he said carefully, ‘When did you get home?’
‘June.’ Morgan dragged his eyes away from the middle-distance to look at him. ‘I heard you got married. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
Morgan hesitated, then, ‘I’m glad you’re all right, sir. Recovered. After that business with Lieutenant Jenkins we thought …’
Paul stood up quickly. The shock of hearing Jenkins’s name spoken after so long set his heart pounding. His voice broke as he said, ‘I have to get back to my wife.’
Morgan stood up too. Facing him he said, ‘Don’t rush off.’ He touched his arm and Paul flinched. Smiling slightly Morgan said, ‘Sorry. You followed me out – I thought …’
‘I have to go back inside.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He stood aside. As Paul was about to go in,
Morgan said, ‘I sometimes have a drink in the Castle & Anchor. Sunday lunch times.’
Paul nodded, and walked back into the hotel.
Margot sat alone at the table, watching her friends dance with each other. Flushed from the single glass of dark, sweet sherry she’d drunk earlier, blotches of red spread over her face and neck and she fanned herself ineffectively with her hand. H
er waistband cut into her and she tugged at it, wondering if she dared unfasten the safety pin holding it together. Beneath her fingers the baby stirred, a faint rippling response. She pulled her hand away.
She had wanted to dance. She had wanted Edith and the others to watch her dancing with Paul and she had wanted them to be jealous. Instead, she watched her friends dancing, forcing herself to smile as they passed by. If they were jealous, they weren’t going to show it. Ann had told her how good she was for not minding about Paul’s glass eye. They all agreed on how delicate he looked, like an invalid. St Steven’s asylum was mentioned – madness alluded to in questions dressed up as concern. From the corner of her eye she saw them exchange sly smiles. She had become the butt of their joke, and she’d looked away, searching for Paul.
Alone at the table she found her gaze drawn to the striking-looking man in the wheelchair two tables away. He talked constantly to the girl beside him, using his hands eloquently. Throwing his head back he laughed and the people on the table between them turned to stare. He stared back. After a moment he said loudly, ‘I’m sorry – did you miss the punch line? I’ll tell the joke again, if you like. What’s the difference between a nun on a bicycle and a whore on …’ He stopped, frowning at the girl beside him. ‘You know, now I’ve forgotten it!’
A man got up from the other table, outrage making his voice quaver. ‘Can’t you see there are ladies present? If you weren’t in that chair I’d …’
‘You’d what?’ Motioning at the man with his cigar he said evenly, ‘You’re making a fool of yourself. Sit down.’
He sat, blustering, as the man in the wheelchair caught
Margot’s eye and smiled. She looked away quickly.
Behind her Paul said, ‘Margot, I’m sorry … if I’d known you were on your own …’ Margot turned to look at him. Sulkily she asked, ‘Where have you been?’
Paul sat down and lit a cigarette, forgetting to offer her one. Eventually he said, ‘I needed some fresh air.’
Bitterly she said, ‘You missed all the excitement. That man over there nearly got into a fight with the man in the wheelchair. The crippled man was very rude.’
The Boy I Love Page 10