‘Of course not. It will give us more time to enjoy the air.’
Paul stopped to light a cigarette, allowing Margot and Emma Hargreaves to walk a little further ahead of them. He smiled at Adam who looked away sheepishly. ‘So, what’s this about, then?’
‘It isn’t about anything. She lives in one of those bleak boarding houses on Jesmond Terrace. I felt sorry for her spending every weekend alone, she’s homesick.’
‘You’re not courting, then?’
‘No!’
Paul smiled at Adam’s look of horror. Because he was so easy to tease he said, ‘She’s a lovely girl. You could do a lot worse – should I be thinking about buying Margot a new hat?’
‘What?’
‘For your wedding.’
‘Do you think that’s funny? Is that your idea of a joke?’
‘No – I only thought …’
Adam shook his head angrily. ‘You think I’d get married? You really think I could be as immoral and faithless as you are?’
There was such venom in his voice Paul stepped back. Adam was glaring at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ Paul said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Upset me? You think you still have the power to upset me? You don’t know anything about me! So, I’ll tell you some home truths, shall I? I’d never marry! I wouldn’t treat women as you do – I wouldn’t be so bloody cruel!’ There was a thread of spittle hanging from Adam’s mouth and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, his eyes blazing. ‘You know – you’re the joke! You’re the one who can’t decide whether he’s fish or bloody fowl! You should grow up and realise you can’t have all the sweets in the fucking sweet shop!’ All at once he turned away and ran to catch up with the two women.
Hetty parked Mick’s chair at the end of the last row of deck chairs. ‘Here will have to do.’
‘Here’s fine. Sit down and stop fussing.’
‘I’m not fussing.’ She sat down gingerly, never fully trusting of folding chairs. ‘It would’ve been nice to get closer to the bandstand, that’s all.’
A family of children turned to stare at Mick. Hetty poked her tongue out at them then said loudly, ‘There should be places reserved for veterans. Veterans should get special treatment.’
‘Be quiet!’ Mick glared at her. With quiet intensity he hissed, ‘Don’t call me a veteran. You make me sound like some decrepit old soldier.’
A man in front hushed them and Mick stared at him angrily. As he turned away Mick tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Are we bothering you?’
‘What?’
‘I know you heard me because you’ve got extra sensitive hearing, but I’ll ask again: are we bothering you?’
‘Yes, so shove off.’
‘Say that again.’
The man laughed. ‘Shove off, you bloody freak, you’re frightening the kids.’ He turned away and Hetty watched anxiously as the colour drained from Mick’s face.
She touched his hand. ‘Ignore him, he’s ignorant.’
Mick leaned forward in his chair and hooked the man around the throat with his right arm, dragging him backwards. The man’s deck chair collapsed and he gasped in shock as Mick hauled him up by the neck, bringing his face close to his own. ‘What did you call me?’
The man’s children began to cry. Pulling uselessly at his arm, Hetty said, ‘Mick, please, let him go!’
‘Major, can I help, at all?’ Paul Harris squatted down beside Mick’s chair, placing a hand on his free arm. ‘Sir, perhaps you should let him go, he’s going a funny colour.’
Mick snorted, releasing his grip. The man stumbled to his feet, rubbing at his throat and glaring at Hetty. ‘You should keep him under lock and key – he’s a bloody maniac!’
Standing up straight Paul Harris said to the man, ‘Perhaps you should take yourself off to the hole you crawled out of while you still can.’ To Mick he said gently, ‘Are you all right, sir?’
Mick didn’t look at Paul but stared after the man’s retreating back. Curtly he said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. You can go now.’
Hetty laughed, embarrassed by his rudeness. Over Mick’s head she smiled apologetically, only for Mick to turn on her. ‘Don’t you dare humour me! Take me home.’
‘Yes, all right.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll take you home.’ As she pushed Mick’s chair past Paul she mouthed, ‘Thank you.’
He smiled and she noticed how frail he looked. She glanced back at him. He was lighting a cigarette, watching them.
Emma said, ‘Well! That was horrible.’
Margot looked at Paul anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ Adam said. ‘You shouldn’t get involved with people like that.’
Angrily Paul said, ‘Didn’t you hear? He called him a freak! I couldn’t just sit here.’
Emma laughed. ‘He seemed to be handling it quite well on his own.’
Paul looked at her in disgust. To Adam he said, ‘And what do you mean, people like that? He was a major during the war.’
Under his breath Adam said, ‘But the war’s over now.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Paul frowned at him. ‘Maybe you should speak up.’
‘I said the war’s over now. We should all start behaving like civilised human beings.’
‘Really? Well, if men who’ve lost both legs fighting for civilised human beings weren’t called freaks perhaps we might.’ He turned to Margot. ‘I think we should go home.’
He was walking too quickly and Margot stopped trying to keep pace and said, ‘Paul, slow down.’
He stopped. Still angry he said, ‘Sorry. Are you all right?’
‘Are you?’ Concerned by his paleness she said, ‘You look ill.’
‘I always look ill.’
‘Should we stop at your father’s house? We could catch our breath and have a cup of tea.’
‘I’d rather go straight home.’
‘I just thought –’
‘Dad only worries. He’ll guess something’s happened and start worrying.’
They were walking along the path leading to the park’s main gate. Ahead of them Margot saw the girl from the butcher’s shop pushing the major’s wheelchair. The girl stopped and seemed to re-arrange the blanket covering what was left of his legs. Margot shuddered involuntarily and Paul turned to her. ‘I’d like to introduce you.’
‘Oh, Paul.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know …’
‘Come on.’ Holding her hand firmly he led her towards them.
Paul said, ‘Major, I’d like you to meet my wife, Margot.’
The man glanced up. Sullenly he said, ‘Mrs Harris. How do you do?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
The girl smiled too brightly. ‘Well, the baby must be almost due, is it?’
‘Hetty! For God’s sake don’t start embarrassing her again.’
Margot blushed. ‘No, it’s all right. Yes, due next week.’
‘I hope it goes well for you.’ He looked at her. ‘I wish you luck.’
Hetty smiled awkwardly. To the major she said, ‘Come on, then, you. Let’s get you home before you cause any more trouble.’
Almost at the park gates Patrick had changed his mind about going to see the band. They had started to play Tipperary and he imagined the soft, sentimental faces of the crowd and their maudlin voices as they sang along. He would feel like punching them until they stopped.
The tune followed him down the lane of Victorian villas that backed on to the park. When he came to the last of these houses, the oldest and grandest, he stood looking up at its blank windows. Paul had been born in one of its rooms that overlooked the cemetery. He thought of him working in the garden and remembered the letters. He’d written about the garden often, with each new season remembering what was about to come into its own, the words so poignant that sometimes he found he couldn’t read on. He would picture Paul then in tin hat and great coat, caked in mud or soaked with rain, shivering and blowing on his hands as he lined the men up for inspection.
There was a gate in the garden wall and Patrick pushed against it, expecting it to be bolted. It creaked open, the swollen wood catching on the ground. Pushing harder, Patrick saw that the gate led on to a kitchen garden, neglected and overgrown and screened from the rest of the garden by a copper hedge and tall trees. Glancing over his shoulder Patrick edged through the narrow opening.
He stood on the threshold and looked around. In a cleared space was the remains of a bonfire and he walked towards it, turning over the ashes with the side of his foot until a smell of autumn hung incongruously on the late spring air. A robin hopped closer; it seemed expectant. He smiled to himself. The bird probably missed the harvest of worms and insects Paul disturbed as he worked. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scents of his garden. He missed him with a sweet longing that was every bit as sentimental as Tipperary.
Watching Paul inspect the men’s feet, Thompson had said softly, ‘Ever fancy it?’
Patrick had made himself smile. Looking down at the stub of cigarette burning between his fingers he laughed. ‘You’re a dirty-minded bastard, Bill. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were bloody obsessed with him.’
For once the weather had been warm and dry, the sun beat down on their heads, the stink of sweat only partly camouflaged by the smoke from their cigarettes. They leant against the sandbag wall, feeling the drying sand shift and give against their weight. A bird sang, a short, surprising burst of noise. Paul crouched to examine another foot. Thompson said, ‘He’s a good lad for all that he’s a fucking shirt-lifter, a sight better than the other lazy bastards.’
Patrick said, ‘He’s too soft on the men.’
‘Aye, well.’ Thompson crumbled what little remained of his cigarette between his fingers and pushed himself away from the sandbags. ‘Unlike you and me, Patrick lad, he feels sorry for the poor buggers.’
It was true he’d felt little for anyone except Paul. Men were killed and were replaced. He had stopped crossing himself whenever he saw a corpse. When the earth released a bloated body to bob in a flooded shell-hole, when he saw the remains of men and horses scattered along straight, poplar-lined lanes, he only thanked God that it wasn’t him, that he was still alive to keep Paul safe.
There was a noise and the robin flew into the hedge. A few yards away a youthful-looking middle-aged man in shirtsleeves stared at him.
‘You’re trespassing.’ The man’s voice was exactly like Paul’s. Stepping towards Patrick he said evenly, ‘If you’re looking for work I’ve nothing for you.’
‘Are you Doctor Harris?’
Paul’s father frowned. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m a friend of your son’s.’
‘Paul? He isn’t here. He doesn’t live here any more.’ He came closer, obviously curious. Patrick was surprised by how young he was, forty-five at most, his hair still thick and dark like Paul’s, his eyes the same startling green. He smiled Paul’s smile. ‘Were you in the army with my son?’
‘Yes.’ Patrick looked away, unsure of what to do next. The doctor was slight like Paul and he felt big and clumsy beside him, a man easily mistaken for a casual labourer. The robin hopped down from the hedge and he watched it, feeling the weight of the other man’s gaze.
Gently, as though he was a child, Doctor Harris said, ‘Won’t you tell me your name?’
‘Jenkins.’ Patrick looked at him. ‘Anthony Jenkins.’
He nodded, although he didn’t seem to recognise the name. Suddenly he said, ‘Look, come into the house and have a cup of tea. I was doing a spot of gardening but frankly I hate it, you’d be doing me a favour by dragging me away.’ He turned towards the house. ‘I have a fruit cake that’s begging to be eaten.’
He was shown into the kitchen, a huge, cluttered room, neglected and dingy. Newspapers fanned out on the floor beside an armchair and a half-empty bottle of whisky and a sticky-looking tumbler stood on the hearth. On the mantelpiece was a framed photograph of Paul and his brother. Patrick picked it up, smiling at the artful, back-to-back pose.
He heard George laugh. ‘That’s Paul’s brother in the picture with him – I suppose you guessed. Two peas in a pod, Rob and Paul, everyone said so.’ Taking the picture from him he replaced it on the mantelpiece. Without emotion he said, ‘My eldest son was killed in an accident.’ Turning away he said briskly, ‘Tea. Tea and cake. Please, sit down, make yourself at home.’
Patrick sat on the armchair, trying not to look around too obviously. He would have liked to explore the whole house and imagined walking from room to room, opening cupboards and drawers, searching for sides of Paul he suspected he kept hidden. Already he’d realised that the ordered, elegant home he’d imagined Paul growing up in was nowhere near the reality, and that his father was nothing like the old, fussing man he’d pieced together from the little Paul had told him. He smiled to himself, searching his pockets for his cigarettes. He hadn’t expected George to be fanciable.
‘You smoke, too? Why do all you young men smoke?’ Doctor Harris sighed. ‘No, don’t answer that. I know.’ Setting a tray of tea on a side table he said, ‘Paul smokes like a chimney. I never see him without a cigarette these days.’
‘How is he?’
‘Oh, you know.’ Sitting down in the chair opposite he said, ‘I suppose you know he was wounded? That he lost an eye?’
Patrick nodded.
‘He copes all right with that. His nerves are terribly bad, though.’ He glanced at him. ‘I suppose that’s something else you’d know all about, Anthony?’
Patrick smiled. ‘My nerves are pretty bad, too.’
‘Sometimes I look at Paul and wonder if perhaps they should have kept him in hospital even longer.’ He laughed lightly. ‘I’m sorry, you didn’t come here to listen to my worries.’
‘I’m sure he appreciates your concern.’
‘Oh, he doesn’t! He thinks I fuss. Least said soonest mended, that’s Paul. If you ask Paul everything’s fine. Even when it obviously isn’t.’
He poured the tea and handed him a cup and a plate of dark, moist cake. ‘Did you know Paul was married at Christmas?’
‘Married?’
‘He obviously doesn’t write to you?’
Patrick sipped his tea. Placing the cup in its chipped saucer he said, ‘No, we lost touch after he was wounded.’
‘Were you over there long?’
‘Three years.’ Patrick stood up. ‘May I use your bathroom, Doctor Harris?’
Patrick stood in the bedroom he’d decided was Paul’s. The bed had been stripped to its mattress; the wardrobe doors hung open revealing only a few coat hangers; dust had settled on the wooden floor and dulled the colours of the Persian rug. He sat down on the bed and stared towards the sash window. A horse chestnut tree grew close to the house, blocking the sunlight and tapping its heavy, candle-like blossoms against the glass. Beside him was a pillow and he picked it up and hugged it to his body. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply to catch Paul’s scent, remembering.
They had waited in position for almost an hour before dawn, sinking into soft mud with the weight of equipment on their backs. The porridge in Patrick’s belly had become an anchor, holding him fast to the earth. He imagined standing up, as he must in a few minutes, imagined that it would be a slow, unwieldy business, graceless and panicked. In truth he knew he’d be first to his feet when the signal came, that he’d run faster than anyone – a devil, Thompson called him, swept on the gales of hell. He closed his eyes, more scared than ever. He crossed himself.
Paul crawled on his belly towards him, slowly making his way down the line, whispering encouragement and stopping occasionally to check on individual men. He stopped for a little while with Cooper. Patrick was certain he was praying with the boy, and knew it would be a short, sensible Anglican prayer. Paul squeezed Cooper’s shoulder as though murmuring a final benediction. He moved towards him and Patrick held his breath.
‘Sergeant Morgan …’ For a moment they pressed themselves further into the mud as a machine g
un opened fire. When it ended he felt Paul’s hand on his shoulder. ‘All right, Sergeant?’
‘Sir.’
‘The cooks are bringing hot tea down the line. Shouldn’t be long now.’
‘The tea or the off, sir?’
‘Both.’
‘Good luck, Lieutenant Harris.’
Paul smiled at him. ‘I’ll see you in the German trenches, Sergeant.’
He remembered that Cooper bled to death in his arms, his blood soaking his tunic so that later he would pick off the dry crust, noticing how it cracked into crazy-paving patterns beneath his busy fingers. Cooper’s blood stayed beneath his fingernails for days, and sometimes he imagined it was pigs’ blood, that he hadn’t been clean since the slaughtering in the shop’s yard. He remembered that in the German trench Paul had used his pistol to shoot the machine gunner and that he seemed not to notice the blood and brains that splashed his face. Worse than the noise and confusion, worse than Cooper’s bloody, silent death, was his fear for Paul, the terror of having two lives to lose instead of one.
From the bedroom doorway Paul’s father said, ‘Have you seen enough?’ Patrick looked at him blankly, he had forgotten where he was for a moment, and the doctor said coldly, ‘You knew Paul well, didn’t you? Is it still going on?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Patrick stood up, the pillow falling at his feet. ‘I should go …’
Doctor Harris stood aside, allowing him through the door. As Patrick brushed past him he said, ‘Leave my son alone. He’s married now. His wife’s expecting their child. Leave them be.’
Without looking back Patrick ran down the stairs and out of the house.
* * *
Mick said, ‘Where the fuck have you been?’
‘Is it any of your fucking business?’
‘Well, I know where you haven’t been. I know you haven’t been buggering that vile little queer. I know that much at least.’
Patrick sighed. ‘Mick, just keep your disgusting mouth to yourself.’
‘Do you want to know how I know?’ Wheeling his chair close to him, Mick smiled slyly. ‘You do. I can see it. Desperate to know. Well, I saw him. Him and that sweet little wife of his. She looks about ready to drop. Funny, he doesn’t look capable of screwing a woman, let alone getting one up the stick.’
The Boy I Love Page 21