Patrick turned away from him. ‘How was Hetty? What did she think of the new bed?’ Lighting the gas beneath the kettle he glanced at him. ‘I hope you’re careful – it’s surprising who’s capable of getting a woman up the stick.’
‘And it’s surprising who isn’t! Christ! Who would have thought that a brother of mine –’
Patrick laughed. Grasping the sides of the wheelchair he brought his face up close. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh, Mick? A brother of yours! Jesus – the great Major Morgan has a fucking fairy for a brother! It’s just not on, is it?’
‘You make me sick.’
Patrick straightened up. ‘I make myself sick.’
‘Then stop! There are women who’d give their eye-teeth to be with you.’
‘I know. I’m gorgeous. They make great big eyes at me in the shop.’ Rolling his eyes in impersonation he smiled bitterly. ‘And you know what? They make me sick, as well. In fact if I think too hard about them I actually vomit.’
He began to make tea. As it brewed he buttered slices of bread, then went to the pantry for ham and pork pies. ‘Are you hungry? I thought we’d have a Sunday tea, a proper Sunday tea like Mam used to make. I’ve made a blancmange, there’re tinned pears, too.’
‘Did you know his wife’s expecting a baby?’
Patrick placed the plate of bread on the table. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘And doesn’t that concern you at all?’
‘No.’
‘For pity’s sake, Pat! Have you seen that poor girl lately?’
Patrick turned to face him. ‘What do you imagine is going to happen, Mick? That he’ll leave her? That we’ll set up home together and humiliate her by walking down the street holding hands? He sees me for a couple of hours a week, the rest of the time he’s with her.’
‘It’s still adultery, Patrick. And what if you’re caught together? You’ll both go to prison.’
‘They won’t catch us together.’
‘People talk …’
‘Talk!’ Scornfully he said, ‘I don’t give them anything to talk about, Mick. You do, though. They talk about you and Hetty. Perhaps you should care more about her reputation than mine.’ He poured out the tea. ‘Come and sit at the table, have a ham sandwich.’
Mick ate in silence and from time to time Patrick studied him. It must have been seeing Paul’s wife that triggered this righteous anger. For a moment he felt sorry for the girl, a feeling immediately taken over by his jealousy of her.
Pushing his plate away Mick lit a cigarette. ‘I made a fool of myself today. Someone called me a freak so I tried to throttle him.’
‘How is that making a fool of yourself?’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake – look at me, Pat! Picking a fight when I’m stuck in this bloody thing? I just made a show of myself. A fucking freak show.’ He bowed his head, turning a box of matches over and over on the table. Softly he said, ‘Do you remember when Dad burnt all my notebooks? Everything I’d ever written thrown on the fire, page by page. He made me watch, remember? My nose all bloody from the beating he’d given me. I felt like a freak, then. A freak for writing and a freak for not standing up to him.’
‘We were sixteen, Mick. Don’t you remember how frightening he was?’
‘I felt so angry. So angry and all I did was stand there because I was so bloody scared of him. I never wanted to feel so helpless again. But now, here I am. Worse than helpless.’ He laughed bleakly, stubbing out the cigarette. ‘Do you know what the worst of it was? Your little friend Harris had to step in to save me, made me realise what an arse I was making of myself.’ He glanced at Patrick. ‘Quite commanding in his way. I could almost understand what you see in him.’
‘What? In a whey-faced little pansy?’
‘Well, he does look like he needs a bloody good dinner inside him. Is he ill? He looks ill.’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Just so long as you can bugger him, eh?’
Patrick stood up and began clearing the table. Catching his arm Mick said, ‘You’ll be careful, you and him, won’t you? Promise me you’ll be careful.’
‘I promise.’
He nodded. Releasing his arm Mick said, ‘Leave this now. Let’s go out for a drink. I feel like getting pissed.’
Chapter Twenty-four
HETTY WATCHED HER MOTHER wrap the matinee jacket and bootees she’d crocheted. ‘There,’ Annie said. ‘That’s neat enough, isn’t it? You’ll take it round to her later, won’t you? Doesn’t harm to be neighbourly.’
Hetty sighed. Reluctantly she said, ‘Yes, all right. But you should take it, it’s your hard work.’
‘She’d rather have someone her own age to talk to. I wouldn’t know what to say to someone like her.’
‘She’s not royalty, Mam. Her dad’s only a vicar.’
‘All the same.’ Annie looked at her. ‘The major told me you’re going to see him this evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s nice, he gets tired of being on his own.’ She smoothed the brown paper she’d used to parcel the baby’s clothes. ‘He seems to like you – it was Hetty this and Hetty that when I was giving him his dinner.’
Cautiously Hetty said, ‘You like Mick, don’t you?’
‘The major? He’s a gentleman.’ Annie picked up the parcel and put it on the dresser. ‘Set the table for us, pet. Your dad will be home for his tea soon.’
In her bedroom Hetty lay down on the bed. She remembered the first and last piece of advice her mother had ever given her. It had coincided with her first period: ‘Never lie down with a man until you’re married.’ She’d learnt more from dirty jokes amongst the girls at the sugar factory. She thought of Milly Jackson, weeping in the factory yard because the lad she had gone with had been killed at Ypres. Over and over she’d stressed that she’d only done it with him once. Only once and now he was dead and she was expecting. The small band of women gathered round her tut-tutted in commiseration, not so much for the death of her lover, more for the fact she’d been so unlucky. Once! Behind the weeping girl’s back the women smirked at each other.
She had lain down with Mick three times. After the second time they made love she had forced herself to look properly at his legs. The stumps looked as though they had been patched over with ragged scraps of flesh, each placed haphazardly on top of the other, the healed skin forming a mass of protective scars. She had touched his left thigh gently, just above where his leg had been amputated, watching his face. He had only smiled his extraordinary smile.
She knew why her mother didn’t guess what was going on between them. To Annie he was a neutered man, one whose potential for getting a girl into trouble had been taken away along with his legs. Besides, no normal girl would want to lie down with a cripple. But when they were together his wheelchair was forgotten, although she knew that if it hadn’t been for the chair she wouldn’t have climbed into his bed until they were married. She closed her eyes, appalled all over again at the wanton way she behaved when she was with him and the excuses she made to herself. Nothing was normal, the war had seen to that, so she slept with Mick because she wanted him, because the opportunity was there and no one suspected enough to call her a slut. And because she loved him, of course. She opened her eyes, listening to her mother’s bangs and clatters from the kitchen. She loved him, and that wasn’t an excuse, it was a reason.
Margot Harris smiled over the little jacket and held up each bootie in turn to admire it. She smiled as she folded the garments back into their paper and reminded Hetty once again to thank her mother for her kindness.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Margot began to get up but her movements were awkward and Hetty stood up quickly.
‘I’ll make it.’
‘Oh, don’t bother. I hate tea these days, I don’t think we even have any milk, anyway.’
‘Would you like a glass of water?’
‘I’d like a cigarette but I’ve none left. I’m desperate for Paul to come home just so I can smoke his
.’
‘You smoke?’
‘Awful, isn’t it? I don’t think Paul minds.’ She glanced around the untidy kitchen. ‘He doesn’t mind anything, really.’
Hetty sat down again. After an awkward silence she said, ‘It was good of Paul to help us on Sunday.’
‘Your friend didn’t think so.’
‘Mick was upset, I’m sorry he was so rude.’
Margot laughed oddly. ‘I didn’t want him to step in like he did. I wanted someone else to do it. But it seems he has to take responsibility for everything.’ She creased her face suddenly, pressing her hand to her side. ‘Ouch. Little monkey’s never still.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I think so.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t look so worried.’
‘Do you want me to stay until your husband gets home?’
‘There’s no need. I’ve got days to go yet.’ Shyly she added, ‘But stay, if you like, I don’t have many visitors. I’m sorry I can’t offer you any tea.’
‘That’s all right.’ Nodding at Margot’s bulging waist she said, ‘Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?’
‘A boy, he kicks so hard. Here.’ Taking Hetty’s hand she pressed it against her body. Hetty felt a balled fist punch at her and she laughed, meeting Margot’s gaze.
‘You must be excited now it’s so near.’
‘Yes, I suppose I am. Paul is.’
‘He looked so proud of you on Sunday.’
‘Did he?’ She looked down, picking at a snagged thread in the tablecloth. ‘Well, I’m proud of him.’ Looking up she asked, ‘Have you known your friend long?’
‘Mick? Not long, really.’
‘I remember him at that dance at New Year, he looked so striking in his dinner jacket.’
‘Mick likes expensive clothes. I think he misses his uniform.’
‘I think Paul does, too.’ Margot opened the paper and drew the baby’s jacket towards her. Her fingers worried the lacy stitches around the jacket’s hem. ‘What’s Mick’s brother like? Paul sees quite a lot of him.’
‘Patrick?’ Hetty paused, not sure how she might describe him. She realised that despite working for him for almost a year she barely knew Patrick Morgan. Besides, since getting to know Mick she took no notice of Patrick, he seemed like a poor imitation in comparison.
Margot looked up at her. ‘Patrick, yes. Tell me what he’s like.’
Hetty was surprised by the sharpness in her tone; it was as though she was desperate to know. Disconcerted, Hetty said, ‘We don’t speak very much. He’s quiet. He keeps himself to himself.’
Margot nodded and seemed to accept this poor description. At last she said flatly, ‘He seems nice, anyway. Kind. A nice, kind man.’
The back door opened and Hetty looked up as Paul Harris walked in. He smiled in surprise. ‘Hello, there.’
‘Paul, this is Hetty, we met on Sunday in the park.’
‘Yes, of course. How are you, Hetty?’ He kissed his wife’s cheek. ‘Hello, sweetheart.’
Margot gave him such a shameless look of love that Hetty glanced away, embarrassed. Making an excuse she left.
Paul said, ‘I promised I’d go for a drink with Patrick tonight, but if you like I’ll stay here with you.’
‘If you promised you should go.’ She was frying bacon. ‘You shouldn’t break promises.’
‘Not a promise, exactly. And I worry about you … look, why don’t I walk you to your mother’s? You can spend the evening with her and I’ll come and collect you on my way home.’
‘I’d rather be on my own – I’d know if the baby was coming tonight. In that book I borrowed from your father it says a woman knows instinctively …’ She blushed. After a moment she said, ‘Go, you know you always enjoy it.’
Paul laughed strangely and she frowned at him. ‘You do, don’t you?’ When he didn’t answer she prompted, ‘You do enjoy seeing him, don’t you?’
‘For God’s sake, Margot!’ He gazed at her angrily. ‘If you don’t want me to go, I won’t, it doesn’t matter.’ He lit a cigarette, his movements quick and impatient. Exhaling smoke he said harshly, ‘You should go to your mother’s, stop me worrying.’
She set a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. ‘All right, I’ll go to Mummy’s. If you’re going to make such a fuss I’ll go.’
‘It will be a change for you.’
‘Will it? A change to listen to her telling me how disappointed she is in me?’
He rested his cigarette on the ashtray as he began to eat, ready to smoke between each mouthful. ‘Your mother’s not that bad.’
She sat down. After a moment he pushed his half-eaten meal away and lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last. Wearily he said, ‘Stay here, if you want, I’ll only be gone an hour, two at most.’
‘Aren’t you going to finish your supper?’
‘I’m not hungry.’ He got up. ‘If you don’t mind I’ll go now.’
Chapter Twenty-five
PAUL GOT UP FROM Patrick’s bed. He was thirsty, a raging thirst that often came after sex and was made worse by supper’s cheap, salty bacon. Naked, he went into the tiny room on the other side of the hall with its sink and single cold tap. Waiting for the water to run icy cold, he held on to the edge of the sink. Drops splashed his body, cooling him, and he stuck his face under the tap, swallowing greedily.
Patrick watched him from the doorway. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Paul brushed past him into the bedroom and lay down on the bed.
Carefully Patrick said, ‘Paul? Come on, you know I hate it when you’re like this.’
‘Like what? Too thoroughly fucked to talk to you? Just give me a minute.’
On the bedside table his own face looked out at him from a silver picture frame and Paul turned away to avoid its gaze. The photographer who’d taken the picture owned a magpie, tame as a canary, which had watched him from a perch behind the camera and talked in the high-pitched, grating voice of an effeminate inquisitor. The bird was a prop, showing off its metallic tail feathers in dull pictures of mothers and babies, soldiers and sweethearts. In France, in a photographer’s studio, there existed a picture of himself and this bird, man and magpie holding the other’s gaze as though spellbound. He hadn’t wanted that picture, he’d remembered that birds were unlucky, and had bought only the one of him alone to send home. Keen to keep the magpie photograph, the photographer said it would be displayed in his window and titled English Officer with Pica.
The mattress dipped as Patrick lay down and Paul tensed in case he should touch him. Patrick liked to hold him after sex, manhandling him roughly until he was comfortable, his body giving off too much heat and scent. Moving away from him he said, ‘I have to go soon.’
‘You’ve only just got here! You can’t go.’
‘I daren’t leave Margot for long. She could have the baby at any time.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I’ll smoke this and then I’ll go.’
Patrick sat up. Taking the cigarette from Paul he crushed it out between his fingers and tossed it on the floor. ‘We haven’t finished yet.’
‘Yes, Patrick, we have.’ He reached for his cigarettes again but Patrick caught his wrist, pinning his hand above his head.
‘No, Lieutenant, we haven’t.’ He kissed him, forcing his tongue deep into his mouth. Still holding his hand above his head, he reached down with his other hand and grasped Paul’s cock. He pulled his face away. ‘You know how quickly I can make you hard again.’
‘Patrick, please. Let me go.’
Patrick smiled slowly. ‘You could always fight me off. Try it.’ He gazed into Paul’s face. ‘You’re not putting up much of a fight, Lieutenant Harris. Now I think that’s because you don’t want to go anywhere.’
Paul grasped his hair, jerking his head back. ‘I said let me go.’
Patrick smiled. ‘Hair pulling, that’s a girl’s game, isn’t it?’
Digging his fingernails into Patrick’s scalp Paul pulled his head back even further. Patrick relea
sed him, only to move quickly to kneel astride his body. With a hand on each of Paul’s shoulders he kissed his mouth lightly. ‘All right, if you’re going to be in this mood I give in. You win.’
He lay down and lit two cigarettes. Passing one to Paul he said, ‘Thanks for helping Mick the other day.’
Paul laughed shortly. ‘We both made total fools of ourselves.’ He thought of the way Adam had sneered at him, remembering that he had given him the same look the first time he’d seen him in uniform, as though he couldn’t quite believe he would do something so brainlessly patriotic as join the army. ‘Christ,’ he’d said. ‘All you need is to grow a moustache and you’ll look like every other idiot in the country.’
On the High Street below the window a tram rattled by. The bed creaked as Patrick rolled on to his side to look at him.
‘You and Mick would get on, if you met properly, you have things in common.’
‘Like what?’
‘You were both good soldiers.’
‘He might have been.’
‘He was. And so were you.’
‘And so were you.’ Paul got up and began to dress. Buttoning his shirt, he said, ‘The three of us, good, brave and true. We all had a topping time.’
Patrick laughed. ‘Do you remember when we came across that demolished shrine? You should have seen Bill Thompson’s face when you flung the Virgin’s head into the sky. He was so shocked. I don’t know what shocked him most – that it was sacrilegious or that you were so angry. We’d never seen you angry before – poor little Collier almost burst into tears.’ Patrick gazed at him. ‘It rained so heavily that day. I just wanted to get you away somewhere dry and quiet and calm you down. Somewhere away from that bloody smirking Jenkins.’
The mention of Jenkins’s name made Paul’s heart race. Trying not to think about him, he fixed on the memory of that day, how they had been marching all afternoon in the rain before they came across the shell-blasted shrine to the Virgin. He had been at the head of the platoon and had stopped to make sure no one was lagging too far behind. Rain dripped from his helmet and the waterproof cape he wore; he was blinded by rain, made invisible by it. On either side of the road the poplar trees were no more than a grey colour wash, the fields beyond a flood plain. Hunched against the downpour the men filed past him. He’d called out encouragement and sounded like a parody of himself; the little reserve of strength he had left had dwindled almost to nothing. Jenkins had been with the platoon a month. A month had been all the time he’d needed to demolish him.
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