by Pat Barker
‘Thank you, sir. Mind how you go.’
Paul clung to the railings. There was a hospital half a mile away, or there was Elinor. Elinor was just round the corner. He could go there, clean up, then get a cab.
Shaking, though the night was hot, he staggered along, holding on to railings whenever he could. It was late, too late to knock on anybody’s door, but he had no other way of getting home. He knocked and waited. Almost immediately the upstairs window opened. ‘Who is it?’
He stepped back into the light.
‘Paul? What on earth –? Wait, I’ll come down.’
He swayed on his feet. The street lamps blurred. Then the door opened and Elinor, still dressed, got hold of him. ‘What happened?’
‘Halliday happened.’
‘Oh, my God.’
He saw her hesitate, torn between loyalty to a friend and horror at the state he was in.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘I don’t know. My ribs hurt.’
She stepped back. ‘You’d better come in.’
It took a long time getting up the stairs, hips jostling hard against each other. Her arm was round his waist. At last they reached her room and he collapsed on to the sofa. All he wanted to do now was sleep. Sleep or, preferably, die.
‘Where does it hurt?’
No sympathy. She could smell the beer on his breath.
‘Ribs. Mainly.’
‘Take your shirt off.’
That was a struggle. When it was done, he fell back, hearing her make little tetching sounds of dismay or disapproval. She fetched hot water and soap from the kitchen and set to work to clean him up. ‘I daren’t run a bath,’ she said. ‘It’s too late. The boiler makes a terrible racket.’
Ten painful minutes later: ‘You’ll have to go to hospital, Paul. I can’t cope with this.’
‘In the morning.’
‘Did he kick you?’
‘Ouch!’
‘It’s got to be washed, Paul. It’s filthy.’ She gently wiped the flannel across his side. ‘You should really have that stitched.’
He was aware of her slim waist as she bent over him. The lace front of her blous tickled his face.
‘There,’ she said, at last, sitting back. ‘That’s the best I can do. We’ll get you to a doctor in the morning.’
‘I can’t stay here.’
‘It’ll be all right. You can’t go home.’
She made him toast and cocoa, fetched a pillow and bedspread and settled him down for the night.
‘Call me if you need anything.’
‘I need to warn Teresa.’
‘Tomorrow. I’ll go and see her, if you like?’
‘He might be there now.’
‘There’s nothing you can do. Try to get some sleep.’
He lay down, dreading the long, sleepless night ahead, only to surprise himself by drifting off almost at once. His sleep was full of confused, dark dreams. More than once he jerked awake to the sound of wheels clattering over cobbles, and hardly knew whether the cab was in the road outside or in his dream: the black, windowless vehicle that had taken his mother away. Glancing up at the curtains, he saw that dawn was mercifully close, and lay as still as he could, trying not to move his head.
Every breath hurt. Every thought hurt. Teresa had been telling the truth all along and he hadn’t believed her, and now she too must be at risk. He ought to get up. He swung his legs on to the floor, and groaned. Enough of that. He had to get moving before people were about.
At the third attempt he got his right arm into his shirtsleeve and then had to stop, wiping sweat away from his upper lip. All the while, in some separate corner of his brain, the fight with Halliday went on and on, every blow and kick constantly replayed. But it was merely background noise and still left him free to think about his future. There was no confusion now, only a dreadful clarity. The whole of the past year had been a complete waste of time. Hanging round the Café Royal with a beautiful model on his arm, spending too much, drinking too much, turning in work that would have disgraced a schoolboy. What did he think he was doing? His time at the Slade was ending in failure – and he deserved to fail.
It was time to go home, have one last try at painting something good – no, not good; honest. Honest would be a start. And if that didn’t work, he’d look for a job – almost any job. Stop squandering his nan’s legacy.
But meanwhile there was Teresa. That had to be finished properly. He had to make sure she was all right.
He was trying to get the left arm into his sleeve, but his muscles seemed to have stiffened overnight and he could hardly move. Bracing himself for another attempt, he looked up and saw Elinor, wearing a long white nightdress, watching him from her bedroom door.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Oh, God, that was a squeak. He took a deep, searing breath. ‘Not bad at all.’
‘You look terrible.’
‘Ah, but you should see the other chap.’
It hurt to laugh. Elinor came across and helped him into his shirt, then his socks and shoes.
‘I’m sorry to be so useless.’
He looked down at the burnished golden bell of her hair, and imagined stroking it. Get a hold of yourself, he told himself. You’re no use to any woman in this state.
Once his laces were securely tied he stood up. The floor shelved away beneath him, the air turned black, but when the rush of blood subsided, he was still on his feet. She was brushing his jacket. Some of the dirt had dried and came off easily, but it was still a mess. Cautiously, with a lot of help from her, he managed to get into it and stood while she gave him a final brush down.
‘You’ll have to buy a new one. You can’t go anywhere in this.’
‘No, I know.’
‘I’ll make some tea. Have to be black, I’m afraid. I’m out of milk.’
‘No, I won’t have any, thanks. I’d better be off.’
‘You need a doctor.’
‘I’ll go to the hospital. Soon as I can. Promise.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, better not.’
He looked out of the window. The street was deserted. With any luck he might slip out unobserved.
‘You’re welcome to stay, you know.’
‘No. I shouldn’t be here at all, really. It was selfish.’ He raised his hand and laid it against her cheek. ‘Dear Elinor. Thanks for putting up with me.’
She blushed. ‘When shall I see you?’
‘I don’t know. Will you go to see Teresa?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll be over there as soon as I can. And then I think I might go home for a few days. I need to think.’
‘Good idea, let things calm down a bit. But don’t think too long, will you? I’ll miss you.’
He bent and rested his cheek against hers. She let him out of the room and watched through a crack in the door as he tiptoed downstairs. The house was heavy with the breaths of sleepers. Opening the door, he peered out, and slipped out into the street like a burglar.
The buildings he knew so well looked unfamiliar in the pre-dawn light. Crossing the road, he limped along, stumbling once or twice where a tree root had raised the paving stones. At times he went dizzy, but steadied himself and went on again. Straight to the hospital to get his ribs bound up, then he’d go to see Teresa, to make sure she was all right. He owed her that at least.
Eleven
Opening the door to let him in, Teresa kept her face averted, took him along to the living room, and left him there. He stood in the doorway and stared, struggling to take in the changes. She’d stripped the red and blue shawls from the furniture and taken all the paintings down. A beige three-piece sofa, so lumpy and ancient the springs bulged out of the seats, took up a huge amount of space. Cigarettes had burnt black holes in the arms. A greasy patch on the back showed where a previous tenant had rested his head. The pictures had left ghost squares on the wall. The rugs, rolled up, revealed the full horror of the
carpet with its interminable, meaningless pattern.
The shock of this dismantling was very great. He went into the bedroom and found Teresa putting a folded skirt into the suitcase that lay open on the bed.
‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m going away for a few days.’ Her voice was tight to bursting.
‘Where? How long for?’
More than a few days. Two more suitcases, already packed, stood at the foot of the bed.
‘My auntie’s.’
Her face was in shadow. He caught her arm and pulled her across to the lamp. She had a bruise on one cheekbone and a cut on her lower lip. ‘Jack?’
‘Who else?’ She laughed. It would have distressed him less if she’d screamed. ‘I might as well go home. I certainly can’t model looking like this.’
‘When did this happen?’
He sounded overbearing, bullying. He was angry with her because he hadn’t been there to protect her.
‘The other night, after you’d gone. You left your cigarettes behind, I thought you’d come back for them.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Oh, to tell me what a bitch I am. And how much he loves me. He was drunk, for God’s sake.’
‘Did he… ?’ He glanced at the bed. An old, brown bloodstain, the shape of Africa, took up the centre of the mattress. He’d lain on that, night after night, and never known it was there. ‘Don’t go.’
‘No choice.’
‘You’re not going back to him?’
‘What do you think?’
He sat down on the bed, heavily. She tugged a blouse sleeve from underneath him, angry with him for being there and being useless. He didn’t blame her. ‘When were you going to tell me?’
‘Now. This evening.’ But she wouldn’t meet his eye.
‘Do you know where he’s staying?’
‘No.’ She was crumpling newspaper and stuffing it into shoes. And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.’ She squeezed a pair of shoes down the side of the case.
‘What train are you catching?’
‘The eight o’clock.’
She closed the suitcase and snapped the locks shut.
‘You were just going to leave, weren’t you?’
‘No, of course not. You know I wouldn’t do that.’
They stood and faced each other. She came into his arms and he held her, stroking her hair, but his thoughts were all of Halliday, the bright, black buttons of his eyes, the sweating bulk of him. ‘I’ll find him.’
‘If you’ve got any sense you’ll keep out of his way.’
She made to lift the suitcase from the bed, but he got there first and did it for her.
‘How are you getting to the station?’
‘Elinor’s coming for me in a cab.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No, better not. Honestly. Let’s say goodbye here.’
‘You are coming back?’
‘Of course, I always do. I just need to let him calm down a bit.’
A knock on the door. Teresa went to answer it, slipping on the chain before she opened it. Elinor’s voice. She came into the bedroom, wearing a small, rather elegant black hat, braced for conflict.
‘Paul. I’ve been trying to find you all day.’
‘I’ve been at the hospital. Took ages.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Cracked ribs. Nothing that won’t mend.’
‘I warned you, I told you what he was like.’
‘I don’t mind what he did to me.’
They began a final search of the flat while he stood, helpless, watching them open and close drawers, check cupboards, peer under sofa and chairs. Both women were, at some level, enjoying this, Elinor more than Teresa. Finally, Teresa lay face down and looked under the bed.
‘Can’t see anything.’
The whole flat seemed to have been demolished, though in fact comparatively little had been taken away. The glow he remembered had always been an illusion, created by lamps and a few brightly coloured shawls and rugs. All the time, underneath, there’d been this cold squalor. For the first time, he noticed a smell of rancid fat from the kitchen.
‘You don’t have to go on your own,’ he said. ‘We can go together.’
‘No, Paul. He mightn’t bother tracking me down if he knows I’m not with you.’
Elinor went to the door to see if the cab had arrived, leaving them alone for a few minutes. Teresa was looking in the wardrobe mirror, adjusting her hat. She paused, pin in hand, meeting his reflected gaze. ‘You’ll get over it, you know. Quite quickly.’
‘I love you.’
She turned to face him. ‘You don’t love me. If you love anybody, you love Elinor, and you only love her because you know she won’t have you.’
He was starting to be angry, not just with Halliday but with her as well. How dare she tell him what he felt?
Elinor said from the hall, ‘The cab’s here.’
Paul could hear the cab horse stamping its feet, snorting, jingling its harness. The time they had left was measured in seconds; there was nothing he could do to stop her going. He lugged one of the three cases up the basement steps and went back for the other two, but the women were already carrying them. He brought the shawls and rugs. The cabman was strapping the suitcases on to the back. Elinor got into the cab.
Paul stood on the pavement with Teresa. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the cab rock as the driver climbed into his seat. ‘Well. Goodbye, then.’
‘Elinor’s got the address.’
‘I’ll come to see you, shall I? When you’ve settled in.’
‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ She was scanning the street, obviously still frightened. ‘Oh, God, the keys. I meant to take them back. Would you be an angel and drop them through the letter box?’
Somehow that phrase ‘be an angel’ summed everything up. He kissed her dry mouth. She smiled and stroked the side of his face, then got into the cab. The cabbie clicked his tongue and the horse ambled forward. Paul watched them to the end of the street, the black, shiny cab lurching and swaying over the greasy cobbles. It was like the day they came and took his mother away, though he hadn’t witnessed that. Auntie Ethel had made a great fuss about needing a particular brand of pickled onions and he’d been sent all the way into town to buy a jar. When he came back his mother was gone.
The cab turned the corner. He went and stood in the empty living room, looking around him at all the bare spaces. He said, ‘Teresa?
The hum of silence answered him, broken by the persistent dripping of a tap. He walked from empty room to empty room, until at last he accepted defeat, closed and locked the door, and slipped the keys through the letter box. He heard a chink as they hit the lino and then he had to turn and walk away.
Twelve
Floating on her back, Elinor watched the treetops wave against the blue sky. Minnows darted all around her. When she closed her eyes she could feel thousands of tiny mouths rasping on her skin. This was the last hour of peace she’d have for some time. Kit Neville and Paul Tarrant were due to arrive on the ten o’clock train. She’d invited Kit first, weeks ago, but then he’d taken her home from the Café Royal and kissed her goodnight and she’d let him because she supposed she ought to want to, but immediately – the taste of his dinner on her tongue – she’d known it was a mistake. ‘Look –’ she’d started to say, but he’d put his hand gently over her mouth. ‘Your eyes aren’t for looking,’ he’d said solemnly. ‘They’re for being looked at.’ She stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. She was an artist, for God’s sake. If her eyes weren’t for looking, what was she going to paint?
After she’d finally managed to persuade Kit to leave, she’d sat down and drawn a caricature of him on his motorbike, which made her feel better for a time. But the next day she’d got a letter from him containing a proposal of marriage. She’d expected another of his jokey, self-pitying apologies – and when she finally took in what the letter
was saying she’d stuffed it in a drawer and tried to forget about it. She thought if she ignored it he’d soon realize what a fool he’d been and then it need never be mentioned again, but there was the weekend coming up. In a panic she’d invited Paul Tarrant as well. And then, knowing Mother would disapprove of her inviting two men, she’d asked Catherine to come along as well, only she’d had to cancel because her father was ill.
The whole thing was a mess. The thought of Kit and his constant, clumsy efforts to manoeuvre her into bed had spoiled the morning. Even before he arrived.
After swimming slowly to the rock, she clambered out, feeling the sun hot on the top of her head. A breeze ruffled the hairs at the nape of her neck. Raising her arm to her mouth she sucked her skin in sheer delight at her own taste. Why couldn’t men leave you alone? Though this was her fault, really, not Kit’s. She should have replied to his letter, said no, cancelled the weekend. And that would have been the end of it. Instead she’d drifted, and now the confrontation she’d dreaded was inevitable, and it would be worse because she’d put it off.
Groaning at her own folly, she stood and started pulling on her clothes. Her stockings stuck to her wet knees and refused to rise higher. Bundling them under her arm, she walked back to the house, her toes slippery inside her shoes. Beechmast crunched under her feet. She was trudging along thinking of Kit and what she was going to say to him, but then suddenly she straightened her back and she was Rosalind in the Forest of Arden, swaggering about in her doublet and hose. Really, she ought to stop going on like this. Any sane adult female ought to be able to walk through a wood without turning into Rosalind, but she never managed it. It was a sign of immaturity, this constant trying on of other identities. Fun, though.
She slipped across the hall without being seen and ran upstairs to her bedroom, where she wrung out her bathing dress and stockings and put them to dry on the windowsill. Her short hair was already starting to dry. ‘Oh, Elinor, you had such beautiful hair,’ Mother never failed to say on every visit home. ‘Why did you do it?’
I’ll get it cut again next week, she thought. More than anything else, more than anything she’d ever said, the cutting of her hair had made Mother realize she was serious about painting. Like a nun setting sail for God.
