Of course. He missed him. They had been together for twenty years and in all that time had barely been apart. Tonight he would write a long letter; he would write about the war memorial, how he had stood before it in the dusk as the market traders packed up their stalls around him and how the light was too poor to read the names. The poppies were no longer there, nor the gaudy geraniums. Daffodils broke the bare soil of the flowerbeds, their scent reminding him fittingly of Easter. He would write that he had thought of him and no one else, not even the dead, who anyway had their memorial and their poppies on Armistice Day. Standing in the memorial’s shadow his exile had seemed more complete than ever.
He signed his name and slipped the card back into his pocket. In a moment Adam would arrive; he had never known him to be late for anything. Glancing at his watch he saw how close the moment was and his nervousness made his heart race. It crossed his mind that Adam might not recognise him and that there would be some awkward scene in which the boy behind the bar would have to point him out. He lit a cigarette, his hands trembling a little. He had loved Adam once. Now he was afraid of him.
The door leading from the reception into the bar opened and Adam walked in. Francis stood up at once, stepping around the table and holding out his hand for Adam to shake. He knew he was smiling too broadly, making too much of a show of himself to hide his nerves and sudden shyness. He was almost fifty and felt fifteen, as bashful as he was the day they’d first met.
Adam took his offered hand and shook it briefly, barely able to hold his gaze before glancing away towards the bar. ‘Shall I get us a drink?’
Francis said, ‘Allow me. What would you like?’
‘What are you having?’
‘Gin.’
‘I’ll have a lemonade.’
Returning from the bar with their drinks Francis saw that Adam had chosen to sit facing away from the rest of the room in a high-backed, wing chair, effectively hidden from anyone but the most curious. He had to expect furtiveness but all the same he felt angry, remembering how it had sometimes seemed that Adam revelled in his sense of shame, no matter how innocent the situation. He drew breath in an effort to quell his anger, reminding himself that Adam had a right to protect himself from gossip.
Setting a tumbler of lemonade in front of him he said, ‘No ice, I’m afraid. The boy was very apologetic.’
‘Ice? Where do you think you are – Casablanca?’ He laughed scathingly. ‘Ice!’
Francis sat down and lit a cigarette, taking his time so that he might seem unperturbed by Adam’s hostility.
Adam said, ‘You’ve hardly changed.’
Placing his lighter down Francis said, ‘Neither have you. You look well.’
‘I am, thanks.’
‘Thank you for meeting me.’
‘Did you think I wouldn’t? I was much too curious.’
Francis felt as though he was appraising him and finding him offensive. Adam’s eyes had fixed on the plain gold band on his finger and he knew that it was this symbol of fidelity that had offended him the most. He drew on his cigarette, determined to resist the urge to hide his left hand beneath the table.
‘So,’ Adam said, ‘You’re back in Thorp.’
‘Yes.’
‘I must say I was surprised when you telephoned. Quite a shock.’
‘I’m sorry – I should have given you more warning.’
‘I’m still not sure why you want to see me. Old time’s sake?’
‘Old friendship’s sake, I hope.’
‘Were we ever friends? It was more – I don’t know – what did you used to call it? Fucking?’ Adam looked at him steadily, eyebrows raised in mock enquiry. Francis knew that this was the type of treatment he meted out to the boys in his care – mock patience edged with sarcasm that could all too quickly turn nasty. Adam was a ruthless interrogator: lies had to be unearthed and truth established no matter how painful the process was. Francis realised that the fingers of his right hand had gone to hide the ring on his left.
Adam snorted. ‘You don’t change. Why don’t you tell me to piss off – stand up for yourself! It was always your trouble – turn the other cheek or run away. Whatever was easiest.’
‘Easiest?’ He frowned. ‘You think it was easy?’
‘Running away usually is.’ He nodded his head at the ring on his finger. ‘How is Patrick? I presume you’re still together?’
‘He’s well, and yes – we’re still together.’
‘And you wear his ring. Does he wear yours or are things not quite that equal?’
‘I’m not here to talk about him.’
‘No. Pity. I still have my fantasies about him – he was so gorgeous – and hung! My god! I only wonder how you cope!’
‘Adam –’ He stopped himself, too tired to remonstrate. He thought of his room upstairs and its private bath deep enough to drown in. He would soak in it until the water grew cold and his skin wrinkled. A hot bath was something to look forward to even though he knew that he would go over and over this conversation, marring the pleasure of it.
Drawing on his cigarette he said, ‘You’re headmaster now? Congratulations.’
‘Well, it isn’t much compared to what you’ve achieved. I saw an exhibition of your paintings in London, just before the war. I made a special journey.’
‘Did you like them?’
‘Like? Are we meant to like them? They’re horrible. Dead soldiers. Painting what you know, eh?’
‘I’ve started painting flowers. Pansies, mainly.’
Adam laughed. His expression softened. ‘I thought the paintings were very powerful. They surprised me. You surprised me. Your stand against the war.’
‘It didn’t make me very popular after 1939.’
‘I knew you weren’t an appeaser.’
Wanting to change the subject, Francis asked, ‘Do you still teach or is it all administration as Head?’
‘I teach the sixth form. Now, are you here just to make small talk, to catch up? I don’t believe it.’
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘Why? Don’t be disingenuous. I know why you’re here and it’s not to quiz me about my career. Well, I’ll save you some time. I haven’t seen him. The last time I saw him was about 1940 – yes,’40 – just before the air raids began in the autumn. He was walking along the High Street. I must say he looked marvellous in his uniform. Very young, though. Much too young.’
Francis thought of the photograph he had of Bobby dressed in the RAF uniform. His first thought when it dropped from the envelope was that this was another dressing up, a joke of Jason’s in poor taste. It wasn’t a joke, but rather in such deadly earnest that he had hidden the photograph away and gone outside. It was midday and even in the shade of their walled garden the sun was merciless. The rest of the household slept in the cool, tiled rooms. He remembered the sound the fountain made, how he had scooped up the water to cool his face and disguise that he had been crying. He didn’t feel entitled to tears, although he knew he would have been allowed them. When he went inside he found that Samir had woken and had made him coffee. The boy had only been working for them for a few weeks and his anxiety had touched him. He was grateful, too, that he’d had the tact not to wake Patrick.
Francis stubbed his cigarette out. He downed his drink and glanced towards the bar where the handsome barman was chatting to a young couple. The girl laughed and her partner slipped his arm around her waist, possessive and unsmiling. Catching Francis’s eye, the barman smiled as though he shared the joke. Francis looked away quickly, only to find Adam watching him.
‘Francis –’ He snorted. ‘I can’t get used to calling you that! Francis, are you going to visit him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think you should? I mean, think of the upset you’ll cause.’
‘I need to see him.’
‘Why? Why after all this time? And what does he need? Peace, I would imagine, after all he’s been through.’
‘Peace!’ Unexp
ected anger rose inside Francis. He lit another cigarette in an attempt to be calmer but it was too much for him. He wanted to let go of all the rage he’d suppressed for so long; but Adam was the wrong man to vent it on. He drew on the cigarette, dragging smoke deep into his lungs until he could feel it working. At last he said flatly, ‘Adam, everyone believes that things should go on as they are and that I should accept it – as I have all these years, meekly. But I can’t accept it any more. I can’t.’
‘It will hurt him.’
Francis looked down at the tip of his cigarette. The night before he left Tangiers he had lain sleepless until finally he had got up and taken Bobby’s photograph down from the shelf in his studio. He’d thought he had left Patrick sleeping but he turned to find him standing in the doorway. ‘Don’t go,’ Patrick said. ‘Let him be.’
‘You still smoke too much.’ Adam had ducked his head to smile at him. ‘Listen, I know what happened was unjust – terribly unjust and you didn’t deserve it, not at all. But that boy –’ He sighed, sitting back in his seat. ‘Oh, I don’t know. What would I do if I were you? I don’t know.’
Francis made himself look at Adam properly for the first time. He had aged, his once thick, dark hair was grey and thin, his delicate expressive hands beginning to show signs of arthritis. He would make one of those wiry old men, keeping his strength and impatient quickness until he shrank too tightly against his bones and gave in. He would make an inoffensive corpse. Francis sipped his drink, trying to banish the image.
Adam said, ‘Are you really painting flowers now?’ He had seemed to make the effort to keep his voice light, as though they could make small talk and that their friendship wasn’t broken beyond repair.
‘I stopped painting the war years ago.’
‘You used to draw in the margins of the letters you sent me from France. Do you remember? I never thought those doodles might be valuable some day.’ Softly he said, ‘If I could turn the clock back …’
Quickly Francis said, ‘Would you like another drink? Something stronger this time, eh?’
In his room Francis undressed, hanging his clothes carefully. He could leave his shoes outside to be polished by the night porter but it seemed too much effort, too much fuss. Going into the bathroom he studied himself in the mirror. He hadn’t aged as Adam had, gradually and with grace, but suddenly and frighteningly, his own mortality showing itself so starkly he wondered why others weren’t in awe of him. He thought of the beautiful girl who had met him outside Waterloo Station. She had flirted with him. He smiled at the memory, his smiled fading as he remembered how she’d shunned him at Jason’s funeral. She had known all about him by then and everything he had told her he knew she found incomprehensible. At the graveside she could barely bring herself to look at him.
Over lunch the previous day, when she had still been inclined to be flirtatious, Nina had told him about Bobby, imaging that this young man she seemed to adore was a stranger to him, that her stories could be believed or not and it wouldn’t matter, as the stories of strangers’ didn’t. She had laughed a lot; even when she told him about the baby that had died she’d smiled as she described how Bobby had held this child and played with her and thought of her as his own. He had listened, encouraging her to go on; he felt compelled to, such was his longing to hear everything. Everything: truth or lie or distortion. He had begun to fall in love with this girl and had to draw himself back. He noticed that she watched him with speculative interest.
There was a knock on his bedroom door. Taking one of the neatly folded towels draped over the side of the bath he wrapped it around his waist and went to answer. He expected the porter with the tea he had ordered, instead the barman stood there, grinning as he held up a tray.
‘Your tea, sir.’
The boy stepped round him, going to the side table and placing the tray down. Turning to him he made an obvious show of looking him over, frowning a little like a tailor about to alter the hem of a client’s jacket. He put his hand on his hip, the other hand went to his mouth; he exhaled softly. ‘White towelling sets off your tan.’
Francis laughed, despite himself.
‘No – really. You have a beautiful tan. Where did you acquire it?’
Going to the table where he had left his loose change Francis picked up a few coins and held them out. ‘Thank you for bringing me the tea. Would you ask at reception if I might have a call in the morning at eight o’clock?’
‘Perhaps you won’t need a call.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘I must say how much I admire your work. All those male bodies –’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Stephen.’
‘Well, Stephen, I was just about to bathe, if you’d excuse me.’
The boy stood his ground. Francis expected him to carry on his absurdly camp act, was almost prepared to be entertained by it for the few moments it took him to hold the door open and say goodnight. But suddenly the boy slumped down on the bed, defeated. He glanced up at him.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Law. I just wanted to talk to you. It was the towel. The towel threw me.’
Leaving a careful space, Francis sat beside him. He was less handsome than he’d seemed to be behind the dimly lit bar with its glamorous display of bottles and cocktail glasses. He looked younger too; acne scarred his cheek and neck. He smelt of cigarettes and alcohol, as though the spirits he served had soaked into his skin. His fingernails were raggedly bitten. Francis overcame the urge to take his hand to comfort him.
Stephen said, ‘I do admire your paintings. I love them, their realism. When I saw your name in the guest book, when I saw you at the bar – I used to have a poster of The Machine Gunner on the wall of my room.’ After a moment he said, ‘I was at art school, before I was called up. Somehow I can’t bring myself to go back to it.’
Francis thought of the words he might say to encourage him, all of them useless. The boy would go his own way no matter what he said. He pictured The Machine Gunner curling its corners away from the walls in the boy’s room. It had been one of his earliest works; he thought of it as crude and too shocking, too full of the hate he’d felt at the time. He wished the boy had chosen another of his pictures to pin up, except that most of his popular, early works were like Gunner. At least he had made the machine gunner beautiful, surreally so, he’d thought.
Stephen said, ‘You want me to go.’ He made to get up but Francis touched his hand, stopping him.
‘I don’t want to talk,’ Francis said. ‘Do you still want to stay?’
The boy nodded, already silenced. Lying down, Francis held out his arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BOBBY SIPPED THE WHISKY Jane had handed him, pretending to study the plates and servers and tureens displayed on the Welsh dresser in her kitchen. Pouring herself a drink Jane said, ‘I collect porcelain. Very dull, I’m afraid.’
He turned to her. Without thinking he said, ‘My mother collects china figurines.’
‘Oh?’
Quickly he said, ‘But these are more interesting. They have a purpose, at least.’
‘I don’t use them.’
‘No? Oh well …’ He went on looking at the display, knowing how awkward he must look as he searched for something to say that wasn’t tactless or idiotic or both. At last he said, ‘I had a friend who loved Wedgwood – that blue and white classical Greek stuff. I bought him a plate with a border of Greek warriors fighting with swords.’ He smiled, remembering Jason’s pleasure in the plate.
‘Was he in the RAF too, your friend?’
‘Jason? No. He was someone I knew in London. We met before the war.’
She sat down at the kitchen table and motioned that he should sit as well. The table was only large enough to seat two. As he sat his knees brushed hers and she coloured, sipping her drink as if to hide her embarrassment. She said, ‘What were you doing in London?’
‘Oh, you know. Learning to fly, mainly.’
‘Mainly?’
‘No, I came here when I was offered a job at the school. What else did you do in London?’
He imagined telling her the whole, indecent truth. He wondered how shocked she would be. She seemed to want to be shocked, as though she guessed he was hiding something he was ashamed of. Deciding to test her he said, ‘I worked for Jason in London – as a model. He was a photographer, although he didn’t have to do it for a living, he was terribly wealthy. I used to ask how much money he had but he would just laugh. He was always surrounded by others like him: second sons of dukes; the daughters of bishops caught with their knickers down once too often, the telephone numbers of abortionists in their handbags.’
He paused, trying to gauge her reaction. She looked back at him, impassive, and he went on, ‘They’d all known each other for years – there was an air of incest about the way they bed-hopped. It was a revelation to me that such people existed: a tight circle of mad, immoral people, although they loved outsiders – the type of outsider who was interesting in the right way.’
‘Not outsiders at all, then?’
Surprised by her astuteness he said, ‘No, I suppose not.’ After a moment he said, ‘Jason picked me up in a café. In return for being his model he offered to pay for my flying lessons. Sometimes he and a group of his friends would drive to the airfield with a picnic hamper filled with bottles of champagne and crystal flutes. They’d spread a rug on the field beside the runway and stand up to cheer as my plane bumped down, rushing to tell me how marvellously brave and clever I was. My instructor was bemused. He thought Jason was my father and I was ashamed of how embarrassed I was that he should think such a thing. Not that Jason wanted to be my father – well, perhaps occasionally he did. I know he worried that I might kill myself in what he called those plywood box kites.’
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