Paper Moon

by Marion Husband

  He caught her hand and pressed it to his mouth. ‘Come back to bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll hold you while you sleep.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  IN HIS HOTEL ROOM Francis wrote to Patrick.

  He began, I’ve been absent from you too long. I miss you so badly and yet this being apart makes me realise you’re not simply the faithful man who loves me so astonishingly well, but an angel, sent for some unfathomable reason to look out for me. I should have realised this truth years ago because you are so extraordinary, so unlike other men, so unlike me, this weak, vain, faithless creature you have been so intent on saving from himself. I should have realised from the first moment I saw you in that trench, when I fell so badly in love with you and hoped you wouldn’t notice. Or perhaps not then, but later, when you saved my life so often just by lending me courage when I was half-mad from fear. How much courage you had to spare – I will never forget. But angels are courageous, aren’t they? I should know. I have never understood why I deserved such grace.

  I don’t have your faith, Patrick, or your love of God. I am uncertain and afraid, I wish you were with me now, not just in spirit, as I know you are and always have been, but here in body. I need to cower behind you, because if God is real He might be kinder knowing you loved me.

  If angels need to pray, pray for me. I love you.

  * * *

  It was not the letter he had intended to write. He had intended to write only that he was coming home in a few days, and that Bobby might be with him. All the letters and postcards he had written since he left contained only the bare facts like this, his way of keeping at bay the homesickness that made England seem so much more miserable than it really was. But seeing Bobby had reminded him painfully of the frightened boy that Patrick had rescued. He had found himself wanting to put into words how much he owed him: his life, in fact.

  Before he left for England he had been to see his doctor who showed him the x-ray of his lungs and pointed out the shadows. Because he was his friend as well as his doctor he had told him that he should make his peace with the world, that if he had left some things undone they should be attended to. Francis had asked how long he had, not believing a time limit could be put on his life, believing still in his own immortality. ‘A year, perhaps,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s difficult to be accurate with cancer.’

  He’d asked, ‘How long will I be able to keep it from Patrick?’

  ‘For a while, at least.’ The doctor had frowned, his first betrayal of concern. ‘Tell him today, Francis. Allow him to help you through this.’

  So far he’d told Patrick nothing; it seemed impossible to tell him such a thing when he could barely believe it himself.

  He looked at the letter he’d written to Patrick. It was too sentimental, too trite. He should write the truth, that he was dying and afraid his life had been nothing because he had lost his son.

  After his father had written to him telling him that Bobby had run away to London, he had hired a private detective to find him. The search hadn’t taken long. As soon as he knew where Bobby was, Francis left for England, ignoring Patrick’s fear that there would be a war in Europe and he would be stranded there. As soon as he’d arrived in London he’d gone to the address the detective had given him. Jason Hargreaves had been alone in his studio. Setting up a camera, Hargreaves had looked up at him impatiently.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Are you Jason Hargreaves?’

  ‘Depends who’s asking.’ He’d smiled, beginning to take more notice of him. ‘I probably am, to you.’

  ‘My name is Francis Law.’

  ‘The Francis Law? The artist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hargreaves abandoned the camera and tripod and stepped towards him. Shaking his hand he said, ‘I’m honoured. I can’t tell you how much I adore your work.’ He cleared a pile of clothes from a purple velvet couch, a feather boa trailing across his arm to the floor as he said, ‘Look – sit down. Will you have a drink? Can I take your coat? What brings you to see me? Oh – listen to me – what a flap! You can tell I don’t meet many bona-fide celebrities, can’t you?’

  Francis glanced around the studio. There was a Chinese lacquered screen in one corner, golden lilies etched on the deepest, reflective black. More clothes were draped over it, dresses that were no more than scraps of lace and organza trimmed with feathers and tassels. On the walls were pictures of Bobby. He went to look at them more closely, his heart pounding.

  He hardly recognised him as the same boy that smiled from the snaps his father sent him. In these pictures Bobby didn’t smile; he looked remote and aloof, like the men he painted from memory, like his portrait of himself as a soldier. Bobby’s eyes were blank, as though he had just placed his pistol to the machine gunner’s head. He was naked, drapery carefully arranged to conceal just enough to make the photographs artful rather than shocking. All the same he was shocked. His child’s body had become that of a man’s, powerful, the muscles of his chest and arms clearly defined. So strong, he looked, and dangerous, as though he hated the men who would want most to look at his picture.

  Hargreaves said, ‘He’s marvellous, isn’t he?’

  Francis turned away from the photograph. ‘I’ll buy them all. Every picture you have of him.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And I want your word that there won’t be any more copies printed and that you’ll stop using him as a model.’

  Hargreaves laughed. ‘That’s quite a lot of wants.’

  ‘Will you agree to them?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘I’ll pay whatever you want.’

  ‘Jesus!’ He looked at Francis speculatively. ‘Pay whatever price, eh? You shouldn’t wear your heart on your sleeve so – it’s rather unwise these days.’ More gently he said, ‘Look, do you want to meet him? If you saw him in the flesh you might get over such … ardour. He’s quite ordinary, really. And straight. Horribly, disappointingly straight.’

  ‘I just want the photographs and their negatives.’ He took out his chequebook. ‘How much do you want for them.’

  ‘I’ve just decided they’re not for sale. Who the hell do you think you are anyway? I think you should go.’

  ‘Not until I have the pictures.’

  Hargreaves shook his head. He laughed wearily. ‘Fuck off, Mr Law, would you? Don’t forget to close the door as you leave.’

  Francis lifted one of the photographs of Bobby from the wall. He smashed it to the floor, shattering its glass. Tearing the photograph from its frame he ripped it in two.

  Hargreaves stared at him. Dryly he said, ‘Feel any better for that?’ He sighed. ‘You’ve cut yourself. You’re dripping blood.’ He stepped past the broken glass and grasped his wrist, inspecting the cut across his palm. Glancing up at him he said, ‘It’s quite deep. You best sit down. Over here.’

  Still holding his wrist he led him to the couch. ‘You’re shaking,’ Hargreaves said. ‘Do you feel faint? I’ll fetch a bandage. I have a first-aid kit somewhere …’

  Francis felt an overwhelming sense of foolishness; he had intended to be calm, to make a deal with this man to stop Bobby’s exploitation. But he had lost his temper, something he did so rarely it felt even more like he had let Bobby down.

  Sitting beside him, Hargreaves inspected the cut before dabbing on iodine with a piece of cotton wool. Pushing the skin together he began to wrap a crepe bandage around his hand. ‘I haven’t done this since the war, so you’ll have to excuse me if I’ve lost my touch.’

  Feeling he should say something Francis offered, ‘Were you in France?’

  ‘Oh, you weren’t the only one out there, you know!’ He smiled, looking at him briefly before lowering his eyes to his hand again. ‘I was a stretcher bearer.’

  ‘I was –’

  Fastening the bandage deftly, Hargreaves interrupted him. ‘Everyone knows what you were – hero of the hour. There,’ he said. ‘All mended. Now the only thing left is for you to ask th
e doctor if you’ll ever be able to play the piano again.’

  Francis said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right. No harm done. Well, not much, anyway. Besides, it’ll make a good story – I can dine out on it for years.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to know I’ve been here.’

  ‘No.’ Hargreaves sighed. ‘I’m sure you don’t.’ After a moment he said, ‘You can have the pictures, if you feel so strongly.’

  ‘Will you stop taking his photograph?’

  ‘Would you, if you were me? Of course not. Why, anyway? Do you want him for yourself?’

  ‘Are all the photographs of him like the ones on the walls?’

  ‘Some are just head and shoulder portraits.’ He smiled slightly. ‘In some he’s even dressed. Those are private, though, I don’t show them.’

  ‘I was told you were a pornographer.’

  Hargreaves laughed. ‘Were you now? Well, I’m not.’ Bitterly he said, ‘I’d say you were more of a pornographer than I am. I portray beautiful young men’s bodies more honestly than you do.’

  Getting up, Hargreaves began sweeping the broken glass into a dustpan. He picked up the torn photograph and without looking at it crumpled the pieces and tossed them into the coal fire. The flames leapt around them. Turning to him Hargreaves said, ‘You’re some relation of his, aren’t you? I can see the likeness – in your manner, too. You’ve got the same funny little ways. Who are you, then? An uncle, cousin?’

  ‘I’m his father.’

  Hargreaves stared at him. At last he said, ‘Well, fancy that. I’m surprised – you don’t look like a shit. But there you are, even artists like me can be taken in by a pretty face. Now, I think you should go. He may be back soon. I don’t want him upset by a waste of space like you.’

  ‘You’ve no right to judge me.’

  ‘No? Maybe not – all I know is if I hadn’t found him when I did he’d probably be dead by now. He was too scared to go home to you, too innocent to last five minutes on the streets. I’ve seen what happens to boys like him. You should be thanking me for saving him rather than coming in here making a bloody fool of yourself.’

  Francis said, ‘Is he well?’

  ‘He’s all right.’ He crouched down to put more coal on the fire. Glancing at him he said, ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘He was two.’

  Hargreaves snorted. ‘That explains why he’s never mentioned you.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean I don’t care about him. I do ’

  He straightened up and brushed coal dust from his hands. ‘Odd way of showing you care, if you ask me.’

  ‘You don’t know anything about it!’

  ‘No. Do you want to explain?’

  To his surprise Francis had done just that.

  The words came haltingly at first, but Jason Hargreaves listened attentively and he began to tell him details even Patrick didn’t know, that he had been raped in prison. He had been raped over and over for years until he felt stupefied, so degraded he was nothing more than a body, an obscene, filthy receptacle. He’d had to stop talking then. Hargreaves had waited silently for him to collect himself. Eventually when he could speak again he told Hargreaves that sometimes he looked at Patrick and wondered how he had ended up with him, in such an alien country, his life so bizarrely different to what he had expected as a young man, before prison. He wasn’t like Patrick, so sure of his queerness. He thought of other lives he could have lived. He thought of Bobby every day.

  When he’d finished speaking Hargreaves said, ‘Do you think I should feel sorry for you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I do.’ He’d been sitting opposite him and he stood up. ‘Have you eaten? I’d like to take you out for dinner.’

  In his hotel room, Francis remembered that Jason had taken him to a Greek restaurant and that it was the first time he had eaten olives in England. Jason lined their stones along the rim of his plate as he told him his own story, that his father owned coal mines in South Yorkshire, that thank God he had brothers to take on the business and not mind that he was odd. Jason had smiled. ‘They like my oddness – I’m their artistic pet. Their wives think I’m wonderful, especially when they come up to town and I take them shopping in Harrods.’ He had served as a stretcher-bearer for the last year of the war. The first time he set eyes on Bobby he knew that all he wanted to do was to photograph him. He’d looked down at his circle of olive stones. ‘All he wants to do is fly.’

  It was the first time Francis had heard about Bobby’s flying lessons. He’d thought of Patrick’s predictions of war and felt sick with fear.

  That night he and Jason had made love with unsatisfactory tenderness, both of them realising how unsuited they were to each other. Afterwards Jason had said, ‘I suppose I want men who fuck me like they’re going to kick my head in afterwards.’

  Francis had laughed. ‘Then you’d like Patrick. The first time I saw him –’ He stopped himself, ashamed of his disloyalty and faithlessness.

  Jason patted his hand. ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. Best pretend tonight never happened, eh?’ He’d smiled at him wryly. ‘Shall we be pen pals?’

  They’d written to each other until Jason became too ill. In his last letter he wrote, Bobby needs you – someone who will love him unconditionally.

  Jason’s letter set the seal on his decision. He would go home to England and tell Bobby who he was. He had felt brave at the time. Face to face with Bobby he found that his courage had failed.

  He picked up the letter he had written to Patrick. He hadn’t even mentioned that he’d seen his son and he imagined Patrick reading the letter and wondering if perhaps he had changed his mind, hoping that he had. He hadn’t. Decisive suddenly, he tossed the letter down and walked out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  JANE SLEPT. QUIETLY, SO as not to wake her, Bobby got up and pulled on trousers and a jumper. In bare feet he went downstairs and into the kitchen where the photograph of his father stood on the mantelpiece. He picked it up and studied it closely. He was such a handsome man – if handsome was the right word. Nina, looking at this picture, had called him beautiful. ‘You’re like him,’ she’d said. Everyone said that, although he couldn’t see the likeness himself.

  He set the picture down again, thinking of his visitor yesterday, the creeping sense he’d had that he recognised him. At first he thought he must have seen his photograph lately in a newspaper and he’d even gone through the pile of papers he’d saved for lighting the fire, looking for the article that bore his picture. There was nothing. When Jane arrived he’d pushed it out of his mind but the nagging idea that he’d seen Francis Law before kept returning.

  Nick had said once, ‘You don’t talk about your people.’

  He’d laughed. ‘My people?’

  ‘OK – your family.’

  They’d been sitting in a pub, a tiny beer and sawdust place in an unremarkable village he’d found whilst out driving. No one else in the squadron knew of it. He drove there whenever he wanted to get away from the forced joviality of The King’s Head with its tankards hanging from a beam above the bar and the piano where more often than not the others gathered to sing filthy songs. The King’s Head reminded him of boarding school, he had the same sense of being excluded, the odd one out that the others only tolerated. Those boys at school and the drunken pilots around the piano all had families they talked about. So did Nick. Nick never seemed to tire of talking about his family. That evening Nick had suddenly seemed aware that he’d talked about them too much. So, sheepishly, he’d asked about his.

  Bobby remembered being flippant. ‘I don’t have a family.’

  ‘Yes you do! Come on, Bob – don’t give me that, I know you write to your mother.’

  It was true, he did, stilted, formal letters in reply to hers. His mother wrote once a week, dutifully. Dutifully, he wrote back.

  Bobby took a long drink and wiped beer froth from his mouth. Glancing at Nick he said, ‘My father’s dead. M
y mother re-married so I have a stepfather and two half sisters and a little brother, Mark.’

  ‘So why’d you say you had no one?’ Nick shook his head. ‘Jesus, Bob, it’s like you’re disowning them or something.’

  He wanted to say that they’d disowned him, but it seemed too pathetic. ‘I don’t see much of them. I was sent away to school when I was ten – as soon as the school would take me. I haven’t seen much of them since.’

  ‘Truly?’ He looked so surprised that Bobby had laughed. Meeting Nick’s gaze he thought again how sweet he was, all the love Nick had been brought up with like an aura around him. No wonder he wanted to be close to this easy man, as though some of that aura might rub off on him and make him more acceptable. He’d realised then how perfect he would be for Nina.

  In Parkwood’s kitchen Bobby picked up his father’s photograph again. He turned it over and took out the piece of card holding it in place. On its reverse his father had written To Dad, with all my love, Paul. He remembered how his grandfather had talked to him of Paul as though he was a secret they shared.

  Francis Law looked like Paul. Bobby frowned, putting the photo down only to pick it up again. He remembered Law’s voice, how it had the same gentleness as his grandfather’s, the same wry humour. They were related in some way – he was a cousin, perhaps. Bobby wondered why he hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps he thought he already knew.

  Bobby went into the larder and brought out a tin of tomato soup and half a loaf of bread. It wasn’t much of a supper and he only had apples for pudding. He hoped she wouldn’t rush off this evening but stay and eat with him. He wished he could serve her steak and salad and tiny new potatoes, a crème caramel with freshly brewed coffee and dark mints to follow, the kind of meal Jason would treat him to before the war. He was a growing boy, Jason would tell him, and smile indulgently as he watched him eat. Sometimes Jason would pretend to the waiters that he was his son.

  As he opened the can of soup he heard a knock on the back door. Guessing it was Mark he called out, ‘Come in.’