Paper Moon

by Marion Husband

  ‘Are you blaming him now?’

  ‘No.’ He exhaled. ‘I don’t know! Perhaps! I trusted his judgement – I thought he knew what would be best!’ His voice rose as he said vehemently, ‘I just wanted what was best for you! And I was ill and scared and utterly beaten and I couldn’t face a five-year-old boy to tell him his mother had lied to him so horribly.’

  ‘But now, now when I’m twenty-five?’

  ‘I just wanted to see you. I wanted you to see me and know the truth. I want to make it up to you if I can, to help you.’ He looked around the shabby, dark room. ‘I always hated this house. It’s so dark and cold, so full of my father’s grief for my mother and brother, for me, I suppose. I hate to think of you alone here.’

  ‘I’m not alone. And I can cope with being a civilian. I’m not like you.’ He heard a noise from upstairs and realised that he had forgotten about Jane. He looked towards the door.

  Law said, ‘Is there someone upstairs?’

  Bobby ignored him, listening to her footsteps in the room above them. Looking at him he said, ‘I want you to go now. I don’t want to see you again.’

  ‘Please, Bob. Please don’t be like this …’

  To Bobby’s horror Law began to cry. As coldly as he could he said, ‘Stop it. You can’t behave like this – you’ve no right …’

  ‘No. No … of course I haven’t …’ He seemed to make a great effort to pull himself together, wiping his eyes quickly with his fingers. Bobby stood up and held out his handkerchief but Law shook his head, refusing it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Bobby said. ‘But you should have come back sooner. I’ll show you out. I don’t want my friend to see you.’

  On the doorstep Bobby held out his hand but Law stepped forward and pulled him into his arms. He held him tightly and Bobby felt how frail he was beneath the expensive clothes. Law stepped back and smiled awkwardly, ‘Forgive me, but I have wanted to do that for such a long time. All that time I imagined a little child in my arms but you’re so strong, a grown man.’ He touched his face gently. ‘Goodbye, Bob.’

  Bobby watched him walk away. He realised he was still clutching his handkerchief. He shoved it in to his pocket, a damp, snotty ball.

  Jane wrapped herself in Bobby’s dressing gown and went downstairs. From the kitchen doorway she said, ‘I should go home, before he wonders where I’ve got to.’

  Bobby was standing at the sink, smoking and staring out over the garden. She went to him. Slipping her arms around his waist she pressed her cheek to his back. The pullover he wore had been washed too many times, its wool felt matted. Breathing in his clean, soap smell she smiled, wondering if they had time to go to bed again.

  Her hands were clasped just below his heart and he covered them with his own. Hugging him closer she said, ‘Perhaps I don’t have to go yet.’

  He remained silent and after a while she said cautiously, ‘Bob?’

  He breathed out sharply. ‘I think you should go.’ Disentangling himself from her embrace he turned to face her. ‘I don’t want him to be suspicious.’

  She frowned, studying him. ‘There’s something wrong.’ Anxiously she said, ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘Nothing!’ He smiled and touched her face. ‘Nothing, really.’

  He’d been crying, it was obvious. Because she was too afraid to ask why and be told the truth she smiled back at him. ‘You’re right, I should go. School tomorrow.’

  She went upstairs and began to dress. As she buttoned her blouse she looked up to find him watching her from the doorway.

  Taking a step towards her he said, ‘It’s the first night of the play tomorrow, isn’t it?’ He attempted to smile. ‘I hope Mark’s not too nervous.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine.’ Gently she said, ‘Why don’t you come and see the play – Mark would be so pleased if you did.’

  He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Crumpling it back in his pocket he said, ‘Would you like me to be there?’

  ‘Of course! Bob, you know I would!’

  Tears rolled down his face and he pressed his lips together as though to stop any sound escaping. Still holding his hand Jane led him to the bed. Lying down beside him she pulled him into her arms.

  At dawn Bobby got up and went downstairs to smoke. In the kitchen he saw that his father’s photograph was still on the floor. He picked it up and considered tearing it into pieces. He stared at it and saw himself as he was when he first walked into Jason’s studio, naïve and vulnerable and too young to be out in the world alone.

  Jason had said, ‘If you take your clothes off I’ll pay you far more.’

  The cost of the flying lessons had been nothing to Jason.

  After one lesson he had returned to the studio and found another boy there smoking Jason’s cigarettes, an ordinary, dull-faced boy who had looked at him shyly but with a kind of hunger too. The boy was wearing the Japanese garden robe; he looked like a half-hearted transvestite who couldn’t be bothered to do his hair and make-up. He was naked beneath the robe, the beginnings of an erection showing through the thin silk.

  ‘You’d only be pretending, Bobby!’ Jason had laughed at his outrage. ‘I’ve told him you’re not queer! God forbid anyone should think that of you!’

  The boy had sniggered. Dressed by then, he had witnessed Bobby’s rage, the panic that had him almost on the brink of tears. As the boy was leaving he blew Bobby a kiss and it took all of Jason’s strength to stop him chasing after him to smash his teeth down his throat.

  Bobby tossed his father’s photograph down. He gazed up from the table and he turned it over so he wouldn’t have to look at him. He couldn’t help reading the message on its back, To Dad, with all my love, Paul. Paul had been eighteen, his grandfather had told him, eighteen, and desperate to join his brother at the front. He had wanted to prove himself, his grandfather said, and so he did. ‘And oh! But he loved you!’ His grandfather held Paul’s picture out to him. ‘He loved you more than anything in the world!’ Bobby had been proud that Paul had loved him so much.

  His grandfather had talked of Francis Law the great artist who had painted the picture that hung above the fireplace. If Law had an exhibition in London his grandfather would travel to see it. Once he had taken him. He’d been ten and the paintings of soldiers living and dying and killing each other had scared him and he had vowed to himself that he would never join the army, would never be so vulnerable and frightened and vicious as the men Law depicted. His grandfather had wept when he saw the paintings; lots of men of his generation did – those fathers of the dead. Even as a ten-year-old child he had thought Law wrong to show so much.

  Law had wanted to paint him. His father had wanted to paint him, as he was now, with his face all changed and ugly, only his eyes the same and recognisably his. He remembered the first time they had allowed him to see himself in a mirror. He had looked worse than he did now, the flesh still angry and livid, and he had believed he would never be able to face anyone ever again without his good looks to hide behind. How vain he was! Far more vain than the other men, who seemed braver and more stoical than he could ever be. He had set himself apart from these men, the worst vanity of all.

  He went outside into the garden where the birds had just begun to sing. His feet were bare and the grass felt cool and soft, the dew darkening the hem of his trousers. The sky was clear, the day promised to be warm, the kind of day that always made him feel ashamed to be hiding away. He thought of Jane who had left a note on the pillow beside him telling him how much she loved him. He wondered if she could be pregnant. Afraid suddenly, he sat down on the bench beneath the horse-chestnut tree and tossed his cigarette stub down.

  Nick told him Nina was pregnant as they sat side by side in deckchairs, their faces to the warm sun, off duty for once in that summer of 1940. Through half-closed eyes he’d been watching Simpson work on his Spitfire a few dozen yards away and he’d wanted to go and talk to the man, to remind him, badger him about something or other, there wa
s always something he felt he had to bring to the ground crew’s attention. But it was hot, there was a heat haze on the horizon, he felt deeply weary and anxious and couldn’t be bothered to move, not even to tell Simpson something that might save his life. He’d been thinking about fate, wondering if he could let go of the worry and be a fatalist. Of course he couldn’t; he knew that in a moment he would get up and go and breathe over Simpson’s resigned shoulder. But then Nick said, ‘Bob? Are you awake?’

  Nick imagined that he could sleep; he didn’t know him very well. He’d smiled, pretending to be dozy. ‘Not really asleep.’

  Nick shifted uncomfortably. ‘Bob … Jesus – I don’t know how to say this! You’ve always been such a good friend to me – the best. Like a brother …’

  He’d looked at him, surprised. He remembered smiling self-consciously. Nick had looked away, towards the busy scene of men clambering over planes. He’d looked angry, as though he hated the sight of him and Bobby had felt himself become afraid.

  At last Nick said, ‘Nina wants you to drop by the cottage and have supper with us.’ He turned to him, still angry. ‘I don’t want you to. I want you to stay away from her.’

  Bobby had avoided Nick’s gaze, the way he looked at him as though he was unclean. He remembered fumbling for his cigarettes, and that his hands had shook as he said, ‘I’ve always stayed away.’

  ‘I know.’ Nick had sighed. ‘Bob – I know how you feel about her and I know for sure she still feels something for you…I hate it. It’s got so I can’t stand being around you …’

  Watching Simpson walk away from his plane he said, ‘Then go, Nick. Go and sit with the others. I understand.’

  ‘I need to tell you something first.’ He drew breath as if summoning courage. ‘Nina’s pregnant.’ He looked at him. ‘She’s very happy, we both are. But I need you to stay away from us. I want her to forget all about you.’

  Before he could speak, Nick was on his feet and was walking towards a group of their fellow pilots who were sprawled on the grass playing cards. He remembered that Nick kept his back to him, seemed stiff with the effort of not looking in his direction. He heard the others laugh. One of them caught his eye only to look away again as though his bloody, disgusting past was etched into his face. He had hardly spoken to Nick again. A week later he was dead.

  Sitting beneath the tree Bobby bowed his head, remembering how sometimes he would look at Joan and see Nick in her, bringing him up short. He had vowed to himself that one day he would tell her all about her real Daddy, knowing that he would make Nick sound like a character in a book, remote and saint-like as his own father had been. It would be a kind of revenge; the thought of it made him feel ashamed.

  He watched as a thrush pulled a worm from the lawn. He had to think of something else and his thoughts returned to Law, how Law had held him so tightly. No man had ever held him like that, not even his grandfather, who always seemed so lost in grief. Law had touched his cheek and he had felt that touch for hours afterwards. He remembered the raw expression of love in his eyes. He wondered how he could do without such unconditional love, how he could have spurned it. He remembered his pride. Pride had always been important to him, even as it made him feel hollow and brittle as bird bones.

  He got up. He went inside the house and shoved his bare feet into shoes. He shrugged on a jacket. He tried not to think of anything at all as he walked out of the house towards town.

  Bobby told the porter it was an emergency and that he needed to speak to Mr Law urgently. He watched him as he went to the switchboard and dialled his room. It seemed Law answered at once and Bobby felt his nervousness intensify. He almost turned around and left but the porter was already turning to him saying, ‘Go straight up, sir. Room 323.’

  Law was standing in the open doorway. He made no move to embrace him again, just stood back, holding the door open. He smiled at him, a careful smile, Bobby thought, as though afraid of showing too much of his feelings. He was dressed in shirt and trousers but his hair was messy from sleep, his face haggard. His bed was a tangle of sheets and blankets and Bobby looked away from it quickly. He felt as though he had breached some code of intimacy between father and son and at once he felt awkward, hating the way he seemed to radiate shyness. He had wanted to feel grown up and in control of his emotions even as he recognised that such coolness would be impossible, but he felt like a child, a timid, inarticulate one at that, true to himself, at least.

  Law said, ‘Would you like to sit down?’ He indicated the only chair in the room.

  Bobby remained standing; he would have to brush past Law too closely in the narrow space between the wall and the bed to get to the chair. Stiffly he asked, ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No. I was awake.’

  ‘I haven’t slept much.’

  ‘No, I can understand that. I haven’t slept much, either.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed and his gaze went to the open suitcase beside the wardrobe. ‘I thought I would start packing rather than go on chasing sleep.’

  ‘You’re going?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going home. England’s much too cold for me.’

  In a rush Bobby said, ‘I’m sorry. I behaved terribly badly. I don’t want you to think I’m such an idiot …’

  Law held his hand out to him. ‘Sit down, Bob. Sit down here with me.’

  He sat beside him, leaving a small space. His skin prickled, whether because he wanted his father to hold him or because he was afraid that he might, he didn’t know. Awkwardly he said, ‘I’m sorry, anyway. Those things I said…’

  Law took his hand and held it gently. After a while he said, ‘All night I’ve been thinking how wrong I was to come here, to tell you who I am. But I had to see you, I had to make sure that you were all right …’ He held his hand more tightly. ‘And when I saw you, well … I just wanted to hold you, to keep you safe … all I’ve ever wanted to do. You don’t need to apologise to me, I will love you no matter what.’

  ‘I wish you’d come back … when I was a child, I wish you’d come back then …’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

  Bobby drew his hand away from his and wiped his eyes. ‘You could have taken me away with you, I wouldn’t have minded …’

  Law laughed a little and Bobby could hear the tears in his voice as he said, ‘If only I had. Too many if onlys and all of them too painful to think about. But here you are now, a strong, courageous man … we must look to the future.’

  After a while Bobby said, ‘I’ve been thinking …’ He cleared his throat and made an effort not to sound so tearful. ‘I’ve been thinking I would like to go home with you.’

  Carefully Law said, ‘To Tangier?’

  ‘Yes. I want to get away from here … the woman I’m seeing, Jane, she’s married … we need to get away from the gossip and the scandal … would that be all right?’

  ‘Of course.’ After a moment he said, ‘There is just one thing you should know before you decide. I live with someone, a man. His name is Patrick, we’ve been together many years.’

  ‘I don’t mind about that.’ He managed to look at him directly for the first time. ‘I’m not a bigot … I’m not, honestly.’ Anxiously he said, ‘Does he know about me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he wouldn’t mind, me arriving on his doorstep …?’

  ‘He wants what’s best for you, Bob. We both do.’

  Bobby blew his nose. He laughed painfully. ‘Jane has to direct her school play this evening. Theory of Angels. I played the lead when my school put it on – Captain Palmer. I thought of you as I was acting it … and afterwards, I thought of you and what you must have gone through …’

  He began to cry. Cautiously Law put his arm around his shoulders. Bobby didn’t resist him and Law held him tighter, stroking his head as he wept. He thought of Henry Vickers, how he had made him feel so small and filthy and used, how he had wanted a father then, even as he realised he never would have been able to tell him what had happened. He
would have kept it to himself just the same, perhaps run away just the same.

  He felt Law kiss his head. He had made his shirt wet with his crying; all the same Law rocked him in his arms, murmuring soft, comforting words as if he was a baby again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  HE’D BEEN TO SEE his mother and told her, ‘Paul came to see me.’

  She’d frowned. ‘Paul? Is he a friend of yours, dear?’

  Later, when she’d realised exactly who he meant, after she’d cried a little and asked him to forgive her, she’d said, ‘You were always more his than mine.’

  He’d gone to Francis’s hotel, waiting self-consciously for him in the bar. When he came down from his room Bobby had stood up at once.

  Francis had smiled. There was such an expression of love on his face that Bobby felt the same sense of being protected he had almost failed to recognise the day before. That morning he had polished his shoes and pressed his best suit and chosen his tie carefully. He’d been to the barbers and his hair was as short as the day he joined the RAF. He had wanted to impress this man, to show him that he had survived. And, needing his support, he had asked him to the opening night of Mark’s school play.

  Sitting at the back of the school hall Bobby kept his head bowed as groups of parents, grandparents and siblings took their seats, chatting and greeting friends and neighbours. It felt as though the whole of Thorp was here, at least that section of it that mixed with his parents. He dreaded anyone catching his eye and approaching him with their curiosity dressed up as concern. They might even ask to be introduced to the man sitting beside him.

  Evenly Francis said, ‘Are you nervous for your brother?’

  ‘Yes.’ Grateful for the excuse, Bobby smiled at him. ‘Almost as if I was the one about to go on stage.’

  ‘Will your mother be here tonight?’

  ‘No. They’re going tomorrow night.’