by Mark Dawson
They checked out of the pension and took a taxi to the Eiffel Tower, walked to the Hôtel Royal des Invalides, and then spent two hours wandering the Champs-Elysées, pausing at the luxury shops and eventually stopping at a café with tables that spilled out onto the pavement. The Arc de Triomphe was blindingly white in the harsh sunlight. They ordered Americanos and croissants. Joseph had been quiet that morning, a little reserved, and Edward had the unshakeable feeling that whatever it was that had come between them was about to reach its inevitable conclusion. He did not wish to precipitate it but he could not stand the pensive atmosphere. “Is everything alright?” he said, trying to be cheerful.
Joseph hesitated. “There’s something I want to say, Doc––and I hate to say it if it’s going to cause any fuss.”
Edward went cold. “Well, I won’t know until you tell me what it is.”
He looked uncomfortable. “I was thinking that perhaps we should look at getting our own places.” He paused, a quizzical expression on his face that Edward ignored, forcing himself to stare blankly out into the busy street. “It’s been great fun,” he went on, choosing his words carefully, “but it was only ever going to be a short-term thing, wasn’t it? Until you had enough money to stand on your own two feet. And you do now, don’t you? You’ve done well out of all this.”
He reply was a curt, “Yes, of course.”
“Don’t be like that. Wouldn’t you rather get your own place? A bit more space to breathe?”
“Isn’t this all a bit sudden?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for the last few days.”
“I can’t say that I have. I thought you were enjoying living together?”
“I have enjoyed it. But I’m getting more serious with Eve, now. It’s not fair on her, bringing her back and you’re there in the flat. You can see that, can’t you? She needs a bit of privacy. I suppose we both do.”
“I’ll start to look around then.”
“Doesn’t have to be right away. Take a couple of days to find somewhere nice.”
A couple of days, Edward thought bitterly. How generous! “No, I’ll start when we get back. You’ve obviously made up your mind. I don’t want to outstay my welcome.”
“Don’t be like that, Doc. There’s something else that’s made me think about this. I’d rather we kept it between us for now, but I’m thinking of proposing.”
“Proposing?” he spluttered. “You’ve only been seeing her for a few months.”
There was hurt confusion on his face. “What difference does that make?”
“Each to his own, I suppose.”
“What does that mean? Oh, never mind––I was going to get the ring out here. I thought maybe you could help?”
It was a bit late to draw the sting, Edward thought. “I don’t know.”
Joseph grimaced a little. Edward watched him in the reflection in the café window and knew there was still worse to come.
“While we’re at it, I’m afraid you’ve upset my aunt. I told you not to go on at her, about Spot and how they’ve chosen to do things, didn’t I, but she says you gave it to her when you went down to the house last week.”
“I didn’t ‘give it to her,’ as you say,” Edward protested with a laugh that sounded horribly false. “She brought the subject up and told me what she proposed to do about it. I told her I didn’t agree. It was perfectly civilised, no more than that.”
“She didn’t see it that way. Her temper––”
“I was trying to be helpful, Joseph. I happen to think she’s making a mistake. You agree with me, I know you do.”
“I don’t know what I think, so I’ve no idea how you’d presume to know.”
“I don’t see how I can be responsible if someone misinterprets what I say.” The sense of frustration was agony to Edward. He forced himself to concentrate on the bitter coffee, trying to wrestle back some equanimity. He looked across the table: the annoyance was evident in Joseph’s face, and Edward knew that he was irritated with his presuming to know best, even though Edward knew that he was right. He wanted to explain himself better, wanted to show Joseph that he was right, break through the suspicion and reluctance so that he would understand and they would feel the same way. “I wish you could see my point of view,” he said. “Doing nothing is the worst thing that you could do.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Joseph retorted angrily. “On and on and on. Jesus, Doc, you want to listen to yourself sometimes! You’ve only been involved for a few months, you don’t know Soho, you don’t know my family and you don’t know Jack Spot. You don’t really know anything and despite that you seem to think you know best about everything. I’m starting to think it was a bad idea asking you to get involved in the first place.”
His expression had changed quickly from confusion to blackened anger. Edward had seen that switch in him before. His temper was finely balanced at the best of times, teetering between precipitous extremes: his good nature could curdle to fury before you knew where you were and it was frightening to see. Edward knew he should stop before he made things worse, but he could not. The frustration had been building in him for days until it was like an ache in his stomach. He should have said, “Alright, Joseph,” to put an end to it, to tell Joseph he understood, that he knew he was being presumptuous and that he would keep his own counsel from now on, that they could move past their disagreement. But he couldn’t say that, he just couldn’t.
Joseph paused, and calmed his temper. They had bought a packet of French cigarettes that morning and he tore it open. He gave one to Edward and reached across to light it for him. Edward felt in the grip of an enervating weakness, as if his knees would buckle and he would fall to the ground. It was all too much to bear: his failure, Joseph’s attitude, the fact that he obviously hated him. Edward suddenly saw it for exactly what it was. They were not friends, and they never had been. He did not know Joseph, not really. They had met, briefly, far away, drunk on whisky and elation at the end of the war. Burma and India were all they had in common, the only memories that were special to them, and, even then, those memories were limited to a drunken brawl in a bar and a drunken carouse afterwards. Those memories were fading fast, like photographs that had been left out in the sun. It was too much. He looked around at the café, at the tourists gathered at the tables and booths. He felt surrounded by strangeness, by hostility. He could see what would happen. It was all so awfully obvious. Only yesterday Joseph had said, “Are you planning a holiday soon” in an offhand way in the middle of a conversation, and now that made sense. So terribly transparent. Joseph and the rest of the family would very quietly, very politely, leave him out. Every convivial thing that they would say to him from now on would be an effort for them. It would all be insincere and Edward couldn’t bear to imagine it.
“Look, Doc,” Joseph said as he lit his own cigarette, “I might as well come out with it. Once this job is finished, Violet wants us to knock it all on the head.”
Joseph’s tone was conciliatory, friendly, but what he said gave Edward a painful wrench in his breast. “What does that mean?” he said.
“My aunt doesn’t want you to work with the family any more.”
“This is ridiculous!”
“That’s how it has to be.”
“You agree with her?”
He shrugged. “Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s for the best. You’ve got the medicine to go to. I shouldn’t have asked you to do that house with me. It was selfish of me. You should’ve worked on being a doctor when you got back. It would have made a lot more sense. It still does. Think about it. You know she’s right.”
Edward gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles showed white. He stared at Joseph’s black eyes, at the clench of his eyebrows, the severe folds that creased his brow, and back to the eyes again, dark and black and unsmiling. There was no life there, no sparkle, nothing more than if Edward had been peering into the bloodless surface of a mirror. He felt as if he had
been punched in his chest and his breath came fast, through his mouth. It was as if Joseph had suddenly been snatched from him and, at that, the boundless possibilities that he represented had been blown away like smoke. Edward didn’t care about Joseph. It was the injustice that made him so angry.
“Say something, Doc,” Joseph prompted, a little gingerly.
Edward got up, threw a handful of francs onto the table and set off. Joseph took his coat from the back of the chair and hurried after him. “If I knew you were going to take it so badly––”
A burning fury boiled in his blood and made him quiver. “You’ve got some nerve,” he said in a cold voice that was flat despite the crazy anger that he was struggling to contain. “You’re an ungrateful, spineless fool.” Edward stopped in the middle of the pavement and stared at him. “Do you think we would have made so much money at Honeybourne if it wasn’t for me? You wouldn’t have known where to start. You’re fine if things are simple, forcing a door or cutting rough with a guard so you can rob his depot. But if it’s complicated, if it needs careful planning? It’d be you and your friends, blundering around with no idea, not a clue, with no plan and no sense. The same goes for your bloody stupid family, too. You wouldn’t have lasted a week before the police got wise. You talk a good game, Joseph, all that lip, the silver tongue, but up here”––he stabbed a finger against his temple––“there’s nothing inside that pretty head, is there? It’s empty.”
“Watch what you say,” Joseph warned him.
“Or what? You’ll hit me below the belt again?” They had raised their voices and people had stopped to watch them. That made Edward angrier still. Joseph set off, striding purposefully towards the bone-white monument.
Edward followed him. He turned his head to see confusion and something else––fear, or suspicion?––in Joseph’s face. That made it worse. Edward wanted to explain to him, to persuade him that there was no need to behave like this, but he knew now with a sickening sense of certainty that he had been right: he was on his way out of the family. Events had gathered their own momentum now and he wouldn’t be able to stop them. The thought of that was like agony to him. The frustration, to be thwarted when he was so close, when he had finally found such possibilities for his future. The tension rose higher and, suddenly, it snapped. “I pity you sometimes, Joseph, I do––the way you can’t see how people like Billy Stavropoulos are dragging you down, and I think, without me, all you’d ever do is rob the odd house, turn over a warehouse or two, but all it would ever be is just a wait until you get your collar felt and sent down.” He went on furiously, unable to stop. “Asking me to help you wasn’t a mistake––it was the most sensible thing I’ve ever known you to do. And now you think you can just tell me it’s all over? Just like that? Toss me aside like a piece of rubbish?” He laughed caustically. “You’ve got to be joking.”
Joseph picked up his pace and so Edward reached out and grasped him around the shoulder. Joseph spun on his heel and, the angle changing so that his face became visible, Edward could see that he had prodded him too far. It was choked with fury. Joseph shucked his hand from his shoulder, closed his right fist and hooked at him. The blow was thrown carelessly and glanced Edward on the right temple. Again, he knew he should have stopped, that there were lines still to cross, but his own anger had him in a tight grip. He replied with a left-right-left combination, more accurate than Joseph, who took the first punch on his chin and the second and third on his quickly raised forearms. He ducked his head and tackled Edward into the doorway of a boutique. They rolled back into the street, each trying to hold the other down, using their elbows and heads and shoulders to wrest an advantage that they could not hold. They were of similar height and weight and equally matched.
Eventually, both with bloodied lips and noses, they broke apart.
More pedestrians had stopped to watch. A man approaching on the pavement took a step forward as if he were going to help, but stopped.
Edward rested his hand against the wall and breathed heavily. Joseph wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, then cleaned that with his handkerchief. The top four or five buttons of his shirt had been ripped out and the shirt gaped untidily. Edward’s jacket had gashed beneath the shoulder, the sleeve hanging loose and the lining exposed, and his trousers were ripped above the knee. They stared at each other for five or six seconds. Joseph looked at Edward with disgust. Edward’s sudden avalanche of anger was spent and he suddenly felt hollowed out and desperate. He started to say something but Joseph eyed him with open contempt and the words were stopped by a tight twist of despair in his throat. He felt a sudden loss and a sense of helplessness.
Joseph straightened his ruined shirt, trying––futilely––to close it. He flagged a passing cab. Edward stayed where he was, propped against the wall, and watched Joseph’s long legs as he trotted over to where the driver had stopped and got in. The cab merged with the traffic and disappeared around a corner.
Edward found a bar and ordered a drink. His hands were still shaking. He bought a carton of untipped Gauloises. He remembered something that Joseph had said to him as they waited in the first class lounge at Northolt yesterday. He had mentioned, very casually in the middle of some conversation, that Edward had been more patient than he deserved in light of his slovenly attitude to keeping the flat clean and most people would have abandoned him by now. “I’d understand if that’s how you felt,” he’d added, trying to be guileless. It had been a clumsy hint so that he wouldn’t have to come out with what he wanted to say more directly today. Edward had ignored it but now he wished he had not. It would have made things easier, and he would have been better able to control the conversation and, therefore, his temper. Things might have been salvaged but now he knew that serious damage had been done. He knocked back his drink. All right, he would find somewhere else. He knew when he wasn’t wanted.
48
EVE MURPHY LOOKED AT HER REFLECTION in the mirror. She was in the Ladies’ Powder Room at Vincanto, the chic new restaurant that had opened in Theatreland. She turned: front to the side. She was wearing the dress that Joseph had given her. He was very sweet like that, with all the presents and the surprises. It had been a Valentine’s gift, wrapped in expensive paper, sealed with ribbons and a huge bow. She could hardly believe the dress inside: a black rayon crepe with beaded and studded bodice, a modified sweetheart neckline, sleeves with darted headers and shirred elbows and a self belt. Her friend had actually gasped when Eve held it up for her. She had gone on and on about how much a dress like that must have cost, and how could Joseph afford it, and what about all the coupons you’d need, where had he got those from, and what would people think? Eve had explained it the same way Joseph had explained it to her when he had given her the watch, the necklace, the broach: he said he had been lucky on the dogs.
She knew that wasn’t true. Eve was the daughter of a policeman and she was not a stupid girl. She did not know exactly how Joseph came by these things, but she knew it wasn’t legitimate. She had considered giving the first gift back to him, but they were so nice and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings and she couldn’t see the harm in accepting them. One gift had led to the other and then to the next and by that time she had decided it would have been churlish to hand them back and so she had kept them. And why shouldn’t she have some of the nicer things in life?
She thought of her Uncle Charlie. She had been worried about his proposal for the first few days but he hadn’t asked much of her––so far, at least––and she had allowed herself to relax about it a little. He had arranged to meet her three times and they had chatted about things, usually over a coffee in one of the new coffee bars that were springing up in Mayfair and Kensington. It was just little pieces of information every now and again: who Joseph was going out with, what had she heard about his aunt and uncle, his friends and the other members of his family? None of it seemed dangerous or damaging and she had started to believe that perhaps she could manage her uncle,
give him just enough to keep him satisfied but no more. It wasn’t as if Joseph told her very much about his business, after all. How could she be expected to tell him things that she didn’t know? She had told him that and he had appeared to believe it.
She checked her make-up in the glass. She looked lovely. As she collected her handbag she realised that she was a little drunk. She was a very moderate drinker and she had allowed Joseph to pour her a second glass of wine with dinner. It was all going to her head. She would have to put a stop to that.
Vincanto was especially nice. They had been to plenty of other places, fancy establishments, but they usually ended up here. She felt special as she made her way back into the dining room. She knew she was pretty, she was beautifully dressed and waiting for her at the table was her beau, and wasn’t he a cracker?
“You took your time,” he said, grinning at her.
“Had to make sure my make-up looked alright.”
“What are you on about, girl? You look a million dollars.”
The table was lit by a candle and the warm golden light flickered across his face. She felt the familiar flutter in her stomach. The light danced in his dark eyes, his olive skin framed by his jet black hair with that errant strand that curled above his left eye. He was so handsome. Such a dish. He could have had anyone he wanted and she had no idea why he was interested in her.
Their waiter arrived at the table with an ice bucket, a bottle of champagne and two flutes.
“This is our best bottle, sir,” he said. “Bollinger Extra Quality Brut, 1943.”
Joseph took the bottle and turned it in his hand. “Looks blinding,” he said. “Thank you. I’ll do the honours myself.”
“Yes, of course, sir.” He took the hint and backed away.
“I’m not sure I can manage another glass,” Eve said.
“Nonsense,” he told her. “Just the one. If you don’t want it all, you don’t have to drink it.”
