(She crossed that out. Enough.)
Please come and visit, as soon as you’re back. It must be soon now; you’ve been gone for ages. Bring Riley.
Yours affectionately,
Julia
For a second, writing ‘you’ve been gone for ages’, her eyes filled suddenly with tears. She felt, actually, as if tears were always there, just under the level of spillage.
It’s love. I can apply it to one man, or to another. I will be grateful to Harlan for ever.
She decided to walk into town herself, to the postbox, and went to find Tom to invite him along. He was in Max’s basket, which he had dragged behind the sofa.
‘That looks cosy,’ she said, and smiled down at him. ‘Do you want to come for a walk? Max could come too.’
Tom looked at her proffered hand, and up at her face. He took it joylessly.
*
Later, Tom told Rose that he and his mother and Max had posted a letter. Rose raised her eyebrows.
*
For the rest of the weekend Peter was quietly, completely, drunk. Julia did not pursue him, nor try to talk. Before lunch on the Sunday he saw her upstairs and retreated, suddenly, holding his hands up flat towards her, almost as if to ward her off. Later, as she was coming out of the bathroom, he turned violently and howled at her as if she had come at him out of the night: she ran off in shock, and sat in the kitchen, trembling. Mrs Joyce found her, and said that he was all shaken up, not to mind. Julia asked was he often like that and Mrs Joyce said, well, she hadn’t seen that much of him as he was up in London mostly, but when she did see him, things weren’t getting any better. She looked pleased to be asked, and as Julia looked at her she thought, for the first time, Mrs Joyce is a human being too.
‘Tell me about Mr Joyce,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind.’ She was supposing that Mrs Joyce was a widow, and that the emotion of the moment and the confidence exchanged would allow such a question.
Mrs Joyce smiled. ‘There’s no Mr Joyce,’ she said. ‘Never was. It’s a courtesy title, Ma’am.’
*
After tea Julia told Rose she would like to talk to her if she had a moment. She said, almost before they had even taken seats in the drawing room, ‘I want to thank you and I want to apologise.’
Rose nearly fell back into the sofa, she was so surprised.
‘You know what for,’ said Julia. The brittle urgency was still in her voice. She could hear it. Slow down. Be kind. ‘You know so much and you’re good at things, and I’ve never responded very well to that. I’m sorry I’ve been awful to you. And thank you for everything you’ve done for Tom. I know Peter is more sort of your area as well anyway, because of you being his special cousin – but thank you, anyway, for looking out for him, if that’s all right …’
She took a breath and started off again before Rose could say anything and put her off track.
She said, ‘It seems to me things were better for him when Riley and Nadine were around. Do you agree?’
Rose agreed.
‘So I thought if we could get them down to visit, regularly, that would be a help. And Riley might know of other friends – from the war – I don’t think it’s much good having only us to talk to …’ Here she fell silent, because of course she hadn’t even been here for him to talk to anyway. ‘I think he needs other men, with the same sort of … Oh look, Rose, I don’t know how to do anything for him, but it’s not too late. It’s not. We can help him. A baby is a miraculous thing and my dear mama will not be whisking this one away – let’s try? Will you carry on helping? And advise me? Because you know about soldiers, and I just don’t … but I’m going to stop wanting things from him. That’ll help, I think. I’m going to be lovely to Tom, and to the new baby, and I’m sure that’ll wash off on Peter.’
‘If he’s here,’ said Rose.
‘Of course,’ said Julia and then she smiled and said: ‘I was thinking, Riley’s brought him back from danger twice already. You know, in the war, and then when he got him down here for Christmas last year. Perhaps he can do it again. Third time lucky sort of thing.’
‘In the war?’ said Rose.
‘Yes. On the Somme. When Peter was wounded, and Riley carried him back. Didn’t you know?’
No, Rose had not known.
‘I don’t know the details,’ said Julia.
‘Did Peter tell you?’ asked Rose.
‘No!’ cried Julia, half laughing.
‘But Riley didn’t,’ said Rose doubtfully.
‘Peter talks in his sleep,’ Julia said. ‘It’s often as if he isn’t asleep at all, so much is going on. Lots of carrying. Peter carrying things, and being carried. When he was first back there was an awful lot of Thank You Purefoy. I asked him about it. About the Thank You Purefoys.’
‘And did he tell you?’
‘No. I worked it out,’ Julia said.
They both pondered that.
‘And … did you work out anything else?’
‘No. I don’t understand any of it, Rose. I’ve nothing to back it up with. It’s another world, and another language.’
Rose made a little face of understanding: raised eyebrows, moue of acceptance. Then she said, ‘Two things are bothering me, Julia.’
Julia looked willing.
‘Where have you been, and is that my cousin’s child?’
Julia smiled and blinked.
‘I’ve been in Biarritz,’ she said. ‘Taking the waters and realising what a complete fool I have been. And yes. It is.’
There was a pause.
‘I have never been unfaithful to Peter,’ Julia said.
She didn’t have to say that. Nobody was asking her to. But as she said it, she knew it to be not just necessary, but true. This was no lie, no adulteress’ self-justification. Without Harlan, she could not even have come back to Peter. Without the confidence he had shown in her, she would not have had the courage to come home and face her own folly; and even if she had, she would have continued to fail as a wife. She would not have found it in her to love Peter, really love him, with patience and compassion and quietness, as he needed. She would never have realised her mistakes. And if Harlan had been a different man, she would have gone off with him, and lived in a lie with him, or been deserted by him, the child adopted, Julia’s heart and reputation shattered, and whatever developed from that – tragedy and pathetic shame, probably – would have developed. But Harlan had shot her goblin and given her insight, and her night with him had sealed her fidelity to Peter. It had been an act of faith. How strange. But true.
*
Rose and Julia made a list together before Rose went back up to London: Dr Tayle, maternity nurse, speak to Eliza, new shoes and jacket for Tom. And Rose promised she would ring the next day.
Remarkably little was said. Julia had been on a rest cure. Apart from Rose and Peter, everybody assumed that somebody else had known about it. This version took its place as a kind of truth, and it was not mentioned again.
Chapter Fourteen
London, September 1919
Nadine made linocuts for Riley’s covers. She didn’t know what he wanted, so she did what she wanted. They were beautiful, simple and modern, with swooping calligraphy and an elegant cartouche. She took great trouble with them because she wanted him to understand that she had forgiven him for scaring her so badly with his escapade in the north.
She had watched him go off to work: to his classes, to meet Hinchcliffe and Ermleigh, in his jacket, doing his man things. She had thought: What’s he going to do? What’s he going to do today?
She had a terrible fear that she didn’t trust him. Not his intentions – she trusted those completely. But his ability to control himself. She wanted to race out after him. She didn’t.
She was afraid too that he didn’t like living with her father; that he was bored with the grief of their household; that he needed more light and beauty to continue his recovery. She didn’t like that he didn’t seem to be seeing his family. Thou
gh perhaps he did see his family. She didn’t know. Was she allowed to know? Is that the sort of thing a wife asks a husband?
She let it wind her up tight, until one day, walking along Westbourne Grove on her way to Whiteley’s for a reel of thread, she saw his mother, and ran up to her, heedless.
‘Mrs Purefoy!’ she said, and had no idea what she wanted to say to her.
‘Mrs Purefoy,’ said Bethan, unsmiling.
‘That’s quite funny, I suppose,’ Nadine said, but Bethan was having none of it, and just looked at her.
‘How lovely to run into you,’ Nadine said. ‘I do wish you’d come to call.’ She was lying. She didn’t wish it. And Bethan would see that. Damn.
‘I suppose I’m to enquire of you,’ Bethan said, after a pause, and with a very slightly disdainful look, ‘about the wellbeing of my own son.’ And at that Nadine’s own wickedness came bursting up.
‘Not unless you have any interest in it,’ she said, and stared at her right back. ‘Though if you don’t, then I have to say that’s entirely between you and him. Personally, I always thought it might be nice when married to have a motherin-law one could talk to about things. But there – silly me. Good day, Mrs Purefoy.’ She turned round, started walking back the wrong way. Damn damn damn. No cotton reel. Ruined relations with motherin-law. Damn. Fool.
Bethan was calling her name. Nadine turned around again and walked back, trotting like clockwork, her head down, so fast she practically walked into her. ‘I’m so terribly sorry,’ she said. ‘Totally uncalled for and awfully rude. I’m so sorry.’
Bethan, standing there with her basket over her arm, said: ‘Your mam died, I heard.’
‘Yes,’ said Nadine. ‘Yes she did. She did.’
‘My condolences,’ said Bethan, and something of kindness in her voice made Nadine look up, and burst into tears, and find herself on Bethan’s shoulder, about a foot below her own, crying like a loon, and trying to tell her that he went to Wigan, he got in a fight, he could have been hurt, he’s moody still, it’s been better since he’s had this project, but why would he take risks like that, why would he do that, take such a risk when everything is still so fragile …
They went back to the little house, walking together. Perhaps she’s just shy, Nadine was thinking. Perhaps she thinks I’m snooty. If it’s up to me, then I’ll do it. I’ll be happy to do it.
They drank tea, and Nadine made a point of smiling a lot but not saying thank you too often. She didn’t want to tell Bethan anything Riley might feel private about, so she told her things about herself instead: how she hadn’t always got on with her mother, but she missed her so much. She asked after the girls. Merry was training for office work. Elen had a gentleman friend – then Elen came in, and Nadine could see from her face she was going to say something snide, as was her way, as was her mother’s, and so she jumped in first. Just be human to them, burst these bubbles – so she said: ‘I’ll stop you right there, Elen. He’d love to come home more, and see you all properly. But let’s be nice. I’m your sister, whatever you think …’
‘I see Lady Muck’s got it all sorted, then?’ Elen said, looking to her mother for approbation – but Bethan raised her eyes wearily and said: ‘Elen. Her mam has passed away. Grief makes people immediate, you might have noticed. And what’s more, she’s right.’
When Nadine left, Bethan said to her, ‘Don’t be a stranger.’
*
Riley saw that her prints were beautiful. He grinned at how clever she was. And a tiny thought floated by: One more gift from her world to mine …
Stop that. You invited her to do them.
But he couldn’t stop it. He was aware of resentment, and he didn’t like it. He resented it! And he resented that, too. And he was aware that this cycle was almost funny. Almost.
There was another thing.
Sir Robert one evening said: ‘Riley, old man, might I have a word?’ For a moment it was like when Riley had been looking for a library to take Sir Robert into to tell him he had married Nadine.
‘Of course,’ Riley said, glancing around.
‘Won’t beat about the bush,’ Sir Robert said. He had his most urbane look on, which meant he was probably feeling a little embarrassed. ‘I asked you earlier this year about prospects and so forth, and possibly gave the impression of being less than confident in your capacities. Want to take that back. Very impressed, actually, by your gumption – shouldn’t be surprised really – and so, got a bit of capital – probate and so forth – from reorganising – Jacqueline – you can imagine – and I’d like you to allow me to invest in your press.’
Oh!
This Riley had not expected. He didn’t want it, that he knew. Could he refuse? His mind raced. No. Or yes? Was he allowed to say he’d think about it?
He sat silent.
‘I hope you’ll allow it,’ Sir Robert said. ‘I think it’s a very likely investment.’
He means he doesn’t think it is at all. He doesn’t believe in me. He’s putting out a safety net to protect Nadine, and to allow me a little time before I cock it all up.
‘Robert,’ he said. ‘I’m touched and honoured.’ He hated lying. This was unpleasant.
A light knock, and the door pushed open: Nadine. She was smiling and looked questioningly at them.
She knows about this. They’ve planned it.
Solicitous and loving, she said: ‘Isn’t it a wonderful idea, darling?’
Which it is …
You’d think a fellow had a right to decide about his own investors … but no.
Riley could see perfectly well that a shot of financial back-up at this early stage would be extremely useful: the initial pamphlet had gone down very well, so he and Hinchcliffe had quickly put out another two, and had new ones in the pipeline. But damn it, he hadn’t even been going to take money from Major Gillies. He would accept no money, no investment, that smelt of sympathy, war shame, or guilt. Not a penny. He was a man like any other and would make a living and build a business like anyone else. Enough of being given everything on a bloody plate and being denied the opportunity to prove himself.
So, everybody thinks it’s a splendid idea, except for your pride.
Ha!
Of course a business needed investment. He would be happy to accept investment from men who had served. Or widows. Or nurses and VADs. Ambulance drivers, orderlies, chaplains, drivers of ambulance trains, etc. because 1) it would make him work all the harder to make them a decent dividend and 2) they didn’t need to pity him, because they had their own sorrows.
So is Jacqueline’s death not a sorrow?
Yes, of course it is.
Riley, you’re tying yourself in circles! Your logic is self-punishing! Your logic, face it, is not logic.
He accepted the money – as a loan, not an investment. (Sir Robert, who hardly knew the difference between the two, was happy with that.) What he intended to achieve was more important than his pride. Bite the bullet, lad. Riley put Hinchcliffe on a salary and came to an agreement with Owen the printer. He came to an agreement with himself, too: he would pay his fatherin-law back within three years. By which time he also planned to be paying the household bills, and with luck buying out the lease on the house on Bayswater Road.
*
‘You’re practically a publishing empire,’ Hinchcliffe said, the lunchtime Riley offered him a salary, in the Leinster Arms.
That was good to hear. Yes, he could build an empire.
‘We,’ he said, and Hinchcliffe looked pleased, but Riley was a little tired. ‘I’m not going to go out talking to everyone,’ he said. ‘You can do that. What do you think?’
‘I think yes,’ said Hinchcliffe.
‘And we’d better get someone to answer the phone. A wounded man.’
Hinchcliffe agreed. (Riley took on a perky and remarkably agile Cockney boy with a wooden Anglesey leg, the younger brother of one of Gillies’ patients. ‘He can run errands,’ Riley said. Hinchcliffe didn’t dare say
a word.)
‘Let’s think up some new ideas then …’ – but they were hardly short. Everywhere he looked, Riley saw mental, emotional and intellectual hunger. No one knew what would emerge from the chaos, and people wanted to be both prepared and reassured. The end of civilisation, the collapse of all that we once knew, whither this, and what about that … the Peace, the Armenians, religion, Communism, Ireland, jazz, unemployment, girls putting on lipstick in public. Civilians, in particular, seemed bothered with these issues. Riley, having looked death in the mouth many many times, was a secure man – secure in the knowledge that he was going to die, and so was everyone else, that human life was a vale of tears, and that consciously or willingly adding to the world’s harvest of fear and misery was a waste, a waste, of the nebulous glorious moments one might be able to snatch along the road. Not that he judged. He knew how it felt to come out of danger into relative safety, and to burst into tears and piss yourself with relief. He saw the world around him doing this. It’s what Peter was doing. Even Julia perhaps, with her bolt to Biarritz.
He had spent a long afternoon in a café in Amiens with Peter telling him about the Spartan Army and their techniques. Esoteric harmony: how to release fear from your muscles, from your face, from your soul. Exoteric harmony: how to be united with your brother warriors like limbs on a beast, fingers on a hand. The Shedding: part of the training in phobologia – the knowledge of fear. After a battle, the Spartan warriors would go somewhere – Riley had imagined them standing around in fields, knee-deep in the dead and blood-stained asphodels, greaves and breastplates glinting in evening sun – and they would shake and weep, releasing the tension, the adrenalin, the fury, the ice-cold control that kept them invincible in the fight. And when that was done – a respected part of the process of battle, something necessary – they would come back and proceed with their lives. It was not only the soldiers, now, but the whole country, the whole world perhaps, that was shaking, after what it had been through. Phobos was a creature of many forms. And Riley knew all about that. So he addressed it.
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