All the Beauty of the Sun

by Marion Husband

  But Paul had said nothing and finally Edmund had said, ‘Can you see my blasted socks?’

  ‘Were they thrown out the window in the heat of lust?’

  ‘Don’t talk rot.’

  ‘Wear mine if you can find them.’

  ‘I don’t want to wear your bloody socks!’

  ‘Then come back to bed.’ After a moment he said less impatiently, ‘If you’d like me to help you look for your socks, I will, if you feel you really need to go.’

  He had found himself standing at the end of the bed, half dressed, the cracked lino cold beneath his bare feet, his shirt hanging open to reveal his vest. The room stank of cigarettes and sex; he could still taste Paul. Remembering the feel of him in his mouth he closed his eyes, groaning with lust. ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘Come back to bed.’

  ‘I’m not like you.’

  ‘No, all right.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can stand the sight of you.’

  ‘I could take out your eyes, if you like.’

  Edmund had finally met his gaze. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Then perhaps it’s best you go.’

  ‘No. I’ll stay.’

  His tea had grown cold. He caught the waitress’s eye and asked for a jug of hot water and a round of toast. He watched her walk away, neat in her black dress and frilled white apron, although the cap she wore had slipped a little, one of her hair pins hanging redundantly beside her ear. She seemed a common little thing, really, the way she had made eyes at him, pert, easy to fuck and forget. He thought of Ann, who often took waitressing jobs, and was ashamed of himself.

  He had climbed back into the bed and Paul had fucked him and he had realised how strong he was, hard and aggressive, not as gentle as he had been with Paul. He had been gentle because Paul had seemed so slight and easy to damage. No, that hadn’t been gentleness; he had just been inept and shy, distracted by the inhibiting, amazed voice in his head asking what he thought he was doing.

  There was no commentating voice when Paul broke into him. There was no thought of anything at all. He was nothing but flesh and breath and pain; he had not expected such exquisite pain, as though Paul would annihilate him, as though he would tear him apart if only he could be ruthless enough. Not so ruthless, though; he slowed, he murmured to him, there, there, all right, all right, relax, relax; there had been laughter in his voice; he stroked the back of his neck, his hair, whispered in his ear there, there as he became ruthless again, the bed banging against the wall so hard and fast that flakes of plaster fell down on their heads.

  Edmund had tried to hold back, and it seemed that Paul had sensed this, slowing again, but he had already reached the edge, there was no control, no trick Edmund could play to keep from falling, no matter how much he wanted to stay teetering on the brink. Paul came too, allowing his weight to pin him down only for a moment before rolling on to his back, panting; Edmund could hear his triumph even in his breathlessness; he waited to hear him laugh, sure that he would.

  Paul only reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘All right?’

  Too breathless to speak, Edmund shook his head. Eventually he managed, ‘Yes.’

  Paul had laughed then, as though he had been afraid to before. Leaning over him, he brushed the plaster from Edmund’s hair. ‘We’ve damaged the wall.’

  ‘You’ve damaged the wall.’

  ‘Weren’t we in it together?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I’m sorry.’

  Paul had laughed again, picking another piece of plaster from his hair. ‘Don’t be sorry. Don’t be …’ He had gazed at him and Edmund realised it was the first time Paul had looked at him properly, carefully, tenderly, he supposed, so that a feeling he’d had earlier came back to him with this one look: Paul was the only person in the world he would ever care about again.

  In the café, Edmund remembered how he had reached up to touch Paul’s face, tracing the outline of his mouth, and how he had almost said, ‘I love you.’ But how could he love him? He was never so reckless, never so cavalier with the truth; and, astonishingly, this did feel like the truth, a truth best left untested by words that anyway seemed too trite; words he had said before easily, without thinking.

  Paul had gone on smiling. He’d said, ‘You were about to say something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re a very good-looking boy. You know that, don’t you?’

  He’d referred to him as a boy too easily; there had been that touch of loathsome feyness in his voice and it had made him angry that Paul could switch like that; it was terrible that this man was suddenly everything, then just as suddenly nothing. Worse than nothing: a man he could easily despise. Edmund had known that he could have turned away from him then, climbed out of bed, taken his time to dress, and when it came to say goodbye he wouldn’t have looked at him. He shifted away a little.

  Immediately he’d wanted Paul to pull him back, to say something in the ordinary, classless voice he used in the restaurant: he wanted him to be ordinary. Christ: he wanted him to be manly. Perhaps he should just say, ‘Make love to me but don’t speak. If we never speak to each other that would be for the best. And perhaps if you only wear the clothes I choose for you, and if you never become tired or ill or ridiculous or older than you are now …’ He’d covered his face with his hands, dismayed, but this seemed too unlike him, too theatrical, and he dropped them again. Paul smiled at him, tender again, and Edmund had looked away at once, afraid of pitying him. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Should you? Why not stay the night?’

  ‘No, I should just go, that’s all. Just go …’ He’d made himself look at him. At once, overwhelmed by him, he said, ‘I love you.’

  The hammering on the door began then, at that moment, as if to save them both.

  In the café, as he buttered his toast, Edmund realised that Paul seemed not even to understand what he had said, but had looked towards the door fearfully. The hammering went on. Paul had turned to him, making a sign that he should be silent, and got up; going to the door, his voice was calm and measured as he said, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Open this fucking door before I break it down! I know you’re in there, Coulson. Get out here now, you fucking little pervert.’

  Paul turned to him. Angrily he’d said, ‘Do you know who it is?’

  ‘Joseph Day – he was at the gallery, the restaurant – he must have followed me –’

  ‘Weren’t you careful? For Christ’s sake! Get dressed and get out before the porter calls the police.’

  ‘I’m sorry – I don’t know what he’s doing here –’

  ‘And I don’t care! Just be quick –’

  The door burst open and Day staggered in, almost falling, obviously drunk. Recovering himself, he shook his head, staring at Edmund’s nakedness before barking out a laugh. ‘Fucking hell.’ He turned to Paul. ‘Been having a smashing time, the pair of you?’

  Paul turned away and began to gather his clothes. Coldly he said, ‘Would you like to sit down? A glass of water, perhaps? You’re obviously rather over-excited.’

  ‘Listen to him. The wee shite thinks I’m over-excited. You think this will excite the police, do you?’

  Paul took his wallet from his jacket. Taking out a few folded notes, he said, ‘How much do you want?’

  He snorted. ‘I don’t want your money. I just want to see that this one gets what he deserves.’

  ‘Get dressed, Edmund,’ Paul said. ‘Take your friend home, get some coffee inside him and sort out whatever the problem is between you.’

  ‘The problem? The problem is he’s messing about the best girl that ever lived! A girl he doesn’t deserve. The problem is he’s buggering a nasty little pervert like you.’

  It had seemed to Edmund then that Paul changed again. No longer contained, no longer caustic, no longer anything other than a mass of furious energy, he almost leapt on Day, pushing him hard so that he staggered back. ‘You foul-mouthed bastard! Why did you come here? What
does he deserve? A good hiding from you? Is that it? You want to start with me?’ He pushed him again. ‘Come on – you’re not scared of me, are you? A pervert like me?’

  Edmund had pulled on his trousers. He stepped forward. ‘Day, just leave, please. Please, Joseph –’

  He hadn’t seen the punch coming. In the café Edmund touched his black eye, the humiliation still fresh enough to make him wince at the memory: Day had knocked him out.

  He had come round on the floor, Paul kneeling beside him. He had helped him to his feet and sat him down on the bed. Through his befuddlement, he sensed that Day had gone; the bedroom door was shut as though he had never been there at all. He might have imagined him except that his brain felt as though it was too tightly encased within his skull and his eye had swollen closed. Paul handed him a flannel wrung out in cold water.

  ‘Press this to it.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘Really. I’m really sorry.’

  Harshly Paul said, ‘I told you to be quiet.’

  He had hung his head; his mouth had filled with saliva and he concentrated on swallowing back the bile rising in his throat, but there was too much and he spewed at Paul’s feet. ‘Sorry,’ he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Don’t shout at me.’

  ‘Shout at you? For Christ’s sake don’t talk like a child! Lie down. You should lie down.’

  ‘I’m all right. I’ll go.’ He made to get up but Paul pushed him back.

  ‘Lie down. I don’t want to be blamed if you fall dead in the street.’

  He did as he was told. After a moment, Paul lit a cigarette and Edmund turned painfully to see him lie down next to him, leaving a hand’s breadth of space between them, as much as the narrow bed would allow. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated.

  Paul was silent. Edmund wondered if he should repeat his apology again, but his silence was too discouraging, too stonily tight-lipped; he could see that Paul’s hands were trembling. When his cigarette was finished, Paul got up. He fetched towels from the bathroom and began to clean up the vomit.

  ‘Let me do that.’

  ‘Rest. The sooner you’re rested the sooner you can go.’

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  Paul straightened up and took the towels back to the bathroom. Edmund heard the taps running, the slap of the cloths as Paul threw them into the bath. He got up unsteadily and stood in the bathroom door.

  ‘Forgive me?’

  ‘I’ll walk you home.’

  ‘Would you?’

  Paul had gazed at him for a moment, and in the café Edmund wondered if he only imagined his hesitation as Paul said, ‘Yes, I’ll walk back with you, of course.’

  * * *

  As they walked in silence, Edmund had wondered if this escorting meant that Paul felt some responsibility and that he didn’t blame him entirely for Day. It wouldn’t be fair if he blamed him; he couldn’t have known that Day would follow him.

  In the café he cringed over this childish petulance. His brother Neville would sometimes tease him over such behaviour and call him a monstrously spoilt brat. He had thought of Neville last night, too, as he walked beside Paul, because the two of them were much the same height and build, very much the same age, he would guess. And Neville could be silent like this too, judgemental and superior. Neville had often disapproved of him; in his brother’s eyes he lacked moral fibre. But he was so much younger – Neville might have made allowances, just as Paul might.

  He remembered that he had looked at Paul resentfully. He couldn’t help saying, ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  Paul had glanced at him. ‘Please be quiet.’

  ‘Stop telling me to be quiet! Why are you so angry with me?’

  He ignored him.

  ‘Paul, I can’t bear this –’

  Paul stopped. ‘I’ll leave you here, I’m sure you’ll be fine.’

  ‘No. Please, wait … Don’t go.’

  Paul laughed shortly, glancing away. Meeting his gaze he said, ‘Edmund, I’m sorry. You’re a nice boy –’

  ‘I’m not a boy, stop calling me a boy!’

  ‘All right. You’re right. You’re not a boy. Now, get yourself home, go to bed. Thank you for tonight.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Christ, you’ll want to pay me next. Who do you think you are?’

  ‘Goodnight, Edmund.’

  He’d made to turn away but Edmund had caught his arm. ‘You can’t just walk away from me.’

  ‘Why not?’ Paul had sighed. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I don’t know. You. Don’t look like that.’

  Paul had smiled as though he had made a bad joke, shaking his head at the poorness of it. ‘You want me? What would you do with me? Where would you keep me? How would you expect me to behave?’ He lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke on a long breath as he said, ‘Because I’ve a feeling you don’t like homosexual men, Edmund. And I know I can be that arch little shirt-lifter I noticed you wincing at. Although you do wince quite discreetly, I do notice and it does make me feel like dirt, if I’m honest, because I would much rather be respected than have false feelings flung at me.’

  ‘Not false.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, you love me? Edmund, I’m flattered. What shall we do now?’

  ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  ‘I mean it. What shall we do? I’m in London for a few more days at least. I’m quite up for a bit of love – I take what I can get. Could I ask if I’m expected to love you back?’

  Edmund had looked away, unable to bear his scrutiny. ‘I didn’t wince.’

  ‘It’s all right. Most men make me wince, too – I’m sure I let my own horror slip from time to time.’

  ‘Most of the time you’re like any other man.’

  Paul laughed bleakly. ‘Thanks, I do my best.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that! All I meant was … All I meant was … I don’t know. Maybe I can only look at you sideways.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by that, Edmund. But I would think it’s probably a little insulting, if I wanted to think about it.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be insulting. I just want, with all my heart, to see you again.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Vehemently Paul said, ‘Don’t you want to be like any other man? When I was your age –’

  ‘You talk like an old man – like my bloody father! You’re not that much older than me – the war didn’t make you a sage.’

  Paul laughed, a genuine, surprised laugh, just as he had laughed in that hotel bed, so that Edmund had groaned with the despair of wanting him so badly. Touching his swollen face, Paul said, ‘So, you want with all your heart to see me again? That may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Then all right, I would like to see you again, too. But with not so much of my heart … I’m sorry, but I feel I have to be honest, since you’ve been so honest with me.’

  ‘As long as I can see you.’

  In the café, Edmund paid his bill; he left a tip for the waitress, more than he normally would, and he thought guiltily of Ann as he walked out on to the street, turning up his collar against the relentless rain. But the guilt was fleeting; nothing mattered except Paul.

  Chapter Six

  PAUL ASKED, ‘WAS YOUR hotel comfortable?’

  George placed his menu down, took off his spectacles and folded them into his pocket. ‘You know, whenever I’m in London I have the bitter feeling that I haven’t done enough with my life.’ Pleased to see Paul looked surprised, he said, ‘I slept well, so yes, the room was comfortable. Yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  The hotel Paul had chosen to meet him in for lunch reminded George of the hotels his own father would take him to when he had been a medical student at St Thomas’s in Westminster. These hotels were the kind of places where he supposed men took their mistresses: tucked away from the main dra
gs, impressive but not overtly so, discreet and well ordered. He couldn’t imagine an irate husband able to make a scene in such tasteful surroundings; the fine china, the sparkling glass and silver, the deep carpets and dark panelling would all conspire against the cuckold, making his jealousy seem petty and ill mannered. But then, George thought, perhaps men didn’t take their mistresses anywhere, but kept them in dreary little flats close to convenient tube stations. What did he know? He had slept with one woman in the whole of his life, Paul’s mother. Living his day-to-day life in Thorp, the belief that he hadn’t had enough sex was a small regret; here in London, reminded of other lives he might have lived, that same regret grew to near overwhelming proportions. He had to marshal all his sensible arguments and excuses to convince himself that he had made the right choices, bolstering himself with the idea that his care for his two sons had to matter more than anything else. Sitting across the table from Paul he wondered if he had taken the best care, but for the life of him he didn’t know what he could have done differently.

  Paul had placed his menu down too and was signalling to the waiter. He ordered wine, asking the kind of questions that always seemed to please wine waiters, making them flower from poker-faced boredom into articulate life. This waiter was no exception, and Paul charmed him, which was also unexceptional; his son could be charming when he had a mind to be. The waiter called Paul sir often, once leaning quite close to him to point out a wine on the long list. They smiled at one another and George watched all this with uneasy interest, because although he knew Paul was capable of anything, he’d never seen him in action.

  When the waiter had gone, Paul unleashed his being-gracious-to-waiters smile on him. ‘Well, here we are.’

  He must have slept well, George thought, because he seemed so much happier than he was last night, the kind of boyish happiness that he hadn’t seen in him for many years, since before the war. But his evening had been successful, all his paintings sold, all those people telling him how wonderful he was, no wonder his good eye was so bright. George looked down at his starched white napkin, still folded on the table in front of him. If he could watch his son closely unobserved there were times he couldn’t quite meet his eyes; times when he wasn’t strong enough to hide his concerns.