All the Beauty of the Sun (6 page)

‘Have you told Margot? My God, Paul – how can you tell that little girl something like this?'

Little girl
. On the train, George remembered how a spark of anger had shown in Paul's face, so quick that he might have been mistaken, although he was sure he was not because Paul's voice was hard as he said, ‘My wife isn't a child.'

But she was, George thought; Margot had never been more than an eighteen-year-old child to him, immature, too quick to worship Paul, seeing only the boy in uniform, the wounded young officer who was kind and attentive and took such great care of her and their baby. In every respect, he had been a good husband. Every respect but one.

He sometimes wondered what Paul had told Margot that terrible morning, when, still wearing the clothes he had gone out in the previous night, still stinking of the police cell, he'd taken her upstairs to their bedroom and closed the door behind them. What did a man say to his young,
young
wife when he had been caught buggering a man in a public lavatory? That he would go to prison; that the details of the trial would be printed in the local newspaper and that her neighbours would from now on cross the road to avoid her and put excrement through her letterbox along with their hate-filled letters? From his study George had heard Margot cry out, a thud as though something had been dropped; he had been holding Bobby, who had looked up towards this noise, his face crumpling as his mother began to howl.

His son had been disgraced, then, and sent to prison; his daughter-in-law and grandson moved to her parents' house across the road from his; and his neighbours and many of his patients had shunned him, affecting his living. He smiled to himself bitterly; Paul had owed him lunch, especially such a lunch he could no longer afford for himself.

He thought of his home, Parkwood, the ugly house full of unused, freezing rooms his father had designed and built as a very young man. In those days the Harris fortune was still intact under his grandfather's good management. His grandfather and father had both been architects; his father could draw anything, swiftly, with an uncanny, joyful perception; as a child George had thought him a magician for the way he could create a running, jumping dog from just a few strokes of a pencil. His father had adored Paul; the two of them shared the same skills. Perhaps Paul's artistry shouldn't have surprised him quite so much.

Parkwood was on the outskirts of town, close to the park and cemetery. From Thorp Station he would walk the mile or so home through the evening's empty streets. He would unlock his door, turn on the hall light, place his case down and hang up his coat and hat. In the hallstand mirror, he would see that his face was smutty from the journey and he would go into the kitchen to boil enough water to wash. He would make tea and drink it black because there would be no milk. He would light a fire in his study, one he had laid before he left for London, all ready to put a match to. Empty for two days, Parkwood would seem sullen in its cold dampness, showing only how shabby it could be; but everything would be all right once the fire was burning, the tea brewed, some toast made; everything would be just as if he had never gone away.

George stared out of the window as the train sped through the Essex countryside. He had told Iris that he would put a lamp in his study window when he arrived safely home, bright enough so that she could see it from her bedroom. Perhaps her husband Daniel would be out administering at a deathbed and she would be free to slip from the vicarage, across the graveyard and over the road to his house, escaping quick and quiet as a ghost from a tomb. And she would be a little breathless when he opened the back door, shivering in the sympathetic moonlight, smiling. ‘I've killed him,' she'd say. ‘I stove in his head with an axe.' It was something she sometimes said, her blackest joke. Standing aside he would hold the door wide open. ‘Come in. I'll wash the blood from your hands.'

She had said, ‘You won't tell Paul, will you?'

He had thought she knew him well enough not to ask such a question. Iris: Margot's mother who knew all about Paul and the disgrace he'd brought home.

George had wondered what she took him for if she thought he could tell Paul anything about his relationship with Paul's ex-mother-in-law; besides, what was there to tell? That they held hands across his kitchen table; that once she had looked so unhappy he had stepped around the table to hold her in the way he would hold a distraught patient. She was another man's wife, and he wasn't absolutely sure she wanted him, although she seemed to. The only certainty was how much he wanted her.

Perhaps he wouldn't put the lamp in the window, and perhaps tomorrow he would go to her and explain that her neighbourly visits were more than his heart could take, but that he could be an adulterer, if she could – it was just that he couldn't go on hiding his desire.

The guard came and checked his ticket and told him that the buffet car was open, if he cared to go along. But the meal he had eaten with Paul lay heavily and he turned back to the window and the darkening fields; he would be home soon enough.

Chapter Seven

P
AUL WALKED FROM
K
ING'S
Cross, through Holborn to St Paul's Cathedral, where he had told Edmund he would meet him outside on the main steps.

Edmund had grinned. ‘Are we to be tourists?'

‘I am a tourist.'

It was true he didn't know London very well: not nearly as well as his father, who had lived and worked here before he married. He thought about his father as he walked; his confession that he felt he hadn't done enough with his life had hurt him because it seemed he had wished away his marriage, his children: him. And now, unbearably, he could only think of his father as a disappointed man.

He was early for his meeting with Edmund, had planned it so that he would be: he wanted to see the boy coming and to take pleasure in watching him; he wanted to attempt to read his expression, whether he appeared happy, anxious or only calmly indifferent. Not the last, he thought. ‘You will come, won't you?' Edmund had said. There had been a note of pleading in his voice, even though he was smiling, and his eyes had searched his face as though the boy suspected he was the kind of man who would make an arrangement only to renege on it. Paul had wanted only to reassure him at the time, when Edmund was still there in front of him looking at him with such intense, puzzling
want
. Now, on the steps of St Paul's, he couldn't help feeling that perhaps he should have told him that it would be best if they didn't see each other again.

Yet here he was, of course; he couldn't help himself. Besides, he'd thought that he wouldn't be able to be alone this afternoon, prey to an ambush of memories that last night he'd believed would be the only outcome of lunch with his father. As it was, the memories weren't so difficult to cope with; he had the strength for the solitary pleasure of an art gallery and he could almost regret this afternoon's complication, almost, if he wasn't being truthful, if he really wanted to pretend to be the kind of man who would give up on the certainty of sex, no matter its
complications
.

He paced, climbing a few steps only to walk down again. He looked out towards the statue of Queen Anne and the London traffic beyond, an empty open-topped tourist bus making its redundant journey on this changeable, umbrella day. He had bought his umbrella that morning – an oversight in the packing because Patrick had forgotten about rain, it seemed – and now he unfurled it as the rain began again. People dashed past him up the steps and into the cathedral, making his waiting more conspicuous. He looked at his watch: five more minutes, if the boy was on time. He felt sure that he would be.

Patrick had said, ‘I went to London once.'

Paul remembered smiling because Pat had sounded so unlike himself, more like a young boy who didn't want the adults to think he hadn't had such an experience. He remembered he had used the tone he would use on a child when he'd asked him, ‘Did you have a nice time?'

‘It was during the war. I didn't have enough leave to get home.'

Of course: it was impossible to imagine Patrick going to London at any time in his life other than during the war; holidays, sight-seeing, going anywhere just for the sake of it, none of this was in his nature unless he was there to share the experience. He had imagined Patrick trailing around the city streets purposelessly, or perhaps spending his whole, too-short leave in a hotel room, sleeping the exhausted, restless sleep of someone who knows how quickly time passes but who still can't resist the need for oblivion. He wouldn't have gone to a show, as he himself had on a similarly short leave; nor – also as he had – would he have made himself available. Patrick wouldn't have gone down a back alley behind some grand hotel to be buggered by a Royal Marine between overflowing bins, the stink of rotting food mixing with that of expensive dinners wafting from the clattering kitchen. Patrick wouldn't, because he wasn't such a bloody idiot to take such a risk, but also because he had more dignity and pride, and because Patrick wasn't so sure of himself in those days. ‘Until I met you,' Pat had told him, ‘I didn't know what I was.'

Paul remembered doubting him, thinking that this was only a sentimental lie, with all his lusts and frustrations, all his anguish and self-disgust edited out. He sensed that Patrick needed to tell himself that he was his first and only love, needing that purity because how could he feel like this about another man,
any
man? Wholly discriminating, that was how Patrick liked to think of himself: a man who would have lived and died a virgin were it not for meeting him.

Later though, he came to understand that Patrick truly had been, if not unsure, then fighting hard against his own desires; during that leave he would have kept to himself, Paul was quite certain. And the girls would have turned their heads as he walked by, smiling at the sergeant who was so handsome, so very right and proper in his graveness. Behind his back, the girls would have exchanged looks, laughed a little perhaps, because there was something unaware about this man: he didn't play the game. Perhaps he was a fool, or a god, perhaps.

Paul walked down a few steps, then back again. He should count all the steps, anything to keep from thinking about Patrick and his own unfaithfulness. The rain eased off and he shook out the umbrella; he saw that a rainbow had formed and thought of the colours he would mix to paint it: Cadmium Red, Cobalt Violet, Indian Yellow; the mixing would absorb him, leaving no room for any other thought, such a fine escape. He drew breath, exhaled, steadying himself. The boy was coming, walking quickly, a smile beginning on that sensuous mouth of his. Paul straightened his back and walked down the steps to meet him.

Edmund saw the rainbow too and thought that it was a good omen. He had been worried that the rain would help Paul to change his mind about meeting him: why venture out in such weather, why bother at all with getting wet and cold on the way to meet a stranger? Because, another more sensible voice told him, he likes to fuck you, a sound enough motivation for risking a chill. He listened to this voice and told himself that now he was entirely sober, in the unforgiving light of day, he was under no illusion about Paul-Francis-Law-Harris. Harris was a dog, a filthy, dirty, panting dog, and that was fine by him; that was good, in fact; this was nothing after all, just fucking.

He touched his black eye. Examining it in the mirror in the café's lavatory, he'd thought it didn't look as bad as he'd feared, not nearly as noticeable. Now, as Paul walked towards him, he was less sure. Paul frowned with concern at the bruise, and Edmund found himself laughing self-consciously.

‘Do I look a sight?'

‘No, not at all.' Paul glanced over his shoulder as though afraid they were watched and that his concern had been noted, before turning to him again. Lightly he said, ‘I thought we might walk back to my hotel. You can point out any sights of interest on the way.'

Paul slept and Edmund got up from the hotel bed and went to the window, opening it a little to let in some air. On the street below a couple strolled arm in arm; a man hurried past them, glancing at his watch like the white rabbit. Two porters in the hotel's livery loaded suitcases into a taxi as a woman in a mink coat and an ink-black feathered hat chided her companion. ‘And you bring me here,' she said. ‘
Here,
of all places!' The man looked up and seemed to stare directly at him. There was a vacant look on his face, as though the woman's words were in a language that was just foreign enough to be of no interest. Edmund stepped back out of sight; he was naked, shrivelled by the cold, his body ached and a throb was beginning behind his eyes, lack of sleep catching up with him.

Lack of sleep also caused this mood, he knew, this feeling that the world was bleak and hostile, that everyone spoke in a language that wasn't interesting enough. Behind him, on crumpled, stained sheets, a man was sleeping, a stranger who had thoroughly, systematically fucked him.

He was much practised, this man, in his consideration, in the time he took, in the noises he made and attempted to suppress. There was gentleness and strength, stamina and patience – he had needed all his patience – and there was a kind of understanding, albeit of a superficial kind. Paul had held his gaze only once, only for a moment – perhaps he understood more than Edmund gave him credit for, because surely he would have held his gaze far longer otherwise. He would have smiled that knowing smile of his, perhaps cupped his face in his hand with his well-rehearsed tenderness. As it was, Paul had looked away and his expression became that of a stranger who had inadvertently caught one's eye. A moment later and Paul had brought himself to climax as though he had decided that there was no point in wasting any more time, rolling away and fumbling on the bedside table for his cigarettes, tossing the packet to Edmund when he had finished with lighting one for himself. When the cigarette was smoked – in remarkably little time, he inhaled deeply as though he wished he could draw the whole thing into his lungs at once – Paul slept. Not a single word was said through all of this.

Edmund went into the bathroom. Last night's soiled towels had been replaced, the towel Paul had used that morning hung carefully over the rail to dry. The bath had been rinsed clean, although there was a subtle scent of bath oil, a very expensive, very masculine smell that had him inhaling deeply to catch more of it. There was a bottle of this oil on the shelf above the sink, along with Paul's toothbrush, toothpaste, razor and shaving brush and soap. He shaved very cleanly, and Edmund imagined the care he would take, the time spent looking in the mirror, not seeing his reflection but only the drag of the blade over stretched skin.

Avoiding his own eye in this same mirror, Edmund unscrewed the top from the bath oil and lifted the bottle to his nose. He closed his eyes, concentrating on this essence of foreign queerness. Impossible to buy scent like this in England, he was sure; impossible to smell like this in England. He smiled, despite himself. What
would
his father say?

He replaced the bottle's cap, making sure he screwed it down tightly, and placed it back on the shelf in just the same position. He met his gaze in the mirror and saw how haggard he looked with his black eye, so well and truly done over, and thought how he should run a bath for himself, pouring in too much of the oil so that globules would form on the surface of the water, making him slick and slippery, considerately lubricated. Perhaps he would use Paul's razor so that his cheeks would be soft and boyish, rub some of his toothpaste around his gums so that his breath would not offend. And then he would lie down beside the sleeping stranger on the crumpled bed and wait for him to wake so that he might guide his hand down to his erection.

He wanted Paul constantly; that was the trouble: wanting him and not liking him and knowing that he had never loved anyone like this before. Even though he tried to persuade himself out of this knowledge – because how could one trust a feeling that had come so suddenly – he knew it was hopeless to imagine this was only artful, selfish fucking. In the end it came down to this one, dazzlingly simple feeling: he loved him. ‘So there,' he said softly to his reflection. ‘I love him, so there.'

He went back into the bedroom and climbed into bed. Paul slept on and Edmund took this opportunity to look at him properly. He saw someone of around thirty, although it was possible he was a little younger, but no older. This thirty-year-old man had dark, neatly cut, very short hair and well-defined eyebrows, and although his eyes were closed, he recalled that they were green, although the eye made of glass was a slightly different shade. He had a straight, narrow nose, and his cheekbones were sharply outlined because he was too thin, really, and fragile-looking in this grey afternoon light. There was a scar beneath the false eye, white and raised against his tanned skin. His ears were small and neat, like a child's. His neck, like his face, forearms and hands, was tanned, but the rest of his body was quite pale, the mass of dark hair on his chest made to appear even darker in contrast to this paleness. He was surprisingly hairy for such a delicate-looking man, but that was all right, he could get an erection just thinking of this contrast.

The sheet covered the rest of his body; Edmund imagined his cock soft against his thigh, against that jagged scar that had earlier stayed his hand and mouth.

Discovering that scar, Edmund had wanted to spring from him – finally reunited with his sense of propriety. He was fucking a man who had worn the same uniform his brother had worn, who had fought in the same battles, a man Neville might have known, might have brought home on leave. And he would have been in awe of his brother's comrade, shy of him, just as his uniform made him shy of Neville, made him a child with no experience of anything at all. Touching Paul's scar, he was thirteen again, and the disconnection between mind and body that protected him from the ridiculousness of sex almost reconnected. Only his overwhelming desire for Paul saved him from shrivelling, his lust too savage to be held back by thought, even thought that involved his brother. The idea that it was heretical to fuck him was forgotten almost as soon as it entered his head.

Edmund wondered how he might bridge the gap between them, how he might not appear as so hopelessly lacking in gravitas as to be no more than a child in Paul's eyes, a
boy
. Though he had told Paul that the war hadn't made him a sage, of course in his heart he believed it had. He couldn't convince himself that such experience wouldn't teach a man everything he would ever need to know.

Paul stirred beside him, keeping his eyes closed and reaching out, as if to check that he was still there. As his fingers brushed his, Paul opened his eyes; he appeared confused for a moment until it seemed he realised where he was. Still he went on frowning at him, as though he couldn't remember his name. His voice broke a little as he said, ‘Did I sleep long?'