Armistice (5 page)

He said: “I have to say … I was so … sorry—”

“I know, I can see that you are,” she interrupted, experiencing an urge to save him, almost reaching out a hand to steady him, for he suddenly seemed as if he needed help, a lifeline, even.

“I have to say—” he went on, stopped, shrugged, leaned back as he inhaled, forward as he exhaled, reached for an expensive-looking black and silver fountain pen on his desk, began fiddling with it. “I have to say—”

“I know, yes, I know,” she said.

“I mean … You got my letter?”

“I did, yes,” she confirmed, raising her bag to indicate that she was carrying said.

“Well then. You know. He didn't … he didn't suffer or anything. It was quick. If that's any comfort to you. Shall I just shut up?”

“No, please, don't,” she said, and moved to where he had left the chair, positioned it to face him and sat down. Perhaps now he'd be able to get through a sentence. He was much more upset than she'd ever imagined he would be, almost as if he was having to
break
the terrible news to her.

“Well. That's it really,” Jonathan continued, almost sitting in his own chair, bending his knees in preparation, but apparently changing his mind, standing tall again. “As I said, it was quick. And, er, he was my friend. Really. I mean, I didn't know him very long, but—”

There was a knock at the door and it opened and Jones showed his face, smiling apologetically.

What was that “but” leading on to? thought Philomena.

“I've a case, a client, you know,” Jonathan apologized to her. “An appointment. Sorry …” Jones withdrew discreetly.

“Can I make an appointment with you?” she interrupted. “I mean is there another time today or tomorrow before I go—”

“There's not much more I can tell you,” said Jonathan, more sharply than you'd expect. She narrowed her eyes. Yes, there was more he could tell. And there were things she could tell him. They could play “Did Dan ever tell you about the time that …?” They could exchange anecdotes: “One day, Dan did/said/laughed about such and such” and they could confide; “What is your favorite/least favorite thing about Dan?”

She said: “I'd like to, just, talk. I haven't … There isn't … It's not—” Now it was her turn to be unable to complete a sentence.

“Well, you know,” came in Jonathan, putting down his worry pen, heading for the door, “it's there in my letter and whatever you received from the army—”

“Please,” she asked firmly, arresting Jonathan's movement toward the door by her voice alone. He stopped mid stride, watched her stand up, appeal: “I'd just like to—” Those eyes were looking right into him—say something to make them stop.

“Yes, yes, yes. Of course. I'm being stupid, and impolite. I'll write an address for you.” He returned to his desk. “It's a good cafe. Small—less busy than a Corner House—we'll be able to find each other. Ask my clerk, Jones, how to get there. Six thirty do you? And bring anyone you are traveling with.”

“I came alone,” she said, raising her chin.

“Oh,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “Well, why on earth not?” speaking almost to himself, giving her an image of him arguing aloud when alone.

“Yes,” she said, suddenly full of anxiety about going for a meal in an unknown place with this bewildering man. Her hands, one gripping her bag, must have started their telling movements in the air again because she realized Jonathan was watching them. His demeanor had changed once more. He'd resumed a persona she recognized from the courtroom: slightly distracted and thinking deeply, considering. She became very self-conscious, felt herself blush, abruptly moved toward the door to cover it, saying: “Six thirty, then.”

And before Jonathan Priest could move Philomena Bligh
opened the door out of his padded room and entered the corridor beyond. On her way she sensed him moving to be in the doorway behind her, felt his eyes on her back.

A few yards along the corridor Philomena turned a corner, thought she heard the soft click of his door shutting. No longer under Jonathan's scrutiny, as she proceeded she tilted her neck both sides to release tension. She had a strong sense of events unfolding, forces stirring into action. Lengthening her stride, she felt acutely aware that the war, and now the aftermath, were driving large-scale changes, and she felt part of this. But she also intuited developments that were personal to her, to do with the wider world but in some way about her in particular; her stride faltered and she came to a halt. It was as if, she thought, she had been set an as yet unarticulated quest, and that if she followed her instincts she would learn what it was. Or were any thoughts of a quest just wishful thinking, a way of tricking herself into optimism?

Just take the next step. Do the next thing.

She asked Jones for the location of the cafe and while he drew it in on her map she took the opportunity to ask the way to Anthony Dore's address, which Major James had given her. Jones lined her up along his sharp nose, said: “That must be quite a place,” and held her eye for a few seconds, as if
hoping she would elaborate. Philomena took his reaction to the address to mean that it was one she was too humble to be likely to frequent.

She walked down to Fleet Street again and turned right this time, west. Walking efficiently in London was still a challenge to her, but passage through the crowds was becoming easier as her peripheral vision rapidly evolved to the standard required. At the northern end of a bridge over the brown-green Thames, looking down its span, it slipped into her mind that nobody from home knew where she was. In fact, nobody in the world knew. Loneliness suddenly lumped in her throat and she took a few moments in the lee of a police box to steady herself. Around her, humanity poured in every direction—even upward in the case of the tribe of urchins who ran alongside, leaped on, and cheekily ascended the curved stairs of a speeding motor bus. Their glinting eyes and smiling faces pleased her, and she allowed their glee to warm her heart. Her mood swung. Her anxiety at being alone, anonymous and unreachable by home began to be replaced by almost relish that she was, in some sense, free amongst the multitudes, none of whom seemed at all bothered by her.

As she continued to thread her way west, every few yards or so a narrow gap between buildings appeared, some, even in daytime, artificially lit, but others—the perversely enticing ones—fading to pitch dark, dangerous-looking corridors. Should she try to contact Captain Anthony Dore before meeting Jonathan? Dan had never mentioned him. She paused at a bright shop window. In it were all manner of scissors.
Some were mounted on a revolving display. They took it in turns to glint in the steady electric light. Very good for work—one day she and Jo would have electric light—but not so good as gas for heating, she'd heard. And how much was it costing? Dread to think. No wonder their scissors were so pricey.

According to the map the cafe was around the next right turn, but it took some searching for because the row in which it was situated was in such a state of disrepair. Scaffolding along both sides, hammerings and bangings and indistinct shouts. The street was narrow, which made the terraced buildings climb higher, and the shallow pavements were barely wide enough for two people to pass. The feeling was that the sun's rays never hit the ground except, perhaps, at its zenith in summer. The large mirrors fixed to the walls, angled to catch whatever light there was and redirect it in through the windows, bore this out. Philomena listened to the sounds of work being carried on around and above her. Inside, the cafe—or dining room—looked welcoming. Yes, she thought she could meet Jonathan Priest there.

She set off to return to her hotel for a wash and brush up, then stopped. She should go to Anthony Dore's address now, perhaps even see if he was at home. Studying the map again in the light of the scissor shop she began to piece together what she knew so far of London geography. Her hotel was over there. Jonathan's chambers were there, Major James' offices were there, The Conduit cafe was there. Already she was getting a picture of London and her place in it. She began
to walk, and the nearer she got to Anthony Dore's address the grander the buildings became, until each house seemed more like several homes amalgamated. She felt very conspicuous because she was obviously not a servant—her clothes were too beautifully tailored, but, if challenged, what was her business thereabouts? In a square with private gardens at its center, Philomena kept near to the railings and their overhanging foliage. She couldn't imagine ever entering one of these grand houses by the front door. What was she doing there? She saw herself as a diminutive girl in a children's picture book. She'd wandered into a land of giants. These were giant's houses. Behind the windows, giants were looking down on her, a speck of a creature who should not lift her eyes above the horizon of her own world.

Jonathan met his new client, destroyed his defense, created a new one, then took himself off to an obscure Picture House where he felt it was his extreme good fortune to have the place entirely to himself. Up on screen the heroes in a series of short films escaped death or serious injury over and over again in various comedic episodes, none of which made him laugh. But to laugh wasn't the reason he was here. It was dark, and warm, and better than being home alone. As a falling house narrowly missed one hero because he'd bent down to pat a dog a second man entered the cinema auditorium and almost immediately began to laugh uproariously. Jonathan felt irked by this noise, this too-loud laughing. His pleasure was being ruined by the newcomer's ostentatious expressions of
appreciation. While he had to admit that his own behavior in this public cinema showing comedies was perverse, he also thought the man was being ridiculous. Why laugh like that when there's only one other present and they're not laughing at all? For God's sake! He feared that at any moment the man might turn to him to demand, “Did you see that? Did you see that?” when all he wanted was to watch the screen alone, or as if alone, and brood. This desire thwarted, Jonathan experienced a flash of anger, but rather than remonstrate with the other fellow, who was after all behaving more appropriately than he was, Jonathan vacated his seat, leaving the other man to laugh too loudly alone.

He headed for the cafe, The Conduit. Once there he took a seat at a table and began to drink inexpensive red wine, French, and he waited.

Arriving opposite Philomena could look from the darkness into the brightly lit cafe without being detected. It was busy inside—most of the twenty or so tables were occupied, some by couples, not speaking, one by a group of men in office suits, talking over each other, and to her relief, two by single female diners, also office workers by the look of them; and there was the one at which Jonathan sat.

As she crossed the street, he drained his glass and refilled it from the bottle. He seemed to be drinking without much pleasure. What was his life like? Nobody ever asks anyone that, do they? What's your life like? Up at home nobody asked such a question because everyone thought they knew what
your life was like. It was like their life. Dan hates that—Philomena caught herself—Dan
had
hated that. Dan would never have returned and remained there.

Stepping forward to put her hand on the cafe door handle, a terrible feeling overwhelmed her. She found herself absolutely stricken, unable to move. Without warning, inertia had invaded and made her rigid. She would have toppled but fortunately there were only inches to go before her shoulder met the glass of the cafe window, where she leaned, wide-eyed.

From inside the cafe Jonathan stared out at Philomena. He had been about to take another swig of wine—the glass was still inches from his lips, held there because he was gripped, watching her in some sort of distress. Her eyes were open but her focus was elsewhere. The top of her chest rose and fell rapidly. Jonathan put down his glass and, continuing to watch her, he stood. But instead of going to help Philomena he looked over his shoulder toward the back of the cafe, to the door marked exit. He imagined Philomena as being on the edge of a great hole of sorrow, a terrifying void that he knew, only too well, existed, and that he believed could receive and accommodate all the many souls that fell into it without any prospect of it ever being filled. Glancing again at her, seeing that she was coming to, Jonathan threw some money down on the table, seized his hat, and skedaddled.

When Philomena entered the cafe Jonathan was nowhere to be seen. She looked around for him, blinking to clear her vision. The waitress approached and Philomena explained that
she was due to meet someone. Indeed, he was here a few moments earlier. At that table.

“Ah, yes,” the waitress replied. “He's gone, I think.”

“Gone?”

“He's left money for his bill.”

“Gone where?”

The waitress showed she was sensitive to the implications of what was unfolding by smiling apologetically and discreetly indicating the rear exit. Philomena looked suitably baffled.

“Would you like a seat?” asked the waitress. “Would you like to eat? Are you sure he was the man you were expecting?”

Mumbling that perhaps it wasn't him, Philomena accepted a seat at a table, and a menu to hold. The Specials: Leg of Beef Soup, Sausage and Mash, Steak and Onion Pie. What was that smell behind the food? Fresh paint. The place was immaculate. Chairs, tables, all new. And what had been that smell she'd inhaled when she leaned on the glass? Fresh putty, yes.

Outside, in the darkness opposite the cafe, watching her, Jonathan mused on opposing magnets again; she approached, he was forced away. Another man headed for The Conduit. When he entered it Philomena glanced up, then her eyes went back to the menu she was holding. The normality of her reaction reassured Jonathan. Perhaps she wasn't as needy as he had felt. Perhaps it was his own feelings, his needs that he was projecting onto her. He made himself cross to the cafe and go in, all set to pretend to Philomena that it was
his first entrance. He winked at the waitress to gain her compliance.