Edward sat on a bench in Russell Square. He had been writing poetry, pathetic recollections about his first meeting with Macy, but broke off now to read his newspaper. He had been aware for some time of the gentleman who had sat down beside him. Especially since most of the other benches in the square were vacant. He was a well-dressed man of around forty wearing one of these overcoats with a velvet collar, slung about his shoulders like a cape. His hair was slicked back from a widow’s peak, pale skin stretched over long cheekbones, displaying the occasional tendril where a deep groove made shaving difficult.
‘This country needs a penis substitute,’ the stranger said. ‘Now there is a young queen on the throne.’
‘I’m sorry?’
The man tapped a finger against the headline of Edward’s paper. Government Confirms Atomic Deterrent. The article featured Churchill’s announcement that Britain now possessed the capability to produce an atomic bomb. ‘This bomb. A penis substitute, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, yes. The bomb.’
‘I see I have embarrassed you,’ the man said, more in observation than in repentance.
‘No, sir. I understand what you mean.’
‘Good. The King rotting, not yet a fortnight in the ground. And here we are cheerfully boasting of a giant prick for a nuclear deterrent.’
‘Churchill blames the last government. He said they started the project. And it was too far gone to stop.’
‘I can’t believe the old warmonger found it a hard decision to make. I bet the Americans will be pleased.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Oh. Just that they will have a nuclear ally in the fight for world peace. Now what is your opinion of this… this deterrent?’
Edward eyed up his questioner. ‘Well, if these bombs are truly meant to be just deterrents, then why waste all this money building them? We could just pretend to have them. Mock-ups of atomic bombs. Everywhere.’
‘Yes, yes. What an excellent idea. Cardboard cut-outs on the beaches and along the cliff-tops. All fenced in. “Danger. Keep out. Nuclear Deterrent.” No one would know the difference. I like that.’
The stranger slipped his hand into a coat pocket and brought out a brown paper bag. Rough crusts of bread were cast aggressively across the ground. The response from the pigeons in the square was immediate. Edward turned over from the offending page, leaving his companion to feed the pecking horde at his feet. He noticed the announcement for a new picture starring Gene Kelly. Not Macy’s An American in Paris, but Singin’ in the Rain. A gloved hand appeared across the newsprint.
‘Aldous.’
Edward shook the offered limb, surprised to feel such a limp grip from such a bold gesture.
Aldous snatched the open notebook off the bench. ‘So what do we have here, young man with no name?’
‘Please, sir… that is private.’
But Aldous continued to scan the page. ‘Writing is not a private matter. We all have some kind of audience in our heads.’ He read on, muttering to himself as he went. ‘So you want to be a novelist then?’
‘It’s supposed to be poetry.’ He tried to grab back his notebook but Aldous held it out of reach.
‘Too much narrative for poetry. Too much like Homer, Virgil and Milton. If you want to tell a damn story, then bloody well write one. Now what is your name and I shall return your property.’
‘Edward. Edward Strathairn.’
‘Well, Edward Strathairn. There is nothing wrong in dabbling with verse. It is a good way to limber up for novel writing. It gets you in the mood.’ Aldous smiled as he handed over the notebook. His teeth were yellowish, like old piano keys. ‘Forgive me. You may now have your revenge.’
‘And how would I do that?’
‘By leaving me.’
The challenge made Edward stay. He pretended to read the newspaper while Aldous tipped out the rest of the crumbs.
‘Are you a writer?’ Edward asked when the silence between them had become awkward.
‘No, I am a reader.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t be disappointed. I only mean that I am an editor. Of the illustrious literary magazine known as The Londinium. Circulation one thousand, six hundred and forty-three by last reckoning. My meagre offices are across the square.’ He waved a hand in the general direction, his thin wrist poking out like a chicken bone between cuff and glove.
‘But you write as well?’
‘Alas, I am not a masochist, but a sadist. I prefer to slash and burn the work of others. It is more fun. Much more fun. Now what about you?’
‘I’m over there,’ Edward said, with a nod towards his college on the other side of the square. ‘Studying Japanese.’
‘So you will join the diplomatic corps then?’ Aldous asked, rather disappointingly.
‘I was thinking of international trade.’
‘Pity. Literary translation might be more satisfying. I hear there is a lot of good writing coming out of Japan these days. Kawabata. Mishima. All needing good translators. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my duties. Lesser writers require attention.’
Aldous rose, gave a casual salute, then walked off in the direction of his office. His coat and suit hung loose off his thin frame as he skipped along the pathway, hardly seeming to touch the surface with the soles of his feet. Dancing. Not like Gene Kelly. But like Fred Astaire.
The gallery was in Albemarle Street. Mayfair posh. Large bay window set in an expensive wooden frontage displaying a solitary canvas on an easel. The painting was an abstract. Strong blues, blacks and reds colouring different geometrical shapes. An unsettling yellow eye in the centre. Miro? Edward could see visitors mingling inside. A bell announced his arrival but thankfully no one looked round. The sweat started to creep across his brow and he cursed his haste for not waiting until he had cooled down from his walk. Thick carpet. Waiters with trays. This had to be a private view, not a public exhibition. He was about to leave when he saw Macy pushing towards him.
‘You came,’ she said, pointing an empty wine glass at him. Her face was flushed, her skin tinged red where her neck and collarbone broke free from the loose strangle of her baggy sweater. Her jeans and canvas shoes were speckled with paint. Very casual compared to the formal attire of the other guests.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was a private party.’
‘Don’t be so… so… I don’t know… so British. You’re more than welcome.’
She grabbed his hand. Cool fingers curled around his own damp flesh. He followed her through the clusters of guests hovering, drinking, clinking and chattering around the large canvasses. Such bright colours. Disconnected. Floating. Just as he was in Macy’s grasp. They arrived at a triptych of paintings at the far corner of the room.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
He detected a vulnerability in her voice that made him want to say something complimentary. Something positive and intelligent about these thick sworls of colour on canvas, these intricate webs of random design. Layer upon layer. Structureless. Aggressive. Drips and splashes. The texture showing him what had been thrown fast, what had been thrown slow. Reminding him of what? Of nothing. Of drips and splashes. He sought assistance from the index card pinned to one side. “Fugue. Nos 1, 2 and 3. M. Collingwood. 1951.” No help. Yet this was Macy staring back at him from the canvas. Her mood. Her spirit. Aching from her heart, acting from her uncluttered mind. He suddenly felt himself touched by the honesty, the intimacy, the openness, by this glimpse inside of her.
‘Well?’ she prodded.
The emotion scraped at his belly, quickly working itself up his throat, swelling into his eyes.
‘I love them,’ he said, knowing he could just as easily have said, ‘I love you.’
He steeled himself for some scathing response to what she surely must regard as a banal comment. She screwed up her eyes, scrutinised him as if she too were searching for what lay inside of him.
‘You know, Eddie. I’m really glad you turned up. I really am. Now, come meet my father.’
Ensconced within his coterie, Mr Collingwood stood tall and shiny. Shiny grey-black hair, shiny smooth cheeks, shiny grey double-breasted suit. A good-looking man in that cool, confident, easy, American way. Perfect poster material for Uncle Sam’s embassy overseas.
‘So you are a friend of my daughter’s,’ Collingwood said, gimlet-eyed, assessing Edward over the crystal rim of a whisky glass. Then a strong handshake.
Edward tried to return the man’s grasp. ‘We only just met. At the lying in state.’
‘Good. Macy needs to meet new people here. She tells me you are studying the Japanese language.’
‘Japanese history and culture as well.’
‘I had a stint there during the Occupation. A fine people. Extremely kind. Extremely diligent. My wife hated it there.’ Collingwood sent a quick, professional smile towards his daughter. ‘So what do you think about her… her stuff?’
‘You mean her art?’
‘Yes, her art. If that’s what you can call it.’
‘I love it.’
‘Hmmm. Well, it keeps her busy I guess,’ he said, before turning back to his circle.
With the man’s grip still fresh on his flesh, Edward felt Macy take his other arm, easy as you like, leading him away as if they were newly-weds making the round of their reception guests.
‘Don’t mind Daddy.’
‘I thought he was all right.’
‘Liar. He can be a bit sharp. But he doesn’t really mean it.’
‘All the same…’
‘Look, it’s nice of you to stand up for me,’ she said. ‘But you don’t need to stay for all of…’ She waved a hand around the gallery. ‘For all of this. Why don’t you go off and have a drink somewhere? I’ll meet you outside. Say in about an hour.’
He found a pub nearby, a pint of bitter, a discarded newspaper and a table by the window. He tried to calm himself down, anchor this floating feeling inside of him, swirling and sworling away like those colours on the canvas. He felt alive to these new sensations, not just within himself but all around him. New queen, new art, new friend. Dare he think it? New girlfriend. What he read in the paper confirmed his mood. National identity cards to be abolished, the coronation scheduled for next year. People were now liberated from government supervision, temporarily orphaned from monarchy. An unfettered population capable of great things. London seemed such a delightful, welcoming place now. Through the misty panes, he could see arm-in-arm walks along the embankment, visits to the cinema, picnics in the park. Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron. Singing in the rain.
The fog was coming in thick as he stepped outside the pub. He felt a tug at his sleeve, sensed a shadow slip out of the murkiness.
‘Tuppence for a cup of tea. For an old soldier.’
The beggar was dressed in an army greatcoat, one of the sleeves hanging loose where an arm had been. Thin wisps of hair spread across his scalp like winter weeds, eyes jaundiced, imploring him with such a sadness that Edward felt obliged to search his pockets for some change. He gave the beggar what he had asked, received a salute in return. He didn’t know why, but the gesture moved him terribly, and he thrust some more coins into the man’s open palm.
Macy was a silhouette waiting for him outside the gallery. The same dark green coat and beret from the day at Westminster. Leather satchel off one shoulder.
‘I sold a painting,’ she said. Her face shone just like her father’s.
‘You are now an artist.’
‘No. I was always an artist. Now I am a painter.’
He laughed. ‘What would you like to do?’
‘Nothing. Just walk.’
‘In this fog?’
‘Yes, in this fog.’
Again he felt her arm in his, fingers tightening to claim possession, making him feel warm and wanted from the attention. They were in their own world now, cocooned by the fog, where he could protect her from lampposts, pavement edges, reckless pedestrians, strange shadows emerging into their private space before disappearing again. Hazy orange glows from headlamps, street lamps, torches and table lamps. Cold, sharp voices. People humming or whistling to be heard. Car horns. A bus creeping by, passengers with the faces of the dead staring out at them.
‘We’re living in exciting times,’ he said.
‘Yeah, I feel that too. But why do you think so?’
‘I think we are finally shaking off the drudgery of the war. People are looking to the future now. With fresh ideas.’
‘It’s different for you. For you British.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You didn’t wipe out two cities with atomic bombs.’
‘I never thought the Americans felt too guilty about that.’
‘That’s the problem. They don’t. People like my father feel it was just cause to vaporise tens of thousands of civilians.’
‘She could never understand it. That was why she hated Japan. People were killing her with kindness yet she felt so guilty. Anyway, we’re here now.’
‘Where?’
‘Where I live.’
He was amazed to discover there had been a direction to their meandering. Now, he stood in a pillared doorway of what must be a grand Georgian mansion. He could just make out the black-and-white tiled steps.
‘I’d like to see you again,’ she said, searching in her satchel for a pen. ‘Do you have a telephone at your digs?’
He shook his head.
‘OK. You can telephone me then.’ She wrote down the number on one of her flyers. ‘You can find your way back?’
‘I think so.’
‘Just keep going east. That way.’
Her lips brushed his cheek. Then awkwardly, they were face to face, her eyes darting nervously. Her fingers played with a button of his jacket. He kissed her. It was such a spontaneous action. For if he had thought about it, he would never have done it. But there he was. Kissing her. Full on the mouth. Her lips cold and dry, yet wonderfully pliant. The sensation ethereal. Like wisps of fog.
That brief kiss lingered for days. He thought he could still feel the imprint as he lifted the receiver of the public telephone at the White Lion, fumbled with his coins, pressed button ‘A’, then ‘B’ on connection.
‘I’m afraid Miss Collingwood is not at home,’ said a cool female voice.
He felt a droplet of sweat trickle down his ribcage. ‘Do you know when she will be back?’
‘I do not have that information. I am only the housekeeper.’
‘Will she be back for dinner?’
‘That I do not know.’
‘Well, when would be a good time to call?’
‘That I also do not know. Sometimes she is here. Sometimes she isn’t.’
‘Can you tell her Eddie called?’
‘Is there a number where she can reach you?’
‘No, that’s the problem. Wait. Give her this number. It is a public telephone at the White Lion. She knows where it is. I will make sure I am here. At nine p.m. Can you tell her to call at nine p.m.?’
‘Miss Collingwood knows of such a place?’
‘Yes, she does.’
‘And you want her to call this White Lion tonight at nine p.m.?’
‘Yes. But it doesn’t have to be tonight. Any night this week.’
‘I will pass on the message.’
The White Lion became his study and his observation post. A table by the fire, the very same table where he had first sat with her. But the telephone never rang for him. After three days, he called once more only to be rebuffed again by the housekeeper. After five days, the end of her exhibition closed off another avenue of opportunity. He became more agitated as his mood rapidly disintegrated from hope to dejection. After a week, he decided he had no choice but to visit her at home.
It took him a while to find the house. He had remembered the number, etched in elegant black on both pillars, from the night of the kiss, but in his excitement he had forgotten to search for the street name. Just as he began to panic that even this connection had been snatched away by the fog, Mayfair revealed her secret to him. For an hour, he set up a vigil across the street. He hunted the lighted windows for a glimpse of her, imagined her in one of the topmost rooms busy at her easel or with canvas stretched across the floor. When that endeavour ended fruitless, he went back into Mayfair until he found a flower-seller, purchased the finest bouquet he could afford. Suitably armed, he approached the impressive Georgian doorway and rang the bell. Where he had expected a housekeeper, an elderly gentleman in a maroon smoking jacket answered the door.
‘Is Miss Collingwood in?’ Edward asked.
The man looked suspiciously at the bunch of flowers. ‘Are these for my wife?’
‘I am looking for a Miss Collingwood.’
‘No one of that name lives here.’
‘A Mr Collingwood? He is on the staff at the American Embassy.’
‘I am afraid you have made a mistake.’
‘But that is impossible. She brought me to this door.’
‘A mistake.’
The door began to close on him. He wanted to push by this doddery gatekeeper, to announce his arrival, to demand to be seen.
‘A mistake.’ And with a final click, Edward was left standing alone on the step.
‘Misery loves company, does it not?’
Edward looked up from the Japanese textbook, which had become no more than hazy scratches before his eyes. Aldous stood before him in a pinstriped suit spattered with raindrops. A pink rose hung limp from a lapel. A raindrop ran down his cheek.
‘Aldous. I didn’t know you drank in here.’
‘I don’t. But I saw your glum face as I passed by the window. I bring you more of the same poison.’ He placed a pint of bitter on the table, a glass of whisky for himself.
‘So what ails the young these days?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
Aldous laughed. ‘Then it must be a woman.’
He refused to answer.
‘Young men pine for only one thing. The illusion of love. Am I right?’
‘I grudgingly admit it.’
‘Then please tell.’
And he did. To an almost complete stranger. But who else had he to narrate his tale in this lonely metropolis? Unfortunately, Aldous was not a sympathetic listener.
‘So that’s it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She deceived you with the wrong address and you consider this to be the end of the world?’
‘She hasn’t returned one call in two weeks. And the housekeeper refuses to give me the right address.’
‘Have you tried the embassy?’
‘The guards won’t let me get near Collingwood unless I am on official business.’
‘I think this Macy is just trying to weave a little web of mystery.’
‘A little web of misery is more like it.’
‘That may be the case. But look at the bright side. She gave you the right telephone number. It seems she is reeling you in with the one hand, pushing you away with the other. The classic ruse of seduction.’
‘Well, it’s working.’
‘So, I see. Well, let’s have another drink to celebrate your tortured soul. This Scotch is rather nice. More of the same, Edward. More of the same.’
By the closing bell, Edward was quite drunk. His companion suggested a nightcap at his place, offering commodious yet warm rooms above the meagre offices of The Londinium as the lure. Along with a decanter of the finest single malt.
The stairway to these apartments was dark and steep, rendered more treacherous by the smoothness of the well-worn steps. Using a hand-over-hand grip on the banister, Edward managed the first landing to the door of The Londinium, then needed Aldous to haul him the rest of the way.
‘Onwards and upwards, dear boy. Onwards and upwards.’
Edward had not asked if there was a Mrs Aldous, assumed for some reason there wouldn’t be. And he was proved right. Instead there was a ginger cat, which leapt to greet him, almost tripping him over on the threshold.
‘Don’t mind, Macavity,’ Aldous said, stroking the creature into a purring frenzy. ‘He is the most read-to cat in Christendom.’
The flat was large with doors leading off the hallway into cavernous, high-ceilinged rooms. But any sense of space was reduced by the presence of books. They appeared everywhere, not just on the layers upon layers of shelves but on every vacant surface, tucked into every available niche, slotted into drawers, bowls, even footwear. The floor of the living room was stacked with several tottering towers of magazines, copies of The Londinium mostly, presenting a serious obstacle course between Edward and the sofa, which at this point was his necessary destination. He just had to sit down, settle the wooziness inside his head.
He watched Aldous stoke up the coals in the grate until a fierce fire blazed – the only light in the room apart from the glow off the street lamps through the windows. A hand stroked his shoulder, then a glass brimful of whisky appeared. Aldous settled in an armchair opposite, lit up a cigarette, and for a while they did nothing but sip at their malts, gaze into the fire.
‘What you should do is write about it,’ Aldous said. The fire had tired and the man was a lean shadow in his chair, located by the purring cat, the arc of his cigarette describing the movement of his arm.
‘Write what about what?’ Edward’s head ached, his eyes drooped heavy, giving him little patience for Aldous’ circumlocutions, which he had discovered marked the man’s discourse style. Either that or the complete opposite. Direct and downright rudeness.
‘A short story. About your… how can I say…? Your little tragedy.’
‘You are making fun of me.’
‘No, I am merely making a creative suggestion.’
‘I should write a short story about Macy?’
‘No, no. That would be terribly boring. An awful self-indulgence. No, first you should choose your overriding feeling. For all good fiction must be about something. Some underlying theme.’
‘Well, that’s easy. Anger. That is my overriding feeling.’
‘And why are you angry?’
‘Because I have been rejected.’
‘Good. Then write about rejection.’
‘About Macy rejecting me?’
‘As I said, that would just be autobiographical slush of no interest to anyone but yourself. No, you must find a vehicle for your rejection. A disguise through which you can vent your feelings.’
‘I don’t understand what you are saying.’
‘I think you do. It is just that you are a little worse for wear.’
‘Aldous?’
‘Yes, my dear boy.’
‘I am tired. Awfully tired.’
‘Then you must sleep here. That sofa has a well-used history. I will bring you some blankets.’
Edward adjusted into a prone position, closed his eyes. The movement inside his head, the swaying darkness, began to settle, find its balance. Like waves inside a tub coming to rest. Lipping and lapping into stillness. A warm bath. The water settling gently over him. Playthings floating on the surface. Suds like clouds. A bar of soap slithering around his body. He let himself submerge into the liquidity and then re-emerge baptised with cleanliness. His mother stroking his wet hair. Yes, he liked that. Stroking his hair. So gentle. So soothing. Then a kiss upon his forehead. So light.
‘Goodnight, Edward.’
‘Goodnight, Aldous.’
Edward didn’t remember much of that drunken night but he did take Aldous’ advice. He wrote his story, found a vehicle for his narrative, a platform for his wounded voice. Rejection was his subject, and rejection was what he received. Nine times he submitted the manuscript to his new-found friend and nine times it was returned scarred with the red marks of aggressive revision. But the tenth effort Aldous accepted for publication in The Londinium. It told the story of an ex-soldier, rendered socially useless by the loss of an arm, who had taken to a life of begging on Brighton seafront. Each day, he watched a beautiful woman from one of the nearby Regency houses glide down to the promenade on her roller skates to perform elaborate dances in front of him. Of course, he fell in love with her. And she used that love to cruelly humiliate him in ways that Edward found hard to believe he was capable of imagining. Until she eventually rejected that poor beggar. As did the sea. For his body was found washed up with the pebbles on the shore. The Girl on Roller Skates was Edward’s first published work. And Aldous never paid him a penny for it.