Authors: Mark Dawson
“Joseph says you’re an educated man,” McVitie said.
“Well, I went to University. Does that count?”
“He’s being modest,” Joseph said. “He’s a bloody genius––a Doctor.”
“That so?”
“I’m certainly not a genius. But he’s right that I studied Medicine. What do you both do?”
McVitie chuckled until Joseph gave him a meaningful look.
“What?” Edward pressed, smiling nervously at the private joke.
“Salvage,” McVitie said.
“And me,” Falco added.
“What––scrap metal?”
“That kind of thing.”
The main course was brought out: a galantine of duck and foie gras. Edward’s kitchen skills were rudimentary but even an old hand like Jimmy would have been impressed by the gastronomy.
Edward leaned over towards Joseph. “This food––where’s it from?”
“A friend of the family.”
“Kosher?”
“Not strictly. Let’s just say he’s into buying and selling.”
“A spiv?”
“He’d call himself an entrepreneur.”
“But it’s the black market?”
Joseph grinned. “He owed my Aunt a favour. Pulled out the stops for us. You’re working for him.”
“Ruby Ward?”
“He buys and sells a lot of different things. It’s not just cars.”
“Wherever it came from, it looks delicious.”
Edward sliced into the duck. The cross-sectional cut revealed layers of pink meat alternating with meltingly tender foie gras that had been moulded and pressed into the shape of a perfect cylinder. It tasted beautiful.
McVitie spoke up: “What was it like in Burma?”
“Hot,” Edward replied.
“I’ll say,” Joseph agreed.
“And now this,” McVitie said, gesturing toward the window, rain lashing against the glass. “Welcome to summer!”
“It makes a change, that’s for sure.”
“What about the Japs?” Falco asked.
“They were vicious,” Joseph said.
“I remember when it all started, the papers were saying it’d be over in a month.”
Edward warmed to the subject. “No-one took the Tojos seriously,” he said. “Everyone thought a couple of victories and they’d fall over. It didn’t happen like that.”
“Were you there at the start?”
Edward said that he was. “The early days were brutal––defeat after defeat. It took four years to turn the tide.”
“Just as I arrived,” Joseph grinned. “I don’t think it was a coincidence.”
Falco looked impressed. “Joseph said you got a medal.”
Edward shrugged. “It was nothing.”
“No point going on about it, then,” Billy said dismissively.
“Put a sock in it, Bubble,” Joseph said, punching him on the shoulder. “Come on, old man, you have to tell us what happened. I still don’t know. He won’t say.”
That was a story that would require a careful telling. Before Edward could begin, George Costello tapped his knife against his glass and the conversation petered away. Slightly relieved, Edward turned his attention to the head of the table. He had blithely assumed that George would deliver the speech in the absence of Chiara’s father, but he remained seated as Violet stood instead.
“Family, friends––thank you for coming. Now, as you may have heard, it is my niece’s twenty-first birthday today. As you know, her father, my brother, isn’t with us any longer and so it falls to me to say a few words.” Violet gave a short history of Chiara’s life, a few badly phrased jokes that drew compliant laughter from the audience. “Anyone who knows her will tell you that she’s always been a headstrong one. I remember, when she was just a girl, how she wouldn’t do what her parents wanted. The Italians among us will know what I am talking about––my brother and his wife gave all of their children two Christian names: one Italian, one English. It was just as you’d expect––the Italian to help them remember their history, the English to help them fit in. Chiara was supposed to be known as Clarissa, but even as a five year old she refused to answer to it. It hasn’t changed––the last person who tried to call her Clarissa got the rough side of her tongue for their cheek.” The diners chuckled, some of them exchanging glances of recognition. “But you can hardly blame her for being proud of her roots,” Violet continued, “it’s a shame more of us don’t share it––but that’s a subject for another day.” She picked up her glass from the table. “Chiara has become a beautiful young woman. We’re all very proud of her. Now then––raise your glasses for a toast. To Chiara.”
“Chiara!” the guests repeated lustily.
Violet resumed her seat and, next to her, Chiara kissed her lightly on the cheek. Edward saw her mouth thanks into her ear.
Joseph excused himself from the table. McVitie reached across the table and swiped a full bottle of wine. He gestured towards Edward’s empty glass. “Refill, Doc?” Edward had started to feel quite drunk but his half-hearted resistance was ignored. McVitie poured so much that it spilled over the rim. “Cheers.”
“Seems like yesterday we were here for Chiara’s eighteenth,” Falco said.
McVitie nodded. “She’s something else now, eh?”
“She always was a good-looking girl.”
“I’d give her a lovely birthday present and no mistake,” Billy said.
McVitie and Falco both laughed derisively. “Like she’d have anything to do with you.”
“Piss off, Jack. I’d stand a better chance than you.”
The conversation moved on to Joseph’s family. Edward was pleased. He had plenty of questions, and the information would be valuable. “What happened to Joseph’s father?” he asked.
“He hasn’t mentioned it?”
“Not a word.”
McVitie frowned. “Best you ask him about that,” he said.
“And his mother?”
“Nothing about her, neither?”
“No.”
“That ain’t surprising,” said Falco.
“What about her?”
He winced. “Best let him bring that up, too. It’s––what would you call it, Tommy?”
“Delicate, Jack.”
“That’s right. A bit delicate.”
“Is she alive?”
“Far as I know.”
“Where is she, then?”
“Honestly, Doc––best you let him talk about her.”
Edward took the hint and didn’t pursue it any further. Whatever it was, it was something that both McVitie and Falco were awkward about discussing. They didn’t appear to be shy about anything else, and so, whatever it was about Joseph’s parents, it could wait until he was ready to talk about it himself.
17
THE MEAL FINISHED and, as the waiters started to clear the debris from the tables, the guests moved back to the drawing room. A gramophone had been uncovered and records were being played, a few of the younger guests dancing to the music unselfconsciously. Edward had been persuaded by the others to move onto spirits, and after two glasses of a very good––and very potent––single malt, he was feeling quite light-headed.
He was standing by the fireplace when Violet Costello came alongside. She was with a heavy-set man who bore the scar from a razor across his right cheek.
Violet smiled pleasantly at him. “Mr. Fabian,” she said.
“Please––call me Edward.”
“This is Lennie Masters,” she said, indicating the man. “He works with the family, too. Lennie––this is Edward Fabian.”
“How do you do?” Edward said.
The man regarded him dubiously but took his hand nonetheless.
“This is the one who’s working with Ruby?”
“That’s right,” she said. “And how are you finding the automobile business, Edward?”
“I’m enjoying it,” he lied. “Thank you for your help. I’m very grateful.”
It was a chore, and he knew he was destined for much better, but the job was serving its purpose well enough. He had made some money, at least. Most of it he had passed to his uncle, who had in turn used it to pay some of the outstanding bills for his father’s care. The risk of his being refused treatment, or removed from the sanatorium, had been deferred, and that was a relief.
Violet waved her hand dismissively at his thanks although Edward could tell that she enjoyed it. She was, he concluded, one of those people who took pleasure not so much from being in a position to do another a favour, but from that other person knowing that they are in that position. The perception of status was clearly of importance to her, and being able to dispense favours––so that others might benefit from her munificence––was pleasing to her. Edward was very happy to let her think he was grateful, and, more importantly, impressed.
Lennie Masters excused himself, leaning down so that she could kiss him on his scarred cheek.
Violet explained that the garage was one of several businesses that the family owned and that she was happy to be able to help a returning soldier. “I was thinking about that,” she went on. “The family has a connection with a journalist. He’s freelance, I believe, but he often has his pieces in the national newspapers. I saw him for lunch yesterday and he said that he was interested in a piece about soldiers returning from the war––how they find things back home, that sort of thing. I think it’s disgraceful the way the government is treating you men. You, especially, with the Victoria Cross, it’s shocking that even someone like you should find themselves in such difficult circumstances. I happened to mention that to him and he thought it would be a capital idea to write a piece about your experiences.”
Edward’s stomach turned with panic. “I don’t know, Ms Costello,” he said. “I’m not really one for publicity.”
“Nonsense, Edward. It’s shocking that men like you, men who have fought for their country––heroes, for goodness sake––are forgotten as soon as they get home. Shocking. Someone needs to say something about it.” She smiled at him. “I’d like you to do this, please. I think it’s very important.”
Edward knew that he was not being given a choice and he knew that this was nothing about politics or the welfare of soldiers. This was a chance for Violet to be publically lauded for her charity. A terrible, jangling fright went over his shoulders and down his legs. For a moment he felt helpless and weak, too weak to move. He imagined his picture on the front page of the Daily
Graphic
or the Picture Post. A puff piece article, declaiming the way he had been treated and––no doubt––heralding the charity of Violet Costello. The headline would be “Local Businesswoman Helps War Hero,” and the article would be more about her that it would about him. But the damage would be done. From there, it was not difficult to imagine what might come next: a knock on the door in the middle of the night, policemen thrusting their way inside, throwing him in the back of a Black Mariah and tossing him into a cell. Or private detectives following him in the street, assembling their cases against him, drawing the net around him until it was so tight that he couldn’t move.
“I’ll speak to him tomorrow, then,” she said with a note of finality that said it was pointless to protest. “It’s important, isn’t it, Edward? Something needs to be said.”
Edward said that he agreed, of course, but when he glimpsed his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece he saw the pained, frightened expression on his face. Violet patted him on the arm, enjoined him to have fun, and made her way across the room to where her brother was talking with a couple of glowering toughs.
“Alright, old man?” Joseph put an arm around his shoulders. “What did she want?”
“She wants me to do some press,” he replied, setting his jaw in the hope that it would erase the look of vague fright that he felt must still have been on it.
“What for?”
“Something about offering me a job. She says it’s a disgrace that men like us come back to nothing.”
Joseph laughed knowingly. “That sounds just like her. Violet never misses a chance to get her name in the papers. You’ll do it?”
“I don’t think she was giving me very much of a choice.”
“No,” he said. “Probably not. Don’t worry, Doc, I sure it’ll be painless and she’ll be grateful for it. It’s always best to keep her happy. Fancy a breath of fresh air?”
The blaring, grating drunken voices pressed into his ears and Edward was pleased of the chance for a little quiet. The rain was still falling as they wandered outside into the formal gardens: low box hedges, ornamental ponds, a gravel path that wound down, eventually, to the lakeshore. It was a little cold and neither had a topcoat, sheltered from the rain by two large umbrellas. Edward enjoyed the fresh air in his lungs. Behind them, golden light spilled out from the French doors, and noise as another record played from the gramophone. They reached the water’s edge and, in the shelter of the boathouse, leant against the balustrade. The water beyond shifted and shimmied in the light of the moon, a gentle breeze ruffling across it.
Joseph took two cigars from his pocket and handed one to Edward.
“It’s good to see you smiling.”
Edward drew on the cigar and quickly felt even more light-headed. “Feels like I haven’t had much to smile about recently.”
“What do you mean?
“Life could be better.”
“Money?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t complain,” he said, “the job at the garage has been good, it’s made a difference, but I could certainly do with more. You always can, can’t you? And your Aunt is right––I can’t help thinking the government has forgotten about us––either that or it doesn’t care.”
Joseph looked dead straight at him. “What if I said I had a way you could lay your hands on some money? Decent money? More than you could make with Ruby.”
Edward’s interest kindled. “Then I’d say I was keen to hear it.”
Joseph regarded him. Edward wondered if it wasn’t with something that looked like apprehension. “Do you have an open mind?”
Edward inhaled from the cigar. “As much as the next man.”
“You wanted to know how I could afford clobber like this.” He indicated his suit with a downwards brush of his fingers. “Nice cigars, a decent motor, a nice place in town.”
“You said the horses––”
“What if it was something else?”
“Like what?”
“If I tell you, you mustn’t rush to conclusions.”
“What, Joseph?”
He paused. “Me and the lads have been turning over houses.”
“Very bloody funny,” he said, feigning disbelief, because he knew that was what Joseph would expect.