Authors: Mark Dawson
King George, accompanied by a retinue of two Ghurkhas, made his way to the dais and the ceremony began. The men who were receiving the Victoria Cross went first, the rating and the airman among stepping up before Edward. The chamberlain read out their citation, they went forward, the King gave them their medal and said a few rehearsed words, they went back. Edward watched with wide eyes. The whole spectacle was utterly surreal.
“Edward Frederick Fabian.”
Edward leant forwards avidly as the chamberlain read out his citation. “Corporal Fabian carried out an individual act of great heroism by which he attacked and killed several of the enemy who had ambushed his own platoon. It was in direct face of the enemy, under intense fire, whilst wounded and at further great personal risk to himself. His valour is worthy of the highest recognition.”
Edward took his cue and went forwards, his face stern and impassive. The King shook his hand and held it for a moment. He leant forwards and spoke quietly into his ear. “Congratulations, corporal,” he said. When he was finished, Edward stepped back and saluted crisply.
There was an upswelling of applause for the three men. Joseph clapped most of all, beaming a wide grin, and Edward could not resist the explosion of pleasure in his breast. He grinned, too, and, for the moment at least, his reservations were forgotten.
* * *
THEY FOUND A PUB near to the Palace and Joseph bought a couple of beers. “So that’s how you got shot?” Joseph said as soon as they were settled in a booth.
“Afraid so,” Edward said, feigning reluctance to go into detail.
“How many Japs were there?”
“Eight.”
“And they just opened up on you?”
“It was the monsoon––you know what that’s like. You couldn’t see much further than the front of your nose. Half a dozen of the lads had been hit before the rest of us knew what was going on. I was lucky––I just got the ricochet in the foot before I managed to get into the jungle and get a grenade away. That scattered them, and I picked the survivors off.”
“That’s a hell of a story.” He shook his head. “Stone the crows, Doc. The Victoria Cross. It doesn’t get better than that. One of my pals is a war hero.”
Edward savoured it. He drank it all in. It could not have been a more successful morning and now every moment to Edward was a pleasure. The ceremony had been tremendously agreeable in itself. And now there was Joseph’s acclaim, the way that strangers in the pub looked at him curiously, and the way that fellow servicemen, once they recognised the medal that was still pinned to his breast, would tip their hats or salute. My God, he thought, it all felt amazing. The sense of guilt from earlier had been obliterated. The way that Joseph was looking at him almost persuaded him that he deserved to be decorated. He as good as believed the narrative that he had created for himself.
Edward felt proud for having arranged everything so perfectly. And yet, despite his pride, there was also a curious sense of remoteness. He could not share everything with Joseph, nor with anyone else. He had a feeling that everyone was watching him, as if he had an audience comprised of the entire world, a foreboding that kept him on his mettle, for, if he made a mistake now or in the future, it would be disastrous. Yet he felt absolutely confident that he was a match for the challenge he had presented for himself. He had had a lot of practice over the years, starting even from when he had been a small child, and this was no different. He was quite sure: he was good, and he would not make a mistake.
They finished their pints and ordered another.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” Joseph asked him.
Jimmy had said he could manage all day without him. “I don’t have any plans,” he said. “We could have a few drinks?”
“Why don’t you come with me to The Hill? It’s the carnival today––plenty of booze and fun, too. You should come, really, you should. My family will be there. I’d love to introduce you to them.”
Edward remembered what Joseph had said to him on the train: there was a successful Costello family business. His interest began to stir. Perhaps there was an opportunity to be had. It had been a good morning. Why not see if he could continue his good luck into the afternoon, too? He looked down at his pristine uniform and the bright new medal that glittered silver against the khaki fabric. He would never have a better chance to make a good first impression.
“Sounds like fun,” he said.
* * *
THE TAXI DEPOSITED THEM on Roseberry Avenue and they made their way to Amwell Street where a long line of empty trestle tables had been arranged down the middle of the road, covered with mismatched cloths. An assortment of chairs were set on either side. Women were arranging flowers and greenery around the doorways of the houses and men on step-ladders were hanging yards of colourful bunting from the gas lamps. The Italian tricolore and the Union Jack vied for space from the ledges of first-floor windows. Gay tapestries obscured the dilapidated walls, the street-corners were ornamented by large illuminated frames which bore the statue of the Madonna and windows held statues, votive lights, flowers and candles. Even the narrow courts and alleys had been transformed, blazing with flowers and brilliantly coloured lights. The atmosphere was febrile: in five minutes they passed a spiv selling nylons from a suitcase, a couple embracing with drunken ardour and two men throwing sloppy, half-hearted punches at each other.
Joseph led the way to a table where three women had congregated. “These are my sisters,” he said. “Edie, Sophia and Chiara.”
“Who’s this dish?” Sophia said, making no attempt disguise her lewd up-and-down appraisal of Edward.
“This is my friend, Edward Fabian.”
Edward smiled warmly. The women were a strange collection: Evie walked with a stick, was tall and slim with long dark hair and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. Sophia was shorter, and plumper, with ringlets of copper-coloured hair that spilled across her shoulders in tight coils. Chiara was neither tall nor short, doll-like with slender arms and wrists. Her hair had been carefully water-waved and set, her lips looked soft and shapely with the lip salve she had on them. She wore a brown flannel coat with rabbit collar over an art-silk dress of light blue. Despite their differences it was obvious that they were related. The tone of their skin, the shape of their eyes, their noses and chins; they were evidently poured from the same mould.
He took their offered hands. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Sophia turned her hand over and held it before his lips so that he was left with no choice but to kiss it. “Where’s he been hiding you?”
Joseph tutted. “Put him down.”
Evie kissed Joseph on the cheek. “Bloody hell, you reek. Have you been drinking?”
He grinned at her. “We were celebrating.”
“What for?”
“We’ve just been to Buckingham Palace. Edward has just seen the King.”
“Give over.”
“It’s true. Go on, Doc, show them.”
Edward feigned modesty. The medal was still attached to his tunic. He slid his fingers beneath it and held it away from his breast.
“Which one is it?”
Joseph said, “The Victoria Cross.”
Evie gawped. “It never is…”
“What’d you have to do to get that?” Sophia asked.
“Nothing much,” Edward said. He felt uncharacteristically shy. Sophia had a brash and loud personality and he felt a little cowed by it.
“Don’t be coy,” Sophia urged with a grin that exposed the wide gap between her front teeth. “Tell us.”
Joseph saw Edward was uncomfortable. “Leave it out,” he said. “Not everyone wants to crow about the things that they’ve done. All you need to know is that this man”––he clapped him on the back––“is a bloody hero.”
Sophia took Edward’s hand again and squeezed it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Edward,” she said. She held her grip a little too long, and, as she gently released it, she trailed her fingertips against the back of his hand. He looked down at her, surprised, and she returned his expression with a cheeky wink.
“Sophia,” Chiara chided in a tone of weary exasperation. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fabian. My sister can be awfully embarrassing sometimes.”
Edward knew that the flattery was not just for the benefit of his ego. Sophia and Evie enjoyed embarrassing their brother and they knew exactly how to do it. The more he protested, the more lascivious, and crude, they would become. Chiara did not get involved in their games; she stood silently to the side and observed, taking it all in.
“Where’s Billy?” Sophia asked her brother.
“He’s meeting us here. Go easy on him, alright?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Sophia said with mock outrage.
“You know exactly what I mean. You give him the bloody vapours half the time and you know it. Speak of the devil––there he is.”
His face broke out into a smile and Edward turned to see the reason for it: Billy was approaching them. “Billy and me are going to get the drinks. Edward––I’d leave you here but I’m not sure they’ll leave you in one piece.”
“He’s perfectly safe,” Sophia said.
“I doubt that. Edward?”
“I’m fine,” he said.
There were three pubs in the vicinity. The landlords had rolled barrels out onto the street and groups of happy drunks gathered around them to refill their tankards, a rowdy atmosphere already developing. Joseph led Billy to the Wordsworth and waved the landlord across.
Chiara said, “You’re the doctor, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. How do you know that?”
“Joseph was talking about you.”
“He was?”
“He was happy you asked him to come today.”
Edward smiled, pleased with himself. He felt very optimistic all of a sudden.
“Have you met Billy yet?” Evie asked him.
“Briefly. I don’t think he likes me much.”
“He can be like that,” Sophia said. “He’s awkward around people he’s just met. I shouldn’t worry about it. He doesn’t mean it. His bark’s worse than his bite.”
“You should know,” teased Evie.
The remark was lost on Edward. “Are they good friends?” he asked.
“They’ve known each other for years. His father and our father worked in the business so the two of them practically grew up together. He’s Greek. It used to be one hundred per cent Italian round here when my grandfather came over, but there’ve been all sorts moving in the last few years––Jews, Irish, Greeks. We call him Bubble when we want to get a rise out of him.”
“Why?”
“Bubble and Squeak.”
Edward felt foolish for asking. “Oh––I see, Greek.”
“He hates it.”
Joseph had squeezed three gins between his hands and was coming towards them. Billy was behind him, carrying three pints of beer.
Joseph gave a glass to each of his sisters.
“Go easy on the poor lad,” Evie warned her sister as Billy arrived.
“No fear. It’s too much fun.”
“My sister and Billy used to be––involved,” Chiara explained quietly for Edward’s benefit, searching for the right word.
“Only when I’ve been drinking,” Sophia said. “I do have standards.”
Evie shook her head. “If you say so.”
Sophia latched onto Billy at once. “Hello, darling.”
“Alright, Sophia,” Billy said awkwardly. His demeanour underwent an abrupt and amusing transformation from his usual insouciance. It melted away like an ice cube on a hot day.
“Don’t worry, my love, I won’t say nothing.”
“What you on about? There’s nothing
to
say.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Don’t know why you’re being so coy.”
“Leave him alone,” Joseph said, but there was an amused smile on his face.
“I was just being civil.”
“You know what you were doing.”
Billy hid behind his pint.
Edward enjoyed the exchange. He didn’t much like Billy and it was good to see him squirm. Smiling, he drank his beer right away. It was a warm day and he had developed a thirst. The beer was tepid but it didn’t matter.
“Violet’s waving at us,” Evie said.
Edward followed her gesture and saw a woman and a man at one of the large trestles.
“Wonderful,” Joseph groaned. “I haven’t seen her all week. How is she?”
“The same as ever,” Sophia said. “Annoyed you haven’t been to see her.”
“We better go and see her before we get too lit up.”
“You’re already lit up.”
“More lit up, then.”
“Who’s Violet?” Edward asked Chiara.
“Our aunt,” she explained. “And the fellow next to her is our uncle George.”
“We’ll leave you to it,” Sophia said. “I don’t think we need to be subjected to her. We get it every day.”
“To what?” Edward said, confused.
“Come on,” Joseph said. “You’ll see. Let’s get it over with.”
10
MATRONS FUSSED OVER DISHES that had been arranged on the trestle tables: bowls of pasta, salads, cuts of meat, trifles and cakes, a large tureen filled with punch. Joseph explained that each family had provided a dish, most more than one, the women rising early to start the preparations. The air was freighted with a sweet-smelling aroma: garlic, fried onions, rosemary, tomatoes, roasted vegetables. They picked their way through the crowd until they reached the table. Violet Costello was in her early fifties. She was a handsome woman, dressed elegantly in clothes that were obviously more expensive than those of the women around her. They had the dowdy, homely appearance of the housewife yet she was impressive, bearing herself with a regal air. She obviously had money, and style. If Violet indicated her status with subtle choices, George Costello was altogether more ostentatious. He was tall, over six feet, and his brillantined hair made him look even taller. His shoulders were broad and he was built as powerfully as an ox. He was wearing a fine suit, a clip-on bow tie with changeable paper collars and a loud, checked, belted overcoat. He wore a fresh carnation in his button-hole. His hair and whiskers had been cut that morning, his grooming punctiliously exact. His head was a little too large for his body and his eyes were a little too small for his face; they glittered darkly, suggesting he was not a man to be crossed.