Peacetime (27 page)

‘Is that likely?' Mercer said. ‘I doubt it.'

‘Chance I'll have to take,' Lynch said. He stuffed the paper back into his pocket. ‘Chance we'll all have to take.'

‘You could start walking and see if anything comes along,' Mercer suggested.

‘
I
could,' Lynch said. ‘
She's
the one looking forward to a nice comfortable ride. She's worried that she'll slow me down, aren't you? Worried that her old dad'll miss his appointment.'

Thus prompted, Mary nodded.

‘Pity you can't do all this when you're in town on other business,' Mercer said, emphasizing the last word to ensure there was no misunderstanding between them.

But Lynch only considered the remark and smiled. ‘Oh, you know what these people are like,' he said. ‘Besides, I prefer to keep the two things separate, if you know what I mean.'

‘Does Mary need to go with you?' Mercer said.

‘Insists on it. First thing she said when I got up. When were we going? How long would we be staying? What would we be doing there? She feels about this place like I used to feel.'

Mercer wondered at the extent of the man's own delusion. He lived in a world entirely of his own making: that which he could alter, he altered; that which
he could not, he ignored; and the suggestion of violence continued to underpin everything he did – whether sudden, witnessed and uncontrollable, or distant, unseen and unheard. He wore a mask, continually revealing the unsettling sneer behind the unconvincing smile.

‘Perhaps someone will be going from the airfield,' Mercer suggested, knowing this was more likely.

‘I wouldn't sit in a lorry with one of
them
if you paid me,' Lynch said.

‘They're not all Germans.'

‘Good as. And the ones who aren't might just as well be, the way they treat them.'

‘Then perhaps you could walk and Mary could get a lift.'

‘Very clever,' Lynch said. ‘Besides, she wouldn't want to abandon her dad, would you?'

Not like you abandoned her
, Mercer thought.

Still Mary said nothing, and Mercer regretted this. As before, there was nothing he could say in her presence for which she or Elizabeth Lynch might not later be made to bear the consequences. He considered suggesting to her that she might return to the tower and clean it again in the near future, but he knew that Lynch would intervene and prevent this, and that this arrangement and all it represented between them would be used and demeaned by the man.

‘Time we made a move,' Lynch said suddenly, turning away from Mercer.

‘Perhaps you could buy her some new shoes,' Mercer said, regretting the remark immediately.

Lynch stopped walking, his back still turned. ‘And perhaps
you
could try keeping your nose out of other people's business,' he said.

Mary stood only a few feet from him, within reach.

‘It was a serious suggestion,' Mercer said, anxious now to release this sudden tension between them. ‘You presumably have contacts who could find a pair.'

Mary kicked the sand from her feet. She wore no socks beneath her flimsy sandals.

Lynch watched her and shook his head. ‘If they're as useless as your friend here thinks they are, then you'd be better off without them.'

Mary stopped kicking. ‘What?'

‘You heard me. Take them off. I'm obviously incapable of providing for my own family. Take them off.'

‘But I—'

‘
Take them off.
'

Mercer nodded at Mary to comply.

She reached down and pulled off one of the sandals. Its pale outline remained marked on her foot. She held it towards her father.

‘And the other one,' Lynch said.

‘I honestly think—' Mercer began.

‘And I honestly think you ought to keep out of it. I think you've said enough, don't you?' He turned back to Mary. ‘
I said the other one
.'

Mary took off the second sandal, and this, too, she held out to him.

‘What are you giving them to me for?' he said, acting puzzled. ‘I already told you – they're useless, worse than useless. What do I want them for? According to your friend here, all they're good for now is throwing away.'

‘I didn't say that,' Mercer said.

‘Throwing away?' Mary said.

Mercer had never seen her with anything but the sandals on her feet.

‘You heard me.'

‘But—'

‘Oh, so first it's
him
' – he jerked a thumb over his shoulder – ‘telling me what's best for you, and now it's you. Everybody knows what's best except me. I said throw them away. Now. Here.
Do it.
'

Mary looked to the ground on either side of her.

‘Do it,' Lynch repeated.

Mercer saw the man's fists open and close at his sides.

Mary threw the first of the sandals into the grass.

Lynch watched where it landed and laughed. ‘Further,' he said. ‘Anybody would think you were going to go back later and pick them up the minute my back was turned.'

Mary threw the second sandal further. It fell amid the rubble and none of them could see for certain where it landed.

‘That's better,' Lynch said. He walked to one side of the road, picked up the first sandal and then threw it with a grunt even further into the site.

Mercer looked hard at where he imagined it had landed, trying to fix the spot in his mind so that he might retrieve it when the two of them had finally gone.

Lynch eventually turned to face him. ‘You're right,' he said. ‘She deserves better. Sandals are for kids. I'll get her something new in town. Not that there'll be anything in the shops, of course, but I'll see what I can come up with. Shouldn't be too difficult for somebody as resourceful as me, eh? Perhaps you could come with us, help her choose. In fact you might want to choose something yourself for her. Perhaps you might even want to prove to her how concerned you are about all this and buy her a pair yourself.'

Behind him, Mary closed her eyes.

‘I'm sorry,' Mercer said to her, ignoring the man between them.

‘No, you're not,' Lynch said. ‘Your sort never are. Always ready to interfere, mind, always ready to pass judgement on others, but never prepared to put their hands in their own pockets, never prepared to actually
do
anything.'

Mercer felt each of the words like a blow, and again he could not understand how they had come to this, how single-mindedly Lynch had created and then dominated this confrontation, how he had made and then shaped it regardless of the others involved.

‘What if there
had
been a lorry?' Mercer said.

‘What?'

‘What if I'd said straight away that there was a lorry going into town and that you were welcome to a lift on it?'

‘I don't get you. You said there wasn't.'

‘And by which you understood me to mean that even if there was a lorry, I wouldn't want you on it.'

Lynch considered this for several seconds. ‘What did I tell you?' he said to Mary. ‘Next thing, he'll be telling one of the drivers to take us into town. He'll be wanting you to think that none of this has anything to do with him, have you believing that you threw your shoes away all on your own accord. Nothing whatsoever to do with him. All that's down to me and you, see? Me and you, because we're common and stupid and he isn't. What a shame – poor kid's got no shoes to wear, but what's that got to do with him? What can he do about it? That's all her stupid, ignorant father's fault – man's an idiot.'

Mercer refused to respond to this confused and contradictory reasoning.

‘Dad—' Mary said, not knowing how to stop him,
but not wanting to hear whatever he might have been going on to say.

‘What?' Lynch said, an aggrieved look on his face, his palms again raised.

‘We ought to go,' she said.

It did not even occur to Lynch, Mercer thought, to realize that his daughter was now prepared to start walking barefoot over that rough ground to bring his spiteful accusations to an end and to draw the two men apart.

‘See?' Lynch said to Mercer. ‘You probably want to believe that this is all
my
doing, but it isn't – it's yours.
She
knows that, and
I
know it. The only one here with his eyes still closed is you.'

But again Mercer refused to be drawn. Whatever he said now would only prolong the girl's agony. Her feet would be quickly cut and bruised on the rough ground. He knew it was impossible for her to walk so far barefoot.

‘Don't worry,' Lynch said, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘We're going.'

Beyond him, Mary started walking, and if the hard surface caused her any pain, then she did not show it.

‘Look at her,' Lynch said. ‘Just like me at her age.' He ran to join his daughter and to put his arm around her shoulders. He whispered something to her and kissed her cheek.

Mercer resumed walking in the opposite direction, stopping only when he knew he could not be seen to watch the two distant figures on the road. They remained close together, the man's arm still around his daughter, the girl still matching him step for step.

Later in the day, coming back along the same path, Mercer could not even decide for certain where the three of them had been standing. He searched the ground where the sandals might have been, but found nothing.

Jacob handed him a small glass. It stood on his flattened palm and he held its rim between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Is it one of yours?'

It was clear by the way Jacob handled the glass that it was precious to him. ‘I bought it in the town a few days ago for nothing.'

‘And you're obviously delighted by the fact.'

‘That I actually found it? Or that I paid nothing for it because the woman who sold it to me had no idea of what it was?'

‘Both, probably,' Mercer said. He took the glass and held it to the light. He saw immediately that both the base and rim were uneven, and that slight imperfections in the shape and colour existed elsewhere. He pointed all of this out to Jacob, who watched him and nodded, and said, ‘What else?' clearly savouring the exchange.

‘Is it hand-made?' Mercer said.

‘1760 or 1770 would be my guess.'

‘Is it for wine? It seems too small.'

‘For good wine, drunk in small quantities.'

‘A woman's glass?'

Jacob fluttered his hands, pleased. ‘Most would say so, but I doubt it.'

Mercer looked more closely. The surface was etched, and an illegible engraving ran around the rim. He had seldom seen Jacob so animated; not even when making his own pieces had he been this excited.

‘Ovoid bowl, bridge-fluted and inscribed,' Jacob said, as though presenting him with a clue.

‘What does it say?'

‘“Bona Fide”, though it's obviously well-worn.'

‘Glass?'

‘Yes, even glass. It was a common enough inscription. Anything else?'

‘It's got—' Mercer tapped where the glass was shaped.

‘Facets,' Jacob said. ‘A floral cartouche and short vertical flutes on the rim. Diamond-faceted stem and a plain circular foot. Pity about the foot. I imagine the maker might have wanted to ornament that, too, but was frightened of damaging the stem by becoming over-elaborate.'

This was how Jacob's father might have spoken, how he might have relished and displayed his own expertise to his son
, Mercer thought. It was what Jacob had grown up imagining he might inherit. It was a muscle, a reflex, like every other, that had been wasted, a dream that no longer returned.

‘Do you know who made it?' he said.

‘No. It's definitely English. A man called Wilkinson made a lot like it.'

‘Locally?'

‘Cambridge. So not too far away for it to have found its way here.'

Just as you did
, Mercer thought.

‘Perhaps even when it was newly made,' Jacob said.

‘But just as likely to have come here last week in a box of junk upon someone's death and a house being emptied and fought over by greedy relatives.'

‘Who had no idea what they were throwing out. Precisely. You see the varied courses of history, these dull, superficial and untrustworthy provenances. All these beginnings and endings.'

‘Then I'm pleased you found it,' Mercer said, handing the glass back to him.

Jacob took it just as carefully as he had given it, and then stood it on the table beside them. He rested his forefinger on the rim and rocked it gently to reveal the unevenness of its base.

‘I once did some work in Leiden for a collector. He taught me a great deal. I catalogued his collection for him. He was a wealthy man with several thousand pieces. He knew far more about what he had than I did, of course, but he wanted everything set in order, a record making. He wanted someone else to see and to appreciate what he had, someone who understood as well as he did the true value and meaning of all those pieces.'

‘Is that when you knew you would never be content with making glass for windows?'

‘Possibly. Yes.'

‘What happened?'

‘With the collector? What do you imagine happened? Delicate and easily broken glass, Mr Mercer. Not diamonds, not gold, not bundles of tightly wrapped bank-notes.'

‘Was it all lost?'

‘Most of it. Stolen.'

‘Looted, you mean?'

‘A piece of glass, whatever its value, is an irresistible thing to an angry man.'

‘So was nothing saved?'

‘A few dozen pieces, hidden away in a hole in a cellar wall.'

‘That's something.'

‘Not really. In all likelihood, they are there still. Or the house will have been destroyed and the cellar filled with rubble.'

‘You could perhaps return one day to try and retrieve them.'