“Are you afraid of him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. A little. He’s got a temper, like his own father. Especially when he’s been drinking.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Say you don’t hate me, Gwen, please! I couldn’t bear it if you hated me. You’re my only real friend.”
“Of course I don’t hate you. I just don’t understand, that’s all.”
“I don’t know if I do, either, but don’t you see that’s exactly why I can’t leave, no matter what life is like with Matt? Because of what I did before. Oh, I have plenty of excuses: I was too young; it was a mistake; I wasn’t in love; I thought I was cut out for better things. But that’s just what they are: excuses. When it came right down to it, I was selfish; I was a coward. I’m not going to be a coward again. This is my punishment, Gwen. Don’t you see? Matt is my penance.”
“I think so,” I said.
She smiled through her tears. “Good old Gwen. I’ll bet there aren’t many in Hobb’s End would give me that much credit, don’t you think? I’ve heard their tongues wagging already.” She imitated the local accent. “‘She’ll be off,’ they say. ‘Off with one of them Yanks before he’s been back ten minutes, you just mark my words.’ Well, I won’t, Gwen. Let them talk. But I won’t.”
“Are you and Brad still…?”
“Sometimes. Don’t be angry. I tried to stop seeing him when Matt first got back, I really did, but when I found out that he couldn’t… I mean… Brad brings me comfort from time to time and as long as Matt doesn’t know… To be honest, though, he’s more trouble than he’s worth right now. I just can’t keep him off the subject of running away together. It’s all getting to be too much of a strain. I told him if he didn’t stop pushing me I’d run off and leave the whole lot of you behind, him included.”
I can’t say that I approved of Gloria’s seeing Brad after Matthew had returned, but I said nothing. I only felt that way because I was being protective toward Matthew; I wasn’t a moral busybody like Betty Goodall. These were extraordinary times and Gloria was an extraordinary woman.
She laughed. “You know, I don’t know what I’d do without PX. It’s funny, isn’t it, but in times like this, when things are so grim, it’s the little things that give you a moment’s cheer. A piece of beef, a new shade of lipstick, a little whiskey, a packet of cigarettes. New stockings. He’s a gem.”
“What about Billy Joe? Have you had any more trouble from him?”
“No, not really. I saw him the other day. I got the impression he was secretly pleased that Matt had come back and spoiled things for me and Brad. He had that look in his eye, too, as if he thought he had a chance of getting me in bed again. I don’t think he gives a damn about what it’s all doing to me.”
“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? I can’t say I ever did really trust him. He’s got a nasty, violent streak, you know.”
“Billy Joe? Oh, I can handle him. He’s nothing but a big child, really.” She leaned back against the tree. “But you’re right, he can be violent. I don’t like that in a man.” She paused, averting her eyes. “Look, Gwen, I don’t know if I should be telling you this, but I have to talk to someone. I’ve been having a few problems with Michael.”
“Michael? Good Lord. You don’t mean he’s-”
“Don’t be a fool, Gwen. The man’s only interested in boys. The younger, the better. No. Well, I suppose I’ll have to tell you now, but you mustn’t say a word to anyone. Promise?”
“What a day for secrets. All right, I promise.”
“Last summer and autumn, you might have noticed I spent quite a bit of time at his studio.”
“Yes.”
“Guess what?”
“He was painting you?”
“Oh. You guessed!”
“Well, it wasn’t difficult. I mean, he is an artist. But that’s wonderful, Gloria. Can I see it? Is it finished?”
“Yes. And it’s very good.”
“So what’s wrong?”
“It’s a nude.”
I swallowed. “You posed in the nude for Michael Stanhope?”
She laughed. “Why not? There certainly wasn’t much chance of him trying to put his hands on me, was there? Anyway, the point is, I went over to see him yesterday and begged him not to exhibit it, or even to sell it privately, as long as Matthew is alive. I know he just seems to sit there like a zombie between going to the pub and drinking himself to sleep, but I just don’t know how it would affect him. Or if it would. The thing is, I don’t want to take the chance. You know what this village is like. Matthew’s health is hanging by a thread already. Who knows if seeing a nude painting of his wife, done while he was suffering in a Japanese POW camp, won’t send him right over the edge?”
“That sounds reasonable,” I told her. “What did Michael Stanhope have to say?”
“Oh, he agreed in the end. But he’s not happy about it. Thinks it’s one of the best things he’s done, blah-blah-blah, opens up a new direction for him. Says his career needs a boost and this could give it one. He also argued that Matthew wouldn’t be any the wiser and that even if he did see it he wouldn’t recognize who it was. He’s probably right. I’m being silly.”
“But he did agree?”
“He complained a lot, but, yes, he agreed in the end. He likes to play the miserable cynic, but he’s pretty decent, deep down. He’s got a good heart.”
And there she finished. We walked back to Hobb’s End enjoying the sound of the breeze through the leaves and the songs of the birds in the high branches.
I didn’t see Gloria again until a couple of days later, on the afternoon of the seventh of May, and by then everyone knew Germany had surrendered. The war was over and everywhere people started putting up flags and closing up shop.
The last party had begun.
“Enjoy the film?” Banks asked, when he met Annie outside the Leicester Square Odeon at nine o’clock. She had been to see the latest megamillion special-effects extravaganza by one of those highly touted directors who used to make television adverts.
“Not much,” said Annie. “I suppose it had its good points.”
“What?”
“The End, for one.”
Banks laughed. Leicester Square was crowded with tourists, as usual. Street kids, buskers, jugglers, clowns and sword swallowers were all working hard to prize a quid or two out of the punters’ pockets, while the pickpockets took an easier route. The Hare Krishnas were back in force, too. Banks hadn’t seen them in years.
“How were things with your son?” Annie asked.
“We mended a bridge or two.”
“And the band?”
“Pretty good, though I suppose I’m biased. We’ll go see them if they ever play up north, and you can make your own mind up.”
“It’s a date.”
Banks took Annie to a small bistro-style restaurant he knew just off Shaftesbury Avenue. The place was busy, but they managed to get a table for two after a short wait at the bar.
“I’m starving,” said Annie as she squeezed herself into the chair between the table and the wall, twisting around and setting her packages down behind her. “But I can see that eating with you is going to become a serious problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“This kind of place hardly caters to the vegetarian eater,” she whispered. “Just look at the menu.”
Banks looked. She was right: lamb, beef, chicken, fish, seafood, but little in the way of interesting vegetarian dishes, other than salads. Still, as far as Banks was concerned, “interesting vegetarian dish” was up there with “corporate ethics” as far as oxymorons went.
“Sorry,” he said. “Do you want to try somewhere else?”
She put her hand on his arm. “No, it doesn’t matter. Next time, though, it’s my choice.”
“Visions of tofu and seaweed are already dancing before my eyes.”