Pat Barker - Life Class

How typical of Neville to find grounds for self-pity amidst the blaze of success. Paul couldn’t think of anything to say, so ordered two more large whiskies instead.

‘Seen Elinor?’ Neville asked, carefully casual.

‘No, I’ve only just got here.’

‘You know she’s in with that Bloomsbury crowd?’

‘I know she goes to Lady Ottoline’s parties. Do you?’

‘Good Lord, no. You have to be a full-blown conchie to get in there. They don’t like my stuff, that’s for sure. Or me.’

Their drinks arrived. Neville swished his whisky round and round the glass, but judiciously, careful to spill none. ‘You must have seen something of Elinor?’

‘She came to see me in hospital.’

‘Oh, yes, of course, you were wounded, weren’t you?’ Was that a twinge of envy? ‘How is it?’

Paul pulled a face.

‘Still. Keeps you out of it, I suppose.’

‘Depends how much movement I get back. The knee’s quite stiff at the moment, but they seem to think it’ll improve.’

‘Ah, well, early days. Have you managed to do any painting?’

‘I have, yes, quite a bit.’

‘More cornfields?’

‘In winter?’

‘Well, I don’t know, do I? Mangelwurzel-picking, perhaps?’

Paul repressed a smile. ‘No, nothing like that.’

A few minutes later Neville caught somebody else’s eye and moved off. Twisting round in his chair, Paul watched as he was welcomed into the circle around Augustus John. Oh, he was flourishing, was Neville, the great war artist. Paul thought of his own paintings and the determination to get his own exhibition together grew stronger. He’d painted them with such a curious cold intensity — in some cases knowing that a particular painting could never be put on public display — and yet here he was scrabbling around for contacts, envying Neville his success.

He finished his whisky and went outside, walking up and down the street until his mind felt clearer. His relationship with Neville was strange because he couldn’t call it friendship and yet Neville was one of the most significant figures in his life. That remark about the Faustian pact had echoed his own feelings in a way that nobody else could. He’d lain in bed in Belgium looking at the swollen hand that didn’t seem to belong to him and thought exactly that.

It was twenty minutes before he returned to the Café. And there she was, her shining cap of hair reflected in the mirror behind her. She looked older, but not as tired as most people did at the end of this long winter. Quite the contrary, in fact. She glowed. The lights caught the gloss in her hair, the sheen of her eyelids, the full, red pouting mouth. She hadn’t seen him. He watched her for a while talking to the men on either side of her, teasing, flirting, playing one off against the other, then suddenly sitting back against the red plush seat, self-exiled, bored, thin arms folded across her chest. He walked across and kissed her. She was expecting him — they’d arranged to meet here — and yet her lips were slack with surprise.

Recovering, she said, ‘Oh, come on, Angus, move along. I want to talk to Paul.’

The seating was rearranged and he sat down beside her. Her whole body was turned towards him, screening the other men out with her shoulder, but the eyes that looked up at him were wary. The feeling of hope that had flared in him when he first saw her began to fade.

‘I haven’t seen you for quite a while,’ she said. Getting in first, he couldn’t help thinking.

‘I don’t move in the same exalted circles as you do.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘Gower Street.’

‘Ah, the old stamping ground.’

‘Just across the road.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? On a quiet morning you’ll be able to hear Tonks shouting, “I suppose you think you can draw?”’

He smiled. ‘I saw him this morning. I went to show him some stuff I’ve done.’

‘And …?’

He raised his shoulders.

‘Did he like it?’

‘I don’t know about “like”. He’s going to put me in touch with some people. With a view to getting an exhibition together.’

‘Paul, that’s fantastic.’

She leaned across and kissed him. There was no doubting her sincerity.

‘Have you seen Nev’s show?’ she asked.

‘No, I’ve heard about it. Have you?’

‘It was amazing. Totally new, somehow, though obviously he’s building on what he did before. It’s as if he was born for this.’ She smiled. ‘Do you know, as I was leaving there were these two old codgers wandering about shaking their heads and I heard one of them say, “It’s not much like cricket, is it?”’

‘It’s terrifying people still think like that.’ He felt her withdraw and said quickly, ‘I’m pleased for Neville.’

‘So am I.’

A pause. She was looking round the room. ‘Are you working?’

‘Yes, I am. I thought at first I wouldn’t be able to, but once I started I couldn’t stop.

‘Landscapes?’

‘No. Well, some, but not the sort you mean. The hospital and the road.’

She put her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t let’s talk about the war, Paul. Please ? It gets into everything.’

‘Well, yes, of course it does.’

Her expression hardened. ‘If you let it.’

‘Oh, I see. Not mentioned in Bedford Square?’

‘Sometimes. Not often. Mainly we talk about art.’

‘ Ah.’

‘Don’t let’s quarrel, Paul.’

‘I’ve no intention of quarrelling.’ He shifted restlessly in his seat. ‘Do we have to stay here?’

‘No, I’m quite happy to move on. It was just a place to meet.’

She stood up and said goodbye to the two young men.

‘Who are they?’ he asked, as they left.

‘No idea.’ She pulled a face. ‘Hangers-on.’

They hardly spoke on the journey in the cab. Under cover of the silence, a bead of tension formed and grew. He was aware of the shape of her shoulders under her coat. Remembered seeing them too, the bones standing out from the skin. Her collar bones in particular looked poised for flight. He could picture it all exactly, down to the bluish shadow between her breasts. He leaned towards her — her hair smelled of scent and smoke — and tried to kiss her, but she moved away.

Her rooms were on the top floor. Slanted, beamed ceilings, stonewashed walls, red, rust and brown rugs on the floor.

‘This is lovely’ he said.

She pulled the curtains closed before switching on the lamps. ‘Will you light the fire? I’ll put the kettle on.’

The fire was already laid. He put a match to the paper, then sat back on his heels, watching the flames lick and flicker round the sticks. The paper turned orange first, then brown. Black holes formed, glowing red at the edges, and little fluttering helpless wings that whirled away up the chimney on a shower of sparks. There. That ought to go.

While she was busy in the kitchen he wandered through into the other room and found a painting on the easel. It was a view of the hill behind her parents’ farmhouse, covered in deep snow.

‘Finished?’ he asked, hearing her come into the room behind him.

‘Nearly.’

‘Don’t do too much more to it, will you? It’s perfect as it is.’

‘You know we had snow the week before Christmas? I was at home looking after mother so in the afternoons when she was asleep I painted.’

‘How is she?’

‘Up and down. Worse since Toby left.’

The kettle whistled. She disappeared to make the cocoa. When she came back with the tray, he cleared a space on the table by the fire and said, ‘I did do one painting you’d approve of. A canal with poplars.’

‘At least you’re working.’

‘Are you really content to let it all pass you by?’