Pat Barker - Toby's Room

Elinor was ladling steaming stew into two big bowls. He sat at the table and reached across for the loaf. Elinor passed him the knife. They were a good team, he thought. In surprising, simple ways they made a good team.

‘Do you really think it’s finished?’ he asked.

‘Well, I don’t know. I thought it was.’

She looked pinched now, coming down the other side and, my God, he knew every step of the way. ‘Can I see it?’

‘If you like. Not now, though. Let’s eat.’

Paul fetched a bottle from the dresser and poured them both a glass. ‘Congratulations.’

‘You haven’t seen it yet.’

But she clinked glasses with him and took the first sip. By the time she’d finished the glass, she’d lost that white, glittery look and was back among the living. They ate the stew, which was actually rather better than last night, and she seemed more interested in him. Or perhaps she was just being polite.

‘How have you been, really, since you got back?’

He decided to tell the truth. ‘Pretty bad. I mean, the leg … well, there’s nothing to be done about that, I’m lumbered with it. But I can’t seem to fit back in. You know, I go to the Café Royal, I make myself go, and it’s like I’ve landed on another planet. And sometimes I just drift off in the middle of a conversation and …’

‘But you’ll get past that.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

As soon as they’d finished eating, she stood up. ‘I want to show you something.’

Of course, the painting. He got to his feet.

‘No, you stay there, I’ll bring it down.’

She was gone no more than two minutes. When she came back she was holding a piece of paper: crumpled, stained, with that unmistakable smell. Oh, God, the last letter.

‘I found this in Toby’s tunic, they sent the spare uniform back, the one he wasn’t wearing, well they couldn’t send the other one back, could they? I mean —’

She was gabbling. Gently, he took the page from her. ‘Would you like me to read it?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

He sat down, this time with his back to her, and quickly read the letter. Then, slowly and carefully, he went through it a second time, thinking, What on earth am I supposed to say about this?

‘He never sent it,’ she said. ‘They must’ve moved forward before he finished it and then I suppose he changed his tunic and forgot all about it. It’d dropped through a hole in the lining, you see, that’s why we didn’t find it when the parcel came … I only came across it a week ago.’

A week ago she’d written to Paul inviting him to stay. He had no doubt that this was why he was here; this was why she’d got in touch again after the long weeks of silence. He was starting to feel, very subtly, used. He folded the page, running his thumb and forefinger along the crease, wondering why she’d waited so long to show it to him. They’d talked about Toby last night; it would have been natural to mention the letter then. ‘At least you know his last thoughts were of you …’

‘Oh, come on, Paul. I won’t be coming back this time .’

‘People do have premonitions.’

‘ If you ever want to know more, I suggest you ask your friend Kit Neville … He’s been no friend to me .’

‘One sentence, Elinor, crossed out , in a letter he didn’t finish, let alone send. For goodness’ sake.’

‘At the very least Kit knows something.’

There was no denying that. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Write to him. There’s no point me writing again, I’ve tried twice.’

‘All right. But you’re making far too much of it. So all right, perhaps Toby didn’t get on with Kit, perhaps something happened, they had a row or something … I don’t know, but it doesn’t mean it’s connected to his death. Kit’s always putting people’s backs up, you know he is — he’s famous for it.’

‘It’s more than that.’

‘Have you tried Kit’s parents?’

‘I wrote to his mother, I haven’t had a reply, I think she might be out of London. You could try; I mean, you have met them.’ She touched his sleeve. ‘I don’t want much, I just want to know how he died.’

That was actually quite a lot.

‘Who else do you think Kit might be in touch with?’

‘Catherine Stein. You remember Catherine?’

Oh, yes, he remembered Catherine. He remembered how she and Elinor had walked round and round the quad, in the lunch breaks, always with their arms around each other’s waist. Catherine was German, which, at the time, had seemed to be of no importance whatsoever. He wondered how she was surviving the war.

‘I thought it was over. Her and Kit.’

‘It is, but they still write. She’s back in London, you know, I thought you could go to see her.’

‘Why don’t you go? She’s your friend.’

‘I’ve already asked if she knows anything. She says no.’

‘Well, then …’

‘But if Kit did say something critical about Toby she mightn’t tell me. If it was something really bad …’

So she had thought about the possibilities. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can do. And now, Miss Brooke …’ Henry Tonks’s acerbic voice entered the room. ‘I believe you have a painting to show me.’

As they walked across to the studio, a few flakes of snow drifted irresolutely on the bitter wind. Once inside the barn, there was some heat from the wood stove; the frost-blind windows had circles of clear glass at the centre where the ice had begun to thaw. All the same, to work all morning at this temperature …

Elinor went to stand in front of the easel. ‘Right,’ she said, taking a deep breath. She swept the cloth aside.

Toby. Of course, Toby. Who else? Paul stood and looked at the portrait for a long time. He couldn’t make up his mind whether it was good or not; he rather suspected it wasn’t, certainly not in comparison with some of the landscapes. But if it was a failure it was an interesting and disturbing one. The resemblance to Elinor — she and Toby hadn’t been so alike in life, surely they hadn’t? — impressed itself on him with unpleasant force.

‘It’s very good,’ he said, in a tight, little voice.

‘Is it? I don’t know, I just can’t see it any more.’

‘Perhaps you need a break. You’ve been here a long time, alone.’ He watched her examine the word, and reject it. ‘Why don’t you come back to London with me, we can easily find you somewhere to stay a few nights; and don’t say “the dog” — you can bring him with you if you have to.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘No, don’t think about it. Come back with me.’

‘I can’t. Not just yet. There’s Toby’s twenty-eighth to be got through first …’

She’d turned away from him to face the portrait again. He wanted to grab her by the arm and pull her away from it. Despite her isolation and the loss of weight, he hadn’t been afraid for her till now.

‘You might never know what happened to him, have you thought of that?’

‘I know. I know I might have to live with that, but I’m not going to give up yet. He was my brother, for God’s sake.’

Blindly, she turned to him.

‘All right, all right.’ He cupped her face in his hands, brushing his mouth against hers in a sexless, almost brotherly kiss. ‘I’ll do anything I can to help. Promise.’

Back in London, Paul threw himself into work. Ever since he’d left hospital he’d been aware of an increasing restlessness. He was only really calm, now, when he had a brush in his hand, so he worked very long hours, dreading the moment when the shortening days and the failing light forced him to give up and go home. Evenings were bad; nights worse. Wherever he was, was the wrong place. Partly, this was a side effect of learning to live with constant pain, but it wasn’t just that.