Pat Barker - Toby's Room

‘My God.’

‘Yes, my son?’ Neville came across and shook hands. ‘Oh, come on, Tarrant, how often do you say that and get an answer?’

‘I’m sorry, it’s … a bit of a shock.’

Paul was still struggling to take it in. The mask was beautifully made, expressionless, of course, except for a faint, archaic smile. It reminded him of a kouros, except that they had no individuality, and this most definitely did, though it wasn’t a portrait of Neville as he’d once been.

‘I borrowed it,’ Neville said. ‘It’s not mine.’

‘Well. I’m impressed.’

‘So you should be. It’s an original Ward Muir.’ He might have been explaining the provenance of some recently acquired painting. ‘Chap it belongs to — well, no face at all, basically; I don’t think even Gillies could do much for him. So off he went to the tin-noses department. The last resort.’

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Bloody should be, it’s Rupert Brooke.’

God, yes, so it was. Now he’d been told, it was obvious.

‘Very popular, apparently. The Rupert Brooke.’

‘But why? Why would you want to look like somebody else?’

Neville shrugged. ‘Why not? Why not aim for something better? You’ve got to admit he was absolutely stunning.’

‘I’m afraid I never met him.’

‘No, I suppose not …’

It was hard to relate to Neville wearing that thing. And though it hid the ruin of the face it also directed the imagination towards it. Paul struggled to find something sufficiently neutral to say. ‘Is it comfortable?’

‘Not really. Fact, if you had to wear it all the time it would be absolutely bloody intolerable.’ The eyeholes turned towards him. ‘And if you try to see it from a woman’s point of view, what would be the point of kissing this ?’

Too raw, too intimate. ‘I don’t know.’

‘No bloody point at all. Better the gargoyle underneath. Well, I’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?’

His voice was shaking with anger and pain. Suddenly, Paul realized that behind the mask anything was possible: Neville could say — and quite possibly do — anything . Immediately, Paul’s nervousness about the evening increased; he compensated by trying to get the conversation back on to more mundane topics. ‘How do you drink through it?’

‘Straw.’ Neville produced one from his inside pocket. ‘Bet you’ve never drunk whisky through a straw, have you?’

‘No, I don’t believe I have.’

They walked to the Rose and Crown and sat in the back room, attracting sidelong glances, though Neville kept his hat on and pulled the scarf well up to his chin. As he drank, snuffles and slobbering came from behind the mask, but it certainly didn’t impede his intake: whisky was running up the straw like lemonade on a hot day.

‘Hey, take it easy. We’ve got all night.’

‘I have absolutely no bloody fucking intention whatsobloodyever of “taking it easy”. A brass monkey would drink if it had my life.’

A moment later, though, he settled back into his chair and looked around the room. Nobody returned his gaze.

‘I’ve been meaning to congratulate you,’ Paul said.

‘What on, exactly?’

‘Becoming a war artist.’

‘Been one for years. Didn’t need a bloody government committee to …’

‘Will you be able to paint?’

‘Not if I stay in that dump, no. I could if they let me out.’

Another brooding silence. Paul said, quickly, ‘Elinor says she went to see you.’

‘So I believe. Mother said she’d been, but I don’t remember. Probably talked a whole load of bloody rubbish …’

Paul felt his tension through the mask. ‘She said you were talking about something precious, but she couldn’t make out what it was.’

‘ “Precious”?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, wait a minute, yes, the Padre was Precious. I mean, his name was Precious. He certainly wasn’t — perfectly dreadful little man. Brooke hated him. And for once Brooke was right.’

‘Why?’

‘Why did he hate him? Oh, I don’t know, they kept having stupid arguments. About — well, one of the things was books.We had a stock of books we used to hand out to the men. You know, penny dreadfuls, shilling shockers, that kind of thing, nothing that would raise an eyebrow really. But oh, my God, you should have heard Precious on the subject, you’d have thought we were passing round dirty postcards. And then there was syphilis. “The Bad Disorder”, Precious insisted on calling it. He thought the solution was for the men to find Jesus, tie a knot in it, basically. Brooke thought the answer was this stuff you were supposed to paint on your willy if you’d been a naughty boy. Dyed it bright blue.’ He put his glass down. ‘Not much of a choice really, is it? Bible-thumping or a blue dick.’

‘And Brooke … couldn’t leave it alone?’

‘Brooke couldn’t leave anything alone.’

He was looking towards the bar as he spoke. Paul drained his glass. ‘Do you want another or shall we move on?’

‘Move on, for God’s sake, let’s get out of here.’

Standing up, Neville knocked over a chair and set it clumsily to rights. Paul heard him breathing heavily as they walked across the room. As they reached the door, an old man with muculent blue eyes stood up and solemnly shook Neville’s hand. As if this had been a prearranged signal, a ripple of applause spread around the room.

‘Christ, that was embarrassing,’ Neville said, as the door swung shut behind them.

‘People want to show their respect, that’s all.’

‘No, they don’t, they want us out of sight. You should hear Gillies on the subject. And Tonks. When they were in Aldershot there used to be a weekly parade, patients in uniform, brass band, flags, whole bloody works … It was supposed to give a grateful nation the chance to say thank you. Three bars of “Tipperary” and the streets were empty.’

They’d set off to walk, but now, unexpectedly, Neville veered out into the road and hailed a cab.

‘Where are we going?’ Paul asked.

‘The Café Royal.’

‘Is that a —?’

But Neville was already inside the cab. Paul followed him in and gave the address. A sharp intake of breath from the driver as he turned and saw the mask, but his response was calm, if unpredictable.

‘I had him in my cab once.’

‘Who?’ Neville asked.

‘Rupert Brooke. He was good, him. “There’s some corner of a foreign field/ That is for ever England”.’

‘That would be the bit with my nose under it; just fucking drive, will you?’

Conversation was at an end. Shoulders stiff with offence, the driver turned his attention to the road ahead.

‘Christ,’ Neville said. ‘If there’s one thing I hate it’s cab drivers who think they have to be characters.’

‘Yes, but let’s face it, Neville, there aren’t many people you don’t hate.’

Paul leaned back and closed his eyes. He dreaded walking into the Café Royal with Neville in this state, but there seemed to be no hope of deflecting him.

‘I’m having second thoughts about this,’ Neville said.

‘What?’

He tapped his metal cheek. ‘This. The mask.’

‘Looks all right.’

‘Doesn’t bloody feel all right.’

Outside the Café Royal, Neville insisted on paying the fare, but ended by scattering coins all over the pavement. An elderly man who bent down to help pick them up, got the mask thrust full into his face, and hurried away, with a final incredulous glance over his shoulder.

‘I’ll get it,’ Paul said, reaching for his wallet. As he paid, he saw Neville bracing himself to enter the building. It moved him, that small, private act of courage. He reached out and touched Neville’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be all right, you know. They’re all friends.’