Chris Cleave - Everyone Brave is Forgiven

Zachary said nothing, and finally the manager sighed. “All right, bus my tables, then. Collect the tips and good luck to you, but the job doesn’t pay. Sleep in my basement, but if you want a wage then you’ll damn well sing in my show. Got that?”

Zachary nodded.

Afterward, when the players were gone, Zachary lit a candle and went down alone to the basement. He sat with a metal basin between his knees and a mirror propped against the wall at the end of the bench. With a cloth and cold water he scrubbed off the white greasepaint lips and the white rings around his eyes.

He clasped his hands. “Sorry, Dad.”

There was no answer, though he listened for one in the silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Nothing. The darkness in the basement was frightening. It scuttled and knocked. A month had not cured him of the fear of it. He curled up under drapes in the corner, but sleep would not come.

“Are you there?” he said in the lowest voice he could.

He waited. His candle seemed to flicker, and perhaps this meant that his father was there.

“I don’t know what to do.”

In the silence, in the endless underground night, the candle flame seemed to be steadier. Perhaps his father meant that he ought to be steady too. Zachary squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the drapes tight against the dark.

MARY SAT WITH HILDA on the train back from Tom’s funeral. His had been the only body available to be buried — to each of the other families she had made do with sending flowers. Even this had been made difficult by the war, the Dutch blooms no longer considered essential cargo and the English hothouses having been given over to food production. She had turned up a few early snowdrops, some forced hyacinths. She had hesitated to send them, uncertain if they would be a comfort.

In their compartment Hilda smoked, and jabbed at the Times crossword with a self-propelling pencil. She was likelier, Mary felt, to infuriate the puzzle than to solve it.

“It was kind of you to come,” said Mary.

“I could hardly let you go with Palmer.”

Mary managed a smile. “Palmer might have brought brandy.”

“Palmer might have exchanged places with the deceased. Is that not among his duties?”

The train shrieked steam into the plunging clouds. It didn’t lighten them.

It had been an impossible way to meet Tom’s parents for the first time. In the church, Mary hadn’t known her place. It had seemed presumptuous to sit with the family so she and Hilda had gone to the back. Tom’s mother had fetched them and brought them wordlessly to the first pew. All through the service Mary had looked straight ahead, at Tom’s coffin beneath its lilies, wondering where they were from.

“They are lovely flowers,” Mary had said at the end.

“I went over to Cheltenham for them,” said Tom’s mother.

Tom was dead, and lilies were available, and to Mary these things were equally incomprehensible.

They had walked out into flurries of snow. Four men, too old or infirm for the war, had lowered Tom’s coffin into the ground on short ropes reserved for the purpose. The vicar had said, “Death, where is thy sting?” There was a consensus that one couldn’t feel a thing.

Three hours later, on the train, her body was still taut with the cold and the unreleased emotion. Yawing on warped rails, their train approached London Bridge. On either side of the line a thousand buildings were blown out.

“What do you suppose you’ll do?” said Hilda.

“I must find Zachary, first of all.”

“And then what? Take him home to your mother? She’d be thrilled.”

“I’ve a responsibility to him.”

“You’ve nothing of the sort!”

“He was in my class and—”

“And nothing. You were ordered to teach that class grammar, not to adopt any survivors.”

“Now you’re just being horrid.”

“Only because you’re being ridiculous. Where would it end, if you went after him? You’re not his family, or even his species. You can’t give him a home — that’s his people’s job. And you shan’t tell me he doesn’t have people, because there were dozens and dozens at that theater, conveniently color-coded.”

“The Negroes aren’t all related, you know.”

Hilda paused, the idea seeming to strike her for the first time. “Oh, they might be different tribes, but I daresay they put down the spears in times like these.”

“At least I should check that someone is taking him in.”

“Then make your inquiries if you must. But swear you won’t promise that boy something you could never make good on. I know what a mule you can be when you get a notion in your head. You’d make the boy an exile from his people, and you a pariah among yours. It would be miserable for both of you.”

“You’re right, of course. And yet—”

“And yet nothing. You must think only of yourself, and what you want to do. If you don’t get on with your own life, you’ll be no use to others at all.”

“I think I’d like to teach again.”

Hilda gave an exasperated groan.

“It would make Tom glad,” said Mary.

“You shan’t live your life to make Tom glad.”

Mary lit a cigarette and watched the devastation roll by. These had been the city: these clubs and churches, these ordered landmarks. London had fitted her so perfectly that she had mistaken its shape for her own. Now each bomb was a breach in the carapace, laying bare the living nerve.

She said, “It’s easy to say.”

“Because it’s true,” said Hilda. “You must live on your terms.”

The loosened rails rattled as the train crept along the Embankment. Steam billowed over the gray river. On both banks, facades were down and buildings gaped. Mary had always supposed that she could endure if London could, but here the great old nautilus lay gasping and cracked at the throat of the Thames, at the place where sweet water met salt.

“Let’s go for lunch at Claridge’s,” said Hilda. “You need a good feed.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“But you really must eat. You’re thin as a harlot’s excuse.”

“I think I shall go for a walk.”

“Then at least take me along. You’re in no state to be on your own.”

Mary took her hand. “You’ve done more than enough. You’ve always been good to me, and I know I don’t make it easy.”

Hilda nodded. “You’re like a bad gundog. One can either put it down or make it the family pet.”

“I’m only pleased you’ve found a use for me.”

“Just don’t pee on my rugs. And promise you’ll consult me before you even think about teaching again.”

As the train came in to the platform they took their bags from the rack and disembarked. They embraced, and Hilda dissolved into steam. Once she was gone, Mary leaned into a corner for a while. No one interrupted her. Half the city wept into walls now.

Afterward, she stood for a while on the empty platform. She pulled her gloves on and herself together, and walked out into the streets.

Everywhere there was rubble. Bathtubs lay exposed, their yellow ducks icebound. Beds in which women had been conceived and born and then conceived in and labored in themselves — those brass theaters of involuntary dialogue — lay silent and bent, seesawing on bisected floors, weeping duck down into the street. The feathers swirled with the snow. It was too much for her — how easily she was discouraged now! — and she fled into a café and drank straw-colored tea. She wrote to the manager at the Lyceum, asking if Zachary’s whereabouts were known. When it was done and folded, the flat taste of the sealing gum lingered.

In the maps in the newspaper they brought her, the enemy’s swastikas were pressed up against the neighboring coasts — so close that one could look up from the page and almost smell the diesel and the sweat. In the Atlantic the U-boats completed the encirclement. On the inside pages of the paper were endless notices. London’s districts had been divided and subdivided as the lines of communication shrank. There were ten new rules if one lived here; twelve if one lived there. This was the place she had grown up in, whose singular law had recently applied from Bombay to Belize. Her great extrovertive city was besieged. Slowly the feeling returned that had come over her when she first took charge of her school. What one felt toward the enemy, finally, was fury.