Paul realized the silence had gone on too long. ‘No, it’s not enough.’
They contemplated pudding, but decided not to risk it and ordered coffee instead. The owner didn’t mind how little they ate; he was resigned to the collapse of his business and far too drunk to care. The waiter went back to leaning against the wall and picking at his spots. Paul looked at him: too young for conscription. With any luck he might miss it altogether and spend the rest of his life wondering how he would have measured up.
‘Sixteen,’ she said.
He looked at her.
‘The waiter. Sixteen.’
‘Yes, about that.’
He felt very comfortable with her. Always before, there’d been a slight tension between them, the unspoken knowledge that in different circumstances they might have been lovers. Now the awkwardness was gone. She was leaning towards him over the table, her hand almost touching his. A faint, musky scent clung to her dress, not the usual roses or violets, something much darker, at odds with her delicate features and fair hair. He was intensely aware of her body under the plain dress, of the breasts he’d seen, and not seen.
She was restless under his scrutiny. ‘Perhaps we’d better be going,’ she said.
As he helped her on with her coat, his mouth was only inches away from the nape of her neck, that secret groove she never saw. Careful. They said goodnight to the owner, who managed to raise his drooping eyelids long enough to acknowledge their departure. Paul opened the door and the bell chimed as they stepped out into the night.
The cold air restored a certain formality, though after a few yards of walking along the uneven pavements in virtually total darkness Catherine’s hand came up and nestled in the crook of his arm. He liked that. It was a good feeling to be strolling along beside her, adjusting his stride to hers.
‘Do you mind if we walk for a bit?’ she asked.
‘No, I’d love to.’
It was getting late. The houses in the moonlight seemed insubstantial. Only the moon was real, pouring white acid on to the streets, dissolving cabs, trams, motor cars, offices and shops in its cold stream. Its light seemed to form a brittle crust over the city, like the clear fluid that oozes from a wound. He suggested they should go for a walk on the Heath and she nodded without speaking. Once they’d left the shelter of the buildings behind, the moon emerged in its full murderous magnificence. They stood with their heads back and their mouths slightly open, drinking it in.
‘Makes you wonder about the blackout, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘I mean, if you were up there now in a Zeppelin you’d be able to see absolutely everything.’
Something in her voice made him shiver. He wondered if her father’s death and the prolonged isolation of her life had made her change sides: she’d said she no longer felt British. So perhaps he was walking with the enemy? Oh, what nonsense. Catherine, whom he’d known since she was, what — seventeen, eighteen? The enemy?
They stopped on top of the hill. He’d often visited this spot before the war, looking down on a city laid out before him in all its brilliance. He’d been so full of hope then, of vague, cloudy ambitions: the life he was going to lead, the pictures he was going to paint. He didn’t despise that boy. Of course, he should’ve been at the Slade, hard at work, exposing himself, day by day, to the brutal gap that opens up between aspiration and reality the moment you put brush on canvas; but the dreams are necessary too.
Catherine was silent. She’d taken her hand from his arm and left a small, lonely space there. Trying to pull her back, he said, ‘You know, I used to love coming here, before the war. You could see all the little villages lit up like fireflies.’
Somewhere in the distance whistles began to blow.
‘I hate that noise,’ she said.
‘Me too.’ In the trenches, whistles blowing signalled the start of an attack. ‘Do you remember when the raids first started, there used to be boy scouts with trumpets cycling round the streets?’
‘God, yes, they were funny.’
But her smile faded quickly. Looking up, he saw that a second moon had appeared. So beautiful, so ethereal, it seemed that awful drumming sound must be coming from somewhere else. A second later came the flash and roar of guns. The ground shook. He’d have liked to play the battle-hardened veteran, but couldn’t stop himself flinching. Quickly bringing himself under control, he put an arm round her shoulder. ‘It’s all right,’ he kept saying. ‘It’s all right.’
Her eyes were fixed on the sky. When he tried to draw her into the shelter of the trees, she followed reluctantly, stumbling a little as her feet moved from tarmac to grass. At first, when he tried to hold her, she struggled, but then suddenly relaxed against him. With his back against a tree and Catherine in his arms, Paul looked up at the floating silver oval and prayed: Don’t burn. Don’t burn.
The guns boomed again. She was very strange to him, standing there in the circle of his arms. He remembered the night of the fancy-dress party, the almost serpentine suppleness of her body as they danced, the anonymous, masked face lifted to his.
‘Do you still think that? That they might be your cousins?’
‘Every time.’
‘You must feel … I don’t know, alienated.’
‘But that’s exactly what I am. An alien.’ She flared her eyes at him. ‘The enemy.’
‘But they don’t do much to women, do they?’
‘I can’t go home. Our house is right on the sea front — at least, it used to be — I expect some patriotic citizen’s burnt it down by now. I suppose they think we’d be flashing lights out to sea or something.’
Another crash and recoil of guns. The Zeppelin vanished into a cloud.
‘I think I should get you home.’
He walked her back to her lodgings. She cut through a side street and, a few minutes later, they were standing outside a tall, narrow house, while she scrabbled inside her handbag for the keys. He was a little surprised when she invited him in, but told himself she’d be sharing the flat with another girl. The three of them would soon, no doubt, be drinking cocoa together, the girls giggling and chattering while he fretted and burned. What a strange evening it had been. He’d known her for years and yet, in any meaningful way, they’d only met for the first time tonight. And where was Elinor in all this? He didn’t want to think about that.
‘The other tenants go downstairs when there’s a raid,’ she said, throwing her hat on to a chair. ‘I don’t bother.’
‘I tend not to either.’
He thought of telling her about his landlady, who kept suggesting he should take refuge with her in the understairs cupboard, but decided against it. Catherine had put the kettle on and was taking two cups from a shelf above the sink. The evening had taken an unexpected turn, but the cocoa, at least, was arriving on time.
She handed him a cup, and sat on the other side of the fireplace, slim ankles crossed, skirt pulled well down. Their situation might be unconventional, but her behaviour certainly wasn’t: she might have been entertaining the vicar to tea. A dreadful thought occurred to him: that she was simply indifferent to men. But no, that couldn’t be true. What about Kit Neville? They mightn’t have been lovers, but they’d certainly been very close. At one stage they’d been seen everywhere together. And Neville had head-butted the man who’d insulted her. He could remind her of that, surely?
He was rewarded with one of her slow, curved smiles.
‘That’s Kit for you.’
‘Do you suppose he’s ever heard of the Queensberry Rules?’