The Honeyed Peace (8 page)

'Where's your husband, Lily?' Sim said, also lighting a cigarette. She sat on the steely bed and he sat on the rush-bottomed chair, and she felt the draught through the closed window and thought, Oh, my God, how late it is! but if talk will make this easier, let us talk.

'I really don't know, Sim. I haven't seen him for years. We were divorced right after the war, you know.'

'Are you still in love with him?'

'Dear Sim, I can't remember if I ever was. It's so long ago.' In another life and another world, and then there was the war, and she had met many men who were what Charles wanted to be or said he was, but were it without effort. The war had served as an anaesthetic to the operation of cutting off a marriage.

'What became of that American, that P-47 chap, the fair one?'

'His name was Robert Allen.' But that was in Germany, had she written Sim about Robert?

'Where is he now?'

'He's dead,' Lily answered in surprise. Anyone ought to know that much. It was normal to be dead.

Ah, Sim thought, that is it. She loved the American pilot, I remember her letters. I might have understood without asking her. The way she cannot live anywhere and is always alone; the way nothing interests her except the war. All the time I wondered how a woman who has everything, good looks and friends and money and a passport, dared to carry sadness around with her. Poor Lily, poor good Lily, it's too heavy a price for the war. Lily was explained; if you loved a dead man, naturally you were not alive. I must tell Marek. Lily was always so kind to us and when she needs help we have not comforted her.

He saw Lily's face differently now and was startled to find it hollowed and blanched with fatigue or grief. How could I not have noticed? he thought. I am too selfish.

'Go to bed,' Sim said, and pushed the rush-bottomed chair neatly back under the rickety table. 'Sleep well, darling,' and he kissed her forehead.

Lily took his hand and held it against her cheek and said, 'I love you very much, Sim. I always will.'

'My General,' he said gently, 'I know.'

Standing in the hall, with her door closed behind him, Sim thought, with anger and sorrow: War is too hard on women, no one realizes how hard it is on women.

Lily took off her clothes, shivering in the cold stale smoky air of the room, and hurried into bed. She turned out the light and the cotton blankets were weightless and she might as well have been lying naked on the floor. She rose in the dark, found her coat, put it on, and climbed back between the coarse sheets. She was trying to will warmth into her body, when she heard Sim go softly down the stairs. Later she heard a distant clanking from the kitchen; he would be washing the dishes at four in the morning, so she would not know that he always washed the dishes, and be sorry for him. It was contemptibly unjust that life should be easier for a rich ghost than for a poor one. That was the final limit; there ought to be economic equality for ghosts and all should have enough money since they had nothing else. Mink makes a nice nightgown, she thought in bitterness, and slept.

It seemed no more than half an hour later when Sim, looking polished and awake, touched her shoulder and offered her a big white china cup of tea. Something like daylight came through the window.

'It's a lovely day,' Sim announced. 'It's not raining.'

Evidently, in Grimsby, all a day had to do, to be admired, was not rain. Lily felt her face sticky with the make-up she had not cleaned off, and her mouth foul with drink and cigarettes, and she hated having Sim see her like this, until she decided it was good for him; let him realize she was no dew-laden blossom and he would not regret the night.

'There is hot water, and when you are ready, there is breakfast downstairs.'

'Thank you, darling; I'll hurry.'

You are old, Mother Cameron, she told herself. The back aches since it is unused to railroad-track mattresses; and it is terrible not to have enough sleep; and I am frightened of the day ahead, Grimsby and Marek's pictures and the long effort to be bright and merry at the spectacle of two men buried alive.

She took a difficult bath in a tub apparently designed to be lain in sideways, dressed, and went downstairs, hoping that even her heels on the uncarpeted treads sounded joyful. Sim again had the meal ready in the dining-room.

'There's an egg,' Sim said quickly. 'I never eat them; bad for my liver.'

'What a luxury, Sim; I didn't expect two feasts,' and she thought: I could get eggs from Janet's farm in Buckinghamshire and have them shipped here. It must be possible, and of course packages from New York. And blankets and plates, and other womanly little house-warming presents, which could hurt no one's pride.

'We should go to Marek's soon, Lily. He is so excited to show you his pictures. I hope you will like them. It is not far; we could walk.'

'I'm longing for a walk. I'll get my coat.'

Sim stopped, on the pavement before his house, so that she could see his domain well, in its entirety. Of course he would know which was his, Lily thought, because it's on the corner. There were fourteen houses, joined together in a row, on each side of the street. They were identical: red brick with a pointed roof, a small bay window on the first floor and a door, two windows on the second floor, green woodwork, and a low picket fence surrounding a patch of what would be grass later on. And not a tree in sight.

'I didn't know how wonderful it was to have a house,' Sim said, looking fondly at his brick box. 'I had a few things to sell, so I could make the first payment, and now I'm buying it by the month. It is a remarkable system they have here. Of course Grimsby is not a very amusing place but it makes all the difference if you have your own house. A house is so interesting; I can't think why I never noticed that before, in Poland.'

'Yes, I know,' Lily said, and knew that she knew nothing. Slowly, she began to feel herself alone, far away, hiding in a country never invaded, while others fought.

She liked walking with Sim, it reminded her of how they had walked in that brilliant Italian summer. Their steps matched and she ignored the straight streets, with never a curve, never a surprise. The difference between the streets was only that some of the houses were yellow brick instead of red. This scandal of ugliness was so complete that it ceased to have meaning, as scenery in a dream is unimportant. It was all a dream; they were two disembodied memories, walking anywhere, telling each other wisps of fairy stories, the gossip of a previous life.

'We are almost there,' Sim said suddenly. 'A friend of ours will be at Marek's house. Be nice to her, Lily.'

'Darling, what an amazing thing to say! Have you always found that I was beastly to people?'

'No, of course not. No, really, Lily. But you see, this friend is only a girl; she's twenty-two. She is a stenographer in the bank, and her father has a small shop here. Marek and I are fond of her. She's sweet, Lily, but she will be frightened of you. I mean, she has never been anywhere except Grimsby. Her legs are very ugly.'

'I can't see what possible difference that would make to me. I don't give a hoot about women's legs.'

So he thinks I'm a snob now, and he would never have thought that before. Really, men are a caution. How guilty and mean I felt last night, and all the while Sim is well fixed up with a local.

'You're cross.'

'I am not,' Lily said crossly.

Then they were standing before the Colonel's house, which was like Sim's, except older, and yellow brick trimmed with black woodwork.

'We go in,' Sim said. 'Marek rents the first floor to a nice young couple; the husband was on Anders' staff as something or other. Be careful not to fall over the pram.'

The stairs were dark and steep. There was a curious smell and Lily remembered Marek had said it was a dirty house.

Sim began calling, in Polish, as they neared the top of the stairs. He led her down a hall to a room which ran across the front of the second floor. The furniture appeared to have been thrown in rather than placed and the disorder was astounding. Sim left her here, to find the Colonel. Lily could hear Sim down the hall saying, 'Get up. Get up. There is nothing to drink except beer. Beer for breakfast is unhealthy. If we had gin it would be different. Oh, Grace, good morning' - a false careful voice, now - 'yes, you are right, that is what Marek needs.'

Lily had time to look at the Colonel's paintings, which were standing on chairs and against the wall at one end of the room behind his easel. There was a green and purple and black face, on the easel, an unfinished canvas. The other pictures ranged from correct sailboats and glorious apples to muddy Impressionist landscapes and angular street scenes.

Sim came back, followed by a girl carrying a tray. The girl was almost as tall as Sim, perhaps six feet tall, and enormous. Lily could not help looking at her legs, and they were more like tree-trunks than any legs Lily had ever seen. Her body was built on the heroic scale of the Winged Victory and though, Lily thought instantly, she would be colossal in Greek draperies at the top of the stairs in the Louvre, you did not expect to meet a Greek statue in Grimsby, wearing ugly patent-leather slippers and a slate-blue crepe dress, foolishly looped up on one side, foolishly pulled to a vulgar neckline, beneath the powerful perfect throat.

But what was even more incredible than this noble size was the girl's face. It was oval and her skin was without make-up or even powder, and the cheeks very pink, perhaps because it was hot work to make coffee in Marek's little kitchen, perhaps because of meeting Lily. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and hung in natural waves almost to her shoulders. A mistake, Lily thought, I ought to tell her; she should wear her hair up so you could see the line of her head and throat. And her eyes were dark blue, absolutely honest, absolutely trusting. Her mouth was as good and as gay as a child's. Seeing her face, you forgot at once that this girl was a giantess, and felt she was small and much too young and vulnerable.

Sim made introductions: Miss Needham, Mrs Cameron. The girl said 'How do you do?' and then, in shy explanation of the tray, 'Marek will want coffee, I think. He said he was drunk last night.' Her voice was unadorned and direct, as honest as her eyes.

'Could I have some too?' Lily asked. That Sim should have found this girl, this particular girl, was what she could not believe. Sim. Imagine. Sim who had only known women like Anne Marie and Lorna Charters and Sandra and all those, the sleek the chic the elegant the quick the clever the witty the greedy the lazy the artificial. Or herself, herself also, and perhaps she belonged with the others. But never anyone like Grace Needham; what had happened to Sim that he could find Grace Needham?

The Bloody Colonel hurried in, his thin grey hair brushed flat as always, his worn blue suit pressed as if he still had a batman to keep him smart, and he kissed Lily and made apologies.

'I was too excited, I cannot sleep, so I think: now I will again paint Pilsudski. I did not go to bed before it was daytime.'

He turned to look at the unfinished green, purple, and black canvas and Sim moved to stand beside him.

'It is better,' Sim said gravely. 'The moustache and the hair are very good. It is better than the last one.'

'Oh?' said the Colonel.

'It isn't like any of your others,' Grace said. 'It's altogether different, isn't it, Marek?'

'Mm,' said the Colonel. It was a pleased sound.

The three of them looked at the painting, as if they expected it to move or speak. They had forgotten Lily.

Marek does not surprise this girl, Lily thought, she expected him to happen, she expected to be on hand and serve him. And she is proud of Sim; that's how she loves him, not because he is hers, but because he is Sim and will always stand and fight. It does not matter how Marek paints: painting is another country to fight for. And I am like some miserable desk general who arrives for twenty-four hours, well fed and rested, and goes no farther forward than Division. I am not helping anyone to fight for anything at all. It is no wonder they have forgotten I am in the room.

You think always in terms of war, Lily told herself; the war is over. The war was so easy compared to this that they ought to reverse the words; this is much harder and longer than war ever was. I couldn't get a job in this kind of war; no outfit would have me. They have Grace, naturally they found her.

The Colonel turned the canvas upside down and said, 'It looks as good this way.' He has had a fit of rage, Lily thought, he knows how far it is from his mind to his hand. He is furious with rage as he used to be when the banks of a river held up the Staghounds and the engineers didn't arrive; or when they couldn't get the Germans off that hill with the tower on it. Only rage; nothing in him gives up. And she thought: How clever Sim is, how wise. Bravery is what he honours, and he recognizes it anywhere except in himself, so he is spared the poses and lies of the people who only want to love bravery and only want to be brave. How could I have gone along thinking Sim was sweet and charming and generous, but never guessing what he really is? You are not his kind, she answered herself; that's why.

'Now we have had breakfast,' the Colonel said, 'we will have beer.' Grace went to the kitchen because she always looked after them, and what they wanted she gave them; she was at home in this War. Sim worried that Lily would think Grace a joke, and be charming to her, and Grace would feel it (she was very conscious of her size and her legs), and he could not bear to have Grace hurt. But if Lily had come and gone, and they had hidden Grace, that would have hurt her more.

He meant to warn Lily, but he was not sure where the danger lay, so, to his surprise, he announced: 'I am
Mister
Mitrowski and Marek is
Mister
Starecki, now.'

We are what we are, he thought, with nothing to make us look better. It is enough for this girl. No one must condescend to her. She is the same as we are.

'Mr Mitrowski,' Lily said, her eyes hot with embarrassing tears, 'Mr Starecki. I never loved you more.'

The Colonel began to talk, very fast, his English confused and heavily accented, and he was showing Lily his pictures, explaining when he had painted them, why they were bad, and what he must learn.