Fallen Skies. Philippa Gregory

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СКАЧАТЬ glanced shiftily towards the darkened shop. He could not see Mrs Pears in the shadowed interior. He leaned towards Lily. Her pale face was upturned to look at him, her fair hair luminous in the flickering gas lighting. Stephen put his hand on her waist. She was soft under his tentative touch, unstructured by stiff corsets. She reminded him of the other girl, a girl long ago, who only wore corsets to Mass on a Sunday. On weekdays her skin was hot and soft beneath a thin cotton shirt. He drew Lily towards him and she took a small step forward. She was smiling slightly. He could smell her light sweet perfume. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the cheap fabric of her cocktail dress.

      ‘Time to come in, Lily,’ said her mother’s voice immediately behind them.

      Stephen released her at once.

      ‘Goodnight, Captain Winters. Thank you for a lovely dinner,’ said Mrs Pears from the darkness inside the shop.

      The door behind Lily opened wide, and with a glance like a mischievous schoolgirl, she waved her white-gloved hand and went in.

      Stephen sat beside Coventry for the short drive home, enjoying the open air of the cab.

      ‘Damned pretty girl,’ he said. He took a couple of cigarettes from his case and lit them both, holding the two in his mouth at once. The driver nodded. Stephen passed a cigarette to him. The man took it without taking his eyes from the road, without a word of thanks.

      ‘Pity about the mother,’ Stephen said half to himself. ‘Fearfully respectable woman.’

      The driver nodded, exhaled a wisp of smoke.

      ‘Not like a showgirl at all, really,’ Stephen said. ‘I could almost take her home for tea.’

      The driver glanced questioningly at Stephen.

      ‘We’ll see,’ Stephen said. ‘See how things go. A man must marry, after all. And it doesn’t matter much who it is.’ He paused. ‘She’s like a girl from before the war. You can imagine her, before the war, living in the country on a farm. I could live on a little farm with a girl like that.’

      The cool air, wet with sea salt, blew around them. It was chilly, but both men relished the discomfort, the familiar chill.

      ‘There are plenty of girls,’ Stephen said harshly. ‘Far too many. One million, don’t they say? One million spare women. Plenty of girls. It hardly matters which one.’

      Coventry nodded and drew up before the handsome red-brick house. In the moonlight the white window sills and steps were gleaming bright.

      ‘You sleeping here tonight?’ Stephen asked as he opened the car door.

      The driver nodded.

      ‘Brew-up later?’

      The man nodded again.

      Stephen stepped from the car and went through the imposing wrought-iron gate, through the little front garden, quiet in the moonlight, and up the scoured white steps to the front door. He fitted his key in the lock and stepped into the hall as his mother came out of the drawing room.

      ‘You’re early, dear,’ she said pleasantly.

      ‘Not especially,’ he said.

      ‘Nice dinner?’

      ‘The Queens. Same as usual.’

      ‘Anyone I know?’

      ‘No-one you know, Mother.’

      She hesitated, her curiosity checked by their family habit of silence and secrecy. Stephen went towards the stairs.

      ‘Father still awake?’ he asked.

      ‘The nurse has just left him,’ Muriel said. ‘He might have dozed off, go in quietly.’

      Stephen nodded and went up the stairs to his father’s bedroom.

      It was dark inside, a little nightlight burning on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. The fire had died down, only the embers glowing dark red. Stephen stood inside the door waiting for his eyes to get used to the darkness. Suddenly, he felt his chest constrict with terror and his heart hammered. It was being in the darkness, waiting and straining to be able to see, and knowing he had to go forward, half-blind, while they could watch him, at their ease, in safety; watch him clearly against the pale horizon, and take Their time to put the cross-sight neatly in the centre of his silhouette, and gently, leisurely, squeeze the trigger.

      He put his hand behind him and tugged the door open. The bright electric light from the landing flooded into the room and Stephen shuddered with relief. He loosened his collar and found his neck and his face were wet with the cold sweat of fear. ‘Damn.’

      He could see now that his father was awake. His big head was turned towards the door and his sunken eyes were staring.

      ‘I hate the dark,’ Stephen said, moving towards the bed. He pulled up a low-seated high-backed chair and sat at his father’s head. The sorrowful dark eyes stared at him. The left side of the man’s face was twisted and held by the contraction of a stroke. The other half was normal, a wide deeply lined face.

      ‘Took a girl out to dinner,’ Stephen said. He took his father’s hand without gentleness, as if it were a specimen of pottery which had been handed to him for his inspection. He hefted the limp hand, and let it fall back on the counterpane. ‘Music hall girl,’ he said. ‘Nothing special.’

      With an extended finger he lifted one of his father’s fingers and dropped it down again. There was no power in any part of the man’s body.

      ‘You’re like a corpse yourself, you know,’ Stephen said conversationally. ‘One of the glorious dead you are. You’d never have been like this but for Christopher, would you? Mother told me – she handed you the telegram, you took one glance at it and fell down like you were dead.’

      There was complete silence in the room except for the slow ticking of the mantelpiece clock.

      ‘You wouldn’t have dropped down half-dead for me, would you?’ Stephen said with a hard little laugh. ‘Not for me! One of the white feather brigade?’ He raised his father’s hand, casually lifting the limp index finger with his own. Then he dropped it down again. ‘Who would ever have dreamed that I’d come home a hero and Christopher never come home at all?’ He smiled at the wide-eyed, frozen face. ‘You do believe I’m a hero?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you?’

      Stephen heard his mother’s footsteps on the stairs and he got up from the chair and smoothed the counterpane. ‘Sleep well.’ He went quietly out of the room.

      ‘Goodnight, Mother,’ he said.

      She was going to her bedroom opposite. ‘Are you going to bed now?’

      ‘I’m having a brew with Coventry,’ he said.

      She smiled, containing her irritation. ‘You two are like little boys having feasts after lights out. Don’t leave cigarette ends around, Cook complains and it’s me who has to deal with her – not you.’

      He nodded and went down the stairs, through the baize door at the head of the basement СКАЧАТЬ