All the Beauty of the Sun Read online

  Still, his father had seemed to want to make more of it, seeming to gather all his strength to search his face, to say at last, ‘I’m sorry.’

  George had wondered what he was apologising for: everything, perhaps, or nothing except this awkward moment. Impotently he’d said, ‘Can’t be helped.’

  His father had laughed, done with the play-acting, only to struggle to catch his breath so that George had hoisted him up the bed, fussing with his pillows, earning himself a feeble slap on the wrist. He suspected that his father thought he lacked sensitivity – he suspected that all queer men thought this about normal men; it was their brand of arrogance, George thought, and Paul was just as affected by it.

  The girl he had met on the street outside the gallery had been kind to him, although he had been embarrassed at the way he’d blurted out that the artist was his son, as though he was showing off. She and her amused-looking companion had introduced him to their friends and all the time the girl – Ann – looked around the room for the gallery’s owner, craning her neck and standing on tip-toe in an attempt to see over the heads of the many people standing around. ‘Lawrence will know where your son is, Dr Harris, if only I can find him …’

  George hadn’t yet looked at the paintings, not properly; too many people crowded around each picture and the place was full of their soft, thoughtful murmurings. He heard one man say, ‘Stunning. Quite stunning. Oh yes, of course it’s quite shocking, too …’ The man laughed in response to something George didn’t catch. ‘Yes! No, I quite agree. One wouldn’t want it actually hanging on one’s drawing-room wall.’

  The girl glanced at him, smiling sympathetically – the man’s voice had been loud enough for everyone to hear. He smiled back at her, awkward now because he didn’t feel as though he deserved this sympathy; he barely knew how he felt that his son had, so unexpectedly, turned into the kind of man who could inspire such talk. And these people were artists; he couldn’t think of a single thing to say to them that wouldn’t mark him out as a philistine. The girl was dressed rather oddly, a mismatch of jumble-sale clothes – he guessed her coat was once a man’s, cut down to size – a bohemian stylishness that made him feel even more uncomfortable. She was, however, very lovely, albeit with the frail kind of beauty of someone half-famished; but she was also a little flushed, a little manic, and he wondered if perhaps she was consumptive; for all this he found it hard not to keep looking at her, professional interest vying with admiration. Her companion – lover, no doubt – watched him, still with that amused public-school-boy expression on his face, as though a provincial, middle-aged doctor was something of a joke in such a setting.

  But the public school boy, Edmund, surprised him by saying gently, ‘It’s an awfully good turn-out. Tremendous. You must be extraordinarily proud.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Even to his own ears he sounded off-hand. More than anything he wanted to get away from them to find Paul. He had imagined that he would walk in and Paul would be right there, as if he had been expecting him. He had imagined that they would look at his paintings together, alone, and that he would say the right things about them, although he had no idea what made him think he could. He had even imagined that his son would be pleased to see him; even that he could persuade him to come home. Idiotic, really. Even so, he hadn’t imagined that there would be no sign of him, and that he would be pitied by a group of strangers who glanced at each other as though they didn’t quite believe he was who he said he was.

  But then, rather too brightly, the girl said, ‘There’s Lawrence!’ She slipped past him, edging her way through the press of bodies until she reached a young man who grinned delightedly at her. George watched as this man kissed her cheeks; he heard him say, ‘Darling girl!’ And then, as he peered in his direction, ‘Really? Paul never mentioned … No, I’m not sure where he’s got to – circulating? God knows he should be – everyone wants to talk to him. The pictures have all been sold.’

  George found himself face to face with this man, Lawrence, his hand shaken vigorously. And then Paul’s voice behind him said, ‘Dad,’ and he was turning around, afraid of the emotions that surged against his heart.

  * * *

  Edmund sat across the restaurant table from the artist himself. Beside him sat Ann, who sat beside the artist’s father, a man she had taken under her wing from the moment she set eyes on him, which was like her, of course – she never could resist lame ducks. The rest of their party, Lawrence Hawker, Day, Andrew, another artist he hadn’t met before, sat further down the table strewn with empty wine bottles. He hadn’t drunk very much; he should have, because he felt dull and churlish, and the wine would have helped him out of this shaming mood. He wondered if he was jealous of this artist’s success, but also of his talent. He probed this idea as he might a rotten tooth, testing its painfulness, and decided that no, he wasn’t jealous; he hadn’t liked his paintings, in fact, had loathed them. He could see that they were technically good. He could also see that they were manipulative, and was surprised that it seemed no one else agreed with him.

  The artist – whom he had heard Lawrence call Paul, but who signed his pictures Francis Law – hadn’t drunk much either, as far as Edmund had noticed. He smoked endlessly, that was where he had disappeared to during the exhibition – to buy cigarettes. He had hardly eaten and, for a man who’d had such a successful evening, he seemed only exhausted. Edmund found himself watching him, wanting to figure him out as he would want to figure out any artist who had even this type of success. He must have made his watching too obvious because Paul – or Francis, or whatever his name was – looked up at him from flicking his cigarette ash into the ashtray and smiled wryly.

  ‘All right,’ Paul said, ‘what conclusion have you reached?’

  Embarrassed at being caught out, Edmund said, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right. You’ve had a rotten evening.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘I would like to slash the paintings, too.’

  ‘They don’t belong to you any more. Besides, that’s just vanity.’

  ‘You’re right. And it was a foolish, vain thing to say, although it’s true. I would like to take them all back and say that it was a bad mistake and that I’m sorry.’ He looked down at his cigarette, rolling it around the rim of the ashtray. ‘Christ. Listen, don’t mind me. They sold, that’s an end to it.’ He met his gaze. ‘Did you hate them?’

  Edmund thought about lying politely and then said, ‘Yes, I’m afraid I did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If you want to take them back, apologise for them, then I think you know why.’ He marvelled at the pompousness in his voice – as if he knew what he was talking about – remembering how he had stood for a while in front of a painting of a soldier reading a letter as next to him another soldier slept, curled up like a small child, fully dressed even down to his boots, his face troubled, as though flinching through bad dreams. A lamp gave out a noxious yellow light; the reading soldier was smiling, an unexpectedly sweet, contented smile.

  Edmund had wondered if this was the worst of the pictures or the best, his mood becoming ever sourer as he looked at it: wasn’t this the worst kind of sentimental rubbish? Wasn’t it made even more sentimental by the horror of some of the other pictures surrounding it? But he had gone on gazing at the picture, at that smile half covered by the boy’s hand as though attempting to hide a private happiness. He thought that the boy could have been his brother Neville reading a letter he himself had sent. His brother might have smiled like that, despite everything … But it was sentimental to think so, and to be manipulated in such a way … No, he loathed that painting even more than he loathed the others.

  Surprised by the anger he felt, Edmund said, ‘I can’t say you’re not talented.’

  The artist laughed. ‘Thanks. I can’t say that’s not a compliment. I used to paint birds. The first picture I sold I called Sparrows at the Drinking Fountain. I should have stuck with birds, eh?’ He held out his hand across
the table. ‘We weren’t introduced. Paul Harris.’

  ‘Edmund Coulson.’

  ‘Are you an artist, Edmund?’

  ‘No.’

  Next to him, Ann said, ‘He is, Paul. He’s a wonderful artist.’ She glanced at him. ‘But he’s given up. Like this –’ she dropped her head to the table as though exhausted, groaning a little – ‘oh, it’s too hard, too hard!’ Raising her head again she said, ‘He just won’t try any more.’

  ‘Won’t I?’

  She mimicked him, her voice gruff. He knew that she was drunk, that he should laugh, really, and not be hurt at all. She was gazing at him, her face hectic with colour. She looked angry enough to make even more of a fool of him, but it seemed that she realised she had gone too far because she looked down at the glass of wine in her hand. Quietly, she said, ‘I don’t think people should give up, that’s all.’

  He had never told her that he had given up; he wanted her to think that he could begin again at any time and that this inactivity was just a breathing space, a gearing up to some great work he was planning. But she had seen through him, of course, and now all he wanted was to get away from her. She represented a nonsense idea he had about himself, one that he should absolutely discard. He stood up so suddenly that his chair toppled over, and in a moment he was out on the street, struggling to light a cigarette as the matches broke in his fingers.

  He smoked the cigarette but still couldn’t face going back inside. He would smoke another to give himself more time. About to strike a match, a voice beside him said, ‘Here.’ A lighter was held out to him, and he turned to see Paul Harris standing close by, his face lit by the quivering flame, a face of angles and hard lines, gaunt, severe. Edmund thought how like one of his own paintings he looked in this flare of dramatic light; he was, Edmund realised, picturesque – Raphael might have used him as a model for the tortured Christ.

  Edmund looked away quickly, realising he had been staring; drawing on the lit cigarette he stared ahead, hoping that if he said nothing, if he didn’t even look at him, Harris would leave him alone. He very much wanted him to; Harris was unnervingly intense, making him feel as though they were both waiting for some momentous event, a dawn execution perhaps. Then he thought that perhaps he should say something – speaking would break this ridiculous tension – but whatever he thought of seemed crass; all he could do was to wait for him to go back into the restaurant. But the man went on standing beside him; from the corner of his eye Edmund could see the glowing tip of his cigarette as it moved to and from his mouth.

  He thought of walking away but in truth he didn’t know if he really could leave without saying something to him, without leaving some impression of himself other than that of a boy who spoke so pompously and stormed out of restaurants. Besides, if he left, Ann would move on. She would go home with Lawrence Hawker. He knew that would be the end of his relationship with her, such as it was. He couldn’t decide if this mattered.

  Clearing his throat, Harris said, ‘I’m staying at the Queen’s Hotel, quite close to the gallery. Do you know it?’

  Edmund supposed he had half expected this, somewhere in the pit of his heart. Why else was he still standing here? The evening had been leading up to such a moment; perhaps his whole life had been leading up to this. Now Harris was about to give him the shove he needed. Harris seemed impatient to do this, to not waste any more time. But he needed more time; he needed to lean against the wall and steady himself, to think clearly and carefully; there was much to consider. How would he feel tomorrow, for instance, after it was done with? How would he face his father, even if he could bring himself to go home after such an act? Absurdly, he thought of his honeymoon night and the dirty secret he would have to keep from his innocent bride. He wondered if it would even be possible to live with a woman happily whilst keeping such a secret. He wondered if it would be possible to live at all, afterwards, tomorrow when he would still be able to feel Harris’s touch on him, smell him, taste him still.

  He glanced at Harris, wanting to make sure that he was as extraordinary as he surely had to be. The man was unsmiling, deadly serious, handsome in a way that seemed complicated to him, as though he could go on looking and looking and still not understand what it was about his face that sent such a charge through him. And so he looked and looked and realised that no one else mattered, nothing else mattered; he had reached an understanding: this was what he wanted, this man.

  Briskly Harris said, ‘Have I made a mistake?’ His impatience made him unlikeable, dangerous even; not that it mattered: he was extraordinary, not real at all, but a man he’d invented. Edmund had to look away, aware that he had been staring. Harris repeated, ‘Have I made a mistake? I don’t often.’

  Often. He did this often. Of course he did – he supposed there could be no restraints to his kind of promiscuity. This encounter would mean little to him and that was good; there really was no substance here.

  Edmund cleared his throat. He forced himself to meet his gaze. ‘No. No mistake.’

  Harris looked relieved but all at once vulnerable too – and younger than he had thought back beneath the bright lights of the gallery, only a handful of years older than he was. He really was beautiful, if a man could be described so, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed as soon as he had seen him – he usually had an eye for beauty. Perhaps his lust had blinded him, that hot filthy feeling, running him through with want.

  This beautiful man placed his hand briefly on his arm and Edmund jumped so that Harris grinned at him and became boyishly ordinary. ‘Steady. I don’t bite. Not enough to break skin, anyway.’

  ‘No, no. I’m sure. Sorry.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Harris laughed as though he found him as sweetly charming as a shy child. He was standing too close so that Edmund recoiled, afraid he would touch him again; he wasn’t quite ready to be touched, to have his skin bristle so, as though he had been stripped of a protective layer; he wasn’t ready to lose so much control; he could be mistaken after all. But Harris seemed not to notice that he had stepped away from him and was saying, ‘Listen, Edmund, I’ve made my excuses already, said my goodbyes. Say an hour? The Queen’s Hotel, room 212. Yes?’

  Edmund nodded; he knew that if he spoke his voice would be a broken, feeble travesty of itself. It was shaming enough that he was nodding, acquiescent, that he wasn’t punching Harris’s face in, because surely this wasn’t what he really wanted, he had to be mistaken. But he had an erection, he couldn’t be so mistaken, and even if he wasn’t he didn’t have to be governed by lust. No, he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to do. He drew breath, was about to speak, when Harris turned and walked away.

  Chapter Four

  PAUL HAD SAID, ‘DAD, I wish you hadn’t come.’ He had taken George’s arm, guiding him to a less crowded part of the gallery. ‘I’m sorry … It’s just –’

  ‘Just what, Paul? Am I embarrassing you?’

  In his hotel room, Paul remembered glancing past his father’s shoulder, to the portrait of Patrick on their bed. He had felt sixteen again, as though George had discovered him masturbating. He had even felt himself colour – something he hadn’t done for years. But even through this embarrassment, he had noted that Patrick’s portrait had gathered a seemingly appreciative group.

  ‘I’m really pleased to see you, of course,’ Paul had said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Really. But it’s a shock – how did you know I was here?’

  George hesitated. ‘He wrote to me. Patrick wrote to me.’ Paul heard the effort it took for his father to say Pat’s name, but he seemed to recover himself quickly enough because his voice had an edge of impatience as he went on, ‘I wonder why he didn’t tell you. Did he want my turning up like this to be a shock, do you imagine, or was it just some kind of practical joke he played on us both?’

  ‘A joke? No, he wouldn’t make fools of us, you should know better.’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Yes.’ Trying to keep the ange
r from his voice, Paul said, ‘He shouldn’t have troubled you.’

  ‘Trouble? You’re my son, Paul. For God’s sake, boy – I wanted to see you, to see your work –’

  Paul had laughed, wanting only to dismiss his work, fumbling in his pocket for the fresh packet of cigarettes. As he was about to take one from the pack, George stopped him. ‘Don’t, not now. I won’t have you fiddling about with those things while I’m talking to you.’ He sighed. ‘You’re very thin. Are you well?’

  He’d shoved the cigarettes back into his pocket although he’d craved one, needing to take a great, calming lungful of smoke; he was shaking. From the moment he had seen his father he had been shaking because all he could think about were the questions he had to ask, how he might phrase them and still sound like a normal human being and not a wreck of grief and guilt. He cleared his throat, looking past his father as he managed to ask, ‘How’s Bobby?’

  ‘He’s well.’

  Paul heard the note of softness in George’s voice and forced himself to meet his gaze. ‘He’s all right?’

  ‘Yes! He’s a fine little boy.’

  ‘They let you see him?’

  George smiled bitterly. ‘From time to time.’

  ‘Often?’

  ‘As I said, Paul, from time to time. He understands who I am, if that’s what you mean.’ After a moment he added, ‘I show him your photograph. I say, That’s Daddy. I say, Your Daddy loved you very much. Is that all right, Paul? Am I saying the right thing to him?’

  ‘Yes.’ He had heard how sullen he sounded and tried to sound less so as he said, ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me! I have to lie! I have to lie to your son that you died! He asks me if I’m sad! How do you imagine that feels? And for God’s sake, don’t cry. I won’t have you crying over this. If you’d behaved with more backbone, if you’d stood up to them and hadn’t run away with that man –’ George broke off. ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.’ Stepping closer to him he had put his hand on his back, saying intently, ‘Paul, pull yourself together, don’t make a show of yourself, not here.’