Chapter Four
After dessert was cleared away Mr Stanton called for coffee in the drawing room.
"I've just the thing to go with it, Mr Hall," he said with a conspiratorial wink. "Some damn fine port in the cellar. I'll get it myself, don't quite trust Jackson not to shake it up or drop it or something."
There were only the three of them that night. The other guest, if he had ever in fact existed, having been called away on some non-specified but terribly urgent "business."
Dear Papa. He's so transparent! Jackson is the consummate professional and we both know it. Edith blushed slightly, sure Mr Hall must be uncomfortable with all this obvious manoeuvring - but he seemed all right, lighting a cigarette by the mantelpiece then strolling over to look at the family pictures displayed on a low table.
He picked up an old fashioned daguerreotype in an ornate silver frame. "Your mother, Miss Stanton?"
"Please, call me Edith. I don't stand much on ceremony, really. And yes, that is Mother. She died when I was thirteen."
"Ah. My father passed away when I was fourteen." A flash of understanding passed between them. "I'm Maurice, by the way."
So stupid, there she was, blushing again. She could feel her cheeks positively burning. This isn't you, Edie. You're quite the modern woman, remember? Steady on, don't make a fool of yourself.
"And this?" He carefully replaced her mother's picture to look at the one beside it. A dark-haired, dark-eyed young man, posing in his uniform, that strange mixture of pride and trepidation on his face that one saw in so many similar photographs.
"My brother Toby. He was killed on the Somme."
"I'm sorry."
"He was only twenty. Left behind a fiancée, too. Sweet girl." She felt sudden tears prickling at the back of her eyes and sought about for some other topic - any topic.
"And you, Mr Hall. Surely you had a sweetheart waiting at home for you while you were away doing your duty for King and Country."
Edith, you're becoming reckless! She couldn't believe she'd said such a forward thing. There was modern and then there was just plain rude. Must have been that second wine at dinner.
She needn't have worried, though. Mr Hall seemed barely to notice, and certainly wasn't shocked. His eyes grew distant for a moment and then cleared again. "As a matter of fact I did, yes. But she grew weary waiting, and married someone else."
"Mr Hall! I can hardly believe any woman would be so foolhardy!"
"Maurice, remember?" He shrugged. "There you have it, though."
"Not all women are so inconstant."
"I'm sure they are not." He smiled oddly, looking into her eyes. Edith excused herself a moment and left the room.
Left alone, Maurice wandered about, smoking and congratulating himself on how well he seemed to be getting along, pretending that he was a part of all this again. Truth be told, it felt already as if he'd never really left polite society. He'd been worried that he might have turned into some sort of solitary misfit out there in the woods, unfit ever again for genteel company. But it had been almost disturbingly easy really, he just shrugged his former self back on like an old suit, at first it scratched a bit and he could smell the mothballs, but he'd soon grown accustomed again.
But the really marvellous part was, that he could throw the whole damn thing off again as soon as he stepped back inside his own door to be with his Alec, all pretence over.
Despite all that, he was rather glad to be left alone for a minute. Edith Stanton was a sweet girl but something about that whole conversation had been making him uneasy and he was glad to be left to stare into the flames for a few minutes and not have to think. In time-honoured fashion, Maurice's subconscious was grasping the situation long before the facts deigned to make themselves known to the thinking part of his brain.
To his cost.
Outside in the hallway Edith threw herself back against the wall, fist in mouth. She could hardly believe she'd said those things. A corner of her carefully maintained, smooth facade seemed unexpectedly to have lifted, allowing Mr Hall - and worse, herself - a glimpse of the loneliness beneath, the yearning for love - and not just of the fatherly sort.
She was smoothing down her skirt with nervous hands and wondering about how she could ever face him again when her father reappeared.
"What on earth are you about, Edie? Come back in and entertain our guest." He hefted the bottle of port with a jovial air and guided her back into the parlour.
In the taxi home, Maurice's discomfort grew, not least at the memory of all the smooth lies that had begun pouring out of his mouth almost of their own volition. An intended who had left him for another man? What a tale of woe and why had he found it necessary to tell it? He knew of course. Trying to explain away his continued bachelorhood in such a way as would lead to the least amount of further questioning. It had worked - but in a sudden clear flash of premonition, Maurice saw his future. Once the lying started it would grow and grow until he'd built a monstrous edifice of falsehood that he simply wouldn't be able to maintain. It would come crashing down around his ears for sure.
He suddenly recalled the crystal clarity of his thoughts in those hours after he'd seen the Normannia set sail without Alec. "All compromise was dangerous, because furtive." He had uttered those very words to himself. Clive had understood that, and for a while Maurice had too. Why had he forgotten?
Evening, a week or so later. Maurice wandered into the kitchen. Alec was lifting the covers on the dishes Mrs Moxley had left for their supper and sniffing at the contents. Maurice put his arms around his friend's waist and smelt the soapy aroma of his neck. When Alec had worked at the meat-market he'd always headed straight for the bath as soon as he got home, to "wash of the abattoir stink," as he put it, and now even though he'd changed jobs, it had become a regular habit.
"What's for dinner?" Maurice asked.
"Baked cod by the looks. Smells nice too. Maurice -" Alec turned in his arms and gave him a kiss. "After dinner let's go to the cinema. The mask of Zorro's on at the Savoy."
"Well, we can't miss that then," said Maurice with a smile but he couldn't help feeling disappointed. He'd been somehow hoping their evenings here in the townhouse would be spent the same as they had been back at the cottage - reading cosily together by the fire, talking, mending and other quiet chores, making love.
But more often than not that wasn't the case. Alec was ether too tired after a long day of work and travel and went quickly to bed after dinner, or came home even later smelling of beer after "a few pints," as he put it, with his fellow servants after work. If he did have any energy he usually suggested going to the flicks, having developed a passion for them, especially Buster Keaton comedies and adventure yarns. It wasn't that Maurice didn't enjoy them too, and he especially enjoyed seeing Alec laughing and happy. Yet - it was so different here. No longer just the two of them. They were physically safer, but more separate than they'd ever been - the war aside - with different jobs, different workmates, different lives almost. Maurice couldn't help but pine more than a little for their former life.
Well what did you expect? You who wanted to come and live in the city.
And he hadn't even managed to get Alec to see a doctor yet.
The day inevitably came, as he'd known it would. Maurice felt obliged to throw a dinner party for his employer. As he had quite reasonably explained to Alec, he'd been invited so very many times to Mr Stanton's - and to the homes of other senior members of staff - that courtesy simply demanded he return the favour now. He'd hired cooks and waiting staff from an agency, putting Mrs Moxley's noise seriously out of joint in the process, and Alec of course was banished to the basement.
Mrs Moxley had made him a very nice dinner though, steak and kidney pie with taters and jam sponge for afters. "We working class have got to stick together, after all," she'd said to him on her way out, having deliberately stayed late to "supervise" the arrival of the invading cooks. To "make sure they know the rules of my kitchen," as she'd put it.
Alec lit the fire in the downstairs flat for the first time ever, ate his dinner and listened to the guests arrive. There were quite a few of them by the sounds - which came through very clearly from above - and soon the clatter of dishes and tinkle of glasses from the kitchen combined with the laughter of the guests and the sound of their feet tramping up and down made him very glad that that he didn't live down here permanently.
Maurice had put the paper on the table for him and he read some of it, peering somewhat nearsightedly at the headlines. Then he gave that up and played patience for a while, listening to the voices, trying to pick out Maurice's, sniffing the aromas from the kitchen wafting down, smelt very nice, lucky for him he'd had a decent meal or he'd be sneaking upstairs around now to try and filch something. Maurice had also given him a bottle of the table wine and he drank some of that by the fire, his mood darkening by the moment. The fancy folks'dinner seemed to go on forever. Wasn't right, having to skulk down here like some embarrassing secret. He should have gone down to the Star & Garter, caught up with the lads from the market. He'd been tempted to, but something had kept him here, despite his resentment, almost as if he sought to feed it, to nurse it in some strange way. As if he wanted to keep tabs on Maurice. As if he didn't quite trust him.
Alec knew why he was feeling this way. It was Maurice's "society" face that'd done it. He had seen more and more of that as the months went by. Because in Alec's mind, Maurice had two faces. The society one, as he had named it to himself, was the face Maurice had been wearing when Alec first encountered him back at Penge. Very beautiful of course, but also very proper - hard, reserved, unreachable somehow. If it hadn't been for that one time when Maurice had caught him stealing the grapes - the look he'd given Alec then - he would never have so much as dreamed that he had a chance with the aloof gentleman. Maurice's real face - now that was the face he'd showed to Alec their very first morning, in the Russet Room. It had been like a gift given specially to him. A different man - gentle, very young-seeming, vulnerable and loving. The real Maurice.
Alec didn't like Maurice's society face, but he was surely wearing it now.
At long last he heard the people leaving as their cars drew up outside, two by two they went, like Noah's bloody ark.
Alec heard Maurice's voice at the door - and a woman's. They came down the front steps together. Alec couldn't help it; he crept silently out his front door and stood in the area, looking boldly up at them. If they'd so much as glanced in his direction they'd have seen him, he didn't even try to hide.
But of course they never looked.
The young lady must be Mr Stanton's daughter. He heard Maurice call her "Edith."
Didn't know they were on a first name basis.
Her father was nowhere to be seen, and she had managed to get arm in arm with Maurice. She leaned in close to him now and whispered something, her lips almost brushing his ear, and they laughed. Alec couldn't see Maurice's face, it was turned away from him and he couldn't see his reaction.
Was it his society face or his real face?
Alec bit his lip, hard.
Father dear showed up at last, he'd been lagging behind, no doubt on purpose. His tone of voice certainly sounded pleased as watched Maurice hand his daughter up into the car.
Alec watched Maurice wave goodbye after the departing car. He turned, his face still in shadow, lit a cigarette and wet back inside. A cough was trying to force its way up and out of Alec's lungs but he suppressed it - he found he didn't want Maurice to know that he was there.
Maurice waited impatiently for the staff to finish up. They seemed to take forever but finally they were ready to go. He tipped them and shut the back door behind them with a sigh of relief. That had gone quite well actually, not as painful as he'd thought and now he'd done his duty he shouldn't have to repeat the process again for a good few months.
He poured two glasses of the rather good red wine and listened out for the sound of Alec's footsteps on the stairs. It didn't come.
Maybe he's fallen asleep.
Maurice went down and tried the connecting door on the backstairs landing. It was locked. Alec must have bolted it from his side. Maurice's good spirits deserted him, his heart began to thump.
"Alec - Alec, open the door," he called. No answer. "Alec, why is it locked? Alec, please."
Nothing.
He considered going down outside and knocking on the basement flat's windows or door but an abrupt, wine-fuelled anger bubbled up in him.
If he wants to be so pigheaded about it he can stay down there. It wasn't my choice to have this party; I had to. For my job. The job I've taken on for his sake, the ungrateful beast.
Maurice went to bed alone. It was the first time they had voluntarily slept apart in the whole eight years since Boathouse, Penge.
The next day was Saturday and Maurice didn't have to work though Alec did. Maurice stood at the upstairs window, watching. He hadn't slept a wink of course, cursing his stupid pride yet unwilling to go and beg, lest he be rejected again.
At six o'clock sharp as per usual his beloved friend emerged, climbed the basement stairs to the gate, went through. It clanked shut behind him. Alec turned around and looked up as if he'd known Maurice would be there. His mouth was set in that sulky way he had that made him look about fifteen. The dark eyes that showed his every feeling were full of resentment, anger - and something else. With a jolt Maurice recognised the emotion, found its strong echo within himself. Helplessness. Yes, helplessness, as if something was happening that they couldn't control. Maurice lifted his hand in greeting. Alec looked at him a moment longer, stuck his hands in his pockets and stalked off.
Maurice felt winded, as though someone had dealt him a blow. They'd argued before of course - sometimes quite violently - but in the cottage, at such close quarters, life quickly became well nigh unbearable if animosity persisted, so there'd been no choice but to make up quite quickly and usually in the most pleasant way possible. There was only one bed after all.
Yet now, he felt a sickeningly familiar breach opening up between them for the first time in years. In this house they didn't need to reconcile in order to coexist, here they could quite independently carry on in their own spheres, separated by stairs and storeys. Physical, brick-and -mortar symbols of that far more invidious enemy. Class. How could it happen? Between Maurice and his Alec? In their very own home that they lived in together?
To be physically separated from Alec was the worst of punishments.
Maurice had loved Clive with his heart and his head, and at the time he had thought that was enough. Clive wouldn't allow more. But he loved Alec with his heart, his head - and his body. That physical need, that wanting, was so intimately, inextricably woven into the loving that he couldn't possibly separate the strands. Nor did he want to. It felt completely natural, completely right. Clive's kind of love was all white marble, beautiful Greek columns reaching up into a bright blue sky, unchanging, idealistic, ultimately sterile. Alec was the woods, the smell of smoke and leaf-mold, the sunlight and the shadow.
Alec was life.
If Alec had died in the war Maurice didn't know what he would have done. Actually that wasn't true. He did know. Perfectly well.