Текст книги "The Imposter"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

9

EDWARD DRESSED in his freshly-laundered dress uniform and, as he made his way out of the boarding house, he noticed himself in the dusty mirror that was hung in the hall: he had become the upright, self-respecting young soldier again. He paused. “Hello,” he said, smiling into the glass. It didn’t look quite right and so he cleared his face and tried again. “Hello,” he repeated in the slightly deeper voice he had perfected on the boat to India that first time, part of the routine he adopted as he settled himself into his new persona. “Hello. I’m Edward Fabian. Pleased to meet you.” He forced his smile wider, exposing his white teeth. That was better. He felt his shoulders drop a little and the muscles in his cheeks relaxed. He straightened his uniform. He was doing the right thing, behaving the right way. There was no need for anxiety. Edward Fabian, the soldier. It was a role he had played for seven years.

He emerged at Victoria and, after walking the short distance to Buckingham Palace, joined the long queue of military types at the Hyde Park Gate. He handed his invitation to the police officer on duty and crunched across the gravel into the quadrangle beyond the Palace’s great façade. A subaltern directed him to the ballroom. It had been arranged with several rows of chairs for the relatives and friends who were invited to witness the investiture. The colours were of red and gold, there were portraits hung in ornate frames, yards of lush drapes and carpets that you sank into, marble floors buffed so bright you could see your reflection in them. The chairs faced a dais where the King received the men who were being honoured. The room was empty at the moment. Edward introduced himself and was ushered into an anteroom for a brief education in royal protocol from a member of the house who remained staid and aloof, as if this teaching these ignorant yahoos how to scrape and bow was below him.

The men were finally led into the ballroom and directed to the reserved seating nearest to the dais. There were men from all three services: the face of a chap from the RAF was deformed by burns and a naval rating had had half of his leg blown off. Edward was in the front row next to those two men. He turned around, scanning the crowd behind him, and saw Joseph. He winked. Joseph grinned back at him. He was wearing a beautiful suit, a shining pair of shoes and he had a trilby in his lap. His clothes were new and obviously expensive, and he looked quite a picture. Joseph was the only person that Edward had invited. He would have asked Jimmy but they could not afford to shut the restaurant and it seemed wrong to have a moment like this and not share it with anyone.

King George, accompanied by a retinue of two Ghurkhas, made his way to the dais and the ceremony began. The men who were receiving the Victoria Cross went first, the rating and the airman among stepping up before Edward. The chamberlain read out their citation, they went forward, the King gave them their medal and said a few rehearsed words, they went back. Edward watched with wide eyes. The whole spectacle was utterly surreal.

“Edward Frederick Fabian.”

Edward leant forwards avidly as the chamberlain read out his citation. “Corporal Fabian carried out an individual act of great heroism by which he attacked and killed several of the enemy who had ambushed his own platoon. It was in direct face of the enemy, under intense fire, whilst wounded and at further great personal risk to himself. His valour is worthy of the highest recognition.”

Edward took his cue and went forwards, his face stern and impassive. The King shook his hand and held it for a moment. He leant forwards and spoke quietly into his ear. “Congratulations, corporal,” he said. When he was finished, Edward stepped back and saluted crisply.

There was an upswelling of applause for the three men. Joseph clapped most of all, beaming a wide grin, and Edward could not resist the explosion of pleasure in his breast. He grinned, too, and, for the moment at least, his reservations were forgotten.

* * *

THEY FOUND A PUB near to the Palace and Joseph bought a couple of beers. “So that’s how you got shot?” Joseph said as soon as they were settled in a booth.

“Afraid so,” Edward said, feigning reluctance to go into detail.

“How many Japs were there?”

“Eight.”

“And they just opened up on you?”

“It was the monsoon–you know what that’s like. You couldn’t see much further than the front of your nose. Half a dozen of the lads had been hit before the rest of us knew what was going on. I was lucky–I just got the ricochet in the foot before I managed to get into the jungle and get a grenade away. That scattered them, and I picked the survivors off.”

“That’s a hell of a story.” He shook his head. “Stone the crows, Doc. The Victoria Cross. It doesn’t get better than that. One of my pals is a war hero.”

Edward savoured it. He drank it all in. It could not have been a more successful morning and now every moment to Edward was a pleasure. The ceremony had been tremendously agreeable in itself. And now there was Joseph’s acclaim, the way that strangers in the pub looked at him curiously, and the way that fellow servicemen, once they recognised the medal that was still pinned to his breast, would tip their hats or salute. My God, he thought, it all felt amazing. The sense of guilt from earlier had been obliterated. The way that Joseph was looking at him almost persuaded him that he deserved to be decorated. He as good as believed the narrative that he had created for himself.

Edward felt proud for having arranged everything so perfectly. And yet, despite his pride, there was also a curious sense of remoteness. He could not share everything with Joseph, nor with anyone else. He had a feeling that everyone was watching him, as if he had an audience comprised of the entire world, a foreboding that kept him on his mettle, for, if he made a mistake now or in the future, it would be disastrous. Yet he felt absolutely confident that he was a match for the challenge he had presented for himself. He had had a lot of practice over the years, starting even from when he had been a small child, and this was no different. He was quite sure: he was good, and he would not make a mistake.

They finished their pints and ordered another.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” Joseph asked him.

Jimmy had said he could manage all day without him. “I don’t have any plans,” he said. “We could have a few drinks?”

“Why don’t you come with me to The Hill? It’s the carnival today–plenty of booze and fun, too. You should come, really, you should. My family will be there. I’d love to introduce you to them.”

Edward remembered what Joseph had said to him on the train: there was a successful Costello family business. His interest began to stir. Perhaps there was an opportunity to be had. It had been a good morning. Why not see if he could continue his good luck into the afternoon, too? He looked down at his pristine uniform and the bright new medal that glittered silver against the khaki fabric. He would never have a better chance to make a good first impression.

“Sounds like fun,” he said.

* * *

THE TAXI DEPOSITED THEM on Roseberry Avenue and they made their way to Amwell Street where a long line of empty trestle tables had been arranged down the middle of the road, covered with mismatched cloths. An assortment of chairs were set on either side. Women were arranging flowers and greenery around the doorways of the houses and men on step-ladders were hanging yards of colourful bunting from the gas lamps. The Italian tricolore and the Union Jack vied for space from the ledges of first-floor windows. Gay tapestries obscured the dilapidated walls, the street-corners were ornamented by large illuminated frames which bore the statue of the Madonna and windows held statues, votive lights, flowers and candles. Even the narrow courts and alleys had been transformed, blazing with flowers and brilliantly coloured lights. The atmosphere was febrile: in five minutes they passed a spiv selling nylons from a suitcase, a couple embracing with drunken ardour and two men throwing sloppy, half-hearted punches at each other.

Joseph led the way to a table where three women had congregated. “These are my sisters,” he said. “Edie, Sophia and Chiara.”

“Who’s this dish?” Sophia said, making no attempt disguise her lewd up-and-down appraisal of Edward.

“This is my friend, Edward Fabian.”

Edward smiled warmly. The women were a strange collection: Evie walked with a stick, was tall and slim with long dark hair and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. Sophia was shorter, and plumper, with ringlets of copper-coloured hair that spilled across her shoulders in tight coils. Chiara was neither tall nor short, doll-like with slender arms and wrists. Her hair had been carefully water-waved and set, her lips looked soft and shapely with the lip salve she had on them. She wore a brown flannel coat with rabbit collar over an art-silk dress of light blue. Despite their differences it was obvious that they were related. The tone of their skin, the shape of their eyes, their noses and chins; they were evidently poured from the same mould.

He took their offered hands. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Sophia turned her hand over and held it before his lips so that he was left with no choice but to kiss it. “Where’s he been hiding you?”

Joseph tutted. “Put him down.”

Evie kissed Joseph on the cheek. “Bloody hell, you reek. Have you been drinking?”

He grinned at her. “We were celebrating.”

“What for?”

“We’ve just been to Buckingham Palace. Edward has just seen the King.”

“Give over.”

“It’s true. Go on, Doc, show them.”

Edward feigned modesty. The medal was still attached to his tunic. He slid his fingers beneath it and held it away from his breast.

“Which one is it?”

Joseph said, “The Victoria Cross.”

Evie gawped. “It never is…”

“What’d you have to do to get that?” Sophia asked.

“Nothing much,” Edward said. He felt uncharacteristically shy. Sophia had a brash and loud personality and he felt a little cowed by it.

“Don’t be coy,” Sophia urged with a grin that exposed the wide gap between her front teeth. “Tell us.”

Joseph saw Edward was uncomfortable. “Leave it out,” he said. “Not everyone wants to crow about the things that they’ve done. All you need to know is that this man”–he clapped him on the back–“is a bloody hero.”

Sophia took Edward’s hand again and squeezed it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Edward,” she said. She held her grip a little too long, and, as she gently released it, she trailed her fingertips against the back of his hand. He looked down at her, surprised, and she returned his expression with a cheeky wink.

“Sophia,” Chiara chided in a tone of weary exasperation. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fabian. My sister can be awfully embarrassing sometimes.”

Edward knew that the flattery was not just for the benefit of his ego. Sophia and Evie enjoyed embarrassing their brother and they knew exactly how to do it. The more he protested, the more lascivious, and crude, they would become. Chiara did not get involved in their games; she stood silently to the side and observed, taking it all in.

“Where’s Billy?” Sophia asked her brother.

“He’s meeting us here. Go easy on him, alright?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sophia said with mock outrage.

“You know exactly what I mean. You give him the bloody vapours half the time and you know it. Speak of the devil–there he is.”

His face broke out into a smile and Edward turned to see the reason for it: Billy was approaching them. “Billy and me are going to get the drinks. Edward–I’d leave you here but I’m not sure they’ll leave you in one piece.”

“He’s perfectly safe,” Sophia said.

“I doubt that. Edward?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

There were three pubs in the vicinity. The landlords had rolled barrels out onto the street and groups of happy drunks gathered around them to refill their tankards, a rowdy atmosphere already developing. Joseph led Billy to the Wordsworth and waved the landlord across.

Chiara said, “You’re the doctor, aren’t you?”

“That’s right. How do you know that?”

“Joseph was talking about you.”

“He was?”

“He was happy you asked him to come today.”

Edward smiled, pleased with himself. He felt very optimistic all of a sudden.

“Have you met Billy yet?” Evie asked him.

“Briefly. I don’t think he likes me much.”

“He can be like that,” Sophia said. “He’s awkward around people he’s just met. I shouldn’t worry about it. He doesn’t mean it. His bark’s worse than his bite.”

“You should know,” teased Evie.

The remark was lost on Edward. “Are they good friends?” he asked.

“They’ve known each other for years. His father and our father worked in the business so the two of them practically grew up together. He’s Greek. It used to be one hundred per cent Italian round here when my grandfather came over, but there’ve been all sorts moving in the last few years–Jews, Irish, Greeks. We call him Bubble when we want to get a rise out of him.”

“Why?”

“Bubble and Squeak.”

Edward felt foolish for asking. “Oh–I see, Greek.”

“He hates it.”

Joseph had squeezed three gins between his hands and was coming towards them. Billy was behind him, carrying three pints of beer.

Joseph gave a glass to each of his sisters.

“Go easy on the poor lad,” Evie warned her sister as Billy arrived.

“No fear. It’s too much fun.”

“My sister and Billy used to be–involved,” Chiara explained quietly for Edward’s benefit, searching for the right word.

“Only when I’ve been drinking,” Sophia said. “I do have standards.”

Evie shook her head. “If you say so.”

Sophia latched onto Billy at once. “Hello, darling.”

“Alright, Sophia,” Billy said awkwardly. His demeanour underwent an abrupt and amusing transformation from his usual insouciance. It melted away like an ice cube on a hot day.

“Don’t worry, my love, I won’t say nothing.”

“What you on about? There’s nothing to say.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy.”

“Leave him alone,” Joseph said, but there was an amused smile on his face.

“I was just being civil.”

“You know what you were doing.”

Billy hid behind his pint.

Edward enjoyed the exchange. He didn’t much like Billy and it was good to see him squirm. Smiling, he drank his beer right away. It was a warm day and he had developed a thirst. The beer was tepid but it didn’t matter.

“Violet’s waving at us,” Evie said.

Edward followed her gesture and saw a woman and a man at one of the large trestles.

“Wonderful,” Joseph groaned. “I haven’t seen her all week. How is she?”

“The same as ever,” Sophia said. “Annoyed you haven’t been to see her.”

“We better go and see her before we get too lit up.”

“You’re already lit up.”

“More lit up, then.”

“Who’s Violet?” Edward asked Chiara.

“Our aunt,” she explained. “And the fellow next to her is our uncle George.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” Sophia said. “I don’t think we need to be subjected to her. We get it every day.”

“To what?” Edward said, confused.

“Come on,” Joseph said. “You’ll see. Let’s get it over with.”

10

MATRONS FUSSED OVER DISHES that had been arranged on the trestle tables: bowls of pasta, salads, cuts of meat, trifles and cakes, a large tureen filled with punch. Joseph explained that each family had provided a dish, most more than one, the women rising early to start the preparations. The air was freighted with a sweet-smelling aroma: garlic, fried onions, rosemary, tomatoes, roasted vegetables. They picked their way through the crowd until they reached the table. Violet Costello was in her early fifties. She was a handsome woman, dressed elegantly in clothes that were obviously more expensive than those of the women around her. They had the dowdy, homely appearance of the housewife yet she was impressive, bearing herself with a regal air. She obviously had money, and style. If Violet indicated her status with subtle choices, George Costello was altogether more ostentatious. He was tall, over six feet, and his brillantined hair made him look even taller. His shoulders were broad and he was built as powerfully as an ox. He was wearing a fine suit, a clip-on bow tie with changeable paper collars and a loud, checked, belted overcoat. He wore a fresh carnation in his button-hole. His hair and whiskers had been cut that morning, his grooming punctiliously exact. His head was a little too large for his body and his eyes were a little too small for his face; they glittered darkly, suggesting he was not a man to be crossed.

A steady procession of people approached their table. They acted deferentially, shaking hands with George and kissing Violet’s cheek, a few words spoken before they moved away to allow the next person their audience. Most bore gifts: bottles of black, sticky homemade wine, a basket of freshly baked bread. A large collection of bottles, plates and salvers had formed on the table behind them. Young girls removed the gifts and redistributed them around the street to be enjoyed by the revellers.

Edward felt a stirring of excitement. There were opportunities here.

“What’s all that about?” he asked Joseph, indicating the well-wishers.

“Violet paid for the party.”

“And the gifts?”

“Signs of respect.”

Edward did not know what that meant, but he concentrated on his smile as they approached the table. Violet turned. “Joseph,” she said warmly, “and Billy. Two of my favourite boys.”

“Mrs. Costello,” Billy said. His attitude had moved from surliness to close to servility.

“And who’s this?”

“This is Edward Fabian,” Joseph said. “We served together.”

“The man you mentioned?”

“That’s right.”

Edward extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

She took it. Her skin was smooth as porcelain. “Sit,” she said, gesturing to the space next to her, and he did as he was told. She spoke in short, curt bursts, with a certainty of tone that suggested she was used to giving instructions and that she was used to those instructions being followed. Her words were inflected with a strong East London accent that he found surprising, given that her wardrobe was so obviously expensive; she looked like Bond Street but sounded like Bethnal Green. “You all look half-starved. Have something to eat with us.”

She reached across the table for a plate and a bowl of pasta. Edward sat next to her, feeling a little awkward, as she dished out a serving and handed him the bowl.

“How have you found being back?” she asked him.

“It’s wonderful, obviously, but it’s also a bit of a shock.”

“Your parents must be glad?”

Edward made sure he looked thoughtful. “Oh, they’re both dead, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “It was a long time ago.”

He could certainly never tell any of them about his father, or about Jimmy, and, despite the ease with which he delivered the lie, he felt a moment of disquiet. It was guilt. He tried to recover himself: what was he so worried about? He had delivered the very same lie a hundred times before and there was no way that these people could possibly tell that it wasn’t true.

Violet indicated his uniform. “Is that for a reason?”

“We’ve just been to Buckingham Palace,” Joseph answered for him. “Edward has been decorated.”

George Costello flinched, the first break in his rigidity. It was like watching a thick wall shift and lean after a bomb had fallen.

“Really?” he said.

“He got the Victoria Cross.”

Violet was visibly impressed. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Edward said, masking the mild unease he felt with a shrug.

“What did you do?” George pressed. He didn’t try and hide his dubious tone.

“Nothing really,” Edward said. He felt himself begin to sweat, and he tried again to relax.

“No, come on,” George pressed irritably. “What did you do?”

“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Joseph said.

“You’re very modest,” Violet commended. “I’d much rather that than some loud-mouthed braggart.”

George harrumphed but allowed the conversation to drop.

“How long have you been home?” she asked.

“Just a few weeks.”

“And have you found work?”

Edward was about to reply that he had not when a black Wolseley slid to a stop on the side-street opposite. George Costello swore colourfully under his breath. Two men in the front seat took notebooks from the dashboard and, with no attempt at concealment, recorded the number plates of the other cars parked near them.

Joseph regarded them contemptuously. “They just won’t give it a bloody rest, will they?”

“Ignore them,” Violet said. “It’s a free country. They can do what they want. And we’ve done nothing wrong.”

Joseph stared at the two men and, when he was sure that they were looking in his direction, spat theatrically into the gutter.

“Joseph!”

“What? They think they’re going to get something today? Here?”

“They’re just making a point.”

“They’re wasting their time,” George muttered.

Edward watched the men in the car scribble into their notebooks. “Who are they?”

“Police,” Joseph grunted.

Edward stared at the car and the men inside it. Police? The mention of the word made him shiver. He wanted to ask what they were there for but he could see that it was not a subject it would have been wise to pursue. The car dallied for five minutes before reversing away, sliding around a corner and out of sight.

“Good riddance,” Joseph said.

The crowd had grown so that there were now hundreds of locals gathered in the street. Plenty of them were drunk, and some had started dancing on the pavement. Others had taken their places at the tables, helping themselves to the piles of food and the gallon jugs of homemade wine. The children were finally quiet, gorging themselves happily from the array of plates and bowls.

Violet laid a hand on Edward’s wrist. “What do you think?” she asked, gesturing at the scene.

“It’s wonderful.”

“It’s not what it was. I can remember when there would’ve been thousands here. The area–it’s changing.”

“It’s the bloody Irish,” George said.

Violet ignored her brother. “It wasn’t all that long ago when this whole district was completely Italian. I can remember it from when I was a little girl… Italian shops, Italian food, the only language you’d hear was Italian.”

“Those days are long gone,” her brother muttered.

She nodded sadly. “It’s all moved to Soho now.”

“Do you live here?” Edward asked.

“No, dear. Not any more. It’s so different now, I couldn’t bear it.” She didn’t elaborate. “We were talking about work before–what are your plans now you’re back?”

“I’m thinking about a career in medicine.”

“He went to University,” Joseph explained. “He’s clever.”

“I hardly think so,” Edward said dismissively.

“Where did you go?”

“Cambridge, ma’am.” Edward waited, hoping that Violet would ask him something about Cambridge, but she did not. He could have discussed the way they taught medicine, the way the university was divided into colleges, the food at the collegiate dinners, the political tendency of the student body, anything. He had sat next to an officer on a long trip through the Burmese countryside, both of them perched atop the hull of a tank so hot you could have fried eggs on it. The man had been at Cambridge and talked of nothing but Cambridge, so that Edward had pressed him for more and more, devouring it all, predicting a time when he might be able to use the information. By the time the trip was over he felt as if he had gone to Cambridge, too.

“Are you qualified?”

“No, not yet. I enlisted right after I graduated. I still have qualifications I’d need to get before they’ll let me practice and then I’m not quite sure what will happen to things with Mr. Beveridge’s plans.”

“Well, it’s a fine profession to be in. We’ll always need doctors, however they rearrange things. And until then?”

“I’m keeping my eyes open in case something come up.”

Violet frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps we could help you with that? Our family has several business interests–I expect Joseph has told you. One of them is in motorcars. Second-hand ones, buying and selling. We’re always looking for good young salesman. And, someone with your record, the war, your medal and such like–it’s the least we can do to thank you for your service and I think that might be a rather good fit.”

“I don’t know–” he began, pretending to hesitate. Was this it? He thought that he smelled an opening and he knew not to come across as overly eager.

“The offer is there,” she said. “Take the weekend to think about it. It can be an excellent job. If you have the gift of the gab the money is very good.”

“You should think about it, Doc,” Joseph impressed on him.

“Come and have a look on Monday,” Violet said. “Joseph can tell you where the showroom is. Have a look, see what you think–there would be no obligations.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Nonsense. It’s the least we can do.”

“I’m grateful.”

George frowned at his sister. “We should be going,” he said, showing her his pocket watch.

Violet checked the time and nodded her agreement. “We have an appointment. It was a pleasure to meet you, Edward. I’m sure we’ll see you again.”

The two of them got up and, bidding them farewell, made their way to a parked car. A large, serious-looking man was waiting by the kerb. He opened the rear doors for them, got into the front and drove them away.

“She liked you,” Joseph said.

“You think?”

“Certainly.”

“This job? What do you think? Was she serious?”

“It’s like she said: the family has a lot of business interests,” he replied, choosing his words carefully. “The showroom would be a good fit for you–better than a job in a kitchen, anyway.” He got up. “Now then,” he said. “How about another drink? How about a nice brandy? Doc? Are you listening to me?”

“Sorry,” he said. He had been miles away.

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Edward brushed that off as Joseph went over to the pub but it was true. He had plenty on his mind. Opportunities, openings and main chances. All of them aimed towards the future prosperity of Edward Fabian.