Mr Pym
by Jack Kendle
1
THURSDAY
"The name is Pym. With a y, Not as in the drink, which would be an i and double m, I'm certainly not a 'Number 1 Cup', hihi! "
There was a short, high-pitched chuckle, then: "That's correct; P-Y-M. Peregrine Pym,"
The voice was quiet, cultured, each word carefully and precisely enunciated. The explanation of the spelling had the air of being oft-repeated, as if the older man had said it many thousands of times before. Even the small self-deprecating high-pitched laugh sounded rehearsed, polished after years of use. The desk-clerk at the small pension even fancied he heard the italics.
"Very good, sir. Yes. Here it is. Mr Pym, staying with us for four nights. This is correct?"
Receiving a nod and the affirmation, "That is quite correct," from the Englishman, he continued, "If you would care to fill this form out, Mr Pym," he said pushing a square of paper across the counter.
Mr Pym was a man of about seventy five, though you would be excused for thinking him older. Had he been able to draw himself up to his full height, he would have measured perhaps five-foot ten, but because of a hunched back he stooped, which made him look a good ten years older - and a good deal shorter than he actually was. He had hung a walking-stick on the counter; brown wood, highly polished with age, with a large rubber ferrule on its base and a handle of what looked like ivory, fashioned in the shape of a falcon. From the smoothness of the handle, the soft contours of the bird's outline and it's yellowish tinge, one could see that Mr Pym's walking-stick was well used.
Beneath his panama hat his thinning hair was mostly grey, but there were still traces of black running through it. His eyebrows on the other hand were very bushy and iron-grey under which his pale blue eyes looked as if they had faded through overexposure to the light. His complexion was pale though not sickly, rather the hue of someone who spends a lot of time indoors. He had a smooth face, clean-shaven, not even very many wrinkles; just some crow's feet at the corners of his pale eyes. His nose seemed long and was thin, with a prominent bridge to it, giving him a slightly birdlike appearance, below which was a small mouth with thin, though surprisingly rosy lips.
Mr Pym was dressed in a dark blue blazer jacket with brass buttons and grey slacks which reached down to almost cover a pair of sturdy brown brogues.. One of the shoes had been altered, its sole a good deal thicker than its counterpart, to make up for the difference in length of Mr Pym's legs. His clothes looked as if they had been owned a very long time, though little used. The desk clerk noticed a faint aroma of mothballs mixed with peppermint as Peregrine Pym, eschewing the hotel's monikered ballpoint, produced his own fountain pen from his jacket pocket and after fishing out a pair of gold-rimmed half-moon spectacles began to fill out the proffered form.
He chuckled again, that high-pitched, almost girlish laugh, a staccato hiHi! which seemed to be cut off before it could really get going.
"It's a funny world isn't it?" he said, more to himself than anyone else, as he peered over the form, "Forename, prénom: Peregrine. Hihi! For someone who has hardly left his own doorstep it seems strange to have a name which means Wanderer," He continued writing, his careful script cursive, legible, a pleasure to read. He was a man who, the desk clerk surmised as he watched, was someone who wrote a great deal, his words effortlessly formed and shaped, well spaced.
Mr Pym's hands were smallish, almost feminine, with slender fingers, well-manicured and slightly tapered nails and a small gold signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. The backs of the hands were slightly darker than the wrists above which protruded from the slightly frayed cuffs of the Englishman's pale blue shirt and were ridged by thick, dark blue veins, which stood out in contrast to the finely wrinkled skin. As he wrote, the desk clerk could hear Mr Pym's dry hands as they moved across the page, awakening in him a childhood memory of the sound of a snake sinuously slipping across a sandy path on a summer holiday years ago.
"Occupation: Librarian and archivist, One can see so much of the world and the people in it through books," he continued, speaking quietly, yet distinctly, still to himself. The young man behind the desk, with his best public-relations smile still in place, made a nondescript noise of assent, which the older man seemed not to notice, as he continued to scrutinize the sheet before him.
"Address..." his writing flowed easily across the page, the blue ink glistening wetly for a short moment before drying indelibly, committing Mr. Pym's personal details to the small hotel's records for however long to come?
"I think that's everything," he said finally, carefully replacing the cap on his fountain pen as the desk clerk took the completed form.
"That will do nicely, Mr. Pym. And here's your key. Room number 104, on the first floor as your reservation requested."
"Ah, thank you. One's not so good with stairs these days you know and I wasn't sure whether or not your establishment had a lift."
"We do have a lift, Mr. Pym." He pointed towards a sliding iron grille with a brass handle to the rear of the small foyer. "And the dining room is there," he indicated an open door behind Mr Pym's shoulder. "Will you be dining in this evening, monsieur?"
"No, I think not," replied the Englishman, "I think I shall have an early night. Will eight o'clock for breakfast be convenient?"
"Most certainly, monsieur! A very good night to you."
"And to you. I think I shall perhaps make use of the lift today as I have a suitcase, but I'm sure that a flight or so of stairs will be good for a lazy old slug such as I, hiHi,"
His pale eyes under their bushy brows twinkled for a moment and he produced such a bright, even boyish smile that the desk clerk found himself beaming back at the older man with genuine pleasure. Mr Pym was certainly no slug. Indeed, despite his hunched back, he looked very trim; thin although not unhealthily so and without an ounce of fat on him. He picked up his small battered leather suitcase and with another beaming smile displaying even, white teeth, he took his walking stick from it's perch on the hotel desk and turned towards the small lift.
2
Bruno Bellebeau sat drinking his café au lait at one of the tables on the pavement outside the small café opposite the pension that bore his surname. The small square in which the two establishments faced each other was situated in a backwater of the small Normandy seaside town, away from the busier, brasher seafront. The buildings here were higher and slightly seedier than those closer to the wide sandy beaches and towered over the small square, in the centre of which a small fountain played. Because of the smallness of the square, the height of the surrounding buildings and the large chestnut tree by the ancient stone fountain, there was plenty of shade and an almost sepulchulral silence, broken only by the cooing of two wood pigeons somewhere in the leafy branches, the sound of tinny music from the radio in the café and the occasional bark of the dog outside the bakery, who seemed to think it his sacred duty to announce to the world every time his master sold a baguette or pain-au-chocolat.
Bruno was bored. It was mid September, the high season over, the last of the summer visitors having left and the chance for any excitement gone with them. Bruno spent the summer working at the family business, the small hotel which faced him now as he toyed with his coffee and croissant. Soon he would be back at school, in his final year before his baccalauréat, or graduation. He had no idea what he wanted to do with his life. At seventeen, he hated the idea of being stuck here in this provincial backwater, taking over the family business as his father had so often said he would, as if he, Bastien Bellebeau, could force his will on Bruno, his only son. But if he didn't follow his father's footsteps, what could he do? He had an aptitude for drawing and draughtsmanship, he was toying with the idea that he might want to study art in Paris. He was also an excellent speaker of English and was often prevailed upon to help his aunt's son with his English studies, in fact, even though it was his day off, he would be coaching the young brat, Lucien, a little later on. He was waiting for him now.
Bruno toyed with the pastry crumbs on his plate, feeling the flaky texture, now brittle as it crumbled still further, like so many little beetles' wings. He didn't know what he wanted, only that he wanted to get away. Get away from this provincial, petty, suffocating bourgeois little backwater. He grew restive. He was angry. Angry that his father assumed he would take over the boring little hotelthat hardly had enough guests to keep going. He wondered why his parents bothered; year after year, same old thing. Yet the tourists weren't coming any more. The small hotel was too old-fashioned, dammit the whole stinking little town was too old fashioned. Only old people came here now, old people and sick people. He hated it. Most of his friends had found jobs for the summer in Calais or in the larger resorts of Boulogne or Le Touquet. Dammit, even Berck had more going for it than this hell-hole, he thought bitterly.
He looked up in time to see yet another of those sad, decrepit old people who now seemed to be the hotel's exclusive clientele. As he watched, an old hunchback with a walking stick and a small ancient valise got out of the taxi and went into his father's hotel. "Another old fogey come here to die," thought the handsome dark young man, his eyes hard and glittering darkly. He watched as the foreigner - it was so obvious that the man was un anglais, with his 'uniform' that marked him out for what he was - made his way with a little difficulty up the three steps into the foyer. Just before going into the hotel, Bruno fancied he saw the old man turn his head slightly and look in his direction, right at him, in fact. The old man seemed to hold his gaze for what seemed to Bruno for a very long time, but in reality could not have been more than a second, if that. The sullen French boy, suddenly inexplicably uneasy, averted his eyes and stared at the remnants of his milky coffee into which a fly had fallen and was slowly being sucked down into the froth. Bruno took his spoon and slowly, methodically and yet with an air of total detachment, forced the fly down into the sugary dregs. The man with the battered case and walking stick was forgotten as the boy made a slow end to the fly's life.
From his room, as he opened his window, Mr Pym observed the boy through the lace curtains as he slouched in his seat, toying with his coffee.
3
FRIDAY
Mr Pym came into the breakfast room the next morning at eight o'clock precisely. He had not come down for dinner yesterday, feeling tired after his journey. Instead, he had finished the sandwiches he had prepared for himself and had an early night. He had slept well in the small yet comfortable room which he had found to be to his liking, although the plumbing seemed to have a life of its own, which had taken some getting used to last evening when he was trying to draw a bath. He would talk to someone about it after breakfast.
The dining room was devoid of any other guest and Mr Pym was debating with himself where he should sit when the young waiter came into the sunny room. Mr Pym, aware of another presence turned. Recognising him as the striking young man he had glimpsed outside the café the day before, Mr Pym took in the young man's appearance at close quarters in one quick, appreciative glance as he asked, "may one sit anywhere? Are any of these tables taken?"
Bruno, with his best 'hotel' manner and flashing what appeared a sincere smile, replied, "Certainly, monsieur, Please take a seat wherever you wish. There are no other guests at present."
"Ah, splendid! I mean, not that you have no other guests, merely that I have such a wonderful choice Hihi," Mr Pym's pale blue eyes twinkled in the early morning sunshine which filtered into the room past the geraniums and lace curtains.
Bruno, maintaining his outward smile, sighed inwardly. Another old dolt, he thought. Why was there never anyone exciting at this boring old dump? Exactly that: because it was a boring old dump.
Mr Pym seated himself at a table by one of the windows, parked his walking-stick on the table edge next to him and placed a book on the white tablecloth in front of him. Bruno, dressed in his uniform of white shirt, black bow tie, black trousers and patent-leather pumps came over and removed the extra place-settings from Mr Pym's table.
Bruno was tall, impossibly slim, with an olive complexion, raven-black hair, equally dark eyebrows which almost met above his black, piercing eyes. He had the trace of a moustache beginning to show on his upper-lip; otherwise his features were smooth. His elegant, slim fingers dextrously cleared the table. Being a slightly vain young man (what young man isn't vain?) Bruno wore tight-fitting trousers, the dark material clinging slightly provocatively to him. Bruno had once thought that working in a hotel would be exciting, could lead to 'interesting situations' - but nothing had ever happened, much to the young man's chagrin, The clientele here was positively ancient.
"Tea or coffee, monsieur?" he asked, straightening up. Mr Pym looking the young man in the eye, said in a clear, slightly pedantic voice, "I am accustomed to taking a pot of Earl Grey tea with lemon, no milk or sugar for breakfast. Is this possible?"
Bruno knew that the old man would ask for tea. All the old English farts did and there was a plentiful supply of all sorts of teas available. No surprises there, then.
"Certainly, monsieur," he smoothly replied, "Earl Grey it is, lemon, no milk. Would monsieur care for the English breakfast or the continental?"
"Oh dear me, I can't eat all that greasy food, Hihi! I'd die of a heart attack! I'll just have a slice of toast with perhaps a little butter and jam, if I may."
"Certainly, monsieur." Bruno turned and was on his way when, as an afterthought, Mr Pym called after the lithe figure, "perhaps I might have two slices of wholemeal toast, one is on holiday, after all, hihi! "
"Of course, monsieur," replied Bruno over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows at the old man's short, girlish laugh. "Les anglais," he thought to himself as he disappeared through the swing door into the kitchen beyond.
Mr Pym, fingers steepled beneath his chin, stared vacantly into the space where the boy had disappeared for a minute or so, his eyes distant and his pursed lips whistling a very quiet tune to himself. Then, with a quick shake of the head and a short sigh, he roused himself from his reverie, turned his attention to the book he had brought down with him and began to read.
It was obvious, even to the casual observer that Mr Pym was a booklover. Not just that enjoyed to read, he enjoyed the act of reading. Holding the small, well-worn leatherbound volume between the thumb and fingers of his left hand, with his right he prepared to turn the next page as soon as he had turned the previous one. Holding the right-hand page lightly between thumb and forefinger, he gently stroked the yellowing paper with his thumb, his dry skin scraping softly against the brittle paper with a sound like a snake sloughing off its skin. Occasionally, he would raise his eyes from the page, half close them, as if deep in thought, before settling down to read again. He read slowly, savouring every word, every nuance, each hiatus. Mr Pym was reading from a book he always carried with him, hence its well-loved appearance. It was a book of poems entitled The Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language - selected and arranged by Francis Turner Palgrave, Mr Pym affectionately referred to it as 'my Palgrave.' According to the inscription on the flyleaf, it had originally, many years ago now, been a present to his older brother from their father and was now his. The book's brown leather cover was heavily stained, almost black in colour in places and some of the pages' edges were similarly discoloured.
A short while later, Bruno reappeared, bearing a tray with Mr Pym's breakfast. Closing the book after having marked the page, Mr Pym leaned slightly back in his chair and allowed Bruno to place before him the small teapot, a saucer with some slices of lemon, a plate with the toast as well as butter and two small pots of jam. "Strawberry and black cherry," said the young man, "home-made."
"And I'm sure it will be delicious!" replied Mr Pym as he surveyed the table before him. "Thank you very much...er?" he raised one bushy eyebrow questioningly.
Blushing slightly, the boy replied, "Bruno, monsieur. Bruno Bellebeau. It is my mother who made the jam."
"Then I'm sure it will be even more delicious, young master Bellebeau," said Mr Pym, a twinkle in his eye.
For some reason, Bruno blushed even more at this. "Thank you monsieur. Enjoy your breakfast. If you need anything further, do not hesitate to call. I'll be just the other side of that door," he indicated the swing door to the kitchen.
"Thank you Bruno. This looks excellent. I'm sure everything will be absolutely splendid."
Still flushed, Bruno turned and left the small breakfast room. For no reason, he felt a little disoriented, flustered. He had no idea why.
At his table, as he began to pour his tea, Mr Pym wondered what had caused the young man to blush so ... prettily.
4
In reception, after his breakfast, Mr Pym explained the problems he was having with the hotel's plumbing system with the desk clerk, who today was none other than the hotel's owner and patron, Monsieur Bastien Bellebeau.
"... So, it seemed a little bit of a lottery as to whether I have hot or cold water in my bath, hihi! " he ended. As he spoke, he was acutely aware of the sounds of Bruno clearing away his breakfast things in the small dining room he had just left, the image of the slim young man in his mind's eye, leaning over the table to sweep the crumbs away.
Monsieur Bellebeau adopted an expression of sympathy, accompanied by that archetypical of French modes of expression, the shrugging of the shoulders; "Ah, oui, monsieur. The problems we have had with the water here! But it is fairly simple to rectify. I shall send someone up to attend to it. I hope it will cease to give you problems. Ah! The very one!" He had spotted his son coming into the lobby. He spoke to the boy rapidly in French to which the boy nodded. Observing him, Mr Pym saw Bruno glance at him with a slightly puzzled expression on his face. It was only for a split second, but Mr Pym noticed the boy's almost questioning gaze.
"There, monsieur, that's is all arranged. My son, Bruno here, will take a look at it for you this very day. He is a real, how do you English say? A Jacques of all er...?"
"Trades, hihi!" Mr Pym completed the proverb with a chuckle and his cherubic smile. "I'm sure he is, monsieur. You must be proud of your clever son! He speaks admirable English as well, if I may say so." For the second time that morning, Bruno felt his face become warm as he flushed. Mr Pym again wondered what made the boy blush so easily; surely not a polite comment from a perfect stranger? Bellebeau senior appeared not to notice his son's discomfiture.
"Thank you, monsieur. He's a clever boy, but what is cleverness without a profession?" He shot an almost stern glance at his son, whose face betrayed no emotion. "He would do very well here, running this place so that his old papa can retire and enjoy his old age!" Beneath the banter, Mr Pym could discern the tension in the air between father and son.
"Ah well," said Mr Pym, "the young must be allowed some time to spread their wings, mustn't they? All work and no play...hihi!"
He felt, rather than saw Bruno's thankful look, before the boy turned and left.
"Anyway, that is most kind, most kind," replied Mr Pym. "Now, I think I shall take a short walk and explore this charming town. Good day!"
The weather was balmy, one of those September days that recalled the height of summer, yet without the intensity or discomfort of that season. The sun was warm, though not overly so and a small breeze kept Mr Pym feeling quite comfortable.
Mr Pym's walk was, perforce, slow but most gratifying to the old man. He would frequently stop and take in a detail or vista that appealed to him. His walk took him away from the sea, gently upwards, towards the old church. From there, Mr Pym could see for miles around; to the north, the sea, gently undulating and twinkling under the clear blue sky. The light here was so pure, so clear it was almost blue.
Below him, the small town he had just walked through; granite buildings with slate roofs, the sound of a distant car horn. The mild autumnal sun picked out splashes of colour, either from washing hanging on a line, or a creeper on a wall. Otherwise, the town, seen from here, was a patchwork of various shades of grey, interspersed with the dark greens of trees between the houses and in the small squares.
Turning to face inland, Mr Pym saw fields, trees and winding lanes as the town, without warning or preamble, gave way to open countryside.
The sound of bees about their daily business filled the vibrating silence under the sun's caresses. Gulls, high above, wheeled and mewed, the scent of new-mown grass wafted in the light breeze.
About a half-mile's distance away, across a field of late flowering poppies, Mr Pym saw another; it's crop was not grass and meadow flowers however, but a vast swathe of uniform, angular gravestones; line upon line, up the opposite hill and stretching out of sight behind a small copse of trees at the end of the field opposite. Shielding his eyes with a hand, and standing quite still, Mr Pym surveyed the solemn vista. Pale blue eyes became moist as Mr Pym looked long and remembered.
5
For lunch, Mr Pym found a small bistro on the way back to his hotel. He ordered a green salad, a bowl of moules marinières, washed down with half a bottle of Sancerre. As he waited for his food, his thoughts went back, through the long years, to his distant childhood.
Peregrine Pym, though alone now, hadn't been an only child. He had had an older brother, Robin, (their father had been a keen amateur ornithologist, hence the birdlike names) - his senior by six years.
Peregrine worshipped his older sibling. Tall, where he was stunted, strong where he himself was a weakling, healthy, as opposed to Peregrine's sickly childhood, Robin was the apple of his father's eye and the object of Peregrine's unquestioning devotion. Even Ripper, the family pet mongrel wasn't as adored as Robin was.
Peregrine had been born with a slight deformation of the spine, which the doctors said would disappear as the boy grew up. It didn't. If anything it grew more pronounced as Peregrine himself grew. Not only that, but one leg was rather shorter than the other, giving the young boy an awkward gait, where his whole body seemed to rock from side to side with each step he took.
Robin was Peregrine's protector. He stood between his younger brother and the world. If, on their walks in the park, for example, other children stared at Peregrine's curved back and awkward shuffle, Robin would distract him by saying; "Look, Peregrine! Look at the eagle! There, high in the sky!" Although Peregrine never saw the eagle, he never doubted that it was there, he just wasn't quick enough or keen-eyed enough to see it. Or else, "I say, Perry, there's a deer, there, in the trees. Do you see it?" Peregrine didn't see that either. But while he was busy looking, he appeared unaware of the stares of other children.
However, Robin couldn't be with him all the time and often Peregrine was the butt of cruel taunts and jokes if he ventured outside his house and garden. He gradually withdrew into himself, preferring to stay at home and look at picture-books. Surrounded as he was by books - their father was a teacher - Peregrine learnt to read at an early age and soon his constant companions were books of all sizes and covering all sorts of diverse subjects from astronomy to zoology, although his favourite types were books about exotic, faraway lands. Peregrine used to travel the world on the crisp white pages of his father's library.
Peregrine's mother was a distant woman - at least with Peregrine. She found her son's disability almost repugnant, especially when she compared him with her lithe, healthy older son. She never displayed any affection to Peregrine and secretly, although she would never admit it, she half wished her second son hadn't survived his difficult birth; a birth so difficult it meant she would be unable to bear any more children.
Another reason to treat the younger offspring with, if not hate, then certainly indifference.
Peregrine was twelve when his world was shattered. Robin, his hero and protector, his sword and shield, left the family house one quiet autmun day. He had joined the army. Their father, privately grief-stricken, was outwardly proud and talked of 'service' and 'duty'. His mother sobbed and retired to her room.
Peregrine would never forget his last conversation with his brother.
"Look here, Perry. Chin up! I'll be back before you know it. Look after Mum and Dad and don't forget to feed the tortoise." (Ripper had died and been replaced by a quieter, easier pet.) "I'll bring you back something from France, ooh la la," Turning more serious, he had said; "Whatever happens, Perry, you must study hard and keep on with your books. You can go wherever you want with books, you know! Take care, little brother. Love you heaps!"
The two boys hugged and, after Robin had left, Peregrine shuffled back to his room, throwing himself on his bed, where he wept uncontrollably for hours. He never knew that his father had stood outside his door, and, hearing the weeping from within, hesitated with his hand on the doorknob, before walking away to his study, where he too shed a tear for his son.
Peregrine hadn't witnessed the arrival of the telegram, but when, one winter's evening, just before Christmas, he went into the dining-room, he knew exactly what had happened when he saw his parents seated on either side of the table, the small rectangle of yellow paper with its telexed tapes stuck on to it on the table between them. Each was gazing into space, unable to speak. Unnoticed and stifling a sob, Peregrine returned to his room.
About a month after that, Peregrine's parents received a small package, accompanied by a letter; Robin's worldly goods, reduced to a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with rough string, courtesy of His Majesty. The house became silent and remained so for years. Tutors were summoned to educate the boy at home. Various housekeepers came and went, and Peregrine's mother withdrew into a world of imagined illnesses; pills, powders and potions. Specialists were summoned, they examined and, probably to get away from the hectoring, complaining woman, they diagnosed.
Peregrine's father seemed to waste away and six years later, he too was dead. Peregrine's mother, however, was made of stronger stuff. She had been abandoned by her darling boy and that husband of hers, leaving her stuck with that useless hunchbacked, crippled boy. She would do what was absolutely necessary, the bare minimum, and no more. Peregrine, now at the same age as his brother had been when he was killed, was therefore sentenced to a life of nursing the bitter woman, who in her slowly increasing obesity, suffered more from a damaged soul than any physical illness.
It was as if she blamed Peregrine for their, no her loss. Peregrine, for his part, seemingly numbed to the outside world, gave up any idea of leaving the house where he had been born. "Who would look after Mother?" he would ask himself on the rare occasion the thought of a life of his own entered his head. He found a job at the local library and immersed himself in books, periodicals, the local archives.
His mother maintained on her son the iron grip only an imagined illness can have and so it was, she lived a long and bitter life, only succumbing at the very end due to old age. Her constitution, the coroner said, was remarkably good for a woman of her years.
She never once told her son that she loved him, nor thanked him for his years of selfless service. He had the status of servant, rather than son and it never occurred to the old lady that her crippled son could possibly have a life of his own. She made his life a living hell, which Peregrine bore with patience and fortitude, never once complaining - at least not in his mother's presence.
For his part, he had some notion that he had a duty to look after his mother, after the shock of her losing first Robin, then her husband. If the thought ever occurred to him that he was being taken advantage of, he would smother that thought at birth. So the years passed and Peregrine was at his mother's beck and call day and night for nearly sixty years.
Now she was dead and Peregrine, now aged seventy five, was for the first time in his life, a free agent, able to make his own decisions without having to defer to his domineering mother. Six weeks after the funeral (a quiet affair), Mr Pym sold the house and its contents and noted with some surprise that his mother had died a relatively wealthy woman.
Mr Pym bought himself an adequate garden-flat in a leafy suburb, which he filled with his beloved books and a few weeks later said to himself; "I think I should like to take a holiday!"
6
The simple lunch was extremely tasty and satisfying. Whilst eating, Mr Pym observed the people around him; a middle-aged woman and someone who was presumably her mother or an aunt - no it was her mother, Mr Pym occasionally heard the word Maman, A couple of tables away a young couple from Italy, obviously very much in love and very recently married, their honeymoon, presumably - their wedding rings still gleaming on brown, oft intertwined fingers. Then, in the corner of the dining room, two young men, he heard them speaking what he though was Dutch, one of whom was sketching the other, both of them laughing quietly at some private joke or other - and finally Mr Pym, the oldest person in the room, he supposed. For a brief moment, Mr Pym felt a tinge of sadness, regret for a life not lived, before he almost physically shook it off. "I've had my books..." he mused, and yet, perhaps for the first time in his seventy five years, as he surveyed the people around him, Mr Pym wondered whether his books really had been enough... During the course of the meal, he sensed the companionship of the people around him, sharing that little dining room. He sensed the intimacy of the various couples, which made him even more keenly aware that he was the only person in that room with no one to talk to. "Ah well, I have my Palgrave!" muttered Mr Pym to himself with a little sigh.
The September sun cast lengthening shadows and had moved round the small square by the time Mr Pym returned from his walk and lunch. As he turned into the square, Mr Pym suddenly felt as if he would faint. He broke out in a sweat and he felt a throbbing pain behind his eyes. Finding himself at the small café, he went in on shaky legs.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" he muttered to himself, "shouldn't have eaten all those mussels for lunch!" He found his way to the counter. "A glass of water, bottled, if you please, still water. Merci."
The patron looked him up and down. Mr Pym had turned an ashen grey and, having found himself a seat, was mopping his brow with a large, snow-white handkerchief.
"Is monsieur unwell?" asked the Frenchman with a concerned look, as he brought a tray with the water around the counter to the table where Mr Pym sat, his breath short.
"Oh, thank you, I shall be perfectly fine in a moment or two," replied Mr Pym. "I think I have overtaxed myself and then too many moules and not enough water. I shall be right as rain in no time, thank you so much."
Slowly sipping his water, Mr Pym's breathing gradually returned to normal and his faintness passed. As he sat at his table, the colour once more returning to his cheeks, he saw Bruno leave the hotel, cross the square and enter the café. Mr Pym must still have been looking out for sorts, for upon seeing him, Bruno came over, asking if "monsieur was feeling unwell?"
Mr Pym was a little taken aback by the boy's solicitousness; not many young people nowadays would bother. He was touched by Bruno's apparent concern. "Thank you so much for asking, Bruno, I am perfectly fine now. I think I overdid it this morning and then had rather too much to eat for lunch. My system was taken by surprise, I think, Hihi!"
"I'm glad it is nothing serious," replied the boy. He remained standing by Mr Pym's table. "Where did you walk to?" he asked, taking himself by surprise that he was even remotely interested in what the old man had been doing.
Mr Pym, equally surprised, glanced up at the young boy's face. He seemed genuinely interested, but all he said was, "Oh, nowhere in particular. I went up the hill to the church, but it was locked. I saw the war graves across the field, but it was too far to walk, at least for me."
"You need a car to get there, or the bus," said Bruno. "The cemetery is huge! Thousands of graves! So many soldiers, from all over! Many people visit there, especially you English and les Americains. "
Mr Pym looked sad. "Yes, Bruno. Thousands of young men, many of them about your age." He paused, meeting the French boy's eyes. This time, however, Bruno did not blush. "What a terrible, tragic waste! I hope we never see the like of those two World Wars again." He fell silent.
"There is, perhaps, someone special, over there in the cimetière, monsieur?" asked Bruno in a voice hardly more than a whisper.
Mr Pym met Bruno's gentle, concerned gaze.
"Yes, Bruno. How astute you are. There is. My brother. He was eighteen..." He broke off, not trusting himself to continue without his voice breaking. Bruno said nothing, but for the first time in his life, experienced someone else's pain.
They sat there for a while, the old, crippled Englishman with his memories and the young French boy who was yet to have his.
"There, now. That's enough of that!" exclaimed Mr Pym, shaking off his thoughts. He finished his water.
Bruno gave him a half smile, "you are feeling better, monsieur?"
Mr Pym gave the boy one of his angelic smiles. "Thank you Bruno, yes, I am feeling much better, thank you. It was all that walking. I should have paced myself." He gave the boy an almost tender look, the glow from thinking of Robin still suffused his mind. "You needn't have sat with me, Bruno, but... thank you for your concern and your company." He raised a hand as if to reach out and touch the French boy, but it hovered in the air between them, before he dropped it gently back on to the table. The moment passed and Mr Pym slowly got to his feet, waving off the help offered by Bruno.
A younger boy, maybe about twelve or thirteen entered the café and, talking excitedly, rushed past Mr Pym to where Bruno still sat. He babbled away, nineteen to the dozen in his native tongue to the seventeen year old, who, laughingly held up a hand to stem the chatter of rapid-fire French. "In English, Lucien. Only English, remember?" Looking over the young boy's shoulder at the departing Mr Pym, he gave a look as if to say what a handful! Mr Pym, raising a hand in farewell, smiled back and left the café.
Approaching the door of the hotel, Mr Pym heard, before he saw, the typical braying sounds of English 'Home-County' coming loudly from the reception. New guests, English. Mr Pym did not feel like getting buttonholed, as he knew he would, by the two prodigious ladies who now left the hotel. He changed tack and made for the first place he saw: the baker's next to the hotel. He overheard the women speculating in their superior and loud voices, whether or not 'that old gentleman with the hunchback' wasn't 'one of us'. Mr Pym most certainly did not want to be 'one of us' and most certainly not if it meant having to spend his mealtimes in conversation with them. He would have to try and avoid them during his stay. Not an easy task as the hotel was small and they were bound to run into each other, at least at breakfast and dinner. He was on holiday. He wanted to be alone, or rather, not in those dreadful women's company. All these thoughts rushed through his mind as he disappeared into the baker's shop, the small bell on the door jangling behind him. Through the glass, he saw the two redoubtable ladies pause, as if discussing which direction to take, still talking in their cultured, yet stentorian patois,
"Oui m'sieur?"
"Oh, er... er..." Mr Pym paused and then, without thinking, asked for the first thing that came into his mind.
"Un, er, une madeleine, s'il vous plait, monsieur."
The large, florid baker gave Mr Pym a sharp glance. "Seulement une, monsieur, Only one?"
"Er, oui, merci. Une petite madeleine," Mr Pym repeated, still anxious that the two Englishwomen would follow him into the shop.
Seemingly trying to stare the old man down, the baker retrieved one of the small, shell-shaped cakes and placed it, with much emphasis, into an oversized paper bag as if to accentuate the small cake's single state. Paying for the cake, Mr Pym turned and made for the door. The dog, possibly sensing that Mr Pym's purchase was so small, did not even attempt to bark.
In the street, Mr Pym ascertained that the two English women were out of sight, made for the hotel and thence to his room.
Placing the paper bag with its meagre contents next to the photograph on his bedside table, Mr Pym, his brow damp with perspiration, went into the small bathroom to rinse his face in cold water. Turning on the tap, he was rewarded with the merest trickle of slightly rust-coloured, lukewarm water.
"Damn, blast and botheration," He said, in an unusual display of temper. Obviously, Bruno had not been to see to the plumbing.
Sighing, he took off his blazer and, sitting in the little room's overstuffed armchair, settled down to read, the little cake forgotten.
7
He must have dozed off, for he was awakened by a gentle knock on his door. Momentarily disoriented, Mr Pym tried to recollect where he was. The duvet-covered bed and the print on the wall above it of Notre Dame in Paris brought him quickly to the present. As he got to his feet, he looked at his watch; five forty-five.
Opening the door, Mr Pym was met by Bruno, carrying a toolbag.
"Is this an inconvenient time, monsieur Pym?" asked the serious boy, his pronunciation of the old man's surname rhyming with 'beam'.
"Why no, certainly not. I am so very glad to see you, young master Bellebeau!" replied Mr Pym opening the door wide to admit the young French boy.
Slightly blushing yet again, Bruno apologised for not having come earlier to attend to Mr Pym's plumbing. A twinkle in his eye, Mr Pym told a white lie and said Bruno should not worry, he had not been inconvenienced in any way.
With a short, incurious look around the room Bruno went into the small bathroom and set his toolbag on the floor next to the ancient bath, which stood away from the wall on four legs in the form of lion's paws. All the pipework was visible and Mr Pym had the impression that attending to the vagaries of the establishment's antediluvian plumbing system was one of Bruno's more common tasks.
The young man began by crouching down on all fours, peering behind and under the bathtub, affording Mr Pym a view of his youthful body from behind. Off-duty, Bruno was clad in tight-fitting jeans and a similarly tight-fitting blue teeshirt. As he bent and stretched, Mr Pym observed the large area of bare skin between shirt and trousers and found himself suddenly dry-mouthed.
The skin on the boy's back was taut, a dark caramel colour, with the hint of a tan line showing just above the waistband of the pale blue denim, whose cloth was stretched taut across the young boy's figure. The seam of the jeans rode into the crack between the youth's legs, which were now splayed out behind him, as he wrestled with an invisible piece of pipework. Occasionally Bruno would give a small grunt as his arms flexed and Mr Pym saw a single droplet of sweat as it emerged from beneath the boy's shirt and ran down the hollow of his spine, disappearing behind the top of the blue denim. Bruno was now flat on his stomach on the floor as he attended to the job in hand. Mr Pym, standing above him in the small bathroom, gazed down at the prone figure, taking in the perfect example of young masculinity before him.
Mr Pym was sharply reminded of his own physical appearance as his eyes strayed over the boy's slim, smooth body. Long ago he had ceased to ask himself "what if? " but now, in this cramped, stuffy hotel bathroom in a small seaside town in Normandy, the question came back to him and echoed through his consciousness like the sound of distant artillery.
Presently, Bruno struggled to his feet, his faced flushed, this time with the exertions of wrestling with the recalcitrant pipework. His upper lip and brow were moist with sweat. "Let's see if it works now," he panted, as he turned both of the large brass taps on the bath. There was an ominous banging sound and they both looked at each other, worried looks on their expressions. Various hissings and wheezings before, finally, water began spurting somewhat unevenly from the taps. Holding his now grimy hands under the water, Bruno confirmed that the chaud tap produced hot and its partner correspondingly running cold. He turned the water off.
In the silence of the room, the two looked at each other for a moment, before a grin lit up the boy's face. "I think that is fine!" he exclaimed. "May I?" he asked, indicating the wash basin. "Of course, of course," replied Mr Pym, finding his voice again. He felt curiously elated, yet at the same time a little depressed, a paradoxical feeling he couldn't recall ever having felt before, at least never since childhood.
"Bellebeau," muttered the man almost to himself, "doubly beautiful."
"Pardon, monsieur?" said Bruno as he finished washing his hands and drying them on one of the hotel's towels.
"Oh, nothing, nothing at all," replied Mr Pym. I was reflecting on your surname, master Bellebeau..."
Bruno blushed yet again. "I know, I used to get teased about it, but no one teases me so much any more."
"I think it's a very apt name," said Mr Pym, before he could stop himself. Now why should he say that, he wondered?
Bruno didn't quite know how to take Mr Pym's observation. He wasn't even sure he understood fully what Mr Pym had let slip. He had the feeling that the old Englishman had caught himself off guard and, not wishing to embarrass the man further, hastily cast his eyes around the small room to find inspiration to change the subject before the atmosphere became too uncomfortable. His eyes lit on the photograph on Mr Pym's bedside table.
"My brother," said Mr Pym, simply, noting the young boy's questioning gaze. "He's buried in the cemetery that I saw this morning. That's the main reason I came here. I want to visit his grave." He grew silent, adding quietly, "it's been far too long..."
Bruno looked at Mr Pym, suddenly feeling deeply sorry for the old man's obvious pain. He didn't know what to say. "I'm so sorry, Mr Pym..." Mr Pym shook himself from his thoughts and smiled at the youth.
"Bruno, please call me Peregrine, after all, I call you Bruno."
"Peregrine?" the boy tested the unfamiliar name on his tongue. "This is an unusual name, is it not, m'sieur?"
"Indeed it is, and sometimes I have to say I was not pleased with my parents for giving me such a singular name. But I've had it for a very, very long time now and I'm used to it."
"What does it mean, Peregrine?"
Mr Pym showed Bruno the worn and yellowed handle of his walking stick. "This is a peregrine falcon Falco peregrinus. My father was an amateur ornithologist... birdwatcher, really, and he gave both his sons names to reflect this. I ended up with the most inapt name. I could hardly be described as being like a bird of prey, can I? And I certainly haven't travelled much! Hihi!"
Bruno looked puzzled.
"Peregrine is also from the latin peregrinus meaning 'Wanderer' and I've hardly travelled anywhere. So it's a bit of misnomer eh? Hihi!"
"Peregrine. It's a good name. I think it is very...noble, monsieur."
"Hihi! Don't know about that! However, Bruno suits you down to a T, young master Bellebeau!"
"Really? How?"
"Bruno means 'brown' and with your dark hair and eyes and lovely complexion, the name really fits!"
This time, Bruno certainly picked up on Mr Pym's use of adjective. He glanced curiously at the old gentleman. Was the old man flirting with him? Surely not! He must have misunderstood the finer points of the English language.
As if himself embarrassed, Mr Pym suddenly turned, reached across and picked up the bag with the madeleine in it. "Here, Bruno, take this. I had to dodge into the bakery to avoid some awful countrymen, or rather women and didn't know what to buy, so I bought the first thing that popped into my head."
"Ah, une madeleine! " exclaimed Bruno. He looked puzzled, "but why should it occur to you?"
"I don't really know. I had just finished reading Proust. I suppose that's why."
"Ah, je comprends," Bruno flashed a brilliant smile. "But he's so boring!" he added in a stage whisper, "we had to read him at school. Ooh la la, I slept like a baby every time!"
"Hihi! I thought I had better re-read it myself before I came on holiday," said Mr Pym, also lowering his voice in a conspiratorial manner, "and you are right, young master Bellebeau. Our monsieur Proust is a monumental bore!" His eyes twinkled and the boy found himself laughing at the old man's candid humour. He took the proffered bag.
"Thank you, monsieur...er Peregrine, I shall eat it with my coffee."
Mr Pym raised his arm as if to steer the boy out as they moved towards the door, but seemed to think better of it and let it fall back to his side. The movement wasn't noticed by the teen, as he opened the door to Mr Pym's room.
"You will be dining in, afterwards, monsieur?"
"Yes, Bruno. I just hope I don't have to endure those two other anglaises! " He winked at the boy.
"Je comprends, monsieur! You wish to have your privacy, non?"
"Exactly, Bruno. I'm not generally so stand-offish, but I really don't think I could cope..." Bruno interrupted him. "I understand, sometimes one just wants to be alone, oui?"
"Oui, Bruno, exactement," Mr Pym smiled at the boy.
"Bien! A tout à l'heure! " Bruno smiled back and left the room. Sighing as he closed the door behind the youth, Mr Pym wondered exactly why he suddenly felt a little light-headed.
8
Mr Pym heard the two Englishwomen in the dining room long before he got there. Slowly negotiating the stairs, he heard the refined, yet raucous laughter as the two women shared a joke.
'I shall pretend I am Russian... or deaf, or something,' he thought to himself. 'I just can't bear the thought of having to make pleasant conversation with those two. I see enough of their sort in the library,'
Sighing, he mentally prepared himself before entering the small dining room.
Bruno was there, clothed again in his white shirt and figure-hugging trousers. Mr Pym ran his eye appreciatively over the youth 'A veritable Greek god..' he thought to himself as Bruno, with one of his most disarming smiles, greeted the Englishman. "Alors monsieur, s'il-vous-plait,.." He showed Mr Pym to the same table where he had breakfasted. Mr Pym noted that the two Englishwomen, who had interrupted their conversation to look him up and down in a not very friendly manner, were seated on the opposite side of the room. He wondered whether or not Bruno had had anything to do with that, ensuring that Mr Pym was left in relative peace. However, nothing if not courteous, Mr Pym gave a quick, short bow as he passed the ladies' table, but himself said nothing. They nodded in return, assessing him as he shuffled to his table, before resuming their conversation, however more muted now. Mr Pym had his 'Palgrave' with him and after ordering a half-bottle of red wine and some water, opened the book and began to read.
Being a small family hotel, there was no choice of menu for the evening meal. Dinner was what Madame Bellebeau and her assistant, Heloise, decided upon what they felt like cooking, how full the hotel was and also what was in season. Tonight it was a ragout of beef with a simple green salad, crisp French bread and a tarte de pommes à la Normandie - apple tart with home made egg-custard, followed by a small selection of what Mr Pym assumed were local cheeses. It was certainly all very tasty and Mr Pym relished every mouthful.
During the meal, he observed Bruno as the youth went about his work. The boy was polite and attentive, rare qualities in the young these days, thought Mr Pym. The young man had a lithe grace as he balanced plates and moved between the tables, attending to the few guests. He would often catch Mr Pym looking at him and smiled each time, appearing unfazed by the attentions of the old man. For his part, Mr Pym enjoyed watching the handsome boy; more than once wondering why he did so. He followed the boy's movements, admiring the youthful vigour and also the easy charm he had with the two Englishwomen, smiling and joking with them. For their part, they doubtless enjoyed the attentions of the handsome French boy, judging by their unconscious little preening actions, Mr Pym was amused to see.
Despite Bruno's excellent command of English, the two women would insist on talking to him in execrable French, but Bruno humoured them. On one occasion, when the boy came over to his table to clear away his plate, he murmured, "Mon Dieu! I have never heard my lovely language so terribly raped!" He winked at Mr Pym, who chuckled. "You are doing so well, Bruno! Chin up! Dinner will soon be over! Try not to kill them quite yet!" Bruno laughed as he replied, "It's taking all my self-control!" He took Mr Pym's plates.
The two Englishwomen, Mr Pym was delighted to see, decided they would have their coffees and liqueurs in the sitting room and "perhaps a hand or two of rummy." Mr Pym called Bruno over and said, in a quiet voice "I think I shall stay here and possibly have a small calvados."
"Certainly m'sieur."
Mr Pym opened his book to read while he waited for Bruno to bring him his digestif.
'If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed...'
How potent that image summoned up by Rupert Brooke, the young English poet who briefly served in the First World War.
Although Brooke never saw action in the same way as his own brother, Robin, Mr Pym was always moved by the simple, moving austerity of the poems by the man someone had dubbed 'the most handsome man in Britain.'
Mr Pym's thoughts travelled back more than sixty years. After only a few weeks' basic training somewhere on the south coast, Robin, now a lieutenant in the 3rdInfantry Division, had been shipped over to France on that fateful June day in 1944, landing at the so-called "Sword Beach." Robin had survived the actual landing, in fact allied casualties were relatively 'light' - a term Mr Pym found offensive; since when were the deaths of human beings in a pointless war 'light´? He felt it belittled the dead soldiers' supreme sacrifice. However, there was nothing he could do about the jargon used by the propaganda machine in order to 'pretty up' the horrors of war for the patriotic domestic market.
Be that as it may, during the weeks that followed, Robin and his comrades had become more or less entrenched only a matter of miles from the original landing-point. Despite the scale of the D-day landings, as they were called, militarily, they did not produce immediate results, thousands of men and artillery becoming bogged down and involved in skirmishes with German troops scattered through the region.
Robin was killed by a German sniper hiding in a church tower during a routine reconnoissance mission. His fellow comrades-in-arms buried him in that church's graveyard and his commanding officer sent his personal belongings, including the book Mr Pym was now holding, back to the grieving parents. After the war, Robin's remains would be moved from the small, intimate French churchyard where he had lost his life, to lie in uniformed, almost anonymous regimentation along with thousands of others who had died. The British and allied way of 'tidying up'. It made Mr Pym's gorge rise, the useless hypocrisy of it all.
The small leatherbound volume was stained with Robin's blood. Mr Pym looked again at the inscription on the flyleaf, written in his father's small, precise handwriting:
For My Dear Son Robin - "Home Thoughts from Abroad"
Return safely and victorious!
Your loving father.
Peregrine Pym now felt no bitterness towards his father. ´My Dear Son' sounded as if Robin were an only child, Peregrine had often thought, and it was only to be expected from someone like his father to include the word 'victorious'. He himself had been exempt from national service in the First World War, due to his asthma, otherwise, had he experienced at first-hand the horrors of trench-warfare, perhaps would have thought twice about writing what he did. Of course, Mr Pym had often read Browning's poem 'Home Thoughts from Abroad.' How typical that the bird-loving father would refer to that particular poem! As he studied the faded ink, partially obscured by his brother's blood, Peregrine yet again forgave his father. He was the product of his time; he knew no better.
Images of how Robin met his death flashed upon Mr Pym's inward eye as it had done thousands of times before; the dawn patrol, silent, bomb-shattered streets, the tense, nervous young men, eyes everywhere, flinching at the slightest sound, the fleetest of imagined movements in the corners of their eye. And, high up in the tower, an equally scared young man, rifle cocked, looking through the sights. Did he consciously pick out Robin as his target, or was it purely random? What thoughts ran through the young German soldier's mind, as he trained his rifle on the figure of the young soldier caught in his sights? Did he give a thought to the boy's parents, lover, siblings? Did he, perhaps, waver in his resolve, maybe even decide not to shoot at all? Perhaps the single shot was accidental, simply a nervous reaction to an extraneous sound or imagined danger? Mr Pym could never know. The only fact remained was that the bullet caught Robin's throat and he died almost instantly, according to the letter his parents had received from Robin's senior officer. Images from that death played themselves over and over in Mr Pym's brain; the shot, the blood, Robin on the ground. All over within a fraction of a second; eighteen years old and how ever many more years expunged by that single, small cylinder of steel?
The sweat, the blood, the fear. The panic in his brother's companions, who, as he lay sprawled lifeless on that empty French village street, scrambled for cover, eyes everywhere, breath short, hearts thumping. Silent orders, sign-language of death, as their senior officer pointed to the church tower, silhouetted blackly against a grey dawn sky. Peering round bombed-out windowframes, from behind an abandoned cart, rifles trained on a high-up narrow slit of a window. The nearby rooks, resettling after their sudden flight from the elm tree after the single shot rang out, an uneasy silence now blanketing the deserted street. Until, a careless move, perhaps, a fleeting glance from high above gave one of Robin's friends an opportunity to even the score, avenge his comrade's death.
'Eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.'
Revenge extracted and yet another family's unlooked-for sorrow.
Not for the first time, Mr Pym wondered what the point of it all was.
What had been achieved? Honour? Hardly. Glory? Certainly not.
Nothing. Nothing at all. Two pointless deaths to add to the countless others.
And now, more than sixty years on, Robin lay a couple of miles from here in one of those many thousand military graves. A name, a number, regimental crest and perhaps a biblical quotation, all executed precisely, unfeelingly, perfectly aligned. In death one of the countless legion of cannon-fodder, pawns in some crazy dictator's game of human chess and a misguided belief that throwing young men and women into hails of bullets would ever - could ever solve anything.
The faded handwriting broke up in a hazy kaleidoscope of blue, white and rusty brown as tears started from Mr Pym's tired old eyes.
Bruno returned to the dining room, with Mr Pym's drink. Pausing in the doorway, he saw the hunched, frail old man, head bowed, as he closed the small book he was reading. To Bruno, this Englishman seemed suddenly very ancient, fragile and vulnerable. It was as if he were emerging from a struggle he knew he had no hope of winning and yet he still carried on, some indomitable spirit, which urged the frail old man onwards, unforgivingly. A fierce emotion welled up inside young Bruno. For a moment, he felt powerless in its grip.
What was it? Rage? Fear?... Love? He couldn't tell.
Moving quickly and quietly over to Mr Pym's diminutive figure, he placed the glass of sweet, amber liquid close to the small, leatherbound book, on which Mr Pym's hand still rested, as if on a breviary. Faded blue eyes, met his and his small hand fluttered slightly above the brown leather book on the white tablecloth, reminding Bruno of a small moineau or sparrow. For a moment, Mr Pym's hand hovered, trembling in the air, close to Bruno's own, before falling back on to the table. A deep sigh seemed to come from the very heart of Peregrine Pym.
"Merci, mon ami, tu est..." then his voice faded, but at the same time, his eyes, meeting those of the young man seemed to say so much more.
Bruno nodded and with a gentle smile, excused himself. For some reason, he felt deeply affected by what he could only describe as the old man's aloneness.
Mr Pym remained in the dining room for another twenty minutes or so, alone with his thoughts, before slowly getting to his heet. Finding a sign on the lift's grille that said, Détraqué - Out of Order, Mr Pym sighed and made his tortured way up the stairs to his room.
9
The air was close in Mr Pym's small room. Even with the window open, the evening air felt oppressive. There was hardly a breath of wind and clouds hid the stars. Mr Pym felt, or imagined he felt, a tension in the atmosphere. There might be a thunderstorm later on.
There seemed to be noise all around him. Shouts, screams, whistles, explosions, and yet he could see nothing. The fog was so thick, his vision was reduced to a few feet in any direction. He felt disoriented. Was he going in the right direction? Slowly, one foot before another, one step at a time, he dragged his feet, willing himself to go on. Potholes everywhere, the ground at his feet a churned up soup of mud, twisted strands of barbed wire, and occasionally an unidentifiable heap of rags, some of which groaned or screamed at him as he passed by in his agonising slowness. Like a blind man feeling his way, one hand stretched in front of him, the other clammily gripping his service revolver, the young soldier, mud caked, sweating profusely, drenched by the soft, yet insistent drizzle, deafened by the continuous fusillade of explosions, blinded by the fog. The young man knew he had to be in Hell and that this would never end; this would be his eternity. Tears pouring freely down his cheeks, sobs wracking his body, as he slowly moved he knew not where, he just prayed for it to end. Now.
Bright blue sky. A dog's excited bark. Dappled sunlight through the branches of a great oak tree. A young boy, about thirteen or so, running through the knee-high grass, blond hair glinting in the sun. The boy is pulling a kite behind him, which, catching the breeze, flies up into the blue, a red rectangle of flimsy tissue paper, balsa and glue, a tail of multicoloured ribbons streaming behind, it climbs higher and higher, a black rhombus against the summer sun's disc. Dancing and swooping in the breeze down in the lower meadow, which is full over summer flowers; whites, reds, blues and gold amongst the plumed grasses, the feathery tips waving in ripples, as if laughing in tandem with the boy with the wheaten hair as he tugs and slackens the taut string in his hand. In the shade of the oak tree, proud parents call encouragingly to their beloved son, while, unseen to them, behind the large tree's trunk, a pale, sickly hunchbacked boy scratches the loose soil with a twig, angrily prodding the scrabbling beetles into the ground.
Silence. A dripping tap. White tiles. A lion's paw.
Standing in the middle of the room, a giant white bathtub.
Drip.. drip... drip....
Brass taps gleam dully, drip.. drip... drip....
The bathtub seems to reach the ceiling; drip.. drip... drip...
Then, suddenly it shrinks back, yet it still stands as high as my chest.
Standing next to the bathtub, I don't want to look into it.
I'm afraid of what I will see. Drip.. drip... drip....
But I know I will have to look there.
It's not a choice. Drip.. drip... drip....
Unable to control myself, I lean over, peer into the tub.
Smooth skin, caramel coloured, round, sculpted shoulders, accented bone structure of the collarbones, water laps benath the chin, smooth jaw, a trace of a moustache, long, almost aquiline nose, the dark eyebrows almost meet - beneath long, luxuriant lashes, dark piercing eyes, gleaming like jet, the black hair slicked back, away from the noble brow...broad chest, the taut aureoles a darker, chocolate brown, defined pectorals, a dusting of black hairs in the hollow of the sternum; flat stomach, a hint of muscle definition...a trail of darker wiry hairs leads from the navel to a thick, matted bush... proud manhood, darker, blue-veined flesh, lying limply, heavily along the lighter-coloured muscled thigh..the water covering the orbs below, couched loosely in their sac...defined calves, more dark hairs here and then slim ankles and a pair of half-submerged feet, long toes flexed against the bathtub's end.
Image of perfect youth, each detail going to make the whole - senses reel, heart beats faster, breath comes hard, the vision almost overpowering in its simple, sensual, unnatainable beauty...
Leaning forward - the need to touch, if only for a second, a fraction of a second - even if it means eternal damnation in the fires of Hell... the overwhelming need to feel the warmth, to feel life, youth, beauty - just to touch that smooth skin, the youth beneath my fingertips, I lean forward...closer...even closer...
Drip.. drip... drip....
The golden vision fades instantly, and, grinning up at me, a rotting corpse in its tattered uniform. Foul odours rise up from the bathtub coffin. I fall back, retching, the animal howl of frustration in my throat....
Explosions, fog... I'm lost in Hell....
Mr Pym started up in bed, his scream caught in his throat. Sweat was pouring from his thin, misshapen body, drenching his pyjamas. Wildly staring about the unfamiliar space, he became aware of an echo of thunder, dying away in the distance.
And in the bathroom, a tap was slowly dripping.
10
SATURDAY
It was raining. Not heavy rain; that had been during the night, falling from the over-laden clouds above, the deluge clattering and hissing on the slate roofs and whispering on the leaves of the large chestnut tree as Mr Pym held his long vigil after having been woken by his nightmare. He had witnessed the forked lightning reflected in the windows opposite and dancing through his darkened room. He had heard the rolling thunder, which, like heavy artillery echoed around the streets of the sleeping town. All sleeping save perhaps Mr Pym, whose dream had shaken him, seemed to have touched a raw nerve.
Seated now at his table in the dining room, he looked out at the drizzle.
Bruno was not on duty, so his order for tea and toast had been taken by Heloise, a lady who was as broad as she was tall. Somehow or other, she understood Mr Pym's order and as he waited to see what she might bring him for his breakfast, Mr Pym's thoughts returned to Bruno and his dream.
That the boy was good looking was beyond question. Indeed, as he had remarked to himself before, Bruno was a veritable Adonis, Yet Mr Pym had never before considered beauty, male beauty, as anything more than aesthetically pleasing; an appreciation of the male figure purely from the standpoint of classical beauty, as exemplified by Greek and Roman statues. Why Mr Pym should have such an overtly... erotic dream about the young man, he did not know. He recalled the intensity of that dream; how he had - come what may - to touch the young man. Not in any sexual way, of that he was sure... or was he?
Mr Pym suddenly realised that his dream reflected perhaps some truth about himself that, through the years had been buried deep and all but forgotten. Seeing Bruno had awakened something in the old man, something he had not thought about for many, many years. He was a prisoner in his own deformed body, misshapen and crippled from birth. Shunned by his peers, Peregrine Pym had withdrawn into himself; his brother, his beautiful brother a buffer between himself and the outside world. When Robin had gone, something had died within the younger boy and, after the death of his father who might have shown him some love, who, in the months after Robin's death had himself shunned the world, all hope for Peregrine to find love withered and died. He had sacrificed his entire life to his domineering mother, who blamed her deformed son for all her woes, both real and imaginary and in so doing, killed Peregrine just as surely as the sniper's bullet had killed her elder son. Yet, here in this small seaside town in Normandy, with the appearance of this extraordinarily beautiful young man, (for he was beautiful, Mr Pym now acknowledged) Mr Pym's thoughts turned inwards once again as he tried to analyse his feelings.
He thought again about that day in the lower meadow, when Robin was flying his kite. How he had watched the handsome blond boy, how his heart had swelled with pride that this beautiful, strong, brave, handsome youth was his own, his very own brother! Did Robin know that he worshipped the ground that he trod? Did Robin not see how much Peregrine loved him? And when Robin had been so cruelly taken away from them and their lives had all changed beyond recognition, becoming a loveless desert where once there had been light and warmth, Peregrine Pym closed away his love for his brother, locking it deep down in his heart. There it would be safe and private, away from his hectoring mother and mindless acquaintances. Robin's shrine would be sacrosanct. The key thrown away.
And then, out of the blue, along came Bruno. Suddenly, Mr Pym found himself confused, where before he had been, if not certain, then at least settled. Bewildered, where until then he had been sure. Folding and refolding his starched white napkin, Mr Pym conjured up the vision from the dream, quietly, almost reverently, relishing every square inch of that imagined yet perfectly remembered physique.
Mr Pym shuddered as he remembered the transmogrification of Bruno's perfection into that hideous, foul monstrosity which in its skeletal smile seemed to mock him. What did this dream mean, if indeed it meant anything? Suddenly, Mr Pym felt he ought to leave. Leave today and go home. The whole idea had been a mistake. How he could possibly have thought that this... this pilgrimage, for that was what it really was, this journey could bring anything put pain and heartache? Raking up the past when it should be buried.
Yet, he reasoned with himself, he had come here for a specific purpose and he had not yet fulfilled that intention. He would do it as soon as he could, he resolved, looking again out of the window. As if anticipating the old man's dichotomy, the drizzle had stopped and the sun was making a brave attempt to come out from behind the clouds.
Heloise reappeared and miraculously produced two slices of wholemeal toast, two types of jam and a pot of Earl Grey tea.
"Merci," said Mr Pym as the stout matron arranged his breakfast before him.
"Je vous en prie, m'sieur," replied the redoubtable lady in what was a surprisingly soft and melodious voice. She returned Mr Pym's slightly sad smile with one of her own, which lit up her round, slightly flushed face, her dark brown eyes softly shining. He wondered idly whether or not she were related to Bruno: an aunt perhaps? The smile seemed like a faint echo of Bruno's honest, frank look; the same raven-black hair. But then of course, in these small towns, tight-knit communities, it would be more than likely that they were related. Her features weren't perhaps as patrician as Bruno's, the nose less aquiline, the chin more rounded, but in the complexion and dark colouring they might share more than a few genes. All these thoughts ran through his mind during that brief exchange over the breakfast table in the small otherwise deserted dining room.
As he ate, the sun came out, shining obliquely on Mr Pym's grey head. He opened the leather-bound book of poems at random and read:
O World! O Life! O Time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more - Oh, never more!
Images of Bruno from his dream hovered before Mr Pym's eyes as his tea grew cold in its cup.
11
Mr Pym found M. Bellebeau père hovering in the hotel's small foyer as he left the dining room.
"Ah, monsieur, I trust all is well? The, how you say, plumbing is in working order is it not?"
"Indeed yes, thank you. Your son was most adept. Everything running smoothly, hihi! "
"That is good, and everything else is to monsieur's satisfaction?"
"It is indeed, monsieur." Mr Pym hesitated for a moment before continuing:
"Can you tell me if there is a way, other than by taxi, of getting to the cemetery, the war-graves?"
"Ah oui, le cimetière de la guerre," replied the hotel owner, his expression suddenly serious, "we have many people from England who come here, monsieur," he said, "alas, not the kind of tourist attraction one would prefer." The uncharitable thought came suddenly unbidden to Mr Pym's mind but I expect you've made enough money out of them, he tried to push the ungenerous idea from his mind as Bruno's father continued, "Oui, monsieur, there is a bus which goes there, twice a day. You have missed the morning bus, which leaves in a few minutes, at nine o'clock, from the terminus on the promenade. The second leaves from there at three o'clock and arrives at the cemetery about twenty minutes later. It returns to town at five, from the cemetery monsieur."
"Then that is the bus I shall take. Many thanks, monsieur."
"You have perhaps ... a relative there monsieur?" the Frenchman looked with what appeared genuine concern at Mr Pym.
"My brother," Mr Pym replied, rather more curtly than he intended. Bastien Bellebeau gave a small shrug, accompanied by a sigh.
"I am so sorry, monsieur..."
"It was a long time ago now," said Mr Pym, again rather terse. He turned towards the lift, pointing at it with his walking stick. "Is it working today?"
"Ah, oui, monsieur, young Bruno, as you said... most able!" He smiled as he walked around Mr Pym to pull back the iron grille for the older man.
"A real Jacques of all trades!"
"Indeed yes,Hihi!" Mr Pym's mood had for some reason lightened. As the small antiquated lift creaked and groaned to the next floor, Mr Pym realised that just the mention of Bruno had made him feel a lot better. With a little smile, he let himself into his room. He would take a nap and then aim to go down to the seafront for lunch and then take the bus to the cemetery. That was, after all, the reason he had come here in the first place.
Mr Pym's nap was dreamless and he awoke refreshed, two hours later. Back in England, he had contacted the War Graves Commission and been given the exact details of where his brother was buried: Cemetery, section, row, number. So clean, so clinical, so...organised. Nothing if not thorough, he thought with some bitterness. From recruiting his brother to training him, transporting him, getting him killed, letting his parents know, to getting him finally interred in a carefully logged patch of ground in northern France, the British authorities had been amazingly thorough. Not that they cared, thought Mr Pym, but things have to be organised, Without order, there was chaos. How typically English that was! How laughably petty. Robin, reduced to a serial number on a dog tag, had given his life for no other reason than the bureaucrats could make a clean tidy record of it, all neatly filed away, so that some day in some distant future, Peregrine Pym could go and stare down at a patch of turf and remember his brother. The librarian and archivist in Mr Pym understood the need for order, but the man Peregrine Pym cynically laughed. Someone in some faceless office in Whitehall has the information at his fingertips and therefore he is content, he thought as he performed his ablutions, but Robin, in that six-foot hole in the ground doesn't give a tinker's cuss and I am left with nothing. Poor Robin! A number in death as well as in li fe.
Mr Pym, armed with a raincoat in case the rain returned, left the small pension and made his way down the gently sloping streets towards the sea. He had given himself plenty of time so that he would not have to rush, in any case, he was physically incapable of rushing and so that he would have time to find somewhere to have lunch. The weather had improved, but suddenly, to Mr Pym, despite the sun and blue skies, there was an autumnal tinge to the air. Perhaps it was just nonsense, but Mr Pym felt as if some corner had been turned, a new season approaching. The sun shone, certainly, the clouds were high and pale, yet the gentle breeze seemed to have lost its warmth, taken on a slight edge. Mr Pym's eyes watered slightly in the sea breeze as he made his slow way down to the seafront.
His journey took him past a couple of cafés, the clientele quietly chatting, just about all in French, Mr Pym noted. The tourist season was really over and, apart from those dreadful horsey women at his hotel and the young Italian couple and the two men in the restaurant yesterday, he hadn't heard a language other than French.
The broad promenade at the seafront was not crowded. Unlike its British counterpart, here were no fish and chip shops, hot-dog wagons or noisy, smelly public houses. Not for the first time, Mr Pym wondered how a few miles of sea could make such a difference between people. Despite his nationality, or maybe because of it, Mr Pym was not enamoured of the English. He found his countrymen loud, boorish, ignorant. Perhaps he was a snob; well, what if he was? He couldn't understand why the British seemed to need to reduce everything to its lowest common denominator. Where appreciation of the arts was something viewed by the average Englishman as 'suspect', something not to be trusted.
He had observed the 'dumbing-down' of the culture in his own country and was dismayed, though resigned to it. What was suspicious about appreciating a piece of well written prose? Or a poem about love? Or a fine picture or piece of sculpture? Of course, Mr Pym knew that he was generalising, yet he felt almost an alien in his own country and was dismayed by what he saw as indifference to beauty, an indifference that seemed to seep through society and poison it with innuendo. To appreciate the arts, music, poetry and all the rest of it was looked upon with great suspicion, he sometimes felt.
Whereas here, just a relatively few miles of water between them, the French town exuded an air of quiet, honest culture - there was no other word for it. The small shops tastefully displaying home-made wares, either foodstuffs or local lace, wines, fruit - all with a quiet pride. No overstatement - what was the catchphrase he hated so? Ah yes, no in your face mentality here. Just a calm assurance and pride in what was on offer.
Various smells assailed Mr Pym's nostrils as he made his awkward way down through the little cobbled streets; there was of course coffee, as he passed the little tables on the pavement outside the cafés, the smell of freshly baked bread and the sweet smell of pastries and confectionery. The small bistros; garlic, herbs, perhaps a stew or fish for the early lunchers. The tiny, open-fronted bar, where local workmen stood at the counter, some with a pungent Gitane between their lips, quietly chatting with a workmate over a coffee and calvados, or the bitter-sweet smell of a Pernod on a table as he passed by. Small children with their mother; not being shouted at and smacked, which he thought was a sight all too common in his homeland, but treated with love and gentle humour. Why were the English so brutish?
Mr Pym paused to catch his breath. He leant on the iron railing which ran the length the promenade and separated it from the sandy beach below. The English Channel or La Manche - the 'sleeve' as the French called it - glittered in the sunlight. Mr Pym tried to imagine the thousands of ships and boats that landed on beaches similar to this, sixty years ago. The D-Day invasion, further along the coast, and, of course, the Dunkerque evacuation - a major feat of bravery by the common man. Where had those values gone? Mr Pym wondered, as he shielded his eyes against the sun and gazed out to sea.
A group of young men and boys was playing a game of football on the beach. Mr Pym idly watched the tanned, fit bodies of the youths as they raced over the sand with boundless energy. His eye was drawn to one athletic figure; jet black hair, broad swimmer's shoulders, an impossibly slim waist and muscular legs - Bruno. Mr Pym's breath literally caught in his throat when he realised who it was. Memories of his dream returned. Here was the youth, in the flesh, so to speak.
Bruno was dressed in a pair of tight-fitting dark blue or black swimming trunks, Mr Pym couldn't tell which from this distance, with a white line on each side. The shiny material hugged the young man's perfect figure as he chased the ball. He was quick and agile, laughing and shouting with sheer youthful pleasure as he outwitted his fiends, one after the other. Dexterity - could that be the right word for footwork? Mr Pym wondered to himself as he watched Bruno dodge and weave, tanned body against the golden sand, until with a final effort and theatrical dive, kicked the ball and scored a goal. One of his fellow players, a much younger and smaller blond boy, whom Mr Pym recognised as Bruno's protegé, Lucien, helped the older boy to his feet, receiving a gentle pat on the rump for his pains. Mr Pym could see, even from here, that Lucien worshipped the ground that Bruno walked upon.
Mr Pym's eyes remained riveted on Bruno. O my prophetic soul! he whispered to himself, for Bruno looked from here, exactly as he had in Mr Pym's dream, except of course he could not actually see those parts, those prodigious parts barely concealed by the skimpy trunks the boy was now wearing.
Images of statues of Alexander, Narcissus, Apollo, Hermes, Michaelangelo's 'David', jostled in Mr Pym's consciousness, yet Bruno was no dead sculpture in marble, however skilfully executed; this boy was living, breathing perfection. Beauty made manifest and dwelling among us. A bead of perspiration dripped from Mr Pym's brow and into his eye. Pulling a large white handkerchief from his breast pocket, he wiped it away.
Perhaps the movement attracted the boy's attention, distracted him from the game he was playing, or he just happened to glance in that direction at exactly that moment - whatever the cause, he looked up and seeing Mr Pym apparently waving at him from the promenade above, waved back and saying something to his comrades, left the ad hoc game and trotted across the sand, each step kicking up little puffs of gold, towards where Mr Pym, who, for some reason and not knowing why and anyway, not really aware he was, stood holding his breath.
He watched as the lithe young figure took the rough stone steps up to the promenade from the beach two at a time. His hair, wet from the sea, was pushed back off his forehead, curling about his ears and at the nape of his neck. Droplets of water, perhaps sweat or seawater - or both - were dripping down on to the broad, swimmer's shoulders. His torso, which, by its dark hue, reminded him forcefully of a Donatello bronze rippling with muscles, was similarly bespangled, and patches of fine gold sand clung to him, leading Mr Pym to recall fine, granulated demerara sugar on a crème brûlée.
With a slight involuntary shiver, he found himself, yet again, taken aback, no - overpowered, by the boy's masculine good looks. At a glance, he took in the slim waist, the 'V' of Bruno's pelvis and the trail of wiry hairs disappearing below the waistband of the boy's tight-fitting trunks. His breath still catching in his throat, Mr Pym could not help but observe that young Bruno was most definitely the male of the species! Suddenly feeling self-conscious, he raised and half extended his hand. The thought came, unbidden to his mind, that he, a hunchbacked old cripple, was shaking hands with this godlike youth, in a public place? He let his hand fall back. Bruno had not appeared to notice the old man's movement. Panting slightly from his exertions at football, he spoke:
"Bonjour, Peregrine! Ça-va? All well?"
"Bonjour, Bruno. Oui, ça-va merci!"
Bruno, standing up, was a good two feet taller than Mr Pym. He dropped to one knee beside the Englishman, his white teeth flashing as he smiled with what appeared to Mr Pym as genuine friendship. Close up, Mr Pym noticed the salt on Bruno's lips, whitening them with its flaky granules. He saw the grains of sand in Bruno's eyebrows, highlighting the coal-black hair with specks of gold. His eye caught the little rivulets of moisture on the boy's strong shoulders as they coursed over the coffee-coloured skin, which came up in goose-pimples. There were a few, sparse dark hairs between the boy's nipples, which stood erect in the fresh sea-breeze, the rhythmic movements of his muscle-ribbed stomach as he regained his breath. All this Mr Pym took in in the few seconds it took to say hello to each other.
Finding his voice and acutely, almost uncomfortably, aware of the handsome young man's proximity, Mr Pym
"Yes, it does." Bruno turned sideways on to Mr Pym, moving in slightly closer to the old man. A few drops of seawater dropped on to Mr Pym's jacket. Bruno raised an arm and pointed down the promenade. As he stood there, eyes squinting against the sun, Mr Pym's face was within an inch of Bruno's arm.
Mr Pym felt the moisture as it dripped on him, and the heat from his firm body. He saw the thatch of hair at Bruno's armpit and smelt the heady, slightly musky scent of the youth mixed with the fresh, salty tang of the sea. He felt intoxicated, lightheaded. So close! So very close! Bruno's body was almost touching his, he had only to reach out his hand a few centimetres...
"The terminus is about two hundred metres down there and the bus is the number 4. It does a round trip to a couple of villages inland before coming back again. It leaves the terminus at three - it's Saturday, so that's the last bus - and will pick you up again at five at the cemetery gates."
Had Mr Pym turned his head a fraction, his mouth would have come into contact with the boy's upper arm. The thought flashed into his consciousness like a bolt of lightning, a freeze-frame from a film; what would Bruno's skin taste like under his tongue. Salty? Honey-sweet? Caramel?
"What a ridiculous..." thought Mr Pym, before he checked himself.
Was it so ridiculous?
Mr Pym's mouth was dry, his throat constricted. With an effort, he cleared his throat. His self-control took over and he thanked Bruno for his help. The young boy let his arm drop and, rising again to his feet, moved a pace away. Their intimate closeness was over. It had lasted perhaps half a minute or so, but to Mr Pym, it seemed an eternity and he felt suddenly deflated when the young man moved away and the moment had passed. He leaned heavily on his walking stick, still feeling slightly dizzy.
"Thank you Bruno," he managed to say. "Now, don't let me keep you from your game! Perhaps I will see you later?" The question was asked even before he seemed to have formed it in his mind. He didn't know why, but he had to know. He needed to see the boy as often as possible. Even as he asked the question, Mr Pym wondered why he had.
"Oui, bien sûr," Another flash of a brilliant smile lit the boy's features, eyes sparkling in the sunlight. "I shall be working this evening. A bientôt, Peregrine!"
"A bientôt, Bruno," replied Mr Pym, in a hoarse voice, not trusting himself to look his young friend in the eye. He feebly waved a hand in farewell.
The boy turned and leapt back down the stairs, raced across the golden sand and flung himself back into the game with gusto.
Mr Pym observed him for a short while, his thoughts a jumble. He found he was trembling slightly, despite the sweat that made his shirt cling to his back under his woollen blazer. He fished out his white handkerchief again, and, wiping his eyes, turned and continued on his way.
12
Mr Pym, still feeling slightly dizzy and short of breath after his unexpected meeting with Bruno, continued on his slow progress along the promenade of the small French seaside town, close to which, all those years ago, his brother, his hero, had lost his life. The waves still broke along the shore, the children still played on the sand, the church clock still rang out the hours; new generations would come and go, the ebb and flow of human existence would still fill this town and every other, with love and hate, laughter and tears, those petty and portentous acts of our lives. Whilst on the hill behind the town, the legions of youth would moulder and lie forgotten.
He, Peregrine Pym, would soon himself be no more, with no one to mourn his passing. And Bruno, that young, energetic youth would age and wither, his beauty no more than a distant memory; perhaps in a snapshot of a loving mother, aunt or yet a wife or child. Bruno, too, would be swept away by the inexorable tide of life and death. Another Bellbeau to be carved on a tombstone in the little churchyard, joining those who had gone before, not a stone's throw from Robin.
Somehow, the thought of Bruno and Robin each lying in the soil of Normandy comforted Mr Pym as he walked slowly, tortuously along the pavement, past the gaily painted shops and little cafés, past the little groups of children, chatting excitedly, the old men with their memories, playing at boules under the shade of the plane trees outside their local bar, whilst others sat at tables singly or in groups, shuffling dominos and sipping Calvados, talking quietly about everything and nothing.
Mr Pym found a small restaurant as he was crossing a side street which fed into the broad promenade. He smelt it before he saw it; a pungent aroma of garlic and roasting meat. He looked up the narrow cobbled street, no more than a lane really, and on it's right hand side about twenty yards up, there was an open door in front of which a blackboard announced the specialité du jour. Mr Pym decided this would be a most agreeable place to take his lunch. He did not want to walk much further and he was within a short distance of the terminus. He turned up the narrow street and walked towards the restaurant, outside of which stood a small table with a red-chequered tablecloth, a menu and a small vase of wild flowers. He opted to dine alfresco since the table was shaded by the building opposite. Hanging his walking stick in the place opposite him, he sat on the slightly rickety wooden chair and picked up the menu.
"Hmm. Better steer clear of the mussels!" he murmured to himself as he studied the bill of fare. He did not want a repeat of yesterday's attack, though he put that down to the fact that he probably had overtaxed himself rather than the quality of the food. The speciality of the day, according to the blackboard, was a gigot, or legof lamb in a red wine sauce with rosemary and garlic. The smell coming from the restaurant was extraordinarily good and Mr Pym resolved upon the lamb, to be followed by an orange sorbet. He decided to order just one glass of house red and a bottle of Perrier water.
The young waitress who took his order, was probably about Bruno's age, Mr Pym thought, as he waited for his food. She had the same dark colouring, there might be a chance she was a relative of the young man. Maybe they knew each other? It would seem likely, the town wasn't that large, they looked to be the same age. Perhaps they were at the same school, maybe in the same class? Mr Pym's thoughts meandered on as he sat at the small table outside the little restaurant. Probably, somewhere two thousand years or so ago, her ancestor was a Roman soldier, perhaps, fathering a child before moving on, perhaps to conquer Britain, who knows? Maybe this girl and Bruno shared their DNA with someone in the south of England, in his village even? "Hihi! " Mr Pym chuckled to himself at the thought. He grew serious as he toyed with the idea that this pretty young girl was Bruno's amour, that he and she... he shook the thought from his mind as the young girl came out again with Mr Pym's wine and water.
"M-sieur."
"Merci."
He poured the water and watched as the bubbles streamed up the tall glass, sparkling for a second in the air before disappearing. Mr Pym's thoughts wandered on: Bruno would get married, have a vast family, move away from the town, disappear into some large city, grow into paunchy middle age, lose his looks, grow old and die. Mr Pym choked back a sob. Not for himself, but for the youth of the world, whose exuberance and love of life, their beauty and feelings of immortality being dashed for ever, wiped out, passed over - forgotten. An instant in eternity; unknown, unremarked in the great scheme of things; mere ciphers.
Until he had met Bruno, Mr Pym didn't think he had any place in the world. His life had been spent in the shadow of his mother and her needs, real and imaginary. Mr Pym had accepted that his lot in life was wound up with hers. He had accepted the fact that he would live a few more years and quietly die, leaving the world unchanged. Now, having met the boy, he suddenly realised, with an intense urgency, that he didn't want to leave the world. Not yet. Not even soon. Bruno had awoken in him a deep-seated passion he never knew he possessed. Suddenly, his few years with Robin threw everything else into sharp relief. What had slumbered and died in Mr Pym had woken. Somehow, the intense, dark young man had unlocked something in himself that he thought had died on that empty, war-torn village street. Something that died in that small letter that lay on the table between his parents. Something that had died as he lay on his bed, his body wracked with sobs, while his father's hand remained on the doorknob, unable to turn it.
Mr Pym pictured Bruno's youthful exquisitely formed body as he had seen it in his dream and as he had experienced it on the promenade half an hour before and he knew he had to have one touch. Just one... His breath shallow, eyes unseeing, small beads of perspiration forming on his upper lip, Mr Pym sat at the small table, on the rickety chair, his hand absently stroking the long, cool glass, while the bubbles rose and exploded, rose and exploded...
Shortly afterwards, while he was eating his sorbet, Mr Pym heard the sound of laughter and a large number of youths crossed the narrow cobbled lane, where it joined the promenade. It took no longer than a few seconds, but didn't Mr Pym make out the slim form of Bruno, with Lucien, joyously calling out, perched on his shoulders, as they and their friends jostled their way across the cobbles, calling and laughing at each other?... or was it just wishful thinking?
Sighing, Mr Pym finished his sorbet, drained his glass of wine and, after looking at his watch, ordered an espresso.
13
"AT THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN AND IN THE MORNING
WE WILL REMEMBER THEM"
The remaining clouds had dispersed and now the sun was fully out and the brightness of the white stone dazzled Mr Pym. Shielding his eyes better against the sun, he read the familiar words, carved into the white marble pedestal of a large bronze statue of a young soldier, head bowed, leaning on his down-turned rifle, which stood just inside the entrance to the cemetery. Memories of countless Services of Remembrance, broadcast on television from the Cenotaph in Whitehall came rushing back to Mr Pym as he stood for a moment, halted by the solemn, tragic beauty of the statue and the vista beyond; serried rows of crosses and tombstones, rank upon rank, row upon row, up the opposite hill, the edifices silhouetted against the sky a quarter of a mile away. In the centre, the large "Stone of Remembrance" designed by Lutyens, raised on its platform of three broad stairs.
He remembered how his mother refused to watch with him, so that he had to retreat to his room on that occasion; one Sunday each year in November, when the dead from two World Wars were commemorated. Here, alone, he grieved for his beloved brother, Robin.
Under autumn sunshine, or lowering clouds, they marched past, the old soldiers, fewer and fewer with each passing year. Leaves from the plane trees floated gently down as, in the distance, the guns in Hyde Park fired their salute and the eyes of the nation were fixed upon the poppy wreaths, scarlet on grey. Then, for two minutes, a total enveloping silence, so deep, so profound, even more so due to the traffic driving around the not so distant Trafalgar Square, yet in this usually busy thoroughfare, where during the week cars, taxis and buses rumbled, people charging about on what to them were important errands, here there was a silence deeper than the tomb. Then, out of that profound silence, the buglers playing the "Last Post", for Mr Pym perhaps the most moving and evocative series of notes ever put together.
Mr Pym's mother, angrily sitting in her own world, refusing to acknowledge the loss of her son, her only real son, bitterly trying to keep control not allowing even the smallest emotion to show, for that would be defeat. That would be an admission of weakness. Her body might have given up on her, but her mind hadn't. Proudly, she would sit alone on those Sunday mornings in November, knowing full well what that cripple was doing in his own room down the corridor, but denying it to herself. Robin was alive and well and whole, in her heart. She expected him any minute to come through her door, looking exactly as she remembered him; so dashing in his uniform! Such a handsome, healthy boy! So loving, kind and attentive to his mother! Her gaze, fixed on some distant point, softened, then hardened again as, hearing the muffled notes of the bugles through her tightly shut door, she compared her devoted Robin to that... that abomination down the corridor, who remained whilst her beloved boy had not...
***
Mr Pym reached into his wallet and found the neatly printed card the sergeant at the Commonwealth War Graves Commission in London had produced for him:
Lt. Pym, R. 33 rd Battalion the Sussex Rifles
Commonwealth War Graves, St. Etienne-sur-Mer, France.
Section: P
Row: 29
Plot: 168
The gravestones used by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission are made of Portland stone, rounded at the top, each exactly the same size - no pulling rank amongst the dead - whilst in other sections, where soldiers from other countries lay, there were crosses or stars of David. All neatly laid out, the bright green grass between the rows, each grave with its own little floral bed at the base of the stone. More widely spaced were trees; oak, elm and poplar. Some of the plots also had small wooden crosses with poppies on them, or an extra floral tribute, some even had small flags. To his slight annoyance, Mr Pym realised he hadn't brought any flowers with him; there hadn't been anywhere to buy flowers on his journey, as he had half expected. "No matter," he murmured to himself, "Robin wouldn't care anyway."
Having got his bearings, the old man began his slow walk through the ranks of the dead, all neatly lined up for his inspection. He stopped now and again, partly to rest and partly to read the inscriptions on the stones. They were simply done, but most expertly, Mr Pym saw. Most headstones were inscribed with a cross, except for those deceased known to be atheist or non-Christian. Differentiated only by their inscriptions: the national emblem or regimental badge, rank, name, unit, date of death and age of each casualty was inscribed above an appropriate religious symbol and a more personal dedication chosen by relatives. Many gravestones, Mr Pym noted, were for unidentified casualties; they consequently bore only what could be discovered from the body.
Mr Pym knew that there would be no personal dedication on Robin's headstone. His mother had been adamant on that point, defying the wishes of her husband, who, becoming weak both in mind and body, hadn't the strength to insist. She refused to acknowledge the death of her son. His name was not to be mentioned in her hearing. The photographs of him had been hidden away almost immediately after the arrival of that impersonal telegram, only to be discovered by Mr Pym after the death of his mother in a suitcase in the attic as he was clearing the house. Until then, he had thought that the photographs had been destroyed by his mother.
The blond, curly-haired, blue-eyed and boyish face stared back at Mr Pym through the dusty air in the attic, catching him unawares, causing him to almost stumble backwards. His Robin, his protector, his sword and shield! Mr Pym had taken the photographs, dusted them down and placed them in silver frames and they were now displayed on the various surfaces in his little flat.
Suddenly, there it was. A pale headstone, like all the thousand others. Small flowers growing at its base, the carving looking as if it had been done yesterday. The line between dark brown mulch of the narrow flowerbed and the emerald green of the grass as sharp as the crease in a sergeant-major's uniform.
Not far away, a poplar rose up a hundred feet into the still air. In the silence, bees buzzed by, two white butterflies danced and bobbed amongst the cool, pale stones and birds sang somewhere close by, while in the distance, like a quiet undertone to the peaceful, solemn scene, the sound of a motor-mower gently droning. Unbidden, the words from Siegfried Sassoon's poem "Everyone Sang" came to Mr Pym's mind. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the worn leather-bound book and after finding the page, began to quietly read out loud, his thumb and fingers stroking the stained page:
Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on--on--and out of sight.
Mr Pym grew silent and stood, Panama hat in hand, head bowed over his brother's grave, where lay that 'richer dust, concealed'. He did not weep; instead he thought of red kites, eagles invisible to his eye, bruised knees, a warm embrace, blue, honest eyes and a deep, pure love only a brother can know. He did not pray, he didn't see the point. Instead he conjured up visions of whittling sticks, games of 'snap', winter evenings beside a fire, conkers and autumn bonfires. He did not rail against a god, real or imaginary; instead he smelt the burning leaves, the toasting crumpets, the scent and feel of his brother's rough green tunic when he hugged him before he went to war. The smooth, ruddy cheek he kissed that morning, long ago. The promises he made and demanded. Mr Pym thought on, as the bees buzzed, the birds sang and the old sun warmed his bare, grey head. He opened the book again and continued to read aloud, for Robin:
Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away ... O, but Everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.
"Goodbye, Robin, dearest brother. Goodbye. Go now - I am at peace and so are you, now, I think."
And then Mr Pym smiled. The beatific smile lit up his whole face, the crows' feet wrinkled at the corners of his tired, old eyes, which, for a minute or two, sparkled as bright and blue as the sky above him. Behind him, from the tall, solemn poplar tree which had stood sentry over Robin's grave, there erupted, with the sound of a thousand flags cracking in the wind, a flock of birds, whirring suddenly to life through the air, each one singing as if fit to burst. They wheeled and snaked, as if one invisible hand were controlling them, soaring and diving above the hunchbacked old man who looked up at them, his eyes glittering like diamonds. And before he could help himself, Mr Pym laughed. A great surge of pure joy coursed through him as the flock of little birds sang and wheeled above him. Mr Pym laughed as he had as a child, on the shoulders of his beloved brother, or watching as he dived into the lake, spraying him with the myriad glittering rainbowed drops under an eternal childhood sun. He laughed and laughed, his joy mirrored in the birds' flight overhead.
And in the distance, silhouetted against the bright blue sky, a lone figure turned and walked away, disappearing out of sight over the crest of the hill.
14
Mr Pym was lost in his memories during the bus ride back to town. In his mind's eye, he saw the flock of birds forever flying, the rows of tombstones stretching away and the name of his brother, etched into the honey-coloured stone. There was no sadness in Mr Pym; a gentle smile played around his mouth, the echo of his laughter still resounding. After all the years imprisoned with his mother as gaoler, Mr Pym felt, for the first time since her death and possibly for the first time since his childhood, liberated. A weight had been lifted, a window opened; light flooded into Mr Pym's soul.
In this mood of quiet joy, he returned to the hotel. Even meeting the two Englishwomen in the foyer did not dampen Mr Pym's happiness. He raised his hat to them as they passed him on their way out, bestowing upon them his cherubic smile.
"Good evening, monsieur," said the desk clerk as he handed over Mr Pym's key, "will you be dining in this evening, monsieur?"
"Good evening, yes, most certainly, I shall," replied the still beaming Englishman.
"Bien," Mr Pym seemed to bound up the stairs under the somewhat surprised look of the desk clerk. Mr Pym's good mood seemed to have rubbed off on him and he smiled to himself as he went back to his book in his small cubbyhole behind the counter.
Mr Pym was the only guest for dinner. Bruno was waiting for him as he came into the small dining room. With a warm smile, Bruno pulled Mr Pym's usual chair from under the table. "Bonsoir, Peregrine," he said, as Mr Pym took his seat. He noticed a small vase of fresh flowers on his table; poppies and buttercups. "Bonsoir, Bruno," replied Mr Pym, "this looks very nice," he added, indicating the flowers. Bruno coloured slightly, "Maman, " he said with a slight laugh, which Mr Pym, for some reason thought of as nervous. "She likes to make things look nice," went on the young man as Mr Pym placed his small book of poems on to the crisp white tablecloth. His was the only table with flowers, he noted, looking around the room.
"Very much appreciated, Bruno," said Mr Pym, with a smile to the young man, who flushed a little more under his olive complexion. "Now," continued the Englishman, with a businesslike air, "what has Maman prepared for dinner this evening?"
Bruno smiled back at him and recited: "Maman has decided on soupe à l'oignon, French onion soup, with home-baked baguette, truite aux amandes, trout with almonds, fresh trout from the river, caught this morning, with a salade verte, green salad, followed by crème brûlée, If Sir is agreeable?" This last with a slight wink at Mr Pym, who, entering into the spirit of Bruno's humour, replied, "Sir finds it most agreeable, master Bellebeau. I look forward to Maman's culinary delectation!" Actually, as Mr Pym had become aware, Madame Bellebeau was an extremely accomplished cook; yesterday's dinner had been excellent.
"Might I suggest a chablis to go with Sir's meal?" continued Bruno, seemingly thoroughly enjoying the lighthearted banter with the elderly Englishman, his eyes twinkling.
"I think that would be most satisfactory, dear boy," replied Mr Pym. "I leave the choice of wine in your very capable hands!" Bruno didn't blush at this, but smiled even more broadly. "Certainment, monsieur!" I shall return tout de suite!" He turned almost flamboyantly on his heel and left the dining room, Mr Pym's eyes following his lithe form as he pushed through the swing door into the kitchen, where, Mr Pym could hear, Maman was working away. Still smiling, Mr Pym opened his book at random and read:
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear times' waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night.
And weep afresh love's long-since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
Then can I grieve at grievance foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.
(Shakespeare; Sonnet 30)
For some reason, Mr Pym found the poem most apt, in the light of today's occurrences.
He was still smiling when Bruno came back into the dining room with the soup and his white wine.
As Mr Pym had expected, the food was delicious, the onion soup almost sweet, not bitter and salty as the English make it and the trout in almonds light yet satisfying. Bruno browned Mr Pym's crème brûlée at his table, with a small, hand-held blowtorch. The sugar on top of the confection browning and bubbling in its little ramekin. "Parfait!" said Mr Pym, when he judged the sugar was dark enough. "Monsieur must be careful, it is very hot," warned the young man.
"I shall, Bruno, thank you."
"Would you like coffee and a liqueur afterwards?" asked Bruno as he prepared to leave.
"That would be very nice," replied Mr Pym.
Mr Pym thought as he ate his hot dessert. His need became crystal clear and he now looked it in the face. He desperately needed to touch Bruno, to feel that soft, brown skin under his fingers, to stroke that jawline, run his hands over the dark skin of the young man. Mr Pym's life had been loveless, spent in the suffocating cocoon of his mother's house, obeying her every whim, always at her beck and call. Mr Pym had never had a relationship with anyone throughout his life. No woman had been the object of Mr Pym's affections, no, nor any man either. Mr Pym had never known physical attraction for any other person. He knew that he, misshapen and crippled only awoke revulsion - or worse - in others. He had seen that as a child, suffering the taunts and the mockery of his peers.
Robin had protected him as far as he could, yet after he went away, never to return, Peregrine Pym's life had become one of a recluse, more or less. What had attracted him to Bruno was not only the young man's stunning good looks, but also the fact that he did not look with aversion at Mr Pym. The old man had become an expert at reading the small signals in the faces of people he met and he knew by their unconscious expressions they made how they viewed him and his disability. There was none of that in Bruno's frank, open gaze. The boy took Mr Pym as he was, without judgement, without reservation. And for that, Mr Pym blessed him.
His dessert finished and the table cleared, Bruno brought Mr Pym's coffee and a glass of Calvados. "My compliments to... er... Maman, Bruno. That was a delicious meal!" After a second's hesitation, Mr Pym continued, "perhaps you would care to join me in a post prandial, Bruno? Seeing as I am the only guest. Unless, of course, you have other plans," he added in a rush, somewhat surprised at his own forwardness in suggesting to the boy that he join him in a drink.
Bruno turned back and faced Mr Pym. He smiled and said, "I would be honoured, Monsieur. Thank you. Perhaps just un café for me. I'll just go and fetch it. Merci, Peregrine!" He gave Mr Pym a ravisihing smile.
Mr Pym gave a small bow of the head. "I look forward to it, Bruno."
He wondered why he had acted so impulsively. Yet he already knew the answer: Bruno was an exceptionally good-looking and very likeable young man and Mr Pym enjoyed his company.
Yet there was more; Mr Pym, when he was in Bruno's presence, seemed to have a dull ache, which he couldn't fully explain. All he knew, was that being close to Bruno, both made the pain more acute, yet pleasurable at the same time, like picking at a scab, it was pleasurable torture.
As he waited for the French boy to return, he wondered again at his uncharacteristic impulsiveness. He wondered what, if anything, would happen next.
15
Bruno returned a few minutes later with his espresso and a small bowl of chocolates. "Maman thanks you for the compliment, Peregrine. She says to enjoy the chocolates."
"How very kind. I'm sure we shall! Hihi! " replied Mr Pym as Bruno sat down opposite him. For what must have been the thousandth time, Mr Pym admired the lithe form of the young man who sat opposite him. Bruno's raven-black hair was, as usual, combed back off his high forehead, his jet black eyes sparkled under their heavy eyebrows, impossibly long dark lashes on their hooded lids. Aquiline nose, smooth cheeks, still soft jawline, untouched, he guessed, by tempered steel, though it wouldn't be long before Bruno would be shaving, he thought. The slim neck disappearing beneath the buttoned collar of his white shirt, the small black bowtie just covering his Adam's apple. The shirt was quite a tight fit and Mr Pym recalled the strong swimmer's chest, broad shoulders and defined abdomen he had seen earlier that day on the promenade. And beneath the table, in his imagination, he saw Bruno's long, slim legs encased in their tight-fitting black trousers, each curve and contour a joy to behold, just as Mr Pym had observed during dinner as Bruno moved about the dining room, taking very good care of the solitary diner. The image of the naked youth in Mr Pym's dream flashed upon Mr Pym's inner eye. Something stirred within the old man, a fluttering, a shiver. He was in such proximity to this vision, this specimen of absolute perfection, he felt his breathing become constricted, throat tighten. What on earth was this? He was tongue-tied, like an adolescent, love-struck youth!
He found he had been staring at the boy and Bruno was giving him a slightly quizzical look. How long had Mr Pym been staring silently at the boy? He had no idea. With an almost physical movement, Mr Pym hauled himself back to the here and now. For once, it was he, not Bruno, who was blushing slightly. He raised his glass. "A votre santé, Bruno. Cheers," he said and took a sip of the sweet amber liquid. Its strength seemed to revive the old man and help shake him out of the reverie he had been in moments ago.
"So, you shall take your baccalauréat next year? Then what will you do, Bruno? Any thoughts yet?"
Bruno shrugged, an eloquent gesture. He pursed his full, red lips, as he pondered his reply. "I'm not sure, to be absolutely honest. I don't really know what I want to do..."
"Well, you speak English remarkably well, perhaps you might want to study English, teach the language even?"
Another shrug. "I'm not sure I have the patience to be a teacher, although I have to admit, I do enjoy my sessions with Lucien. But that is different, isn't it, teaching one-on-one, rather than a whole class?"
Mr Pym agreed. "Maybe you could teach privately and work at something else. What interests do you have, Bruno?"
Another slight shrug as the boy toyed with the spoon in his coffee. "I enjoy sports, but I'm not good enough at any of them to become an athlete. I don't really have any passion..." here the young man paused and now it was his turn to colour slightly. "Well," he said, slowly sightly embarrassed, gazing into his coffee cup, "I like drawing... I'm quite good at it, I think. I've been sketching and doodling ever since I was a boy. I would have liked to be an artist, study it, I mean, but Papa says I shouldn't waste my time. He wants me to study business or suchlike, something really boring, and then come back here and run this d... I mean run this place. But I really don't want to. It's not as if it's the most exciting place in the world and in the last few years it's been running at a loss. The visitors just don't come here as much as they used to. Papa won't hear of closing down, selling the business and retiring. He says there's a future for the hotel, but he doesn't see... he doesn't understand. This place has been their whole life, for my parents. They won't admit that it's over. Finished. I try and tell Papa, but he's stubborn and just says all it needs is that I study hard, then come back here and turn things around. But I can't." His eyes flashed as he looked defiantly at Mr Pym,. "I won't do it!"
This had been the longest speech Mr Pym had heard from Bruno and he saw the passion in the boy's eyes as he spoke, cheeks flushed, his gestures animated. Bruno was clearly dead set against following in his father's footsteps. With a small sigh, Mr Pym realised that that would have to be a battle between father and son. He had no business trying to influence Bruno. What would be would be, as the old song said; Que será, será.
"I'd love to see some of your drawings, Bruno," said Mr Pym, changing the subject. An idea struck him. Without thinking he went on, carried away by his idea. "In fact, Bruno, Hihi! I'd like to commission a drawing from you." The boy's eyes lit up in astonishment. "But, you haven't seen any of my work!" He said. Mr Pym waved the objection aside. "Bruno, I would like a particular drawing from you. A sort of memento of my visit." Taking a deep breath, Mr Pym ploughed on, not knowing how his request would be received. "I would like to commission a self-portrait, Bruno. A picture of you. To remind me of this place, to remind me of here, of the cemetery, the town... to remind me of you," he finished in a low voice, eyes down, hardly daring to look the young man in the eye.
He felt the silence, eyes still fixed on the table in front of him. There was a small stain on the white tablecloth, where a drop of coffee had landed, spreading outwards, the splashmark reminding Mr Pym of a Rorschach test. Mr Pym stared deep at the small brown stain against the dazzling white, hoping against hope that he hadn't gone too far, overstepped some invisible boundary. The brown coffee stain seemed to him to grow huge, Mr Pym dwindling in size to an infinitesimal smallness. The stain looked to him like a dragon's head, a spider, a dark whirlpool, seeming to suck Mr Pym into its very centre. Mr Pym found he could hardly breathe, his consciousness seeming to be entirely overtaken by the coffee-stain now grown to gigantic proportions.
He hardly heard what came next. The silence was broken by Bruno's soft voice replying, "It would be a great honour and a pleasure, Peregrine! Certainement you shall have a drawing from me, a portrait. Oui!"
Mr Pym's heart seemed to skip a beat. Suddenly the drop of coffee dwindled away to nothingness as Mr Pym re-emerged from his moment of panic. He looked up into Bruno's smiling face. "Strictly business, Bruno, this is a commission. I want to pay you for it, mind!"
"We'll discuss that later, Peregrine. I shall start work right away!" His look became sad for a moment, "but you are leaving soon, n'est-ce pas?"
Mr Pym nodded, all to aware that his time here was short. "Alas, yes," he replied. I leave on Monday, the day after tomorrow."
"Then I must work quickly!" said the young man briskly. "I shall have a portrait ready by the time you leave."
"I'm looking forward to it," replied Mr Pym, adding, with a worried expression, "I hope you don't think of this as an imposition, Bruno, do tell me if you'd rather not..."
"But I would love to!" answered the young man with a laugh. "My first commission and from a foreign connoisseur, a man of impeccable taste and refinement, the famous Peregrine Pym from Angleterre!" They both laughed at Bruno's theatrical outburst.
They spoke quietly together for another hour or so, each finding out more about the other, each giving up their innermost thoughts, hopes and fears and each finding himself forging a bond of real friendship; the tall, handsome youth and the aged, bent old man.
16
SUNDAY
No surreal dreams for Mr Pym this night. No dramatic thunderstorms outside to disturb the deep calm. Mr Pym slept like a baby from the moment his head hit the pillow until the sun, shining through a chink in the shutters woke the old Englishman. It was well past eight o'clock. Mr Pym was used to waking at six each morning, so this for him, was an unheard-of luxury!
"Well, I am on holiday," murmured Mr Pym to himself, as he stretched under the duvet. He had never slept under a duvet before; just blankets and an eiderdown and, on cold winter nights, a bedspread and hot water bottle as well. He enjoyed the lightness and the snug warmth of the duvet. He decided he would buy one on his return home.
Lying in his warm bed, Mr Pym went over last night's conversation with Bruno. They had talked as friends, no reservations and Mr Pym thought he could see what made Bruno tick. He knew there would have to be a confrontation between Bruno and his family over the running of the hotel. Bruno had convinced Mr Pym that there was no real future for the little, old-fashioned hotel, with its unreliable plumbing and tiny kitchen, a rickety lift which kept breaking down and its small rooms.
People nowadays wanted more luxury and were prepared to spend more money on travel and hotels. People wanted the places they visited to be lively and exciting. Backwaters like St. Etienne-sur-Mer were the remnants from a bygone age, when people had lower expectations, were prepared to put up with second best. In his young day, people were frugal and did not fritter their hard-earned money away on glitzy show.
There was no doubt in Mr Pym's mind that Bruno was right and Bellebeau senior would have to face up to the fact that the old days were long gone. Bruno had told him that his parents had more than enough money to retire comfortably. But, as Mr Pym suspected, it was probably the work ethic which made Bruno's parents so stubborn. They were used to a life of hard work; they probably had little or no idea about how to spend their free time. It would be a lesson they would have to learn, thought Mr Pym, slightly wryly as he recalled the passion of Bruno's arguments. That boy was definitelynot intending to become the next proprietor of the Bellebeau establishment.
Today was the last full day Mr Pym would be spending in France. Being a Sunday, he expected it would be a quiet day. He had vague plans to look in at the local museum, perhaps try and see the church as well and maybe, if the weather was good, to wander along the promenade. Above all else, Mr Pym had to see Bruno again. After their evening together, he found he could look past the boy's astounding beauty to the inner man, which, to Mr Pym, was no less beautiful. Bruno was like any other young man of his age; impatient, eager to get on with life, keen to have new experiences. Yet in one aspect Bruno was unlike the majority of young people. Bruno had time for the old, had time for him, Mr Pym. Bruno seemed genuinely interested in talking to the old man and, although not agreeing with Mr Pym's views one hundred percent, had the good grace and politeness to hear the other out, weigh the pros and cons and then present his own arguments. Bruno was intelligent, articulate and utterly charming. Mr Pym had become very fond - not just of the physical vision that was Bruno, but also the person himself. Bruno's good looks were an added bonus. The warmth of the duvet enveloped Mr Pym as he thought of the dark, intense youth.
However, one thing still niggled at Mr Pym. One aspect which left the old man dissatisfied, frustrated. In Bruno's presence, Mr Pym was drawn to the boy, pulled as if Bruno was a magnet, attracting everything that came close. For Mr Pym, just a touch, however brief, would bring him satisfaction, a feeling of completeness. It was like a craving. Mr Pym most definitely felt that pull, that urge to reach over, make contact with that honeyed skin, the smooth face, that strong young arm. He had never experienced this ... longing before and was quite at a loss as to how to control it.
Mr Pym had spent his life under strict self control. So much so, it had become second nature to him. He had found out early on that it did not do to let his mother see if and when he lost his patience with her, which he did, more often than she could ever have guessed. Also, Mr Pym was under no illusion as to what a sight he made to the world at large; hunchbacked, twisted, a shuffling cripple. He never expected any sympathy from people, in fact he actively shunned it. Mr Pym did not see the point of showing his feelings and gradually, over the long years, these feelings became dulled, forgotten, lifeless... until now.
Suddenly, it became a matter of vital importance, nay, then and there to Mr Pym a matter life and death itself, that he should be able to show Bruno a small token of physical affection. And time was running out. So far he had failed to do so and tomorrow Mr Pym would leave, probably never to return. That thought alone brought a tear to his eye. He had never experienced a feeling like this before in his life, at least he couldn't recall such feelings - except for Robin. Mr Pym could never, ever forget how he had felt for his brother. What he felt for Bruno, now seemed to Mr Pym to be akin to what he had felt for his brother.
Mr Pym tried to rationalise. 'But I loved Robin,' he thought to himself, 'Ergo... '
Under the warm duvet, on that sunny Sunday morning in the little hotel, Mr Pym, aged 75, made a discovery about himself.
It took his breath away.
17
The two Englishwomen were braying in the dining room when Mr Pym made his appearance for breakfast. As before, he nodded to them without a word as he made his way to what was his table. Fresh flowers, and only his table, he noted with a slight smile and the new starched tablecloth was spotless. Following his usual routine of hanging his falcon-head walking stick on the edge of the table and placing his 'Palgrave' on the table by his side, Mr Pym sat down and unfolded the starched napkin.
The two women, both middle-aged, 'broad in the beam', as the saying goes and each with an ample bosom were apparently unconcerned who heard their conversation. It was as if they were incapable of speaking softly. The 'refined' voices, the result, no doubt, of boarding-schools, a finishing school in Switzerland followed by a debutante 'season', safe marriages and county balls, grated on Mr Pym's ear, almost setting his teeth on edge. He himself, though certainly no Socialist, had no time for the airs and graces that money and so-called 'breeding' imparted to certain people.
Mr Pym was a product of his times; he understood the class-system, which was so all-pervading in his home country. He understood it, accepted it to a point, whilst at the same time deploring it. Why should money and the apparent belief in a privileged upbringing allow these people to squawk at the tops of their voices wherever they went? What did money and privilege mean if these people behave like boors in public, riding roughshod over all those who were not 'one of them'?
Were he asked, Mr Pym would doubtless categorise himself as 'middle class.' His mother, on the other hand, came from what she would understand as 'upper class.' According to her family, she had married beneath herself in choosing Mr Pym's father. Nothing if not determined, she had her way and later probably bitterly regretted it, Mr Pym now realised, although she never said a word about it or gave any hint that she had, perhaps, been wrong. It was her money which provided the two children, Robin and Peregrine, with a sheltered, somewhat lonely upbringing. There were, in the early days, at any rate, some servants; a maid, cook and nannies. Most people would say Peregrine Pym had a privileged upbringing. To him it was the norm. He didn't know any other.
After his father died, and his mother had become an invalid, Peregrine Pym realised that if he didn't get a job, he would suffocate to death in the stultifying atmosphere of the family home. Mrs Pym did not see any reason why she should move to a smaller house even though it was just her and her son. Consequently, the house was dark and lonely, only about three rooms being used regularly. Despite his mother's protests, Mr Pym managed to find a job at the local library and in those precious hours away from the rancour of the sick woman's home, he would read. His father's library of books was still intact and gradually Mr Pym became involved in research of the local area. He was quite an expert on the part of Sussex where he had grown up and, he since discovered, where Pyms had lived for at least three hundred years. His mother's family came from Hampshire and Mr Pym had also researched their history. Mr Pym now realised that losing himself in other people's history meant he did not have to face up to his own present.
The two women were talking. They were gossiping about their friends, not friendly talk at all, Mr Pym wryly noted. He wondered how these women could speak in such a derogatory fashion about their so-called 'friends'. Mr Pym again counted his blessings, that he was not one of their circle. "With friends like that, who needs enemies?" So the saying went. He couldn't but help overhearing their conversation:
" ...And anyway, she ended up a very rich woman... " one of them was saying, as the swing-door into the kitchen opened and Bruno came in to the dining room with Mr Pym's breakfast. Two pairs of hard, calculating eyes followed the young man's easy progress towards Mr Pym's table.
"Bonjour, monsieur!" said Bruno lightly to Mr Pym. As if he knew that he was being observed by the two Englishwomen, Bruno was being slightly theatrical, 'playing to the gallery', Mr Pym noted with an inward chuckle. Let the boy have his fun! Bruno continued in a sing-song voice: "Voilà! Le Té 'Earl Grey'et votre pain grillé et confiture. Bon appetit, monsieur!"
Mr Pym, his and Bruno's smiles unseen by the two women, nodded his head in thanks. Bruno, smile still in place, nimbly turned on his heel and made for the two ladies.
"Is everything to your satisfaction, Mesdames?" he asked, teeth flashing, eyes dancing. The two women said that yes, thank you, they had everything they needed. The women followed Bruno's exit and as the door swung to, began to speak again, not bothering to lower their voices.
"Mmm. Yummy! "
"Absolutely delicious! Wouldn't throw him out on a cold night eh? Haha!"
"Of course, he has to be, you know... pouffy!"
"Absolutely. I mean, a body like that doesn't happen on it's own , you know. And being a waiter and all. Has to be a limp-wrister."
"Mind you, I wouldn't mind trying to turn him!"
"Lovely bum! And those tight trousers! Nothing left to imagination. I bet he's hung like a horse!"
Mr Pym felt his ears burn at the lewdness of the seemingly respectable women whose conversation they didn't even bother to try and keep to themselves. Either they thought Mr Pym was deaf, a moron or foreign - if they gave Mr Pym any thought at all, that is.
"Mind you, he's sure to be a fairy. Terrible waste! Probably got AIDS too, I expect. They all do. Promiscuous lot. Doubtless sleeping around with God only knows how many sordid little bum-boys. Oh my God! You don't think we could get infected? I mean, for heaven's sake, he's been serving our food!"
"Oh no dear. I read somewhere that one doesn't catch it so easily. But even so..."
"Nasty little pervert! People like that should be gelded!"
"You heard about the Carrington-Price boy, Percy, didn't you? Apparently he'd been messing about at school, which they all do, so I'm told, and that's only to be expected. But the little runt was found in bed with the headmaster! Terrible scandal! Apparently the little tease was blackmailing him! His father had to send him away. He's in some tough school up in Scotland, being made a man of. He'll get his comeuppance there, I can tell you! They'll put him right. No room in this world for those pansies! Of course, they should just shoot him. No bloody good to anyone. Thank god their eldest boy's a good red-blooded specimen. He's been sowing his wild oats, I can tell you! Not a virgin within a thirty-mile radius of the ancestral seat, so I'm told!"
The two women laughed again, reminding Mr Pym uncomfortably of hyenas at carrion.
Mr Pym found himself becoming angrier by the second. Not at what they were assuming about Bruno, which was bad enough, but at the cold-hearted, ignorant and intolerant way they talked. Though no one observing him would suspect it, he felt himself reaching boiling point. The two women carried on their bigoted tirade.
"I mean, what they get up to, those homos. It's quite disgusting! I mean, it's not natural! Goes against nature. They should get help, drugs or something. I heard that there are rumours going about the village about the new vicar. Apparently, he's not averse to a choirboy or two, so they say - and the younger, the better! Mrs Brassington-Fforbes has taken her Giles out of the choir and he had such a lovely voice, too! Mind you, I've met the vicar and he seems perfectly normal, you know, no lisping or affected mannerisms. But you never know... I mean, he is quite young and rather handsome. He's not married, either, but he said he just hadn't found the right girl yet. I'm sure he's alright!"
"I know. My hairdresser, you know, François, well, he's having a sex-change, so I'm told. Going to have hormone treatment and get ... you know... it cut off! Mind you, he's almost one of us as it is!"
Again the two women laughed as they picked daintily at their croissants and sipped their coffee. Mr Pym could hardly believe what he was hearing.
"I bet that scrummy waiter was at it last night, some disgusting perverted behaviour. It's funny, isn't it, how one can tell. Just have to look at them..."
They were interrupted by Mr Pym, who had got out of his seat and moved to their table. Polite as ever, for Mr Pym knew no other mode of behaviour, he addressed them.
"Pardon me, ladies," he said, his outward demeanour displaying nothing of the seething anger he felt inside, "but I couldn't help but overhear your conversation... "
The two women glanced at each other, in mild surprise, suddenly perhaps realising their indiscretion. They looked Mr Pym up and down, hardly disguising their distaste for the old man's appearance. 'Unfortunates' should be locked away, in their books, at any rate.
Mr Pym continued, his voice calm, clipped, precise, as if he were giving a lecture at the local W.I. on 'rare orchids on the Sussex Downs', or some such. However what he said took the two women by surprise, and, if truth be told, Mr Pym himself. He said: "It may be that what you do not understand, you condemn. That is in itself a sad state of affairs, but only awakes pity in others. It may be that what you perceive as 'wrong' may, to others be quite natural. It may also be that certain, er... lifestyles might not coincide with yours. This is earnestly to be hoped for. For what would the world be like if everything conformed to one standard, where individuality were erased, and 'the norm' become the benchmark by which all standards were measured? In my humble opinion, ladies, the world would become a much poorer place. Where the individuality? Where the spark of originality? God forbid that we should all live exactly the same lives, with the same tastes, opinions and feelings!"
Mr Pym was getting into the swing of his ad hoc speech, his eyes flashed and his cheeks had coloured slightly. Never, ever before, in Mr Pym's long life had he dared to anything like this and, to his surprise, he found he was quite enjoying himself! He faced the two surprised women squarely in the face and continued, his voice gathering strength.
"I could not fail but to hear you discussing, quite frankly and openly, the private lives of others. It may well be that you do not approve, but I cannot stand idly by and listen to such pernicious, evil gossip about people of whom you have little or no knowledge! How dare you make assumptions based on nothing but outward appearances? How dare you besmirch the character of what are honest, upright people, spreading your malicious gossip for all to hear? The young man who works here has done nothing to earn your vitriolic condemnation, except to be patient, charming and helpful! And how do you repay him? With disgusting innuendo and almost slanderous accusations! I am deeply hurt and offended by your behaviour and wish to assure you, ladies, that appearances are not the sole bases on which opinions should be formed. You have offended my sensibilities with your degrading insinuations about a person who is not here to defend himself and I find your remarks offensive in the extreme. And that, ladies, is the opinion of this limp-wristed pansy!"
With that, Mr Pym stopped and he became aware again of his audience, seated at their table as if turned to stone. He found he was breathing heavily, a little dizzy yet at the same time exhilarated, the feeling he assumed one had after extreme physical exertion. He also felt oddly happy, as if he had broken some invisible shackles, or, coming suddenly out of a thick fog to find himself atop a mountain, with sun and a vast sky all about him and a fresh breeze blowing.
Without another word, he turned, collected his walking stick and hobbled from the room. He was unaware of the stares from the dumbfounded women at the table, jaws agape, nor the anxious look a pale Bruno gave him through the swing-door's round glass window.
18
Back in his room, Mr Pym, regaining his breath, went over his outburst downstairs. He had been mortified by how coarse these so-called 'well-bred' women had been, how dismissive and bigoted. And to these two women whom he had despised, Mr Pym, without really knowing what he was doing, had revealed something so unexpected, so deeply buried within himself, that he was astounded at the revelation. And now, in the overstuffed armchair in his room, as he regained his composure, Mr Pym finally knew it to be true and therefore who he was.
He was roused from his reverie by a gentle knock at the door.
"Come in!"
It was Bruno, still ashen-faced, who peered anxiously into the room.
"My dear Bruno! Come in, come in!" said Mr Pym, who, had he been able, would have stood to greet the charming youth, but for some reason, Mr Pym's legs felt a little rubbery, so he remained seated.
"Ton livre, your book, Peregrine," said Bruno as he entered the room and closed the door. "You forgot it on the table downstairs." He came over to the seated figure of Mr Pym, who accepted the small volume, still warm from Bruno's grip.
"Thank you so much, dear boy. I would hate to lose this, it means so much to me..."
"Je comprend, I understand, Peregrine."
"I think I've learnt by heart just about every poem in this book," said Mr Pym, lightly, as he gently stroked the soft leather cover.
There was an awkward silence. Bruno hovered, seeming to want to say something and Mr Pym was himself a little shy, in the light of what had happened downstairs. He didn't know how much the boy had heard, or understood.
Then, as so often happens in circumstances such as this, both started to speak at the same time. They stopped again, Bruno blushing and giving a small embarrassed smile. "Pardon, Peregrine, please, you first!"
"No, Bruno, you first," replied Mr Pym, indicating that the boy sit on the end of the as yet, unmade bed.
The handsome young man perched on the edge of the bed, his and Mr Pym's knees almost touching. He licked his lips, which were dry and gave a small cough. It was obvious that he was having difficulty in finding the right words. Mr Pym waited patiently, smiling encouragingly at the dark, intense young man as he tried to give voice his thoughts.
With his head slightly bowed, eyes down fixed on an indeterminate point on the little hotel room's threadbare carpet, Bruno laced and unlaced his slim fingers, obviously ill at ease and not sure how to begin. Mr Pym felt Bruno's discomfiture, but he remained silent, giving the young man time to find the right way to start. His voice was low, husky, as he hesitatingly searched for the right words and when he did speak, he began so quietly, Mr Pym had to lean forward to catch what the young man was saying.
"What happened, downstairs, Peregrine. I heard it, every word. I heard what those horrible women were saying about me and about other people as well. I could not believe that such, how do you say,... such refined people could be so ... so rude and cruel..." He became silent and Mr Pym could see the colour returning to Bruno's cheeks as the boy recalled the galling things those two harridans had said. He went on, "It made me feel so ... so unclean, what those women were saying and how they said it. It was as if they were talking about something impure, disgusting... when it ... when it isn't! " He raised his eyes, glistening with moisture and looked straight at Mr Pym, his voice growing louder and more agitated.
"It isn't disgusting, Peregrine! It is so beautiful! To make love with someone, to be close to them, feel them, taste them... be one with him! It is the most beautiful thing in the world! And those two catins, those bitches! They made it sound like animals rutting! No, they made it sound worse!!! How could they? What did I, or anyone else, do to them that they should be so evil?" He shook his head in bewilderment, brow furrowed, the intensity coming back into his eyes, which glittered. "It is they who are to be pitied, Peregrine! They cannot have known any love in their cold, frigid, proper little lives, they have to find fault in everyone else! I hate them!"
Mr Pym made reassuring noises, trying to calm the young boy down, much as if he would a fidgeting thoroughbred. "Shh! Shh! There, there, Bruno! Don't give them the satisfaction of upsetting you! They know no better, as you say. They have nothing in their lives, so they try and see everyone else in as bad a light as possible." He paused and gave one of his little, staccato, falsetto chuckles. "God only knows what they're saying about me! Hihi!"
Bruno's gaze softened as he looked at the old man, quietly sitting in the chair. "Et toi, Peregrine... you stood up for me, you make no judgement, mon ami, you cannot speak as they do. You have only love and respect for others, I see that. Thank you, Peregrine, merci mille fois - a thousand thanks for your kindness and understanding and for standing up on my behalf. You had no reason to, yet..."
"Oh, Bruno, I had every reason to!" Mr Pym interrupted the boy. "If it hadn't been for you, my dear young man, I would not have realised certain things about myself. Had you not come across my path, dear, beautiful Bruno, I would still be wandering, lost in the fog, perhaps until my dying day. But you, exceptional young man that you are, you brought me into the light and for that, gentle, noble, Bruno, I can never thank you enough."
Mr Pym was by now weeping gently. He saw the face of the young man refracted into a thousand pieces, each one a perfect image of the beautiful young man before him. As if in a dream, he raised his hand, reaching towards the young man. The stillness in the room was tangible, the silence, deafening. As the sun shone through the window, catching the motes of dust in its golden brilliance, Bruno, too, reached out, took the old man's hand in his and placed it to his lips, holding it there for what to Mr Pym, seemed an eternity of unimaginable joy. Stars came and went, universes expanded and collapsed, time stood still yet raced dizzily by, as the dark young man held Mr Pym's hand to his lips.
That sunny September morning, in a little hotel room in Normandy, Mr Pym finally had his wish. He stroked the face of the boy in front of him, his dry old fingers tracing the smooth jawline of the beautiful young man, gazing with awe into Bruno's eyes, Mr Pym felt the warm skin under his touch, a finger lightly tracing the full, red, cupid-bow lips, his thumb tenderly running under the hairless chin. The line of Bruno's neck, from his ripe earlobe, down to where his collarbones met, also received the loving, gentle caress of the Englishman. He watched in sheer ecstasy as Bruno slowly, shyly, unbuttoned his shirt, to reveal the defined, chiselled torso beneath. Almost reverently, Mr Pym pulled his fingertips over the boy's pectoral muscles, his feathery touch bringing the boy's flesh up in goose pimples, and causing his dark brown aureoles to become erect and taut.
Lightly, oh so lightly, Mr Pym's fingers continued their journey across the honeyed expanse of the young man's abdomen, the muscles beneath the skin rippling under the butterfly-light touch. Beneath his fingertips, Mr Pym felt the hairs that led down out of sight beneath the waistband of the young man's tight black trousers. His forefinger grazed over the young man's navel, before slowly moving away and up again; up along the strong young forearm, over the triceps, biceps, to the smooth shoulder and underneath, where black, wiry hairs protected his underarm. Onwards, upwards, back to the throat, neck, chin and to the mouth again, receiving a 'welcome home' kiss from the rosy lips.
Throughout, he and Bruno were silent, Mr Pym with an expression of wonder mixed with disbelief. Bruno, for his part, following Mr Pym's fingers with his eyes, occasionally closing them as he shivered once or twice under the dry, gentle touch. Now and again he raised his head and observed Mr Pym, totally absorbed in the sensations he was experiencing. Occasionally a smile played on the lips, but mostly, Mr Pym looked as if he were in prayer, as he felt the warm flesh of the younger man beneath his touch. Neither was aware for how long this silent communion went on. For each of them, the young man as much as the older, the experience was something utterly new, mysterious and all-encompassing, blocking out all else.
Reluctantly, Mr Pym withdrew his hand, which, hanging in the air between them, trembled slightly. He let it fall into his lap, watching tenderly as the young man rebuttoned his shirt, hiding the caramel skin once again from Mr Pym's view, reminding him of sacred relics, once having been shown to the faithful are then covered up again, hidden away in remote holiness. Now that Bruno's shirt was back on, it seemed to Mr Pym that the room had become darker, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud.
For the first time in more than sixty years, Mr Pym made loving, physical contact with another human being, and he was content. What had been torn away from him by the death of his brother had been returned, a thousand-fold, by this boy in France.
Neither spoke, as Bruno stood. With the back of his hand, he gently stroked the old man's cheek, then turned and quietly left the room. Mr Pym, having had his epiphany, sat quite still, his face radiantly smiling, bathed in the September sun.
19
MONDAY
MONDAY
Mr Pym was back in his little garden-flat.
The journey had been relatively easy, but saying goodbye to Bruno had not. He recalled how, after their time together in his room, the boy had to go and see to his duties in the hotel. Mr Pym did not feel like lunch or, in fact, in doing anything. His plans for the museum and church were scrapped. Instead, he sat in the armchair by the open window in his room and read a little, dozed, read some more and looked out of the window, thinking.
He heard, rather than saw the two Englishwomen leave. The loud, brazen voices echoing round the little Sunday-lazy square, sounds of the taxi doors slamming until finally peace returned. Uncharacteristically uncharitable, Mr Pym murmured "Good riddance!" as he heard the taxi pull away. And in the still afternoon, the little dog at the baker's barked occasionally and the music from the café wafted across the street.
Once, when he looked out, Mr Pym watched Bruno as he sat at the table on the pavement outside the café, giving Lucien his English lesson. Mr Pym smiled to see the small, intimate gestures the young boy made; touching Bruno's arm now and again, shyly looking up at his mentor, whilst Bruno patiently explained the pitfalls of the English irregular verb.
Time and again, Mr Pym's thoughts returned to his and Bruno's silent communion that morning; Mr Pym could still feel the warmth, the soft, yet firm flesh of the young man. He recalled the goose-pimples his touch caused as his fingers stroked the boy's skin.
Mr Pym went down to the dining room for his evening meal. He somehow knew that Bruno would not be on duty. He was not. Mr Pym ate his dinner in solitary splendour, waited on quietly and efficiently by Heloise. Madame Bellebeau came out after he had finished and offered him some home-made glacéd fruits with his coffee. Mr Pym read some poems and retired early.
Next morning, after packing, he went down for breakfast, clutching his beloved book of poems, as usual. He wondered how it would be to see the young man again, after their liaison yesterday. He sat at the table, half in trepidation, like a schoolboy before his first date. With its usual slight squeak, the swing-door opened. Mr Pym looked up hurriedly to see Bruno, all smiles, bringing him his usual breakfast. Mr Pym, his throat dry, croaked, "Bonjour, Bruno." The young man, placing Mr Pym's breakfast on the table replied, "Bonjour, Peregrine! You slept well, I hope?"
"Yes, thank you, Bruno. Very well!"
"Bien!" The boy's look turned sad, "you are leaving..." his voice slightly husky.
"Yes, Bruno, I am," replied the old man, gently. There was a silence. Neither could find anything to say, there was nothing either could say. With a slight shrug, Bruno turned, "Bon appétit, Peregrine!"
"Merci, Bruno."
The young man left the room and Mr Pym, lost in thought, slowly ate his breakfast.
When he came in to see if Mr Pym needed anything more, Bruno was carrying a rolled up sheet of paper and two cardboard tubes. In reply to Mr Pym's quizzical gaze, he presented the old man with the rolled sheet.
"Pour toi, for you" he said, simply.
Mr Pym found his heart was pounding in his chest as he took the proffered gift. "Oh thank you Bruno. How kind!" He unfurled the paper.
Mr Pym had expected a self-portrait of the young man but what met his gaze was something quite else. It was a picture of himself, Peregrine Pym, beautifully drawn in sepia. In it, Mr Pym's face had an expression of pure joy, the eyes closed, a smile about the lips. The portrait was an astounding likeness, Mr Pym could see that clearly. The memory of yesterday morning flooded back to Mr Pym. His hands trembled as he held the drawing. He had difficulty finding the words.
"Bruno, it's ... wonderful!" Even that sounded inadequate to Mr Pym. He looked up at the young man, who looking seriously down, didn't seem to hear what he had said. Mr Pym went on, "It's so... perfect. It's exactly how I felt..."
At last the boy smiled. "It was difficult at first," he said, "but, when I closed my eyes, I could see it, feel it so perfectly, ... it just seemed to happen by itself!"
"Well, it really is exceptional, Bruno. Thank you so, so much! I shall treasure this!"
"I have another one, Peregrine," said Bruno, offering a cardboard tube, "but please, promise me you won't open it until you get home?"
Mr Pym accepted the second gift. "I promise, Bruno."
"I hope you'll like it," went on the young man, "it's one of my favourite views in the town."
"I'm sure I shall, Bruno. You must let me pay for these, purchase them from you. After all, I did commission a picture from you."
"Non, Peregrine. These are a gift. My way of saying 'thank you' for what you have done for me."
"But I did nothing! What you did for me was..." Bruno placed a finger on Mr Pym's lips. It was he who now seemed to be calming the old man.
"Shh, Peregrine. Thank you."
"Then at least let me do this," said Mr Pym, deeply moved by the young man's generosity. "I have something for you, Bruno," said Mr Pym as the young man expertly rolled up the picture and placed it in the second tube. Mr Pym took the book of poems in his hand and, offering it to the young man said, "there is no one who deserves this more than you, dear boy! May you find your path in life and be happy, whatever you do and wherever you go. I hope that Palgrave will be as good a companion to you as he has been for me." He handed the small, stained leather-bound book over to the surprised French boy.
"But Peregrine! You said yourself, yesterday, that you would hate to lose this book! That you..." Mr Pym gently interrupted the young man, "It isn't lost, Bruno. I know exactly where it is. It is with you, where it should be. I hope you have pleasure from it. Look inside, I wrote something!"
The young man opened the book. On the flyleaf, under his father's original inscription, Mr Pym, in his neat, self-contained script had written:
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
William Shakespeare: Sonnet XXX
Bruno was silent for a minute after he had read what Mr Pym had written. When he looked up again, his eyes were moist. "Merci, Peregrine. Thank you so much. I know what this means to you and for you to..." Again, Mr Pym quietly interrupted the young man. "You are its keeper now, Bruno. perhaps one day you'll pass it on to someone you love..."
With that, Bruno bent down over the seated man and gently, almost reverently, placed a kiss on the Englishman's forehead.
***
Now, back home, Mr Pym opened the second cardboard tube. He gasped as he unfurled the drawing inside. Bruno had called it his 'favourite view in town'.
It was a pencil drawing, delicately shaded, exquisitely executed, a full-length nude - Bruno, in all his godlike, proud naked beauty - standing with arms outstretched in greeting, smiling out at the astounded old man.
FINIS
APPENDIX
THE POEMS
The Soldier
Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Home Thoughts from Abroad
Robert Browning (1812-1889)
O, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England-now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops-at the bent spray's edge-
That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
A Lament
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
O World! O Life! O Time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more - Oh, never more!
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more - Oh, never more!
Everyone Sang
Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)
Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on--on--and out of sight.
Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away ... O, but Everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.
