Familiar Rooms in Darkness (32 page)

‘
Pale Journey
,' said Adam.

Frank nodded. ‘That's the one. Anyway, he was an utter devotee of Harry Day. You know what it's like at that age, confusing the man with his art. I think his idea was to find Harry Day and sit at his knee like some kind of supplicant, gazing on the great man's countenance. My brother Gordon simply wanted to travel, and his friend's fixation gave them some sort of purpose, direction. Anyway, Gordon's friend wasn't the only one who wanted to worship at the Harry Day shrine. As Adam doubtless knows, Harry lived in a house up in the hills outside Simla, and the occasional young hippy pilgrim would find his way to Harry's door. He was very hospitable, apparently, and most of them would stay for a couple of days, talking the talk, nourishing Harry's ego, no doubt, and then go on their way. But for Gordon's friend, it was
much more than that. He felt he'd found his spiritual home. He wanted nothing more than to become part of Harry's life. We've all been fanatical to that degree, I imagine,' said Frank, glancing at his listeners, ‘but most of us just fantasize about it. This boy had actually made his fantasy real. And Harry Day indulged him. The boy offered to help with his work, do research, answer letters, and Harry found that quite useful, since his services were free, so to speak. Gordon didn't want to hang around, though. While his friend was busy insinuating himself into Harry's ramshackle household – there were a couple of young women there, with the same fixation as Gordon's friend – Gordon wanted to move on. He couldn't persuade his friend to leave, so he went off on his own.' Frank paused to draw on his cigar again. ‘Two months later he went back. It was perfectly evident to him that his friend had been utterly seduced by Harry Day in more ways than one, enslaved by his own infatuation. He wouldn't leave. It seemed that Harry always had these floating acolytes, sexual playthings, secretaries, gofers, whatever you want to call them. This boy had become one of them. So Gordon set off on some more of his travels – down to Goa, as I recall – and then a few months later he went back again to the house at Simla. By that time Gordon was ready to head home, and he thought his friend should go with him, leave his obsession behind and get a life. But his friend wasn't there. He'd become ill while he was at Harry's – enteritis that turned into dysentery. Harry had grown sick of him by then – he made that pretty clear to Gordon when Gordon showed up – and had had the boy shipped off to a local
hospital. Harry wouldn't pay for more than the most basic treatment, didn't try to get in touch with the boy's family, simply discarded him. As he had a right to, no doubt. What was he to this young man, after all? Anyhow, Gordon contacted his friend's family, who hadn't any idea of his whereabouts and were sick with worry, and they wired out money. Gordon and his friend, when he was well enough, went back to Britain. I shouldn't think Harry was ever mentioned. That's about all I know, because Gordon and his friend lost touch, until Gordon heard about ten years ago that his friend had died. He'd become a drug addict, and his end was pretty much the usual squalid story.' Frank took a final drag of his cigar. ‘So there's a thing you didn't know about Harry Day.' He crushed the glowing tip out on the grass. ‘I've never told anyone that story before.'

There was silence for a moment or two. ‘There are often several angles to these things,' said Compton-King. ‘That's a third-hand story, told from only one of them.'

Frank shrugged and picked up his wine glass. ‘I make no judgements. I only tell you what Gordon knew to be the truth.' He finished the contents of his glass. ‘And let's face it, that's all the truth ever can be. One person's version of events.'

‘No doubt Adam will want to quote your story,' said Compton-King, glancing at Adam, ‘even though it's not exactly to Harry's credit.'

‘It's not a question of credit or discredit,' replied Frank. ‘If Adam is setting himself up as a biographer, it should all be grist to his mill, as they say.'

Adam set his glass down. ‘I don't know. I wish it were
that simple. On the point about Harry's sexuality, I begin to wonder what good it's going to do to publish the truth.'

‘What? About his AC/DC tendencies?' Compton-King laughed. ‘You've just had corroboration. You can't leave it out. This is painting by numbers, you know, not impressionism.'

‘I know. You're absolutely right.' He scratched his head. ‘I feel a little odd, having this discussion about Bella's father, while we're sharing her hospitality.'

‘I had no idea of any of the things you're talking about,' said Bruce, who had been silent until now. ‘Was he really gay?'

‘Oh, not entirely. Let's say he liked a bit of both.' Compton-King raised his long arms above his head, stretched and yawned. ‘Not that the family cares to acknowledge that.'

‘Maybe so,' said Bruce, ‘but it's something Adam has a duty to write about, as I see it.'

‘Why so?' asked Frank. ‘What bearing does it have on anything? I merely ask out of interest.'

Bruce spread his hands. ‘People like to know details about their heroes. The more intimate the better. They love it. It's human nature.'

‘Even if those details are discreditable?'

‘There can be nothing discreditable about a person's sexuality. Not any more.'

‘Ah…' Frank drew a long breath, and smiled.

‘Isn't Frank's story discreditable?' asked Compton-King.

‘Well, there's the question. It's up to the reader to
answer it. Adam, as a biographer, merely has a duty to draw as full a picture of the man as he can.'

‘And if it hurts people? Living people? If it tarnishes his reputation, diminishes him?' asked Adam musingly.

‘That would be down to Harry, and the way he lived his life. Not you.'

‘Thanks. Not much comfort.'

‘Oh, I'd stick it all in,' said Bruce, getting up from his chair. ‘You want to sell your book, don't you?'

‘I suppose so.' Adam shrugged, picked up his wine and finished it.

‘I'm going in,' said Bruce.

‘I think I'll join you,' said Adam. He turned to Frank and Compton-King. ‘Goodnight.' He and Bruce crossed the lawn to the house.

‘That boy Downing,' said Compton-King, ‘is troubled by a conscience.'

‘Then he's in the wrong job,' said Frank. ‘Shall we open another bottle?'

Bruno and Megan were sprawled on a sofa watching MTV when Adam and Bruce came in, and Derek was sitting at the table, playing solitaire.

Derek glanced up. ‘Fancy a hand of poker?'

‘Sure,' said Bruce, pulling up a chair.

‘No – thanks all the same,' said Adam. He didn't feel like cards. The conversation in the garden had unsettled him. He wandered through to the kitchen, where Bella was clearing dishes away.

‘Hi.' She gave him a smile.

‘Hi. We left the serious drinkers in the garden.' Adam picked up a cloth and began to dry glasses.

‘That wasn't a bad dinner that Derek and Frank cooked, was it?' said Bella.

‘Very impressive. I gather it's down to Compton-King and myself tomorrow night?'

‘Correct. Can't run a household without rotas.'

‘Don't forget I'll be out most of tomorrow talking to an ex-pat farmer. I rang him before dinner and fixed it up.'

‘Where is their farm, exactly?'

‘Near Lauzerte, about fifty kilometres from here.'

‘Oh, I know it. I think they have a market on Tuesdays, so you can pick up some things. We could do with some more melons. We're getting through half a dozen a day. And cheese. We need more cheese.'

The sound of laughter and banter came from the card table. ‘Derek and Bruce seem to be getting along pretty well,' said Adam.

‘Apart from table tennis, they've discovered they share a passion for poker and football. They both support Chelsea.' Bella put the last of the plates away and closed the cupboard.

Adam nodded. ‘Well, I suppose it's good that your brother and your boyfriend get along together. It all helps.'

Bella stared at him in mute surprise as recollection dawned on her – Adam, like the rest of the wide world, thought that she and Bruce were still an item. He had no idea what she and Bruce had been up to. Why should he? As far as he was concerned, she and Bruce were here
together, as a couple. She gave a little laugh and laid a hand on Adam's arm. ‘Look, there's something I should tell you…'

‘What?'

‘Well,' she said slowly, apprehensive as to what his reaction might be, ‘Bruce and I – we haven't really been going out together. In fact, he's not interested in me in that way at all. Or vice versa.'

Some seconds elapsed as Adam tried to make sense of this. ‘According to the gossip columns, you've been inseparable for the past two months.'

‘Yes, well… the gossip columns are why we did it. Why we pretended. It was a publicity stunt, if you like. Bruce's idea. He thought it would raise our profiles, help the play. When the play closed, we just assumed – well, that the gossip would go away, die a natural death. But you didn't know. Sorry.' She gazed at his features, trying to read his expression, and failing.

Adam took a deep breath. ‘I see. Well, I have to say you made a very convincing couple.'

‘Didn't we? It was good fun while it lasted, actually. I wish all love affairs were as easy. Anyway, I'm sorry if – that is, I'm sorry you were misled.'

‘Wasn't that the general intention?'

‘I don't want you to go on thinking–'

‘Bella, what I think doesn't really matter.'

‘I see.' She paused. ‘I just happen to remember a certain night, when you came to my flat, and – Well, it seemed like it might have mattered. Once.'

There was a long silence, then Adam said, ‘In some ways I'm sorry that you and Bruce weren't for real.'

‘Why? Because it would all have been a lot simpler?'

‘Something like that. Yes.' Before she could say anything, he added, ‘I'm tired. It's been a long and surprising day. I really should get to bed.' He paused. ‘I hope you're not regretting inviting us to stay.'

‘No, of course I'm not.'

She was so close, so tantalizingly close, her expression so troubled and vulnerable, that he couldn't resist bending to kiss her lightly on one soft cheek. ‘Goodnight,' he said, then turned and went upstairs.

Adam lay in bed, thinking it through. It was getting worse and worse. Either he was hopelessly infatuated with Bella, or it was the real thing. He had no idea. He only knew that he was going through the motions with Megan, and it had to stop. He had to tell her. He could almost hear himself doing it.
Look, I'm enormously fond of you
… At what point did the depth of love evaporate into the shallowness of ‘enormously fond'? Well, it had happened. Regard, affection, friendship – none of these was any substitute for what he felt for Bella, witnessed by his unutterable relief at the fact that she was not having a passionate affair with her leading man. He couldn't go on ignoring it. What was he going to say to Megan? How on earth was he going to do it?

After a while he heard the sounds of laughter and muted conversation as people broke up and went to bed. He very much hoped that Megan wouldn't be feeling especially randy. He closed his eyes as she came in and moved around the room, getting ready for bed. She
slid in next to him, but did nothing more than lean over and kiss him gently on the shoulder. Adam pretended to be asleep.

The residues of guilt were still with Adam the next morning, driving him to ask Megan if she'd like to come with him on his expedition. She lay in bed, watching him as he dressed.

‘No, I don't think so, thanks. I'd rather stay here.' She stretched luxuriously. ‘I've always got Bruno to keep me company.'

‘Bruno, eh? You mean his interests extend beyond MTV and the Cartoon Network?'

‘Don't be rude about him. He's good fun.'

‘You just like him because he's a rock star. Or thinks he is.'

Megan smiled. ‘Are you jealous?'

‘Are you joking?' Adam slipped on his shoes, lifting the curtain to glance out at the early sunshine. He picked up his bag, checking through his notes. ‘See you some time this afternoon. Enjoy your day.'

‘I will.' Megan rolled over in the empty bed, smiling at her own thoughts.

Compton-King, heading off for an early-morning walk, saw Adam getting into the hired Renault.

‘For God's sake, take the Bentley. It's just sitting there. You'll have more fun than in that thing.'

Adam glanced at the Bentley's gleaming contours. ‘You mean it?'

‘Of course.' Compton-King fished in his pocket for the keys and chucked them to Adam. ‘Go on. Enjoy your day.'

Adam had to admit that it was quite a buzz, driving through the French countryside in Compton-King's luxurious silver Bentley. It handled beautifully, the engine purring smoothly and richly along. Now that the air conditioning had been sorted out, any previous sense of animosity towards the car which he may have harboured on the journey down had entirely vanished. He loved this car deeply. It attracted admiring stares, and a small group of children even cheered as he passed through a village, making him feel like a pre-war English adventurer.

Once the novelty of driving the Bentley had subsided a little, he tried to address the two new certainties which had lately made themselves apparent to him. The first was to do with Megan. Since they had come to France with Compton-King, something had happened. And it had happened to both of them, not just himself. He could tell by her voice, her expression, that the faint hostility which had sprung up at the disastrous gite had solidified in some way. Perhaps it was being thrown together with so many new people, or the change of scene. Whatever it was, they were going to have to address the fact that their relationship had altered to the point where it was going nowhere. She knew it, and he knew it. It was now a question of acknowledging it.