curious, and civil.
‘For Nadine’s hand. To marry her, sir. But. We’re married already.’ Pause. All right. Off we go. Long sentence coming up. ‘Yesterday, sir, without your permission, because if anything had prevented our marrying now, we might not have been able to bear it, sir.’
Sir Robert was concentrating to make out the words, and utterly taken aback – silent – and then: ‘You cheeky little …’ he said. ‘You – it’s not even wartime! Explain yourself, man. Does Jacqueline know about this?’
‘Only just,’ said Riley.
Sir Robert stared at him. ‘Oh, good God,’ he said. ‘What on earth? What am I meant to – have you any money?’ he said. ‘To marry on?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Prospects?’
‘Far from it, sir, as you know.’
‘Dependants?’
‘I hope to have, in due course.’
‘And, er, this?’ Robert gestured to Riley’s face. ‘What about this? I mean – oh, good God.’ The ramifications were filtering through. Wounded, disfigured, penniless, war hero, fait accompli, cheeky sod, bright though, common as muck, his family – good people though, decent working people – and that face, that voice. Oh, good God. What a bloody cocktail.
‘She doesn’t mind it, sir. So I can hardly complain.’
‘Passchendaele, wasn’t it?’ Robert said.
‘Yes, sir.’
Silence.
‘Hmm.’
What a bloody cocktail.
‘So what are you doing with yourself? What are you going to do?’
‘Thinking of Parliament, sir.’
‘What!’
‘The Labour Party, sir.’
‘Are you a Communist, Purefoy?’
An echo of someone else asking him that years ago passed through his mind … Peter. That dugout on the Salient, a conversation about music, the first human look you’d had in months – 1916?
‘No sir,’ Riley said. ‘But I’ve become attached to notions of peace and justice. I believe they’re worth working for.’
‘Good Lord – you didn’t stand, did you?’
‘The election came a bit quick.’
‘Good God.’
Riley stared at him, waiting. Calm, strong.
Sir Robert stared back, ran a hand over his face, and then said: ‘Let’s join the ladies, shall we?’
They could all see by Jacqueline’s still, polite expression, that she was too surprised to know what to think.
‘Riley,’ Sir Robert said. ‘Nadine. You leave us no choice. We are not the kind of people who turn their daughter away – as you should bloody well know – sorry, darling.’
Relief?
He continued: ‘Though you could’ve given us the chance to, well, discuss it, and demonstrate our … spontaneously, if you see what I mean … so we could give our blessing in a more organised fashion …’
‘We didn’t choose,’ Nadine said gently. ‘We had no choice. It was a fact …’
‘I dare say,’ her father said. ‘Of course. And so …’
Jacqueline was staring. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she interrupted. ‘Robert? This is outrageous.’
‘Well …’ he was saying, and Riley could almost see the cold drifting down through Nadine’s limbs.
‘Outrageous,’ said Jacqueline. ‘Unforgivable.’
Riley dipped his head, and took Nadine’s arm into his.
Robert glanced from him to Jacqueline and back. ‘Oh,’ he said. Nadine was frozen.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Robert.
‘They should be sorry,’ Jacqueline said. ‘Well – they will be, won’t they? A silly girl and a boy who doesn’t know his place. How ridiculous.’
Riley saw his new mother-in-law’s short breath, and the high triangles of pink on her cheeks. Somewhere, he felt pity and it warmed him through the horrible little silence that sat on the room. Silence can mean so many things. His arm was firm under Nadine’s hand as she let go of it.
‘Well, never mind. Goodbye, Daddy,’ she said, and leant in to give him a kiss. ‘Goodbye, Mother’ – from a safe distance. ‘Don’t worry. As the war’s over, we’ll probably all survive long enough for you to indulge your little fit of pique.’
‘Darling girl,’ Robert said.
‘We’ll see you soon,’ she said, and blew him a kiss on the end of her finger.
Riley watched her: My lovely, beautiful fighting girl.
As soon as they were out of the house she took Riley’s arm again, and held on to it.
‘You up for the next round?’ he asked, and she nodded tightly as they walked.
Walking up the street towards Paddington, his family, his childhood, a cloudy shame rose in Riley. Yes, he had every excuse under the sun, but he had neglected them. One afternoon in 1917 his mother had burst into the ward and not recognised him and shrieked and collapsed at the sight of his fellow patients; just before Christmas last year he had arrived out of the blue and stayed for fifteen minutes. Other than that, he had not seen any of them. You could have handled it better, said one little voice; you did your best, said another. Anyway. Now was the time for putting things right.
Up towards the canal, they turned into the little terrace of little houses.
As they came up to the door he could see his mother from the street, scrubbing the inside of the front windows with newspaper. She would have dipped it in vinegar. He remembered the smell. She did it every week; so near the station, things got dirty quickly. A figure moved behind her: Dad.
Riley squeezed Nadine’s hand, and knocked.
A moment or two passed before Bethan opened it. He knew she had been hiding the newspaper wads and taking off her apron.
‘Hello Mum,’ he said, apologetically, and she squeaked, and put her hand to her mouth, and called, ‘John! John!’ And his father came, and dragged him in, and he said: ‘Dad – Mum—’
