Edward gritted his teeth. You’re not family. He did not respond to that, even though the truth of it stung. It was a reminder that that would always stand between them, a gap he could not cross. Joseph stood with his arms folded, staring out of the window behind them. Edward fumbled for the right thing to say, unable to find the words, his attention switching from the smell of the Senior Service between Joseph’s fingertips, to the curlycued grain in the wood of the bar beneath his hand, to the tight pressure in his stomach as if someone was holding their palm against his navel. The sense of frustration and inarticulateness was agony to him and, helpless to stop himself, he said, “Jesus, man, someone has got to do something.”
Joseph snapped. “Leave it out, Doc, alright? For God’s sake––on and on and on, every bloody day. I don’t need your advice. We don’t need it. You’re starting to be a bore.” Joseph started to say something else, his eyes flicking away as he considered better of it. He took a breath and said, instead, “Violet is sharp and she doesn’t mess about. You think she got to be where she is now by sitting around and letting things happen? She’ll have something in mind for Spot. We’re just going to have to trust her and brazen it out.”
There was no point in pressing him and so Edward reluctantly let the matter drop. He drank quickly, his mind working. He had been presented with an opportunity to make something of himself. A chance, and he had only really scratched the surface of it so far. To be stood at the side, watching impotently as the family slowly imploded, crippled by fear or inertia or laziness at the very moment that he arrived, was torture. He felt sick at the thought of it. It was almost more than he could bear.
46
EDWARD WAS IN THE SAME ROOM as the last time he stayed at Halewell Close. He laid his suitcase on the bed and changed out of the comfortable clothes he had worn for the drive from London, choosing one of his new suits instead. He applied pomade to his hair, shaved, and then regarded himself in the mirror: he looked very fine. He crossed the room and opened the window, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke out into the cool night air beyond. It was eight o’clock and the light had faded, replaced by a gloaming that made strange shapes of the lines of trees and made the landscape beyond the garden murky and indistinguishable. He saw his new car, next to Violet Costello’s Packard. It was a Triumph Roadster, the lights of the house reflecting on the highly polished, blood red bodywork. It had an 1800cc engine and a four speed gearbox with synchromesh on the top three ratios. There were large headlamps at the front and the radiator was set back between large “coal scuttle” wings. He was always taking taxis or relying on Joseph to drive him around and, now that money was less of a problem, he had decided to splash out. Ruby Ward had arranged the car for him. It had been enjoyable to return to the showroom. He was not fond of the other salesmen, and he knew that they would be jealous to see how far he had travelled in so short a time. It was brand new, not second-hand, and he had paid for it in cash. It had been a pleasurable way to spend an hour. Their gawping incredulity had been worth it all on its own.
The car was a beauty, and he loved it. He loved to own things, carefully selected items that he could cherish. He was not materialistic, but he liked the kind of things that said something about a man and his standing in the world. Excellent clothes and fine shoes, well-chosen pieces of jewellery, cultural artefacts that spoke of taste, tables at the best restaurants and seats at the opera. They gave a man a sense of self-worth. They spoke of his substance. It was more than just the impression they projected to others, although Edward was aware enough to know that that was a part of their appeal to him. They provided him with ratification. They were the proof that he had done well and that, despite the rotten cards he had been dealt so often in his life, he had still made a success of himself on anyone’s terms. They made a mockery of the self-doubt that sometimes whispered in his ear. He had owned those things before and, together with the lavish lifestyle that he had arranged for himself, they had made him as happy as he had ever been. He had had to abandon it all when he had stopped being Jack Stern. All he had taken with him into the jungle were his memories, and they had been just enough to make the worst moments bearable. It would never have been possible to make a beginning of reacquiring those things on the pitiful fifteen shillings a week that the Labour Exchange paid to him. It would have taken him a decade, even if he lived frugally, to buy the things he wanted. Joseph and his family had given him the opportunity to acquire them more quickly. The money would allow him to travel to Paris with Joseph and to do the trip properly, to fly first class, to stay in the best hotel and to enjoy the best restaurants. Paris would only be the beginning: he was already planning a trip to Athens and Rome, he wanted to return to Venice and he had heard that the Adriatic Coast was spectacular. His circumstances would allow him to begin his book collection again and, to that end, he had spoken to a dealer on the Charing Cross Road who said he would be able to source the first edition Dickens, Dostoyevskys and Conan Doyles to replace the volumes that he had had to sell. It would grant him the leisure to attend the Opera or to wander without direction through the sober halls of the Tate or the Royal Academy or even to find a struggling artist and to serve as their patron. It allowed him the opportunity to demonstrate his taste and the aesthetic discretion that set him aside from the likes of Joseph and Billy and all the others. They simply could not have been any more different to him. They were plebeians, ignorant and unappreciative of the things they were lucky enough to possess. It would allow him to support his father and uncle, too.
He looked down from the high window onto the Triumph below, on the voluptuous curves of its bodywork with the chrome details, and he smiled happily.
He sucked down on the Senior Service and exhaled into the darkness. Chiara had written to him and invited him to spend the weekend at the house. He was flattered, and had happily accepted. A break from London would be good for him, and it was an excellent chance to improve his relationship with the rest of Joseph’s family. He had hoped that Violet would be at the house and yet, when that was confirmed by the sight of her car as he pulled up earlier that night, the prospect had made him anxious, too. He knew that there was an opportunity to impress her, and that that was essential if he was to continue to ingratiate himself with the family, yet subjecting himself to her waspish temper filled him with apprehension. He wanted to speak to her, too, despite Joseph’s warnings. Spot was a problem and yet he was also an opportunity. If Edward could propose a solution he knew it would be good for him.
He finished the cigarette and lit another, smoking that until he had his equilibrium properly under control. He found his way down to the drawing room. Chiara was standing before the hearth, a fire burning in the grate.
“Hello,” she said, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek.
“You look lovely,” Edward told her, and she did. She was wearing a pleated skirt and a contrasting jacket. The colour of her face was warm in the glow of the flames.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Is your aunt joining us?”
“I’m afraid so. Is that alright?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
“I think she’s in a good mood, if that’s any help.”
“It’s quite alright, Chiara. It’ll be good to get to know her properly.”