All the Beauty of the Sun by Marion Husband Read Free Book Online

being burnt right out of my chest!’
    The only other man’s war he knew about was Patrick’s, and only the part – those last few months of 1918 – that they had survived together. He didn’t want to know about the rest of Pat’s war, couldn’t bear to think of it. Often he wondered how Patrick had survived so long, such a big man, such a difficult target to miss. ‘Christ, it’s Goliath,’ Corporal Cooper had exclaimed on seeing Sergeant Patrick Morgan for the first time. Paul remembered smiling to himself, enjoying the look of astonishment on the corporal’s face. That Patrick had joined their platoon cheered everyone; he supposed they had all forgotten Goliath’s fatal flaw.
    Again, he heard footsteps in the corridor outside. These steps were more hesitant than the last; he should have recognised that those others were too brisk, too sure of their direction. These footsteps were quieter, cautious. Paul got up from the bed, catching sight of himself in the mirror set in the wardrobe door; he had been thinking about Pat and he should have looked guilty; instead he noticed how eager he looked. He paused, making an effort to appear less predatory, and tried to push Patrick from his mind as he turned from the mirror and went to open the door.

Chapter Five
    T HE NEXT MORNING IN the bookshop Edmund hung back in the storeroom, unwilling to show his face to the few customers who ventured in out of the rain. Occasionally, if there was more than one customer waiting, Barnes would call him in his brisk shop voice, only to make no comment when he slunk back into the storeroom after the shop had emptied again.
    Pretending to catalogue books, most of the time he stared out of the storeroom window overlooking the back yard. He watched a cat stalk a fat pigeon and when his breath misted the glass he rubbed it away only for it to mist again, so he drew a smiling face in the condensation and then watched as the smile slowly trickled out of shape. He listened to Barnes moving about the shop, jumped a little each time the bell on the shop door rang, dreading Barnes’ call. Barnes was behaving with great discretion, and he was grateful for this. But it was also as if he knew what had happened last night, as though he could smell it on him; if this was so, all Barnes had been was sympathetic. But it was this sympathy he couldn’t stand: men like Barnes weren’t supposed to pity men like him.
    Late morning, Barnes appeared in the storeroom doorway. ‘I’m having a cup of tea, if you’d like one?’
    â€˜No, thank you.’
    Barnes gazed at him. ‘Would you like to go home?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Are you sure?’
    â€˜Yes, I’m fine.’
    The older man nodded. Touching his own eye, he said, ‘It looks painful.’ He sighed. ‘If it was down to me you could stay in here all day if you wished, and I’m sure even the customers you’ve served hardly noticed – they barely see us at the best of times – but Mr Graham is coming in this afternoon to do the banking and if he saw you with that black eye …’
    â€˜I should go then, shouldn’t I?’
    â€˜Yes, I think so. I’ll tell him you were taken ill.’
    Edmund fetched his coat. Following him to the door, Barnes said, ‘Stay out of trouble, eh? I’d like to see you back here, when you feel you can face it.’
    He went to a Lyon’s Corner House and, although the waitress looked at him sideways, no one else took any notice of him. He was a young man with a black eye, a common enough sight he supposed on a Saturday morning. He touched his eye gingerly; the swelling had gone down a little. When the waitress brought his tea he caught sight of his contorted reflection in the metal teapot and touched his face again. He had a feeling that he had become someone else; this face was not the one he was used to. This feeling had nothing to do