Armistice by Nick Stafford Read Free Book Online Page A

wasn’t him, Philomena accepted a seat at a table, and a menu to hold. The Specials: Leg of Beef Soup, Sausage and Mash, Steak and Onion Pie. What was that smell behind the food? Fresh paint. The place was immaculate. Chairs, tables, all new. And what had been that smell she’d inhaled when she leaned on the glass? Fresh putty, yes.
    Outside, in the darkness opposite the cafe, watching her, Jonathan mused on opposing magnets again; she approached, he was forced away. Another man headed for The Conduit. When he entered it Philomena glanced up, then her eyes went back to the menu she was holding. The normality of her reaction reassured Jonathan. Perhaps she wasn’t as needy as he had felt. Perhaps it was his own feelings, his needs that he was projecting onto her. He made himself cross to the cafe and go in, all set to pretend to Philomena that it washis first entrance. He winked at the waitress to gain her compliance.
    â€œSorry I’m late,” he said, as he sat.
    â€œYou’re not really,” Philomena replied.
    The waitress came to their table. They ordered some food and Philomena accepted the offer of a glass of red wine. As the waitress took the menus she shot her a look as if to say she thought Philomena was handling the situation impeccably.
    Still shaken, and preoccupied by the strange episode outside, she murmured: “So, you’re a barrister.”
    â€œYes,” said Jonathan, nodding, and he added unnecessarily, “I was before the war. Well, I could hardly have qualified since the war. And you sew.”
    â€œI’m a seamstress, yes. High class.”
    Jonathan looked slightly sideways at her to see if she was being ironic. But no, she gave no indication that she was being anything other than straight with him.
    â€œI’m a high-class seamstress. I work on expensive garments and fabrics. Alterations for the wealthy, mostly.”
    Jonathan located her hands, resting on the table. Was he wondering at her wedding band? She let him look, determining that the strange movements of her hands that had begun after she heard of Dan’s death must cease at some point. Philomena had an image of Dan’s mother, her stifled cry on seeing her son’s fiancée stumble into the shop to tell bad news—was Dan ever intending to end his estrangement with his parents? A few hours later, lying on her bed lookingout at the bright, night November sky Philomena had noticed her hands moving independently of her. First thought was that they were ghost-sewing, doing the work she had planned to do over the previous two days but forgotten about. But her hands weren’t doing anything so prosaic. They had taken on a life of their own. This strange innovation, because she felt dislocated anyway, hadn’t alarmed her. It was another novelty in the terrible new world.
    As if in the distance she heard Jonathan say: “And Dan’s family have a shop?”
    â€œ
The
shop, in their village,” she replied. “They have
the
shop.”
    She watched Jonathan absorb this piece of information then drift. Was he remembering when Dan told him his parents were shopkeepers? Or something else about Dan? Or was he thinking about something else entirely? Was she boring him? Was he very rude? She felt a surge. “Where did you go?” she asked, belligerently.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI said, where did you go? You went out of the back door.”
    Jonathan appeared to be about to protest that he hadn’t done any such thing but at that moment the waitress returned with their drinks and it was clear from her expression that she had heard what Philomena had just asked and wasn’t going to stand any nonsense, that is, corroborate any lies Jonathan might be trying to tell, no matter how many times he’d been there and how many times he’d winked at her.
    â€œI had second thoughts about meeting you. But here I am.”
    â€œWhy did you have second