Free All the Beauty of the Sun by Marion Husband

Patrick Morgan truly was a paradox of a man. What could he have done except agree that Paul would be safer in a country that wasn’t England? He could have said no, and this man, with his love for Paul like a carefully contained but agitating force inside him, would have done what he had to do anyway. George guessed that Morgan had come only out of a calculating courtesy, no doubt reasoning that it was best to have an ally who would help convince Paul that leaving everything he loved was for the best.
    The waiter cleared their plates. Paul lit a cigarette, having first asked him if he minded. He did, but he said nothing. Paul ordered coffee and pulled a face as he tasted it. ‘I’d forgotten how bad coffee is in England.’ For a moment, he seemed far away, preoccupied by a memory that George guessed must be pleasant from the look in his eye, a memory of Morgan, perhaps, and the foreign coffee they drank together in a house he imagined resembled the houses pictured in a child’s bible. ‘ There is a courtyard with a fountain, ’ Paul had written to him, shortly after he arrived in that alien country. ‘ The sun bleaches everything clean . I am well. ’ The letters they exchanged were stilted, at least in those early days of his exile. Paul never wrote of Morgan, of course, or only obliquely.
    Pushing away his coffee cup, Paul said, ‘What time’s your train?’
    â€˜Half past three. Plenty of time.’ George acted on the urge, perhaps prompted by the wine, to reach across the table and cover Paul’s hand with his own. Paul smiled at him.
    â€˜I’m all right, Dad. Honestly.’
    And perhaps it was the wine that caused him to say, ‘You could come home –’
    Paul withdrew his hand. ‘No.’
    â€˜No? Why not? It’s all forgotten – that business. And now Margot is remarried, settled, she might be happy for you to see Bobby –’
    â€˜No, Dad. Please. Let’s not spoil this afternoon.’
    But he couldn’t see the point in stopping, and besides, the words were coming too quickly, as though he had rehearsed them as he had rehearsed the amusing stories. ‘Margot is happy, I’m sure. And happiness helps people to forgive. You don’t have to live in Thorp, but close – at the seaside, perhaps, where we used to go when you were a child.’ He must have been drunker than he thought because he laughed with the excitement of such an idea. ‘You could paint the sea!’
    Paul was gazing at him, allowing him to babble on until George realised how still his son had become, as though he was keeping some fierce emotion in check. Dismayed, he trailed off. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’
    â€˜I understand that you had to ask. I would have, if I were you.’ Paul laughed slightly. ‘Paint the sea, eh? That cold, grey sea.’ Suddenly he said, ‘I dream of home – at night, I mean. You’re in this dream and Bobby is still a baby and Margot has given him to us for good, she doesn’t want him any more. And you’d think that this would be a marvellous dream, wouldn’t you? But I only want to run away and I wake up and all I feel is relief …’ He stubbed out his cigarette and looked up at him. ‘Patrick thinks I’ll stay in England now. He thinks I’m brave enough not to run away again.’
    â€˜He’s right!’
    â€˜No. Usually, almost always in fact, but not about this.’
    Paul summoned the waiter and asked for the bill. Turning to George, he said, ‘Let me get this – it will be the first time I’ve bought you a meal. It will make me feel like a grown-up.’ He smiled, handsome, ironic, more grown up than anyone ever deserved to be so that George felt soft with pity and love for him.
    â€˜Paul, my home is always your home.’
    â€˜Thank you. That means a lot to me.’ Glancing away