“Seems like yesterday we were here for Chiara’s eighteenth,” Falco said.

McVitie nodded. “She’s something else now, eh?”

“She always was a good-looking girl.”

“I’d give her a lovely birthday present and no mistake,” Billy said.

McVitie and Falco both laughed derisively. “Like she’d have anything to do with you.”

“Piss off, Jack. I’d stand a better chance than you.”

The conversation moved on to Joseph’s family. Edward was pleased. He had plenty of questions, and the information would be valuable. “What happened to Joseph’s father?” he asked.

“He hasn’t mentioned it?”

“Not a word.”

McVitie frowned. “Best you ask him about that,” he said.

“And his mother?”

“Nothing about her, neither?”

“No.”

“That ain’t surprising,” said Falco.

“What about her?”

He winced. “Best let him bring that up, too. It’s––what would you call it, Tommy?”

“Delicate, Jack.”

“That’s right. A bit delicate.”

“Is she alive?”

“Far as I know.”

“Where is she, then?”

“Honestly, Doc––best you let him talk about her.”

Edward took the hint and didn’t pursue it any further. Whatever it was, it was something that both McVitie and Falco were awkward about discussing. They didn’t appear to be shy about anything else, and so, whatever it was about Joseph’s parents, it could wait until he was ready to talk about it himself.

17

THE MEAL FINISHED and, as the waiters started to clear the debris from the tables, the guests moved back to the drawing room. A gramophone had been uncovered and records were being played, a few of the younger guests dancing to the music unselfconsciously. Edward had been persuaded by the others to move onto spirits, and after two glasses of a very good––and very potent––single malt, he was feeling quite light-headed.

He was standing by the fireplace when Violet Costello came alongside. She was with a heavy-set man who bore the scar from a razor across his right cheek.

Violet smiled pleasantly at him. “Mr. Fabian,” she said.

“Please––call me Edward.”

“This is Lennie Masters,” she said, indicating the man. “He works with the family, too. Lennie––this is Edward Fabian.”

“How do you do?” Edward said.

The man regarded him dubiously but took his hand nonetheless.

“This is the one who’s working with Ruby?”

“That’s right,” she said. “And how are you finding the automobile business, Edward?”

“I’m enjoying it,” he lied. “Thank you for your help. I’m very grateful.”

It was a chore, and he knew he was destined for much better, but the job was serving its purpose well enough. He had made some money, at least. Most of it he had passed to his uncle, who had in turn used it to pay some of the outstanding bills for his father’s care. The risk of his being refused treatment, or removed from the sanatorium, had been deferred, and that was a relief.

Violet waved her hand dismissively at his thanks although Edward could tell that she enjoyed it. She was, he concluded, one of those people who took pleasure not so much from being in a position to do another a favour, but from that other person knowing that they are in that position. The perception of status was clearly of importance to her, and being able to dispense favours––so that others might benefit from her munificence––was pleasing to her. Edward was very happy to let her think he was grateful, and, more importantly, impressed.

Lennie Masters excused himself, leaning down so that she could kiss him on his scarred cheek.

Violet explained that the garage was one of several businesses that the family owned and that she was happy to be able to help a returning soldier. “I was thinking about that,” she went on. “The family has a connection with a journalist. He’s freelance, I believe, but he often has his pieces in the national newspapers. I saw him for lunch yesterday and he said that he was interested in a piece about soldiers returning from the war––how they find things back home, that sort of thing. I think it’s disgraceful the way the government is treating you men. You, especially, with the Victoria Cross, it’s shocking that even someone like you should find themselves in such difficult circumstances. I happened to mention that to him and he thought it would be a capital idea to write a piece about your experiences.”

Edward’s stomach turned with panic. “I don’t know, Ms Costello,” he said. “I’m not really one for publicity.”

“Nonsense, Edward. It’s shocking that men like you, men who have fought for their country––heroes, for goodness sake––are forgotten as soon as they get home. Shocking. Someone needs to say something about it.” She smiled at him. “I’d like you to do this, please. I think it’s very important.”

Edward knew that he was not being given a choice and he knew that this was nothing about politics or the welfare of soldiers. This was a chance for Violet to be publically lauded for her charity. A terrible, jangling fright went over his shoulders and down his legs. For a moment he felt helpless and weak, too weak to move. He imagined his picture on the front page of the Daily Graphic or the Picture Post. A puff piece article, declaiming the way he had been treated and––no doubt––heralding the charity of Violet Costello. The headline would be “Local Businesswoman Helps War Hero,” and the article would be more about her that it would about him. But the damage would be done. From there, it was not difficult to imagine what might come next: a knock on the door in the middle of the night, policemen thrusting their way inside, throwing him in the back of a Black Mariah and tossing him into a cell. Or private detectives following him in the street, assembling their cases against him, drawing the net around him until it was so tight that he couldn’t move.

“I’ll speak to him tomorrow, then,” she said with a note of finality that said it was pointless to protest. “It’s important, isn’t it, Edward? Something needs to be said.”

Edward said that he agreed, of course, but when he glimpsed his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece he saw the pained, frightened expression on his face. Violet patted him on the arm, enjoined him to have fun, and made her way across the room to where her brother was talking with a couple of glowering toughs.

“Alright, old man?” Joseph put an arm around his shoulders. “What did she want?”

“She wants me to do some press,” he replied, setting his jaw in the hope that it would erase the look of vague fright that he felt must still have been on it.

“What for?”

“Something about offering me a job. She says it’s a disgrace that men like us come back to nothing.”

Joseph laughed knowingly. “That sounds just like her. Violet never misses a chance to get her name in the papers. You’ll do it?”

“I don’t think she was giving me very much of a choice.”

“No,” he said. “Probably not. Don’t worry, Doc, I sure it’ll be painless and she’ll be grateful for it. It’s always best to keep her happy. Fancy a breath of fresh air?”

The blaring, grating drunken voices pressed into his ears and Edward was pleased of the chance for a little quiet. The rain was still falling as they wandered outside into the formal gardens: low box hedges, ornamental ponds, a gravel path that wound down, eventually, to the lakeshore. It was a little cold and neither had a topcoat, sheltered from the rain by two large umbrellas. Edward enjoyed the fresh air in his lungs. Behind them, golden light spilled out from the French doors, and noise as another record played from the gramophone. They reached the water’s edge and, in the shelter of the boathouse, leant against the balustrade. The water beyond shifted and shimmied in the light of the moon, a gentle breeze ruffling across it.