Page 42 of The Gathering Storm

His walk-up was small, a little shabby, but clean, and monastically tidy. She remembered how when he had worked at White House Farm, Mrs Bellerby had said he kept his room spotless. Above all it was private. There was no doorman or concierge in a place like this. People came and went with their own latch-key and no-one was interested in anyone else’s business. They were as alone here as on a desert island.

In one corner of the living room she had seen stacked what she knew was his artist’s gear. ‘What happened to the paintings?’ she asked idly. He grunted a query. ‘From the exhibition that was cancelled.’

‘A few of the biggest canvases were already in London. Sophie will sell them for me. There are lots of rich Americans in London with walls to cover. The rest I had packed up and sent on board the ship. Freda’s taking care of them. She might give me an exhibition, or sell them privately.’

‘It seems …’ She looked for the word. ‘… extreme to leave Paris just because your show was cancelled.’

‘It wasn’t only that,’ he said. ‘I had a cable to say my son was ill.’

She had known he had a son, whom he had left at school back in America, and as far as she knew rarely visited. It had shocked her a little at first, but she had told herself that men did not feel the same way about their children as women – and a small, shameful part of her had been glad he did not treasure the offspring of his marriage to another woman. So now it surprised her that he should rush across the Atlantic for a mere illness. She couldn’t think what to say. ‘I hope he’s better now.’

‘He died,’ Erich said.

Polly sat up so that she could look down at him, to see what he was feeling. It was hard to read his face. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

He took one of her loose, hanging locks and wound it round his finger as he spoke. ‘He was at a special school. He was not normal, you see. After my wife died his grandparents looked after him, but as he got older, they couldn’t cope, so the special school was the only solution.’

‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Don’t be. It is run by nuns, and they are very kind. I think he was happy there.’ He stopped, and started again. ‘It was always known that he would not live to a great age.’

‘What did he die of?’

‘Influenza. One could think of it as a blessed release.’

‘Do you think of it like that?’

‘Yes and no,’ he said, and she understood it was not an evasion. After a pause he went on, ‘I wasn’t in time to see him. The crossing takes so long … But he didn’t really know who I was, even when he was well. They had to tell him each time, and even then … And he didn’t know anyone at the end.’

She lay down again so she could put her arms round him. He gathered her close, and kissed her hair.

‘So, are you staying on here now, in America?’ she asked at last.

‘I haven’t decided.’

‘This place … Not an hotel?’

‘Freda found it for me. It’s cheaper than an hotel.’

‘Aren’t you rich?’

He laughed. ‘You sound like a little girl! I have money, but I have to be sensible with it. I don’t have a steady job and a salary to depend on, like a bank clerk. I have to make money, so I can never be sure of it. But my needs are simple and this place serves. And it’s private. I’d have thought you’d appreciate that, at least.’

‘I do,’ she said, turning her face up, hungry for kisses. She adored his presence, his body, his touch, the breath of his words on her ear, the taste of his lips, the smell of his skin, the feeling of him moving inside her. She wanted all of him, every atom, she wanted to consume him and be consumed by him, melt together into one entity. She felt his instant response, and gloried in it. They made love again, and thought was chased out by feeling.

Much later, they were hungry and went out for food. There was an Automat on the corner of Broadway. They sat across the small metal table from each other holding hands, her right in his left, because they couldn’t bear not to be touching each other.

‘I feel bad about running out on Freda,’ Polly said.

‘I hope she doesn’t think you’ve been kidnapped. We don’t want the cops looking for you.’

‘Should I ring her and let her know?’

‘Let her know what?’

‘That I’m in good hands.’

‘She served her purpose, bringing us together. She should be happy.’