Read Online A Love Like Blood by Marcus Sedgwick - Free Book Online
Authors: Marcus Sedgwick
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cold Cambridge wind, and, nodding at the night porter who knew me by sight if not by name, I wound my way up to Hunter’s rooms and knocked on the heavy door.
It swung open. He stood within, and as he often did roared a greeting at me as hearty as any prodigal son could ever have had.
‘Charles!’
‘The great Hunter Wilson, I presume?’
He pretended to shut the door in my face.
‘Not today, thank you. I gave a statement to the press yesterday . . .’
I barged my way in then and after some small chit-chat, we took chairs either side of his little fireplace, in which a small pile of coal was burning brightly.
‘That’s welcome. I haven’t been warm in months, it seems. I should be used to this place by now.’
Hunter poured some whisky and handed the glass to me.
‘I’ve been here a fair bit longer than you,’ he said, raising his glass, ‘and I’m still not used to it. You know they say the monks chose Cambridge for their new university because of the cold. They thought a warm climate was distracting to the concentration.’
‘Is that true?’
‘That’s the story. It’s still true, for want of a better word, isn’t it?’
I wondered what he meant for a moment, but was used to such things from Hunter. I knew what he was saying; that it didn’t really matter if the story was just a story, because it still had the truth in it.
It reminded me of what I’d come to talk about, and I must have suddenly looked serious, because Hunter sat deeper in his chair. He was a big man, not fat, just tall and broad, and his age had done nothing to change that. He had lots of hair still, all white now, though when I’d met him as a boy it had been a dark grey-brown. He fought regularly to try and stop it looking crazy, when what it actually needed was a trip to the barber in All Saints Passage.
He considered me for a while, judging my mood.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Ah! Go on then, tell me.’
I swilled the whisky round in my glass.
‘There’s something I never told you,’ I began.
‘I knew it!’ he cried. ‘You’re queer! No? A communist? No? Wait, I have it, you’re actually a woman! Yes?’
‘Hunter, stop it,’ I said, though I smiled. I never knew how someone his age had managed to stay so boyish. It was what I liked best about him, but I wanted him to listen to me seriously.
Bless him, he did.
‘In the war . . .’ I tried again to focus my thoughts. ‘I didn’t tell you much about the war, but not because I was trying to hide anything from you, or anyone. It just seemed better when it was over to move forward and get on with other things.’
He nodded.
‘But there is one thing I was hiding. Not just from you, but from everyone. Something I saw in Paris.’
Hunter, though he frequently played the fool, was the smartest man I had ever known. He was already making connections.
‘You never told me you were in Paris in the war. I thought the French and the Yanks liberated it . . .’
‘They did. Our CO took us for some leave, just after the liberation.’
I could see he was amazed by this. He raised a finger.
‘And you have just returned from Paris and now your mood is bad and you’ve come here to drink whisky late at night. What happened?’
That was what I’d come for, the Hunter who cared, who made it easy to talk, to discuss things.
‘I saw something. Someone, rather. It was . . . a coincidence, I suppose. That’s all. I was in a restaurant in Saint-Germain—’
‘Lovely. I know it well.’
‘No, not Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Saint-Germain-en-Laye. To the west of Paris itself. It’s a suburb on a bluff that looks over the city. I went there one day. I’d had a really bad morning at the conference. I wanted to clear my head, I wanted . . .’
‘You wanted to go back somewhere, I think.’
I nodded.
‘Yes. I wanted to go back, I don’t really know why, to the place where I saw something in 1944 .’
‘Which was?’
So I told him the whole story, of the Major
It swung open. He stood within, and as he often did roared a greeting at me as hearty as any prodigal son could ever have had.
‘Charles!’
‘The great Hunter Wilson, I presume?’
He pretended to shut the door in my face.
‘Not today, thank you. I gave a statement to the press yesterday . . .’
I barged my way in then and after some small chit-chat, we took chairs either side of his little fireplace, in which a small pile of coal was burning brightly.
‘That’s welcome. I haven’t been warm in months, it seems. I should be used to this place by now.’
Hunter poured some whisky and handed the glass to me.
‘I’ve been here a fair bit longer than you,’ he said, raising his glass, ‘and I’m still not used to it. You know they say the monks chose Cambridge for their new university because of the cold. They thought a warm climate was distracting to the concentration.’
‘Is that true?’
‘That’s the story. It’s still true, for want of a better word, isn’t it?’
I wondered what he meant for a moment, but was used to such things from Hunter. I knew what he was saying; that it didn’t really matter if the story was just a story, because it still had the truth in it.
It reminded me of what I’d come to talk about, and I must have suddenly looked serious, because Hunter sat deeper in his chair. He was a big man, not fat, just tall and broad, and his age had done nothing to change that. He had lots of hair still, all white now, though when I’d met him as a boy it had been a dark grey-brown. He fought regularly to try and stop it looking crazy, when what it actually needed was a trip to the barber in All Saints Passage.
He considered me for a while, judging my mood.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Ah! Go on then, tell me.’
I swilled the whisky round in my glass.
‘There’s something I never told you,’ I began.
‘I knew it!’ he cried. ‘You’re queer! No? A communist? No? Wait, I have it, you’re actually a woman! Yes?’
‘Hunter, stop it,’ I said, though I smiled. I never knew how someone his age had managed to stay so boyish. It was what I liked best about him, but I wanted him to listen to me seriously.
Bless him, he did.
‘In the war . . .’ I tried again to focus my thoughts. ‘I didn’t tell you much about the war, but not because I was trying to hide anything from you, or anyone. It just seemed better when it was over to move forward and get on with other things.’
He nodded.
‘But there is one thing I was hiding. Not just from you, but from everyone. Something I saw in Paris.’
Hunter, though he frequently played the fool, was the smartest man I had ever known. He was already making connections.
‘You never told me you were in Paris in the war. I thought the French and the Yanks liberated it . . .’
‘They did. Our CO took us for some leave, just after the liberation.’
I could see he was amazed by this. He raised a finger.
‘And you have just returned from Paris and now your mood is bad and you’ve come here to drink whisky late at night. What happened?’
That was what I’d come for, the Hunter who cared, who made it easy to talk, to discuss things.
‘I saw something. Someone, rather. It was . . . a coincidence, I suppose. That’s all. I was in a restaurant in Saint-Germain—’
‘Lovely. I know it well.’
‘No, not Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Saint-Germain-en-Laye. To the west of Paris itself. It’s a suburb on a bluff that looks over the city. I went there one day. I’d had a really bad morning at the conference. I wanted to clear my head, I wanted . . .’
‘You wanted to go back somewhere, I think.’
I nodded.
‘Yes. I wanted to go back, I don’t really know why, to the place where I saw something in 1944 .’
‘Which was?’
So I told him the whole story, of the Major
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