Fires of London (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) Read Free Page A

design and the rudiments of oil painting, from randy middle-aged men with an eye for youthful faces. Bless them all—or ninety percent of them anyway. Still, bad thoughts about Damien and bodies in the street. I paid for the round and left.
    “Mind yourself in the dark,” said the barman.
    I slapped on my tin hat and tapped it. “Off on His Majesty’s service,” I said. His laughter followed me, and I turned and waved to him at the curtain. The heavy type at the end had raised his head. Copper? I was sure of it now.

Chapter Two
    Nan was in the kitchen with her wireless on, a birthday gift from me with a little help from Arnold, who finds her amusing. She was listening to the evacuation news on the Beeb. A bloody disaster. Belgium finished, French lines collapsed, armies streaming for the coast and Dunkirk. I’m not best suited for regimentation, and living with my father inoculated me against all the temptations of brass and polish. I’m not even fond of guardsmen, that traditional London recreation, but boys I know are in France, and with better lungs I could be stranded on the beach myself. Lately, what with car crashes and pedestrian disasters, I’ve seen blood and dismemberment on a small scale, and I can imagine worse. I don’t like the picture.
    The news reader was giving out the surprisingly high evacuation numbers—more than 100,000 already—and describing the small boats crossing the channel to help, but from my studio I was watching a crisis nearer to home. Nan was preparing some carrots, and I noticed that she filled the pot by ear, tipping her head to listen to the rising sound of the water. She selected the carrots by touch, which made me unhappy about the paring knife, even though she’s skillful. Slow but skillful.
    I’d stepped back for a moment to check the proportions on my canvas when I realized that I could see her feeling for the thin root end of each carrot, checking that she’d cut all the leaves, and listening for the water. She sometimes jokes about her eyes—“I’ve no more sight than a bat,” she’ll say. Then she sets off for the shops and lifts something if we’re short though she’s nearly blind. Admit it; Nan’s nearly blind. She must judge the clerk’s presence by sound—an appalling, exciting risk, such as I appreciate, but still . . . at her age. That’s another topic I normally avoid, because, although normally fearless, I’m fearful for Nan, whom I love. I’m quite aware that she’s all that stands between me and total self-absorption. And beyond that, what would I do without her in so many practical ways?
    “Need some help, Nan?”
    “No, but come hear this, dear boy. We’re getting them home! Frenchies, too. Herr Hitler doesn’t know who he’s dealing with this time.”
    I stuck my brushes in a jar of turps and wiped my hands.
    “If only the weather holds. It’s got to hold another day or so.”
    “How many left?”
    “Three, four hundred thousand.”
    I shook my head. Ypres numbers, Paschendale numbers—the hitherto unimaginable dimensions of the last war.
    “We’ll get them,” said Nan. “We’ll get them. The British Navy’s worth more than all those damn panzers. You’ll see.”
    I gave her a hug. “So, dinner, Nan. What’s on tonight?” I didn’t want to talk about the disaster across the Channel; I’d like to have switched off the set, but Nan was rapt. It’s as if the war never really ended for her generation, as if the past twenty years has been one long truce, and they’ve expected this all the time.
    And they were right; disaster’s always waiting in the wings or down in some basement accommodation. Consider poor consumptive Damien, who lingers in my mind. I’d gotten more details by then: he’d been dumped in the park with his head bashed in and multiple cuts and bruises. We shared lung trouble, Damien and I; we were acquainted with suffocation, with screams inside and out. With the human condition, I’m tempted to add,