All the Beauty of the Sun Read Online Free Page A

such a slut?’ Joseph tightened his grip on her arm, pulling her to him. ‘Fun! If you want fun –’
    â€˜Fun?’ Edmund had turned back and stood in front of them. He said, ‘Perhaps I want some fun, Day.’ His voice was hard; this voice of his: she realised it was why she wanted him. Then, in the easy, soft voice he used more often, Edmund said, ‘Let her go, Joseph, there’s a good fellow.’
    â€˜Piss off.’
    She shook off Joseph’s grasp. ‘Shall we just go to this exhibition and look at the pictures?’
    â€˜Well, I think that’s a jolly good idea, don’t you, Joseph?’
    Joseph glared at him. If they were to fight over her she couldn’t predict who might come out on top. Joseph would cheat, she suspected; Edmund would treat it as a joke. She imagined him dusting off his jacket and smoothing back his hair, smiling even as he wiped the blood from his nose before holding out his hand for Joseph to shake. He should care about something, she thought suddenly, something more than himself.
    Joseph pushed past him, breaking into an odd little jog to catch up with Andrew, who had sensibly walked on. Raising his eyebrows, Edmund smiled at her. ‘A bit of fun, eh?’
    â€˜And aren’t you relieved?’
    He lit a cigarette, shaking out the match and tossing it down into the gutter. ‘I’m relieved that I’m good for something.’
    â€˜Have I hurt your feelings?’
    He laughed. ‘Terribly. Anyway, fun is fun, isn’t it? Unless it’s an Irish euphemism I’m not familiar with?’ He held out his hand to her and she imagined it bloody from the fight so that she hesitated a moment before taking it. Such large hands he had, capable and safe. As though he sensed her hesitation, he raised his eyebrows again, smiling a little as he asked, ‘Are we friends?’
    When she nodded he squeezed her hand, saying, ‘All right, let’s get out of this rain.’
    When they reached the gallery, Joseph and Andrew were already inside. The place was crowded, a small scrum of bodies in the doorway, waiting for a little floor space to clear before they could go in.
    A man approached them. ‘Is this the Python Gallery?’ He squinted up at the sign above the door. ‘Ah yes. I see that it is …’
    Edmund laughed, turning to her. ‘ Python? Bloody silly name, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Lawrence likes it.’ She looked to the man who seemed as hesitant to go inside as Edmund was. ‘Have you come to see the new exhibition?’
    â€˜Yes,’ he glanced through the gallery’s window, then back to her. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘I know the artist. Actually, he’s my son.’
    He’s my son, George Harris thought, and I should be proud of him. I should have been here as they opened the doors, steadying his nerves – he had no doubt Paul would be nervous, although he would hide his nervousness well. Instead he had hung back in his hotel room, deciding whether he should go to the opening – if that was what they called such events – at all.
    He was proud of him. He had always been proud of him. He remembered the day Paul joined the army; he could have wept with fear, but he was still proud. During the war, he had looked back on that pride with contempt, wondering at his own idiocy. He should have locked Paul away or else he should have taken him to one side and told him he knew his secret: tell them you’re homosexual, and they won’t have you. Oh yes, of course he should have said such a thing. Only shame had held him back. So, he would rather see his son killed than openly acknowledge what he was.
    The irony was, he didn’t mind about his homosexuality, not at least as he supposed some fathers would mind. He had guessed what Paul was when he was still a small child; it seemed that for most of Paul’s life he had watched him too closely,