The Imposter

“You’re already lit up.”

“More lit up, then.”

“Who’s Violet?” Edward asked Chiara.

“Our aunt,” she explained. “And the fellow next to her is our uncle George.”

“We’ll leave you to it,” Sophia said. “I don’t think we need to be subjected to her. We get it every day.”

“To what?” Edward said, confused.

“Come on,” Joseph said. “You’ll see. Let’s get it over with.”

10

MATRONS FUSSED OVER DISHES that had been arranged on the trestle tables: bowls of pasta, salads, cuts of meat, trifles and cakes, a large tureen filled with punch. Joseph explained that each family had provided a dish, most more than one, the women rising early to start the preparations. The air was freighted with a sweet-smelling aroma: garlic, fried onions, rosemary, tomatoes, roasted vegetables. They picked their way through the crowd until they reached the table. Violet Costello was in her early fifties. She was a handsome woman, dressed elegantly in clothes that were obviously more expensive than those of the women around her. They had the dowdy, homely appearance of the housewife yet she was impressive, bearing herself with a regal air. She obviously had money, and style. If Violet indicated her status with subtle choices, George Costello was altogether more ostentatious. He was tall, over six feet, and his brillantined hair made him look even taller. His shoulders were broad and he was built as powerfully as an ox. He was wearing a fine suit, a clip-on bow tie with changeable paper collars and a loud, checked, belted overcoat. He wore a fresh carnation in his button-hole. His hair and whiskers had been cut that morning, his grooming punctiliously exact. His head was a little too large for his body and his eyes were a little too small for his face; they glittered darkly, suggesting he was not a man to be crossed.

A steady procession of people approached their table. They acted deferentially, shaking hands with George and kissing Violet’s cheek, a few words spoken before they moved away to allow the next person their audience. Most bore gifts: bottles of black, sticky homemade wine, a basket of freshly baked bread. A large collection of bottles, plates and salvers had formed on the table behind them. Young girls removed the gifts and redistributed them around the street to be enjoyed by the revellers.

Edward felt a stirring of excitement. There were opportunities here.

“What’s all that about?” he asked Joseph, indicating the well-wishers.

“Violet paid for the party.”

“And the gifts?”

“Signs of respect.”

Edward did not know what that meant, but he concentrated on his smile as they approached the table. Violet turned. “Joseph,” she said warmly, “and Billy. Two of my favourite boys.”

“Mrs. Costello,” Billy said. His attitude had moved from surliness to close to servility.

“And who’s this?”

“This is Edward Fabian,” Joseph said. “We served together.”

“The man you mentioned?”

“That’s right.”

Edward extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

She took it. Her skin was smooth as porcelain. “Sit,” she said, gesturing to the space next to her, and he did as he was told. She spoke in short, curt bursts, with a certainty of tone that suggested she was used to giving instructions and that she was used to those instructions being followed. Her words were inflected with a strong East London accent that he found surprising, given that her wardrobe was so obviously expensive; she looked like Bond Street but sounded like Bethnal Green. “You all look half-starved. Have something to eat with us.”

She reached across the table for a plate and a bowl of pasta. Edward sat next to her, feeling a little awkward, as she dished out a serving and handed him the bowl.

“How have you found being back?” she asked him.

“It’s wonderful, obviously, but it’s also a bit of a shock.”

“Your parents must be glad?”

Edward made sure he looked thoughtful. “Oh, they’re both dead, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “It was a long time ago.”

He could certainly never tell any of them about his father, or about Jimmy, and, despite the ease with which he delivered the lie, he felt a moment of disquiet. It was guilt. He tried to recover himself: what was he so worried about? He had delivered the very same lie a hundred times before and there was no way that these people could possibly tell that it wasn’t true.

Violet indicated his uniform. “Is that for a reason?”

“We’ve just been to Buckingham Palace,” Joseph answered for him. “Edward has been decorated.”

George Costello flinched, the first break in his rigidity. It was like watching a thick wall shift and lean after a bomb had fallen.

“Really?” he said.

“He got the Victoria Cross.”

Violet was visibly impressed. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Edward said, masking the mild unease he felt with a shrug.

“What did you do?” George pressed. He didn’t try and hide his dubious tone.

“Nothing really,” Edward said. He felt himself begin to sweat, and he tried again to relax.

“No, come on,” George pressed irritably. “What did you do?”

“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Joseph said.

“You’re very modest,” Violet commended. “I’d much rather that than some loud-mouthed braggart.”

George harrumphed but allowed the conversation to drop.

“How long have you been home?” she asked.

“Just a few weeks.”

“And have you found work?”

Edward was about to reply that he had not when a black Wolseley slid to a stop on the side-street opposite. George Costello swore colourfully under his breath. Two men in the front seat took notebooks from the dashboard and, with no attempt at concealment, recorded the number plates of the other cars parked near them.

Joseph regarded them contemptuously. “They just won’t give it a bloody rest, will they?”

“Ignore them,” Violet said. “It’s a free country. They can do what they want. And we’ve done nothing wrong.”

Joseph stared at the two men and, when he was sure that they were looking in his direction, spat theatrically into the gutter.

“Joseph!”

“What? They think they’re going to get something today? Here?”

“They’re just making a point.”

“They’re wasting their time,” George muttered.

Edward watched the men in the car scribble into their notebooks. “Who are they?”

“Police,” Joseph grunted.

Edward stared at the car and the men inside it. Police? The mention of the word made him shiver. He wanted to ask what they were there for but he could see that it was not a subject it would have been wise to pursue. The car dallied for five minutes before reversing away, sliding around a corner and out of sight.

“Good riddance,” Joseph said.

The crowd had grown so that there were now hundreds of locals gathered in the street. Plenty of them were drunk, and some had started dancing on the pavement. Others had taken their places at the tables, helping themselves to the piles of food and the gallon jugs of homemade wine. The children were finally quiet, gorging themselves happily from the array of plates and bowls.

Violet laid a hand on Edward’s wrist. “What do you think?” she asked, gesturing at the scene.

“It’s wonderful.”

“It’s not what it was. I can remember when there would’ve been thousands here. The area––it’s changing.”

“It’s the bloody Irish,” George said.

Violet ignored her brother. “It wasn’t all that long ago when this whole district was completely Italian. I can remember it from when I was a little girl… Italian shops, Italian food, the only language you’d hear was Italian.”

“Those days are long gone,” her brother muttered.

She nodded sadly. “It’s all moved to Soho now.”

“Do you live here?” Edward asked.