An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful by J. David Simons Page B

shiny grey double-breasted suit. A good-looking man in that cool, confident, easy, American way. Perfect poster material for Uncle Sam’s embassy overseas.
    ‘So you are a friend of my daughter’s,’ Collingwood said, gimlet-eyed, assessing Edward over the crystal rim of a whisky glass. Then a strong handshake.
    Edward tried to return the man’s grasp. ‘We only just met. At the lying in state.’
    ‘Good. Macy needs to meet new people here. She tells me you are studying the Japanese language.’
    ‘Japanese history and culture as well.’
    ‘I had a stint there during the Occupation. A fine people. Extremely kind. Extremely diligent. My wife hated it there.’ Collingwood sent a quick, professional smile towards his daughter. ‘So what do you think about her… her stuff?’
    ‘You mean her art?’
    ‘Yes, her art. If that’s what you can call it.’
    ‘I love it.’
    ‘Hmmm. Well, it keeps her busy I guess,’ he said, before turning back to his circle.
    With the man’s grip still fresh on his flesh, Edward felt Macy take his other arm, easy as you like, leading him away as if they were newly-weds making the round of their reception guests.
    ‘Don’t mind Daddy.’
    ‘I thought he was all right.’
    ‘Liar. He can be a bit sharp. But he doesn’t really mean it.’
    ‘All the same…’
    ‘Look, it’s nice of you to stand up for me,’ she said. ‘But you don’t need to stay for all of…’ She waved a hand around the gallery. ‘For all of this. Why don’t you go off and have a drink somewhere? I’ll meet you outside. Say in about an hour.’
    He found a pub nearby, a pint of bitter, a discarded newspaper and a table by the window. He tried to calm himself down, anchor this floating feeling inside of him, swirling and sworling away like those colours on the canvas. He felt alive to these new sensations, not just within himself but all around him. New queen, new art, new friend. Dare he think it? New girlfriend. What he read in the paper confirmed his mood. National identity cards to be abolished, the coronation scheduled for next year. People were now liberated from government supervision, temporarily orphaned from monarchy. An unfettered population capable of great things. London seemed such a delightful, welcoming place now. Through the misty panes, he could see arm-in-arm walks along the embankment, visits to the cinema, picnics in the park. Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron. Singing in the rain.
    The fog was coming in thick as he stepped outside the pub. He felt a tug at his sleeve, sensed a shadow slip out of the murkiness.
    ‘Tuppence for a cup of tea. For an old soldier.’
    The beggar was dressed in an army greatcoat, one of the sleeves hanging loose where an arm had been. Thin wisps of hair spread across his scalp like winter weeds, eyes jaundiced, imploring him with such a sadness that Edward felt obliged to search his pockets for some change. He gave the beggar what he had asked, received a salute in return. He didn’t know why, but the gesture moved him terribly, and he thrust some more coins into the man’s open palm.
    Macy was a silhouette waiting for him outside the gallery. The same dark green coat and beret from the day at Westminster. Leather satchel off one shoulder.
    ‘I sold a painting,’ she said. Her face shone just like her father’s.
    ‘You are now an artist.’
    ‘No. I was always an artist. Now I am a painter.’
    He laughed. ‘What would you like to do?’
    ‘Nothing. Just walk.’
    ‘In this fog?’
    ‘Yes, in this fog.’
    Again he felt her arm in his, fingers tightening to claim possession , making him feel warm and wanted from the attention. They were in their own world now, cocooned by the fog, where he could protect her from lampposts, pavement edges, reckless pedestrians , strange shadows emerging into their private space before disappearing again. Hazy orange glows from headlamps, street lamps, torches and table lamps. Cold, sharp voices. People humming