Keeping the World Away (32 page)

The young woman who opened the cottage door, while he was still standing at the gate, was nothing like their mother, but she was instantly recognisable all the same. She stared at him long and hard, but there was no shock in her expression, only the same uncertainty he was himself experiencing. Finally, he pushed open the gate and made his way up the path and she smiled and said his name, but it was not easy to embrace her. She did not relax into his arms, or hold him tight, but instead put her own hands up and held his face, as though to be sure he was who she thought he was.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘an odd place to find you, little sister. Do you remember Scarface?’

She nodded, gestured for him to come in. ‘Tea?’ she said.

‘I’d rather have a drink, if you’ve got one.’

She shook her head.

‘OK, tea, then.’ It gave her something to do, and himself time to struggle with his uncertainty.

She was slim, fine-boned, graceful. Her hair was long, tied back on the nape of her neck with a ribbon. No make-up. The eyes still arresting, still watchful, still making him uncomfortable, but then how could he not be uncomfortable after such a long time.

‘So,’ he said, when he’d been given the tea, ‘so, how are you? How have things been?’

She smiled, and sipped her own tea, still standing beside the cooker. ‘I’m fine, considering. And you?’

‘Fine, considering. Considering quite a lot, eh, for both of us?’

She nodded, came and sat at the table with him, then asked him the obvious questions, about when he’d got back, how bad had things been, and he answered, keeping his answers factual and
shrugging
off the deeper implications. All the time, he was studying her, trying to grasp what she was like, but he could guess very little about her state of mind. Something was needed to connect them but he couldn’t produce it. Then she said, ‘Are you here for long?’

‘Could be,’ he said. ‘Depends.’ He wanted her to ask, on what, but she didn’t, merely giving one of her funny, grave little nods.

‘Depends,’ he was obliged to repeat, and then add, ‘depends on you, really.’

‘Me?’ She was startled, suddenly wary.

‘Well, I thought maybe we could farm together.’

She laughed, and seemed relieved. ‘Joke,’ she said, smiling.

‘No, not a joke, not necessarily. Could be serious, I mean a serious idea. What do you think?’

Now she was frowning. ‘You never wanted to be a farmer,’ she said, almost accusingly. And then: ‘You can’t just decide to be a farmer, not like that.’

‘Why not?’

‘You don’t know the first thing about farming.’

‘I could learn.’

‘It takes years.’

‘I’ve got years, I hope.’

‘But where would you start, where would you find a farm? It’s not like buying a house.’

‘You could help me. We could do it together.’

‘But I’m leaving, don’t you remember? I’m going to London. I’m taking up my place at art college.’

After that, they were both quiet. Disappointment and a sense of having been clumsy kept Sam silent. It must have showed in his face because Lucasta murmured that she was sorry. It was going to be like this, he thought, coming back from the war, thinking he could walk into people’s lives and assume nothing had changed for them when everything had changed for him. He would have to learn not to take anything for granted. Finally, he found his voice again and began asking Lucasta about herself, about how she was managing, whether she had enough money,
where
she was going to live. He questioned her, too, about who owned the farms around them, who might look favourably on him. She said there was always plenty of work for unskilled labourers, emphasising the unskilled. And suddenly the whole idea seemed ridiculous, and he laughed, and said he must have been mad to entertain it for even the length of a train journey – romantic nonsense, nothing more.

It was uncomfortable that night, being together in the cottage. Both of them were polite and trying desperately to connect with each other. Lucasta asked about the war, but he didn’t want to talk about it, or rather he didn’t know how to. He’d start a sentence intending to describe some incident and run out of words halfway through it. His head would fill with an image of what he’d been going to tell her but the words wouldn’t come, and so he was left stranded, feeling far away, failing entirely to communicate the fear and horror he’d experienced. What he craved was a drink, some alcohol, but she had none and the nearest pub was too far away to walk to just for a drink. He felt tense and unsettled and wanted to leave, but by then it was late and he had nowhere to go.

She took him up to a bedroom, saying it had been their mother’s, she hoped he didn’t mind, but the bed was longer and wider and more comfortable. He was so tired and dispirited that he didn’t object, though he didn’t like the idea at all. Should he kiss her goodnight? No. It didn’t seem right, she kept her distance. Lying in bed, he found himself wondering if Lucasta had ever kissed anyone. She was attractive, but there was the same off-putting coolness about her that there had been as a child, and no boy would have been daring enough to risk it. But his sister’s personal life was none of his business. Though he might fancy he was now
in loco parentis
, he couldn’t expect her to accept that in the circumstances. He had to prove himself, but he didn’t know how.

Sleep didn’t come as quickly as he wanted it to. The bed was fine, but he couldn’t bear the thought of his mother’s having slept here. He lay there studying the room in the moonlight which shone through the open, uncurtained window. The room was
small
, with a sloping roof, and flowered wallpaper that in the dim light seemed unsettling, alive. There was a tiny iron fireplace and above the mantelpiece he could see a painting, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was of – perhaps it was one of his mother’s. He hadn’t thought to tell Lucasta that he would like a memento of some sort, though he didn’t know what. A painting would do. A small one, that he could hang easily and take with him wherever he went. Maybe this little painting. He would ask Lucasta.

*

Lucasta stayed up after Sam had at last gone to bed. She had nothing she needed to do, but she didn’t want to lie awake thinking about him. If she waited, and walked about a bit, and read, then maybe when she did go up she would sleep at once. He looked so old: that had been the first shock. She remembered him when he had last lived at home, so handsome and energetic, with a thick head of black hair, always tanned, always lively and bright. Their mother had been forever shouting at him to sit down, keep still, but he was always on the go, eating meals standing up and dashing off to meet friends, take a girl out. He’d been a whirlwind in the house. But all that seemed to have gone – this man who had turned up was heavier, stronger but also calmer. He’d sat for over an hour, she’d noticed, without once moving, and when he did it was in a cautious, deliberate way. His hair was still black but it was cut brutally short, making his face look squarer and drawing attention to his large ears which she never recalled noticing before. But it was the colour of his skin and the lines on it which made the greatest change. His complexion wasn’t tanned, it was a dull beige colour, which made him look ill, and the frown marks on his forehead were deep. Looking at him, she’d felt sad and sorry for him. This colossal change was, she realised, to do with the war and what he had been through; but then she thought of the soldier in Trafalgar Square, and how none of this weariness had been in his face.

But perhaps that man had had a very different war from Sam. She tried to appreciate what it must have been like for him, but though she could imagine the awful, stifling heat, or thought she
could
, she could not exactly visualise the place where he had been imprisoned. He didn’t seem able to describe it, and she saw that struggling to do so upset him. It troubled her that Sam’s memories, trapped in his mind, might plague him for the rest of his life. What he needed was someone who could help him deal with them, and she knew she was not that person. She had the desire to be, and she longed to love, and be loved by, her brother in an open, easy, affectionate manner, but she was as frozen as he was when it came to communicating concern. It was as though they were stranded on either side of a river, and that river was the war.

*

The morning was better. Sam woke up refreshed after almost ten hours’ sleep. The sun flooded the bedroom and warmed his face where he lay. He closed his eyes and revelled in the warmth and comfort, listening to a song thrush perched somewhere very near his window. If he strained, he thought he could hear the sea in the distance, and something else, the faintest hum, perhaps of a tractor. Peaceful sounds, all of them. He could hear Lucasta moving about downstairs, the gentle clink of a cup, the tap of a spoon, the quiet opening of a cupboard. He should get up, get washed, shave, dress, go down, but it was heaven lying there, he couldn’t move. The painting above the mantelpiece, when he did open his eyes, was not as interesting as he’d hoped. He wondered why the artist had bothered to paint the rather dreary corner of a room. There was nothing happening, no drama or bright colours. He didn’t think he wanted it, after all.

They had breakfast outside, sitting at a rickety wooden table underneath a pear tree. Lucasta worried that there wasn’t much to eat, but to him the brown bread and butter, and a boiled egg, were a feast. It was a Sunday. ‘Do you go to church?’ he asked her, teasing, guessing she wouldn’t. But she said that she did sometimes, though she didn’t know why, it was just ‘somewhere to go if it was raining’. The pathos of this touched him, though he took care to hide his reaction. When she’d cleared the breakfast things away, she suggested a walk on the cliff path and he agreed eagerly.
Walking
was good. They would be doing something and the awkwardness between them would seem less heavy. If he remembered correctly, a lot of the cliff walk had to be done in single file and conversation would be impossible.

An hour later, they came back to the cottage much more relaxed with each other and Lucasta asked, ‘Sam, can I draw you?’

‘What, now, here?’

‘Yes. Here, outside. If you just sit where you are, I’ll try. It might take a long time.’

‘Well, I’m not going anywhere, not yet.’

It took ages to get everything set up, with Lucasta endlessly changing his position until he began to become a little irritable and impatient and had to control the temptation to tell her he’d changed his mind. But finally she was satisfied. He went and stood beside her, looking at what she’d produced. It was not in the least like him, but that pleased him and meant he could speak freely.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I don’t recognise myself, that chap doesn’t have much to do with me, but it’s striking, that’s one thing. Wouldn’t like to meet him on a dark night.’

She said nothing, just began quietly putting things away. He didn’t know how, but he knew he had upset her. To change the subject, he said, ‘Have you heard from Tom recently?’ She shook her head. ‘I wonder if he’ll ever come back?’ Sam said, lamely. ‘He seems to like it there.’

‘He does,’ Lucasta agreed. ‘He mentioned a woman in his last letter, someone he’s getting fond of, an Australian. There’s nothing for him to come back for.’

‘There’s you.’

‘Me? Don’t be silly. Why should he come back for me?’

‘He’s your brother, he worries about you, I’m sure.’

‘Rubbish. He knows I can look after myself. I’m not his responsibility. Or yours.’

‘But he cares about you, as I do.’ She frowned. He cleared his throat, and repeated, ‘I
do
care about you, that’s why I’ve come.’ She was taking everything in the wrong way. It was infuriating.
His
concern, so difficult to express, seemed to annoy her and he couldn’t understand why. He didn’t want to be childish, but it was tempting to take offence and slam out of the cottage. But then she said, ‘Sorry,’ abruptly, and he saw there were tears in her eyes. The moment she realised he had noticed this, she rushed into the kitchen and began washing dishes noisily, and he didn’t dare go after her. Instead, he put a record on the old gramophone in the corner, some sort of jazz. She came back with some sandwiches she’d made, and they sat together, eating and listening to the music. He almost fell asleep but jerked himself upright when the record ended.

‘I’ll have to go to bed,’ he said. ‘I get so tired all the time.’ He hesitated – it was so exhausting trying to think what to say, how to bridge the gap between them – and then said, ‘I’ll be leaving tomorrow, going to London. Have to get myself sorted.’

‘I went to London last year, on VE Day. It terrified me. I don’t know how I’ll manage when I start at Chelsea.’

‘The college will fix you up. You’ll be all right. Send me your address when you get one. I’ll send you mine as soon as I’m settled. I’ll write to you here till you go to London.’

‘You’ll write?’ She looked incredulous.

‘Yeah, why not?’

‘You never did, before the war. Mum used to …’

‘Don’t.’

‘Sorry. OK, write. I’ll write back. If you write.’

‘I will. I’m not just saying it. I want to.’ He hesitated, longing to say more, to tell her that he wanted to get to know her, to feel that the blood link between them meant something, but as ever the words wouldn’t come, they were lurking in his mind but they were too sentimental and mawkish. Instead, he said, ‘I’d like something of Mum’s to take with me.’

‘I’m afraid there isn’t much. I did write and ask you if …’

‘I know. But I couldn’t think … what about one of her drawings or paintings? Are they stashed away somewhere? That one in my room, where I slept, I thought maybe – though it doesn’t really make me think of her … or …’

‘No wonder.’

‘What?’

‘That the painting in your bedroom doesn’t make you think of her, because Mum didn’t paint it.’

‘Who did?’

‘Don’t know. A better artist, I think. It was a present, don’t you remember? Just before I was born, for her fortieth.’

‘God, no, I was only, what, three, four?’