Running to Paradise (12 page)

Rashi
and Tom are swatting like mad. They never come out of their books — so boring. Rashi has laid down a strict timetable for them to follow. ‘Work now,’ he says, ‘and later we will play.’ He’s such a pompous ass, he drives me mad.

Was
I foul to Peter? Yes. I know, I’ll buy him a little present in Okehampton and take it round to the garage. He’s joining up next month and I suppose will be killed like all the rest. I’d like us to stay friends. I just won’t let him kiss me, that’s all.

The
Vicarage, Durzebridge, Devon — 23rd June 1918, 11.30 p.m.

Only
another half hour and my birthday will be over. Do I feel different? Perhaps a little. Certainly, it would be true to say I’m learning fast about men. I’m not awfully pretty, really, but I seem able to make boys keen on me. Not, of course, the lordly Rashi: he treats me like a child, but the others...

Yesterday,
I lost my temper with Rashi and called him a damned impertinent nigger (which he is). He immediately picked me up and sat me on top of the tallest bookcase in the study, then went away and left me. I shouted and screamed like anything and of course Old Bats came in. ‘What are you doing up there, my dear? I would come down if I were you.’ I was speechless by that time and just glowered at him. Tom got me down eventually, but he was laughing so much he nearly dropped me, the idiot.

Today
was different. Today was my birthday and everyone was splendid: they all, even Old Bats, gave me a present.
A
Shropshire
Lad
by A. E. Housman. ‘I know your predilection for the countryside, my dear, and thought this might appeal.’ He is rather a dear.

Rashi
gave me a
kukri
knife that belonged, he says, to his great-great-grandfather. It’s in a carved wooden sheath with two little knives to go with it. ‘For cutting up the meat,’ Rashi says. It’s very beautiful and very murderous looking and I’m very pleased with it. Rashi also says each nick in the curved blade represents a killing — there are six! I had such a pile of presents at breakfast it took me ages to open them. Pearls from Pa and gold bangles from Ma, quite pretty actually.

In
the morning we did lessons as usual, but after lunch the boys said they had a surprise for me. I was to sit in a special chair on the lawn as Mistress of the Revels and they did a series of the most absurd tableaux: ‘in honour of Queen Charlotte on her Sixteenth Birthday’. They were so priceless I cried with laughing. Amongst other things, Rashi, wearing his robes and a turban, executed an Indian dance and little Bob played the banjo. Then I stood on the table and made a speech and after that we had a most stupendous tea.

In
the evening Peter came round and pushed a little parcel, carefully wrapped, into my hand. He was blushing and wouldn’t speak and just walked away. He had carved me a beautiful, tiny wooden stag — so pretty — I didn’t realise he could do work like that.

Oh,
I wish this term would never end; I dread the holidays in Cornwall. Pa is to come for a week while we’re there. Old Bats says I must choose now: do I want to try for Oxford, or do I want to be ‘just a lady of leisure’. How I wish I knew.

The
Vicarage, Durzebridge, Devon — 20th July 1918

The
end of term. Tomorrow I catch the train to St Ives. The others are already there. Ma writes, ‘such an adorable cottage’. I wonder. I probably won’t be coming back here next term now. Everyone is saying the War will be over soon and if it is, Pa wants me to go to finishing school in Paris. Ma says I can choose — be ‘finished’ or study for Oxford at a High School.

All
the boys are leaving, so it wouldn’t be the same here if I did come back.

How
sad. Think, never again to open up the church in the early morning; to light the candles on the altar; to fight with Rashi and rag with the others; to sit at Old Bats’ table with the red baize cloth on it and the inkwell made from a horse’s hoof, construing Virgil; never to ride on the moors; hear Rashi’s voice calling us from the garden: ‘Come on, you slackers, you’re late for prep and our aged mentor is becoming the tiniest bit waxy...’ Oh misery!

We
had a little party tonight. Mrs Oates roasted a chicken and there were raspberries and cream. The boys drank cider and Old Bats opened a bottle of his ‘89 claret. ‘For you and me, my dear, and let us drink a toast together,’ he said and raised his glass:
‘Sic
itur
ad
astra
, my pupils, and God speed.’ We all drank and Rashi made a speech (naturally) but it was a good one, and then we joined hands and sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’. I wanted to cry, really, but wouldn’t let myself.

A
postcard came from Peter Durrant. He’s at a training camp in Yorkshire. He says it’s not too bad there, except it rains all the time. Poor old Peter, perhaps he won’t be killed after all; the War may be over before he gets out to France.

A
sudden thought: I shall never see my darling Peewhit again.

Heather
Cottage, St Ives, Cornwall — 12th August 1918

Pa
left today. He’s been here a week. He and Ma are quite mad, I think. Last night I came downstairs late — I’d left my book in the parlour — and there they were, kissing one another like anything: it made me feel sick and I ran back upstairs before they saw me. If they do things like that, why did they divorce? Why, oh why can’t they be like other people’s parents?

Heather
Cottage, St Ives, Cornwall — 20th August 1918

I
think I’ve fallen in love, but how can one know for certain? His name is Piers Gurney and he’s an artist. Milly and I met him on the beach a week ago. He has black, curly hair and brown eyes and such a lovely, deep voice. He walked along the sands with us and showed us a starfish. He said he thought I must be eighteen, then Milly (the little ass) said, ‘No, she’s not. She’s only just sixteen.’

He
laughed and said, ‘Eighteen or sixteen, what does it matter? She’s beautiful, that’s what matters.’

I
’ve seen him every day since then and tomorrow he’s asked me to tea in his studio. Ma doesn’t know about him. She’s been too busy oiling round Pa to take much notice of me and I don’t want her to know about Piers. He’s my secret. Milly has promised not to tell. I’ve warned her that if she does, I’ll tell how she pinched that little china lighthouse from the shop in Penzance.

Oh
Piers, Piers, I love you. I should like us to be married in a cathedral, I think, with twelve bridesmaids and pages dressed in sea-green velvet.

Heather
Cottage, St Ives, Cornwall — 21st August 1918

I
’m definitely, certainly, totally, completely in love! I can’t eat, or sleep, or read, or do anything but think of — Piers! Imagine, Ma might not have taken Heather Cottage and I would never have met him.

The
tea? Oh, the tea was heaven. I arrived at the studio at four o’clock, so breathless I couldn’t speak, but he took my hand and led me in as though I were a princess. His pictures are bliss — all seaweedy things and brilliantly coloured fish. He says no one wants to buy them. They must be mad. We had China tea in blue and gold cups with peacocks in the bottom and seed cake he bought specially for me, and we just talked and talked. I told him the story of the man on Bagland Common when I was a little girl, who turned out to be a famous poet and, wonder of wonders, he knew all about him. I said why, if he was such a good poet, did no one ever mention his name? He said they weren’t ready for his poetry yet, but his time had nearly come.

I
was late back for supper — didn’t want any, anyway. Ma in one of her moods, kept asking questions and Milly kept giggling. They just can’t understand what it’s like to be me and in love. Piers is going to paint me; perhaps the picture will hang one day in the National Gallery in London. Will he kiss me tomorrow, I wonder?

Heather
Cottage, St Ives, Cornwall — 23rd August 1918

I
love Piers more than ever. Yesterday we walked along the cliffs holding hands. It was so incredibly beautiful. In fact, everything about yesterday was incredibly beautiful. The sun, the sea, the brown-gold rocks, the green grass — just everything. And to make it extra special, Ma took Milly to Truro for the day: she wanted me to go, but I said I would rather stay. I didn’t want to waste the sun (ha ha). Piers took me back to his studio again for tea and afterwards we played the piano and sang all sorts of funny songs. He did kiss me once, but not in the way Peter Durrant did; just gently on the lips, as though he loved me. He has a friend coming to stay tomorrow. He says I must meet him, he knows we’ll like each other awfully.

Heather
Cottage, St Ives, Cornwall — 24th August 1918

Met
Piers’ friend today. His name is Duncan Faulkner and he’s
old
— years and years older than darling Piers. Milly and I met them as we were coming out of the Post Office this morning. Piers introduced us. Mr Faulkner, who was wearing a panama and smoking a cheroot, has a belly that bulges over the top of his trousers; just looked us up and down as though we were a pair of village idiots and mumbled, ‘Charmed.’ I could feel myself blushing and said to Milly we must hurry home, Ma was waiting for us. But, ‘No, she isn’t,’ said the brat, ‘Don’t you remember, she said she’d see us at lunchtime.’

Of
course, Mr Faulkner thought this was frightfully funny and smirked all over his ugly face, and even Piers (traitor) smiled. He then (Mr F) took Piers’ arm and started talking to him as though we weren’t there. I was so angry and hurt, I just turned and ran, dragging Milly with me. Then Piers came after us and took my hand. He said he and Duncan were lunching with friends in Newlyn and wouldn’t be back until late, but could I come to tea tomorrow? He looked so sad his friend had been rude, that I agreed to go.

Goodness,
I hope the horrible Duncan isn’t down for long.

Heather
Cottage, St Ives, Cornwall — 25th August 1918

Ghastly,
miserable day. I hate this place and long to leave; awful Holly Villas would be better than this.

The
tea party was too frightful for words. Piers is quite different when Duncan’s there. They laugh and talk and make jokes all the time as if I didn’t exist. I just sat on the divan where only two days before we had been so wonderfully, exhilaratingly happy — and read the newspaper. They completely ignored me until the unspeakable Duncan suddenly said in his horrible, drawly voice: ‘I suppose we’d better give the child its tea.’ I shouted I didn’t want any bloody tea, thank you and slammed out of the studio. As I went through the door, I saw Piers’ face for a second; he looked so sad and hurt I wanted to run straight back into his arms, but didn’t, of course. Please God work a miracle, make the horrible Duncan go away.

Heather
Cottage, St Ives, Cornwall — 26th August 1918, midnight

Can
’t sleep, I don’t think I’ll ever sleep again.

The
most awful thing has happened; I still can’t believe what I’ve seen, but suppose I must. I try shutting my eyes and thinking of something else — anything else — but all I can see are those two disgusting bodies and I become hot all over and want to be sick. I’ve decided to write down exactly what I saw this evening, then burn the paper. Perhaps the very act of writing will help a little to cleanse my mind.

I
can hear the sea slapping against the rocks far below my bedroom window. A brown, velvet moth is fluttering round the lamp — I must catch him and put him outside before he burns his wings — and all the time I think of those two together and know that if I get out of bed, walk along the lane past the monkey puzzle tree and the house with the blue hydrangeas and the brass door knocker shaped like an owl, up the narrow path between the grey stone walls that are covered in pennywort, until I reach the studio, climb on the stone seat outside, so that I may peep through the big window with the blue curtains, that faces the sea, I should find...

This
morning when I awoke, I felt so miserable and awful about being angry with Piers yesterday. I began to wonder if I had only imagined Duncan to be sarcastic and patronising; that it was really me who had been in the wrong for being so jealous. I remembered Piers’ poor, hurt face and felt worse than ever. Milly and I walked on the beach in the morning, but no sign of Piers. After lunch Ma took us for a picnic. She’d hired a pony and trap and we found a wonderful, peaceful little cove to swim in, but it was no good, I couldn’t enjoy it. I could only think of Piers and wonder what he was doing. In the end I decided I would write him a note telling him how sorry I was I’d been rude yesterday and ask him to reply if he forgave me. As soon as we got back from the picnic, I ran up to my room and wrote the note. I couldn’t deliver it until after supper, when they would most likely be down in the town drinking at one of the harbour pubs.

It
was after nine o’clock when I finally left. Ma insisted on my helping with the washing up. There was no sign of life at the studio when I arrived and I decided to walk round to the back and slip my note through the window that looks on to the tiny garden; there’s no letter box at the front and I didn’t want Piers to miss seeing it. It was while I was in the narrow passage between the studio and the tumbledown fish store next door that I heard them laughing. I didn’t know what to do; I couldn’t leave the note now, they’d see me and make a joke of it. I just stood there in the dark passage listening to their laughter.