Summer in February (23 page)

‘There’s no rush! No rush that I can see.’

‘I have to go. I must go, I must go
now
.’

‘Go? But I’ve only just arrived!’

He told her she was a beauty. She begged him. He said it was long past time.

‘Ask any man,’ he said. ‘Let’s see more of you! What’s yours … is mine. Let me see … more of you!’

She pushed him in the chest. He pushed her back. Half timidly, half insolently he faced her, and rolled up his sleeves and
pushed her down on to the floor. She scrambled away, gathering her skirt around her, moving her back to the wall, her knees
bent and her feet poised ready to kick him.

‘Stay there!’ she said.

He raised his eyebrows at the fun of it. He liked her so spirited.

‘Oh, really?’ He laughed, kneeling above her, unbuttoning his trousers.

She turned her head away. He pulled at her hair to loosen it. He said he loved her, he said it incessantly. There was a brief
struggle, in which he laughed as if in horseplay; she scrambled away and tripped on a roll of canvas. He pulled her back and
turned her over. He was very red in the face as he forced her down, trying to push open her legs. Her fingers tried to pull
away his forearms but she failed. She could see the hairs on his arms. She could smell the warm beer on his breath. He told
her to stop whining. With his
left hand he pulled at everything he could get hold of, with his right he pulled at the top of her stockings. She bit his
left hand. He laughed, and said she could do it again. He put his left hand in her mouth.

‘Go on, I liked that! Do we have a little vixen here?’

He knelt above her, pulling at her knees, pulling at her stockings, pulling her towards him and trying to do all these, fumbling
and forcing, and staring above her head with piercing eyes and baring his teeth and telling her to do what she bloody well
should, because that’s what bloody women do, ask Shrimp, ask Shrimp, ask … and then … and then … he seemed to be shot and
he very slowly crumpled away, moaning, curling over and folding into himself. She heard him hit the floor. He held himself
and half pulled at his trousers. She could not see him but she could hear him, his mouth mumbling close against the floorboards.

‘You’re useless. Useless … You … cow. Worse than useless.’

She heard it as she ran up the clearing, with Taffy chasing after her. She ran and ran.

Useless. Worse than useless.

There was a list of things Gilbert wanted to check before Florence arrived there at four. He was, however, delayed a good
while in the walled garden by an irritatingly slow and wandering set of instructions from the Colonel, so he had to hurry
along the headland for all he was worth. He did not wish to be rude to the Colonel but he hated keeping anyone waiting, least
of all Florence and least of all today. The men watched him running off into the distance. He did not wish to be rude to Laura
Knight either, but when he saw her across a field he pretended he had not. There was no time to be lost.

First, the roof: the recent heavy rain proved that it leaked a little in the corner and seeped steadily down the back wall.
The damage this could do to her canvases was incalculable. This, he was assured, had been corrected, and he wanted to be absolutely
sure. Secondly, he’d told the young carpenter to take down a sturdy table the Colonel had kindly spared. The lad, though,
had a memory like a sieve and Gilbert was not convinced this would have been carried out. Thirdly, and above all, the hut
needed to be made secure, with a new lock as well as a bolt on the inside. Especially
for women in lonely places that sense of security was essential.

He slowed to a walk. His breathing eased. There was no sign of Florence. Kicking away some sheep droppings he took out the
new key. It turned easily and satisfyingly back and forwards in the lock (good); there was a firm bolt fixed on the inside
(good); the Colonel’s table fitted very neatly against the side wall, looking as if it belonged there (good); and the afternoon
light came strongly in the wide, generous window. All this made for a warm welcome. (Very good!) Gilbert took out a coat-hook
from his pocket. He had time to screw that on before she arrived, and he enjoyed the feeling of the screw biting into the
wood. He rubbed the sweat from his forehead, and stepped back. Now she could hang her coat on the back of the door. He looked
round from roof to floor.

What else?

What else could he do?

Some cobwebs on the window caught the light. He wiped them away. His eye picked up a dead starling, lying on its side with
its beak open; he threw it out. He brushed his jacket sleeve over the windows again to make quite sure all trace of cobwebs
had disappeared, then he wiped his jacket sleeve. He peered out. Still no sign of Florence, but the second Gilbert sat on
an upturned box to survey a job well done, directly above his head a seagull landed on the roof and scrambled noisily around,
a sound soon mixing with a barking, excitable dog and running feet and he pulled open the door to see Florence half running
half stumbling her way towards the hut.

‘What’s happened?’ he called. ‘What’s the matter?’

Taffy leapt around Gilbert, circling him. As Gilbert rushed to meet her she stopped dead, panting, her hands stretched out,
but not in greeting, stretched out, palms
facing him, warning him to stay away, telling him to keep his distance.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘No!’

She shook her head, gulping and sobbing.

Gilbert moved forward slowly, with the dog still leaping madly up and down at his elbows. His voice was very controlled.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘it’s all right.’

But Florence did not move. Her eyes threatened him.

‘No … no … no!’

‘Whatever it is, it’s all right … you’re all right. Whatever it is.’

Some instinct made him stop. Instead he took hold of the dog, calming and comforting the dog, patting the dog, while keeping
his eyes on Florence. She was now on her knees about ten yards away, with her hair all over her face, fumbling with the top
buttons on her dress. He allowed another minute to pass. He did not move. He could see smears of paint on her hands.

‘Where have you come from? What is this?’

She shook her head violently, unable to do up her buttons.

‘No!’

Another minute and she was breathing more normally. She continued struggling with her buttons. He lowered himself on to the
grass but moved no closer to her. The dog looked at Gilbert. Gilbert watched the tears dry on her face as she shook her head
firmly from side to side in a metronomic way.

Even before the tap on his door Gilbert had heard the upper landing floorboards creak and the feet stop right outside. There
was a pause, as if in consideration.

There were two soft, questioning taps.

Tap tap.

‘Come in.’

‘I saw your light on, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Of course not.’

Gilbert straightened up in bed.

‘Can’t you sleep?’

‘No.’

‘Nor can I … but then I haven’t had a drink. Not one.’

‘I’ve been writing my diary … and reading.’

‘Ah. Ah, yes.’

A.J. stood just inside Gilbert’s room. He was in his purple silk dressing-gown. He had high spots of colour on both cheeks.
His voice, when it came, was an apologetic whisper.

‘May I … sit down?’

Gilbert got out of bed.

‘Of course. I’ll just move these.’

‘You keep a diary? I didn’t know. So you jot down your thoughts? Is that … what you do?’

‘Not always. Only when there’s something to say. Often it’s very little.’

‘Interrupting, aren’t I? As usual.’

‘No, no … Of course not.’

‘Reading too? Eh? Improving your mind?’

‘No … browsing, you know … nothing too heavy. When did you get back?’

Alfred’s voice and his eyes were suddenly suspicious.

‘Blote didn’t tell you? She said she bumped into you.’

‘No, she didn’t tell me.’

‘This afternoon … yes. This afternoon.’

‘Everything go well?’

‘What?’

‘With your painting trip?’

‘Oh? Oh, that … Yes … very. Lot done … Can’t complain. Can’t complain at all.’

Alfred slowly rubbed his knees with his hands and smiled uncertainly at Gilbert. There was a long pause before he spoke again.

‘You weren’t in to supper. I was … hoping you would be.’

‘No, didn’t feel like it … to tell you the truth my tummy’s not been in the best of shape.’

‘Anyway, Ev, wanted to thank you for all your help … way beyond the call of duty … she’s delighted.’

‘This is to do with?’

‘The place … the hut. She tells me you’re meeting her there tomorrow. To show it her.’

‘Tomorrow,’ Gilbert said quickly. ‘Yes, yes.’

‘She’s asked me to … confirm it’s fine … She can’t wait to see it. Oh, and she said … four o’clock is fine. She’s … as pleased
as can be. Good man, Ev, you’re a friend!’

‘I’m glad.’

‘You really are. In so many ways.’

Gilbert’s mind clambered over these developments. He felt he was being pulled over a divide into deceit.

‘It really was no effort.’

‘Really? No effort at all?’ Alfred repeated very quietly. Gilbert said nothing.

Alfred tapped the table.

‘You’re the only one I can talk to, you see. The only one I can trust. Don’t mind me saying that, do you?’

‘No … I’m glad.’

The hotel felt very still. Four o’clock tomorrow? And why, why on earth had she sent Alfred in with this? The silence lengthened.
Alfred rubbed his knees.

‘Anyway … I’m not allowed to go there … just been
told … that’s been made very clear tonight. Crystal clear. That’s women, eh? Hut’s out of bounds.’

With one eyebrow raised he smiled questioningly at Gilbert. Gilbert did not know what to do. He had to say something.

‘Of course she may find it too lonely out there … after a while.’

‘Oh, lonely spot, is it? Very intriguing … but don’t tell me where it is, don’t, she says it
must
be a secret. Know what women are, over secrets, they live on ’em!’

‘Do they?’

‘Beyond me, they are.’

‘As long as she finds it to her liking.’

‘So, what is the Captain reading? Poetry, I hope? Ballads, I trust?’

Alfred leant down and picked up the pile of books from the floor, his eyes on the spines.

‘
History of Nigeria … Nigeria, Its Story, People and Religion … Cambridge Natural History, Vol. IV
. Well, I don’t call this lot light reading, Ev, do you? Not exactly
light
now, is it, Ni-jeer-i-a? Where on earth d’you get these dusty tomes?’

‘Penzance, from the Morrab. The Morrab Library.’

Alfred opened the cover of each to check. His hands were shaking slightly.

‘So you did, so you did … But why? That’s the point.’

‘I’m interested in West Africa.’

‘Are you? Are you indeed?’

‘I always have been.’

‘Have you? Is that your secret, eh? Everyone’s got a secret. Did you know that?’

‘I suppose I’ve always liked other peoples and places. Different cultures … different races. For a while I considered living
in Peru. Very seriously considered it.’

‘Peru?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good God! Peru? Good God. Do you have a cigarette?’

‘Of course.’

‘Nigeria? Peru? Amazing chap, Ev, you really are.’

‘Well,
you
like going off on your own, A.J. You’ve got the wanderer in you … riding away on the open road … you’re away more than you’re
here, aren’t you, you disappear for months.’

‘Yes, but that’s Norfolk, not amongst the nignogs … not in Peru. I mean, Hampshire’s Hampshire, isn’t it? You know where you
are in Hampshire.’

He laughed quietly, then coughed on the smoke. His face darkened.

‘God, Ev, I’ve just thought. You’re not … leaving us, are you? You’re
not
?’

‘No, I’m not.’

Munnings coughed and coughed, till the blood vessels swelled full out on his forehead and temples.

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘I have no plans to leave at present.’

‘At present! At present?’

‘I really haven’t, but everything has its natural end.’

‘Its natural end!’

Alfred stood up, very agitated, his voice growing louder, his eyes wild. Given what he could hear from their room, Gilbert
was sure Florence must be able to hear every word of this as she lay in bed.

‘But you mustn’t, you’ll kill us all, you mustn’t go. God, I can see it all now, that’s why you’re not talking to me, that’s
why you’re not eating with us, God, think what you’re going to, Ev, no mulled wine, no beer, no sausages and mash, just savages
and tomtoms and tree snakes, I mean France, yes, I can
almost
see you in France, just
about, frightful though they are, and Germany, Germany, at a pinch you’d understand the Germans, yes, but you’re not cut out
for the southern savages, you’ll be eaten, picked white to the bone, bag and baggage, get my drift, I’m not joking, Captain,
you
must
keep going here, you’re indispensable, you’ve got the perfect job for you, everyone says so, you’re the only thing in the
world on which Jory and Mrs Jory agree, I’m going to tell Blote about this, I am, and she’ll stop this nonsense in its tracks,
you’ll listen to her if you won’t listen to me, and if I’m embarrassing you with this I’ll embarrass you all bloody night!’

‘Alfred, please, I’ve just ex—’

‘Blote won’t
hear
of this! She wouldn’t dream of letting you go.’

Gilbert stood up, inches taller than Alfred, and put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

‘Alfred, do sit down. You’re making quite a noise.’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, you really are. Quite a noise. Sorry, but you are.’

To Gilbert’s surprise Alfred sat down, and stayed sitting, staring at the rug by his feet. When Gilbert next spoke his voice
was so soft no one could have heard his words through the wall, not even a terrified wife.

‘Alfred?’

‘Yes.’

‘When I saw Blote today, she was … very distressed.’

‘Was she?’

‘Yes.’

Alfred, motionless, stared down at the rug, then whispered urgently.

‘Don’t go, Ev, will you? I beg you not to go.’

‘I really don’t know what I’ll do. Time will tell. That’s not the point at the moment.’

‘She gets like that … Uncorks you might say. Hysterics.’

‘For no reason? Are there any … warning signs?’

Alfred put his hands over his face, shaking his head.

‘Just does. Beats me, the whole business.’

‘What business?’

‘Women.’