Summer in February (24 page)

He sat on the upturned box; she sat on the table with her legs dangling, her arms outstretched. Behind her back, the sea was
greyer still than the sky.

‘And it’s all mine?’

‘Yes, no rent, and no strings.’

‘All, all mine?’

‘Of course, courtesy of the Colonel.’

‘
And
courtesy of Gilbert. My courteous Gilbert.’

She dropped to her feet, pirouetting around, as if trying to touch all four walls as she turned, stretching out and out into
a larger being. She stopped and put her hands out to him.

‘You’ve given me a new life, you do know that?’

‘Have I?’

‘Yes. Instead of sitting for Harold Knight I can do exactly as I want!’

It was as if yesterday had never happened. Her bright eyes and confident manner made that clear. She did not wish to go into
yesterday nor Alfred’s late-night visit (if she knew about it) nor anything else, beyond these crisp details:

‘I’ve made an unacceptable marriage, that is obvious. No, please, don’t say anything, Gilbert, there is no need to be polite
or to soften the truth. Please! You know it. I can see it in your eyes. So there. Now, let’s go for a walk … it can only be
a short walk, I’m afraid, as I must start straight away.
This
will keep me sane.’

She indicated the brushes and the tubes of paint, and Taffy nosed the door. Gilbert stood aside to let her pass.

If Gilbert was not sure, as he looked at the moon and the sea, how much more he could take of this, the answer Time gave him
was ‘A year, or just over’. Day by day, starting with their brief meeting at the painting hut, week by week, rainy summer
and rainy autumn, winter and spring, the days passed, day by day, as days do, until he could bear it no longer.

At first he closed off his conscious mind. He punished himself for his unfulfilled dreams and won golden opinions at work.
He told his ears not to hear her too often, his eyes not to see her, and his senses to stay quiescent. For the most part they
did as they were told. He cycled and he laboured, and in what little time he found on his hands he walked or fished or shot
woodpigeons. On fine days he knew she was painting in her hut so he tried to avoid that high part of the headland, that part
where his heart lay. Just occasionally he would hurl a stone into the sea or fire randomly not at a bird but at a rock or
give a gratuitous rocket to one of the men. Only his bilious attacks and his dreams told another story.

It was in January 1914 that he began to make some brief and irregular entries in his small Letts diary. This is what he wrote.

The night Gilbert announced he had applied for a position in West Africa, on the night of 19 January, 1914, to be exact, Alfred
was snappily dressed for supper in his new bow tie, and fresh up from The Wink where he had been talking nineteen to the dozen.
He was in good form. Above all he was relieved to have a man’s company for supper, especially a friend of whom he saw too
little, a friend of whom he saw far far too—

Gilbert’s news stopped Alfred mid sentence. Only Florence could find a few faltering words.

‘Did you say … Nigeria?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nigeria. I see. But, forgive me … why?’

Gilbert looked at her.

‘Because it feels the right thing to do. I’ve thought about it a good deal, believe me. There’s not much more I can do at
Boskenna.’

Florence faltered on.

‘And for … how long? For how long is the appointment?’

‘If I get it!’

‘Yes, if you get it.’

He did his utmost to be matter of fact. Being matter of fact was surely for the best.

‘Three years.’

‘Three years,’ she repeated without expression.

‘But I probably won’t be offered it. There’ll be fierce competition.’

‘So!’ Alfred suddenly exploded. ‘We’re back to the blackies again, are we? We’re jumping off to the jungle, are we? Have I
got this right? Have I!’

‘But … why?’ Florence pleaded again the next day as Gilbert passed her going down the stairs. He looked around and muttered
at the banisters. He muttered at the top step and the missing stair-rod.

‘Because it can’t go on, can it?’

‘It … can’t? What can’t?’

‘You can understand that, can’t you? It can’t, can it?’

‘No …’ she said, ‘I suppose not.’

‘So don’t keep asking me why. You know better than to ask me why. You know what it’s like.’

Florence looked up and down the staircase.

‘Would you meet me, at my hut? Please. Please, Gilbert.’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘When!’

‘Whenever suits you. I’m always there. I’ll be there. Waiting.’

Gilbert, sensing the unseen presence of Mrs Jory, nodded and hurried on down.

And so, because it could not go on, it started. He ran full tilt over from Boskenna. She heard him coming. He knew she heard
him. She heard his feet pounding the turf. She threw down her brush and ran out to meet him. It started without words. Then
the words came.

‘Three years,’ she said, ‘three
years
.’

‘Yes. Initially.’

‘Don’t … don’t say that.’ She stroked the back of his hand, then lifted the back of his hand to her lips.

‘You must paint hard every day,’ he said, looking round over her shoulders, ‘then I’ll be able to see you here, so to speak.
If I go, that is.’

‘I’ll write … I’ll write every day … I won’t be able to stop writing.’

‘I may not get it. I’ve explained that.’

‘But you will.’

‘I may not accept it,’ he said in a lighter way. ‘Not now.’

He held her as tight as he could. How tight could he hold her?

‘Oh, you’ll go,’ she stroked his face as she spoke, ‘you’ll go, you’ll go.’

‘How do you know?’

She shook her head slowly.

‘I know. I can tell you’re going, Gilbert.’

‘How? How can you know?’

He tried to read her expression, but she closed her face back into his chest and cried quietly, bumping her head gently into
him, her hair brushing his chin as she cried.

‘Gilbert.’

‘What?’

‘It’s been endless. Endless. I’ve tried. I tried to accept it.’

He held her head to his chest with his hand. He felt her tears go through his shirt. She heard his heart going, going, going.

‘I know. I know. I’ve tried, too.’

‘That’s what I … should do, isn’t it? Accept my lot. Just accept it. I’ve tried. I tried and I tried, you don’t know how hard,
and
don’t
say you do because you don’t.’

‘I do.’

‘Did you try as hard? Men don’t try as hard, they don’t.’

‘Just as hard.’

She pulled her face back and looked up at him.

‘How did you … bear it?’

‘How did you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘People do … People do. All over the world, I suspect.’

‘Don’t go! Don’t, I beg you.’

It went on. They met and they met. They rushed to meet and to greet and to touch. He told her about Sammy, he told her as
they sat on a huge rock and he felt the weight lifting. They talked and walked, as they often did those cold January days,
around the circle of stones, around and around, as if mesmerised by the configuration of the stones and their position and
their own fates, careless now over prying eyes. He felt her hip against his. He ran his fingers down her spine, up and down,
up and down over the ridges.

‘Poor Sammy,’ she repeated, as she stroked his familiar hand. Then, because she could not lift this weight from her own mind,
she sighed. ‘Three years. Three years.’ Three years. He wanted to say three years would pass quickly, quite quickly anyway,
three years can fly by, just think what you were doing three years ago and think how quickly all that has gone, hasn’t it
gone quickly, but what possible point was there in all that? It was comfortless. In three years’ time she would still be Mrs
Munnings. And three years after that. The years stretched ahead, and Munnings would
always
be there: that was the blunt truth. So why come back? She knew and he knew. She knew the telegram would come, and he would
go.

‘The Merry Maidens,’ she said, bitterly naming the prehistoric scene they circled.

He touched the cold stones. Lichen-clad, roughly hewn.

‘I’ll always imagine us here … together … When I write.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

But writing letters … what did that achieve? Waiting from first light, hands shaking, sighing a little aloud, running downstairs,
running upstairs, hiding it in your pocket, trembling arms, shutting doors behind you, stomach trembling, sitting in the bathroom,
tearing open the letter, trying not to tear it, an illusion of intimacy, reading, eating up the sentences, the distances closing,
transported back into each other’s arms in the hut with the rain on the roof, you held in your hands the paper on which the
one you loved had written these words for you, you saw your lover, pen in hand, you saw your lover at the Merry Maidens, or
stopping to kiss you over a gate on Rocky Lane, or running across the wet fields with a wild, strained look in his eyes, standing
tall over you, standing behind you, running his hands across your breasts, tracing them around, then his fingers, feeling
your knees go weak, feeling—

But he would not be there! She would not be there!

‘I can’t imagine it!’ she cried fiercely. ‘I can’t.’

‘What?’

‘Where you’re going, so far away, it’s so different. If I can’t imagine it I can’t bear it.’

‘I’ll show you on a map.’

‘What does a
map
tell you!’

‘Something. The ship goes from Liverpool to Madeira … to Accra … and Lagos.’

A doubter’s pause, and then:

‘And another thing … there’s another thing, Gilbert, a terrible terrible thing.’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t imagine a day here without you. With him.’

They held each other close, for warmth, for comfort,
breathing the wild air. The wind was sharp enough to make her bury her face.

With the beer working and the dominoes clicking, the men in The Wink were soon pooling their findings and observations.

‘Never seen a better figure on a woman, and that’s a fact,’ said Jory. ‘
And
she can pick a horse. Should a’ seen her at Buryan!’

‘She’s a striker, all right.’

‘Where’s he always off to, then?’

‘Who?’

‘Munnin’s.’

‘London and all that. Bigwig, in’t he, now? ’Es, he’s big now.’

‘She’ll be big an’ all before long too.’

They cackled at that.

‘See less of him in ’ere, I do know that. Much less.’

‘Always the same, once they do get to be top nobs.’

‘See less of the Cap’n, too.’

‘Where’s he bin then?’

‘Seen ’ee and Mrs Munnin’s up the Merry Maidens, I did.’

‘When was that?’

‘An’ over to Kemeyl Farm.’

‘Keepin’ er company, is ’ee?’

‘Keepin’ er warm, more like.’

“Nough of that!’ Jory said. ‘’Nough of that!’ But they cackled on, sucking their beer.

Throughout this time Alfred painted and drank. His gout was now a daily pain, with the weather often beyond a joke – no one,
not even Mrs Jory, had known rain like it – but Alfred simply stood there in the clearing, or sat hunched
under his umbrella, warming himself with a hip flask of whisky. His coat heavy with damp, his trousers limp, he painted each
daylight hour, wandering away from his easel only to piss against a tree or to scrabble around in the straw for another bottle
of whatever he could find left from Jory’s last delivery. Laura Knight caught him doing precisely that, and for the first
time feared that her husband might well be right about Alfred.

But he painted. He painted horses, a beautiful old white mare with a long curly mane; he painted the sheen on a skewbald;
he painted stallions silhouetted against a white band of surf, big bays in silver-mounted harness; he caught the light on
ponies dozing or stamping, a mare with dappled quarters; he painted early evenings with gathering storm clouds, he saw the
light shining on the wet laurel and that same light shone on his canvas.

He travelled and he painted and his paintings sold.

And as he painted he remembered better days, when the marsh dykes were alive with spawning frogs and marigolds, haymaking
with the drag rake, the large stacks in the yard and the creaking wagons; he remembered throwing scuppets of maize into the
shallows for the ducks and the cry of the corncrake; he remembered better days with his dark-haired gypsies, gypsies with
blue-black hair and pheasants and partridges and luxuriant rushes and hares and rabbits, lurchers and swedes, and he remembered
better days with sedge-grown banks and marguerites and pink vetch in the breeze and the bare-arsed Shrimp with his fishy eyes
and his crafty face, and hop pickers and sandpits and lavender almost purple through the heat haze, the meadowsweet and the
red-brick wall pitted with nail holes; and the best days of all, when his dog (now hers) pulled rat after rat out of the stables
by the scruffs of their necks and shook them till they snapped.