Summer in February (25 page)

But Taffy was not there to comfort him. He kicked the ground. Even the bloody dog had buggered off, the little killer hero
who slew a thousand chickens and terrified tramps and always always made Alfred happy.

Was there no loyalty left in the whole wide world?

ANSWER ME THAT!

He shouted the question to the dripping trees.

WHAT DO I DO?

Then he brushed raindrops off his red-blue nose and barked at himself and sang:

He knew, of course, where the dog was: the dog was sitting curled up at Florence’s feet, but he was buggered if he knew where
her place was, and even more buggered if he was going looking. That was her affair. One cold afternoon, he did follow her
towards the rock pools, but his heart wasn’t in it. The point was, she didn’t want him. He’d tried, hadn’t he? And anyway,
she couldn’t paint. She could paint a bit, but not really paint. Painting should be left to the painters. He picked up his
wide brush. The truth was, he rarely thought of his wife and when he did he ravaged the picture forming and framing in his
mind’s eye. He could go on without her. And he would! He thought only of his art and his next drink and his stack of horse
paintings and the prices they fetched and the dog who’d deserted him.

The cushions had made a difference. And the rug.

‘Florence?’

‘Mmm?’ Her eyes were closed, her voice calm.

‘I had a lovely letter from Joey today. What a brother you have! It brought tears to my eyes.’

‘I know … he wrote to tell me … I suspect he might know.’

‘About us?’

‘Yes.’

‘And another thing.’

‘Mmm?’

The February light was fading in the window. He spoke into the crook of her neck, his mouth in her hair, his mouth on her
neck, his mouth near her ear.

‘Your photograph. May I have it?’

‘Yes,’ she said sadly. ‘If you want it. Of course you can.’

‘You do look a little severe … but then, you are … a little severe.’

‘We could have one taken together.’

‘How?’

‘In Chapel Street, if you wish. After lunch next Wednesday. Alfred’s going away again on Wednesday.’

He squeezed her.

‘Yes, let’s. I’ll carry yours everywhere … always. I promise.’

‘Everywhere? Is Africa part of everywhere? Is Lagos?’

‘Part of, yes. So is Lamorna.’

‘Harold Knight has just finished another portrait of me. It took him five months.’

‘The profile one? In his studio?’

‘Yes. Five months, imagine.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes, yes, I do. It’s very … different. It’s peaceful to look at. He allows me to be alone in his room, and in his portrait.
It has that feeling. Of being alone. Of being left to oneself.’

‘So you’ll be hung in the Royal Academy again?’

‘He’s going to submit it, he says.’

‘You’ll never be forgotten. Not now.’

She doubted it and kissed him again. She spoke quietly and evenly to his mouth, looking at the little lines on his lips.

‘Laura’s asked me to … ask you. And Alfred has … of course …’

‘Mmm?’

‘Did you have to accept the post? They’ve begged me to ask you to withdraw. But you’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?’

He breathed out and nodded, unable to trust his voice. She felt his head nodding on her shoulder, and she said:

‘I’ll never mention it again.’

He squeezed his thanks. She went on:

‘This place … this place is all I ever want. This place, and you.’

‘It’s a bit on the cold side,’ he said, wrapping the rug round her.

‘Not with you here. Tell me about rock pools.’

‘Rock pools? What do you mean?’

‘Tell me what’s in them.’

‘Joey’s the one to ask, he really is.’

‘But he’s not here,’ she said sharply, ‘and I want to hear
you
describe it, I want to see what you see. Please.’

‘Why this sudden interest?’

‘Please! If I hear your voice I feel calmer.’

He spoke to her closed eyes.

‘Well, limpets … obelia … green weed … shore crabs, blennies, they’re wonderful at changing colour, and … fiddler crabs sometimes.
They’re bright blue under their arms, with brilliant red eyes … sea snails … Is that enough?’

‘No. Keep going.’

‘Starfish … and anemones of course. But Joey told you all about those.’

‘I’m so blind … I’ve wasted so much, I’ve missed so much. Why are they called fiddler crabs?’

‘Because if you try to pick them up they make fiddling movements … like this …’

He moved his fingers in and out of her hair. She relaxed in his hands. Outside the wind was blowing up.

‘Should we go back?’

‘Is the Colonel very upset you’re leaving? I’m sure he must be.’

‘Yes, a bit, but at least I’m going out with the Royal Engineers. He approves of that.’

‘I’m sure he won’t miss you at half past four on a dark afternoon like this … will he?’

‘You’re probably right … no. Even so, I ought to get back.’

‘Stay for a bit longer. Please. Just keep stroking my hair.’

‘There it is. And the Cameroons.’

‘There!’

Her fingers followed his to West Africa. Coming down to Lamorna from London was one thing, going up to the Lakes from London
was another, but this! She shook her head. He could not want to go there. And the names of the places, you had to say them
slowly, you had to speak each syllable so carefully, as if to a child.

Oyo … Oshogbo … Maiduguri …

She spoke the words to herself, wanting to laugh but fearful she would cry. She put her hand to her lips to stop the twitching
and the trembling. He did not notice her hand move. He was speaking to the Atlas. She pushed
her elbow into his side, to be sure, to be really sure, he was still there, sitting next to her, in the next chair, in the
Morrab Library in Penzance, alive, next to her, in Cornwall … In February, on the Wednesday. Their Wednesday in Penzance.

‘The river Niger is huge, of course. Everywhere is hot, goes without saying. And plenty of bush, hundreds of miles, very rainy
too … even rainier than Cornwall … and some wonderful mountains. And mosquitoes. Have to say, plenty of those little blighters.
They made quite a joke of it at the interview.’

‘Mosquitoes!’

‘You get used to them, you get used to anything.’

‘Do you?’

‘Even the white ants.’

‘The white ants!’ She shuddered.

‘And going back to the rivers, the rivers do flood. Imagine something terribly wide … wider than the whole of Boskenna. I’m
serious … that’s how big the rivers swell.’

Mosquitoes, white ants, black faces, Kano, Zungeru, Kaduna, Jos, Bauchi, and Oshogbo again. How could he carry her photograph
through all that? Would it survive white ants and big floods? No, she could not imagine any of this! She looked at his face
peering over the open map: she looked at his skin, still shiny from shaving. She looked at his hair, his ears, his nose, the
shape of his lips. No! She could not imagine him there. In a flood of terrible fear she imagined she could not imagine him
at all! Once he had gone to Oyo and Oshogbo there would be no trace, nothing left, nothing but wet sands, no body, nobody.
Only her and Alfred. She gripped the table, her skin draining to a white-bluish tint.

She closed her eyes and talked sternly to herself. She opened her eyes and stood up.

‘Shall we go?’

‘What?’

‘I don’t want to see any more about Nigeria.’

‘Oh, sorry.’

‘We’ll miss the photographers.’

‘Oh yes, yes, the photographers.’

A butterfly landed on the rock. Florence, watching its random flight, said:

‘Tell me about these rocks.’

‘These rocks?’

‘Yes, I want to know. And don’t tell me to ask Joey, he’s not here.’

‘They’re granite … there are granite rocks here … and in Brittany, and the Ardennes. It’s part of the Cornwall-Ardennes massif.
And look … that’s quartz there, in the veins. Can you see … running along, we’re talking about 250 million years, something
like that, and the sedimentary rock has eroded and the granite has protruded. We’re sitting on 250 millon years.’

‘Are we?’ she said dreamily, glad of his shoulder. ‘How wonderful!’

It was Sunday 22 February, 1914, and sitting very close together on the rock, the granite rock on which Laura Knight had painted
Dolly, Gilbert and Florence exchanged photographs. They told each other they loved each other and that no partings and no
packings, no floods and no farewells could or would ever change that. They lounged back on the rock, high above the sea’s
perpetual unrest. It was so hot they both wished they were not so heavily dressed.

‘This is for ever,’ Florence said. ‘For 250 million years. At least.’

‘It’s like a summer’s day, isn’t it?’

‘Yes … who would believe it’s February?’

‘The old pictur’ is goin’ a bit better, today, A.J.’

With Shrimp’s words in his ears, with freezing fingers, he took the brush from his mouth, and put down his palette. He scrutinised
his work. Yes. He nodded Yes to himself, took off his painting coat, wiped his hands on his rag and spat. He carried in his
painting. Before leaving he went to see Grey Tick and Merrilegs. Then, with his steel-tipped shoes clipping the stones, he
strode up to the hotel, feeling like a coiled spring, and longing to transmit some of his energy and pain to others, he stood
in the bedroom door, hands on hips, and announced that, sad though the loss was, the loss of his dear friend Gilbert, he would
be providing the best food and the best drink, the best songs and the best poems at a big party in his studio, just as in
the old days, the jolliest gathering of all time, it would indeed be the party of parties.

Florence looked at the pillow and said no.

‘No? What do you mean?’

‘No.’

‘You’re telling me no?’

‘Yes.’

Though fearing a terrible scene she quietly told her husband that she was sure, whatever polite answer Gilbert might give,
he would much prefer something … individual. She was sure Gilbert wanted to leave Lamorna quietly, as quietly as possible.

‘And you know that?’ he said. ‘You do
know
that, do you?’

‘Yes, I do,’ she said.

Rebuffed, Alfred headed off for The Wink, reciting as he went:

Ten yards before he reached the bar door, Munnings stopped. Drawn though he was by the smoke and the flagstones, the smell
of the soil and the smell of the beer, he could not face Jory and the others and their inevitable questions about Gilbert’s
departure and who would be the Colonel’s next agent and where exactly was it in Africa the Captain was going and how would
they ever get on without him.

Munnings stood at a loss in the lane.

‘NO!’ he shouted.

But where could he go? He did not want to be alone, not tonight. That left only Laura. When all else failed, there was always
Laura at the top of the lane.

‘Laura Knight!’ he said as she opened the door.

‘Alfred Munnings,’ she replied.

Laura often said, in later years, that she ‘should have known’. Delighted though she was to hear his abrupt knocking – it
was so long since last he’d called – the Alfred who came in and stretched out, legs apart, on her comfiest chair was not the
same man she first saw surrounded by a bevy of girls. Not the same man at all.

Although he had been away from Lamorna he had none of his usual stories on the tip of his tongue, no news of Bond Street deals,
no fresh insults to throw at the critics, no challenge to throw at the world. Above all, he had no energy. Even if she had
wanted to offer him a drink, Harold would keep none in the house, nor did Alfred ask for one. Without any focus in his eyes,
he stared.

‘Are you all right, Alfred?’

It took him a while to answer, and when he did it was with a short bark.

‘Me? Yes. Yes!’

‘You’re not yourself.’

‘Not myself? Good point!’

He twisted and turned in his seat. He fumbled with the cuff of his shirt.

‘You and Blote must come for supper soon. Shall we arrange a—’

‘Do you think I could have a word with Knightie?’

He had never asked such a thing before. Laura wanted to hug him.

‘But of course. Go on up. He’d love to see you.’

She opened the door at the bottom of the stairs and called up:

‘Harold … It’s Alfred to see you.’

She heard Harold pad across his studio. She stood at the bottom, half listening, wondering what the two men were saying to
each other.

In fact few words were spoken. Alfred did not look at Harold. He looked at the floorboards and asked if he might be allowed
to see Harold’s most recent portrait of the seated Florence. With it placed before him, he sat down. Munnings could find nothing
to say. It was Harold Knight who confided:

‘She is a most beautiful woman.’

‘It is the most beautiful picture.’

‘Thank you. Thank you, Alfred.’

At that Alfred got noisily to his feet, moved as if to shake Harold by the hand, but at the very moment Harold was least expecting
it. With some clattering Munnings went towards the top of the stairs. He missed the first step but managed to catch his balance.

‘That’s about it, I think, more or less,’ Gilbert said, folding his ties neatly, then pushed his handkerchiefs deep down the
right-hand side. It was like being back in his dorm at school, except that at school no one ever helped him to pack. His new
brown trunk, with his name freshly printed on the side, sat foursquare and heavily on his narrow bed. If he couldn’t close
the lid properly he might have to sit on it to make the catch go into the lock, but he’d rather not do that: quite apart from
anything else the birds’ eggs and the exercise book were carefully cushioned between his cardigans and his dressing-gown.

All Florence could see was the trunk. The trunk and his name.

‘One more check, shall we?’ he said, looking round and opening the doors of the hollow wardrobe. Taffy, encouraged by Gilbert’s
tone, scrambled under the bed, coming up with a missing sock and a wagging tail.

‘
There
it is,
good
dog,’ Gilbert said, ‘what a help you both are.’

Florence looked up, smiled a small determined-to-please smile, then smiled no more.

‘Gilbert?’

‘Yes.’

‘Before you go over to Boskenna …’

‘What is it?’

‘I want to show you something.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s in my bedroom.’

She led the way. He, less confidently, followed. He had no wish to go in there.

‘Yes?’

Inside her bedroom, a room he had not before seen, she held the door for him and pointed to the mahogany chest of drawers
which stood facing the foot of the bed. On it there was a large oriental bowl full of rose leaves and, next to it, and even
larger, a horse’s white skull. In that confined setting the head seemed huge. The hollow eye sockets were darkened by shadow.
Gilbert stepped forward, put his fingers in the cavities and ran his hand along the row of grinders.

‘Do you see? Do you see now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you look at that all night?’

He tried to laugh lightly.

‘It’s bad enough by day, I agree.’

‘But it’s more alive than I am.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘To him. Much more.’

‘If it disturbs you, couldn’t you just get rid of it? It could go on the landing, couldn’t it? Why not ask Mrs Jory if she’d
like it?’

‘If she’d
like
it!’

‘Yes. Or you could drape something over it.’

‘Anyway, you mustn’t say a word to anyone … ever. Swear to me you won’t.’

He took her hand. Her body was rigid.

‘I won’t. Of course I won’t. Anyway, it’s too late now, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And I can hardly tell anyone I’ve been in here.’

‘Sit next to me for a moment.’

‘Where?’

‘Here. Please.’

She pointed to the bed. Ill at ease, he did. He looked at her pillow, her bedspread. He shook his head: their bedspread. And
which pillow was hers?

‘If I can think, “Gilbert’s been here with me” … I can do it.’

‘I’ll always be with you.’

‘But don’t kiss me. Not here.’

‘I won’t … I wouldn’t.’

They sat side by side, rather formally, looking at the skull and the bowl of roses. Florence showed no inclination to move.
Gilbert listened for a sound on the stairs.

‘Where’s my … photograph?’

‘Here.’ He pointed to his breast pocket.

‘And which is your pillow?’ he asked.

‘I sleep on the right.’

He leant over and kissed that pillow. Through quiet tears she asked.

‘Which train … is … it?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

He told her.

It took Gilbert the rest of the day to say his farewells. Having sold his bicycle he had to walk the estate briskly
from the cove to the mill, from the farms to The Wink. He left no one out. At Boskenna, standing as upright as an officer
on parade, he said goodbye to Colonel and Mrs Paynter and the men. The speeches were simple and heartfelt. Wherever he might
find himself in the future, he said, in whatever far-flung land, daffodils would always be his favourite flowers and he would
always treasure the silver cigarette case and matchbox. As for Jory and all those in the bar, he shook their hands too, one
by one. He told them he sailed from Liverpool, in a few days, for Lagos. They wished him safe journey by land and by sea (’twas
a fair old way, Africa), as did every cottage dweller and every artist.

At the top of the hill, late that night, he said goodbye to Laura and Harold Knight; and at the hotel early next morning,
with Jory waiting outside with his pony and trap, Gilbert said goodbye to Alfred and Florence Munnings.