The Very White of Love: the heartbreaking love story that everyone is talking about!. S Worrall C

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      The first thing he does when he gets back to his room is pour himself a large, dry martini and light a cigarette. The gas fire sputters. On the desk is a pewter tankard engraved with the college crest. Her Christmas gift. And a letter with a poem written by her.

       I took a ladder from the wall

       And held it up against the sky

       And said, ‘I’ll climb the steps

       And pick some stars

       And throw them down to you.

       That, when soft summer comes,

       We’ll plait a basket

       And walk, hand in hand,

       Giving our stars to children

       By the way; yes, all but one

       That one our love shall light

       Both day and night.’

      Martin smiles, reads it again, then takes a sheet of writing paper and spreads it on the table. Inhales deeply on his cigarette, unscrews his pen and writes the words ‘Claire de lune’.

      It’s his nickname for her: a play on her second name, Claire, and one of their favourite pieces of music, ‘Clair de lune’, by Claude Debussy.

       I just got back from the debate on conscription. The Union voted for conscription by 430 votes to 370. So everything hangs fire, not only the season. Everyone is uncertain what conscription will mean to us. It is harder than ever to concentrate on my studies. There is so much more to do and experience and so many other places to explore. I know all this has been thought by other young people since time immemorial but it strikes all of us just now because these ideas have been highlighted by the gloom of war.

       I’ve never bothered you talking about engagements or marriage and I think you feel the same way. But I’m a little frightened, so it’s natural to want to hold your hand more tightly, isn’t it? I’m hopelessly in love with you and want to keep you for myself for the rest of my life. I understand why you want to wait. And I respect that. I don’t mind waiting. I can be patient, although it’s hard. I’m full of emotional energy but also a bit patrician, so there is always a struggle going on inside me. I’m extravagant, a little unscrupulous, a little lazy, and rather too pleased with myself. But I have some good points, which I hope you can see.

       Aunt D. came to tea yesterday with Dr Brann, an evacuee from Heidelberg, who she is putting up at Whichert House with his wife and child, until they can find somewhere of their own in Oxford. He told us all the latest from Germany. He says they are rounding up all the Jews and putting them in special camps. Can you believe this is happening in the country that gave the world Beethoven?

      The clock of St Giles strikes ten. He looks at his watch. Pours himself another drink and lights a second cigarette. Scribbles on.

       Did you see the sky tonight? Flawless, and infinite, with the stars pointed to it and shining goldenly. As I was walking, a solitary aeroplane flew over. I could see its lights. Red, green, yellow, all so clear. It must be perfect, flying now in the cold, clear light. There are so many things like that I long to share with you.

      He lifts the pen, smiling at the memory, then draws on his cigarette. The outcome of the debate is sinking further in. Martin chews nervously on his pen top then brings the nib back to the page.

       Whatever happens, you mustn’t worry about me: even if I don’t get my officer’s commission (which I should get) it will be no dreadful hardship to be conscripted. There will be ideas and people to line the sackcloth uniforms with fine silk to make them wearable and life liveable. To be loved by you is like sitting with the small of your back to a warm fire after wandering about in the winter and the chilliness.

       I’m going to be fanatically busy this week because I must work extra hard to make up for last week’s lapses. So I’m writing this before the law books close in and around me.

       Darling, I’m longing to see you. I think perhaps a half-hearted (metaphorically) meeting before term ends would add to the strain. What do you think? I shall have so much to do that I will have my mind occupied. And the holidays will soon be with us.

       Forgive the scrawl. I’ll try to write properly soon, a little less chatter and more prose worthy of a poem, a masterpiece and enchantress all of which you are.

       All my love, Martin.

25 JUNE 1939

       The River Isis, near Oxford

      Martin pulls on the oars of a skiff. Nancy lies in the prow, her head resting on a blue velvet cushion. The sun dapples her frock: blue gentians on white Egyptian cotton, bought in Paris a few years ago. Martin is in shirtsleeves and khaki trousers. A picnic basket is tucked under the seat in the back of the boat.

      ‘Don’t you sometimes wish a day could last for ever?’ He lets the skiff drift, looking down at her chestnut hair. The way it tumbles over her shoulders, her pale, freckled skin and perfect features make him think of a painting he once saw at the National Gallery by one of the Pre-Raphaelites.

      ‘Mmm . . . ’ is all she can manage at first. Then: ‘“Time is a river without banks”.’

      ‘Who’s that? Shakespeare?’

      ‘Chagall!’ She sits up, laughing. A dragonfly hovers over them, then darts away, a tiny explosion of blue and green.

      Their eyes meet and hold. He shifts in the boat. It rocks. He lays down the oars. Leans forward. As their lips meet there is a loud thump as the prow of the skiff rams into some submerged roots. They are both tipped forward. One of the oars is knocked out of its rowlock. The skiff is perilously close to capsizing.

      ‘I am so sorry, Nancy, I can’t believe what a clumsy oaf I am!’

      Nancy bursts into laughter. Martin feels embarrassed but when he realizes she is not laughing at him, but with him, he bursts into laughter, too, then retrieves the oar and slides it back into the rowlock and rows towards the bank. When the water is shallow enough, he clambers out, pulls the skiff in, helps her ashore, passes the picnic basket and champers, the rug. Nancy throws the rug over her arm, and they set off along the bank.

      ‘What about here?’ Martin stops by a weeping willow close to the bank, puts the picnic basket down.

      ‘Perfect!’ She spreads the rug out on the ground.

      Martin comes over to her and slips his arms around her. She lets herself be pulled down onto the rug, then wraps her legs around his and kisses him, long and deep. Martin responds with even greater passion. Their lovemaking is like a wild fire. It only takes a spark to ignite a flame, СКАЧАТЬ