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

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СКАЧАТЬ that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week.’ Nancy kisses him on the cheek.

      Martin watches her move among his family, shaking hands, kissing cheeks. The people he loves most in the world all together in the same room.

      ‘Nancy, dear, come and warm yourself by the fire.’ Aunt D. pats the Chesterfield next to her.

      ‘Bubbly?’ Uncle Charles, her husband, holds out his hands, palm up, like an Italian priest offering communion wine.

      ‘Bloody Mary for me, Charles.’ Molly’s voice is loud, stentorian.

      Martin frowns at his mother.

      ‘What will you have, darling?’ Martin whispers in Nancy’s ear.

      ‘Oh, just something light.’

      ‘I’ve got a delicious elderflower cordial,’ chirps Aunt D. ‘From last summer’s crop.’

      ‘Sounds divine.’ Nancy settles back in the cushions, crosses her legs.

      ‘Martin tells me you work in London.’ Molly stares at Nancy, like an explorer who has just discovered a new species of beetle. Uncle Charles hands her the Bloody Mary. ‘You did put Worcester sauce in, Charles?’

      Nancy smooths the front of her skirt. ‘I work for an insurance company.’

      ‘Insurance?’ Molly’s voice rises with incredulity. ‘You mean, in an office?’

      ‘She’s a secretary, Mother,’ Martin interjects. ‘To the manager.’

      ‘I see.’ Molly peers at Nancy even more inquisitively.

      ‘She studied in Grenoble and Munich . . . ’ Martin jumps in.

      ‘Rather wasted in an insurance office, isn’t it?’ Molly’s silver bracelets jangle as she lifts her drink to her mouth. ‘And what about your parents? What do they do?’

      ‘Mother, it’s not an inquisition . . . ’ Martin protests.

      Nancy touches his hand. ‘He’s a civil servant. With the Inland Revenue.’

      ‘A taxman?’ Molly makes it sound like something unpleasant she has just found in the garden: a slug, or a pile of dog poo.

      Nancy sips her elderflower cordial and tries to smile. ‘When we lived in Dorset, he used to cycle round to Thomas Hardy’s house to do his taxes.’

      ‘How fascinating!’ Aunt D. twinkles.

      ‘Hardy was a terrible grump.’ Nancy laughs.

      ‘No wonder!’ chimes in Tom. ‘After writing all those tragic novels.’

      Molly stares into her empty Bloody Mary glass. ‘I heard from Robert!’ she announces. ‘You know, of course, my brother is Robert Graves.’ She jangles her bangles at Charles for a fill up. ‘They’ve fled to Majorca. Robert’s in a terrible state; hates France; hates London; says if there’s a war, he will emigrate to America.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Pennsylvania or somewhere ghastly like that.’

      ‘That’s patriotic!’ Martin jibes.

      Molly frowns. ‘Well, he did do his part in the last war, as you know. I’m sure you’ve read his work, Nancy.’

      ‘He was even declared dead, wasn’t he?’ Nancy fiddles with her drink.

      Molly frowns at her, but Uncle Charles grins. ‘Yes! There was even an obituary in The Times! Robert had great fun sending out letters to everyone after he got back from France, saying that reports of his demise had been greatly exaggerated.’

      Everyone laughs heartily except Molly, who merely smiles, like a cat that has just got the cream, then turns to Nancy. ‘Do you have anyone famous in your family?’

12 FEBRUARY 1939

       Oxford

      He wakes late, lies back in the pillows, watching the sunlight play on the wall of his room at Teddy Hall. There’s a hint of spring. The way the sun slants over the roof. The song of a thrush in the tree outside the window. Martin rolls over, opens a drawer in the bedside table and takes out a sheath of letters. Since term started in mid-January, their lives have diverged again and the post, an occasional telephone call and, on one occasion in late January, a telegram, saying he was coming up to London for a day and would she meet him at the Café Royal, have been their only means of staying in touch.

      He opens the letter on top of the bulging sheath, then sinks back into the pillows and reads: ‘My darling Tino . . . ’

      His eyes travel across the page, following the blue river of her handwriting, as it flows from her heart to his. He imagines standing behind her, watching her as she writes at her desk, up in her bedroom at Blythe Cottage, her red hair spilling over her shoulders, the faint rasp of the nib on the paper, like a mouse nibbling a cracker. Imagines the curves of her body, the narrow waist and full hips. A body like a violin, he thinks.

      A loud banging on the door rouses him from his daydream. Martin leaps out of bed and opens up. A surly-looking young man with a face like a slab of dough stands in the doorway.

      ‘Clean your room now, Mister Preston?’ The voice is gruff, unfriendly.

      ‘Where’s Frank?’ Martin stares at the man.

      ‘Flu.’

      Martin waits for him to say more. But he just stands in the doorway, glowering.

      ‘And you are?’

      ‘Dudley.’ He glares at Martin. ‘Your new scout.’ He pauses. ‘For now, anyway.’ Then, almost mockingly: ‘Sir.’

      ‘I see.’ Martin sits up, straightens his hair, irritated. ‘Let’s hope Frank makes a speedy recovery.’

      The scout lumbers into the room, like an elephant, banging into a chair and nearly knocking over a standing lamp. He clears a few cups and saucers away into the sink, with a clatter; folds a newspaper; picks one of Martin’s shirts off the floor and drops it on a chair; kicks an upturned corner of the carpet flat. Then he goes to the fireplace, thrusts the poker into the ash like a sabre, rattles the grate, then slams the poker down, goes to the door and opens it. Without so much as a word to Martin, he steps out, slamming the door behind him with a bang.

      Martin jumps up and starts to pull on his clothes. He’s been asked to be a steward at a motor trail in the Chilterns. He wishes he had said no. He has a law book to read, not to mention a long overdue essay.

      He picks up a dark brown sweater, drops it back on the chair, goes to the chest of drawers and takes out a bright yellow wool one. He pulls it over his head, checks himself in the mirror and realizes it is inside out, takes it off, turns it the right way round, inserts his head through it, then picks up his grey herringbone, Raglan overcoat. Though the sun is shining, standing around for hours on a hillside in south Oxfordshire is bound to be frigid. СКАЧАТЬ