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

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СКАЧАТЬ It’s strange and wonderful to know you so perfectly. I imagine myself with you the whole time. Feel your lips against mine. My hand touching yours. I can’t wait to see you again next weekend.

       So very much in love and kisses in adoration, Martin.

22 OCTOBER 1938

       Whichert House

      The grandfather clock chimes eleven thirty on the landing. Martin looks at his watch, leaps out of bed, splashes water on his face from the jug and basin in the corner, then stands in his underwear, debating what to wear. Green and white check gingham shirt? Too old-fashioned. White dress shirt? Too formal. He throws both on the chair, rummages through the wardrobe.

      It’s almost three weeks since he last saw Nancy. College work and organising hockey matches have consumed all his time. Today, he is back from Oxford and finally going to meet her parents. He can’t remember ever feeling so nervous. His stomach flutters like it used to when he had to get ready to go back to boarding school.

      ‘Don’t be such a girl,’ he chides himself, settling on a well-worn, blue cotton shirt; khaki twill trousers; an Irish tweed jacket; brogues from Church’s of Northampton. He studies himself in the mirror. Nancy once told him that, with his angular features, deep-set, dark eyes, sensual lips, and square jaw, he reminded her of a young Laurence Olivier. Not today. His hair is mussed up, his eyelids are heavy with sleep, his chin is shadowed with stubble.

      He glances at his watch, takes his jacket off and covers his shoulders with a towel, then refills the basin with water, grabs his razor and some shaving soap, quickly shaves and splashes some eau de cologne on his cheeks. Then he lifts up his left arm, sniffs his armpit, and grimaces. With rapid movements, he unbuttons his shirt, sprays some cologne onto his right hand, rubs it into his armpit, repeats the process with his left hand, sniffs, then stands back from the mirror. He’ll have to do.

      He finds Aunt Dorothy deadheading roses in the garden. She is dressed in a simple, but elegant, blue and white check dress, with a blue apron outside it. Her close-set, blue eyes twinkle like amethysts. Her face is tanned from gardening. ‘He’s missed you,’ she says, as Scamp races across the lawn to greet him, barking furiously.

      ‘I’ve missed him, too.’ Martin pets the dog then puts his arms around his aunt. ‘But not as much as I’ve missed you.’

      ‘How was the drive from Oxford?’

      ‘Twenty-seven minutes, door to door.’ He grins. ‘A new record.’

      ‘Does Teddy Hall have a course on racing driving these days?’ says a voice behind him.

      Martin turns round to see his elder sister, Roseen, advancing across the lawn with a cup of tea in her hand. She’s a tall, rail-thin, self-contained woman with hazel-brown eyes that take in everything but give little away. She is perfectly dressed for the season: tweed jacket, woollen skirt, leather boots, a scarf wrapped turban-style around her head.

      ‘Sis!’ Martin hugs her. ‘I thought you had already left for London again.’

      ‘The weather’s so beautiful.’ She sips her tea. ‘I thought I’d take an evening train.’

      Martin grins at her. ‘Well?’

      ‘Well, what?’ Roseen bends down and scratches Scamp’s back.

      ‘What did you think of her?’ Martin’s face brims with anticipation.

      ‘She’s delightful.’ Roseen finished her tea. ‘Funny. Intelligent. Good-looking.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘But we only had half an hour or so in the pub yesterday evening.’

      Martin beams, then looks down at the ground, self-conscious, boyish. ‘I know this sounds really soppy, but . . . I’m in love.’

      ‘You’ve certainly been behaving oddly of late.’ Roseen pinches him.

      ‘More oddly than usual, you mean?’ Martin smiles. ‘How’s Andrew, by the way?’

      For some months Roseen has been stepping out with Andrew Freeth, an up-and-coming portrait painter she met at an exhibition in London. ‘He’s fine,’ she says, lighting up. ‘We’re going to the Tate Gallery together next week. To see the Canadian exhibition.’

      Martin looks at his watch. ‘God! Better be off.’

      ‘Will you be home for lunch?’ Aunt Dorothy snips a bud from a rosebush.

      ‘Not today, Aunt D.’ He plants a kiss on his aunt’s white hair, embraces his sister, then races out of the garden.

      ‘Good luck with the parentals!’ Roseen calls after him.

      The Bomb gleams in the driveway. You can tell a lot about a man from his car. And this sleek, two-seater sports car with its V8 engine, curved fenders and spare wheel mounted on the back suggests both style and a hint of danger. Martin checks the fickle sky, then rolls back the roof and climbs into the car, Scamp scrambling in after him.

      It’s only five minutes to Grove Road, though the way Martin drives it will take half that. Mustn’t be too early, though. Better to be fashionably late. A gust of wind stirs the branches of the beech tree. The leaves tremble. Impatient, he turns the key in the ignition. Pats the dashboard, revs the engine. The car vrooms. On the radio, Bing Crosby croons from ‘I’ve Got A Pocketful Of Dreams’.

      Blythe Cottage is set back from the road, tucked away between two much larger houses, and Martin zooms right past the flowerbed bright with Michaelmas daisies and the peach tree her father has trellised on the wall. It’s far more modest than Whichert House. A cosy dwelling on a handkerchief-sized plot. But it’s her house. And that makes him love it.

      Knowing he is early, Martin glances anxiously at his watch and checks his hair in the rear-view mirror. He’s light-headed and his stomach is tight as a drum. Climbing out of the Bomb, he skips through the gate and rings the doorbell. Nothing. He counts to ten. Rings it again. Nothing. Steps back and looks up at the windows. Sticks his hands in his pockets. Breathes deep.

      The door opens with a waft of Chanel. Martin slides his arms around her waist and tries to kiss her.

      ‘Tino!’ She tuts, disengaging herself. It’s her nickname for him. Her special name, that no one else uses. ‘You’ll smudge my lipstick.’

      Her parents are waiting for them in the living room. Nancy’s mother, Peg, is a tiny, slightly hunched woman, with white skin set off by too much red lipstick, henna-coloured hair, and the small, alert eyes of a sparrow.

      ‘Nancy’s told me so much about you.’ He hands Peg the roses. ‘Aunt Dorothy sends her regards.’

      ‘How lovely!’ Peg simpers. ‘Darling, fetch a vase will you?’ Nancy disappears into the kitchen.

      ‘Leonard Whelan.’ Nancy’s father holds out his hand. He’s a tall, slim man with an angular face and silver hair, impeccably dressed in a grey suit, with a СКАЧАТЬ