Summer in February (13 page)
Gilbert was determined to move on to something else by bringing in Laura, but before he could do so Florence smiled and tapped
her napkin as if to say that little topic, the question of his seriousness, unresolved though it was, was over for the time
being and now she wanted to ask him something important. She spoke to him as if no one else was at the table. She did not
want Joey butting in.
‘How long have you been an officer? I do want to know that.’
‘Eight, no, nine years now. In the Militia.’
‘And you fought in South Africa, at a very young age then?’
Gilbert sensed Joey was trying to hear their conversation.
‘Yes. I was nineteen when I went out there.’
‘Nineteen! To think of you younger than I am, out there, and fighting in a dreadful war.’
‘Many did,’ Gilbert said. ‘It was not unusual.’
‘Did you kill anyone? That would be unusual, wouldn’t it?’
Gilbert felt both his arms knot. His mind locked. He did not know what to do. In a split second Laura came in; Joey may not
have heard all this but Laura certainly did.
‘I think, my dear, that men do not … enjoy this kind of discussion. More wine, Gilbert?’
‘Oh? In which case I shall never refer to it again.’
‘No, I don’t mind all that—’ Gilbert stuttered.
‘No, Laura is right, I’m sure.’
‘You’ve heard Alfred’s off soon?’ Laura said breezily.
‘Off where?’ Joey asked, equally breezily, from the other side of the table.
‘Captain Evans,’ Florence said, putting down her knife and fork, ‘I apologise, but Joey assured me when I arrived in Lamorna
that you all talked about everything, and
that
was what made this place so special, that sense of frank discussion. Let us return to the water divining.’
She saw him standing alone at the water’s edge. He was trying to kick something. From her distance it might have been a pebble,
and he was trying to kick it as far as he could. She moved closer, though still unseen. It was a pebble. The next one he caught
only a glancing blow. He picked up another. This time he missed it completely, stubbing his toe. So he kicked the sand instead
and attacked it with both feet, hoofed it, kicked it violently like a small boy whose sandcastle had been destroyed by a warring
tribe and was now getting his own back on whatever lay in sight: it was a terrible, random tantrum and very prolonged. Watching
it made her want to laugh. It also made her want to put her arms round him. Only when he turned from attacking the sand to
attacking his dog (that little killer who was leaping around and loving every second of it) did she button up her overcoat
and hurry, calling to him, as she ran down the slipway to the beach. Her face ached with cold. She called. He did not turn,
though he must have heard her.
‘Alfred! Alfred!’
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘You must have heard me.’
‘Quite a night,’ he said.
‘Yes, I was hoping your roof stayed on.’
‘I wasn’t at home.’
‘Oh, where were you?’
He ignored her. The sea pounded down, undulating, lifting itself up in big long surges of grey lit by a multitude of white
dots. The sucking and pushing and retreating was competing only a few feet from them. He walked along the foam’s edge.
‘I’m having a terrible time,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘I can’t paint. Can’t do it any more.’
‘Oh don’t be so silly.’
‘Just done a bloody awful one, the rocks look like sponges and the hounds look like statues, I just can’t get it right, it’s
worse than beginners’ rubbish, it’s worse than the stuff they do in Forbes’ first hut.’
‘Even you can have an off day.’
‘No, it’s not that, don’t you see?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You’re not playing bloody games, are you? It’s … it’s that I can’t paint anything except you.’
‘That can’t be so.’
‘It
is
so. Without you I can’t work.’
‘But you had a whole exhibition of work before I met you.’
‘Look,
go away
if you’re going to argue about it.’
He picked up another stone, and punted it cleanly. This success seemed to cheer him.
She drew level with him. For the first time she felt, with a curious stab of understanding, that she was in a sense the older
person. But that was quite ridiculous. He was at least ten years her senior. Seeing her at his shoulder he
accelerated away. She kept up with him, but made heavy weather of it, her feet sinking deeply into the soft sand. All along
the beach there were smashed things, piles of seaweed and driftwood covered in white, decomposing froth. Where on earth could
he have slept on such a night?
He spoke sharply, without looking at her.
‘Why are you alone?’
‘Joey’s out on the rocks by Carn Barges. But I enjoy my own company …’
‘And what have you been doing with your own company?’
‘Painting all day, eight or ten hours at a time. And sitting for Harold next door, when I can.’
‘And entertaining, I hear. Gilbert Evans. With dances.’
‘Yes, that too.’
‘Unburdening his soul to you, was he? Was he?’
‘No, why would he do that? I enjoy his company very much.’
He suddenly put his hands to his head in self-recrimination.
‘I made a fool of myself with you … last week. Why did I do it? A terrible exhibition.’ Then he savagely added, ‘Pleb!’ and
punched himself.
‘When?’
‘Don’t “when” me, you stupid woman!’
He pointed to his right eye with his forefinger.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Yes, said too much, usual trouble, bloody fool, no brain.’
‘You do exaggerate. Anyway I’m glad you felt you could tell me, I’d much rather know.’
‘I didn’t “feel I could tell you”, I lost my temper.’
‘Even so, I prefer it when people tell the truth, so much talk is so empty, isn’t it, even down here? And to have achieved
all you have … is all the more—’ Her voice tailed off.
The dog looked at them both, from one to the other, as if to say ‘Let’s go’ and they walked off the beach and up a sodden
track, bordered by cigar-brown heather. As they climbed she noticed Alfred had some difficulty in moving freely. She wanted
to ask him what was wrong, but dared not. At the top of the track, limping and panting a little with the exertion, he said
quickly:
‘I’m going away soon.’
‘I know.’
‘I have to.’
‘So you said the other day. Where?’
‘Don’t know, just know I’m going or I’ll burst. Thought I might visit your house in London, see if you’re as rich as you say
you are.’
‘Our home in London, but—’
‘But I won’t, don’t worry. I’d like to go to Norfolk, or Suffolk, but I may not.’
‘How long will you be away?’
He shook his head and shrugged and moved on. She had no idea where he was heading, nor why his moods affected her so much.
She tried to imagine her mother’s expression as he was announced. She tried to imagine him pacing about in her London drawing-room,
dressed in his strange clothes. She tried to imagine her father sitting next to him. She found herself smiling at the contrasts
and the shock waves, his country accent and his unavoidable oaths.
‘I need to paint you again before I go, so when’s it to be?’
‘I’ve just told you, at the moment I can’t, I’ve promised Harold Knight I will be avail—’
‘I
have
to! That’s the point.’
‘All right, but only if I can paint you as well.’
He turned to her, his colour high, his eyes piercing.
‘
You
paint
me
?’
‘Yes … I thought I would start with you, what better practice?’
‘Well, you can’t.’
‘In which case I shall have to disappoint you.’
‘Is that how you behave?’
‘Isn’t that a question you should be asking yourself?’
‘Oh, do as you wish.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going for a drink, then I’m going off to be with people I can be with.’
And with that he turned on his heel and plunged deep into the high wet ferns. Taffy leapt after him.
‘But why,’ she called, ‘
why
do you drink so much?’
Whether he heard that question or not she was not sure. A little angry with herself and very angry with him she was soon retracing
her steps down the path and back along the water’s edge. Sharp and clear in the sand, going in the opposite direction, were
the footprints they had made not fifteen minutes before.
A caravan:
By the light
Of the silvery
Hamp-shire moon
Dear Ev,
A surprise!
A letter from your friend and so very soon, barely a week after we parted. That’s what friends do, isn’t it? They think about
each other!
What an evening we had in The Wink! And those splendid crabs from Jeffery, I’ve never tasted better, but I must apologise
for the spirit in which I first greeted you, what a foul day I’d had, and what a foul impression I must have made, I felt
like an old buck rabbit stamping in his hutch, but we certainly got into our stride in The Wink, you and I. Never have I seen
you so animated! Early next morning did you have a head? No! For was there ever in God’s world a more organised man or (I
do not flatter) a more reliable one? It occurs to me some of us can only be truly prankish if some
people are truly sane. Perhaps we all have our own spheres?
How intelligent I feel tonight! In the rain yesterday I imagined you giving instructions in your gaiters, sloshing around
that big cobbled yard at Boskenna. And at night are you still enjoying hippety-hops and beanos and dances (but not, I hope,
enjoying them as much without me)?
Where was I?
Yes, what a contrast the thought of you, sitting in your room, makes with the fellow in the next caravan to me. He is wearing
earrings (can I see you wearing earrings?), a deep red scarf, a black felt hat, sleeved waistcoat and tight trousers. He is
sitting in a – no, he is not in his caravan, I lie in my teeth, he is in a yellow-wheeled gypsy cart. The horse is covered
with brass-mounted harness. What a splendid sight! And here is something else for you to think about as you check the water
levels and collect your dues and circumnavigate your farms and properties, think about this – soon there will be no coachmen,
they are being pushed out by chauffers (spelling?), God help us, show-furs, and is that what you want, my engineer, my sapper
friend, lots of hoots and horns all over England and not a moo to be heard?
I think of you because all around me are tents, old Army bell-tents, and being a bit of a villain myself (set a thief to catch
a thief) I smell stolen stock, and if they are stolen I only hope they do not belong to the Royal Monmouthshire Engineers
… or Militia or whichever lot you are a big shot in or with – all the more reason for you to stay there and not carry out
one of your famous inventories on the Romany estates!
How is Florence? How is Laura? How is Joey
behaving? No, let us be honest, eh, Ev? HOW IS FLORENCE? The pipe dream renders it bearable for us?
You are sitting – I hazard a guess – in your comfortable rooms being waited on hand and foot by Mrs Jory, or perhaps you are
taking your time over lunch – what a cosy place you have, or is it that wherever you are you do make other people feel at
home, because you draw them out with your quiet attentiveness? – while all around me here in the cold fields are white wood
ash fires on the ground, one in front of each wagon. Underneath each vehicle is a lurcher and a greyhound. To my left a stiff
breeze belabours the breeches on a makeshift washing line, and to my right a man with a big bowl is throwing faggots down
to hungry families. Children fight for them. Dogs are barking. Hens are thrilling. Chicks are panicking. Horses are having
kicking matches.
Life. LIFE, eh?
Further to my left is a mission hut. The man in there plans to lead these good Romanies into the paths of righteousness, plans
to take them off to God. Well! Have to say my money is on the status quo. So far at least our mission man has had very little
effect on their language. Theirs makes mine seem pure driven snow. The air is as blue as the camp fire.
‘Do that again and I’ll kick your bleeding shins.’ (This from a man.)
‘Do that again and I’ll pull your bleeding lights out.’ (This from a woman.) Would she really blind her child? A Romany Regan?
She looks capable of it.
I am filled with the desire to work. It burns. It consumes. I have so many models here, all related to each other (so who
knows what goes on under their
painted roofs? Better not ask). How shall I describe them to you, Ev? Let us take a touchstone, known to us both, Miss F.
C.-W. Well, the women here are dressy women, real dressy women (whereas Florence is dressy but does not wish you to know she
is. Am I right?). One here is my favourite. She wears a black silk apron over a full, pleated skirt, a pink blouse showing
off a tough, lithe little body. (You’ll be seeing more of her, Ev, my boy, in my pictures, so see if I’m not right! See the
contrast with Blote; and, by the by, is not ‘Blote’ a bloody silly name?)
She wears strings of red beads, wonderful earrings (do they compete with the men on earrings?) under the most wonderful blue-black
hair, oh, the Romany hair, a large black hat complete with ostrich feather, and when she walks SHE WALKS. You can feel the
life BEATING in her. How about that for a woman? Can you see her? Can you smell her? Is she not paintable?
‘D’ye want me ter-morrer, Mr Money?’ she asks.
MR MONEY!
Yes, she thinks that is my name, or perhaps it is her joke (never never underestimate a Romany woman) and if it is, the joke
will not be lost on you. Mr Munnings pays a gypsy woman a shilling an hour, ten shillings a day, to make enough money to dazzle
the world (and other women?). In this way the lower and the higher orders are conjoined!
What a model she is! She is alive and happy in her skin. With bodies like hers, every day here is a gala day.
‘Yes, my lady,’ I say, ‘I would like you tomorrow, please.’
‘Or would ye be wantin’ to do a ’orse instead?’
‘No, my lady,’ I say, ‘only you. I do not want any horse. I want only my lady on a horse.’
She loves me saying ‘My lady’ and gives me such a look, glancing back at her caravan (does anyone in Lamorna give such a look?)
but watching us there is a fellow sharpening sticks with a knife, and it’s not my canvas that concerns him. His knife looks
extremely keen. My marvellous model, her body touching mine, washes my brushes for me and keeps popping round the easel to
see how she is coming on.
‘Cor!’ she says, and ‘Cor!’ is her greatest praise. ‘That me? Is it, Mr Money? You’s the Champ and no doubt!’
And she brushes my arm again with her fingers as she moves off.
And tomorrow I shall paint her, as she leans out of the half-door, holding the reins. Children – hers? who knows? – with cheeky
faces will be poking their noses over the door. Others will be sitting on the shafts, dangling their legs. Poultry will be
slung in crates or cages from the wheels. A blackbird will go by like running ink. And all this, my friend, you will see for
yourself, captured for ever by the magnificent Munnings – or maybe not, BECAUSE (dammit) I’ve got to sell them, haven’t I,
and does one paint with one eye on the guinea? Does one write with one eye on the guinea? I suspect people do, you know.
Anyway, if all goes well, I shall paint a picture every three or four days and leave you to control things your end. Mind
you, it could go wrong. My hands are blue, my left thumb has gone dead under the weight of the palette, my right foot feels
the size of a horse’s thigh with gout (didn’t ever tell you about the gout I’ve got which I don’t deserve,
but do I deserve your friendship? I would say YES to both).
So there you are in Jory’s, there you are in Lamorna. And what did you eat last night? I know, I know, soup, cold mutton with
mint sauce (very little of), cold rhubarb and cream, with Florence and Joey as guests, with Joey for billiards and Florence
for admiration? If I am right, smile!
Perhaps I should stay here? Perhaps this is the MILIEU for a man with my restlessness? Am I a gypsy at heart?
And how’s old Laura? Still bumping along like a balloon?
And how’s Joey? Still looking for blennies in the rock pools?
And how’s you? Don’t simmer too much inside, will you? You must let off steam, and not make a masterpiece of self-effacement.
Don’t be ashamed to be different, or it’s a rather chained fate you choose.
By the way, how is the Dolly gel? Dolly is, I suspect, rather more than meets the eye, and plenty enough meets the eye, take
my meaning?
And I wish you all health, Ev, and I send this letter along earth tracks and deep culverts and open ditches and rain-polished
roads and green fields to you (but, God, what else are fields BUT green?).
Yours,
A.J.
Underneath his signature, and all over the envelope, were quick witty drawings, a whiff of A.J.’s world.