Summer in February (5 page)

He had never seen a party like it.

He watched A.J. Munnings, this much talked-about life-force, rapidly moving around the room, loving it all, the world of laughter
he had created, the bustle and the storm within so great the storm without passed by.

Gilbert watched.

Had he ever, at school or in the army, in Wales or in the Boer War, ever met a man like this? Had he ever heard a man who
spoke such sentences?

No.

Suddenly seeing Gilbert Evans dripping at the door, Munnings threw his arms triumphantly in the air in celebration, pushed
his way over, shouting his helpful friend’s name at the top of his voice:

‘Ev!’

‘Hullo, A.J., quite a night.’

‘Come here, man, come here, you look drowned.’

‘I’m all right, really, I’ll dry out in a—’

‘Come and meet Everyone. Every-one,’ he bawled,
‘meet Captain Evans, soldier and gentleman. Ev, meet Every-one.’

‘Yes, thank you, A.J., but I do—’

‘The chimney needs sweeping! It needs sweeping badly.’

‘I know, I did tell you, and the downpipes need clearing.’

‘Can you arrange it, my friend? Can you?’

‘I’ve already told you I—’

‘Amazing chap’ – here A.J.’s volume increased to include all those within earshot – ‘he fixes everything for me, don’t you?
Now
that
is what I call a friend. A friend.’

‘Ev’ was something of a new one, but if A.J. started to use it there was little doubt that ‘Ev’ would soon be his current
name. On the matter of loud general introductions, Gilbert tried to explain quietly to A.J. not to bother, because he knew
enough people in the room to be getting on with, thank you, and that once he had dried out a little by the fire he would be
quite all right, but he might as well be bidding the ocean to cease because A.J. told him not to move a muscle, not a muscle,
mind, until he brought him back a glass, a full glass of something guaranteed to warm the cockles of his soldier’s heart.

Gilbert peered through the blue smoke. ‘Lamorna’ Birch, with his clay pipe, nodded a greeting. A scantily dressed London model
(he did not remember her name, though he remembered her smile) half turned and half smiled. A.J. was now heading back, elbows
right out, with a jug of steaming punch, holding it in front of his face and shouting out above the hubbub:

‘Special Norfolk recipe, this, Ev, got it in The Swan at Harleston … or was it the Maid’s Head in Norwich, can’t remember
for the life of me, who cares, whichever, it’s bloody good stuff so drink it.’

‘Your very good health, A.J.’

‘“A.J.’s Special” it’s called all over Norfolk, rum, brandy, sherry, shimmered – no, I’ll say that again – simmered cloves,
lemon rind, lots of fruit and whatever else I feel like throwing in.’

And on his way Munnings went, leaning over shoulders with his steaming brew, nudging the young models, topping them up, encouraging
more excess, dropping a filthy limerick here and a filthy limerick there. It was hard for Gilbert to believe that this man
had only been in Lamorna a few weeks: he behaved as if he, not Colonel Paynter, owned the place, if not the county of Cornwall.

Gilbert moved to join Laura and Joey Carter-Wood but within seconds of being with them A.J. was back there again, elbowing
Laura.

‘More, yes, come on, Good God, Laura woman, don’t argue, lift it higher, I can’t reach down to your boots, can I?’

‘You’re a wicked man, Alfred Munnings.’

‘Of course I am, so lift your glass up.’

As she did so, Gilbert noticed Laura’s wide strong lips were already stained blue-red with the wine. Her eyes bulged.

‘Lovely, Alfred, that’s plenty, thanks, I said
that’s plenty
.’

‘Don’t thank me, Laura, thank the Leicester Gallery, thank the clients, thank all the buyers!’

‘I know, wonderful news, well done.’

‘Talent, Laura, talent, that’s all it is, and you and I have it.’

‘You have, Alfred, that’s clear.’

Munnings looked round the room.

‘Where’s your husband, he needs some of this, put a bit of life into him.’

‘He’s at home, I’m afraid.’

‘At home?’

‘Yes, still working.’

‘What’s wrong with the fellow, last time he had toothache.’

‘Well, you know Harold.’

‘Gilbert, you’re a man at least, have some more!’

‘No, I still haven’t—’

But Gilbert moved his hand just a fraction too late. His glass was brimful again.

‘That’s it, give me a man who can enjoy life, a man and a soldier.’

‘But not an artist, I’m afraid.’

‘Listen, Gilbert Evans, there are too many bloody artists in this room, too many in Newlyn, too many in Lamorna, too many
in London, far far too many, they need stamping out. Stamping out!’

‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

Alfred put his arm firmly round Gilbert’s shoulder.

‘Of course you wouldn’t, my brave, and that’s why I’m telling you. And that’s why you need me!’

Alfred now took up his performing stance. As he did so, Joey Carter-Wood, sensing a poem was on the way, smiled. Alfred began:

‘Eh, isn’t that right, Ev?’

‘Yes, that’s how it goes, A.J.’

A.J. released Gilbert, moving towards Joey.

‘Joey, Joey Carter Hyphen Wood, don’t be so coy, man,
even if you are a toff. Get your hands dirty for once, there’s a good chap, put some more coal on the fire, would you, that’s
good Welsh coal, Monmouth’s Wales isn’t it, Ev, well near enough, we need more fire, we need more punch, we need more life
in here.’

Joey knelt down by the coal scuttle.

‘And where’s your sister, Joey, thought she was coming?’

Joey started to put some pieces on the fire, a task at which he showed no skill at all. The tongs slipped off the damp coal.

‘No, it’s tomorrow she’s coming.’

‘Staying long?’

‘Depends.’

‘What?’

Joey turned his flushed face up from the fire.

‘I said it depends.’

‘Depends on what?’

‘On how she gets on down here. Generally, I mean. All round.’

A.J. shouted at him:

‘Generally, all round? What does that mean? Talk straight, man.’

‘I’m sorry, A.J., I’m not in the mood for this.’

‘I mean, she paints, doesn’t she, your sister, and she’s coming down to learn from the Professor in Newlyn, so what’s the
problem?’

Whatever the problem was Joey was not suddenly about to unburden himself. Instead he rose to his feet and joined, a little
shyly, Dolly and a group of models. Alfred suddenly found himself spun round in a masculine grip. It was Laura Knight, her
aquiline nose next to his. He tried to pull back but she held him tight.

‘Laura, God, what a drinker, you’re back for more already.’

‘No, I want you to leave Joey alone, he’s far too sensitive for you, and I want you to do what you promised.’

Alfred laughed uncertainly.

‘What promise? What are you talking about?’

‘You know perfectly well what promise, and it’s the perfect moment for you to deliver it.’

Discountenanced, Alfred pulled himself away from Laura’s grip.

‘It’s the perfect moment for drinking, I know that.’

‘No, you’re not getting away with this, you’re always changing the subject when it doesn’t suit you, and Gilbert and I heard
you promise, down at the cove yesterday, oh yes we did, you promised you’d do it tonight, yes, yes you did,
and
with make-up, and that’s why we’re all here, well, one of the reasons.’

‘Oh, I thought you were escaping Harold.’

‘But of course if you haven’t the courage, Alfred, if you’re only a braggart—’

‘Anyway, you’re wrong, Laura, I wasn’t at the cove yesterday.’

‘Yes you were!’

‘No, I wasn’t, I was riding with the Western Hounds over at Zennor, all day as a matter of fact, and something quite remarkable
happened there.’

‘All right, the day before then, this silly drink of yours is doing it, but that’s not the point, the point is we were all
sitting on the rocks watching that big steamer go towards the Lizard, weren’t we, Gilbert?’

‘Laura’s right,’ Gilbert said. ‘I heard it loud and clear, then you started talking about Roger Fry.’

‘Shut up, Ev, what the hell do you know about Roger Fry!’

Gilbert was the first to admit he knew nothing at all about Roger Fry, except that he was a painter against whom
Alfred Munnings spent half an hour each day fulminating, so he poked a circle of lemon down under the surface of his tumbler,
then watched it float slowly back up the punch to join the other fragments of fruit. Alfred’s sudden irascibility embarrassed
rather than nettled Gilbert. Besides, Laura had resumed her attack with fresh vigour, smiling, with her long teeth showing.

‘Anyway, we’re not talking about Roger Fry now, we’re talking about the importance of poetry, but if you can’t do something,
Alfred, please don’t tell everyone you can do it, it’s so paltry, if you want to know what it reminds me of, it reminds me
of the village louts in Yorkshire, they were the sort who claimed they could hit flying birds with their catapults.’

Alfred pushed angrily away. She followed. He swivelled back towards Laura.

‘Look, I
can
do it, I just don’t
want
to.’

‘That’s
exactly
what bragging little boys say, when they’re about nine or ten.’

‘Little boys do, do they?’

‘Yes, bragging little boys, and a lot of men promise a lot of things too, and I’m disappointed that you are one of them, so
I think, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going.’

‘What, back to Harold?’

‘Yes, he’s not very well.’

‘He’s never very well.’

Laura moved her nose close to his.

‘Don’t be rude about Harold, that’s the third time tonight, I won’t have it.’

‘It’s a fact, statement of fact, Harold, your husband, is never very well.’

‘And to drag him along to an evening like this would have made him worse, so I’ll go back now.’

Gilbert put his drink on the windowsill.

‘I’ll walk up the hill with you, Laura, it really is a filthy night.’

‘Oh,
all
right,’ Alfred said, ‘I’ll do it.’

Laura, as was her way, whooped and kissed Alfred, and in doing so she threw some punch over Gilbert.

‘I knew you would, I
knew
it, I was just saying to Gilbert you were a man and not a mouse.’

She had been saying no such thing and she pressed Gilbert’s arm to acknowledge her lie before clapping her hands. To get the
attention of the whole room she clapped her hands again, and kept clapping.

‘Quiet, everyone.
Qui-et
please! Right, there is to be a very special event, so find a seat on the floor, please, wherever you can, any spot will
do, but mind the bookcase, it fell over last week, yes, squeeze up … yes, sit on each other’s knees if you like … not so fast,
Joey! I
want you
to turn down one of the lamps. And Gilbert, my dear, would you do the other, thanks!’

‘Look, Laura,’ Alfred said, ‘it’s my bloody studio, not yours.’

‘Not strictly speaking, you’re only renting it, and we do surely need a little less light, for atmosphere, yes? You agree?
Just a bit lower, Joey, would you, yes that’s it, like Gilbert’s, yes, stop! Now isn’t that … Vermeer? Isn’t that Frans Hals?’

‘Do shut up, Laura,’ Alfred said with a storm in his eyes, ‘you know damn all about Frans Hals.’

‘And wouldn’t Rembrandt relish this scene? Oh he
would
!’

After Joey’s feeding, the fire was now beginning to pick up again. The flames and the lamps in their globes threw three flickering
pools of light. For the first time in the evening the sound of the rain on the studio roof was becoming clear. The wind hustled
round the cornices.

Gilbert, unable to find a spot to sit, leant back against the front door; on which move, the cold draught coming underneath
made his clinging wet socks feel still colder. In a further sudden assault the rain drenched the window to his right.

‘Silence!’ Laura boomed.

They listened to the rain.

‘No, it’s not quiet enough yet,’ Laura said bossily. ‘I’m going to throw this piece of lemon on the fire’ (she held the slice
up) ‘and when I hear it
hiss
– then I shall call upon … Him. Let us listen for the hiss.’

And she lowered herself dramatically, eyes popping, to the floor, kneeling at Alfred’s feet. Was this really Laura Knight
kneeling at the feet of Alfred Munnings? Gilbert had never seen a grown woman change as much as Laura had this last month.
Since A.J.’s arrival in Lamorna she seemed to have lost all semblance of self-control.

All eyes were now on Alfred Munnings. And for the first time Gilbert studied him very closely: his sharp, intelligent face,
sharp in bone structure and in expression, the kind of face a shepherd has; Gilbert sometimes encountered such faces when
walking in the Black Mountains, the faces of men whistling their dogs to round up distant sheep, faces full of native cunning.
No, Gilbert thought, I’ve got it, it’s not a shepherd’s face, not quite, it’s the face of an outside half in rugger, that’s
it, the face of a man who lives on his wits, who relies on natural physique and instinct to see him through whatever defences
are lined up against him.

As for Alfred’s clothes, the clothes Laura first noticed in the lane – well, they changed as regularly as his moods. How many
wardrobes did he have? (Looking round, Gilbert could see none.) Tonight the centre of attention wore a check suit with a black
velvet collar, black velvet cuffs and pocket flaps, with broad black braiding trimming
his trousers. Everything had a distinct, raffish cut. The man, Gilbert admitted to himself as he stood by the door in his
wet socks, had style.

There was something else, too, about Munnings which Gilbert, as a soldier, had spotted quite early on, less obvious than his
clothes and less obvious than his clipped tones but possibly more central: the way Alfred looked at you. If Alfred looked
at you, really looked at you, you did not forget it. More often than not, with his Panama modishly tilted, he did not engage
your eyes, but when the piercing glance came you needed courage (as Gilbert had) to look steadily back.