The Very White of Love: the heartbreaking love story that everyone is talking about!. S Worrall C
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.
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, which quickly flares up into an uncontrollable blaze.
‘Calme toi, Tino.’ Nancy sits up and straightens her frock. ‘Someone might walk past.’
In the distance, there is a large, country house, set back from the river, enclosed by a high wall and surrounded by trees. ‘Let’s go over there. It’ll be more private.’
They pick up the picnic things and trudge towards the house, in silence. Martin stares at the ground, dragging his feet through the grass.
‘What’s wrong?’ Nancy asks.
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Time is flying by so fast. The uncertainty about the war. It puts me on edge.’ He turns to her, his hands raised in dismay. ‘I just love you so much.’
‘I know, Tino.’ She puts her arm through his. ‘It’s just sometimes, I think you use that word as an excuse.’
‘An excuse?’ Martin stares at her. ‘For what?’
‘For sex.’ She stares across the lake.
‘What’s wrong with sex?’ His voice is harsh, mocking.
‘There’s nothing wrong with sex!’ Her voice rises. ‘I dream about it as much as you.’
‘So, we’re on the same . . . ’ he searches for the right word ‘ . . . wavelength.’
‘Of course we are.’ She kisses him. ‘I love you, Martin. More than I have ever loved anyone.’ Tears prickle her eyes. ‘But women see these things very differently from men. It’s how we are brought up. What society expects.’
‘Society? In case you haven’t noticed, society is going up in flames,’ Martin grumbles. ‘The battalion could be called away to France any day!’
‘I know!’ She wipes another tear away. ‘That’s why I want us to wait!’
‘Wait? For what? For me to leave?’ His voice is full of sarcasm. ‘That’s a great idea!’
‘That’s not what I meant!’ She clenches her fists, stamps her feet. ‘Oh, God, I don’t know what I mean!’
She storms across the meadow. Martin wants to follow her, but he suddenly feels so sad that he turns and walks on, disconsolately, searching for a new spot to spread the picnic. Near the house, he finds a patch of clover. It’s screened from view by the wall and protected by the lake. He spreads out the rug, and begins to unpack the picnic things. Plates, glasses, cutlery, napkins. A blue and white check tablecloth. Salt and pepper filched from the dining hall. A loaf of fresh-baked bread. Guernsey butter. Port Salut and Double Gloucester cheese. A jar of Aunt D.’s tomato and apple chutney. Smoked salmon. Some pears from the garden at Whichert House: tiny, lemon yellow fruits with a pink blush.
‘I’m sorry.’ She puts her arms around him.
‘It’s me that should apologize.’ He holds her against his breast, stroking her hair. They kiss, tenderly, slowly, then Martin draws away. ‘You hungry?’
‘Ravenous!’ She reaches forward and takes a plate, cuts a slice of Port Salut, then picks up the packet of butter. She reads the label, delighted. ‘Guernsey butter!’
‘In honour of your father’s roots.’
‘Ah, how sweet you are.’ She leans forward and kisses him again, then spreads a thin layer of the butter on her bread, lays the cheese on it, tastes.
‘That’s delicious! Where did you get it? The market?’
‘Fortnum & Mason. Aunt D. forced it on me last weekend.’ He cuts a piece for himself, tastes it. ‘Mmm, that is good.’
‘How is everyone?’ Nancy lifts her empty glass.
‘Same old, same old.’ Martin pours her some more champagne. ‘Uncle Charles is working too hard. Michael smokes too much. Frances, the cook, threatens everyone with a rolling pin if they come too near the kitchen. Aunt D. gardens.’
‘Are they worried?’
Martin looks at her questioningly, tears off another hunk of bread, loads it with smoked salmon, passes it to her. ‘About the possible