Motherland

by William Nicholson

  Larry then says, almost apologetically, ‘Actually I do believe Jesus was the son of God.’

  This causes general amazement. Nell, sitting by Larry’s side, grins to see the looks on their faces.

  ‘You can’t!’ says Tony Armitage.

  ‘And I believe in heaven and hell,’ says Larry. ‘And the Last Judgement. And I think I believe in the virgin birth. And I’m trying hard to believe in papal infallibility.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ says Leonard. ‘You’re a Catholic.’

  ‘Born and bred,’ says Larry.

  ‘But Larry,’ says Tony Armitage, ‘you can’t believe all that rubbish. You just can’t.’

  ‘I suppose it may be rubbish,’ says Larry, ‘some of it, anyway. But it’s the rubbish I grew up with. And it does make a sort of sense, you know. You belong to a church because you believe the wisdom of an institution is greater than the wisdom of one man. We have rather overdone the cult of the individual, don’t you think?’

  ‘The cult of the individual!’ Peter Prout mocks shock. ‘Next you’ll be doubting the romance of the lone artist!’

  ‘But Larry!’ exclaims Armitage. ‘Virgin birth! Papal infallibility!’

  ‘Well, to be honest,’ says Larry, ‘I don’t really follow some of that. But then, why would I? I don’t know everything. It’s like falling in love. You don’t go down a checklist of all the girl’s opinions, making sure you agree with each one. You just love her, and you take what you get.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ says Nell.

  ‘It’s theatre,’ says Peter Prout. ‘The Catholic Church is all about theatre.’

  ‘But where’s the intellectual honesty?’ says Leonard.

  ‘Who needs intellectual honesty?’ says Nell. ‘Who needs intellectual anything? That’s just another way for people to bully people. Larry grew up believing in a religion that really matters to him, and it’s got power and beauty and so on to him, so why not let him get on with it?’

  ‘But Nell,’ says Armitage, ‘we’re not talking about art, or poetry. We’re talking about so-called eternal truths.’

  ‘It is art and poetry for me,’ says Larry. ‘It’s just like that. Once you decide your brain is too small to know everything, you look at things differently. You say, all right, I might as well stick with my traditions until I run into a good reason not to. I’m not saying the Catholic Church has the only truth. It’s just the faith I’ve grown up with. So for me, it’s faith itself. It’s the part of me that believes there’s more than this life, and that goodness wins in the end, and that there’s a purpose to existence. I expect if I’d been born in Cairo I’d get all that from being a Muslim, but I wasn’t. I was taken to the Carmelite church in Kensington every Sunday, and I was sent to a school run by Benedictine monks, and so it’s all just part of who I am.’

  ‘You’re allowed to grow up,’ says Leonard. ‘You’re not obliged to stay a child for ever. You can break out on your own.’

  ‘What did you grow up believing, Leonard?’ says Nell.

  ‘My parents have always been free-thinkers,’ says Leonard. ‘I’ve been allowed to grow up in my own way.’

  ‘Do they believe in God?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘So you’ve been raised by atheists,’ says Nell, ‘and you’re an atheist. When do you break out on your own?’

  The others laugh at that. Larry grins and holds out his hand. Nell shakes it.

  *

  Nell walks down Camberwell Grove with Larry later that afternoon, heading for the room Larry rents in McNeil Road.

  ‘I love it that you’re a Catholic,’ she says. ‘It’s just so wacky and different. I’ve never known anyone who’s a Catholic.’

  ‘What are your family, then?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, of course. You know, Anglican. They never talk about religion. I think it’s supposed to be bad manners, like talking about sex.’

  ‘God and sex. Big secrets. Not in front of the children.’

  ‘What I like about you, Lawrence,’ she goes on, ‘is the way you’re not afraid to be who you are. Actually I’m quite impressed that you know who you are at all. I’ve no idea who I am.’

  ‘Well, I am older than you.’

  ‘Yes, I like that too.’

  When they get to the door of his digs she says, ‘Are you going to ask me in?’

  ‘Would you like to come in, Nell?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Lawrence. I would.’

  His room has a bed, a table, a small high-backed armchair, and a washbasin. A gas fire has been crammed into the small fireplace. Larry lights the gas. Nell sits on the bed, crossing her legs.

  ‘It’s funny to think,’ Nell says, ‘that I was sitting naked in front of you and you were staring at me, and there were all the others there too, and now we’re alone and I’m all dressed, and you can’t even look at me.’

  ‘Yes, it is funny,’ says Larry.

  ‘Is it because you’d rather I wasn’t here?’

  ‘No. No, not at all.’

  ‘Do you think it’s wrong for me to be a life model?’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’

  ‘But you must think it’s a bit strange. I mean, most people are shy about taking their clothes off.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you’re not.’

  ‘I am shy, really. But I make myself do it. I’m determined to get away.’

  He understands what she means. This is her equivalent of his impulse to paint.

  ‘You know we agreed we should always tell each other what we want?’ says Nell.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want to kiss you.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Larry, taken by surprise.

  ‘Do you want to kiss me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then come over here. That way we’ll warm up quicker, too.’

  Larry goes to sit beside her on the bed. She reaches up to cup one hand round his head.

  ‘Do you think it’s wrong for me to be so forward?’

  ‘No,’ he says.

  He leans close and they kiss. Then she lies down full length on the bed and he lies down with her and they kiss holding each other in their arms. He feels her slight body warm against his, and her lips soft and secret on his, and he’s overwhelmed by the sweet rush of desire.

  She feels him growing hard against her.

  ‘What’s this?’ she says.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘Of course there is,’ she says.

  She slips her hand down between them and strokes the ridge in his trousers.

  ‘Does the Catholic Church say it’s wrong for me to do this?’ she says.

  ‘No,’ he whispers.

  She feels for the buckle of his belt and undoes it. Then she unbuttons his flies. He lies still, grateful and amazed. She pushes her hands inside his pants and touches his cock, gently stroking it.

  ‘How about this?’ she says. ‘Is this a sin?’

  ‘No,’ he whispers.

  ‘Do you think maybe we should draw the curtains?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  He gets up off the bed and his trousers fall down. He stoops and pulls them up, but Nell says, ‘Take them off, silly.’ He goes to the window and pulls the thin curtains closed. Now the room is filled with a green shade, in the midst of which the gas fire glows orange.

  Nell is sitting up on his bed pulling her dress over her head. Larry stands there in shirt and underpants and socks, shaking with confused excitement. Beneath the dress she wears a brassiere and knickers. She tosses the dress to the floor and unhooks the brassiere.

  ‘It’s not as if you haven’t seen it all before,’ she says.

  Larry takes off his shirt and socks, but not his pants. His erection pushes out all too visibly. Nell poses for him on the bed, as she did in the life class.

  ‘Remember?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come here, then.’

  He goes into her arms, and h
olds her naked body close.

  ‘My God, Nell,’ he whispers. ‘My God, you’re lovely.’

  ‘Have we started doing anything wrong yet?’

  ‘No, not yet. But we’re very close.’

  ‘I want to do something wrong with you, Lawrence. I want you to want to do it with me.’

  ‘I do. I do.’

  Her hand is back feeling his cock, stroking it, making the desire in him go crazy. Then she takes his hand and puts it between her legs.

  ‘Feel me there, Lawrence. I want you there.’

  He feels the tickly mound of pubic hair, and the yielding softness below. She moves her hips, pushing her crotch against his hand.

  ‘All yours,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, God, Nell,’ he says, feeling his blood race. The wonder of her touch wipes his mind clean of all other thoughts. He knows only that he is entirely possessed by his desire, and that she is wonderfully, generously, inexplicably granting it.

  ‘God, you’re beautiful,’ he says.

  She rubs her body against his, exciting him to near-frenzy.

  ‘Are we going to do it, Lawrence?’ she says. ‘Are we?’

  ‘I’m not prepared,’ he says. ‘I haven’t got—’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she says. ‘I’ve dealt with that.’

  She has his cock in her hand now, and she’s rubbing the tip against her slit. Larry feels tremors of dangerous delight run down his cock.

  ‘So are we going to do it, Lawrence?’

  ‘Yes,’ he whispers. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doesn’t the Catholic Church say it’s wrong?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  ‘Fucking me is wrong.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you want to fuck me even so, Lawrence.’

  ‘Yes,’ he groans, feeling the tip of his cock pushing into her a little way.

  ‘If you fuck me, will God punish you, Lawrence?’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he says.

  ‘God won’t punish you,’ she says, ‘if you love me.’

  ‘I love you, Nell. I love you. I love you.’

  He feels the intensity of his love for her with each repetition, along with the tingling in his cock, and the profound shock of joy with which he has heard each utterance by her of the word fuck. She seems to know how much this electrifies him. She moves her hips, pushing him deeper into her all the time, and as she does so she whispers, ‘Fuck me now, Lawrence. Fuck me now.’

  His cock is in her now, gripped by sweet warmth, and he knows he can’t restrain himself any longer. His desire is in total control of his being, and it seeks its explosive release.

  ‘I can’t,’ he says, ‘I can’t—’

  ‘Do it, Lawrence,’ she says. ‘Do it. Do it.’

  He thrusts deep into her, and pulls back, and thrusts again, and the moment comes, and he half-faints with the intense pleasure of it. He feels the pulsing release spread from his cock to every part of his body.

  She strokes his back with warm hands.

  ‘There,’ she says. ‘There.’

  ‘Oh, Nell.’

  ‘Was that nice?’

  ‘Oh, God! It was heaven!’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she says. ‘I wanted it to be nice for you.’

  He lies over her, still helpless, his entire being disintegrated, his muscles powerless to move. Then his frantic heart begins to regain its usual rhythm, and his senses return. He kisses her eagerly, gratefully, adoringly.

  ‘You’re wonderful, you’re amazing, you’re perfect.’

  ‘Darling Lawrence.’

  ‘I’ve never known anything like that before.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a good Catholic boy.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  ‘Yes, you are. It doesn’t change anything. And anyway, all you have to do is go to confession.’

  ‘But I want to do it again,’ says Larry.

  ‘Of course we’ll do it again,’ says Nell. ‘This is only the beginning.’

  She puts on his dressing gown and pads upstairs to the shared bathroom to clean herself up. Larry dresses slowly in the green light. Then she’s back and he watches her lithe naked body as she too puts her clothes on.

  ‘You’ve had boyfriends before, haven’t you?’ he says.

  ‘Would you mind if I had?’

  ‘No, not at all. It makes me feel proud.’

  He feels no jealousy at all of her past. Only this gigantic gratitude that she grants him the same supreme privilege.

  ‘I had a boyfriend when I was sixteen,’ she says. ‘Not a boy, a man. He taught me things. He liked me to say the dirty words. He was kind.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘The war,’ says Nell. ‘He died.’

  Larry feels both shocked and elated. She’s so young, it’s cruel that she should have had to experience love and loss. But now she belongs entirely to him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  ‘I was sorry then,’ she says. ‘But now there’s you.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ says Larry. ‘Why me? You’re so beautiful you could have any man you wanted.’

  ‘I’m not really beautiful,’ she says. ‘But it’s true, if I want a man, I can have him. Men aren’t that hard to get. But a good man – that’s another matter. I think you may be a good man, Lawrence.’

  ‘Because I’m a Catholic?’

  ‘Because you’re kind. Most people are mean. You’re not mean.’

  ‘You are beautiful, Nell.’

  ‘You say that because I let you fuck me.’

  ‘I love it the way you say that word.’

  ‘That word.’ She grins at him mischievously. ‘What word would that be, Lawrence?’

  ‘Fuck,’ he says, blushing.

  17

  Harry Avenell’s club is the Travellers in Pall Mall. Like so much in his life this is a second-best, but he has neither the connections nor the income to put up for White’s. For all that, the Travellers, in its handsome Barry building, provides the civilised surroundings that he appreciates. By profession a director of Marston’s Brewery, Burton-upon-Trent, by taste he is a country gentleman, the master of a small estate that overlooks the river Dove. The Queen Anne house is furnished with what might be called modest excellence. Every item, from the umbrella stand in the hall to the cut-glass decanter on the dining-room sideboard, is the best of its kind. The high standards of Hatton House have always exceeded the actual income of the family, but only by so much as to make living correctly demand a life of austerity that comes naturally to both Harry and his wife. Harry’s philosophy is declared by his tailoring. His suits are of the best cloth, made by Gieves & Hawkes of Savile Row, and are expected to last his lifetime. Gillian Avenell, by contrast, though always immaculately dressed, has no real care for her appearance at all. Where Harry is anxious about money, she is frugal, happier on her knees in prayer than before a dressing-table mirror. She is the devout Roman Catholic of the family. Her husband has no religion. He calls himself a stoic, meaning he is an admirer of Marcus Aurelius, and values self-mastery above all.

  Harry Avenell has come to town to make some arrangements for his son. Ed has distinguished himself on the field of battle, he has a wife and child, but he has no employment and no income. By the age of twenty-eight a man needs to have fixed on a career, but Ed shows no signs of even so much as looking about him. Harry has therefore looked about him on his son’s behalf. A business acquaintance, Jock Caulder, turns out to have a son also in need of a parental push into the world of work. Caulder is a wealthy man, and proposes to set his boy up with a business of his own, importing French wine. The boy is willing enough, but being only just twenty years old, he’s understandably nervous at the prospect of being solely responsible for the enterprise. A partner is required. Harry Avenell has proposed his son, who is older, can be said to be battle-tested, and is looking for a career. It’s true he knows nothing about wine, but that can be learned. And his Victoria Cross, without being fl
aunted in any vulgar way, will surely add prestige to the infant business.

  Jock Caulder is minded to agree. His son Hugo declares himself willing to give it a go. It remains only to sound out the war hero himself.

  Harry is ensconced on a blue sofa at the far end of the Outer Morning Room of his club, a pot of Earl Grey tea before him, when Ed comes in and greets him with a raised hand. Harry has only seen his son once since his return, when he came up to Hatton and stayed for a single night. He feels shy in his son’s company.

  He waves him to the sofa opposite and offers him tea.

  ‘How’s Kitty? How’s our granddaughter?’

  ‘Flourishing,’ says Ed. ‘Pamela turns out to be tremendously strong-minded.’

  ‘You’re still living in the big house?’

  ‘For now, yes. How’s Mummy?’

  ‘Very well. Do drop her a line sometime. Or better still, pay us a visit. You know she’d never dream of asking anything for herself, but it would mean a lot to her.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ says Ed, his gaze drifting to the trees in the Mall outside. ‘So tell me the news of Hatton.’

  ‘Life goes on in its quiet way,’ says Harry. ‘But now, here’s what I want to talk to you about, Ed. Something’s come up that might suit you.’

  He lays out the proposal. Ed listens, his handsome face revealing nothing. When he’s done, his father expects some questions about the partnership terms and the anticipated income. Instead Ed gives a slight shrug and looks away again, out of the window.

  ‘I suppose I have to do something.’

  ‘It’s quite a chance, Ed,’ his father says. ‘You’d be going in as a full partner without having to invest a penny.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I would.’

  ‘Obviously everything would depend on how you and Hugo hit it off.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s a decent enough chap.’

  ‘Well, yes, he is. He went to Harrow. Not the university type, his father tells me. Clever in his way, but a bit inclined to rest on his oars.’

  ‘Not like me, then.’

  He meets his father’s eyes and smiles, and for a brief second they share the secret of how far life falls short of dreams.