Then Pammy isn’t shouting any more and he realises they’re going too fast. The sledge is plunging directly down the slope. The speed is thrilling and frightening. The child’s arms cling ever tighter to his thighs. The hill stretches far below, to the snow-covered roofs of the village of Glynde and the carpet of farmland beyond. Larry knows he must bring the sledge ride to a stop, but he lets them ride on for a few moments longer, captivated by the sensation of being out of control. Pammy twists her head round then and he sees the same look in her bright eyes: her first taste of the addictive drug that is danger.
Then he holds her thin body in his arms and tips them both off to one side, to tumble over and over in the deep snow. They come to a stop, dazed and snow-covered but unhurt. He brushes her face clear, and she does the same to him. The sledge too has turned over onto its side and lies just below them.
‘You all right, Pammy?’
‘More!’ she says. ‘More!’
He fetches the sledge and they climb back up the hill.
‘Don’t do that again, Larry,’ says Kitty, brushing snow off Pamela. ‘You scared me half to death.’
‘No, no!’ cries the child. ‘I want more!’
‘You wild man,’ says Ed to Larry.
Pamela is allowed to go on the sledge again, but this time with her mother, very slowly, and escorted by Ed and Larry.
‘Faster!’ she cries. ‘I want to go faster!’
This time there’s no tumbling off. Descending in a series of hairpin bends they make their way back down to the valley. Once on the road again they walk, and Ed tows the sledge behind him.
Larry walks with Pamela, holding hands.
‘Mummy is married to Daddy,’ says Pamela. ‘So I can be married to you.’
‘All right,’ says Larry.
‘So we can do more fast sledging,’ says Pamela.
‘Of course.’
‘An excellent basis for marriage,’ says Ed from behind them.
That night the temperature drops again, and more snow falls. The next day Larry and Ed take shovels and dig a path from the house to the road, hard labour which takes them the whole morning. A tractor has been down the Newhaven road driving a snowplough, but there are no cars or lorries to be seen.
‘If this goes on we’re going to have to stock up with coal,’ says Ed.
The hours shovelling snow warm them and give them an appetite. They head back down the path they’ve cleared, the shovels shouldered.
‘So how’s Nell?’ says Ed. ‘Is she still on the scene?’
‘In a way,’ says Larry. ‘It’s been a bit up and down lately. I was supposed to be seeing her when I got back today.’
‘This weather’s messed up everyone’s plans.’
‘The annoying thing is she’s not on the phone. I suppose I could always ring the gallery.’
‘I shouldn’t worry. Everything’s in chaos. She’ll understand.’
‘I wish I did,’ says Larry.
‘Oh,’ says Ed with a smile. ‘It’s like that?’
‘Not so long ago I was asking her to marry me. Now I’m not even sure if I’m ever going to see her again.’
‘Why wouldn’t you see her again?’
‘I hardly even know myself,’ says Larry. ‘She’s not like anyone else I’ve ever known. She lives entirely by her own truth. And that’s what she wants me to do.’
‘Whatever that means,’ says Ed.
‘It should be so simple. Say only what you mean. Do only what you want. No games, no pretence, no polite little lies. But what if you don’t know what you want?’
‘You can’t tell people the truth,’ says Ed. ‘Being civilised is all about covering that stuff up.’
‘Do you really think that?’ says Larry.
‘Don’t you?’
‘I suppose I think that if you really love someone, and they really love you, you can tell them everything.’
‘That’s because deep down you believe that people are good.’
‘And you believe people are bad.’
‘Not exactly,’ says Ed. ‘I believe we’re alone.’
He gives a laugh, and punches Larry on the arm.
‘Here you are, my oldest friend, and I’m telling you I’m alone. What an ungrateful dog of a fellow I must be.’
‘You may be right even so,’ says Larry quietly.
‘Your Nell sounds to me like she’s a bit of a handful.’
‘But Ed,’ says Larry, pursuing his own thoughts, ‘you don’t feel alone with Kitty, do you?’
‘Now there’s a question.’
‘Sorry. Forget I said it.’
‘No,’ says Ed. ‘It’s a fair question. She’s my wife, and I love her.’
He thinks it over as they come to a stop in the snowy farmyard.
‘There are moments when I’m with Kitty, when I’m holding her in my arms, or when I’m watching her sleeping, when I go quiet. Very still moments. I don’t feel alone then.’
Larry kicks the snow, making furrows in the virgin whiteness.
‘But they don’t last.’
‘No. They don’t last.’
‘You shouldn’t be away so much, Ed. It’s hard on Kitty. And on Pammy.’
‘I know.’ He speaks humbly, accepting the rebuke. ‘Unlikely as it may seem, I do my best.’
‘Well,’ says Larry, ‘there’ll be no trips to France in this.’
They go into the house, stamping the snow off their boots. Kitty and Pamela are making lunch.
‘Daddy’s back,’ says Kitty. ‘We can eat.’
‘And Larry,’ says Pamela. ‘He’s back too.’
*
The early excitement of the snow soon wears off, as the bitter cold grips the land. The electricity cuts out for hours at a time, without warning, plunging the house into a blackout as complete as any in wartime. For three nights running they eat their supper and go to bed by candlelight. Then the water pipes freeze, and it’s no longer possible to wash, or go to the lavatory. They take to using potties, which Ed removes and empties in some secret place onto the hard snow. The wireless news tells them of the crisis that has overtaken the nation. Railway wagons can’t move. Ships can’t bring in supplies. Food rations are cut lower even than the worst years of the war. In early February the government announces there will be five hours of planned electricity cuts a day, three in the morning and two in the afternoon.
When the farmhouse supply of both coal and firewood runs out, Kitty turns for help to Louisa. Ed and Larry plot various ways of moving loads of fuel across the village, but in the end come up with a simpler solution. They move themselves. Edenfield Place is well stocked with coal, and by shutting up two-thirds of the house George reckons they can last a good six weeks. This terrible weather can’t possibly go on to the end of March.
So Ed and Kitty return to the room in Edenfield Place in which they began their married life, and Pamela to her little bed in the adjoining dressing room, and Larry to the guest room down the corridor. Fires are kept burning in the Oak Room and the morning room, while the far larger drawing room and library are left to the winter cold. The butler’s pantry, the domain of Mr Lott the butler, and the kitchen, the domain of his wife, Mrs Lott the cook, are also kept warm. Three of the four great boilers are switched off. Oil lamps stand in readiness for the hours when the electricity cuts out.
Due to the more modern heating system of the house, the water pipes are still running in the family quarters, and three lavatories are usable. Ed’s potty-emptying duties are suspended.
‘I’m rather sorry, really,’ he says. ‘I was looking forward to the day the snow melts, and all round the houses there’d be revealed the waste matter of the mid-twentieth century.’
The hard winter locks them all in the big house on top of one another, and Larry finds no opportunity to talk to Kitty alone. He originally expected to visit for a weekend only, and so has not brought his paints and brushes. Now as his stay enters its third week and there’s no sign of a t
haw, he passes much of his time huddled by the Oak Room fire, rereading War and Peace. When he finishes the first volume, Kitty picks it up, and begins to read behind him. This reignites their old conversation about good characters in books, and whether they can ever be attractive. The character in question is Pierre Bezukhov.
‘But he’s so fat,’ says Kitty, ‘and he’s so clumsy, and he’s so naive.’ She’s especially outraged by his marriage to the beautiful but cold Helene. ‘All because of her bosom. It’s ridiculous.’
‘I promise you he gets better,’ says Larry. ‘You’ll learn to love him.’
‘I love Prince André.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘And you love Natasha.’
‘I adore Natasha. From the moment she runs into the grownups’ party and can’t stop laughing. But do you know an odd thing? Tolstoy quite clearly tells us that she’s not specially pretty. But when I imagine her, she’s tremendously attractive.’
‘Of course she’s pretty!’
‘Look.’ He takes the volume from her and finds the page in question. ‘“This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of life”.’
‘Oh, but she’s still only a child,’ says Kitty. ‘She’s only thirteen. She grows up to be beautiful.’
*
February is half gone, and the wireless news is that the miners in South Wales are to work full shifts even on Sundays. Ships have finally been able to dock with cargoes of coal. There are no signs of a thaw, but the trains are running once more, and everyone is telling everyone else that the thaw must come soon.
Kitty and Larry find themselves alone on either side of the Oak Room fire. Larry puts his bookmark in his place, closes his book, and lays it down.
‘I shall go back to London tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’ve been gone too long.’
‘But we haven’t had a chance to talk,’ Kitty says. ‘Not properly.’
She too lays down her book.
‘I like having you here so much, Larry,’ she says. ‘I shall hate it when you go.’
‘You know I’ll always come back.’
‘Will you? Always?’
‘That’s what friends do.’
Kitty looks at him, only half smiling.
‘It’s not much of a word, is it?’ she says. ‘Friend. There should be a better word. Friend sounds so unimportant, someone you chat to at parties. You’re more than that for me.’
‘You too,’ says Larry.
‘I shan’t like it when you marry, you know. Whoever it is. But of course you must. I’m not so selfish as not to see that.’
‘The trouble is,’ says Larry, ‘I can’t help comparing every girl I meet to you.’
‘Oh, well. That shouldn’t be too much of a problem. There are so many girls who are far more thrilling than me.’
‘I have yet to meet one.’
She holds his gaze, not pretending she doesn’t understand.
‘Just tell me you’re happy,’ he says.
‘Why ask me that? You know I’m not happy.’
‘Can’t anything be done?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I’ve thought about it so much. I’ve decided this is my task in life. Yes, I know how terrible that sounds, like some grim duty. I don’t mean it that way. Do you remember saying to me once, Don’t you want to do something noble and fine with your life? Well, I do. I love Ed, I’ll never hurt him or be disloyal to him. This is just the thing I have to do. Being happy or unhappy doesn’t matter any more.’
‘Oh, Kitty.’
‘Please don’t pity me. I can’t bear it.’
‘It’s not pity. I don’t know what it is. Regret. Anger. It’s all such a waste. You don’t deserve this.’
‘Why should I get a happier life than anyone else?’
‘It could have been so different. That’s what I can’t bear.’
‘Why think that way?’ she says gently. ‘I made my choice. I chose Ed. I chose him knowing there was a sadness in him. Maybe I chose him because of that. And I do love him.’
‘Isn’t there room in our lives to love more than one person?’
‘Of course. But why think that way? There’s nothing to be done.’
‘Kitty—’
‘No, please. Don’t make me say anything more. I mustn’t be selfish and greedy. You’re more than a friend to me, Larry. But I mustn’t hold on to you. What I want more than anything is for you to find someone who makes you happy. Then all I ask is that she lets you go on being my friend. I couldn’t bear to lose you altogether. Promise me you’ll always be my friend.’
‘Even though it’s not much of a word.’
‘Even though.’
‘Do friends love each other, Kitty?’
‘Yes,’ she says, her eyes on him. ‘They love each other very much.’
‘Then I promise.’
*
That same day Kitty sings to them, accompanying herself on the piano in the morning room. She sings ‘The Ash Grove’ and ‘Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes’.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine …
Larry’s eyes never leave her face as she sings. She plays by ear, and sings from memory, a slight frown of concentration on her face.
Then at Ed’s request she sings ‘The Water is Wide’.
A ship there is
And she sails the seas.
She’s laden deep
As deep can be;
But not so deep
As the love I’m in,
And I know not if
I sink or swim.
Little Pamela is unimpressed by the sad songs and agitates for ‘Little Brown Jug’.
Ha ha ha!
You and me
Little brown jug
Don’t I love thee!
The following morning Larry walks the snowy road into Lewes, her sweet voice still sounding in his memory, her bright eyes reaching towards him across the piano.
23
London is quiet and mostly empty, the snow that lines the streets now a dirty shade of grey-brown. Occasional taxis clatter by over the lumps of ice. People passing on the pavements, heavily wrapped in overcoats, hats pulled low over their ears, keep their heads down to avoid stumbling on the ridged snow. All business seems to have closed down. Every day now like a Sunday in winter.
Larry returns to his room in Camberwell and lights the gas fire. It burns at low pressure, taking a long time to warm the chill air. Everything is cold to his touch, the covers on his bed, his books, his paints. He looks at the canvas he had begun before going to Sussex, and sees at once that it has no life in it. His room too, despite his return, has no life in it.
Suddenly he wants very much to see Nell.
He phones Weingard’s gallery and a female voice answers. The gallery is closed. No, she doesn’t know where Nell is. He writes a note to her, telling her he’s back, and walks up the road to the post office on Church Street to send it. From there he goes on to the pub on the corner. It’s a Monday and early for the evening crowd. The Hermit’s Rest is eerily quiet. He sits at a table close to the meagre fire and works away slowly at a pint of stout. He thinks about Nell.
Ever since his last talk with Kitty he’s been thinking new thoughts about his future. His feelings haven’t changed. But he sees more clearly now that he must take active steps to make a life without Kitty, or he’ll doom himself to live a life alone. Once again he marvels at Nell’s insight. It seems she knows him better than he knows himself. She accuses him of never taking the initiative, and she’s right. For too long he’s allowed events outside his control to determine his course. The time has come to take charge of his own life.
He interrogates himself, sitting alone in the pub. Do I want to marry Nell? He recalls her elusiveness, her moodiness, her unpredictability, and he trembles. What sort of life would that be? But then he thinks of never seeing her again and he almost cries out loud, ‘No! Don’t leave me!’, so powerful is the longing to
hold her in his arms.
What is the gravest charge he has to bring against her? That she spends time with other men. That she leads them on to love her. In other words, that he does not possess her exclusive love. But what right has he to her exclusive love, when he makes no promise on his side? See it from her point of view: she has made herself over to him, body and soul, while he has kept much of himself apart.
But I asked her to marry me.
Ah, she saw through that. She knows me better than I know myself. She saw that I was doing my duty because of the baby. She puts no trust in duty. She requires true love.
Thinking this makes him admire her, and admiring her he feels he does love her after all. It’s just a matter of letting go whatever last inhibition holds him back. Offer her all the love of which he’s capable and she’ll give him back love fourfold, and his fears will melt away.
What a rare creature she is! A child of truth. With her in his life there’ll be no complacency, and no idling. His days will be vivid and his nights will be warm. He can see her naked body now, rosy in the gaslight, and feels his body’s gratitude to her tingling in his veins. Is this such a small thing? Some would say it’s the basis of everything. Find happiness with each other in bed and love will never die.
His beer finished, his spirits excited by his train of thought, he feels the need of companionship. With luck Nell will get his note tomorrow and be with him by the end of the day. He has much to say to her. But between now and then he does not want to be alone. He could walk into Kensington and call on his father. Then he has a better idea. He will call on Tony Armitage.
Armitage has a studio in Valmar Road, on the other side of Denmark Hill. There’s a fair chance he’ll be in. Larry buttons his overcoat up to his chin and sets out into the snowy streets once more. Valmar Road isn’t far, but it’s an awkward place to find. A distant church clock is chiming seven as he rings the top bell at the street door.
A window opens above. Armitage’s head pokes out.
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