Summer in February

by Jonathan Smith

  ‘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:

  ‘Steadily, shoulder to shoulder,

  Steadily, blade by blade,

  Ready and strong,

  Marching along,

  Like the boys of the Old Brigade’

  ‘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.

  ‘Silenc
e!’ 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.

  ‘All right, you buggers,’ Alfred said at last, ‘you win.’

  Far from being troubled by this abuse, his semi-circular audience seated on the floor glowed, drinking punch and expectation, sensing the plot was afoot, and sensing the game was going to be very good. His erratic mood was over, the storm had passed from his eyes; once again he felt he was the main artery.

  ‘You’ve run me to ground,’ he went on, looking at Laura and then Joey (squeezed tight between Dolly and Prudence), ‘and I don’t mind telling you I feel as cornered as a fox … we cornered a fox yesterday, but that’s another story, another time, and I feel as baited as … as John Clare’s Badger, with the whole village baying for his blood. So I must turn to keep the dogs at bay … I … I’m … I feel like Macbeth … you remember the final bit … bearlike I must stand the course … but if I fail you won’t chop my head off, eh, you won’t be Macduffs?’

  ‘No’ and ‘Yes’ came in equal measure as they encouraged Alfred the Fox, Alfred the Badger and Alfred the Scottish Hero-Villain. Sensing their readiness, he tilted back his head, his bloodshot eyes squinting open, and raised his hand. He wagged a finger for the final depth of calculated, concentrated silence, a conductor holding them before the opening chords were sounded, a mower before he brought down his scythe.

  On the fire Laura could hear the lemon slice hissing.

  ‘“The Raven”’ he said into the silence, ‘by Edgar Allan Poe.’

  It was, of course, not silence. The silence merely brought out the strength of the wind, the power of the rain, and the unappeasable storm off West Cornwall that night. Before Alfred began the poem Gilbert, with the storm pounding the door at his back, had the prosaic thought that he was glad he was not walking alone on the cliff path back from Boskenna, let alone on a ship far out at sea.

  Alfred started the poem at a whisper, very slowly, allowing the beat of the long lines to weave its spell. Each mesmeric line lulled you, as if you were coming out of or going in to sleep and unsure which was which. Each line was delivered with just the right emphasis to hold the crowded room:

  ‘Once upon a midnight dreary, whilst I pondered weak and weary,

  Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

  Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping—’

  And at that very second, as true as Gilbert was standing there, there was a tapping at the door, a tapping which seemed to go right through Gilbert’s shoulder blades as they leant back against the door.

  Gilbert’s heart jumped. The room jumped. Dolly and Prudence grabbed Joey. The colour left Alfred’s face. His mouth twitched. His mouth moved again but he did not speak. His first clear thought, which quickly leapt to fury, was that someone, some fool, had gone outside to sabotage the whole effect of his performance, but there was only one door out of his studio and Gilbert had been pressed hard up against it.

  Then there was another, louder, knocking. Alfred grabbed the poker and moved towards the door, but Gilbert had already lifted the latch and opened it, and so strong was the wind he felt as if someone had shoulder-barged the panels. Flurries of rain hit the floorboards at his feet.

  A man in black, a stout figure in a tarpaulin sou’wester and oilskins, stood framed in the door, with large raindrops running off his moustache. In the lane below stood a horse and wagonette. The horse, head down between the shafts, steamed and glistened.

  ‘Mr Munnings, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m led to believe a Mr Carter-Wood is here?’

  Joey, looking embarrassed and younger than ever, stepped forward over Dolly’s outstretched legs, apologising for the interruption.

  ‘Sorry, what is it?’

  ‘Your sister, sir.’

  ‘Florence? Florence!’

  Gilbert watched Joey hurry out into the storm, clatter down the outside wooden steps, and embrace the advancing girl.

  ‘At this time of night?’ Alfred said to the man in the oilskin.

  ‘The young lady paid me proper, sir, that’s all right.’

  ‘No, the horse, what about the horse!’

  ‘That’s all right, he don’t mind.’

  But Alfred did mind and he dug into his pocket and put some coins in the man’s hand.

  ‘Give him a bit of something extra from me.’

  While this was going on Laura was still inside encouraging everyone to carry on as normal, to enjoy themselves, an order immediately countermanded by the returning Munnings who told them all to resume their seats and told Joey and his sister, still talking outside in the rain, to bloody well come in if they were coming in or bloody well stay out if they were staying out. Joey and his sister were, however, not only bloody well coming in but willy-nilly now the centre of attraction.

  ‘This is Florence, my sister. Down from London. She’s a painter too. Much better than me. Not difficult, I know.’

  ‘Hullo, Florence Carter-Wood!’ came from all quarters.

  Hands took off her long black coat; a gap opened up to the fire; a glass of punch was offered, and a cushion was placed for her on the floor. Before he would let his sister sit down, however, Joey explained to Dolly that Florence would be living in the cottage with him, that is next door to Harold and Laura Knight, and next door, of course, to Dolly, ‘or in between you all, if you prefer’. When Dolly shook Florence’s cold hand and said, ‘Oh, oh, we’ll all be nice and cosy then,’ Florence’s eyes widened and she looked in a puzzled way at Joey because she had never met anyone before in society who ever spoke like that. Evidently things were going to be very different in Cornwall.

  There had, it transpired, been a misunderstanding over dates, and the train to Penzance was delayed three hours, and there had been a nasty—

  ‘Oh, it’s far too long a story,’ Florence said, ‘but when I arrived in Lamorna … Mr Knight told me you were down here, so of course I came.�
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  ‘I’m so glad you did,’ Joey said. ‘It’s so wonderful to see you.’

  She sat down, whispering:

  ‘So, Joey, this … is one of your famous parties?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What fun!’

  She wrapped her hands round the warm punch, then inclining her head slightly towards Dolly but keeping her eyes on Joey she privately asked:

  ‘And who is … she?’

  ‘Dolly … You’ll like her.’

  Florence, amazed at this remark, looked up instead at Munnings, standing above her with his hands on his hips. Meanwhile, Gilbert stopped looking at Munnings and started looking at Florence.

  The length of her fingers, the delicacy of her hands, was the first thing he remembered as he sat over his diary, on the edge of his narrow bed, at three o’clock the next morning. And her dark hair, though it wasn’t dark, that was the point: as it dried imperceptibly in front of the fire, it turned lightish or auburny brown. Her fingers, her voice, her hair, and the way she walked across the room were the most striking first impressions, and her very upright position, and as for her face – her face was not unlike one he had seen – not in the street, not anywhere in real life, but in a famous painting, but as he knew very little about art he couldn’t for the life of him remember it. It was Harold Knight a few days later who provided the answer. Botticelli’s Venus.

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Gilbert said. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘I agree, I’ve never seen such a likeness,’ Harold added, with unusual warmth, ‘and to think she’s living next door to us.’

  Alfred Munnings was standing in the middle of his studio, hands on hips, with little doubt in his posture that he had been seriously interrupted and had waited long enough. He glared. Once again the assembled revellers slowly subsided. He glared again. Dolly, giggling to Joey, was the last to fall silent. For the second time that evening the silence deepened. For the second time Alfred tensed his face and half closed his eyes. Once again he raised his finger … but then with consummate skill swept up Florence Carter-Wood’s black cape from the fender, showering fine drops of rain on his listeners, before settling it high over his shoulders. Now he was a sharply pointed, stagey raven, hovering over the packed room of artists. And now he began: