After this point-by-point lecture Mr Carter-Wood sat back, tall and upright and thin, on his side of the wide mahogany desk, expecting Munnings to answer them point by point. Instead the red-faced Munnings stood up, reached over the desk with his right hand outstretched and said, ‘Deal!’
‘Deal!’ he said, and off he went.
No one can know how much it pains me to record that as a way of talking about a lifelong union with Florence, but even as I write it I feel a grudging respect for the man’s theatrical bonhomie, his refusal to be discountenanced and his satirical compliance. Whether, of course, Munnings’ account of the interview, relayed to Laura, tallies with the facts I do not know, but at Lamorna we have seen enough to believe it. More than enough.
‘A thousand guineas!’ he exclaimed to me, throwing his arms around me in The Wink while going on nineteen to the dozen, his hands and his head waving like a cuckoo clock out of control. ‘Is she worth that much, Ev?’ he asked, but his laughter, to assure me he was only joking, made it unnecessary to reply: a good thing, as bad blood was beginning to boil up in my veins.
When he was laughing at his own jokes, laughing at the prospect of Florence, and laughing at his own lesser nature, I noticed for the first time how sharply pointed his front teeth were. Insensitive though he usually was, after a while he saw I was tense and untalkative. He had talked himself almost dry, however, and through a yawn he said:
‘So, so how’s things going, Ev? The Colonel isn’t overworking you, how’s the house on the hill, any more dramas at the rock pools, any more shocked walkers, seems years since I saw you, when was it?’
‘At the skating rink.’
‘So it was, so you see I’ve got to get earning, one thousand no less, do a few potboilers if need be, might even stoop to a few pretty sea anemones, mind you the silly bugger doesn’t realise I already have four hundred guineas from one dealer, so give me a month and we’re as good as there.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you are.’
The sharpness of my tone fell on barren ground.
‘We’ll have a great party, won’t we! There’ll never be a wedding like it. Old C.-W. won’t believe his eyes! All of us together.’
‘Laura showed me the paper, well done.’
‘You saw the announcement in The Times? Very grand, eh?’
‘No, the account of your exhibition, a triumph.’
‘Oh, that. The Telegraph, wasn’t it?’
‘The critics certainly liked you this time, Alfred.’
‘A pot for porridge and a pot for stew, they don’t know the difference.’
I told him I did not understand. He drained his drink and smacked his lips.
‘Fooled the lot of them, what do they know!’
‘But if they hadn’t liked your paintings you would have called them fools too.’
‘Good point, Ev. You might be right.’
‘But you would, wouldn’t you?’
I noticed my voice was becoming querulous and high. He put his hand on my knee to calm me.
‘Yes, of course, sharp point, I’m not a fair chap … never was. So, time for another? Yes!’
He left our table. Over in a dim corner, close to the wood fire, my eye caught two old men, regular visitors to The Wink, smoking their pipes and playing dominoes; their faces were like pickled walnuts, darkened by vinegar. They were totally absorbed in their game. Their dominoes held their minds and their hands and I envied them. At the bar two men were haggling over the price of a cow. I envied them, too.
Munnings sat down again, pushing another pot of ale my way. He already had his to his lips.
‘Cheerio.’
‘Your good health,’ I mumbled.
‘How’s the billiards?’ He spoke over the beer as he drank, ‘Still the best, still beating all and sundry?’
‘I haven’t played for a good while.’
‘What about Joey?’
‘I haven’t seen much of him.’
‘Bet you were champion in the officers’ mess too?’
‘As a matter of fact, there wasn’t a table in the mess.’
He looked round the bar, belched quietly to himself and rubbed his stomach with affection.
‘Too busy, doing too much for too many people, that’s your trouble, Ev, you’re too good, and that’s what makes me feel bad about asking you to do a bit extra for me as well. Makes me feel bad.’
‘Does it?’
He wiped his mouth dry with the back of his hand, and turned his penetrating eyes on me.
‘I’m off again, I always go about this time of year, sally forth so to speak, it’s vital I do. Change of scene.’
‘But you’ve only just come back.’
‘That was London. London doesn’t count!’
‘Are you off to Hampshire and the gypsies again?’
He laughed.
‘No, no, not Hampshire this time, this time it’s Norfolk.’
‘Ah, back to your roots.’
‘Well, more or less, Norfolk and Suffolk, and while I’m away, rustling up the money to shut Mr Carter Hyphen Whatsit up, would you do something for me, something very special, which only you can do? Would you, Ev?’
As he said this he gripped my arm and held my eyes. I could hear his breathing and, in the background, the sharp click of the dominoes.
‘Of course, if it’s in my power.’
I wanted him to take his hand off my arm.
‘Keep an eye on Blote, would you, old chap? Just for me.’
This was no bad dream. It was happening. I kept my voice as even as I could.
‘But won’t she have Joey, they’ll have each other, and there’s always Laura next door, and Harold’s extremely fond of Florence, and she could—’
I interrupted myself to drink. He kept his hand on my arm, saying:
‘Joey? Laura and Harold Knight?’
‘Yes, they practically live in each other’s pockets.’
‘Oh, come on, Ev!’
‘She couldn’t ask for better or closer friends.’
‘Yes and no, yes and no, but she’s a determined girl, you see, does things her own way. Mind of her own. She’s started to paint long hours, very long hours, good idea of course, better than thinking she’ll learn much from old Forbes, who knows, maybe she’s feeling competitive, thinks she has a point to prove to me, strange things, girls, and she won’t ask you herself if she gets lonely, not the sort to ask for help, is she, not the easiest girl to grasp, is she, if you get my drift.’
‘I’m sure,’ I said stiffly, ‘we’ll all rally round. She’s always welcome everywhere.’
He gripped me even more tightly, his nails sharp in my forearm.
‘Rally round? You’re not listening, Ev, are you? We’re both … very fond of you. Both of us. You’re the most honest man I know, I’m not talking about her being welcome everywhere, that’s bloody waffle, isn’t it, just words, you’re talking to me now, you’re talking to a friend.’
‘I suppose I find it a rather odd request.’
‘What’s odd about it? I’d do the same for you. Lent you my horse, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, but it isn’t quite the—’
‘For example you could take her to the races, give her an airing, she’d like that.’
‘Would she?’
‘Yes, she’d love it!’
I could see this was becoming hopeless, so I agreed, and as soon as I agreed to ‘keep an eye on her’ he smiled and quickly released his grip. The tension eased somewhat. Soon we were drinking more freely. We fell to talking of other matters, of the estate, horses, the new house on the cliff, fishing the stream and the news (circulating the bar) that French boats had once again slipped into the cove and stolen Jeffery’s crab catch. A.J. said he’d like to fire shells at all frogs.
By midnight I was sitting in his studio, drinking.
Why do I forgive him so quickly?
It was, though, a full week before I began to ‘keep an eye on her’. The weather saw
to that. It was beastly: if it wasn’t a deluge it was a freak gale. I often bicycled off into a morning headwind and arrived at work thoroughly soaked, wet in the foot and wetter still in the collar. There were roofs blown off at Downs Barn and Borah. Even though I also felt rotten with a series of bilious attacks I somehow managed to pull through the days. Strangely I sometimes found the wind and the rain a great comfort. My feelings and the rain fell together.
With the weather better I decided to see her not at home in the cottage but, if possible, outside Stanhope Forbes’s painting school. Harold Knight assured me she was there. Suddenly the sea was as smooth as the page I now write on. My new bicycle, a Sable Singer, fairly skimmed along, and apart from a brief tussle with a yapping dog with an aversion to bicycles, the trip was a perfect dream. As I arrived in Newlyn I had a tune playing, mocking me almost, in my left ear. It was the last of the tunes I heard Florence humming to herself as we skated. I am not very good on music, a lamentable lack in my education, but I have since found out it is from Schumann’s Kinderscenen, Scenes from Childhood. Maddened by the memory of it I hummed it later to Laura. She recognised it immediately and happily pounded it out for me on the piano at Jory’s.
I stood on the far side of the road, facing the door from which I expected her to come out. I imagined she would emerge with a folder of drawings under her arm. Above all I did not want to meet her in company, least of all a crocodile of female students. As for myself I hoped I did not look too out of place and cumbrous. If Munnings was right, and she was working all hours on her painting, if she really was competing with him for glory, the chances were she would be late.
I waited and the hands on my watch seemed to stick. A tight swarm of feelings clung to my stomach. Why was I there, when I felt such resentment at the way I had been treated? Why was I there when the way she behaved towards me that Saturday afternoon led me to believe it was my company she most enjoyed? Her happiness was clearly not dependent on my homage.
Was I standing there, no doubt looking a little foolish, with my new bicycle as my only companion, merely because I did not have the strength of character to tell Munnings it was no business of mine or, come to that, of anybody else’s to ‘keep an eye’ on his fiancée, to comply with his wishes while he made his thousand guineas and carried her off?
‘Keep an eye on her.’ The more I thought of the phrase, it was a damned cheek.
And, anyway, how on earth could I do that? You cannot keep someone else’s love warm, you cannot love by proxy. It was far more likely, I thought, that by doing this favour for him I would simply be throwing some nuts on to the fire of my love, brightening its blaze for a brief moment or two, rekindling my hopes which would as quickly dampen the moment he returned triumphant from his Norfolk and Suffolk sojourn. What on earth was I doing? I was not his manservant, fetching up warm water for his soothing bath!
She was there.
She spoke first.
‘Captain Evans, what a surprise!’
‘I was going to Penzance to shop, and suddenly realised where this was.’
It did not convince her and it did not convince me. I went on quickly:
‘What have you been doing today?’
‘Drawings from life … But you don’t look very well. Have you been ill?’
I have always greatly disliked talking about illnesses, mine especially, and how could I tell her about my stomach and my sleeplessness, when she was their cause?
‘Nothing much,’ I said, ‘a touch of this and that, but how is your life drawing?’
‘Are you sure it’s nothing serious, you seem to have lost weight. Let me look at you.’
I found myself unable to meet her concerned gaze. I started to walk aimlessly, talking for the sake of talking, with the bicycle between us, but whatever I asked she diverted. Indeed it was as if I had not even asked her the questions at all. Sometimes there seemed little connection between what I asked and the ‘reply’ she offered. It reminded me of playing tennis with someone who is either not trying or is unaware of the rules, someone who plays on after the ball has dropped out. It was only when I told her I had been prising some damaged corrugated iron off the old hut which Laura Knight was now using as a studio, that she connected with my thoughts, asking if I could find her such a place herself, saying that she wanted such a place all to herself more than anything else on earth and that if I could provide one she would be eternally grateful to me. There was a note of desperation in her voice.
‘But surely,’ I said, ‘once you’re married you’ll have everything you need?’
‘In what way will I have everything? Do you believe that is likely?’
‘I’m sure A.J. will provide you with the best studio anyone could wish, I’m sure he will.’
‘But I want a place in the middle of nowhere. Can we search for one together? Please!’
This disturbed and excited me. We walked on.
‘It should not be too difficult to find one,’ I said. ‘Do you know how long he will be away?’
‘Alfred, you mean?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Who else could I have meant?
‘How would I know?’
‘But you must.’
‘No, I really have no idea, I have not heard a word from him since he left.’
‘Oh.’
‘He is not a great writer of letters. At least, not to me.’
‘I suppose he has so much to do, so much to achieve, but I know how much he will be missing you. I’m sure he’ll be tearing back to see you very soon.’
This rather gushed out. She stopped dead in her tracks – we were leaving Newlyn behind us now – and she looked very directly at me. Then, without further comment, she put her arm in mine, and with a small pressure motioned me on.
Her arm in mine.
‘How is Joey?’ I asked, my mind racing.
‘You tell me,’ she laughed, ‘I rarely see him.’
‘Nor do I these days.’
‘Really? How odd! He’s always “Off to see Gilbert”, or that’s what he says as he leaves.’
‘I was wondering then,’ I went on quickly, ‘I was hoping rather, that you would like to go to the races, at St Buryan. With me.’
‘Horse races?’
‘Yes, it’s a very popular day.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, it’s next Saturday … if you have the time … But I expect you haven’t.’
‘I would like that, yes.’
‘You would?’
‘Yes. Quite apart from a day out with you I would like to understand what it is about horses that makes them so appealing to some people.’
Some people. I found that phrase odd. Did she mean Alfred, and if so why not say Alfred?
As we walked up the hill, arm in arm, I explained the kind of day it would be, that I would call for her in good time and we would, if she wished, be able to see all six races. The races started after lunch, and it did not matter if she claimed to know nothing about the horses because quite frankly no one else knew much either, least of all me. We stopped to watch some dun-coloured cows bunch and huddle and heave and wallow in a puddle by a gate, nosing each other away. We walked on past some wild rhubarb leaves in full growth.
Everything was now going splendidly. There was a spring in my step and a natural sound to my voice and a wonderful prospect ahead. I could see her gliding around the paddock, I was at the races already and, so to speak, jumping the hedges at the head of the field, when I stumbled.
Looking very directly at me again she asked:
‘Have you been before?’
‘To St Buryan races? Oh yes.’
In fact I had just been made Vice President, but did not tell her this.
‘And whose idea is all this, may I ask?’
‘Whose idea?’
I felt my knees go weak as I spoke.
‘Yes.’
‘That I should accompany you to the races? Well, mine of course, if you want to go, that
is.’
She smiled her beautiful, open smile and pressed my arm.
‘Oh good, you see I wouldn’t really have enjoyed it at all if I felt you were standing in, so to speak. That … I would resist.’
Standing in. No two words could have hurt me more. Though we were now approaching her cottage on a beautiful evening my chest felt airless and my feet like lead.
‘Yes of course … I can see that.’
‘And when I saw you standing across the street with your bicycle I thought … oh dear, he’s been sent and he doesn’t look at all well.’
‘Sent?’
‘That was how it looked, at first glance.’
‘If you don’t wish to go,’ I said sharply, ‘I quite understand.’
‘No, I very much want to go, as it’s your idea, very much so. Thank you. And I’ve been so bored. So very bored.’
‘I can’t imagine you bored, ever,’ I said.
‘Oh, I’m so bored I scream out loud.’
I smiled at this.
‘You do?’
She did not return my smile.
‘Oh yes. One day I’m happy, one day I’m bored, and I can’t begin to account for either. It’s all … unaccountable.’
We walked on.
‘And looking back, Gilbert, it’s quite a strange feeling, you see, to have given oneself away so lightly.’
‘Oh, surely not? I can’t believe that’s the case.’
‘But, then, Alfred is a genius, and there is no one in the world like him.’
Summer in February Page 18