Summer in February

by Jonathan Smith

  Their silence was broken at last by the sight of a pack of hounds running past the far side of a distant field, followed by some hard-riding huntsmen strung out in a long, tired line.

  ‘Are those,’ she said, standing up, and pressing down her skirt, ‘the hounds Alfred rides with?’

  He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  ‘That’s the Western all right. No one else hunts this district.’

  ‘Shall we go on?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Perhaps we should go back?’

  They looked ahead and they looked back and they looked at each other, and they did not know which to do.

  Tap tap tapping on the high high road. Just before tea time, singing at the very top of his voice:

  ‘You can only wear one tie,

  Have one eyeglass in your eye,

  One coffin when you die,

  Don’t you know!’

  Alfred returned triumphant and happy. Panama hat tilted, face tanned like a gypsy, he let his assertive sound echo briefly down the wooded valley, and over the flat water lily leaves, and then he cleared his throat and recited his new one on Titian. The new one on Titian he’d picked up only the other night while passing through Plymouth, and he liked it enough to repeat it aloud to all and sundry or, as in this case, to the privet fence and to the gooseberry bushes and to the currant bushes on the edge of Lamorna:

  ‘When Titian mixed his rose madder

  His model he placed on a ladder.

  Her position to Titian suggested fruition

  So he mounted the ladder and had her.’

  The village, while not hearing every precise artistic detail, certainly heard his coming. His trap was full of new paintings, carefully strapped down and covered with tarpaulin. The village heard him bursting into song and cursing the flies, flying down the slope and rounding the steep curves, forcing a black Minorcan cockerel to scurry to safety.

  Alfred held the reins high. He peered over the hedges, hedges sprinkled high with fine white dust. He was excited, with a thrill of expectancy in his sharp eyes. He had not been at his best, he knew that, but now he would put things right with Blote, put those early weeks of marriage behind him. The last few miles he had been thinking a good deal of his Shrimp and of the dark-haired Hampshire gypsies and of his paintable girl. Painting had its sorrows, he knew that, as did life, but now, now for the joys. He felt his face. His skin was fresh and smooth. His eyes were clear. From now on she would be happy, and he would make her so. It might all have been his fault, but the present state of affairs could not continue, that much was obvious. He checked the knot in his bow tie to see if it was just so. It was, and his blood was full of crescendoes. He waved to the men sitting outside The Wink and he passed the mill pond and turned into his clearing.

  Whoa!

  On the back, as well as his paintings, he carried a basket-covered stone jar of ale and a cold rabbit pie embedded in sparkling jelly. Just thinking of it made his juices run. And had not Melbourne Art Gallery just offered him five hundred guineas for one painting? ‘FIVE HUNDRED!’ he shouted to the studio. That made the juices run, too.

  FIVE HUNDRED.

  Florence stiffened. By the time she heard the hooves and the wheels bumping over the rutted lane she knew it was far too late to leave. She felt a flush of panic on her throat but there was no hope now that she could lock the studio and be gone through the trees without being seen. The only way out was the way he would come in. She must simply continue with her painting. She heard his feet banging up the stairs, heard his sound of bemusement at finding the door open. Heard him stop.

  ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘Oh ho.’

  He could not believe his luck.

  ‘Well, well, well.’

  She turned slowly but did not stand to greet him.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘My fault,’ he beamed, ‘my fault. I should have written, my dear, but then I’m never that sure.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, Alfred.’

  He stepped inside the doorway and put down the jar and the pie on the table. He beamed at her.

  ‘Mind? Mind? Why should I? What is mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.’

  The aptness of that stole up on him. Sometimes he surprised himself with his aptness.

  ‘You did say I might use your place. It’s the last time I will, I promise.’

  ‘You can use it whenever you like. You know that.’

  ‘No, this will be the last time.’

  He walked towards her, his riding boots clipping the boards as he came. There was no escape.

  ‘You look well, very well. Better than I have ever seen you.’

  ‘Thank you, Alfred. I feel it.’

  ‘Very well indeed … you really do.’

  He grinned at her. She looked back at her painting. He took up a position close behind her. His breathing told her he was studying the canvas, studying her painting. She knew the sound of his nostrils so well.

  ‘Where is this?’

  ‘It’s the farm … over at Kemyel. Towards Mousehole. Do you know it?’

  ‘You’ve been over there? Good … good. And I like it. Fine stuff. Bolder. Yes!’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Much bolder. And I like the fallen tree … the way it lies. A good setting.’

  ‘I am glad you like it.’

  ‘I do. I do like it, Blote. I like it very much.’

  He put his hands on her shoulders. Then on her neck. She felt small and she shrank. She swallowed and closed her eyes. He stroked her neck. She stood up, slightly dazed and moved away. He took her shoulders and turned her round to face him.

  ‘I’ll have to be careful,’ he said, smiling at her.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your painting. It’s good. It’s very good. I’ll have to watch you, won’t I?’

  ‘Will you?’

  He undid the top button of her dress, his fingers jabbing her neck. She shrugged him off. He pushed her arms roughly and undid more of her buttons in one pull.

  ‘Let’s see you,’ he said. ‘Let’s see the beautiful Blote. You’re … better than any painting.’

  Florence sidestepped a little towards the front door but he was on her with another light, playful laugh.

  ‘There’s no rush! No rush that I can see.’

  ‘I have to go. I must go, I must go now.’

  ‘Go? But I’ve only just arrived!’

  He told her she was a beauty. She begged him. He said it was long past time.

  ‘Ask any man,’ he said. ‘Let’s see more of you! What’s yours … is mine. Let me see … more of you!’

  She pushed him in the chest. He pushed her back. Half timidly, half insolently he faced her, and rolled up his sleeves and pushed her down on to the floor. She scrambled away, gathering her skirt around her, moving her back to the wall, her knees bent and her feet poised ready to kick him.

  ‘Stay there!’ she said.

  He raised his eyebrows at the fun of it. He liked her so spirited.

  ‘Oh, really?’ He laughed, kneeling above her, unbuttoning his trousers.

  She turned her head away. He pulled at her hair to loosen it. He said he loved her, he said it incessantly. There was a brief struggle, in which he laughed as if in horseplay; she scrambled away and tripped on a roll of canvas. He pulled her back and turned her over. He was very red in the face as he forced her down, trying to push open her legs. Her fingers tried to pull away his forearms but she failed. She could see the hairs on his arms. She could smell the warm beer on his breath. He told her to stop whining. With his left hand he pulled at everything he could get hold of, with his right he pulled at the top of her stockings. She bit his left hand. He laughed, and said she could do it again. He put his left hand in her mouth.

  ‘Go on, I liked that! Do we have a little vixen here?’

  He knelt above her, pulling at her knees, pulling at her stockings, pulling her towards him a
nd trying to do all these, fumbling and forcing, and staring above her head with piercing eyes and baring his teeth and telling her to do what she bloody well should, because that’s what bloody women do, ask Shrimp, ask Shrimp, ask … and then … and then … he seemed to be shot and he very slowly crumpled away, moaning, curling over and folding into himself. She heard him hit the floor. He held himself and half pulled at his trousers. She could not see him but she could hear him, his mouth mumbling close against the floorboards.

  ‘You’re useless. Useless … You … cow. Worse than useless.’

  She heard it as she ran up the clearing, with Taffy chasing after her. She ran and ran.

  Useless. Worse than useless.

  In the Painting Hut

  There was a list of things Gilbert wanted to check before Florence arrived there at four. He was, however, delayed a good while in the walled garden by an irritatingly slow and wandering set of instructions from the Colonel, so he had to hurry along the headland for all he was worth. He did not wish to be rude to the Colonel but he hated keeping anyone waiting, least of all Florence and least of all today. The men watched him running off into the distance. He did not wish to be rude to Laura Knight either, but when he saw her across a field he pretended he had not. There was no time to be lost.

  First, the roof: the recent heavy rain proved that it leaked a little in the corner and seeped steadily down the back wall. The damage this could do to her canvases was incalculable. This, he was assured, had been corrected, and he wanted to be absolutely sure. Secondly, he’d told the young carpenter to take down a sturdy table the Colonel had kindly spared. The lad, though, had a memory like a sieve and Gilbert was not convinced this would have been carried out. Thirdly, and above all, the hut needed to be made secure, with a new lock as well as a bolt on the inside. Especially for women in lonely places that sense of security was essential.

  He slowed to a walk. His breathing eased. There was no sign of Florence. Kicking away some sheep droppings he took out the new key. It turned easily and satisfyingly back and forwards in the lock (good); there was a firm bolt fixed on the inside (good); the Colonel’s table fitted very neatly against the side wall, looking as if it belonged there (good); and the afternoon light came strongly in the wide, generous window. All this made for a warm welcome. (Very good!) Gilbert took out a coat-hook from his pocket. He had time to screw that on before she arrived, and he enjoyed the feeling of the screw biting into the wood. He rubbed the sweat from his forehead, and stepped back. Now she could hang her coat on the back of the door. He looked round from roof to floor.

  What else?

  What else could he do?

  Some cobwebs on the window caught the light. He wiped them away. His eye picked up a dead starling, lying on its side with its beak open; he threw it out. He brushed his jacket sleeve over the windows again to make quite sure all trace of cobwebs had disappeared, then he wiped his jacket sleeve. He peered out. Still no sign of Florence, but the second Gilbert sat on an upturned box to survey a job well done, directly above his head a seagull landed on the roof and scrambled noisily around, a sound soon mixing with a barking, excitable dog and running feet and he pulled open the door to see Florence half running half stumbling her way towards the hut.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he called. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Taffy leapt around Gilbert, circling him. As Gilbert rushed to meet her she stopped dead, panting, her hands stretched out, but not in greeting, stretched out, palms facing him, warning him to stay away, telling him to keep his distance.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘No!’

  She shook her head, gulping and sobbing.

  Gilbert moved forward slowly, with the dog still leaping madly up and down at his elbows. His voice was very controlled.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘it’s all right.’

  But Florence did not move. Her eyes threatened him.

  ‘No … no … no!’

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s all right … you’re all right. Whatever it is.’

  Some instinct made him stop. Instead he took hold of the dog, calming and comforting the dog, patting the dog, while keeping his eyes on Florence. She was now on her knees about ten yards away, with her hair all over her face, fumbling with the top buttons on her dress. He allowed another minute to pass. He did not move. He could see smears of paint on her hands.

  ‘Where have you come from? What is this?’

  She shook her head violently, unable to do up her buttons.

  ‘No!’

  Another minute and she was breathing more normally. She continued struggling with her buttons. He lowered himself on to the grass but moved no closer to her. The dog looked at Gilbert. Gilbert watched the tears dry on her face as she shook her head firmly from side to side in a metronomic way.

  Even before the tap on his door Gilbert had heard the upper landing floorboards creak and the feet stop right outside. There was a pause, as if in consideration.

  There were two soft, questioning taps.

  Tap tap.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘I saw your light on, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Gilbert straightened up in bed.

  ‘Can’t you sleep?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor can I … but then I haven’t had a drink. Not one.’

  ‘I’ve been writing my diary … and reading.’

  ‘Ah. Ah, yes.’

  A.J. stood just inside Gilbert’s room. He was in his purple silk dressing-gown. He had high spots of colour on both cheeks. His voice, when it came, was an apologetic whisper.

  ‘May I … sit down?’

  Gilbert got out of bed.

  ‘Of course. I’ll just move these.’

  ‘You keep a diary? I didn’t know. So you jot down your thoughts? Is that … what you do?’

  ‘Not always. Only when there’s something to say. Often it’s very little.’

  ‘Interrupting, aren’t I? As usual.’

  ‘No, no … Of course not.’

  ‘Reading too? Eh? Improving your mind?’

  ‘No … browsing, you know … nothing too heavy. When did you get back?’

  Alfred’s voice and his eyes were suddenly suspicious.

  ‘Blote didn’t tell you? She said she bumped into you.’

  ‘No, she didn’t tell me.’

  ‘This afternoon … yes. This afternoon.’

  ‘Everything go well?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘With your painting trip?’

  ‘Oh? Oh, that … Yes … very. Lot done … Can’t complain. Can’t complain at all.’

  Alfred slowly rubbed his knees with his hands and smiled uncertainly at Gilbert. There was a long pause before he spoke again.

  ‘You weren’t in to supper. I was … hoping you would be.’

  ‘No, didn’t feel like it … to tell you the truth my tummy’s not been in the best of shape.’

  ‘Anyway, Ev, wanted to thank you for all your help … way beyond the call of duty … she’s delighted.’

  ‘This is to do with?’

  ‘The place … the hut. She tells me you’re meeting her there tomorrow. To show it her.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Gilbert said quickly. ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘She’s asked me to … confirm it’s fine … She can’t wait to see it. Oh, and she said … four o’clock is fine. She’s … as pleased as can be. Good man, Ev, you’re a friend!’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘You really are. In so many ways.’

  Gilbert’s mind clambered over these developments. He felt he was being pulled over a divide into deceit.

  ‘It really was no effort.’

  ‘Really? No effort at all?’ Alfred repeated very quietly. Gilbert said nothing.

  Alfred tapped the table.

  ‘You’re the only one I can talk to, you see. The only one I can trust. Don’t mind me saying that, do you?’


  ‘No … I’m glad.’

  The hotel felt very still. Four o’clock tomorrow? And why, why on earth had she sent Alfred in with this? The silence lengthened. Alfred rubbed his knees.

  ‘Anyway … I’m not allowed to go there … just been told … that’s been made very clear tonight. Crystal clear. That’s women, eh? Hut’s out of bounds.’

  With one eyebrow raised he smiled questioningly at Gilbert. Gilbert did not know what to do. He had to say something.

  ‘Of course she may find it too lonely out there … after a while.’

  ‘Oh, lonely spot, is it? Very intriguing … but don’t tell me where it is, don’t, she says it must be a secret. Know what women are, over secrets, they live on ’em!’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Beyond me, they are.’

  ‘As long as she finds it to her liking.’

  ‘So, what is the Captain reading? Poetry, I hope? Ballads, I trust?’

  Alfred leant down and picked up the pile of books from the floor, his eyes on the spines.

  ‘History of Nigeria … Nigeria, Its Story, People and Religion … Cambridge Natural History, Vol. IV. Well, I don’t call this lot light reading, Ev, do you? Not exactly light now, is it, Ni-jeer-i-a? Where on earth d’you get these dusty tomes?’

  ‘Penzance, from the Morrab. The Morrab Library.’

  Alfred opened the cover of each to check. His hands were shaking slightly.

  ‘So you did, so you did … But why? That’s the point.’

  ‘I’m interested in West Africa.’

  ‘Are you? Are you indeed?’

  ‘I always have been.’

  ‘Have you? Is that your secret, eh? Everyone’s got a secret. Did you know that?’

  ‘I suppose I’ve always liked other peoples and places. Different cultures … different races. For a while I considered living in Peru. Very seriously considered it.’

  ‘Peru?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good God! Peru? Good God. Do you have a cigarette?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Nigeria? Peru? Amazing chap, Ev, you really are.’

  ‘Well, you like going off on your own, A.J. You’ve got the wanderer in you … riding away on the open road … you’re away more than you’re here, aren’t you, you disappear for months.’