‘I think what worries George here,’ Clarence said, taking hold of the wine bottle himself, ‘is whether or not art is sometimes in danger of trivializing or romanticizing life – and man’s achievements. Personally I don’t think this is the case, George. I think that what the artist does – or should do – is to make us look at something afresh. Differently. This chap Nash, the painter.’
‘I know him. We were at The Slade together,’ Hick said. ‘Then in the Artists Rifles. We fought together in the trenches at Ypres.’
‘I was at Ypres. Royal Artillery, 29th Division.’
Henry Hick looked at him and nodded. ‘I didn’t survive it,’ he said, looking George directly in the eyes. ‘Did you?’
There was a silence, as George considered his answer.
‘Paul Nash was also at Ypres,’ Clarence volunteered out of the void. ‘He personifies what I’m trying to say – do you know his work at all, George?’
George shook his head although he seemed not to really hear the question.
‘Some call it surreal, but I think of it as expressive,’ Clarence continued. ‘He paints these savage landscapes, of land ravaged by war. Trees like amputated limbs. Holes filled with foul water. Blocks of broken concrete, woods reduced to matchsticks. One painting in particular shocks you more than any, a canvas called We Are Making a New World. Yet there are no living figures in it with which we can identify. Not a living nor dead soul. Just this nightmare landscape of black twisted trees, mud humps and holes, and in the background these red hills with a setting sun behind. Red as if caked in dried blood. When you look at it, because of the artist’s vision, George, you see far more than any photograph could show you. And because of it you feel infinitely more anguished, helpless and angry. That is what art does, George. As Degas said, the artist gives the idea of the true by means of the false.’
‘Does that answer your question, sweet soul?’ Archie demanded. ‘Or do your devils still run?’
‘I wasn’t asking it as a question so much,’ George said quietly. ‘My mission is one of comprehension really. But I do have a question to answer – the one Mr Hick here posed me.’
‘Well?’ Henry Hick wondered. ‘And what is your answer?’
‘The answer is no,’ George replied. ‘If I am to be strictly truthful, I did not survive Ypres either.’
‘Good,’ Hick replied. ‘Then you may come and visit me tomorrow and I will show you my canvases.’
‘Thank you,’ George said. ‘I shall look forward to that.’
A moment later, privately, Amelia reminded George that they were meant to be returning home to Sussex the following day, but much to her surprise George expressed a wish to stay down in Somerset longer, perhaps at a pub or an hotel if the Hanleys could not have them. Amelia promised to find out from her parents – although knowing the sort of house Archie and Mae kept, she felt sure they would be welcome to stay on as long as they wished.
‘Is there any particular reason? Or just a general one?’
‘Is falling in love with a place particular or general? You tell me.’
Amelia found an early opportunity to make an enquiry as to extending their length of stay when Mae invited her to join her for a midnight walk around the moonlit grounds.
‘Just me?’ Amelia wondered, as they left the party on the terrace.
‘We have not yet had a chance to talk,’ Mae told her, as ever a little more dramatic than most people. ‘Or to conspire. Most of all, I have not had the chance to congratulate you on your handsome husband.’
‘I’m so glad you like him.’
‘It’s very touching. Both Archie and I have noticed that he rarely takes those great dark eyes of his off you.’
‘It’s absurd really, you know. We’ve known each other since we were children, so it is truly, really – absurd!’
‘There is a world of difference between child and adult, as you’ve probably noticed.’ Amelia suddenly found herself unusually silent, so Mae went on, after only the most imperceptible of pauses, ‘A propos of which, I expect George is a perfectly sensational lover. But no, don’t tell me. I will just be happy to guess from your expression.’
Amelia glanced at her companion and smiled uncertainly, at a loss as to how she might answer.
‘As I said, Mrs Hanley—’
‘Mae, poppet. Now you are married we can first name away like anything – after all, I am not some ancient aunt.’
‘As I said, George and I have known each other since we were children--’
‘And as I said there is no comparison. I only ask from mischief. So many dashing and beautiful men are utterly hopeless under the covers, you know. But no, don’t say a thing, I can guess. I know I can.’
If ever there was a chance, it was now. Amelia already knew from her mother that even in their bohemic set Mae had always been considered outrageous, but much more to the point was the fact that – according to the nuances of gossip Amelia had either overheard or lately actually been privy to – Mae had, prior to marriage, been quite famous for her long line of lovers. If anyone could actually explain to Amelia the facts of which she was still so very ignorant, it surely must be she.
Fortunately Mae spared Amelia any unnecessary embarrassment by taking her by the hand, sitting her down on a bench beneath a vast and ancient oak tree, and coming straight to the point.
‘One may know a woman better by her silence sometimes, Amelia my dear, more than by – well, by her words, you know? As an actress one becomes more skilled at this than most, since one is forever trying to read the intentions of one’s fellow actors. I sense a problem in your silence, in your lack of – let us say a nod or a wink in your troubled eyes. Tell me all. And I mean all.’
‘Mae?’ Amelia asked carefully. ‘If I do, do you promise it shall go no further?’
Mae, who had now sat down beside her, opened her large green eyes as wide as she could and stared at her.
‘Such a thing,’ she gasped, putting a hand to her neck in mock theatrical style. ‘Why, child – you would remove the very reason for my existence!’ She laughed, taking her hand from her neck and putting it on one of Amelia’s cool ones. ‘Just quoting the dear old Bard. It’s like a nervous tic for me – quoting, quoting, always quoting. Of course it shall go no further if that is what you wish. I promise. Now tell me.’
So Amelia told her – everything. When she was finished Mae still had a hold of her hand, which she now squeezed firmly before attempting to reply.
‘Well. Now then. To begin. The first part, the physical details rather than the metaphysical ones, is the easiest, believe me. And while it will sound perhaps slightly absurd in the telling I do assure you, poppet, it is no such thing in actuality. But as to the second part of your problem, as to why George has not yet made love to you, that I can only guess at – and most likely wrongly. We must imagine – must we not – that it was either something that happened during the war, or even simply the fact of the wretched war itself. This friend of ours, you see, another actor called Herbert Greatorex -particularly good in Ibsen, whom personally I cannot abide. All that ghastly Nordic gloom – anyway, poor dear Herbie came home after two years in the mud and has been cold and complaining of the damp ever since. Sits all day and night apparently in front of a fire, and when Henrietta – his most darling wife – asks him what the whole ghastly business was like he simply says, over and over, Not too good, Henny. Not too good. Imagine. Can you? For the life of me I can’t – and I am an actress, my dear. We cannot possibly know the half of it, precious child, and certainly, please God, I hope and pray that we never will. But if your beautiful George broods the way he does, and dreams the way he does, and goes off the way he does, we must suspect something dread. You can’t ask him, my dear. Ask most normal men what the matter is and they either shout at you or shut up like a clam – so of course you cannot ask him. He will have to volunteer it to you, which if he loves you he most certainly will. But I suspect something awful, don’t you? He has e
ither seen something terrible or something terrible has happened to him – but no-one can face the beast down, alas, except himself.’
Amelia sighed. No matter who she consulted the answer was always the same. ‘So I must be patient.’
‘Yes, my dear, you must be patient – exactly. God knows it will not be easy—’ Mae closed her dark painted eyes dramatically, to hint at the struggle ahead, before resuming. ‘One day he will come to you and tell you, and when he does you two will be able to love each other as you assuredly are meant to do. But having said that, we must deal with the loving part, because when that particular day does indeed dawn you most certainly will want to be well prepared. When it comes to making love ignorance is certainly not bliss.’
And so Mae set about explaining to Amelia not just the facts of life but the art of lovemaking. Being such a consummately good actress she managed to invest the lesson with the right mixture of drama, poetry and good humour, so that far from finding it either embarrassing or awkward Amelia was enthralled and intrigued, the two of them finally laughing inordinately when Amelia finally confessed her version of what she thought might happen.
‘Moi aussi, darling,’ Mae admitted. ‘You will never believe this, but in times of yore I was as green as the grass when it came to men, believe me.’
‘I thought I was the only total ignoramus!’
‘Ignoramuses don’t come much more ignorant than I was, my dear one. We are only two of millions of women who have been or are in the same boat, I do assure you. Yet, still, I have a feeling that somehow, if we know too much too soon, some of the wonder must go out of life, and with a lack of innocence will go a lack of magic.’
Together they strolled back to rejoin the party, which was by now so busy arguing the merits of Henri Matisse’s latest and most controversial work L’Odalisque that the two women rejoined the table without, it seemed, their absence being noticed.
Except by George, who looked round at Amelia and gave her such a sudden welcoming smile she felt she had been away for weeks.
The following morning found Amelia sitting in the drawing room of Henry Hick’s house drinking coffee with Penelope, the artist’s wife. When she was left alone for a moment she found herself watching George and Henry, deep in conversation either side of a table in Henry’s studio.
They had been left there to talk further after Amelia had been shown the artist’s latest works, a series of grim and graphic drawings of weary mud-drenched soldiers either waiting to go into battle or returning injured, concussed and exhausted from the trenches, works which, while quite telling, Amelia privately considered to be almost too intellectual. Penelope had invited Amelia back into the house for coffee, leaving the two men alone to talk about their mutual war experiences.
Henry’s studio was a purpose-built shed situated at the bottom of the lawn, and clearly visible from the house. Amelia could see there was now an opened bottle of wine on the table and both men were smoking cigarettes.
But it was George who was doing the talking, sitting bolt upright his side of the table and looking just above Henry’s head, rather than at him, as he addressed him, while as he listened Henry sank his head ever deeper into his hands until finally he covered his face with them both and remained so for a long moment – well after George had finished what he had to say. Finally, as George lit a fresh cigarette and continued to stare into the distance, Henry Hick took his hands from his face, shook his head before resting it on his forearms on the table in front of him.
‘What were you talking about, George?’ Amelia asked as they drove to meet Constance and Clarence, whom they had left walking the countryside above the neighbouring village. ‘You seemed really very engrossed.’
‘We were talking about the war. What do you think?’ George returned, smiling at her affectionately but making it perfectly clear that he was stating the obvious. ‘We’d both been at Ypres so we had a lot in common.’
There was a short pause while Amelia tried to quell a quite unreasonable anger. Finally she said, quietly, ‘You can talk to him about it, but not to me?’
‘Probably because you weren’t over there fighting.’
‘That isn’t fair.’
‘It’s perfectly fair. Men can be war bores just as easily as they can be golfing bores.’
‘That isn’t what I mean, George.’
‘No, but it’s what I mean, Amelia.’
George slowed the car down as he saw Constance and Clarence waiting for them on a bench outside an inn.
‘Feel like a drink?’
Amelia stared ahead, feeling suddenly almost bitter. ‘I feel like several drinks if you really want to know. So look out, George Dashwood!’
George seemed not to realize anything of her internal struggles, but just wandered into the pub after Amelia, ordered them all some drinks, before sitting down with her parents to discuss the arrangements for going home to Sussex.
‘I know you have to get back but Amelia and I rather wanted to stay down a few more days – and Mae very generously has said it’s fine for us to stay on.’
‘Borrow the car then,’ Clarence offered. ‘We can take the train back and you really will need a car down here, that I do know.’
‘Are you sure, Mr Dennison?’
Clarence Dennison smiled. ‘Perfectly. And I only hope that you find somewhere nice, George.’
‘What on earth do you mean, Papa?’ Amelia asked with a laugh. ‘Find what exactly?’ Her spirits as always restored by her father’s outward-going nature, his natural optimism, his ease with himself.
‘A house,’ her father smiled in return. ‘That’s why you’re staying on down, isn’t it? For a house!’
That night after dinner when Amelia was exercising the Hanleys’ dogs in the parkland, there was a full harvest moon shining, a moon so bright that at first when she looked for stars Amelia had to shield her eyes. Most of the cloud that had hung in the skies all day had now cleared, so that the full moon shone unimpeded, bathing the lovely grounds in a mysterious blue light. But once her eyes were used to the brightness Amelia soon spotted the body for which she searched. It hung in its usual direction, although it appeared to be even lower in the sky, and despite the moon’s unusual aura it seemed to be even brighter than ever before.
George had just finished a long game of chess with Archie and was preparing to go up to bed when Amelia caught him.
‘No,’ she whispered, taking him to one side. ‘Let’s go out for a drive instead. It’s a simply wonderful night.’
‘A drive? At this time?’ George smiled, even though he was well used to Amelia’s often quirky improvisations. ‘All right, if that’s what you want.’
‘I want to drive to where the star is,’ Amelia told him as they made their way out of the house.
‘Fine. Then we’d better take the spaceship and not the Hillman.’
‘I want to go to the place below the star, nutty,’ Amelia laughed, taking his hand. ‘As it happens I think I know where it is. You know, like the Wise Men in the Bible! So this time let’s try not to get lost.’
The moonlight was so bright that George drove without headlights, quite able to negotiate the deserted country lanes without a problem. Finding Amelia’s so-called fix, however, was another thing altogether. For well over an hour they motored slowly round the tiny roads, George keeping his eyes firmly on the road while Amelia stared out of the window trying to deduce as precisely as possible the exact area over which the star hung.
‘It’s hopeless, George,’ she finally confessed, sitting back in her seat with a groan. ‘I mean, it could be anywhere.’
‘What could be? What are we looking for? What do we expect to find?’
‘How should I know?’ Amelia replied impatiently. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘A wild-goose chase, that’s my guess, Amelia Dashwood.’
‘No! Stop!’ Amelia suddenly cried, sitting bolt upright in her seat. ‘My God, George! You were right! It is a shooter!’
‘So?’ George queried, pulling the car up to one side of the road and peering out through the windscreen. ‘I can’t see it.’
‘Because it’s gone,’ Amelia said quietly. ‘It just suddenly shot down out of the sky and disappeared.’
‘It shot down, Amelia? Are you sure?’
Amelia nodded. ‘It literally plummeted down like a brilliant stone dropping through water – and disappeared behind that wood over there.’
George looked to where Amelia was pointing and saw the dark outline of a small copse which lay about quarter of a mile ahead of them.
‘Go on, George!’ Amelia urged him. ‘Get going! Let’s go and take a look, for crying out loud!’
Still protesting, George drove on up the hill in front of them until he came to a dead end where the road as such ran out and turned into a narrow, overhung and overgrown lane. As soon as the car stopped Amelia hopped out and began to try to fight her way through the undergrowth which was congesting the path.
‘Amelia? Where on earth do you think you’re going?’ George called after her.
‘Where do you think, George? If it was a meteor or something--’
‘If it was a meteor, we’d have heard a damn great bang if it had landed! Now wait!’
Armed with the sturdy walking stick Clarence had left on the back seat of the car, George went ahead of Amelia, beating a way through the mass of brambles and nettles which choked the pathway.
‘I really don’t know what you expect to find, Amelia,’ he grumbled, sucking a large thorn out of the back of one hand. ‘A spaceship full of Martians, knowing you.’
‘George . . .’ Amelia sighed behind him over-patiently. ‘George, don’t you find it even the slightest bit odd that a star which we have both been watching should quite suddenly just disappear? Just drop out of the sky and fall somewhere in this very neighbourhood?’
‘Apparently.’
‘George – I saw it.’
‘You saw what you thought was a falling star, Amelia.’
‘All right, clever clogs. So if I was seeing things, where’s the star now? Go on – look up at the sky where it was – which was there . . .’
The Kissing Garden Page 14