The Very White of Love

by S C Worrall

  It’s almost 11.30 a.m. when the broadcast ends. Like millions of other families across Britain, the four of them sit in stunned silence. It’s as though a giant meteorite has crashed into the Earth, changing the landscape of their lives for ever. It is not a complete surprise. There has been an inexorable logic to world events for almost a year. First the Sudetenland, then Czechoslovakia, now Poland. But a hypothetical threat is very different from the reality of an actual declaration of war, with all its unpredictable consequences.

  Being British, no one says what they are feeling. Instead, LJ sets about giving his pipe a good clean. Peg takes up her needles and starts to knit away, frantically. But Nancy has slumped against Martin’s chest and is on the verge of tears. He gently strokes her hair.

  LJ breaks the silence. ‘Another glass of whisky, Martin?’

  Martin sits up, looks at his watch. ‘Gosh! I’m so sorry. I have to run.’ Nancy starts up.

  ‘LJ.’ He goes to shake hands with Nancy’s father.

  LJ gets up and embraces him. ‘Look after yourself, lad.’

  Martin kisses Peg on the cheek. She clutches his hand, looks into his face, then turns away, coughing violently.

  Out on the porch, he squeezes Nancy to him, without speaking.

  ‘Nothing can spoil our love,’ he whispers in her ear, inhaling the scent of her. ‘Not even war.’ He kisses her on the mouth, a long, lingering kiss that goes on for almost a minute. ‘I have to go.’

  Nancy clings to him, kissing him again and again. ‘I love you!’

  ‘I love you, too!’ He puts on his helmet and neckerchief. ‘Write to me!’

  ‘You know I will!’

  He kick-starts the Norton’s engine.

  23 SEPTEMBER 1939

  Whichert House

  England has been at war for nearly three weeks. The first troops of the British Expeditionary Force have sailed for France. But Martin and his men are still stuck at training camp in Sussex. The one consolation has been the weather. After the rain, wind, and mud in August, there has been an Indian summer: golden light, clear blue skies, and only the occasional shower. Martin has acquired a tan and some new muscles. The pale, slightly reedy Oxford undergraduate is slowly turning into a fit, capable soldier. There was not an hour that went by when he did not think of Nancy. He saw her in the sky and the stars at night, in the rolling hills and the plaintive call of the skylarks that hover above the South Downs, oblivious to the lorries’ exhaust fumes and the crack of gunfire. But at least the mind-numbing routines of training – Reveille, marching practice, trench digging, armaments training, sleep – kept his mind and body occupied, if not his heart.

  Every day also brought his role as an officer into sharper focus and gave him a greater feeling of closeness to his men. Like a football team brought together for training before an international, they are still getting to know each other, learning each other’s strengths and weaknesses. But gradually this disparate band of men is being forged together by the shared challenges they face and their common purpose: the defeat of Hitler’s Nazis.

  Now, up in his bedroom at Whichert House, where he has returned for a few days leave, he whistles a Fats Waller tune as he knots his tie, then proudly puts on his battledress: a khaki wool blouse with distinctive black buttons down the front; a black lanyard and an epaulette, denoting his rank as a second lieutenant. He studies himself in the mirror, takes a bottle of eau de cologne and dabs a few drops behind each ear, slaps his cheeks to give them colour, smooths his hair, then tilts his cap at a rakish angle. Finally, he slips a velvet box into his trouser pocket. He feels like an explorer about to set off on a journey to a distant country. His old life is about to end. A new one, with Nancy, is about to begin. He feels strong, and confident. And just a little nervous, too.

  Down in the kitchen, Frances, the cook, is slathering brown bread with butter. A wheel of cheddar and some of Aunt D.’s apple and tomato chutney stands open next to it. A heavy-set termagant of a woman with a red slab of a face and hands like hams, Frances rules the household like a sergeant major.

  ‘What you so dressed up for?’ Frances shakes her head.

  ‘Today is the most important day of my life.’ Martin inspects the picnic Frances is preparing for him. ‘Do cheese and chutney go with champagne?’

  The cook stares at him, as though he has taken leave of his senses. ‘How would I know?’

  He goes to the pantry where he has been secretly chilling a bottle of Bollie for just this occasion. Frances scowls, as she watches him wrap two champagne flutes in linen napkins. ‘And mind you don’t get grass stains on those.’

  She wraps the sandwiches in greaseproof paper and puts them in the picnic basket with a couple of apples. Martin tries to kiss her head but she swats him away. At the door, he grabs a travel rug.

  ‘Wish me luck!’

  He fairly bounds up the footpath towards Church Path Wood, where Nancy will already be waiting if he doesn’t hurry. It’s important to set everything up first, surprise her with his punctuality and then . . . The sun warms his face, his heart pumps with expectation as he strides along, whistling, not even noticing the mud in the path from last night’s rain.

  At the kissing gate, he finds her waiting – she’s early, but it’s perfect. Everything is perfect: her brown leather calf boots, her frock printed with tiny blue gentians on white Egyptian cotton, with her favourite blue-grey herringbone jacket slung over her shoulders. Sunlight dapples her pale, freckled skin, making the crimson highlights in her hair flare. ‘You’re early!’

  ‘So are you.’ He squeezes inside the kissing gate, the little fenced enclosure with a gate that swings on hinges, to keep the cattle out – and lovers in. Their eyes meet and hold, then, as though gently pulled by magnets, their lips come together, brush against each other, part, then touch again. Below them, the land rolls away across meadows still dotted with wild flowers; a herd of cattle graze the grass, which is still green and succulent from the unusually warm weather.

  Martin reaches for his pocket but at that moment she breaks free of his grasp, swings the gate open and starts to run up the hill, laughing wildly. ‘Catch me if you can!’

  He almost drops the basket as he flings open the gate to race after her. Shrieks of laughter. Magpies flapping out of the way, as the lovers run up towards the wood and the arms of the hollow oak.

  He has never seen her run before and can’t believe how fast she is, fleet-footed as a deer. And as the path becomes steeper, she forges ahead, breathing hard, occasionally turning back to jibe him with an impish look, her cheeks flushed, her eyes flashing. Martin has to take care not to spill the contents of the picnic basket, above all the precious champagne. But, as they enter the wood and the hollow oak appears in front of them, Nancy slows down just enough for Martin to sprint up and grab her from behind. They both tumble to the ground in a heap of mirthful kisses, sending his cap flying.

  Martin spreads the rug on the ground and they lie together, staring up through the leaves to the blue sky. From deeper inside the wood comes the drowsy cooing of wood pigeons. A late tortoiseshell butterfly flits through the glade. A few last midges fizz about in the air. A nuthatch hangs upside down on the oak’s bark, tapping for insects. War seems a million miles away.

  He wraps her in his arms and pulls her close. Her cotton dress is rumpled and high on her thigh. She tries to pull it down, but he stops her. How long can a kiss last? It is as if eternity passes between their lips. If he could drink her up he would, pack her in his kitbag and sip her through the nights that are to come far from home and England, and her arms.

  Finally, their lips draw apart. He leverages himself up on one elbow and then on one knee. She folds her skirt under her legs and sits to one side, kitten-like, as he reaches in his pocket. ‘You are the best part of me.’ Without him being able to stop it, his eyes tear up as he gazes at the woman he loves. ‘I love you more than life itself . . . ’

  He pulls the little black velvet box from his
pocket and opens it for her. ‘I have dreamed of this moment . . . I . . . er . . . ’ His voice dries up. ‘Nancy Claire Whelan, will you marry me?’ he finally blurts out in one long breath.

  Nancy looks stunned for a moment, then throws herself into his arms and smothers him with kisses. ‘Oh, Tino. I thought you would never ask! Yes! Of course. YES!’

  He takes a tiny gold ring that he has scrimped and saved to buy. ‘I had it inscribed.’ He holds it up for her to see. Between their initials are the words: ‘The Very White Of Love’.

  ‘Oh Martin. Our poem. It’s beautiful.’

  She holds out her ring finger for him to slip the band on. It is like a wedding here, with the hollow oak as their pastor and witness. If only it were that simple. They are in love. They are getting married.

  Nancy holds up her hand, studies the ring. ‘Mrs Nancy Claire Preston.’ She beams. ‘I like the sound of that.’

  Martin reaches into the picnic basket and pulls out a bottle of champagne. Pops the cork. Nancy shrieks with delight.

  ‘The sound of happiness!’ He pours two glasses. Hands one to her. Raises his glass. ‘Je lève mon verre!’

  They adopted this phrase after seeing a French film in Oxford, and this little affectation, so much more romantic than ‘cheers’, has become firmly established in their private lexicon of love.

  ‘Je lève mon verre.’

  They clink glasses, laugh, kiss. As if on cue, raindrops begin to spatter the leaves above their heads. A cloudburst. They look at each other, then up at the sky.

  ‘Typical England!’ Nancy laughs.

  After grabbing the rug and picnic basket, they run to the old oak tree. Martin leans against the trunk, enfolds her in his arms, and gives her a long, deep kiss. They would both like more. But there are protocols. And there is still his mother.

  3 DECEMBER 1939

  Whichert House

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Sis!’ Martin swings open the passenger door of the Bomb. ‘Hop in.’

  Roseen clambers into the car. Tweed jacket, woollen skirt, sensible shoes. A study in brown.

  ‘Alarm clock broken?’ she says, teasingly.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’ Martin revs the Bomb’s engine and sets off.

  ‘This bloody war has got everyone on edge,’ says Roseen, lighting a cigarette.

  Martin has been given the weekend off to go and see his mother. If he is lucky, he hopes to snatch a few brief moments with Nancy. It’s been more than two months since Martin has been home. In that time, autumn has turned to winter. And the war has increasingly come between them. In fact, since their engagement, except for a brief cup of tea in Beaconsfield last weekend, when Martin had to drive a lorry back to the drill hall in High Wycombe to collect some supplies, they have not seen each other. Letters and a few, snatched phone calls have been their only way of keeping in touch. But to make matters worse, the post has been hopelessly delayed. Training has kept him tied down in Sussex. Nancy’s life has revolved around her work in London, rehearsals for a new production with the Players’ Club Theatre, and her parents. Peg’s asthma has flared up with the anxiety caused by the war.

  The siege of Warsaw, with its daily toll of suffering and death, has for the first time brought home the horrors of the conflict, and caused angry debates about why the British did not intervene. RAF planes are dropping leaflets over Germany. Why not bombs? Then came the sinking of HMS Royal Oak, in October, by a German U-boat, with the loss of more than eight hundred lives. To make matters even worse, the Soviet Union has joined the war, attacking first Poland and now Finland.

  Meanwhile, across the Channel in France, the British Expeditionary Force, or BEF, as everyone calls it, has dug in along the Belgian border – and now waits. And waits. They have dubbed it ‘The Phoney War’. Martin’s men are champing at the bit to get out there and show what they can do. But there is no timetable for the deployment of Territorial units like theirs. And until they are sent across the Channel, the long, boring slog of training camp in Sussex will continue. His and Nancy’s love has, for the moment, been put on hold. The only cheerful prospect is that Christmas will soon be here.

  ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ Roseen calls across to him, as they arrive in Marlborough.

  ‘Good idea.’ Martin double-declutches, then manoeuvres the Bomb into a parking space outside a busy café on the High Street.

  It’s a four-hour drive to the nursing home in Wiltshire, where Martin’s mother, Molly, has taken up residence for her failing health. After a cup of tea and a pee, they head south across Salisbury Plain. It’s a crisp winter day. Blue sky. Cirrus cloud high overhead. A flock of starlings sweep across the road, then bank to the right and converge into a dense cloud, as though a pulse of electricity has gone through them.

  The idyllic mood is only spoiled by the boom of artillery on the firing ranges. Then they crest a hill and Stonehenge comes into view, the upright stones like the bones of a beached whale. They have passed it dozens of times, but its power never seems to diminish. Now, with war raging across Europe, its ancient stones seem, more than ever, a symbol of permanence and endurance. ‘Puts everything in perspective, doesn’t it?’ says Roseen, as the circle slips away behind them.

  Molly is in the garden, swathed in fur, with a fork-shaped dowsing rod between her hands. Like Peg, she feels the effects of the war, and the possibility that Martin might be sent to France, at a raw, emotional level. Mysticism is her escape.

  ‘There’s strange energy here.’ Molly shakes her head and walks slowly across the lawn, with the dowsing rod in front of her. ‘The water isn’t saying anything.’

  Martin looks across at his sister and grins. ‘Perhaps it’s your hearing, Mother.’

  Molly shoots him an irritated glance. The rod twitches. ‘Now!’ She closes her eyes. The rod rises. ‘I feel it!’

  A dinner gong sounds from the house. Molly opens her eyes.

  ‘How about some lunch, Mum?’ Roseen suggests.

  They find a table by the window. Next to them, a woman with a heavily suntanned face, brown skirt, and sandals starts to hum to herself, as she doodles in a sketchbook. Molly leans forward and whispers, ‘She’s recovering from a nervous breakdown. Husband left her.’ She glances disdainfully at the woman’s sandals. ‘Can’t blame him, really.’ She turns to Martin. ‘Any news?’

  ‘None.’ Martin shakes his head. ‘It’s a waiting game.’

  Molly bites her lip. ‘You will be here for Christmas, won’t you?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Martin squeezes her hand.

  A waitress comes and takes their orders: chicken pie for Martin, Dover sole for Molly, steak and kidney pie for Roseen.

  ‘Nancy sends her regards.’ Martin pours his mother some wine.

  Molly jabs her fork into the sole. ‘Just promise me one thing: you won’t marry her. Until this bloody war is over. You’re too young!’

  Martin looks at Roseen. ‘Mother, they are engaged,’ she says. ‘You know that.’

  Molly saws a piece of broccoli in half.

  ‘What could possibly be wrong with Nancy?’ Martin glares across the table.

  ‘She’s just not . . . ’ Molly flexes her jaw. ‘Really, Martin! A Whelan?’

  ‘What’s wrong with the Irish?’ Roseen laughs. ‘Come on, Mummy! Your grandfather was the Bishop of Limerick!’

  ‘We are von Rankes.’ Molly stabs a piece of broccoli. ‘Her father . . . ’

  Martin rolls his eyes. ‘Her father would walk through fire for her.’ He picks up his cigarette lighter then slaps it back down on the table. ‘Which is a lot more than our father would have done for us!’

  Molly reddens. ‘How can you speak of your dear departed father like that?’

  Martin stares at the table. ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’

  ‘And so you should be. Just remember where you are from.’

  ‘I Don’t Care About Our Family!’ Martin enunciates the words, as though addressing a child. ‘Or hers! It’s Nancy I care about. Nancy I love.’
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  ‘Please! Listen to me!’ Molly sobs theatrically, then dabs at her eyes with her napkin. ‘You’re not even twenty-one, for God’s sake!’

  ‘I am old enough to fight for my country, so I am old enough to marry.’ Martin knocks back his glass of wine.

  ‘Roseen, talk some sense into him.’ She looks across at her daughter.

  ‘I like Nancy.’ Roseen lays down her knife and fork. ‘She’s delightful. Intelligent. Speaks French and German. What more could you want in a daughter-in-law?’

  ‘She’s twenty-three!’ Molly snarls. ‘For all we know she might be after our money.’

  ‘Mother!’ Martin slams his knife and fork down.

  Roseen tries to calm things down. ‘Mummy, that’s ridiculous, and you know it.’

  Molly glares at both of them. ‘I forbid you to marry her, Martin! I forbid it!’

  ‘You can’t, Mother.’ Martin gets up from the table. ‘I won’t let you.’

  Back at camp, Martin waits for the mess to empty out after dinner, then fetches a sheaf of notepaper from the wooden box at the back of the tent. His conversation with his mother has left him feeling like a child again. He gnaws at the top of the pen. If necessary, he will just forfeit the family money to marry the woman he loves. Part of him wants to tell Nancy the truth. They have promised each other to be honest, to shun any kind of lies or evasion. Surely, she has a right to know about his mother’s opposition. But he wants to protect her, keep her out of Molly’s orbit. Besides, if he tells her about their conversation at lunch it could cause a future rift between his mother and Nancy, a rift that could dog their marriage for years to come. Ultimately, it’s a problem between him and his mother, not Nancy. He has to work behind the scenes. Bring her round. For now, he’ll say nothing. For all their sakes.

  My Beloved,

  I’ve been in a strange mood since I saw you last Sunday, feeling almost uncomfortably happy deep inside me but also unspeakably irritated with this place, this work, and the people. I want to be with you to refresh myself by accompanying you on the little rounds of a day and the true pleasures of an evening.