The Very White of Love

by S C Worrall

  It’s started, he thinks. Then there’s a squeal of brakes, a loud hiss and he is enveloped in a cloud of steam. When it clears, she appears like an apparition in a bright red, knee-length coat with a black hat made of felt fur perched on her head.

  ‘Welcome to Cornwall.’ He’s spent months in the company of men, shovelling shit, going to bed every night reeking of sweat and mud. And, as he holds her against him, inhaling the fragrance of rose water and talcum powder, she seems impossibly soft and beautiful. ‘You look fabulous!’

  ‘Your hair has grown!’ She runs her finger over the stubble on his chin. ‘Too scratchy.’

  Martin picks up her suitcase and leads her along the platform. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘A cup of watery tea and a scone I brought from London . . . ’

  They step into the sunlight. Gulls squawk overhead. Nancy closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘You can smell the salt!’ Martin leans forward and presses his lips against hers.

  They take a taxi to the village of Mousehole, where Martin has booked at the Old Coastguard Hotel. The road takes them along the coast and they sit in the back of the taxi, holding hands and staring out across the Channel, like excited children on a seaside holiday.

  Arrived at the hotel, they are about to go in when Nancy pauses. ‘You did book two rooms, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, darling.’ Martin tries to hide the frustration in his voice, but fails.

  Glancing inside at the woman on the desk, Nancy moves closer to him. ‘You must think me terribly prudish.’

  ‘I don’t think that at all,’ he pretends.

  ‘And I know how . . . ’ she pauses, searching for the right words ‘ . . . eager you must be after living with all those men, far from home.’ She touches his uniform with her finger. ‘It’s just . . . ’ The words dry up.

  ‘I understand. I really do.’ That’s what he says, anyway. What he thinks, as he inhales her perfume and looks into her eyes, is that what he really wants to do is pick her up in his arms, carry her upstairs and tear off her clothes.

  ‘I know it’s the war,’ she continues. ‘And everyone is being a bit more relaxed about these things . . . ’

  ‘It’s fine, please. Let’s not talk about it any more.’ He takes her by the hand. ‘We have such a short time together . . . ’

  After signing the register, and leaving their things in their rooms, they set off for the beach with a blanket they manage to smuggle past the severe gaze of the hotel keeper, a woman in her fifties with a pinched, sallow face and horn-rimmed spectacles. At a shop on the edge of the village, they manage to buy some ham sandwiches, savoury eggs and two bottles of beer, then clamber down to a deserted beach. The sun sparkles on the blue-green water. A band of cirrus cloud hangs above them in the sky, like a white fern.

  Nancy kicks off her shoes, wiggles her toes in the sand. ‘Why would anyone want to go abroad on holiday, when we have this?’

  Martin takes a deep breath. ‘After northern France, it feels like paradise.’

  ‘Paradise lost.’ Nancy points to a tangled wall of concertina wire anchored in the sand by metal posts. A bright red sign warns: Danger! Unexploded Ordnance!

  Martin tugs at one of the iron posts securing the wire. ‘Cripps would never stand for this.’ The post comes loose in his hand. ‘The first flood tide will wash it right out.’

  ‘I suppose it’s symbolic more than anything.’ Nancy turns and stares across the Channel, to France. ‘To show we’re doing something.’

  Martin follows her gaze. ‘As Randolph Churchill said, we are going to need more than gestures.’

  At the end of the beach they find a sheltered cove scoured by the waves. On the exposed boulders there is long, oval-shaped rock pool. Nancy kneels down and peers through the glassy surface of the water. A crab scuttles away under a rock. Two shrimps propel themselves under a strand of bright green seaweed.

  ‘Starfish!’ Nancy points to the bottom of the rock pool.

  Martin crouches down beside her.

  ‘I have dreamed of this moment,’ she says to his reflection. ‘Now it’s here, I can hardly believe it.’

  A gust of wind ruffles the surface of the water, fracturing their features into a thousand pieces. They lift their heads and turn to face each other.

  ‘I’ve missed you so much!’ Nancy touches his lips.

  ‘I’ve missed you even more.’ Martin draws her to him and holds her tight, as though he will never let her go.

  They spread out the blanket. Martin takes off his jacket and opens the bottles of beer. As well as the blanket, they have borrowed the tooth mugs from the hotel. Martin pours two measures and hands one to Nancy. ‘Je lève mon verre.’ He raises his tooth mug.

  ‘To us!’ She clinks. ‘Now, and always.’ She kisses him. ‘How’s it feel to be back in England?’

  ‘Strange.’ Martin picks up some sand and lets it filter through his fingers. ‘The prices have all gone up, there are new films I have never heard of, and new fashions. I feel like RipVan Winkle, having woken up after forty years’ sleep.’

  They laugh together. ‘And how’s everyone in France?’

  ‘Fine.’ Martin picks up another handful of sand. ‘Hugh and I share a room, which is nice. Trevor has become a real friend, too.’

  ‘The doctor?’

  ‘Medical officer.’ Martin kisses her. ‘You’ll have to learn your Army lingo.’ He looks out to sea. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Same old, same old, really.’ She sighs. ‘I tool up and down to London on the train, and spend my days typing letters to insurance claimants. My one pleasure is the theatre group.’

  ‘How’s that going?’ Martin pours some more beer into their tooth mugs.

  ‘Oh, it’s great fun. We have just started a new play. I only have a small part.’ She shakes her head. ‘It all feels so irrelevant, with a war on.’ She drinks some beer. ‘Perhaps I should join the ATS.’

  ‘I really can’t see you in khaki, darling.’ Martin kisses her nose.

  ‘I know.’ Nancy rolls her eyes. ‘Not my colour, at all.’

  They unwrap the sandwiches and savoury eggs.

  ‘How’s the course?’ Nancy picks up a savoury egg and takes a bite.

  ‘It’s actually quite interesting. But pretty tiring.’ Martin takes a swig of beer. ‘Yesterday they had us run a whole mile with a gas mask on. It was like being underwater.’

  ‘Sounds terrifying.’

  ‘Not so terrifying as the lecture we had by some boffin on why chemical warfare is more humane than ordinary warfare.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ Nancy stares at him, dumbfounded.

  ‘No, really. His argument was that more people are maimed and injured by shell fire. Poison gas is clean and effective.’

  ‘Good God!’ Nancy can’t believe her ears.

  ‘But that wasn’t the worst part.’ Martin snorts. ‘This scientist claimed that, quote, “the Negro race is more likely to be immune to poison gas” – and that therefore, in future, every battalion should have black soldiers in its ranks.’

  ‘That’s appalling! Didn’t anyone challenge him?’

  ‘Independent thinking is not exactly encouraged in Her Majesty’s armed forces.’ Martin pulls a face.

  Nancy looks into his eyes. ‘I am frightened, Martin. This gas course . . . why did they choose you?’

  ‘I’m the youngest officer in the battalion . . . ’

  ‘Even so! ‘ Her eyes blaze. ‘I am having nightmares about it.’

  ‘Me too.’ He takes her hand and strokes it. ‘But our love will keep me safe.’ He kisses her. ‘And, who knows, maybe there won’t be any fighting. Maybe there will just be a long stalemate, and then the warring parties will make peace.’

  ‘Not with Herr Hitler in the Reichskanzlei.’ Nancy turns and looks out to sea, fighting back tears. ‘God, I hate this war! It’s so . . . unfair!’

  ‘I know, my darling. I know.’ Martin kisses her on the forehead then puts his ar
m around her and gently lowers her onto the blue and white counterpane. He lies down beside her and they stare up into the sky, listening to the roar of the surf and the cries of the gulls.

  ‘Doesn’t the air feel like it’s dancing? Like it’s alive.’ She rolls over and looks down into Martin’s eyes. ‘Everything is alive. The air, the water, the rocks, the stars, us! And we are linked in this amazing, cosmic dance.’

  He lifts his face to hers. Their lips meet. Martin’s hands start to wander. Hers wander, too. Then she rolls away, and lights a cigarette. ‘I’m sorry, Tino.’ Nancy looks down at him, feeling torn and guilty. ‘I so want you, too . . . ’

  ‘Do you really?’ For a moment, his voice sounds cold and resentful. He lights a cigarette, blows out a cloud of smoke and sits staring out to sea. Suddenly, the distance that has opened up between them feels more painful than when he was in France. ‘You better hurry up, then! In three days’ time, I will be back in France.’ He pulls at the cigarette. ‘Had we but world enough and time . . . ’

  ‘This coyness, Lady, were no crime.’ She bats the reference to Marvell’s poem, ‘To His Coy Mistress’, back at him, like a tennis ball. She leaps up. ‘Let’s get married.’ Her eyes are blazing. ‘This afternoon!’

  ‘You’re insane!’ He starts to laugh.

  ‘I mean it!’ She picks up a stone and tosses it into the rock pool.

  Martin grows serious. ‘It’s not possible, even if we could.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Nancy comes and kneels down beside him. ‘Martin?’

  ‘Bureaucratic things.’ Martin squirms. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘What bureaucratic things?’

  ‘Family stuff . . . ’ He starts to speak, then falls silent.

  ‘It’s your mother, isn’t it?’ Nancy pouts. ‘She doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Let’s not spoil our day.’ Martin inhales from his cigarette.

  ‘They don’t approve of me, do they?’ Nancy imitates Molly. ‘A taxman?’

  ‘Nancy . . . ’ Martin takes an irritable drag of his cigarette.

  ‘How could a von Ranke possibly marry a grammar school girl from Edgbaston!’ Her voice is derisive, cutting.

  ‘I’m only a “half ”, remember?’ Martin stubs out his cigarette.

  ‘I can’t believe you won’t stand up to them! But maybe it’s not really your family.’ Nancy takes a cigarette and lights it. Blows out a cloud of smoke. ‘Maybe it’s you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe you’re just using your family as a cover. For your own uncertainty.’ She inhales. ‘Maybe you’re not really sure you want to marry me.’

  ‘There’s nothing I want more. You know that!’ He tries to take her in his arms. She pushes him away.

  ‘So why haven’t you married me?!’ Her eyes blaze. ‘We’ve been engaged for more than six months!’ She leans towards him, her upper lip trembling. ‘Isn’t that long enough for you to make up your mind?’

  ‘I think you’re being unfair.’ Martin picks up a pebble and throws it into the sea.

  ‘So what are you waiting for?’ Nancy’s voice is desperate, vulnerable. ‘We could have done it now, during your leave. Before it’s too late.’

  ‘What do you mean? Too late?’

  She’s about to give voice to the thought that is always with her now, that gnaws at her insides when she lies in bed at night and makes her pulse race when she gets up in the morning to go to work; a thought she tries to banish but that keeps returning, when her guard is down, that she battles against every day they are apart. That terrible, gut-wrenching thought that Martin might die before they have had a chance to marry and start a family. That he might not return again from France.

  They have never talked about it and she daren’t say it now. As though to even utter the thought would be like putting a curse on him, by making the unthinkable possible. She must be strong, for him, and for them. Instead, she takes his hand gently in hers and, looking deep into his eyes, says the words she has been rehearsing for months.

  ‘I want to have your children, Martin.’

  The silence that follows is only a few seconds long but it seems to last for ever. In the interval, everything seems to grow louder, the cry of the gulls, the crash of the surf, the blood beating in his veins, as though someone has turned up the volume switch on an amplifier.

  ‘But I can’t sleep with you until we are married.’ Nancy lifts a handful of sand and lets it run through her fingers. She wants to give herself to him completely, here, now; lips to lips, heart to heart, man and woman. But she fears if she does, without them being married, he might lose interest in her, move on to a fresh conquest. That’s what everyone says men do. She wants to be sure that his feelings for her, however strong they seem now, are not just a passing fancy. And that, whatever happens in France, they will have made a full commitment to each other. ‘You understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ Martin reaches for her hand. ‘It’s just sometimes . . . ’

  Nancy silences him with a kiss, leaps up and tears off her dress to reveal a blue and white striped bathing suit. ‘Last one in’s a hot potato.’

  She races towards the waves. Martin pulls his shirt over his head, unbuttons his fly, steps out of his trousers, then runs after her, pumping his knees up and down, like a sprinter. As he starts to draw level, he imitates a plummy BBC sports commentator. ‘And it’s Jesse Owens, coming up on the inside . . . ’ Nancy flashes him a smile, her chestnut hair streaming out behind her. ‘Are we going to see that explosive burst of speed that so thrilled the world in Berlin?’ He pulls a face, pumps his arms even harder, accelerates past her. ‘There he goes! The fastest man on earth!’

  They run, splashing and screaming, into the icy water. Nancy dives headfirst into a wave, and emerges on the other side, water sluicing off her body, like a mermaid. Martin ploughs on, then flops into the water and rolls over onto his back, shrieking with delight.

  He wades back to Nancy, lifts her from the water, presses his lips to hers.

  In the evening, they eat dinner at the Old Coastguard Hotel restaurant. A candle burns on the table. Through the window, they can just make out St Clement’s Isle in the fading light. Martin has ordered oysters and Sancerre. For one night, they are not going to think about rationing.

  The talk turns to plans for the future: his next leave, a possible wedding date, where they would like to live, the sort of jobs they would like.

  ‘All the Prestons go into law, says Martin, pouring Nancy a glass of the chilled Sancerre. ‘But I really don’t want to do that.’

  ‘So what would you like to do?’ Nancy squirts lemon over an oyster, then tips it back into her mouth. ‘Oh, my God!’ She closes her eyes. ‘It’s like swallowing the sea.’

  Martin considers the question then says, ‘Travel, write, . . . ’

  Nancy laughs. ‘That’s pretty vague.’

  Martin swallows an oyster and laughs, too. ‘I know. I think right now all I want to do is get through this war – and marry you.’

  She leans over and kisses him. ‘I’d love to go into the theatre.’ She takes a sip of her Sancerre. ‘A small company, like the Players’. But I am not sure I am good enough.’

  ‘You can’t know, unless you try.’ Martin swallows another oyster. ‘You are certainly beautiful enough.’

  Nancy shakes her head. ‘I am not sure beauty is the only criterion for being an actor.’

  ‘Would you like us to live in London?’

  ‘Yes and no. I love all the cultural stuff. The galleries and shows, etc. But I am a country girl at heart. I’d miss the green world if I lived all the time in London.’

  ‘Then we need a London flat and a country house.’ Martin lifts his glass. ‘Je lève mon verre.’

  ‘To us!’

  After dinner, they walk hand in hand through the gardens. There are palm trees and views directly over the sea. They stand staring out across the moonlit water. Both of them are a little tipsy
and suddenly aware of the possibilities of the moment. Sleeping in a hotel together. Alone and away from parents and prying eyes. The sea murmuring in the background.

  Martin kisses her on the lips and they remain like that, mouth to mouth, deep inside the kiss, as the waves break on the pebbled beach. Then Nancy steps back.

  ‘Goodnight, Tino.’ She kisses him lightly on the lips. Her cheeks are flushed.

  Martin looks into her eyes, silently pleading. It’s only twenty yards to his room. He wants to make this moment last all night.

  ‘See you at breakfast.’ She touches his lips again with hers, then turns and walks back towards the hotel.

  Martin watches the sway of her hips as she walks away, imagines unzipping her dress, her hair hanging down her back, the sharp, intake of her breath as his hands explore her naked body.

  Back inside, he slowly climbs the stairs. He pauses outside her door, about to knock, but what would be the point? An embarrassed conversation? More frustration? He walks on down the corridor, deflated; takes his key from his pocket and inserts it in the lock of his own room and turns it.

  Inside the room, he lies on his bed in the darkness, his mind churning with frustration. In a few days, he will be back in France. This will be their last chance to spend the night together. He lights a cigarette and lies on his back, blowing smoke rings towards the ceiling.

  He is about to stub out the cigarette, when he hears the click of a door along the corridor, then muffled footsteps. He can tell by the lightness of the tread that it is Nancy. Seconds later, he hears the creak of floorboards outside his room. He holds his breath, his heart pumping in his chest, then tiptoes across the room and peers under the door. Outside in the corridor, he can just make out Nancy’s stockinged feet.

  Only a few inches of wood separate them from heaven. Martin is about to launch himself at the door, when, further along the corridor, a man’s voice calls out. ‘Goodnight!’

  Martin can tell from the voice that the speaker is elderly.

  ‘Goodnight!’ Nancy calls.

  Martin wrenches the door open. But she has vanished.

  21 APRIL 1940