The Very White of Love

by S C Worrall

  Whichert House

  ‘Raise your head a little more,’ a voice says from behind an easel.

  Martin’s gas course ended three days ago and he has snatched a day back at Whichert House before he returns to the battalion in France. A few last hours together with Nancy. A few more hours with Aunt D. and the family.

  But first, there is this portrait to sit for. Roseen’s beau, Andrew Freeth, has offered to do a drawing of Martin, before he leaves for France. A memento for the family while he is away.

  Martin lifts his chin. He is sitting in the living room on a cane chair, his torso turned slightly to the right, in full uniform.

  ‘Perfect,’ says the painter. He fleshes out Martin’s thick, wavy hair with a heavy, lead pencil, then works over the hooded eyelids. ‘Almost finished.’

  Andrew is older than Martin. A small, sinewy man with steel glasses and a head of already thinning brown hair, he is already a well-established artist with a contract at a London gallery.

  ‘I am so happy about you and Roseen,’ Martin says.

  ‘Me too.’ Andrew steps back to study the drawing. ‘Who knows? You and I might be brothers-in-law one day.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Martin smiles, then returns to the thoughtful expression Andrew has asked for. ‘If only this damn war . . . ’

  Andrew steps forward again and makes some finishing touches to Martin’s jacket. ‘How do you feel?’

  Martin considers the question carefully. ‘A mixture of emotions,’ he finally says. ‘Sadness, of course, that I am leaving Nancy, so soon after our engagement.’ He pauses. ‘On the other hand, I am keen to finally see some action after all these months of waiting.’ As though to emphasize the point, he juts out his powerful chin. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I haven’t heard definitively.’ Andrew steps back from his easel again. ‘But it looks like I will be assigned as a war artist to the RAF.’ He adds a few more touches to Martin’s collar and tie. ‘In the Middle East.’

  ‘Freeth of Arabia, eh?’ Martin pulls a grin.

  ‘Something like that.’ Andrew makes a few more pencil strokes, then steps away from the easel. ‘There. All done.’

  Martin gets up and comes round to stand next to Andrew. ‘Gosh, I look serious!’ Martin jokes.

  ‘The warrior ready for battle.’ Andrew tilts his head.

  ‘It’s brilliant, Andrew,’ enthuses Martin. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘The honour is all mine, dear boy.’ Andrew takes the drawing and rolls it up.

  Martin sprints out of the house. It’s a glorious spring day so he peels back the canvas roof of the Bomb, lifts Scamp onto the passenger seat, then inserts the key into the ignition and listens with pleasure as the reassuring sound of the Riley’s eight cylinders roar into life. He pats the dashboard, presses the clutch, puts her into first gear and roars off towards Beaconsfield New Town.

  Church bells peal for morning service. Families walk together down the street in their Sunday best. Martin notices that many families are without men, then roars off towards Grove Road, tyres squealing. He is glad that he sat for the drawing. It also gave him a chance to get to know the new member of the family. But it has cost him valuable time with Nancy.

  He screeches to a halt outside Blythe Cottage. The train to Southampton will leave tonight. All night, he tossed and turned, dreading this moment. Now, as he sits outside her house, he feels a wave of sadness and dread. Not because he’s afraid of the war. He feels invincible in his uniform. But because he is going to have to leave her. When will he see her again? Will he see her again?

  He lights a cigarette to calm his nerves. Of course he will be coming back. This love can’t be for nothing. They’ll marry, have children, live the lives they have dreamed of. Of course they will.

  He stubs out his cigarette, squares his shoulders, checks himself out in the rear-view mirror, then gets out of the car and goes to the door. Scamp hops into the driver’s seat and stands up on his hind legs, whining. ‘You stay there, Scamp.’ Martin wags his finger as Peg opens the door.

  ‘Sorry I am late.’ He kisses her on the cheek.

  ‘Oh, not to worry. Nancy is still upstairs dressing, of course!’ Peg gives him a peck on the cheek. ‘But she won’t be a minute.’

  She leads him through to the kitchen, where LJ is polishing his shoes. Martin pulls out a chair and sits down at the kitchen table across from him.

  ‘How are you bearing up?’ LJ asks.

  ‘I’m . . . ’ Martin is thrown off guard momentarily. ‘I’m fine.’ He looks down, to avoid Len’s glaze. ‘How’s yourself?’

  ‘Oh . . . well . . . I suppose.’ LJ polishes away vigorously to fill the uncomfortable silence, then points the shoe brush towards the newspaper. ‘Have you been following the news from Norway?’

  ‘It’s hard to miss it.’ Martin pulls a disconsolate face. ‘Unfortunately.’

  LJ stops polishing and looks at Martin. ‘You will take care of yourself, Martin, won’t you?’ He is about to say something more. Instead, he blows on the toe of the shoe and goes on polishing.

  The door opens and Nancy wafts in, wearing a high-waisted midnight-blue dress, with short sleeves and a pleated top.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ She kisses him on the cheek.

  ‘You’re never late, darling.’ He looks across at LJ, complicitly.

  ‘Never.’ Nancy bats her eyelashes.

  Her father winks at Martin.

  Tears sting his eyes as he realizes again how much he loves Nancy and her family. Their affection and easy familiarity. Their cosy domesticity. So unlike the stiff formalities of his own mother and father.

  ‘Is that going to be warm enough?’ Peg fusses over her daughter.

  ‘I’ll take a raincoat, too, Mummy.’ Nancy pulls a strand of hair out of her eyes.

  ‘Dear Martin.’ Peg advances into the room and takes his hands in hers. ‘It’s so good to have you back.’

  ‘It’s so good to be here with you all again.’ Martin hugs her.

  ‘Let’s not hold them up,’ LJ says. ‘They don’t want to spend their last hours with us.’

  Outside the cottage, Scamp throws himself at Nancy, tail wagging like a propeller, as they climb into the Bomb.

  ‘Yes! I’m happy to see you, too!’ She baby-talks him, while simultaneously trying to stop him from licking her face.

  ‘Scamp!’ Martin lifts him out of her lap and plops him onto the back seat. ‘She’s all mine!’

  Martin revs the engine and sets off. Beside him, Nancy sits with her head leaning back against the seat, her eyes tilted upwards to look up into the sky through the canopy of leaves, her white neck shining like snow, her auburn hair flying in the wind. She looks impossibly beautiful, he thinks, so full of life and youth. He wants to record this moment, every gesture, engrave it on his mind, so that when he is back in France, he can replay it, like a film, as though he is still with her.

  Martin reaches across and strokes her thigh with his hand. Nancy puts her hand over his and squeezes it hard. His head swims with a mixture of clashing feelings. Happiness that they are together again. Sadness that this is his last day. He wishes they could keep driving, north to Scotland, a croft tucked away on an island, days spent walking in the heather, talking and making love.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ She squeezes his hand again.

  ‘How I’d love to kidnap you.’ He laughs. ‘Drive to Gretna Green, and get married. Run away.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to get married yet?’ Nancy gives him a quizzical look, then reaches over and kisses him.

  At the top of the hill, Martin parks the Bomb and they set off down the steep footpath, hand in hand, towards Church Path Woods, their trysting place, where it all began. Spring has arrived. What Nancy calls ‘the tender season’. Primroses peep from the hedgerows. Catkins dangle from the trees. The fields are full of lambs, gambolling along the fence line, kicking their heels and headbutting, like naughty schoolchildren. Inside the wood, bi
rds sing, and fresh, green leaves burst forth from the branches.

  It seems so unfair, Martin thinks, spreading a rug under the old oak tree, that they had to survive the long, dark days of winter alone, separated by the Channel, waking in the dark in a foreign country, surviving frost and snow, and that now that the earth is putting on her spring garb they can’t be together to share it.

  They sit down on the rug, staring up into the foliage without speaking. Martin lights a cigarette and hugs his knees. Both of them feel the relentless passage of time, like sand running through an egg timer, as the last seconds and minutes before he will have to take the train tick away.

  Martin takes her hand, brushes it softly with his lips. ‘Will you wait for me?’

  ‘Of course I will!’ She laughs. ‘Silly! I will wait for ever if I have to.’

  She takes his head in her hands and begins to kiss him, softly at first, their lips barely touching, then harder, until their mouths are locked together, eyes closed, tongues entwined. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift away, like a branch being carried downstream on a rushing river, a river of desire where time has no meaning and there is only this moment, these lips, this hair, these hands, this never-ending happiness.

  But time is not on their side. His train leaves in an hour and he still has to say goodbye to Aunt D. They get up, straightening their clothes, then run up the hill and leap into the Bomb. As they race back down the hill, Nancy leans against her head against his chest and nuzzles his ear. ‘Don’t!’ He laughs. ‘I’ll have an accident!’

  At Whichert House, they find the whole family assembled in the living room: Aunt D., Uncle Charles, Tom, Michael, Roseen, and her new flame, Andrew Freeth. It’s clear from the looks they keep stealing that they are very much in love.

  ‘I made you some sandwiches for the journey.’ Aunt D. hands him a paper bag. ‘And put in some of your favourite jam.’

  Martin kisses her forehead.

  ‘I thought this might come in handy, too.’ Roseen holds out a little gift-wrapped box.

  He stares at it, curious.

  ‘Nothing exciting,’ she says. ‘Just some chocolate to remind you of home.’

  Martin hugs her, and tucks the package into his tunic pocket.

  How long it will be before he is standing here again? No one knows. The only thing that is certain is that the Germans are preparing to attack France, the Phony War will end and the real action will begin.

  The emotion in the room is palpable. But they are far too British to let it show.

  ‘Sherry anyone?’ Uncle Charles offers Nancy a glass.

  ‘No. Thanks.’ She feels something tickling her neck. ‘I don’t think we have time,’ she says, removing a catkin from the top of her dress.

  ‘How was the walk?’ Aunt D. winks, conspiratorially.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Nancy says.

  ‘Too short,’ Martin chimes in.

  ‘You’ll be glad to be back with the battalion once you get there, I’m sure,’ says Uncle Charles.

  ‘Of course.’ Martin looks across at Nancy, who is fighting back tears. ‘They have come to depend on me.’

  ‘Give our best regards to Hugh, won’t you?’ says Uncle Charles.

  ‘And dear David Stebbings.’ Aunt D. adds. ‘I feel so relieved you have some of your best friends with you.’

  There’s a long, painful silence then Uncle Charles glances at his watch. ‘Well, you better not miss that train, dear boy.’

  ‘No.’ Martin looks around the room at the faces he loves most in the world. First, his sister, Roseen. ‘Look after yourself, Sis.’

  ‘You, too, Bro. Not too much of that duck pâté and red wine.’ She hugs him tightly to her, then kisses him on both cheeks.

  Martin laughs, then turns to Andrew. ‘Good luck in Egypt, when it comes.’

  ‘Thank you, Martin.’ Andrew shakes his hand. ‘I’ll have the drawing framed tomorrow and give it to Roseen.’

  Next up is Tom, Aunt D. and Uncle Charles’ eldest son. ‘I’ll leave the Bomb at the station for you, all right?’ says Martin.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Tom winks. ‘I’ll look after her.’

  There’s a ripple of laughter, which lightens the mood. Next, Martin goes to shake Michael’s hand. Before Martin can do anything, Michael steps forward, wraps Martin in a bear hug, and lifts him off the floor.

  ‘Michael!’ Aunt D. shakes her head, smiling at the same time. ‘You’ll mess up his uniform.’

  When Martin reaches Uncle Charles, he grasps both Martin’s hands in his. ‘Goodbye, Martin. We’ll be praying for you. Don’t do anything silly.’

  He steps towards Aunt D., who looks up into his face, then presses him to her bosom. Martin’s own mother is far away, at her nursing home in Wiltshire. He telephoned her last night. She was formal, and distant, reminding him only of his uncle, Robert Graves’ exemplary military service. As he wraps his arms around Aunt D., he feels as he did when he was a small child, about to set off on the train for school.

  ‘Dearest Aunt D.’ He kisses her, fighting back tears. ‘Well, better be going.’ He hovers, uncertain what to say next, then takes Nancy’s hand and marches, shoulders back, eyes ahead, purposefully towards the door.

  They drive in silence to the station, both of them lost in thought, both of them too churned up to speak. The moment they have been dreading all day has finally come. Martin’s guts feel as though they are being torn apart. He would love to turn around and keep driving, with her at his side. But he knows he has to do his duty, for his country, and for her.

  The train is already waiting when they arrive at High Wycombe station. The platform is crowded with soldiers and baggage, new men Martin has never seen before, on their way to France to bolster the British Expeditionary Force. Women and children press against the railings, saying their last goodbyes. Martin takes Nancy by the hand and leads her towards the platform. A burly military policeman blocks the way. ‘No families on the platform, I’m afraid, sir.’

  Nancy’s face falls. Martin turns and holds it in his hands, brushes the tears from her eyes. ‘Don’t cry, my love.’ He kisses her eyelids, everything that he is and will be focused in that moment. ‘Our love will keep me safe.’

  There’s a piercing whistle from the locomotive and a cloud of steam. ‘Write to me soon.’ She kisses his face and hair. The whistle blasts again. Nancy clings to him through the railings. Martin puts his arms around her, kisses her tears, her hair, her neck, then turns and walks down the platform. The whistle blasts again. A guard holds a carriage door open. He turns back. Nancy is pressed against the railings with the other women. Some of them are crying. Others hoist children up onto their shoulders to get a better view.

  He raises his hand and waves. She waves back. He touches his fingers to his lips, then clambers up into the carriage. The door slams behind him.

  22 APRIL 1940

  Northern France

  He sits at the carriage window, her book open in his lap, watching as the Normandy countryside slips by. The last time he did this journey he was riding up front in the Panopticon with his men. This time he is travelling across France alone and by train. The snow is long gone, horse-drawn ploughs comb the fields, the trees are in leaf.

  The memory of their farewell at the station still haunts him. He sees again her beautiful form pressed up against the railings, her tear-smudged face; relives the awful ache in his stomach as the train rounded a corner and she disappeared out of sight.

  But those few days together in Cornwall have fortified him, like a tonic. Their relationship has entered a new phase, a new level of passion and commitment that makes this separation easier to bear. He takes out the locket she gave him when he first sailed from Southampton, in January, opens it, strokes the little strand of hair she placed inside it, then closes it and puts back inside his shirt. He will be back in England soon. He just has to get through these next weeks. Or months?

  In Amiens, he grabs a bite to eat at the station bistro: sausa
ges and frites, washed down with amber-coloured Belgian beer. As they head north towards the Belgian border, the roads become more crowded with army vehicles: camouflaged lorries, Bren carriers, horse-drawn French ambulances. In Arras, a group of Moroccan troops dressed in greatcoats and burgundy-coloured fezzes join the train for the journey north to the railhead at Libercourt. The smoke belching from the blast furnaces makes the evening sky glow with an unearthly orange and red tint.

  He finds Hugh reading in bed when he finally reaches Wahagnies, shortly before midnight. Martin tells him all about his trip to England: the gas course at Fort Tregantle, his weekend with Nancy, their last day in Penn. Then Saunders fills him in on all the latest battalion news: their emergency withdrawal to Neuville, two miles away, amidst fears that the Luftwaffe was about to bomb Wahagnies; the return of BB, the colonel, from sick leave in England and its demoralizing effect on the men. The quickening pulse of military preparations. ‘There’s a rumour that the Germans are already building pontoons across the Meuse for a possible assault,’ says Saunders. ‘No one knows when, of course. But there’s a feeling that things may come to a head any day.’

  In the morning, Martin wakes early and goes to his new office: a baggage room on the first floor of the chateau. Joe Cripps, his redoubtable sergeant, is cutting a plank on a sawhorse by the window. The desk is piled with a mound of paper.

  ‘Morning, sir!’ Cripps lays down his saw. ‘Welcome back!’

  ‘Morning, Cripps. How is everything?’

  Cripps pulls a face. ‘Let’s just say: the men are disappointed that Major Sale has gone back to England.’ He draws a pencil line across the plank and starts to saw. ‘Frankly, they don’t think BB is up to the job.’

  Lieutenant Colonel Burnett-Brown MC, is the battalion commander, a veteran of the Somme but a soldier who is now well past his physical and mental best, something that has become even clearer since they reached France. And with a possible German attack looming, there is grumbling in the ranks.

  ‘I hear you.’ Martin takes a newly made chair and sits at the desk. ‘The battalion needs decisive, forceful leadership. Especially now.’