Sweet Sorrow

by David Roberts

  ‘Paul Fisher? Yes, I do remember him. Short and thin with not very much hair. Rather earnest and weedy-looking with a feeble attempt at a beard.’

  ‘That’s right, only he’s got rid of the beard and I’d call him wiry rather than weedy. And he was – is – very clever in a theoretical sort of way. I suppose you’d call him a caricature intellectual. Anyway, he got a first. He’s a bit of a climber too, rather surprisingly.’

  ‘Social climber?’

  ‘No! The other kind. I seem to remember that he did the Fourth Court climb.’

  ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘Didn’t I ever tell you about the night climbers of Cambridge?’

  ‘No. One of your drinking clubs?’ Verity suggested.

  ‘On the contrary. Drink could be fatal. Some of us – I wasn’t a regular, you understand – used to climb buildings in Cambridge – mostly the colleges but also some of the town buildings. I almost killed myself on King’s College Chapel. I got stuck on the north-east pinnacle.’

  ‘It all sounds rather silly,’ Verity said, sounding superior.

  ‘Maybe, but the exaltation when one reached the top of the Chapel was something else. No surprise that many of the great climbers went on to climb in the Himalayas.’

  ‘Well, I’d be delighted to have Mr Fisher dine with us tomorrow but I hope you warned him that I can’t accompany you to evensong.’

  ‘Not even out of politeness?’

  ‘I couldn’t. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, you’re a heathen.’

  ‘You have always known that. Is he married?’

  ‘No, not as far as I know.’

  ‘And you met him on the downs?’

  ‘Yes, he tells me there are dozens of wonderful walks from the village. You walk up Mill Lane to the top of Mill Hill, turn right through the twitten . . .’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Paul says it’s a narrow path between two hedges. Then, you continue along the ridge to Northease Farm. Basil would love it. He just failed to catch a hare this morning. We saw all sorts of wildlife – swallows and skylarks . . . You must come with us next time.’

  ‘I had work to do,’ Verity said virtuously, trying to forget how much she had left to Mrs Brendel. ‘I was just thinking, why don’t we ask Tommie down? We haven’t seen him since the wedding.’

  ‘Our wedding, you mean?’ Edward responded, not liking the way she had distanced the event in her mind, as though it was a theatrical performance they had happened to attend. ‘I said we’d get together with him in London. He’s still rather upset about you-know-what.’

  ‘But that’s absurd!’

  ‘Maybe, but didn’t someone say that friendship is the first casualty of marriage?’

  ‘Tell me more about Paul Fisher,’ Verity said, ignoring his quip. ‘It’s coming back to me. I thought he was rather a stick.’

  ‘Not at all. I liked him – a bit austere perhaps. He said it clears his head walking on the downs and he can think better at the top of a hill. He says he can hear God’s voice when the birds swirl and skirr above him and I know exactly how he feels. He composes his sermons as he walks. He says the downs put all our human problems into perspective.’

  Verity was surprised but pleased by Edward’s enthusiasm. She wanted him to have friends in the neighbourhood to keep him company when she was away, and a bachelor vicar, clever enough to argue with him, sounded just the ticket. She thought she had better make sure the shoulder of mutton Mrs Brendel had mentioned would last until tomorrow and stretch to three.

  She was a little annoyed to find that Edward had forestalled her and had already mentioned to the housekeeper that there would be three for dinner the following evening. She wondered if she should say to him that, if she were to have any authority in domestic matters, she must be allowed to instruct the servants. Then she realized she was being petty and probably bourgeois and decided to say nothing. It was hardly realistic for her to forbid Edward to give Mrs Brendel orders when she expected to be away so much.

  She sensed that Edward was not completely relaxed despite what he had said about walking on the downs. In fact, they were both on edge. Too much hung over them for either to be convinced that their time in Rodmell was anything more than a brief interlude before ‘real life’ resumed.

  Later that day, when a telegram arrived for Edward summoning him to town, he was visibly relieved.

  ‘I was beginning to think that Vansittart might have forgotten me,’ he confessed, ‘but I’m to present myself at the FO on Monday at eleven. I can take the eight ten and be at Victoria with time to spare. Will you be all right here, V?’

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Verity said, ‘I’ll come with you. I think it would do no harm for me to be seen at the paper. Weaver said he would telegraph me when he and the editor had decided where to send me but, as you say, it’s better to show one’s face if one doesn’t want to be overlooked.’

  ‘What a good idea! We might spend the night in Albany. Since Fenton was called up, I haven’t done much in the way of cleaning but it should be all right just for a night. We might go to the Embassy and have a last whirl on the dance floor before it’s all bombed to smithereens. No, I don’t mean that,’ he added, seeing her face fall, ‘but we won’t have much time for nightclubs when the balloon goes up.’

  When they woke the next morning it was not yet seven but, when Edward threw back the curtains, he declared that it was going to be another beautiful day and they must get up. Basil seemed to agree because he burst through the door, put his front legs on the bed and barked. Verity would have preferred to stay in bed and make love but Edward had started shaving before she had time to protest.

  Edward made breakfast – it was agreed that Mrs Brendel must have Sunday mornings off – and, after they had eaten eggs and bacon washed down with large cups of milky coffee, they decided not to go up on the downs but instead explore the river that wound its way through the valley on the edge of which Rodmell stood. Leonard had lent Edward an Ordnance Survey map of the area and he worked out what looked like a fairly easy walk of about three miles.

  It was a mile to the Ouse and when they reached it – Basil panting in ecstasy at the surprising and unfamiliar smells – they followed the river to a bridge which, Edward was interested to see, pivoted to allow boats to continue upriver to Lewes. At Southease, they admired the ancient church, crossed the stile on the edge of Telscombe village and then followed the South Downs Way to Cricketing Bottom. They hardly met a soul but, as they made their way back to Rodmell, they ran into Leonard walking his dog. Basil sniffed at Sally appreciatively and embarked on a complicated flirting ritual which their owners watched, ready to intervene if necessary. Basil sometimes forgot he was twice or even three times the size of most other dogs.

  ‘Walk back with me to Monk’s House,’ Leonard said abruptly. ‘You must be dry after your exercise. I can offer you lemonade or the local cider.’

  ‘Won’t we interrupt your wife?’ Verity said, not knowing whether to call her ‘Virginia’ or ‘Mrs Woolf’.

  ‘No, she is researching a biography of our friend Roger Fry. It’s hard work but it doesn’t drain her in the same way as writing a novel. The paradox is that Virginia says that the novelist is free but the biographer is tied. By which I believe she means that she relishes the challenge that writing a novel presents.’

  When they had expressed their gratitude for the evening at Monk’s House, Verity said, ‘I felt bad about mentioning the Spanish Civil War. I did not mean to upset . . .’ She hesitated and then decided on ‘Virginia’.

  Leonard frowned. ‘It’s not a subject that can be avoided but Julian’s death was a terrible shock. Virginia’s despair was almost as great as his mother’s. For six months she all but gave up her work to share Vanessa’s grief. Julian’s death made no sense to her. She said to me only the other day that, when she’s out walking, she often argues with him and abuses him for his selfishness in dying. She sees war as the ultim
ate evil and pacifism as the only possible response.’

  ‘How will she cope when war breaks out?’ Edward asked diffidently.

  Leonard shrugged his shoulders. ‘You must read Three Guineas if you haven’t already. In the book she asks if it would not be better to jump into the river and end it all. I think she feels war makes all her work seem pointless.’

  ‘Is there any way in which we can help?’

  ‘It is very good of you – only by providing her with intelligent company when she needs it and being as optimistic as one can be in these terrible times.’

  ‘Are you a pacifist, Leonard?’ Verity asked.

  ‘I sympathize and understand why one might be, but I’m not. Like you, I think one has to fight evil. Virginia had a lot of letters after Three Guineas was published last year. Not all her friends liked the book – some called her defeatist – but she had to say what she said. What did you think of Byron?’

  Seeing Verity’s face, he laughed. ‘He’s not as bad as all that. He behaved badly the other night but I think he was jealous.’

  ‘Jealous? What of?’

  ‘You have achieved something . . . You proved yourself in Spain. Byron’s not a man of action but in his dreams he’d like to be.’

  They had by this time arrived back at the church which stood just beyond both their gardens. Walking through the churchyard, sleepy with history in the heat of the midday sun, they stopped to admire the stone sundial.

  Edward peered at it and asked how it had come to be there.

  ‘It’s not so old,’ Leonard replied. ‘It was erected by the rector, Pierre de Putron, in 1876. It’s thought to have come from the garden of a house nearby. Do you see?’ He pointed to the inscription. ‘John Saxby and Richard Saxby. John farmed round here and was a local benefactor. Virginia has an affection for it and, when she was writing The Years which is about the passing of time, she liked to come here and meditate.’

  ‘I thought I’d go to evensong tonight,’ Edward said.

  ‘I might come with you. Virginia won’t but I like to go occasionally out of respect for our vicar. I suppose, if anything, I’m a Jew but I’m not religious.’

  ‘I’m afraid I won’t come,’ Verity said. ‘I can’t believe in it and I don’t want to pretend.’

  ‘Paul Fisher is a friend of a friend of ours,’ Edward explained. ‘What do you make of him, Leonard?’

  ‘I like him. He’s an old-fashioned, moral young man with strict views on good and evil. We argue a lot because I think his attitude does not make allowances for the complication of real life. He calls me a Laodicean which I think in his eyes is the severest of criticisms.’

  ‘What’s a Lao-what-do-you-call-it?’ Verity inquired.

  ‘Someone lukewarm or half-hearted about morality and religion. He’s been looking ill – much too thin. I suppose it’s just the war. It makes everyone nervy.’

  They found Virginia sitting in a deckchair outside her writing-room. She greeted them warmly.

  ‘We’re not disturbing you, I hope?’ Edward said.

  ‘Not at all. Leonard, ask Louie to bring us lemonade, unless you would prefer cider, Edward?’ He assured her that lemonade was just what he needed. ‘I have decided I am going to take up knitting,’ Virginia said unexpectedly. ‘I need something soothing to help me think.’

  When Mrs Everest came out with a jug of lemonade and glasses on a tray, Edward recognized her from when they had dined at Monk’s House.

  ‘Thank you for the excellent dinner we had the other night,’ he said. She beamed and Leonard looked pleased.

  When she had gone, he said, ‘I don’t think we could survive without Louie. She’s an excellent cook and also an active member of the local Labour Party. In fact, she’s secretary of the Rodmell branch which meets here.’

  Verity felt at peace as she sat beside Virginia in the sunshine, sipping lemonade and watching Edward and Leonard talking earnestly about politics. The peace was shattered by Mark Redel who came striding on to the lawn without any apology for intruding.

  ‘I’d like to kill that man,’ he fumed.

  ‘Which man, Mark?’ Virginia asked.

  ‘Byron, of course.’

  ‘Do sit down and cool off with a glass of lemonade, Mark. You look as though you are about to explode.’

  ‘I’m sorry but it really is the limit. He came round to my studio to ask if I would do a portrait of that girl of his, Frieda Burrowes. She’s a pretty thing but too thin – not really my type. Anyway, I said I wouldn’t do it and that he ought to be ashamed for carrying on with her behind his wife’s back. Then we had a row and he accused me of all sorts of absurd things – about Marjorie and Luke. He said she was right to leave me and that I was a failed artist . . . lots of silly stuff. I shouldn’t have done it but I called him a goat and a versifier, not a patch on Auden. I suppose I’d been thinking I wasn’t much good but it hurt to have it said by that man.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew Frieda Burrowes,’ Leonard said.

  ‘In Highgate – we were a sort of group, I suppose. I was keen on her myself to tell the truth but she was hitched to another man – Lewis Cathcart – and I still had Marjorie. Frieda modelled for me and I think everyone, including Marjorie, thought I’d slept with her but I hadn’t. Oh God, why am I telling you all this?’

  ‘So what happened – I mean after your row? Is he still in your studio?’ Leonard asked.

  ‘No, he stormed out but not before he’d called me a lot of names, some of which I expect I deserve.’

  ‘How silly you boys are,’ Virginia said. ‘Now Mark, have you met our new neighbours, Edward and Verity Corinth?’

  ‘I have met Verity.’ Redel noticed Edward scowl. ‘Forgive me but your wife said I could call her that. I hope you don’t mind.’ He shook Edward’s hand energetically.

  Edward thought him rather bumptious but smiled and said that he didn’t mind and that Verity had been extolling his work. ‘She wants to buy one of your paintings – a self-portrait?’ he finished.

  ‘Only if you like it. You can’t live with a painting you don’t like. I have plenty of others. My last show wasn’t a success as I’m sure Adrian will have told you. Come over tomorrow and have a look if you’d like. As usual, I have no money but at least I’ve no longer got a wife and son to support,’ he added bitterly.

  He looked so miserable as he said this that Edward felt quite sorry for him but then wondered whether he was being manipulated. He had an idea that Redel was often sorry for himself and liked others to sympathize and make allowances for his erratic behaviour.

  ‘Now, what about a game of bowls?’ Leonard said. ‘Don’t look so surprised, Edward. Hasn’t anyone told you? I’m a demon bowls player and Virginia is quite good.’

  He laughed and looked at his wife affectionately. He went into the writing-room and came out with a box. ‘All right, everybody?’

  Evensong in the cool, quiet church was a moment of peace in a world in turmoil. Edward savoured the Englishness of it – the badly sung hymns, the wheezing organ and even Paul Fisher’s lengthy, hell-and-damnation sermon during which Edward studied the marble plaque on the wall listing the villagers killed in the Great War. He thought of the first time he had walked under School Arch into School Yard and seen the names of the dead in black bronze stretching along the arcade and into the cloisters. He remembered how he had wept for the first and last time as an Eton schoolboy as he read the words from Milton’s Samson Agonistes. ‘Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, dispraise or blame; nothing but well and fair, and what may quiet us in a death so noble.’

  There were a dozen people seated on the narrow pews. According to Leonard, this was a few more than usual – no doubt as a result of the terrifying reports on the wireless. The Nazis were threatening the Baltic port of Danzig, the Poles’ access to the sea. To add to the fear, the IRA were planting bombs in London and for security reasons the public were being denied acces
s to the House of Commons. The Chancellor, Sir John Simon, had just announced new defence borrowings of five hundred million pounds, and at the Ideal Home Exhibition luxuriously fitted-out bomb shelters were being offered for sale.

  Edward wondered whether it was sentimentality that made him pray that this village and its ancient church, which had survived so much bloodshed in its long history, would be spared the tide of destruction relentlessly sweeping over Europe.

  As the little congregation left the church, Paul took Edward by the hand and asked to be excused from joining them for dinner. He gave no clear reason beyond a need to pray and a general disinclination, as he put it, to make merry at such a time. Edward was surprised and annoyed but did not press him. He knew that Verity would take his change of mind as a snub but, if Paul had decided not to come, there was nothing to be done about it.

  ‘Another time,’ Edward said, trying to sound undisturbed.

  ‘Of course. Please convey my apologies to your wife. I hope she will understand.’

  Leonard had overheard the exchange and said, ‘Our vicar’s a rum cove but I respect him. Tell Verity not to take it personally. We are all anxious and out of sorts and will be until this war has really begun. Then I believe we will buckle down and do what has to be done.’

  As they strolled through the churchyard out past the village school, he added, ‘The news is very bad. It can’t be long now. Both of us have cyanide pills. If the Nazis do invade, we shall not wait to be rounded up and sent to a concentration camp.’

  ‘We have withstood invaders before now,’ Edward tried to reassure him.

  ‘Not ones with powerful flying machines to transform the Channel into a simple ditch. But I do not despair,’ he said, hunching his shoulders. ‘Not yet, at any rate.’

  3

  Waiting on the platform at Lewes the following morning, they literally bumped into Byron Gates. Edward was effusive. Verity had noticed before that, when he did not like someone, he tended to hide his distaste by being extra-friendly. Byron explained that he was on his way to Broadcasting House to plan the next series of talks he was due to give on why Britain had to stand up to Hitler.