Читать книгу The Very White of Love: the heartbreaking love story that everyone is talking about! - S Worrall C - Страница 15
ОглавлениеHe wakes late, lies back in the pillows, watching the sunlight play on the wall of his room at Teddy Hall. There’s a hint of spring. The way the sun slants over the roof. The song of a thrush in the tree outside the window. Martin rolls over, opens a drawer in the bedside table and takes out a sheath of letters. Since term started in mid-January, their lives have diverged again and the post, an occasional telephone call and, on one occasion in late January, a telegram, saying he was coming up to London for a day and would she meet him at the Café Royal, have been their only means of staying in touch.
He opens the letter on top of the bulging sheath, then sinks back into the pillows and reads: ‘My darling Tino . . . ’
His eyes travel across the page, following the blue river of her handwriting, as it flows from her heart to his. He imagines standing behind her, watching her as she writes at her desk, up in her bedroom at Blythe Cottage, her red hair spilling over her shoulders, the faint rasp of the nib on the paper, like a mouse nibbling a cracker. Imagines the curves of her body, the narrow waist and full hips. A body like a violin, he thinks.
A loud banging on the door rouses him from his daydream. Martin leaps out of bed and opens up. A surly-looking young man with a face like a slab of dough stands in the doorway.
‘Clean your room now, Mister Preston?’ The voice is gruff, unfriendly.
‘Where’s Frank?’ Martin stares at the man.
‘Flu.’
Martin waits for him to say more. But he just stands in the doorway, glowering.
‘And you are?’
‘Dudley.’ He glares at Martin. ‘Your new scout.’ He pauses. ‘For now, anyway.’ Then, almost mockingly: ‘Sir.’
‘I see.’ Martin sits up, straightens his hair, irritated. ‘Let’s hope Frank makes a speedy recovery.’
The scout lumbers into the room, like an elephant, banging into a chair and nearly knocking over a standing lamp. He clears a few cups and saucers away into the sink, with a clatter; folds a newspaper; picks one of Martin’s shirts off the floor and drops it on a chair; kicks an upturned corner of the carpet flat. Then he goes to the fireplace, thrusts the poker into the ash like a sabre, rattles the grate, then slams the poker down, goes to the door and opens it. Without so much as a word to Martin, he steps out, slamming the door behind him with a bang.
Martin jumps up and starts to pull on his clothes. He’s been asked to be a steward at a motor trail in the Chilterns. He wishes he had said no. He has a law book to read, not to mention a long overdue essay.
He picks up a dark brown sweater, drops it back on the chair, goes to the chest of drawers and takes out a bright yellow wool one. He pulls it over his head, checks himself in the mirror and realizes it is inside out, takes it off, turns it the right way round, inserts his head through it, then picks up his grey herringbone, Raglan overcoat. Though the sun is shining, standing around for hours on a hillside in south Oxfordshire is bound to be frigid. He pulls his Teddy Hall scarf off the hook next to the door, winds it round his neck, and stuffs his chamois driving gloves into the pockets of his overcoat.
He has left the Bomb at a friend’s house in Fyfield Road, so he decides to head north along the river. A tomcat on a sunny wall watches him with amber eyes. A rugby ball arcs through the sky, chased by a gaggle of skinny boys in muddy shorts. What is she doing today? At church with Peg and LJ? Reading? Next week is Valentine’s Day, their first together. Which reminds him: he has not sent a card.
As he reaches the river, he pauses and looks back at the dreaming spires of the city. The first snowdrops are showing. A fisherman on a campstool waits for the telltale twitch of his float. A sculler sweeps by, his oars fracturing the latticework reflection of bare branches in the water. Two lovers hurry past, talking in Spanish. He turns his face to the sun, closes his eyes, revelling in its warmth on his skin. Oxford. On Sunday. In love.
The motor trial site is on an escarpment of the Chilterns, near the village of Crowell. Seeing the ranks of gleaming Alvis, MGs and Talbots, Martin rather wishes he had entered himself.
‘Martin!’
Martin turns to see his friend, Hugh Saunders, striding along the hillside. He’s in the year above Martin at Oxford: a tall, broad-shouldered twenty-one-year-old, with an angular face, cropped brown hair and narrow-set eyes. Next to him is a short, almost painfully skinny girl in a flimsy coat. ‘Hugh! Are you taking part?’
‘No. Strictly spectator.’ They shake hands, then Hugh makes the introductions. ‘Martin Preston, Sacha Richardson.’
Martin shakes her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’ The girl’s eyes narrow as she smiles. ‘Hugh was telling me about you the other day.’
‘Oh dear.’ Martin winces. ‘Hope some of it was good.’
‘Nearly all of it, actually.’ The girl shivers. ‘Hughie, darling, can we go and find a hot toddy somewhere?’
‘Of course.’ Hugh turns to Martin. ‘Fancy joining us?’
Martin shakes his head. ‘You go on. I have to go and sign in.’
‘Good luck, then!’ Hugh calls over his shoulder.
Martin heads for the stewards’ tent. The race will start in half an hour and a large crowd has already gathered. Some students, some local farmers in wellingtons and Barbour jackets; and a few townspeople from High Wycombe or Cowley. Whatever clouds may be gathering in Europe, no one is going to let it spoil their enjoyment and Martin listens happily to the animated discussions going on all around him about new kinds of supercharged fuel; the competitive strengths of the Bugatti versus the Alvis; and the secret of tyre pressures.
‘First time is it?’ an elderly man with a white, walrus moustache asks.
‘Yes.’ Martin grins. ‘Friend roped me in. Anything I need to know?’
‘It’s simple. You are basically there to see that the cars don’t cut any corners.’ The official smiles. ‘Literally.’ He hands Martin a flag and a clipboard. ‘If the car fails to properly complete your section of the course, you raise the flag. And scribble down the details. All clear?’
Martin’s position is on a gently sloping track between a copse of fir trees and an escarpment. Here, the cars will be travelling downhill after climbing one of the course’s many hills. Though it is sunny today, there has been a fair bit of rain recently and Martin guesses that the track will soon be churned up into a quagmire.
The first car down is an Austin Seven sports car, the driver muffled up in a heavy scarf and goggles. As it passes Martin, its tyres start to slide and only a deft series of tugs on the steering wheel keeps it from crashing into the woods. Next up is a V8 Allard, a car that Martin particularly loves with its boxy lines, bug-eyed headlamps, and monster engine. This one is white – or was, it’s now spattered with mud – and as it roars up over the hill, its front tyres leave the ground and, for a moment, the car is airborne. The driver, a thick-set man wrapped in a black overcoat, with a flat cap perched on his head, smiles and gives Martin the thumbs-up.
As the race goes on, the field thins out as more and more cars break down or crash out. In the increasingly long gaps in between, Martin sits or even lies on the bank behind him, staring up into the blue, winter sky. The sun is warm on his face. The bracken is soft, like a mattress. If only she were here, but she promised her mother to go shopping. But just the thought of her makes him feel full of life. And optimism. And love.
Back in his college room that night, he spreads another sheet of paper on his desk, uncaps his pen and writes:
Nancy, my very darling,
I felt so happy when I found a magnificent envelope addressed in your handwriting waiting for me when I got back today. I wondered what exciting things it was hiding and when I saw that there was a more than characteristic letter from you in it, I brushed the hair out of my eyes and rushed up to my room to read it. Darling, anything to do with you turns me upside down.
He lifts the pen and smiles. It’s almost eleven o’clock at night. The gas fire in his room gutters. Outside, a drunk is shouting at the top of his voice. Martin goes and puts a record on the gramophone. Billie Holiday. The new sensation from America.
Today, I went as a marshal in a motor trial but instead of concerning myself with cars (however supercharged) I pictured you to myself. Fortunately, the day turned out to be warm and bright and quickening so that I could lie contented on a bank by Crowell Hill looking at the sky. But you always seemed to come between me and the blue.
I had no time for tea or dinner when I returned to Oxford because I was due to visit two parties and to act in a review at 8.30 p.m. I felt rather peculiar and hilarious; however all went well and we looked too sweet in our gym tunics and socks and sandshoes. My falsetto solo was indescribable but people laughed. ‘April Showers’ was scandalously under-rehearsed but the audience seemed to enjoy it.
Last weekend, I went to a cocktail party chez Enid Starkie, the modern languages don of Somerville, who has a beautiful house in St Giles. She wore a Chinese dress – a sort of billowing negligee, really – and smoked cigars. I met the poet, Stephen Spender, and his wife; and a peculiar Russian girl. Spender talked about the Spanish Civil War and read some poems. He said a group of Basque children is performing a concert at St Hugh’s next Sunday evening. I might go.
I’m enchanted to think that your room is enlivened by bright posters, that you can look out of the window and see the broken pieces of winter metamorphosing into spring. One day I must come to see you bent engagingly over your desk. I shall gently straighten your lovely figure and kiss you, one day soon.
Have you dared to buy any more hats? I’ve just rashly spent some of my term’s dwindling resources on a new pair of shoes – brown, light brogue. I’m not sure that I like them now – but I’m quite, quite sure that I love you – now and then.
Martin.
