скачать книгу бесплатно
He 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.
25 APRIL 1939 (#ulink_bc823924-5c8d-5226-a7a7-cbe5dbc2366c)
The Oxford Union (#ulink_bc823924-5c8d-5226-a7a7-cbe5dbc2366c)
Martin races down the stairs and sprints across the quad. In half an hour, a debate will be held in the Oxford Union on the question of conscription. An idea that had up till now been merely theoretical – that Martin and the rest of his generation may be called up for military service – has now become real.
Two months have flashed by since he lay on that bank on Crowell Hill, during the motor trial, seeing her eyes reflected in the blue winter sky. The Easter holidays have come and gone. Like fugitives from love, they have managed to snatch a few days together, either at Whichert House or in London. But Nancy has been either chained to her desk typing insurance claims, or spending most evenings and weekends rehearsing her play in London. They had hoped to spend Easter together but at the last minute he was summoned to Wiltshire again by his mother. Not an hour goes by when he doesn’t think of her but term has started again with a bang. There are books to read, essays to write, tutorials to attend.
In that time, clouds have darkened over Europe. In March, Hitler’s Panzers rolled into Czechoslovakia. Hitler has smashed Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement with an iron fist. Now, the world is holding its breath to see if Poland will be next. Love and war are now entwined in Martin’s and Nancy’s destinies.
‘Hugh!’ Martin spots his friend amidst the throng of students heading for the Union.
‘Think it’s going to be 1933 all over again?’ Hugh pulls out a cigarette, lights it and offers Martin one.
The so-called King and Country debate in 1933 had shocked the nation, when the Oxford Union adopted a pledge not to fight in the event of war with Germany, a pledge Churchill called ‘vile’ and ‘squalid’. Tonight’s debate won’t have any more legal standing than that one, but it will be an important barometer of public opinion. For weeks, it has been a hot topic of debate in college dining rooms and studies.
‘I don’t think so.’ Martin draws on his cigarette. ‘The mood in the country is different. Hitler has revealed his true intentions.’
Arriving at the Union, Martin and Hugh join a scrum of students pushing their way inside. Martin has never seen anything like it. Normally, these debates are languid affairs conducted in front of a half-filled hall. Tonight even the galleries are crammed to overflowing with students, leaning over the balustrades, whistling or calling to their friends on the floor. Hundreds more students stand or lean against the raspberry-coloured walls.
Martin and Hugh manage to find a seat near the front, on a bench facing the dispatch boxes. Martin looks around, waves to some friends in the gallery, then turns to the front, where the three speakers are waiting to address the throng. The atmosphere is electric, somewhere between a bullfight and a parliamentary vote of no confidence.
‘How’s Nancy?’ Hugh asks.
‘She’s fine.’ Martin pulls a face. ‘Hardly seen her, though. We’ve both been too busy. Did I tell you, she’s got a small part in a play in London?’
‘I didn’t know she acted. Where?’
‘Players’ Club. They have a little space on King Street.’
‘Near Covent Garden? I know it,’ Hugh interjects.
‘That’s it. Michael Redgrave is involved.’
‘Better watch out, Martin.’ Hugh nudges him in the ribs. ‘I’ve heard he’s a terrible womanizer.’
Martin knows his friend is only joking but the thought that Nancy might be unfaithful gives him a sharp pain, like a dagger stuck between his ribs. But his attention is quickly focused on the sight of the President of the Union rising from his high-backed chair on the dais behind the dispatch boxes. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. And welcome to the Oxford Union.’ A wave of applause echoes round the walls. The students in the gallery drum on the wooden railings. ‘As war threatens Europe once again, the question of conscription has again leapt to the top of the national debate.’
‘No war!’ a heckler shouts from the back of the hall.
The President holds up his hand for silence. ‘And I am pleased to welcome three eminent speakers, who will debate the question from their own different, unique viewpoints.’ He turns and motions to the three speakers. ‘The Right Honourable Stephen King-Hall.’
There are a few boos.
‘ . . . Captain Basil Liddell Hart . . . ’
Liddell Hart waves, cheered by a group of undergraduates in the gallery.
‘And, last but not least, the Right Honourable Randolph Churchill.’ A cacophony of cheers and hissing erupts. Churchill waves, in an avuncular manner.
In 1933, he spoke in favour of war and a student hurled a stink bomb at him. There are a few jeers and whistles from the pacifists in the hall. But the hubbub soon dies down.
‘I now invite the Right Honourable Stephen King-Hall to debate our motion,’ booms the President. ‘Should conscription be reintroduced?’
Cries of ‘No!’ and ‘Yes!’ echo round the hall, a mixture of boos and cheers. Martin is torn in his views about the possibility of war. His Uncle Robert’s stories and poems about the horrors of the Great War have made him instinctively opposed to military conflict as a means of solving problems, and the sort of bellicose rhetoric espoused by Randolph Churchill, which is why he is a strong supporter of the League Of Nations. On the other hand, he has come to believe that Hitler presents such a threat to Europe that, if Britain does go to war, he will do his duty and join up. Even if it means being away from Nancy.
‘Looks like this is going to be quite a firecracker,’ he says as King-Hall gets up and goes to the dispatch box. He is smartly dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and tie. His polished head gleams under the lights.
‘Mr President, as many of you know, I served in the Navy during the last war.’ He looks up at the gallery. ‘My service on HMS Southampton showed me what war can do. The terrible toll in blood and gold. The sacrifice of tens of thousands of young men, in the flower of their youth.’
He looks out at the sea of young faces in front of him. ‘But there is another way of winning a war.’ A few boos start to echo round the hall. ‘Non-violent resistance.’ He pronounces each word singly, and with emphasis.
The hissing gets louder. Someone in the gallery shouts: ‘Communist!’
‘Here we go . . . ’ Martin nudges his friend.
‘Order! Order.’ The President gets to his feet. ‘I would like to remind the house that booing or hissing a speaker is both a grave and a pointless discourtesy, and an abuse of the forms of the House!’
More cheering and booing. King raises his voice: ‘But what are the principles of non-violent resistance?’ He looks out into the packed hall. ‘In conventional military thinking, occupation by enemy forces represents the end of the war and victory for the enemy. However, in the case of non-violent resistance, such thinking is wrong!’
Someone at the back of the hall shouts: ‘Rubbish!’ Others turn and hurl insults at him. There is more hissing and wolf-whistling
King struggles on. ‘ . . . by shifting the area of conflict into the sphere of non-violence, using techniques like civil disobedience, non-violent demonstrations, sit-ins, go-slows, . . . ’
Next up is Basil Liddell Hart, the well-known military strategist and writer. His ascetic features and steel-rimmed glasses give him the appearance of a Russian intellectual.
‘This should be interesting,’ Hugh says under his breath. ‘He’s a brilliant speaker.’
‘There are many reasons to oppose conscription,’ Hart begins. More boos echo round the hall. ‘First, it is impracticable. Soldiers need to be trained. But we have neither enough men nor enough qualified instructors. More importantly, conscription is alien to a democratic society!’
A wave of applause and cheers rises from the crowd. Their opponents shout, ‘Nonsense!’
‘Whatever the case for compulsory service in an earlier generation, when other democratic nations adopted it, it is inevitably affected now by the fact that we are threatened by nations who have made it not merely a means but an end – a principle of life . . . ’
There is cheering. A group of students in the gallery drum on the balustrades.
‘ . . . and for us to adopt compulsory service under pressure of their challenge would be a surrender of our own vital principles – and admission of spiritual defeat.’
There is thunderous applause, interspersed with a few boos. Martin looks at Hugh and raises his eyebrows.
‘He’s right, of course. But I can’t see him winning, can you?’
‘Not a chance.’ Hugh shakes his head. ‘You’re for fighting, aren’t you?’
‘Of course. If nothing else works. I just wish the League of Nations had some real teeth,’ says Martin, remembering his conversation with Nancy last November.
‘You might have to wait a long time for that,’ says Hugh, dismissively.
Hart leaves the dispatch box and returns to his seat to prolonged applause. The President gets up again. ‘Our final speaker, ladies and gentlemen, needs no introduction . . . ’
Martin has only seen Randolph Churchill in photographs. In the flesh, the young MP is even more different from his famous father. The face is gaunter, more sallow, the shoulders narrower. A red silk handkerchief pokes from his breast pocket.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ His plummy voice is drowned in a wave of applause, mixed with catcalls and whistles.
‘Tory scum!’ a bearded student in a donkey jacket shouts from the gallery.
Churchill ignores him. Martin rolls his eyes. ‘It is now nearly six years since this House adopted that shameful pledge not to fight for King and Country.’ A barrage of insults and jeers erupts from sections of the crowd. Others cheer and clap. ‘An oath my father, Winston Churchill, rightly called . . . ’ He lets the pause hang in the air, then raises his voice. ‘Abject. Squalid. And shameless!’ A wave of foot stomping echoes round the hall. ‘Since then—’ His voice is drowned out by catcalls and whistles. ‘Since then, Herr Hitler has continued to arm Germany at an alarming rate.’
The mention of Hitler’s name elicits a chorus of boos and hissing. Churchill raises his hand. ‘And, as a result, this great country that we love . . . ’ he leans against the dispatch box, letting his words sink in ‘ . . . now faces a threat more grave than any in the last thousand years.’
Someone shouts: ‘Hear, Hear!’ Churchill brings the palm of his hand down on the dispatch box with a loud bang. ‘Across the Channel, for the last three years, a war has been going on for the hearts and minds of the French people, as Nazi propaganda attempts to poison the minds of our allies.’ He thumps the dispatch box for a second time. His voice drips with disdain. ‘A war we are losing.’
