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Martin and Hugh exchange glances as more cheers, even louder this time, echo round the red-painted walls of the debating chamber. People begin to stamp their feet. Martin does not join in.
‘Yet, here, in Great Britain, we have so far only made . . . ’ he sneers ‘ . . . gestures of defiance.’ Martin feels Churchill’s eyes as he rakes the hall with a glare. ‘But we have reached a point where gestures are not enough!’
A shout goes up from the gallery: two students are flailing their fists. Others join in. The noise gets louder and louder. Churchill pulls the red handkerchief from his breast pocket, mops his brow. ‘We want not only gestures,’ he calls out to the crowd, letting the words sink in. ‘We want an army!’ Another wave of stamping and cheering erupts from the crowd. Churchill presses his hands down on the dispatch box, stares defiantly out at the crowd, and roars: ‘And that quite soon!’
A huge cheer goes up. People spring to their feet. Martin and Hugh remain seated, clapping enthusiastically.
The President gets to his feet. ‘And now, my honourable friends, the time has come to vote on our motion. Ayes to the right, please. Nos to the left.’
There is a cacophony of benches scraping, coughs and stamping feet, as the audience gets to its feet and files out of the debating chamber. As Martin reaches the brass rail dividing the votes, he hesitates, then steps to the right.
Martin and Hugh follow the crowds to the Eagle and Child pub, known to generations of Oxford students as the Fowl and Foetus. C. S. Lewis and Tolkien can normally be found in the back room talking about hobbits and magic wardrobes with other members of ‘The Inklings’. Not tonight. It’s bedlam. The heat is intense, the air blue with smoke. Everyone is arguing about the debate.
‘They should bloody shoot that Stephen King chap,’ a plummy-voiced young Trinity student sneers. ‘Or send him off to the Soviet Union!’
‘Liddell Hart’s not much better!’ his companion snipes. ‘Total Bolshie. Even looks like Lenin!’
Martin rolls his eyes as he tries to wriggle his way through the crowds to the bar. ‘The usual?’ he calls back to Hugh. Hugh gives him the thumbs-up.
Martin keeps trying to attract the barman’s attention, but he is wedged between two rugby players. He’s impatient. Can’t wait to get back to his room and write to Nancy about what has happened. The motion was easily carried. But though he knows the outcome has no ultimate meaning, he feels as though the war, which until now had seemed far away, has crept one step closer to their lives, like a fog rolling across winter fields.
Finally, he manages to commandeer two pints and edges his way back through the jostling, shouting crowd, holding the glasses above his head.
‘Cheers!’ says Hugh, relieving him of one of the glasses.
‘Cheers!’ Martin takes a long, deep draught. ‘So, what did you think?’
‘Exciting.’ Hugh has to shout to make himself heard. ‘You?’
Martin gulps his beer. His heart is torn between two powerful emotions: his love for Nancy and his feeling of duty towards his country. A third emotion – anger at Hitler – only adds to the waves crashing against each other inside him.
‘It’s still sinking in,’ he says to Hugh, not yet ready to share his feelings, even to a good friend.
On his way back to Teddy Hall, Martin stops and looks up into the sky. It’s as clear as a bell and is like a sheet of black satin, the stars a thousand glimmering diamonds. He imagines Nancy looking up into the same sky at Blythe Cottage, two young people at a crossroads in their lives. At that moment, a plane passes overhead, its lights clearly visible.
The first thing he does when he gets back to his room is pour himself a large, dry martini and light a cigarette. The gas fire sputters. On the desk is a pewter tankard engraved with the college crest. Her Christmas gift. And a letter with a poem written by her.
I took a ladder from the wall
And held it up against the sky
And said, ‘I’ll climb the steps
And pick some stars
And throw them down to you.
That, when soft summer comes,
We’ll plait a basket
And walk, hand in hand,
Giving our stars to children
By the way; yes, all but one
That one our love shall light
Both day and night.’
Martin smiles, reads it again, then takes a sheet of writing paper and spreads it on the table. Inhales deeply on his cigarette, unscrews his pen and writes the words ‘Claire de lune’.
It’s his nickname for her: a play on her second name, Claire, and one of their favourite pieces of music, ‘Clair de lune’, by Claude Debussy.
I just got back from the debate on conscription. The Union voted for conscription by 430 votes to 370. So everything hangs fire, not only the season. Everyone is uncertain what conscription will mean to us. It is harder than ever to concentrate on my studies. There is so much more to do and experience and so many other places to explore. I know all this has been thought by other young people since time immemorial but it strikes all of us just now because these ideas have been highlighted by the gloom of war.
I’ve never bothered you talking about engagements or marriage and I think you feel the same way. But I’m a little frightened, so it’s natural to want to hold your hand more tightly, isn’t it? I’m hopelessly in love with you and want to keep you for myself for the rest of my life. I understand why you want to wait. And I respect that. I don’t mind waiting. I can be patient, although it’s hard. I’m full of emotional energy but also a bit patrician, so there is always a struggle going on inside me. I’m extravagant, a little unscrupulous, a little lazy, and rather too pleased with myself. But I have some good points, which I hope you can see.
Aunt D. came to tea yesterday with Dr Brann, an evacuee from Heidelberg, who she is putting up at Whichert House with his wife and child, until they can find somewhere of their own in Oxford. He told us all the latest from Germany. He says they are rounding up all the Jews and putting them in special camps. Can you believe this is happening in the country that gave the world Beethoven?
The clock of St Giles strikes ten. He looks at his watch. Pours himself another drink and lights a second cigarette. Scribbles on.
Did you see the sky tonight? Flawless, and infinite, with the stars pointed to it and shining goldenly. As I was walking, a solitary aeroplane flew over. I could see its lights. Red, green, yellow, all so clear. It must be perfect, flying now in the cold, clear light. There are so many things like that I long to share with you.
He lifts the pen, smiling at the memory, then draws on his cigarette. The outcome of the debate is sinking further in. Martin chews nervously on his pen top then brings the nib back to the page.
Whatever happens, you mustn’t worry about me: even if I don’t get my officer’s commission (which I should get) it will be no dreadful hardship to be conscripted. There will be ideas and people to line the sackcloth uniforms with fine silk to make them wearable and life liveable. To be loved by you is like sitting with the small of your back to a warm fire after wandering about in the winter and the chilliness.
I’m going to be fanatically busy this week because I must work extra hard to make up for last week’s lapses. So I’m writing this before the law books close in and around me.
Darling, I’m longing to see you. I think perhaps a half-hearted (metaphorically) meeting before term ends would add to the strain. What do you think? I shall have so much to do that I will have my mind occupied. And the holidays will soon be with us.
Forgive the scrawl. I’ll try to write properly soon, a little less chatter and more prose worthy of a poem, a masterpiece and enchantress all of which you are.
All my love, Martin.
25 JUNE 1939 (#ulink_53449ae1-e08e-5180-bc24-c9f29106219c)
The River Isis, near Oxford (#ulink_53449ae1-e08e-5180-bc24-c9f29106219c)
Martin pulls on the oars of a skiff. Nancy lies in the prow, her head resting on a blue velvet cushion. The sun dapples her frock: blue gentians on white Egyptian cotton, bought in Paris a few years ago. Martin is in shirtsleeves and khaki trousers. A picnic basket is tucked under the seat in the back of the boat.
‘Don’t you sometimes wish a day could last for ever?’ He lets the skiff drift, looking down at her chestnut hair. The way it tumbles over her shoulders, her pale, freckled skin and perfect features make him think of a painting he once saw at the National Gallery by one of the Pre-Raphaelites.
‘Mmm . . . ’ is all she can manage at first. Then: ‘“Time is a river without banks”.’
‘Who’s that? Shakespeare?’
‘Chagall!’ She sits up, laughing. A dragonfly hovers over them, then darts away, a tiny explosion of blue and green.
Their eyes meet and hold. He shifts in the boat. It rocks. He lays down the oars. Leans forward. As their lips meet there is a loud thump as the prow of the skiff rams into some submerged roots. They are both tipped forward. One of the oars is knocked out of its rowlock. The skiff is perilously close to capsizing.
‘I am so sorry, Nancy, I can’t believe what a clumsy oaf I am!’
Nancy bursts into laughter. Martin feels embarrassed but when he realizes she is not laughing at him, but with him, he bursts into laughter, too, then retrieves the oar and slides it back into the rowlock and rows towards the bank. When the water is shallow enough, he clambers out, pulls the skiff in, helps her ashore, passes the picnic basket and champers, the rug. Nancy throws the rug over her arm, and they set off along the bank.
‘What about here?’ Martin stops by a weeping willow close to the bank, puts the picnic basket down.
‘Perfect!’ She spreads the rug out on the ground.
Martin comes over to her and slips his arms around her. She lets herself be pulled down onto the rug, then wraps her legs around his and kisses him, long and deep. Martin responds with even greater passion. Their lovemaking is like a wild fire. It only takes a spark to ignite a flame, which quickly flares up into an uncontrollable blaze.
‘Calme toi, Tino.’ Nancy sits up and straightens her frock. ‘Someone might walk past.’
In the distance, there is a large, country house, set back from the river, enclosed by a high wall and surrounded by trees. ‘Let’s go over there. It’ll be more private.’
They pick up the picnic things and trudge towards the house, in silence. Martin stares at the ground, dragging his feet through the grass.
‘What’s wrong?’ Nancy asks.
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Time is flying by so fast. The uncertainty about the war. It puts me on edge.’ He turns to her, his hands raised in dismay. ‘I just love you so much.’
‘I know, Tino.’ She puts her arm through his. ‘It’s just sometimes, I think you use that word as an excuse.’
‘An excuse?’ Martin stares at her. ‘For what?’
‘For sex.’ She stares across the lake.
‘What’s wrong with sex?’ His voice is harsh, mocking.
‘There’s nothing wrong with sex!’ Her voice rises. ‘I dream about it as much as you.’
‘So, we’re on the same . . . ’ he searches for the right word ‘ . . . wavelength.’
‘Of course we are.’ She kisses him. ‘I love you, Martin. More than I have ever loved anyone.’ Tears prickle her eyes. ‘But women see these things very differently from men. It’s how we are brought up. What society expects.’
‘Society? In case you haven’t noticed, society is going up in flames,’ Martin grumbles. ‘The battalion could be called away to France any day!’
‘I know!’ She wipes another tear away. ‘That’s why I want us to wait!’
‘Wait? For what? For me to leave?’ His voice is full of sarcasm. ‘That’s a great idea!’
‘That’s not what I meant!’ She clenches her fists, stamps her feet. ‘Oh, God, I don’t know what I mean!’
She storms across the meadow. Martin wants to follow her, but he suddenly feels so sad that he turns and walks on, disconsolately, searching for a new spot to spread the picnic. Near the house, he finds a patch of clover. It’s screened from view by the wall and protected by the lake. He spreads out the rug, and begins to unpack the picnic things. Plates, glasses, cutlery, napkins. A blue and white check tablecloth. Salt and pepper filched from the dining hall. A loaf of fresh-baked bread. Guernsey butter. Port Salut and Double Gloucester cheese. A jar of Aunt D.’s tomato and apple chutney. Smoked salmon. Some pears from the garden at Whichert House: tiny, lemon yellow fruits with a pink blush.
‘I’m sorry.’ She puts her arms around him.
‘It’s me that should apologize.’ He holds her against his breast, stroking her hair. They kiss, tenderly, slowly, then Martin draws away. ‘You hungry?’
‘Ravenous!’ She reaches forward and takes a plate, cuts a slice of Port Salut, then picks up the packet of butter. She reads the label, delighted. ‘Guernsey butter!’
‘In honour of your father’s roots.’
‘Ah, how sweet you are.’ She leans forward and kisses him again, then spreads a thin layer of the butter on her bread, lays the cheese on it, tastes.
‘That’s delicious! Where did you get it? The market?’
‘Fortnum & Mason. Aunt D. forced it on me last weekend.’ He cuts a piece for himself, tastes it. ‘Mmm, that is good.’
‘How is everyone?’ Nancy lifts her empty glass.
‘Same old, same old.’ Martin pours her some more champagne. ‘Uncle Charles is working too hard. Michael smokes too much. Frances, the cook, threatens everyone with a rolling pin if they come too near the kitchen. Aunt D. gardens.’
‘Are they worried?’
Martin looks at her questioningly, tears off another hunk of bread, loads it with smoked salmon, passes it to her. ‘About the possible call-up?’
She nods and nibbles the salmon.
‘You know how they are.’ Martin laughs. ‘Carry on. Keep calm.’
They fall silent, each lost within their own thoughts, looking across the river. A pair of mallards rescues them from their thoughts, rising up close to the shore, their wings beating against the water. They watch them wheel away across the river. Martin reaches forward, takes her head in his hands and slowly brings his face to hers. This time he doesn’t try to kiss her. He just touches the tip of his nose to hers, moves it in a circle, brushes her nose again, draws back, then touches his nose to hers again, beaming with happiness.
‘You didn’t tell me you were an Eskimo.’ She circles his nose with her own, then slowly brings her lips to his, as lightly as a bird unfurling its wings.
‘I love you,’ he whispers.
‘I love you, too.’
3 AUGUST 1939 (#ulink_2308cce2-c330-5d50-acf1-7caa0c8a0735)
Whichert House (#ulink_2308cce2-c330-5d50-acf1-7caa0c8a0735)
England is draped in all its summer glory. Fields of gold. Hedgerows choked with flowers. Learie Constantine leading the West Indies out at Lord’s. But Nancy’s not here to enjoy it with him. She’s on holiday in Devon until tomorrow. Martin mooches about at Whichert House or takes Scamp for long walks, counting the days until she will return.
Letters fly back and forth, his with snippets of news from Whichert House – tennis games with Hugh Saunders; the quality of Aunt D.’s rhubarb; local gossip.
Now you must be able to gaze over broad headlands and endless sea. While I can only look disconsolately about a deserted village. You have taken with you the chief charm of the place. There is no trim, chic black-dressed figure to return to here in the evenings to whom I can smile or speak a few words, knowing that later there would be a loving conversation down the telephone or a close goodbye at your garden gate. I’ve even had to plunge into the sombre pages of my Roman law books and the harmless pleasures of the country, like taking the dog for a walk, playing tennis, cycling to the post office or playing at soldiers. I’ve hardly seen a car and I wear sandals all day. One morning, Scamp and I ran right round the garden after breakfast – I had just found a postcard from you waiting for me.
Hers, effusive with descriptions of sunset walks and the enchantments of rock pools; or eating lemon sole with LJ and Peg at a much talked about hotel in Budleigh Salterton (‘overrated’ is Nancy’s verdict). Tucked between the sheets of one letter, she pressed some wild flowers: thrift, sea lavender, kidney vetch. When he held them to his nose, he smelled salt and sun. And Chanel No 5.
Though everything seems surprisingly normal, lurking under the surface of this English summer, with all its rituals and pleasures, there is a growing sense of unease. No one any longer doubts that there will be a war with Germany. It’s now a question of when, not if. Martin has already received his commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Ox and Bucks, as the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry is known. A Territorial regiment, with a proud fighting history. He will be the youngest officer in the regiment, a distinction that makes him both proud and anxious. Training is set to begin in three days’ time at a camp in Sussex.
Which is why he is standing on tiptoe with a hooked pole in his hand, trying to open the trapdoor of the attic at Whichert House. Ever since Aunt Dorothy’s son, Michael, broke his leg trying to get up into the attic it has been strictly out of bounds. But Martin has to retrieve some kit.
The metal hook slides across the face of the trapdoor, but doesn’t find its mark. Martin lets his weight back onto the soles of his bare feet, wipes his brow, then gets up on tiptoe once more, and starts to guide the stick towards the bracket. He looks around him for something to stand on. Then tries again. This time he manages to get the hook into the bracket. He grips the pole with both hands, pulls until the accordion ladder is fully unfurled, tests it for stability, then places his right foot on the first rung.
