Motherland

by William Nicholson

‘I’ve no doubts about you, Ed. Once you make up your mind to do something, I know you’ll do it with all your heart.’

  ‘French wine,’ says Ed. ‘Well, after all, why not?’

  *

  Kitty waits until Pamela is well settled for her afternoon nap and then turns to Louisa for advice. She doesn’t expect Louisa to know anything more than herself, but her friend has a knack of seeing the obvious that Kitty has learned to value. She passes on some of what Larry has told her, ending up with what has become for her the simplest expression of her dilemma.

  ‘Ed thinks I’m good, and sex is bad.’

  ‘Bloody Catholics,’ says Louisa.

  ‘No, Ed isn’t a Catholic any more,’ says Kitty. ‘He lost all of that ages ago.’

  ‘Like hell,’ says Louisa. ‘Honestly! What a heap of nonsense! You’re his wife! What’s bad about it?’

  ‘I think it’s just something men feel.’

  ‘It’s that damn Virgin Mary of theirs,’ says Louisa. ‘All the good women have to be virgins, which means they can only do it with whores.’

  ‘From what Larry said to me,’ Kitty says, ‘it’s such a strong thing for them that it almost frightens them.’

  ‘Can’t be that strong, darling.’

  ‘That’s what I don’t understand. If it’s so strong, what’s he doing about it?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Kitty, going red. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone,’ says Louisa. ‘About five years ago I found out my father has affairs with other women. He visits those houses men go to. A friend told me, Oh yes, your father’s famous for it. I went to my mother to tell me it wasn’t true, but she said, Yes, it’s all true. So then I wanted to know why and she sat me down and she said to me, Darling, do you know the facts of life? I said yes, I thought so. She said, You know how men have seed in them, that makes babies? I said, Yes. She said, Well, there’s a lot of it, and it has to come out at least once a day, and that’s not always convenient for me, so he goes elsewhere.’

  ‘Louisa!’

  ‘Yes, I know. Quite an eye-opener, I can tell you.’

  ‘Once a day!’

  ‘At least. Some men have to do it three times a day.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ says Kitty faintly.

  ‘Once you know, it makes sense of a lot of things.’

  ‘Doesn’t your mother mind?’

  ‘Well, yes, I think so. But the funny thing is, they seem to get on really well.’

  Kitty ponders in silence.

  ‘So what am I to do about Ed?’ she says at last. ‘I can’t make him come to me if he doesn’t want to.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ says Louisa. ‘Just do it.’

  ‘I couldn’t! Suppose he got angry? Suppose it made him think I was … I was …’

  ‘What? You’re his wife, Kitty.’

  ‘Yes, but if he doesn’t want me …’

  ‘Of course he wants you! And anyway, how’s he going to stop himself? Men can’t. Crank the starter handle and they’re off.’

  Kitty starts to laugh, and that sets Louisa off laughing.

  ‘What about George?’

  ‘Well, no. Obviously not George.’

  They both laugh until they have tears in their eyes.

  ‘Oh, Lord, Louisa!’ says Kitty. ‘What a mess it all is.’

  ‘Would you mind me giving you a little tip?’ says Louisa.

  ‘Tell me anything,’ says Kitty. ‘I’m done with blushing.’

  ‘How long has it been?’

  Kitty hangs her head and answers in a low voice.

  ‘Not since he came home. Not since he went away. Three years.’

  ‘So if you’re going to go to him, it might be a good idea to go prepared.’

  ‘Prepared?’

  Louisa leaves the West Parlour where they’ve gone for their tête-à-tête and runs upstairs. She returns shortly with a small embroidered drawstring bag, which she gives to Kitty. Inside is a tin of Vaseline.

  *

  Ed comes back from town full of brittle nervous energy. When Pamela comes running to greet him he sweeps her up in his arms and tosses her into the air, again and again, until she’s screaming with excitement.

  ‘Your daddy’s going to get a job!’ he says to her. ‘Your daddy’s going to make money so you can have pretty frocks!’

  ‘What is this, Ed?’ says Kitty, laughing, watching the flying child anxiously.

  ‘My father, my esteemed father,’ says Ed, ‘having sacrificed his life to a job in which he has no interest whatsoever, in order to earn enough money to keep us all in the style he believes to be our birthright, has done me the great kindness of finding me a sacrificial job all of my own.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What job?’

  ‘I’m to become a partner in a business that imports wine at low prices from France, and sells at high prices in England. Apparently a child of three could do it. Would you like to be a wine importer, Pammy? You could be a partner too.’

  ‘I can do it!’ squeals the little girl, wriggling in his arms.

  ‘Is this serious, Ed?’ says Kitty.

  ‘I have to do something, darling. Would you mind very much?’

  ‘Not if it’s what you want to do.’

  ‘Oh, that’s asking too much! I don’t want to do it. But I dare say I’ll get into the way of it. I like wine, and I like France. It’s just the buying and selling that fails to excite me.’

  Over dinner more details of the plan emerge. Ed explains about his father’s rich friend, and the rich friend’s son.

  ‘So you see, I’m to be a species of babysitter. If he has tantrums I’m to give him my VC to play with.’

  ‘Well, it all sounds grand to me,’ says George. ‘You can help me restock my white burgundy.’

  ‘You haven’t even met this boy yet,’ says Kitty.

  ‘My father’s met his father. That’s how this sort of thing’s done, you know. Like an arranged marriage.’

  ‘Ed, promise me,’ says Kitty, ‘you won’t do this unless it really feels right. I don’t want you sacrificing yourself for us.’

  He reaches across the table and takes her hand.

  ‘Darling Kitty,’ he says, smiling. ‘You mustn’t pay any attention to all the rot I talk. There isn’t any sacrifice. All I care about in the world is you and Pammy.’

  *

  That night Kitty goes to bed as usual, but she lies awake until she’s sure that all the rest of the house is asleep. Then she leaves her bedroom and passes softly down the passage to the room where Ed is sleeping. She enters without knocking.

  The window curtains are wide open, and the light of a full moon fills the room. The bed is empty. Ed is lying asleep on the floor beside the bed, covered by a sheet and a blanket. He lies on his side, one arm tucked beneath him, the other arm thrown out. He looks peaceful, and beautiful.

  Kitty lies down on the floor beside him, making as little sound as possible, and he doesn’t wake. Slowly she moves her body up against his, and still he doesn’t wake. Then he stirs in his sleep, and straightens out his legs, and rolls onto his back.

  Very gently, she draws the sheet and the blanket down, until they’re no longer covering him. He lies in the moonlight, in his pyjamas, the pyjama top buttoned up, the trouser cord tied in a bow.

  Kitty undoes the buttons one by one, and she loosens the bow and draws apart the cords. She folds back the flaps of his pyjama trousers, and lays her warm hand between his thighs. Very slowly, back and forth, she strokes his cock, and feels it start to grow. She looks up at his face, but his eyes are closed, and his breathing is steady. She goes on stroking until the cock has grown big and hard. She can feel her own heart beating, and wonders that he can sleep on.

  ‘What?’

  He starts out of sleep, raising his arms to defend him
self.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Hush,’ she says. ‘Hush.’

  She goes on stroking him, moving her hand faster now.

  ‘No, Kitty!’ he says.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she says. ‘Don’t talk.’

  She leans close and kisses him, her hand moving all the time up and down his cock. His arms reach round her, pull her close. She hears him groan.

  Then his hands are tugging at her nightdress, pulling it up, and she moves to free it, wanting to be naked for him. His whole body begins to turn now, his hips thrust upwards, his head thrown back, his eyes closed. His hands pull her onto him. She lets him do as he wants, moving her hand away so that he can press her body to his.

  Now she feels his hard cock against her belly, and his chest against her breasts, and he’s groaning loudly as if in pain. Then with a rough and powerful movement he rolls her over and now he’s on top of her and he’s forcing her legs apart and his cock is pushing between her thighs. She lifts her hips, wanting it to be easy for him, and feels his cock drive into her.

  ‘You want it? You want it?’

  His voice harsh and distant.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I want it.’

  He starts to ram into her, making wordless sounds with each thrust.

  ‘I want it,’ she whispers. ‘I want it!’

  Then all at once she realises she does want it. Her body awakens, she wraps herself round him, pulling him deep into her, hungry for sensation, rubbing herself against him, rocking with his angry thrusts.

  ‘Ah!’ he cries. ‘Ah! Ah!’

  He hammers at her, shouts at her, a creature possessed. Then there comes a gasping moan, and she feels his convulsion and feels the pumping inside her. Now he’s sinking down onto her, moving still, but slowly now. She feels his body come to rest, heavy on hers, and she lies still, holding him in her arms. She kisses the sweat on his brow.

  For a long moment he doesn’t move. Then she realises he’s weeping.

  ‘No, darling. No.’

  She kisses the tears on his cheeks.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’

  ‘No, darling,’ she says, kissing him. ‘I wanted you. I came to you because I wanted you.’

  ‘Not like that.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Like that.’

  They lie in each other’s arms until they become cold. Then she moves him off her, and he climbs shakily to his feet.

  ‘Lie down now, darling.’

  He lies on the bed and she covers him with the bedclothes. He holds her hand, doesn’t want her to go.

  ‘Kitty, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be like that with you.’

  ‘I’m yours,’ she says. ‘You can be anything you want with me.’

  ‘I didn’t know. I thought … I don’t know what I thought.’

  ‘You thought I was too good for you.’

  ‘You are good.’

  ‘I’m yours,’ she says again.

  ‘Is it going to be all right?’ he says.

  ‘Yes, my darling,’ she says. ‘It’s going to be all right.’

  *

  The next day Ed moves back into Kitty’s room. Pamela expresses her disapproval.

  ‘That’s not your room. That’s Mummy’s room.’

  ‘I want to be with Mummy,’ he says.

  ‘So do I want to be with Mummy,’ says Pamela. ‘But we have to sleep in our own rooms.’

  Kitty points out that George and Louisa share a bedroom. Pamela becomes puzzled.

  ‘Who can I share with?’ she says.

  ‘When you’re grown up, you can share with your husband.’

  ‘My husband!’

  This enchanting idea distracts her entirely.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Augustus,’ says Ed.

  ‘Augustus? Yech!’

  That night Kitty lies in Ed’s arms, and it’s both strange and familiar at the same time. She thinks she won’t sleep but she does sleep, and when she wakes in the morning he’s still there.

  She gives him a kiss and he too wakes.

  ‘Good morning,’ she says.

  18

  Larry Cornford kneels beside his father in the Carmelite church on Kensington Church Street, murmuring the familiar Latin words. All round him he hears the soft voices of the others in the packed pews. Before him the priest stands, his back to them, green-robed at the altar.

  ‘Beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, Sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis et tibi, Pater …’

  The names are friends Larry has known all his life. At the appropriate moment in the prayer his hand forms a fist and taps his breast in the sign of contrition.

  ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.’

  He feels no sense of blame, only deep and comforting familiarity. The shape of the Mass never varies, its mystery has embraced him since childhood. The buildings may change, priests may come and go, but the ritual unfolds always in the same way. When the time comes for the consecration – ‘Haec dona, haec munera, haec sancta sacrificia illibata’ – and the priest bends in holy secrecy over the altar, making the sign of the cross over the bread and wine – ‘Benedixit, fregit, deditque discipulis suis dicens, Accipite et manducate ex hoc omnes, hoc est enim corpus meum’ – and kneels, and raises the host, and the altar boy tinkles the bell – at this time the wonder always returns, and he feels himself to be in the presence of the supernatural. The child who was taught to see in the Mass a true ever-repeated miracle, the real presence, the coming of God among them – that same child lives still in Larry today, as the priest elevates the host, and the smell of incense rolls over the pews.

  Later he takes his place following his father in the line of communicants, and receives the papery biscuit on his tongue. He feels the living God melt in his mouth. He knows that by the letter of the law he has committed mortal sin and should not take communion, but his God and his Church are merciful. Larry is a very modern Catholic, taught by enlightened monks that God loves the generous heart and the truthful mind more than a petty conformity to rules. He returns to his place in the pews, and kneeling with his head in his hands he prays that he may learn to serve God with his chosen work.

  After Mass he walks home with his father to the tall house on Camden Grove and shares a late breakfast with him. His father talks to him about the company and its present difficulties. He is to make a trip to Jamaica very shortly, to attend to problems on the ground.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re facing a serious supply shortage,’ he says. ‘Partly it’s the hurricane season. But we also have a bad outbreak of leaf-spot disease.’

  ‘I thought the Tilapa came into Avonmouth with a full cargo.’

  ‘So she did, God bless her.’ His father sips at his coffee and sighs. ‘But there’s not much more where that came from. We’re looking seriously at the Cameroons. Also I think it’s time now to come to a new arrangement with the Ministry.’

  ‘Are you still managing the Ministry depots?’

  ‘One hundred and twenty, all told. It’s far too much, of course. But the truth is the Ministry is still operating on a wartime footing.’

  ‘Will you see Joe Kiefer when you’re in Kingston?’

  ‘Joe’s retired now. I’m glad you remember him, Larry. I shall tell him so.’

  William Cornford gazes wistfully across the breakfast table at his son.

  ‘You know we’ve got the house in Normandy habitable now,’ he says. ‘Why not join me there this summer? It should be a good place for your painting.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ says Larry.

  ‘How’s it coming along?’ He wipes his mouth with his napkin. ‘The painting and so forth.’

  ‘I can’t exactly say how I’m getting on,’ says Larry, ‘but I’m hard at work. I’m afraid I’ve no accounts to show you. No figures to prove my progress.’

  ‘Of course not. But are you happy?’

  ‘Yes, Dad. I’m very happy.’


  His father smiles.

  ‘Well, then. That’s the point, isn’t it?’

  *

  Larry tells his father he’s happy because his father is subsidising him and he wishes to give some return on his investment. The truth is more complex. He is finding that the work he has chosen – he calls it ‘work’ following his teacher’s example, shy of grander terms – causes him almost constant unease. Somehow, however steadily he applies himself, he always ends up dissatisfied with the end result. The process itself never fails to absorb him, even to obsess him. But he remains unconvinced of his talent.

  He has chosen in recent weeks to limit himself to landscapes. Noticing that artists he admires have a way of repeating motifs in their work, or of working in defined geographical areas, he has decided to choose landscapes that feature a church. This is mostly a formal preference: the spire of the church, breaking the skyline like a knife, delivers a visual pivot for his composition. But it’s also an emotional choice. The church acts as a lightning conductor, a conduit for the supernatural into his scene. This is not something he talks about with his fellow students. More and more of them are coming under the influence of Victor Pasmore, drawn towards pictorial geometry, if not fullblown abstract painting. Among the hold-outs is Tony Armitage, the farouche boy who is showing an extraordinary talent for portraiture.

  ‘Geometry!’ exclaims Armitage with disgust. ‘It’s pure funk. They can’t face the world. They’re running away from life.’

  Larry is inclined to agree. The Pasmore school strikes him as a form of Puritanism.

  ‘They’re visual Calvinists,’ he says. ‘All this reduction to pure form.’

  Nevertheless his own work is highly formal. He is painting a view of St Giles’s church seen from an upper window of the college. The grey and white tower is built in three diminishing stages, two square, the last a hexagonal spire. On two sides of the tower project steep-pitched grey-tiled roofs. The church is the work of Gilbert Scott and has a window reputedly designed by Ruskin, but to Larry it has become a series of lines to be projected outward and upward as he forms his composition. He is painting both the actual church, and a diagram of sacred space. It’s not something he fully understands, but as he works he knows very quickly which lines have significance and which are trivial. As he begins to overlay the lines with tones of grey and brown and white, he struggles to let the various colours convey the light he wants in the picture, the instinct he has that it’s not stone walls he’s painting so much as the space they enclose.