He touched his cap with his whip.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. Lovely day.’
They were dressed for serious walking, and their serious faces matched their practical clothes.
‘Good afternoon,’ said the taller one. ‘Do you know whose land this is?’
‘We need to know very urgently,’ said the shorter one.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do. Can I help?’
‘It’s not your land, is it?’ the shorter one went on.
‘Mine? No, I wish it was. No, it’s Colonel Paynter’s, I’ve just come from there.’
The ladies looked at each other, as if to confirm an unspoken decision, and asked Alfred for directions to Boskenna. Some instinct encouraged him to delay them a little while.
‘Is there something wrong?’
‘Wrong! There is something very wrong indeed. But this is not something we wish to discuss in any shape or form.’
The shorter one looked over her shoulder, shuddered, and walked away, staring at the sea. The taller one, with a prominent nose, suggested Alfred kept well away from the rocks for the next stretch, kept as far away as possible.
‘But I know this area quite well, what’s so dangerous?’
The taller one started a sentence, then closed her eyes. When she eventually spoke it was with a ferociously frozen smile.
‘If you would be so very kind as to direct us to … Colonel …?’
‘Colonel Paynter’s place, right, you cut across this field, and the next, then keep to the wall on your right, beyond that hut, d’you see, then there’s a path, and careful with the brambles, keep straight on and you – but, look, my dear lady, if it’s that urgent, may I take you there? Tick can manage me and a lady of your figure, can’t you, Tick?’
Grey Tick snorted but they were adamant. There was not the slightest call for that. Munnings insisted with a smile. Without a smile they stood their ground.
‘No, no, thank you, but no.’
And there they were, striding away from him across the first field, their eyes on their goal.
‘Well, good afternoon, ladies.’
Amused, Alfred watched them hurry into the distance, then trotted on towards Lamorna. So what on earth is all this, eh, Tick? Approaching the rock pools he slowed, stopped and dismounted. Let’s have a look at whatever the fuss is, let’s have a scout, shall we, he said, tethering Grey Tick to part of an old broken fence. A rabbit bobbed out and bobbed back. Alfred climbed to the top, scanning the ocean below. My God, what a view! Ye gods, what a day! He drew in the Atlantic air. Beat that!
But … hang on a minute, yes, ah, yes.
Oh yes.
Yes, ladies, he could see now what the fuss was about. There was another view altogether. His riding boots had slippy soles so he moved carefully to his left, to the grassy part, and eased or half slid down the first part on his bottom, using his hands and heels as brakes. It was risky stuff because the slope was very dry. He inched along and just before he was visible from the rocks he held on hard and crouched right down, while keeping the scene below him in sight.
He felt a hunter. Now he was about thirty feet above Laura and Dolly. He watched.
Then, stealthy as a fox, he stalked a little further. His right foot dislodged a small stone but he just managed to hold it in position before it rolled down. Now he was very close indeed, almost in breathing distance, a bird of prey sighting a morsel of flesh. He lay on his stomach, just above them, his brown hair and sunburnt face camouflaged in the rough grass and heather. But the dusty earth affected his nostrils and his eyes itched and he had the devil’s own job not sneezing. Making the smallest movement possible he wiped his forehead with his large coloured handkerchief and slowly loosened his bow tie and collar. This close to the ground it was very hot.
He pressed his body hard into the earth. He kept as still as he could and stared. The sweat shone on the hairs on the back of his hands and glistened on the back of his neck. One of Dolly’s knees was raised, the other leg stretched straight out. Her hair, loosened over her shoulders, was slightly fairer than Florence’s. Or perhaps the strong light made it seem so.
Here was a picture!
Could he memorise it?
Should he memorise it?
In Florence’s hair there was more auburn, which he had tried to catch, but he had never seen her hair flowing like this. Never. But he must. He must!
Dolly was a touch taller than Florence. No, how on earth could he tell? If only she would stand up, but if she stood up, she would see him. His body shocked with panic at the very thought of that, at the position he was now in, and the shame of being apprehended.
A snooper.
Her legs were in some ways like Florence’s. How could he say that? He had not fully seen Florence’s legs, not as he was seeing these, so carelessly splayed. Trickles of sweat started to run off his eyebrows. He brushed them away, and the sweat ran instead off his nose and the back of his hand.
Dolly gazed out to sea. He could hear her eating her apple! He was looking over her back, almost above her, hovering over her like a kestrel. He could hear her lick the juice off her lips. He looked at her, from her breasts down to her feet. His mouth felt as parched as the ground on which his chin rested. He looked between her legs. And stayed looking. He very nearly sneezed.
Dolly, I have seen you. And it is good. Does Florence look like you? Does she look like this? He gazed. Does Blote look so good? He had to get back to his horse, but he had to stay. A seagull swooped and shrieked, sending his heart into an even crazier beat.
‘Noisy things!’ Dolly laughed, and then imitated the seagull, ‘Squawk, squawk.’
Crawling back up the slippery slope would be more difficult, much more difficult, than coming down, and he might so easily dislodge some stones.
What would Laura say? What would Laura say if she turned and saw him? His heart pumped against the earth.
The heat was intense, his body damp with sweat, the sight below him a branding iron.
He stayed where he was.
Taking Partners
They all agreed to go to Penzance, and they all arranged to meet: Promenade Roller-Skating Rink at two, Laura, we’re all going, Blote, you too, Dolly, no excuses, Gilbert, you’re not that busy, we’ll see you there, Alfred, and don’t be late, we want you there.
The weather had turned nasty again, the waves thrashing, the sea a broth, its moods even more volatile than Munnings, forcing the fishermen’s wives closer together in their black hats and aprons, huddled together against the cut of the wind. Setting off in good time Joey and Florence took Jory’s pony and trap. On the way Joey played Scottish airs on a penny whistle, with Florence singing the occasional verse. To be seen bowling along with his sister, to be seen with such a beauty, made Joey feel proud. The fishermen’s wives glared.
Joey had skated a few times before; Florence had not. He helped his sister on with her skates, lacing these preliminaries with technical hints and cautionary stories. She absorbed his do’s and don’ts, then waited while he put on his skates, still talking away nineteen to the dozen, and then, hand in hand, they stepped out on to the rink.
As soon as they started to skate the others seemed to turn up and watch. Even worse, and much to Joey’s annoyance, he was far less skilful in keeping his feet than his sister. He half ran, half pushed his feet across the centre of the rink, arcing and curving, pushing his skates till the soles of his shoes burned, running as if trying to establish an early lead in the cross-country, only to stub his toe just in front of Dolly, sway forward, then rock helplessly back on his heels and slide feet first, backside next, into the surrounding boards. He refused Dolly’s help. He stumbled, red-faced, to his feet.
For her part, keeping initially to the outward fringes, Florence eased her way into the skating, taking tentative waltz steps, humming Joey’s little Scottish air to herself as if dancing with an unwelcome partner at one of the more tedious balls she had endured, as self-contained as th
ey come, like loose silk hanging free. Soon she built up a steady, flowing, easy rhythm, avoiding the crush of other bodies and warmed by the measured exercise.
When Joey, after a while and some adjustments to his technique, had achieved a level of competence and sorted out his bruised pride, he skated round hoping to join his sister. But too late. She had already been asked by another man.
Then another.
Then another.
When had it been otherwise?
Alfred set out from his studio on Grey Tick at much the same time as Florence and Joey. We’re off to Penzance, he said to his horse, and I’m in fine fettle. And shall I tell you why, Tick, shall I? Because … be-cause I was up at the sparrow’s crack and working and I have to tell you I did some damn good stuff, not a break till noon. It’s the girl, you know, Tick, she’s the secret, she’s the ticket, Tick. Well, the girls, plural, as a matter of fact.
At seven in the morning, however – this he did not tell his horse – he was very grumpy. He felt there was a critical man, an unwelcome collaborator, a critic leaning over his shoulder and making scornful comments about his latest work. Well, he saw him off, and by noon not only had his breeches dried on the line but he felt more at one with himself. By noon the hounds in the picture were looking like living hounds not statues, and the rocks looked like rocks not pieces of black sponge. And do you know how I did this, Tick?
Tell you a secret, shall I?
Today, whenever I felt a bit low, or a bit down, I thought about that Dolly on the rocks, that girl, and suddenly I was alive, amazing, I was alive in the picture, and that’s when I know I’m doing well, when I’m living in the picture, I can feel it in my balance, in my feet, I even feel I’ve got my binocular vision back (though there’s bugger-all chance of that), I feel it in my hands, and they were both with me, d’you see, both of them in a thunder of plunging, the one on the rocks was in Florence’s dress and watching, and Florence was there … her legs on the rocks, lying in the same way as Dolly, Florence undressed, and Dolly came back with me in Florence’s dress, because she wanted to, and they both stood in front of me undressed, both lay down in the studio, both lay on my bed and they were both paintable, Tick, they were so paintable, one clothed and one watching, then the other wore the other’s clothes and the power poured into my painting, sometimes I may be tired, Tick, but you see they both wanted to be painted on the floor, they wanted to be painted every colour of the rainbow, all over, they both wanted to stay, they wouldn’t go, they begged me to go on painting them as they lay or walked barefoot on the floor, and I painted them as they went past, I painted their backs and their fronts and we rolled in the paint and laughed at Harold Knight who only pieces bits of a picture together like embroidery, that’s no good, no good at all, so I painted them, they were painted, no fooling, it’s got to be dramatic and virile and direct and that’s art,
THAT IS ART.
Alfred pressed on, thrusting his horse on, towards Penzance, he and Grey Tick at one together, sensing each other’s bodies, like a painter and his model, until they came to The Star Inn. Here, on the outskirts of Newlyn, Alfred pronounced himself ‘parched’. He said so to Grey Tick. His mouth was as dry as it had been face down above Dolly.
‘Parched,’ he said to the landlord, plonking himself down, legs apart, on the low wooden settle with a window view of Mounts Bay and a big ship passing. In three steady pulls he drained the first pint. He smacked his lips and belched. He was, he proclaimed to himself, still parched.
‘Still parched,’ he said with a challenging smile, as if to suggest that the landlord with the pock-marked face could surely draw off a bigger and better pint than the last.
‘And you’ll have one yourself to join me, I hope?’
Surprised to find such a good mixer at lunchtime, the landlord fumbled with his match, left his pipe unlit and returned to the barrel.
‘Thank you, sir, I will.’
And with that, while Florence was a mile away, and skating along like loose silk hanging free, they fell to talking, man to man, the landlord and Mr Munnings, elbows and shoulders together, and found they had mutual friends in the hunt, and found the fox story was still running, and Alfred arranged to have a ton of hay sent to his stables, before they moved on to the vagaries of the weather and the sea, which led naturally enough to horses and women and life, and how some women looked good without trying while others, however hard they tried, always looked like lumps, and how men who knew about horses and women and life knew the pleasure of riding home with a frost beginning and a young moon in the sky and puddles crisping over.
For a moment A.J. was distracted in full flow by the fly bottle, because the flies in the bar were being attracted to the beer in a bottle and they fell through the hole and got tight and were drowned. Alfred jabbed his finger at the bottle.
‘And that is life, too.’
‘And death,’ the landlord said. At which both philosophers laughed.
After four pints Alfred, feeling increasingly at one, paid up, did a quick drawing on a piece of card and presented it to the landlord, bade him a fond farewell, wrapped his lemon-yellow muffler round his neck, went out into the wind and smacked his wide, shiny old stuffed saddle, asking Grey Tick a few questions as they went on the last leg to the rink, asking for example, why:
Why is it I feel at one with a pub, in a pub, eh, as with a painting, as with a good chat with a stranger over a drink and sausages and mash, as with a horse, the sweet, curious smell of a horse in a lane, the smell of pastures coming through the pores of their skin, and as he asked Grey Tick these questions he scratched his neck and stroked his long curly mane.
Augereau, Anarchist, Rufus, Cherry Bounce, Winter Rose, Red Prince, Fanny, Merrilegs and Grey Tick.
Merely to memorise the names of the horses he’d had was to see the sheen of a clipped coat, a warrior of a pony, a mare with long black legs and dappled quarters, a white mare with an Arab-looking countenance …
What horses!
What friends!
And another thing, how articulate he was today! Today he could explain everything. Quite often Alfred found, when put on the spot by Laura Knight or some critic in a gallery, that he could not say much in the presence of a painting. Words frequently failed him. He became tongue-tied. The whole assessing and comparing business made him bang his feet around on the floor, it made him so churned up inside that he couldn’t trust his arse with a fart, but as he strode out of the pub he knew exactly what he thought about horses and women and art and narrow-minded Methodists and bloody Sabbatarians and he could spell out what he thought to all and sundry. At length.
Everything that day, by contrast, seemed to conspire against Gilbert. By lunchtime he despaired of ever arriving at the skating rink at all. Not only had he woken feverish with cold but Colonel Paynter called at Jory’s to ask him over to Boskenna at around ten to discuss possible improvements and developments to Gilbert’s new office in Lamorna. As he was spending an increasing amount of time in and around the village supervising the new building, Gilbert could see the merits of the plan. It would save him time, it was sensible, it would make the estate more efficient, it was all very well for the Colonel to consider it, but they were standing in a chill wind and the minutes and the hours of the long-awaited Saturday were steadily being gnawed away. If he looked at the ground long enough, however, he felt the Colonel would eventually grasp the point.
Eventually he did.
‘Anyway, Gilbert, I mustn’t keep you, it is Saturday after all, and you young chaps need to relax.’
‘That’s quite all right, Colonel.’
‘But you’re optimistic about the water source? In the pipeline, so to speak?’
‘I am, yes, very optimistic. Lamorna is quite a spot on the map now.’
‘And the foundations on the new property, all going to plan?’
‘Very much to plan. It’ll be a handsome place when it’s finished.’
‘Sort of place you might co
nsider yourself one day, no doubt? All being well?’
‘If I ever get married, sir, and my pocket reaches that far.’
‘And before you go, Mrs Paynter’s most keen you come over to dinner soon, you quite won her heart with the dog business, went straight to the mark.’
‘I’m glad it all ended so well. I saw Flirt just now and she looked full of beans.’
‘Thought we might ask along Miss Carter-Wood. Quite a looker, eh?’
‘I’m sure she’d be delighted to come.’
‘Very taken with her, we are!’
‘So are we all.’
‘Good, good. We’ll set all that in train then. And, by the way, Gilbert, you’re doing a first-rate job, first-rate, don’t know how we ever got along without you.’
‘Thank you, Colonel.’
‘And the men know you’re fair. That’s how it should be. Good man!’
Hot with this praise, Gilbert bicycled back as fast as his legs would carry him, he tore around the lanes to the hotel and bolted the lunch Mrs Jory had ensured was kept warm for him. While on his way back from Boskenna he was aiming to cut lunch altogether but the look in Mrs Jory’s eye as he rushed in immediately reversed that strategy. He sat. He ate the soup and pie. A gentleman, Mrs Jory held, had to eat properly. He looked at the clock on the sideboard, sure he would now miss everything that was good about a Saturday afternoon in Penzance. Thanking Mrs Jory he ran up to his room where he spent an unnecessary ten minutes trying on three different ties, a blue one, a red one and his green regimental tie, until his hands were damp with the bother of it all and his collar stud began to chafe. He had never in his life been so put out over something so unimportant as a tie. This was not like him at all. Nor was his mood improved by his involuntary memory replaying one of A.J.’s silly songs.
You can only wear one tie
Have one eyeglass in your eye
One coffin when you die
Don’t you know!
Damn A.J., always butting in.
Even then, delayed as he was, he had a quick look at the tray of birds’ eggs, and another visit to the lavatory, before toiling up the long hill, pumping his legs as hard as he could to make up some of the lost minutes. But he was delayed by a herd of cows, and by the time it was downhill into Penzance he was back angrily on foot. Yes, another puncture, and another puncture meant yet another opportunity for the jaunty A.J. to laugh.
Summer in February Page 16
