Coming Home (63 page)

One day, leafing through a copy of
The Studio
, he read an article on the Cornish painters, the Newlyn School. Illustrating this was a coloured plate of a work by Laura Knight: a girl standing on a rock and watching the sea. The sea was peacock-blue, but the girl wore a sweater so it couldn't be all that hot, and her hair was copper-red, dressed in a single plait which fell across one shoulder.

His attention caught, he read the article, and for some reason it set his imagination ablaze. Cornwall. Perhaps he would become a professional artist, and go and settle in Cornwall, as so many had done before him. He would wear bizarre paint-stained clothes, grow his hair, smoke Gitanes; and there would always be some besotted, devoted girl around, domestically inclined, of course, but beautiful. She would live with him in his fisherman's cottage, or perhaps a converted barn, with an outside staircase of granite blocks and a blue-painted door, and there would be geraniums growing scarlet in earthenware pots…

The illusion was so real that he almost felt the warmth of the sun, smelt the sea wind scented with wild flowers. But a fantasy. He looked up, across the deserted art room, through a tall window to a wintry midland sky. A schoolboy's fantasy. He could never be a professional painter because he was already committed to maths and physics, streamed for Cambridge University and a degree in engineering.

But dreams and fantasies were too precious to abandon altogether. He took out his penknife and carefully removed the colour plate. He slipped it into a folder containing some of his own drawings, and suppressing his conscience, spirited it away. Later he mounted and framed it, and the unknown girl by the Cornish sea made an impressive decoration for the walls of his study.

In other directions too, Rugby widened his experience. Too self-contained to make close friends he was, nevertheless, popular and from time to time invitations were proffered, to spend part of the holidays in other people's country houses, in Yorkshire, or Wiltshire, or Hampshire. These, politely, he accepted, was kindly received, and managed not to perpetrate any obvious social gaffes.

‘And where is it you come from?’ some mother would ask him, over the first cup of tea.

‘Scotland.’

‘You lucky boy. Whereabouts?’

‘My parents have a place on Deeside.’ And then, before she started talking about salmon fishing, a beat on the Dee, and grouse moors, he would change the subject, and ask if he might have a slice of gingerbread. After that, with a bit of luck, the subject would not be raised again.

Returning home after these visits was invariably something of an anticlimax. The truth was that he had outgrown his elderly parents, the hideous house felt claustrophobic and the days endless, broken only by lengthy and tedious mealtimes. His mother's loving attentions stifled him, and his father's embarrassing pride and interest only made matters worse.

But all was not gloom. When he turned seventeen, an unexpected bonus came his way, albeit a mixed blessing. Word, it seemed, had gone around the neighbourhood that the Callender boy, despite the distinct disadvantage of his parents, was not only good-looking but perfectly presentable, and if any hostess was in need of a spare man…? Engraved invitations began to arrive, bidding Angus to various functions to which his mother and father were not. Reel parties and summer balls, where his partners had names like Lady Henrietta McMillan, or The Honourable Camilla Stokes. By now he was able to drive a car, and at the wheel of his father's ponderous Rover he duly got himself to these formal events, correctly attired in full Highland rig, starched white shirt and black tie. His training in those country houses in Yorkshire, Wiltshire, and Hampshire now stood him in good stead, and he was able to cope with the formality of massive dinner parties, and afterwards dance until the small hours — smile, be attentive to all the right people — and generally acquit himself to everybody's satisfaction.

But it all seemed a bit like play-acting. He was who he was, with no illusions as to his background or breeding. Driving the long road home after one of these dances, the dark and empty landscape sombre and the sky lightening with the first touch of dawn, the thought occurred to him that, since he was seven years old and the family had left Aberdeen for good, he could remember no place where he'd felt comfortably at home. Not his father's house certainly. Not school. Not the hospitable country establishments in Yorkshire, Wiltshire, and Hampshire, where he had been made so welcome. However much he enjoyed himself, he always felt that he was standing apart and watching others. And he wanted to Belong.

Perhaps one day it would happen. Like falling in love. Or hearing a voice. Or walking into a strange room and finding it instantly recognisable, even though you'd never seen it before in your life. A place where no person would condescend, and he would need no label, no tag. Where he would be made welcome simply because he was himself. ‘Angus, my dear fellow. How good of you to come, and how splendid to see you.’

But matters, unexpectedly, were to improve. After the uneasy years of adolescence, which, for Gus, were more painful and difficult than for most of his contemporaries, Cambridge came as a revelation and a release. From the first moment, he thought it the loveliest city he had ever seen, and Trinity a dream of architecture. During his first few weeks, he spent much of his leisure time simply walking; gradually learning his way about the ancient, time-drenched streets and courtyards. Raised as a Presbyterian, he attended Morning Service in King's Chapel for the sheer joy of listening to the singing, and it was there that he heard for the first time the Gregorian ‘
Miserere’
, and found himself pierced by reasonless joy as the boys' voices soared to heights that were surely unachievable, unless perhaps by angels.

After a bit, as he became more familiar with his new surroundings, the visual impact of Cambridge stirred his painter's instinct, and before long his sketch-book was filled with swift, pencilled impressions. Punts on the willow-fringed Backs; the Bridge of Sighs. The inner courts of Corpus Christi, the twin towers of Kings College, silhouetted against the enormous skyscape of the flat fenlands. The sheer size and pureness of proportion and perspective he found a challenge; the brilliant hues of sky and lawns, stained-glass windows, autumn foliage cried at him to be set down on paper. He felt surrounded, not only by deep wells of learning but by a beauty that was not of nature, but, astonishingly, contrived by man.

His college was Pembroke and his subject engineering. Edward Carey-Lewis, as well, was at Pembroke, but reading English and philosophy. They had arrived as freshmen at the same time, the Michaelmas term of 1937, but it was not until the last term of their second year that they finally got to know each other and became friends. There were reasons for this. Studying different subjects, they did not share tutorials. Their rooms were in different parts of Pembroke, and so the normal, casual, neighbourly chat was precluded. And while Gus played cricket and rugger, Edward appeared to have no interest in team games, and instead spent much of his time with the University Flying Club, endeavouring to achieve his pilot's licence.

Consequently, their paths seldom crossed. But inevitably, Gus saw Edward about the place. At the far side of the College Dining Hall on the formal occasions when all undergraduates were bidden, in some splendour, to dine in. Or buzzing down Trinity Street in his dark-blue Triumph with always a pretty girl or two squashed in beside him. Sometimes, he was glimpsed across a crowded pub, the hub of a noisy gathering, and usually the one to be picking up the bill for a round of drinks, and, with each encounter, he struck Gus as being yet more blessed, confident, handsome, and pleased with himself. An instinctive antipathy (born of envy? — he would not admit this, even to himself) matured into dislike, but, with inborn discretion, Gus kept his feelings to himself. There was no point in making enemies, and he had, after all, never even spoken to the fellow. It was just that there was something about him that was just too good to be true. Edward Carey-Lewis. No man could have it all. There had to be some worm in the bud, but it was not Gus's business to winkle it out.

So, he left it at that, and concentrated on his studies. But fickle fate had other ideas in mind. This summer term, in 1939, Gus Callender and Edward Carey-Lewis were allocated rooms on the same stair at Pembroke, and shared a miniature kitchen, known as a ‘gip-room’. One late afternoon, boiling up a kettle to make a pot of tea, Gus heard footsteps running up the stone stairway behind him, to pause at the open door. And, then, a voice. ‘Hello, there.’

He turned and saw Edward Carey-Lewis standing in the open doorway, a lock of blond hair flopping over his forehead, and his long college muffler wound about his neck.

‘Hello.’

‘You're Angus Callender.’

‘That's right.’

‘Edward Carey-Lewis. It seems we're neighbours. What are your rooms like?’

‘Okay.’

‘Making tea?’ An unashamed hint.

‘Yes. Do you want some?’

‘Have you got anything to eat?’

‘Yes. Fruitcake.’

‘Good. I'm starving.’

And so Edward came, and they sat at the open window of Gus's room, and drank tea out of mugs, and Gus smoked a cigarette, and Edward ate most of the fruitcake. They talked. About nothing in particular, but within fifteen minutes Gus realised that as far as Edward Carey-Lewis was concerned, he had been utterly and completely wrong, for Edward was neither snobbish nor stupid. His easy ways and his straight blue gaze were entirely genuine, and his confidence of manner sprang, not from a rarefied upbringing but the fact that he was clearly his own man, considering himself no better and no worse than any of his contemporaries.

With the teapot emptied and the cake sadly depleted, Edward pulled himself to his feet and started nosing around Gus's rooms, reading the titles of his books, leafing through a magazine.

‘I like your tiger-skin hearthrug.’

‘I bought it in a junk-shop.’

Now Edward was looking at Gus's pictures, moving from one to the other like a man about to purchase.

‘Nice water-colour. Where's that?’

‘The Lake District.’

‘You've got quite a collection here. Did you buy them all?’

‘No. I painted them. Did them myself.’

Edward turned his head to gape at Gus. ‘Did you really? What a frightfully talented fellow you are. And good to know that if you fail your Tripos, you can always keep the wolf from the door by dabbling with your paintbrush.’ He went back to his inspection. ‘Do you ever use oils?’

‘Yes, sometimes.’

‘Did you do this one?’

‘No,’ Gus admitted. ‘I'm ashamed to say I tore that one from the pages of a magazine when I was at school. But I like it so much I take it everywhere; hang it up where I can look at it.’

‘Was it the pretty girl who caught your boyish fancy, or the rocks and the sea?’

‘The whole composition, I suppose.’

‘Who's the artist?’

‘Laura Knight.’

‘It's Cornwall,’ said Edward.

‘I know it is. But how can you tell?’

‘Couldn't be anywhere else.’

Gus frowned. ‘Do you know Cornwall?’

‘I should do. I live there. Always have. It's my home.’

After a bit, ‘How extraordinary,’ said Gus.

‘Why extraordinary?’

‘I don't know. It's just that I've always been enormously interested in the Cornish painters. It seems to me amazing that so many incredibly talented people should congregate in such a remote place, and yet remain so influential.’

‘I don't know much about that, but Newlyn's inundated by artists. Colonies of them. Like mice.’

‘Have you met any of them?’

Edward shook his head. ‘Can't say I have. I'm afraid I'm a bit of a philistine when it comes to art. At Nancherrow we have a lot of sporting pictures and dark family portraits. You know the sort of thing. Wall-eyed ancestors with dogs.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Except that my mother was painted by de Laszlo. It's very charming. It hangs over the drawing-room fireplace.’ Suddenly, Edward seemed to run out of steam. Without ceremony, he yawned enormously. ‘God, I'm tired. I'm going to go and have a bath. Thanks for the tea. I like your rooms.’ He ambled towards the door, opened it and then turned back. ‘What are you doing tonight?

‘Nothing much.’

‘A few of us are driving out to Grantchester for a drink in the pub there. Want to join us?’

‘I'd like to very much. Thank you.’

‘I'll bang on your door about a quarter past seven.’

‘Right.’

Edward smiled. ‘See you then, Gus.’

Gus thought he had misheard. Edward was already on the way out. ‘What did you call me?’

Edward's head came round the edge of the door. ‘Gus.’

‘Why?’

‘I suppose I think of you as Gus. I don't think of you as Angus. Angus has got red hair, and huge brogues like tank treads, and voluminous knickerbockers contrived from ginger tweed.’

Gus found himself laughing. ‘You'd better watch it. I hail from Aberdeenshire.’

But Edward was unfazed. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.’ And on this exit-line he withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Gus. He was Gus. And such was Edward's influence that after that first evening, he was never again to be called anything else.