Motherland (31 page)

‘But he’s so fat,’ says Kitty, ‘and he’s so clumsy, and he’s so naive.’ She’s especially outraged by his marriage to the beautiful but cold Helene. ‘All because of her bosom. It’s ridiculous.’

‘I promise you he gets better,’ says Larry. ‘You’ll learn to love him.’

‘I love Prince André.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘And you love Natasha.’

‘I adore Natasha. From the moment she runs into the grownups’ party and can’t stop laughing. But do you know an odd thing? Tolstoy quite clearly tells us that she’s not specially pretty. But when I imagine her, she’s tremendously attractive.’

‘Of course she’s pretty!’

‘Look.’ He takes the volume from her and finds the page in question. ‘“This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl,
not pretty
but full of life”.’

‘Oh, but she’s still only a child,’ says Kitty. ‘She’s only thirteen. She grows up to be beautiful.’

*

February is half gone, and the wireless news is that the miners in South Wales are to work full shifts even on Sundays. Ships have finally been able to dock with cargoes of coal. There are no signs of a thaw, but the trains are running once more, and everyone is telling everyone else that the thaw must come soon.

Kitty and Larry find themselves alone on either side of the Oak Room fire. Larry puts his bookmark in his place, closes his book, and lays it down.

‘I shall go back to London tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’ve been gone too long.’

‘But we haven’t had a chance to talk,’ Kitty says. ‘Not properly.’

She too lays down her book.

‘I like having you here so much, Larry,’ she says. ‘I shall hate it when you go.’

‘You know I’ll always come back.’

‘Will you? Always?’

‘That’s what friends do.’

Kitty looks at him, only half smiling.

‘It’s not much of a word, is it?’ she says. ‘
Friend
. There should be a better word.
Friend
sounds so unimportant, someone you chat to at parties. You’re more than that for me.’

‘You too,’ says Larry.

‘I shan’t like it when you marry, you know. Whoever it is. But of course you must. I’m not so selfish as not to see that.’

‘The trouble is,’ says Larry, ‘I can’t help comparing every girl I meet to you.’

‘Oh, well. That shouldn’t be too much of a problem. There are so many girls who are far more thrilling than me.’

‘I have yet to meet one.’

She holds his gaze, not pretending she doesn’t understand.

‘Just tell me you’re happy,’ he says.

‘Why ask me that? You know I’m not happy.’

‘Can’t anything be done?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘I’ve thought about it so much. I’ve decided this is my task in life. Yes, I know how terrible that sounds, like
some grim duty. I don’t mean it that way. Do you remember saying to me once, Don’t you want to do something noble and fine with your life? Well, I do. I love Ed, I’ll never hurt him or be disloyal to him. This is just the thing I have to do. Being happy or unhappy doesn’t matter any more.’

‘Oh, Kitty.’

‘Please don’t pity me. I can’t bear it.’

‘It’s not pity. I don’t know what it is. Regret. Anger. It’s all such a waste. You don’t deserve this.’

‘Why should I get a happier life than anyone else?’

‘It could have been so different. That’s what I can’t bear.’

‘Why think that way?’ she says gently. ‘I made my choice. I chose Ed. I chose him knowing there was a sadness in him. Maybe I chose him because of that. And I do love him.’

‘Isn’t there room in our lives to love more than one person?’

‘Of course. But why think that way? There’s nothing to be done.’

‘Kitty—’

‘No, please. Don’t make me say anything more. I mustn’t be selfish and greedy. You’re more than a friend to me, Larry. But I mustn’t hold on to you. What I want more than anything is for you to find someone who makes you happy. Then all I ask is that she lets you go on being my friend. I couldn’t bear to lose you altogether. Promise me you’ll always be my friend.’

‘Even though it’s not much of a word.’

‘Even though.’

‘Do friends love each other, Kitty?’

‘Yes,’ she says, her eyes on him. ‘They love each other very much.’

‘Then I promise.’

*

That same day Kitty sings to them, accompanying herself on the piano in the morning room. She sings ‘The Ash Grove’ and ‘Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes’.

Larry’s eyes never leave her face as she sings. She plays by ear, and sings from memory, a slight frown of concentration on her face.

Then at Ed’s request she sings ‘The Water is Wide’.

Little Pamela is unimpressed by the sad songs and agitates for ‘Little Brown Jug’.

The following morning Larry walks the snowy road into Lewes, her sweet voice still sounding in his memory, her bright eyes reaching towards him across the piano.

London is quiet and mostly empty, the snow that lines the streets now a dirty shade of grey-brown. Occasional taxis clatter by over the lumps of ice. People passing on the pavements, heavily wrapped in overcoats, hats pulled low over their ears, keep their heads down to avoid stumbling on the ridged snow. All business seems to have closed down. Every day now like a Sunday in winter.

Larry returns to his room in Camberwell and lights the gas fire. It burns at low pressure, taking a long time to warm the chill air. Everything is cold to his touch, the covers on his bed, his books, his paints. He looks at the canvas he had begun before going to Sussex, and sees at once that it has no life in it. His room too, despite his return, has no life in it.

Suddenly he wants very much to see Nell.

He phones Weingard’s gallery and a female voice answers. The gallery is closed. No, she doesn’t know where Nell is. He writes a note to her, telling her he’s back, and walks up the road to the post office on Church Street to send it. From there he goes on to the pub on the corner. It’s a Monday and early for the evening
crowd. The Hermit’s Rest is eerily quiet. He sits at a table close to the meagre fire and works away slowly at a pint of stout. He thinks about Nell.

Ever since his last talk with Kitty he’s been thinking new thoughts about his future. His feelings haven’t changed. But he sees more clearly now that he must take active steps to make a life without Kitty, or he’ll doom himself to live a life alone. Once again he marvels at Nell’s insight. It seems she knows him better than he knows himself. She accuses him of never taking the initiative, and she’s right. For too long he’s allowed events outside his control to determine his course. The time has come to take charge of his own life.

He interrogates himself, sitting alone in the pub. Do I want to marry Nell? He recalls her elusiveness, her moodiness, her unpredictability, and he trembles. What sort of life would that be? But then he thinks of never seeing her again and he almost cries out loud, ‘No! Don’t leave me!’, so powerful is the longing to hold her in his arms.

What is the gravest charge he has to bring against her? That she spends time with other men. That she leads them on to love her. In other words, that he does not possess her exclusive love. But what right has he to her exclusive love, when he makes no promise on his side? See it from her point of view: she has made herself over to him, body and soul, while he has kept much of himself apart.

But I asked her to marry me.

Ah, she saw through that. She knows me better than I know myself. She saw that I was doing my duty because of the baby. She puts no trust in duty. She requires true love.

Thinking this makes him admire her, and admiring her he
feels he does love her after all. It’s just a matter of letting go whatever last inhibition holds him back. Offer her all the love of which he’s capable and she’ll give him back love fourfold, and his fears will melt away.

What a rare creature she is! A child of truth. With her in his life there’ll be no complacency, and no idling. His days will be vivid and his nights will be warm. He can see her naked body now, rosy in the gaslight, and feels his body’s gratitude to her tingling in his veins. Is this such a small thing? Some would say it’s the basis of everything. Find happiness with each other in bed and love will never die.

His beer finished, his spirits excited by his train of thought, he feels the need of companionship. With luck Nell will get his note tomorrow and be with him by the end of the day. He has much to say to her. But between now and then he does not want to be alone. He could walk into Kensington and call on his father. Then he has a better idea. He will call on Tony Armitage.

Armitage has a studio in Valmar Road, on the other side of Denmark Hill. There’s a fair chance he’ll be in. Larry buttons his overcoat up to his chin and sets out into the snowy streets once more. Valmar Road isn’t far, but it’s an awkward place to find. A distant church clock is chiming seven as he rings the top bell at the street door.

A window opens above. Armitage’s head pokes out.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Larry,’ says Larry.

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaims Armitage. Then, ‘I’ll come down.’

He lets Larry in the front door.

‘I’ve not been outside for a week,’ he says. ‘Too bloody cold.’

Larry follows him up several flights of bare stairs to the rooms in the roof.

‘I’ve got nothing to eat,’ says Armitage. ‘There may be some brandy left.’

His living quarters consist of one sizeable room with a big north-facing window, which is his studio, his kitchen, and his washroom, a single butler sink serving all these purposes; beyond, a closed door leads to a small bedroom. The electric light bulb that illuminates the studio is either very low-powered or the electricity is weak. In its grudging light Larry sees a chaotic array of paintings, most of them unfinished.

‘I lose heart,’ says Armitage. ‘I know exactly what it is I mean to do, and then I see what I’ve actually done, and I lose heart.’

He doesn’t ask Larry why he’s come. He offers him brandy in a teacup. Larry looks round the canvases.

‘But your work is so good,’ he says.

He means it. Even in this poor light he can see that his friend’s paintings are exploding with life. As he admires them, he feels with deep shock the contrast with his own work. Somehow this has never been as apparent to him before. Over the last two years his work has become accomplished, but looking at Armitage’s pictures, he knows with a terrible certainty that he will never be a true artist. He has enough understanding of technique to see how Armitage achieves his effects, while at the same time knowing that this is so much more than technique. In his portraits particularly, he has the gift of expressing the fine complexity of life itself.

‘This is so good,’ he says again. ‘You’re good, Tony.’

‘I’m better than good,’ says Armitage. ‘I’m the real thing. Which is why I drive myself crazy. All this’ – he gestures round
the studio – ‘this is nothing. One day I’ll show you what I can do.’

Larry comes upon two quite small sketches of Nell.

‘There’s Nell,’ he says. In one of them she’s looking towards the artist but past him, playing her unreachable game. ‘That’s so Nell.’

He realises now why he’s come. He wants to talk to someone about Nell.

‘She never sits still for long enough,’ says Armitage. ‘Also her skin’s too smooth. I like wrinkles.’

‘I think I might be in love with her,’ says Larry.

‘Oh, everyone’s in love with Nell,’ says Armitage. ‘That’s her function in life. She’s a muse.’

‘I don’t think she wants to be a muse.’

‘Of course she does. Why else does she hang around artists? You get girls like that.’

Larry laughs. Tony Armitage, barely twenty-one years old, his wild curls serving only to emphasise his boyish face, makes an unconvincing bohemian roué.

‘How on earth do you know? You’ve only just left school.’

‘It’s nothing to do with age. I was seven when I found out I had talent. I was fifteen when I knew I would be one of the greats. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I know all this is poor prentice work. But give me five more years, and you won’t be laughing.’

‘I’m not laughing at your work, Tony,’ Larry says. ‘I’m in awe of your work. But I’m not sure I’m quite ready to see you as a fount of wisdom on the opposite sex.’

‘Oh, girls.’ He speaks dismissively, evidently not very interested.

‘Don’t you care for girls?’

‘Yes, in their way. Up to a point. One has to eat and so forth.’

Larry can’t help laughing again. But he’s impressed by the young man’s invincible conviction of his own worth. It could be the groundless arrogance of youth, but on the whole Larry is inclined to take it at face value; all too aware that he lacks such self-belief himself.

‘I’m afraid I get myself into much more of a mess with girls than you seem to,’ he says. ‘With Nell, anyway.’ Then on an impulse he reveals more. ‘Did she tell you I asked her to marry me?’

‘No.’ He seems surprised. ‘Why?’

‘Because I wanted to marry her. And also because she was pregnant.’

‘Nell told you she was pregnant?’

‘She isn’t any more. She had a miscarriage. I expect I shouldn’t be telling you this. But she’s fine now.’

‘Nell told you she had a miscarriage?’

‘Yes.’

It strikes Larry now that Armitage is looking at him in an odd way.

‘And you believed her?’ he says.

‘Yes,’ says Larry. ‘I know Nell’s got her own strange ways, but the one thing she’d never do is tell a lie. She’s got an obsession with truthfulness.’

Armitage stares at Larry. Then he lets out a harsh cackle of laughter. Larry frowns, annoyed.

‘Nell never tell a lie!’ says Armitage. ‘She does nothing but lie.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Larry. ‘I don’t think you know her as I do.’