Authors: Melvyn Bragg
The icing on the cake had hardened over the uncollected days, but once cracked open the fruit cake itself was applauded as was the neat brief speech given by Roderick and the elegant words said by Dr Prévost, who came over to Natasha at the end of it and kissed her more tenderly than she could recall, so tenderly that she avoided her stepmother's eye. Joe's speech was unbearably nervous and because of that applauded most warmly. About an hour later they left, a taxi at the gate booked to take them to a âsecret location', which was the bus station. They had half an hour to wait for the next bus to Henley, where they would change for another bus. They went into the Welsh Pony.
It was just after opening time and empty. The emptiness was a relief. Joe appreciated the knowing smile of the barmaid but took the two halves of bitter well away from the bar, into the far corner of the room, against the big window. The late afternoon light illuminated Natasha.
She could not have been more enticingly lit by the best cameraman in films, Joe thought, so bathed in the intense streams of light, so wrapped in it, enthroned in it as the rays burst through the window panes and radiated around her, as if she had for those moments been chosen.
This, he wanted to tell their daughter, was when he fell profoundly in love with her mother. But it would have been thought too late, he guessed, and too difficult to explain how he was so certain. Why so late? she would have asked. What had been his feelings before then? How could he have proposed without being âreally in love'? Natasha was almost like a vision, he would think, even a revelation, but that was too grandiose to pass on and how could visions and revelations lead to what happened? The truth about Natasha would come out slowly and piecemeal.
Perhaps in his nervousness he had needed the few months since meeting her to build up the confidence to realise the finality of it. Perhaps there was something about that particular moment in the corner of the pub next to the bus station that prompted the unmistakable physical sensation of finally, utterly falling, falling into love, the great force of the sunlight, the sense of unique good fortune, the confluence of assured desire and protectiveness. But it was falling most of all, falling for Natasha.
Did she feel the same at that moment? He never did ask her. And how valid or significant was this flood of his feeling if not returned? Was it no more than a stone thrown into space? Was it love of his own love for her?
But most of all he did not speak of it to their daughter because the memory of it led immediately to a much later image of her, towards the end, so worn, so disappointed, frightened, strained, so far from their wedding day; a fall too tormenting to speak of, one which still caused him physically to flinch and turn away his head as if blows were being rained on him, a deep strike of guilt and the unceasing reminder of responsibility, of failing.
âTo us,' he said, and raised his glass of beer.
Natasha's smile was shy, unusual for her; in this public place together she felt so rawly married.
âWho did your hair?'
âI'm pleased you like it.'
âIt's great,' Joe said. âIt really is dead classy. No question.'
Frances had decided that Natasha must have her hair up for the occasion and the long student locks had been shaped and swept into a high soft curving crown. It made her look distinguished.
âShe's what you could call handsome, isn't she?' Ellen said as they sat in the bed at the end of the day and picked their way through the last twelve hours. Sam merely nodded; he was sifting through his impressions with some care. âThat hairstyle suited her well,' said Ellen. âI've seen it on women at society weddings. You have to be tall to carry it off . . .'
âThat dress,' said Joe. âIt's . . . You suit it well.'
It was new, bought with money given to Natasha by her father, high-necked, long-sleeved, in patterns of lilac and cream, and something in the material that floated, Joe thought, bore her up, and again altered her to bring out that which he had not seen before, another Natasha even more mysterious than the woman he knew . . .
âShe looked very like her mother,' said Dr Prévost as they walked back to the Randolph from the Stevenses', where they had been offered supper. Véronique held his arm and held her peace; it was not often he referred back to his first wife so directly and it would pass. âEspecially with the hair,' he gesticulated with his free arm, â
comme ça
.'
âShe looked well,' was her measured response. I feared she would do so much worse was unsaid. âHe is very young.'
âProfessor Stevens speaks highly of him. He says he is a very solid young man, from the North of England and full of common sense. He is exactly right for Natasha. And the BBC!' Again a gesticulation. âProfessor Stevens told me that was a very good thing. No. I am pleased for her.' He patted his wife's hand. âI am very pleased for her.'
You are very pleased for yourself, she thought, but again an indulgent silence prevailed. She is finally off your hands. And mine, she thought, holding his arm more tightly as they turned into Beaumont Street. Thank God, at last, off mine.
âI talked to Joseph about Africa,' he said as they strolled across the empty road. âHe was very intelligent about the British Empire. The French have similar problems. I invited him to come to Provence for the summer. They do not have much money.'
âBut we . . . The arrangements are . . . Would it not be better for them to be on their own?'
âHe was very pleased to be invited.' He stood back so that she could precede him up the steps. âI must ask where this name Randolph comes from. Professor Stevens said he “had not a clue”.' Dr Prévost said it in English, the phrase amused him. â“He had not a clue” . . . !'
The bus stopped just a few yards from the Stonor Arms, the small hotel in the Chilterns recommended by Frances. It seemed to Joe to be more like a house, the house of wealthy people, Joe thought, as he took in the comfortable floral-patterned sofas in the reception area, the dark oil paintings on the wall, the highly coloured rugs, the antique umbrella stand, the sets of antlers jutting out from above the ornately designed fireplace and what he thought of as the rather intimidating welcome from the tall, tweeded owner, whose look seemed to say, âNewly-weds, ha! I'll be keeping an eye on you two.' Joe was a little brusque in confirming the four-night reservation and Natasha took comfort in this reassuring gaucheness.
Their room, large, two deep armchairs, plumped cushions, old mahogany furniture, heavy curtains, paintings and rugs once again, was the most luxurious bedroom Joe had ever seen.
âLook.' He sat on the bed and attempted to bounce, but sank into the deep goose-feathered mattress. âA double bed!'
The cases were unpacked, the curtains drawn, the gong sounded for dinner. Joe took off with speed the clerical grey suit put on with such care, wrenched off the tie and watched as Natasha, more slowly, did she know how beautiful she was? undressed and they took possession of the double bed.
âAh,' said their host, gin and tonic in hand, as they came down the stairs late for dinner, âour newly-weds! Is the room to your liking?'
âIt's fine,' said Joe. âThank you. I'm starving.'
âA young warrior,' murmured the host, and Natasha noticed his condescension.
â
Mais bien sûr
,' she said, â
comme tous les vrais anglais, n'est-ce pas?
'
They swept into the whispering dining room . . .
âIt was nice of that Roderick and Bob to take us for a drink,' Sam said. They were in bed, too restless to sleep, too full of the day to read.
âYes.' Ellen grasped at this, as reassurance. âThey're very good-mannered.'
âSo he's made a couple of good friends,' said Sam. âThat's all you need. That tutor was good to talk to. So was her father.'
For Sam it had been a day of unanticipated satisfaction. Oxford had taken his breath away: Joe had told him about it but he had never anticipated the impact of the buildings, the gardens and streets, the towers and spires, the variety of colleges. Dr Prévost, Professor Stevens, Malcolm Turney, all had treated him as an equal in conversation and their cast of mind, the way they expressed and commented on even the simplest issues made it a privilege, he said later to a friend back in Wigton, just to listen.
âAnd Natasha,' Ellen said, âwhat did you think of Natasha?' She had wanted to save that question until they were back home when there would have been time to consider. But she could not repress it.
âI liked her.'
âShe's not too old for him?'
âThey'll manage.'
âNot too sophisticated?'
âJoe can cope.'
âYou can't help but take to her,' said Ellen quietly, after a pause, âthere's something about her, isn't there? Something you can't help but like.' But for Joe? What would they have in common, she thought, after they left Oxford, after the attraction of mutual strangeness had worn off? She needed Sam to help her.
Sam nodded but said no more. He had been captivated by Natasha. If he could have found an acceptable way to use the word he would have
confessed that at first sight he had loved her. He did not want to examine it now. It could wait, better to wait. But he was utterly captivated by her â the bold smile in her eyes, the high style, the equality of her attention, the way she had immediately called him âSam', but something much deeper, a fragile innerness which Sam could sense and wanted to guard, an innerness which to understand would, he thought, be to know something rare.
âI hope he takes care of her,' he said, rather huskily.
âHe will.' Ellen was quick to defend. There would be no real talk with Sam about the wedding and so she put off that conversation for the future. She looked over at the chest of drawers where her hat lay as in state, a wide-brimmed pearl-grey creation, which matched the suit, decorated with a broad pink satin band bowed at the side which, the shopkeeper had said, âthrew it into relief'. âWhat do you think of my hat?'
âVery nice,' said Sam, scarcely glancing.
âI don't think it was quite right for the occasion.'
âYou looked,' Sam said, unusually firmly, âthe bee's knees.'
âI've heard more romantic declarations.' Yet his calm, his contentment reassured her and over time the day clarified and took on a remembered happiness . . .
Joe pounded through the Chiltern Hills scornfully as if proving by the pace his several times expressed view that they were ânothing like the Lake District'. He and Natasha were out soon after breakfast and onto the paths and bridleways which took them through old woods, up deep valleys rich in forest, onto hills on which Natasha demanded a break while she pencil-sketched a prospect of what she called âthe true English countryside, so green, so varied, and gentle'.
âNo wonder your lot came over to grab it,' Joe said.
They stopped for lunch in pubs invariably ancient and oakbeamed in tranquil villages, Ibstone, Turville, Hambledon, and Joe would propel her into the churches or use the afternoon to make for another landmark.
âYou have peasant legs,' she said.
âThey come in useful.'
In those few days they roved widely over the bow-backed hills, ambled through dappled woods, lay and looked at the clouds and talked profoundly and lightly of eternal questions, made love in forested seclusion, wedded in Oxford and wedded again in those days when Natasha saw him plain and let go more of herself, and Joe was so swept up by her he soared on the upward surge of his feelings, soared and glided, like the hawks.
On the last afternoon they were later than usual and came from Turville Heath down to South End to cut through the Stonor Estate to the hotel. The light was clear and though the sun had gone it was warm. Both of them were tired and quiet.
They went down into the dense woods and came out at a point where the crescent mass of Stonor House lay just a few hundred yards below them and beyond that were the now familiar multiple green undulations of what had become for both of them a countryside of dreams.
Joe stopped and held out an arm to check Natasha. He put his finger to his lips. Then she too heard the drumming sound, the light drumming on the ground and the brushing of the trees like a wind among the leaves and suddenly there they were, led by a magnificently antlered white hart, a herd of deer, racing out of the wood behind the great white hart, twenty, thirty deer, following him into the open down the hill and then changing direction obediently as he swerved to climb again and race into another reach of the woods, into silence.
Joe was taken over by intense and inexplicable joy and Natasha too, he saw, was smiling, fully, no teasing, no mockery, like him, blest.
âThat was you,' she said, âthe white one.'
Joe's cup flowed over.
âAnd you?'
âAll of the rest, Joseph,' she said and took his arm. âI am all of the others. Beware!'
As the car moved across one of the high plateaux of northern Provence, Joe increasingly felt as if he were being seduced by Frenchness and drugged by the voluptuous difference of it all. Then he saw the village, La Rotonde, which appeared at a distance, as if it were an illustration in a mediaeval Book of Hours. That first sight of the village immediately imprinted itself on his imagination.
It rose up suddenly like a double helix spiralling towards a cylinder of stone, a beacon of war, the tower, La Rotonde itself. Lavender fields occupied the gently rising ground which came to the skirts of the village and in fields beyond the lavender Joe could see, and would hear, shepherds with their biblical flocks of sheep and goats, bells round their necks tinkling with a tinny sound like the small bell of the church whose modest Renaissance tower floated above the maze of ascending rooftops. The heat of late afternoon brought a shimmer to the light. Joe felt a brush of Jerusalem, the shining city on the hill, the golden. The steep road up to the village curled round the outside of the rock settlements: once inside, to Joe's pinch-himself delight, there was no space for cars, the streets were too narrow, many of them were stepped, only humans and horses had passage. Cars were parked outside the massive walls.