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The Very White of Love: the heartbreaking love story that everyone is talking about!
S C Worrall


‘A love story told in exquisitely poetic letters’ DAILY MAILTorn apart by war, their letters meant everything…‘My love. I am writing to you without knowing where you are but I will find you after all these long months…’3rd September 1938. Martin Preston is in his second year of Oxford when his world is split in two by a beautiful redhead, Nancy Whelan. A whirlwind romance blossoms in the Buckinghamshire countryside as dark clouds begin to gather in Europe.3rd September 1939. Britain declares war on Germany. Martin is sent to the battlefields of France, but as their letters cross the channel, he tells Nancy their love will keep him safe. Then, one day, his letters stop.3rd September 1940. It’s four months since Nancy last heard from Martin. She knows he is still alive. And she’ll do anything to find him. But what she discovers will change her life forever…







S. C. WORRALL was born in Wellington, England and spent his childhood in Eritrea, Paris, and Singapore. Since 1984, he has been a full-time freelance journalist and book author. He has written for National Geographic, GQ, The Times and the Guardian. He has also made frequent appearances on Radio and TV, including the BBC’s From Our Own Correspondent; NPR and PBS. He speaks six languages and has lived in or visited more than 70 countries. The Very White of Love is his debut novel.








Copyright (#ulink_18ef937b-a9f5-5979-86bb-74a94d0473e9)






An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Simon Worrall 2018

Simon Worrall asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008217525

Version: 2018-09-17


For Nancy and Martin

Je lève mon verre


Her hands are clasped in the blue mantle of heaven

And the sea, her haven, is flecked with the white of love

‘OUR TRUE BEGINNINGS’ BY WREY GARDINER


Foreword (#ulink_a09934be-39f4-50fe-98e9-efcb19d17cd6)

It was decorated with red roses and tied with a piece of red ribbon, a battered, cardboard chocolate box at the bottom of my mother’s wardrobe. I lifted the box out and put it on the bed next to a pile of her clothes we were donating to charity. Inside were bundles of love letters, yellow with age, tightly bound with string, fastened with tiny knots, as if those knots alone could hold them in place.

Back at my cottage in Herefordshire, I erected a makeshift altar in the window of my study, which overlooked the pub garden and the Black Mountains beyond. For an altar cloth I laid one of my mother’s favourite blue shawls over the top of a chest of drawers, placed a vase of wild flowers and some mementos of her life: a silver bracelet she had bought in Singapore; some of her notebooks and poems; a photograph of her, aged five, sitting with a white, cotton bonnet on her head, in a field of daisies. At the back of this improvised altar, I placed the box of letters and two white candles.

Her death was still new and raw. So the box lay unopened for almost two weeks. I sat by the kitchen window watching the river flow past, hoping it could take my sadness with it. I was a motherless child in my fifties. Divorced. Anchorless. Winter was coming. I went for long, lonely walks across frost-covered hills. In the evening, I doused myself with wine and nicotine, falling asleep to the sound of otters whistling on the riverbank, under a moon that shone like a silver penny on a bolt of black satin.

Then, one rainy afternoon when I was stuck indoors, I untied the knots.


Contents

Cover (#u38b8f20f-5ad5-5a4d-87e4-240a103d6d38)

About the Author (#udcc6c011-8737-5a7d-bf44-6d95f9a20fc4)

Title Page (#u6839532d-1f4a-5cb3-843d-318e1e5f4fbb)

Copyright (#ulink_db103bd7-67d7-54a8-bf76-328b9891fa63)

Dedication (#uf0d2882d-2e1e-5db2-b328-ea3a4f8962ce)

Epigraph (#uf4280d02-ecb3-5ca4-8a60-97d075ba2319)

Foreword (#ulink_fdccea48-9c67-5e6f-8d55-90f78aa0f4af)

Part One (#ulink_5616d26a-38fe-5267-8922-68a94040b564)

19 SEPTEMBER 1938: Whichert House (#ulink_fce1d7c3-3066-521a-99f9-b6a57239e802)

14 OCTOBER 1938: Oxford (#ulink_273cc46f-574e-5be6-92c9-30244f8c56d8)

22 OCTOBER 1938: Whichert House (#ulink_fb8c1956-55d8-5516-b231-c59408c68ce0)

12 NOVEMBER 1938: London (#ulink_2e0d570b-c4c8-5ab3-a304-d8fc9cdf1ae2)

CHRISTMAS EVE 1938: Whichert House (#ulink_04993e93-b58f-510b-afc1-56b7774dc6c6)

12 FEBRUARY 1939: Oxford (#ulink_f787dbcc-5833-5048-8d4b-5b432ca0aa16)

25 APRIL 1939: The Oxford Union (#ulink_765659ef-0c76-5966-9097-7b787356ade1)

25 JUNE 1939: The River Isis, near Oxford (#ulink_39ee9e77-bb9e-5a32-9ba2-d42802d40a09)

3 AUGUST 1939: Whichert House (#ulink_08396f75-e7ec-5e81-a9fe-82b174ca244c)

5 AUGUST 1939: Whichert House (#ulink_064d9370-9cd3-5513-8894-c789fefbd9e5)

6 AUGUST 1939: High Wycombe Railway Station (#ulink_4d68136c-bbc2-5084-8482-bb17fe768745)

3 SEPTEMBER 1939: Blythe Cottage (#ulink_451141f3-1fe2-5c4f-88f7-e1d3142104ca)

23 SEPTEMBER 1939: Whichert House (#litres_trial_promo)

3 DECEMBER 1939: Whichert House (#litres_trial_promo)

13 DECEMBER 1939: Levant, Sussex (#litres_trial_promo)

CHRISTMAS DAY, 1939: Blythe Cottage (#litres_trial_promo)

16 JANUARY 1940: Newbury Racecourse (#litres_trial_promo)

18 JANUARY 1940: The English Channel (#litres_trial_promo)

1 FEBRUARY 1940: Wahagnies, France (#litres_trial_promo)

21 FEBRUARY 1940: Wahagnies (#litres_trial_promo)

10 MARCH 1940: Wahagnies (#litres_trial_promo)

11 MARCH 1940: Wahagnies (#litres_trial_promo)

13 APRIL 1940: Mousehole, Cornwall (#litres_trial_promo)

21 APRIL 1940: Whichert House (#litres_trial_promo)

22 APRIL 1940: Northern France (#litres_trial_promo)

6 MAY 1940: Wahagnies (#litres_trial_promo)

12 MAY 1940: Wahagnies (#litres_trial_promo)

14 MAY 1940: A Road Near the River Ath (#litres_trial_promo)

15 MAY 1940: Waterloo, Belgium (#litres_trial_promo)

19 MAY 1940: A Road Near Gaurain-Ramecroix (#litres_trial_promo)

19 MAY 1940: Tournai, Belgium (#litres_trial_promo)

20 MAY 1940: The Escaut Canal (#litres_trial_promo)

22 MAY 1940: The Escaut Canal (#litres_trial_promo)

23 MAY 1940: The Road to Hazebrouck (#litres_trial_promo)

24 MAY 1940: The Road to Hazebrouck (#litres_trial_promo)

25 MAY 1940: Hazebrouck, northern France (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)

3rd SEPTEMBER 1940: Blythe Cottage (#litres_trial_promo)

9 SEPTEMBER 1940: Blythe Cottage (#litres_trial_promo)

22 SEPTEMBER 1940: Blythe Cottage (#litres_trial_promo)

6 OCTOBER 1940: Blythe Cottage (#litres_trial_promo)

11 NOVEMBER 1940: Blythe Cottage (#litres_trial_promo)

CHRISTMAS DAY 1940: Blythe Cottage (#litres_trial_promo)

19 JANUARY 1941: Blythe Cottage (#litres_trial_promo)

9 FEBRUARY 1941: London (#litres_trial_promo)

29 APRIL 1941: Blythe Cottage (#litres_trial_promo)

27 MAY 1940: The Orphanage (#litres_trial_promo)

27 MAY 1940: The Orphanage (#litres_trial_promo)

6 SEPTEMBER 1941: Thurlestone Sands, Devon (#litres_trial_promo)

Afterword (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Part One (#ulink_99847a44-c454-5ba3-956e-71d0721de811)

ENGLAND & FRANCE

SEPTEMBER 1938 – MAY 1940


19 SEPTEMBER 1938 (#ulink_91162259-bf36-5874-a850-617352eb23f0)

Whichert House (#ulink_91162259-bf36-5874-a850-617352eb23f0)

Dear Aunt D.,

I’ve fallen madly in love with Nancy Claire Whelan. You’ve every right to laugh when you read that, but I’m terribly happy to have found someone so fond of me, who leaves everyone else I’ve met in the cold. I’m sure you’ve seen her riding her bicycle about town. She lives down the road from you at Blythe Cottage. She is an only child – and a redhead! Her father is in the Revenue Department of the civil service. She was at school in Oxford so she knows it well and she has also lived in France and Germany. She speaks the languages, she sings and acts, she’s intelligent, pretty and, a thing I envy her for, has a good and interesting job.

He lifts the pen and looks out of the window. Outside, a soft rain is falling. Just thinking of her makes him want to dance around the room. But he doesn’t want to tell his aunt everything.



Meeting her was a strange and fateful coincidence . . .






Martin opens his eyes. There’s a thudding pain in his head, as though someone has inserted a fist into the back of his skull and is trying to force the knuckles out through his eyeballs. He groans and rolls over. Fragments of the previous evening float to the surface of his alcohol-curdled brain, like bubbles in a pond. They’d started at the Red Lion, across the street from Whichert House, tankard after tankard of warm beer followed by shots of Bell’s. Hugh Saunders, who is also up at Oxford, had driven over from Gerrards Cross, one of a network of friends in south Buckinghamshire Martin got to know while staying with his Aunt Dorothy during the school holidays. As children, they rode bikes together, played golf and tennis, and later courted the same girls. A couple of old friends had also come down from Aylesbury. It’s the holidays. Four weeks away from Oxford University where Martin is about to start his second year. Four weeks with no essays to write or tutorials to attend. Aunt D. and the rest of the family are off fly-fishing in Scotland. He can come and go as he pleases, stay up as late as he wants, drink too much.

From the Red Lion they’d driven to the Royal Standard of England: a cavalcade of cars swerving down darkened lanes. Hugh bet him half a crown that he’d get to the pub first. ‘Nobody beats the Bomb!’ Martin shouted, as he leapt into his racing-green Riley sports car, pulled his goggles down and raced off down the narrow lanes, throwing the Bomb into blind corners at sixty miles an hour, Hugh’s headlights so close to his rear bumper that Martin kept thinking at any second Hugh’s Alvis would come crashing through the back window. On the hill down from Forty Green, the crazy fool had tried to overtake him! Their spoked wheels almost touching, it was all Martin could do to keep the Bomb from mounting the hedgerow.

At the Royal Standard, they’d laughed and told stupid jokes about girls, but mostly they had talked about cricket. At closing time, Martin invited everyone back to Whichert House, where they stayed up most of the night, drinking Irish whiskey until they passed out in the living room. As the birds began to sing, Martin climbed the stairs to the little, yellow-painted room in the eaves where he’d spent much of his childhood.

His eyelids are practically taped together. He squints at the framed painting on the opposite wall. A circus scene. A relic of childhood. During school holidays, he would lie here in bed counting the different animals. The tigers in their cage. The bear. The elephant on its chain. Now, his mouth feels like it has grown fur inside it during the night. His breath smells like a rotten cheese. He groans. Then he remembers. He has to get to the post before it closes.

‘Bugger!’ He leaps out of bed and throws on his clothes. ‘Bugger!’

Splashing cold water on his face, his eyes stare back at him from the mirror, like two piss-holes in the snow. He tries to smooth his tousled hair, to no avail, then races down the stairs, three steps at a time; grabs the parcel and rushes towards the front door. Scamp, Aunt D.’s Jack Russell, races after him, his claws scratching on the flagstones and barking at the slammed door.

Bright sunlight makes Martin’s eyes wince. It’s been crazy weather. Spring, the coldest on record; June, the rainiest; now, England is hotter than Spain. He grabs his bike and pedals down the drive, parcel in one hand, handlebars in the other, shoots out onto the Penn Road, spitting gravel and almost colliding with a furniture van. The driver blasts the horn, shakes his fist. Martin waves a cheeky apology, pedals on. It’s only a mile. If he hurries, he’ll make the post office before it closes.

On the high street, stockbrokers with bellies that hang down like aprons waddle along proudly beside large, pink-skinned women with piano-stool calves. Shop girls in pencil skirts sashay arm in arm towards the Wycombe End – cheeky, giggling, up for it, as boys in boots and braces catcall after them.

Martin throws the bike against a lamppost, sprints towards the entrance of the post office, put his shoulder to the door . . . and falls through empty air, across the floor. What he sees, when he looks up, seems a hallucination caused by a malfunction of the nervous system due to his overly enthusiastic intake of alcohol. A Fata Morgana. A phantom, dressed in a loose, blue and white cotton dress, cinched at the waist with a crocodile skin belt. Slender neck. A dusting of freckles. Kissable lips. Very kissable lips. What he notices most, though, in those brief seconds, is the cascade of chestnut-coloured hair tumbling over her shoulders. And those eyes. Clear, blue and full of hidden depths, like a cove he once swam in off Cornwall.

‘I’m so sorry!’ He struggles to his feet, clutching the parcel to his chest. Flicks his hair out of his eyes. Gawps.

‘I think that’s what’s called a dramatic entrance.’

Her voice is bright, musical. Like a bell, or a harp.

‘I didn’t want to miss . . . ’ His furred tongue tries to form the next word, twists about in his mouth, like a worm doused with petrol.

‘The post?’ She tilts her head to where the line snakes back from the window.

He flounders, tries to look tough, manly. Like the matinée idol, Douglas Fairbanks.

‘Well, if you hurry, you’ll still catch it.’ The girl pushes open the door and flounces out.

Martin stares after her, noting the sway of her hips inside the blue and white summer dress; the proud, haughty bearing. He wants to dash after her.

‘Martin? Dorothy Preston’s nephew?’ A diminutive, white-haired woman comes through the door.

‘Hallo.’ He opens the door for her, stares over her shoulder. ‘Mrs Heal, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. How’s your aunt?’

‘Fly-fishing in Scotland.’ He holds up the parcel. ‘Sorry. Got to get this off to her.’

‘Do give her our regards . . . ’

He joins the queue. Seconds turn into minutes. It’s one of the fixed laws of the universe. When you enter a post office, no matter where it is, in what country, time moves at a different speed. Post office time. He checks his watch. The queue shuffles forward. If he hurries, she might still be out on the street. One minute, two minutes, three minutes. His head is going to explode.

‘Parcel to Scotland, please.’ Martin drums on the counter with his fingertips.

The counter assistant takes the parcel and weighs it. ‘That’ll be one shilling and five pence, please.’

Martin pulls the money from his trouser pocket, pushes it under the window and runs out. The postmistress calls after him.

‘You’ve given me two pence too much!’

But Martin is already out on the street. He looks left, looks right, grabs his bike and pedals off, scanning the crowds for that blue and white dress. Vanished. At the top of London End, he turns around and cycles back towards the post office, mutters to himself. This is really stupid, you know. You nearly knocked her over! She’s not going to talk to you. Don’t make a fool of yourself.

He turns and begins to cycle slowly back towards Knotty Green. A gleam of chestnut hair. A blue and white dress. He whips round and pedals furiously back down the street, almost knocking over a small boy in a school blazer. She disappears cycling down an alleyway. Martin follows, at breakneck speed.

‘Hey! Watch where you’re going!’ A heavy-set man in a trilby shakes his stick in the air. ‘Bloody idiot!’

‘Sorry!’ Martin waves an apology, charges on between high brick walls. She is there now. Up ahead of him, just twenty yards away. A couple comes out of a jewellery shop. Martin swerves to avoid them, tips over, crashes into the opposite wall. The bike falls to the ground, wheels spinning. The couple snicker and walk on. Martin leaps back in the saddle, pedals furiously on.

‘Hallo again!’ he says, as he draws level with the girl. She stares through him. ‘The post office? I was the person . . . ’

‘Who almost knocked me unconscious?’ She pedals on.

‘I know. I’m so sorry, I . . . ’ Martin races after her. ‘Could I buy you a cup of tea?’

‘Not today.’ The girl increases her speed.

‘What’s your name?’ He draws level with her bicycle.

She eyes him warily.

‘I’m Martin. Martin Preston.’ He holds out his hand.

‘Pleased to meet you, Martin Preston.’ She increases her speed. ‘I’m Nancy.’

‘Have you got a surname?’

‘Everyone has a surname!’ She pedals off, with her beautiful, freckled nose in the air.

Martin starts to follow but is blocked by a lorry. When he looks again, she has disappeared.






Back at the house, Martin wanders around the garden, distracted. Scamp follows, sniffing, digging, peeing. The vegetable patch is bursting with fruit and vegetables. Martin stops by a tomato cane and pulls a fruit from the stalk. Raises it to his nose, smells it, then bites into it. The juice spurts into his mouth. ‘Nancy.’ He rolls the name around on his tongue, goes back into the house and picks up the phone, then dials his friend Hugh Saunders’ number.

‘Hugh? Yes. Martin.’ He pauses, unsure whether to proceed. ‘Look, I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but I just met this girl in the Old Town.’

‘Another one?’ Hugh chuckles.

‘Yes, another one.’ Martin laughs. ‘But this one, well, made quite an impression.’

‘That’s what you said about the last one, dear boy.’

‘I know.’ Martin laughs. ‘Thing is, Hugh, I didn’t get her name. Or at least, not her surname.’

‘So, what’s she called?’

‘Nancy.’ Martin sighs. ‘That’s all I know. Auburn hair. Blue eyes. Pretty. Very pretty.’

‘So how can I help?’ Hugh asks.

‘You know everyone around here . . . ’

‘I wish. But, sadly, I don’t know any Nancys.’

‘No?’

‘Sorry I can’t help.’

‘Oh, that’s all right. I’m just being foolish.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ Hugh chuckles. ‘How about a game of tennis to distract you?’

‘Tennis would be great.’

‘Tomorrow at eleven?’

‘Perfect.’ Martin puts down the receiver and stares out into the garden, thinking of the girl with the auburn hair.






That night, he dreams he’s back in Egypt, in the Khan el-Khalili souk, in Cairo, where his father was posted for many years as a high court judge. The air smells of spice and sweat. Crowds throng the narrow passageways. He’s jostled from side to side. Up ahead of him, he spots the girl from the post office, pushes his way through the crowds. He can see her chestnut hair up ahead of him. He starts to run. But his feet won’t move. It’s like running in quicksand.

Martin is an orphan of the Empire. His father, Arthur Sansome Preston, was a tall, flamboyant man with a long, angular face, silver moustache, and a taste for expensive clothes. He died a year ago. But even when he was alive, he was mostly absent from Martin’s life. Apart from trips together with his parents in the summer, usually to hotels in the Swiss Alps, they spent little time in each other’s company. His father’s life revolved around his work as a judge in Cairo, his racehorses, and the never-ending round of diplomatic parties. On the rare occasions they were together, they didn’t get along.

Since he was a schoolboy, Whichert House and Aunt Dorothy, his father’s sister-in-law and as unlike him in her warmth and cosy domesticity as it is possible to be, have been the fixed points of his childhood: the only place in the world he thinks of as ‘home’. Tucked away down a shady lane, with gable ends and brick chimneys, it’s a family house in the true meaning of the word, built around the turn of the century, by Aunt D.’s husband, Charles Preston, a successful lawyer with a practice in London.

Whichert – ‘white earth’ — is the name for the mixture of lime and straw used in the construction of the outer walls, a method unique to Buckinghamshire, which gives it the feeling of being, literally, part of the landscape. In the summer, the garden is a riot of flowers as bees drunk on pollen move among the blooms and the cries of ‘Roquet!’ mix with the clink of crystal goblets filled with champagne or Aunt D.’s legendary elderflower cordial.

Martin is roused from his dream by a scratching at the door. He opens his eyes, looks at his watch, then clambers out of bed, pulls on his shorts and shirt, slides his toes into the sandals then opens his bedroom door. Scamp hurls himself across the room. ‘No jumping, Scamp! Down!’

Still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Martin goes downstairs to the kitchen and fishes a stale loaf out of the bread bin in the pantry. He is home alone. Even Aunt D.’s termagant cook, Frances, is on holiday. He takes a knife and scrapes off a spot of blue mould, cuts a slice of bread, makes coffee. Black. Lots of sugar. Then he grills the bread on the Rayburn, slathers it with butter and Aunt D.’s home-made damson jam, then switches on the wireless.

The Foreign Minister, Lord Halifax, is talking about the Sudetenland. Chamberlain has just agreed to Hitler’s demand for a union with all regions in Czechoslovakia with more than a fifty per cent German population. But many people believe the crisis won’t end there. Martin listens attentively, then downs his coffee, fishes a packet of Senior Service cigarettes out of his shorts’ pocket, taps it with his finger, turns it upside down, peers into it, pulls a face.

‘Fancy a walk, old boy?’ Martin asks the dog.

Scamp races along beside the bicycle, his stubby legs working frantically to keep up. At the tobacconist, Martin buys three packs of cigarettes and the Sunday paper. He puts the paper in the basket on the front of the bicycle, unties the Jack Russell and prepares to get in the saddle. But the dog stops abruptly, spreads his back legs and squats. Martin drags him onto the street. ‘Good boy.’

A bicycle passes. Martin swivels. It’s the girl with the chestnut hair. Serene in the saddle as a paddling swan. Martin yanks Scamp’s leash, starts to run after her, but the dog is still doing his business. The girl smirks. Martin sets off in pursuit, dragging the long-suffering pooch along on his backside. Up ahead, he watches as she dismounts in front of a bookshop.

Martin sprints along the pavement and stops beside her, panting. ‘Hallo . . . ’

She turns round. Fixes him with those limpid, blue eyes. ‘Oh. It’s you.’

‘Che bella fortuna di coincidenza. What a wonderful—’

‘I know what it means.’ She looks back into the window of the bookshop.

‘It’s Petrarch.’

‘Really?’ Her voice is mocking, mischievous. ‘So you speak Italian, Martin Preston?’

She remembers his name! But he pulls his face back from the brink of a far too excited smile, points into the shop window. ‘Poetry? Or prose?’

‘Poetry.’ She starts to go inside the bookshop. ‘And prose.’

‘Do you like Robert Graves?’ His voice is almost pleading.

‘He’s one of our finest.’

‘He’s my uncle.’

Her eyes flicker with curiosity. ‘Do you write, too?’

‘Badly.’ He grins. ‘Mostly overdue essays. You?’

‘Notebooks full, I’m afraid.’ She laughs self-consciously and holds out her hand. ‘Nancy. Nancy Claire Whelan.’

‘Can I, er, buy you that cup of tea, Nancy Claire Whelan?’ he stammers.

She studies him for a moment. ‘I think I’d like that.’ She smiles. ‘The books can wait.’

They find a tearoom in the Old Town, packed with elderly matrons eating scones and cucumber sandwiches. Martin and Nancy install themselves at a table by the window, so Martin can keep an eye on Scamp, who he has tied up outside. They order a pot of tea.

‘Shall we have some scones as well?’

‘Tea is fine.’ Nancy unties her hair and lets it fall over her shoulders. Martin watches, mesmerized. ‘Thank you.’

A waitress in a black and white pinafore sets the tea on the table. Martin pours.

‘It’s so amazing . . . ’ He checks himself, tries to sound less jejune. ‘Meeting you like this. Again.’

Nancy takes some milk. ‘Was it a coincidence?’

‘Well, sort of.’ Martin blushes. ‘I suppose I was . . . looking for you.’

Nancy smiles. ‘How old are you?’

Martin is caught off-guard by her directness. ‘Nineteen,’ he says, flustered. ‘Almost twenty.’

Nancy sips her tea. He notices how she talks with her eyes almost as much as her lips. If she is amused, her eyes narrow, like a cat’s. Surprise is communicated by a subtle raising of her eyebrows. When she laughs, her eyes flicker with pleasure. Each mood, the tiniest oscillation of emotion, is registered in those eyes, an entire semaphore of signals and reactions, which he is learning to decode.

‘How old are . . . ?’ Martin checks himself. Never ask a woman her age.

She glances over the top of her cup. ‘Twenty-two.’

‘Do you live here?’

‘Yes. My father is a civil servant. Inland Revenue.’ She puts her cup down. ‘How about you?’

‘My father . . . ’ He hesitates. ‘Died.’ Through the window Martin sees a lorry full of soldiers. ‘Last year.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Nancy looks out of the window and registers the soldiers. ‘What about your mother?’

‘She lives in Wiltshire.’ Martin butters a scone. ‘In a nursing home.’

‘So what brings you here?’

‘My aunt lives in Knotty Green. I’m staying with her for a couple of weeks before term starts again.’ He looks across at her, proudly. ‘Oxford.’

‘What are you studying?’

‘Law and Modern Languages. Teddy Hall.’ He grins sheepishly. ‘A minor in partying.’

‘First year?’ Nancy smiles.

‘Second!’ Martin insists.

Nancy stares out of the window, with a dreamy expression on her face. ‘I used to live in Oxford.’

‘Where?’ Martin’s face lights up.

‘Cowley.’ She pulls a face. ‘Not exactly the dreaming spires.’ Pauses. ‘By the Morris factory, actually.’

‘That almost rhymes.’

‘What does?’

‘Factory. Actually.’

Nancy laughs. ‘It’s a very nice factory. Actually.’

They laugh together, eyes meeting, then withdrawing, touching again, withdrawing. Like shy molluscs.

‘Where in Knotty Green?’

‘Whichert House?’

‘That Arts and Crafts house? Opposite the Red Lion?’ Nancy’s voice is animated.

‘You know it?’

‘I cycle past it all the time. I love that house!’

‘It belongs to my uncle, Charles, and my aunt.’ He arches an eyebrow. ‘Dorothy Preston?’

‘That’s your aunt?’ Nancy reacts with surprise.

‘Yes. Do you know her?’

‘My mother does.’ Nancy pauses. ‘From church.’

‘Small world!’ Martin smiles at the coincidence. One more connecting thread linking them together.

Nancy lifts the teapot and refills their cups. Martin watches the golden liquid flow from the spout. Looks up into her eyes. Holds them. Like a magnet.






They meet at the same tearoom every day for the next week or go for long walks around Penn. They are creating a story together, a narrative of interconnected threads and confessions, and each meeting adds a new chapter to the story. In between their meetings, Martin mopes about like a lovesick spaniel. He can’t concentrate. The books he is meant to be reading for the new term are left unread. His face takes on a distant, faraway look, as though he’s been smoking opium. But he is under the influence of drug far more powerful than opium: a drug called love.

One day, they take the footpath towards Church Path Wood.

Conversation has progressed beyond the mere exchange of biographies. Today, they are on parents. His mother’s ill health and depression since the death of his father. Her mother’s asthma. His special affection for his sister, Roseen. And how his parents farmed them out to boarding school when they were living in Egypt.

‘That must have been so hard on you.’ She squeezes his hand.

‘Aunt D. was more like a mother than my real mother,’ he says as they stop at a kissing gate. Nancy steps inside, Martin leans against the wooden rail. ‘Sent me socks and marmalade. Posted my books when I forgot them. Spoiled me rotten in the hols.’

‘And your father?’

‘He was the black sheep of the family: “a bounder”, I suppose you’d say.’

‘Why?’ Nancy’s eyes widen.

‘Not sure.’ Martin chews on a grass stalk. ‘Gambling? Drink? Whatever it was, he was barred from joining the family law firm.’

‘Which is why he ended up in Egypt?’

‘That’s it. High court judge. President of the Jockey Club.’ Martin pauses. ‘My father basically preferred his racehorses to his children.’ He pulls an ironic grin, which can’t quite disguise the residual hurt.

One of the few things Martin’s father did teach him, ironically, was to hate snobbery. Colonial life in Egypt was driven by it: that insidious, British snobbery that judges people by where they grew up and the school they went to. One of the reasons Martin is so fond of Nancy is that she judges people for what they are, not their social rank.

She points across the field: a shimmering band of colour stretches across the eastern sky.

‘A rainbow!’ Martin says. ‘It must be a sign.’

She turns, and he’s there. Her lips and his. Sudden and electric. Their first kiss. The kind you get lost in. Like exploring a labyrinth in a blindfold. A labyrinth of feeling and touch and passion.






So that’s the story, Aunt D. I can’t wait for you to meet her. All’s well here. I just got back from taking Mother down to her new nursing home, in Wiltshire. She is still walking rather poorly after the fall, though when I hid her stick for a few minutes she found she could walk surprisingly well without it. The nursing home is really pleasant. Views of the Quantocks, a fire burning in the grate. A large, cheery lady named Mrs Dodds runs it.

How is Scotland? I hope you won’t get fly-fishing elbow again, even though you must keep up your fame as a fisherwoman.

Yours, Martin.

He lights a cigarette and sits staring out of the window into the garden. A soft, autumn rain is falling. Scamp lies sleeping by the fire. It’s only sixteen days since they met. But it feels like a lifetime. His world has been split in two, like a tree struck by lightning. There is before NC and after NC. Everything he sees, everything he tastes or touches or hears, he wants to share with her. When she is not there, his world feels bleak and empty.

Sixteen days. And everything has changed.


14 OCTOBER 1938 (#ulink_81c63788-b0c6-52c5-94bc-5bc8d6e51548)

Oxford (#ulink_81c63788-b0c6-52c5-94bc-5bc8d6e51548)

‘Forties, Cromarty, Forth.’ The shipping forecast crackles on the wireless. ‘Easterly or northeasterly 5 to 7, decreasing 4 at times . . . ’

Martin has fled his room at Teddy Hall to escape the drunken heartbreak of one of his friends, a hapless English student called James Montcrieff, who has broken up with his girlfriend. Martin offered him the sofa for a few nights. He’s been there two weeks. Drunk most of the time. So Martin has decamped to his friend Jon Fraser’s flat, in Wellington Square. Jon is a gangly second year student with a shock of red hair. Outside in the square, the last autumn leaves on the chestnut trees shine in the gaslight. Coals glow in the grate.

‘Could you turn that down, old man?’ Jon’s voice calls from the other side of the room. ‘I have to get this bloody essay finished by tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Sorry, Jon!’ Martin gets up and switches off the wireless. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Slowly.’ His friend leans back from his desk and stretches. ‘Have you ever read Valmouth?’

‘Is that the one about a group of centenarians in a health resort?’

Jon laughs. ‘Some of them are even older!’

Martin should be studying, too. Exams loom. But as Jon hunches back over his desk, he takes out her latest letter, lies down on the floor, his head cradled on a pillow, and lights a cigarette.



Dear Martin . . .

He has seen his name written by countless other people, on birthday cards or school reports; in letters from his mother; his sister Roseen or Aunt Dorothy. But seeing it written by her still makes his heart turn somersaults. The fluent, blue line of her cursive script is a river pulling him towards her. He already has a drawer full of her letters, each letter adding a chapter to the story they are creating. She has told him about her Dorset childhood and the books she loves; her favourite music; and her work in London; the places she dreams of seeing. No one has ever written to him like that. It’s not what she says; it’s how she says it. Her words ring off the page, as though she is right there, next to him, talking in that high, bright voice.

He gets up and pours a glass of vermouth, lights a fresh cigarette, takes out a sheet of writing paper embossed with the college’s coat of arms: a red cross surrounded by four Cornish choughs. Then lies back down on his stomach, smoothing the sheet down on the back of a coffee-stained copy of Illustrated London News. The cover photo shows German troops marching into the Sudetenland two weeks ago.

The talk at meals is all of war. But tonight he has only one thing on his mind. Unscrewing the top of his pen, he holds the gold nib in mid-air, searching for the right words. A ring of blue smoke hovers around his head, like a halo. He lays the burning cigarette in an ashtray, breathes in, then puts pen to paper.



Dearest Nancy,

I’m writing this on the floor of Jon’s little room in No. 11, Wellington Square. My own room has gradually become its old self of two years ago – a meeting place for many. My cigarettes disappear; the level of my vermouth drops and the table is covered with other people’s books. What I need is a hostess, a beautiful aide-de-salon.

He tells her what he’s been doing since their last tryst: hockey matches and motor cross trials; auditions for a play; parties he has been to; a film by a new director called Alfred Hitchcock; the latest college gossip. If only he had the eloquence of his famous uncle. But she’s stuck with him. He takes a drag of his cigarette, chucks back the vermouth.



I don’t know how to feel when you’re around. You turn me so inside out – no one has ever done it before. What is it about you? You are unparalleled. You leave me breathless. You are the most exciting thing in the world. I’m a little ashamed of writing what I needn’t mention really but occasionally my heart overflows with drops of ink for a letter to you. And I must write before the term begins in earnest. It is like offering up a prayer before going into battle. Though my prayer to you is only that you will understand how much I love you. When you are around, everything feels right. Your love is like a crown. If I could be with you right now I would frighten you with my passion. I can’t say more – you must feel it.

In the distance, the clock of St Giles strikes midnight. A group of drunken students pass under the window, shouting and laughing.



It’s terribly late now. I’ve wearied my right hand writing letters about hockey matches and things like that. Jon is writing furiously at his desk about ‘Ronald Firbank’. Not the actor. He has to deliver the essay tomorrow evening. Oxford is depressingly cold. Everyone else seems hearty and too pleased to be back here. Poor things, they can’t have anyone to make their homecoming so desirable. I suppose we shall have the usual – muddy games, the usual tiresome duties, and work which one must settle to and then enjoy.

It’s strange and wonderful to know you so perfectly. I imagine myself with you the whole time. Feel your lips against mine. My hand touching yours. I can’t wait to see you again next weekend.

So very much in love and kisses in adoration, Martin.


22 OCTOBER 1938 (#ulink_4036e791-c97a-5c34-9212-cf35e2933646)

Whichert House (#ulink_4036e791-c97a-5c34-9212-cf35e2933646)

The grandfather clock chimes eleven thirty on the landing. Martin looks at his watch, leaps out of bed, splashes water on his face from the jug and basin in the corner, then stands in his underwear, debating what to wear. Green and white check gingham shirt? Too old-fashioned. White dress shirt? Too formal. He throws both on the chair, rummages through the wardrobe.

It’s almost three weeks since he last saw Nancy. College work and organising hockey matches have consumed all his time. Today, he is back from Oxford and finally going to meet her parents. He can’t remember ever feeling so nervous. His stomach flutters like it used to when he had to get ready to go back to boarding school.

‘Don’t be such a girl,’ he chides himself, settling on a well-worn, blue cotton shirt; khaki twill trousers; an Irish tweed jacket; brogues from Church’s of Northampton. He studies himself in the mirror. Nancy once told him that, with his angular features, deep-set, dark eyes, sensual lips, and square jaw, he reminded her of a young Laurence Olivier. Not today. His hair is mussed up, his eyelids are heavy with sleep, his chin is shadowed with stubble.

He glances at his watch, takes his jacket off and covers his shoulders with a towel, then refills the basin with water, grabs his razor and some shaving soap, quickly shaves and splashes some eau de cologne on his cheeks. Then he lifts up his left arm, sniffs his armpit, and grimaces. With rapid movements, he unbuttons his shirt, sprays some cologne onto his right hand, rubs it into his armpit, repeats the process with his left hand, sniffs, then stands back from the mirror. He’ll have to do.

He finds Aunt Dorothy deadheading roses in the garden. She is dressed in a simple, but elegant, blue and white check dress, with a blue apron outside it. Her close-set, blue eyes twinkle like amethysts. Her face is tanned from gardening. ‘He’s missed you,’ she says, as Scamp races across the lawn to greet him, barking furiously.

‘I’ve missed him, too.’ Martin pets the dog then puts his arms around his aunt. ‘But not as much as I’ve missed you.’

‘How was the drive from Oxford?’

‘Twenty-seven minutes, door to door.’ He grins. ‘A new record.’

‘Does Teddy Hall have a course on racing driving these days?’ says a voice behind him.

Martin turns round to see his elder sister, Roseen, advancing across the lawn with a cup of tea in her hand. She’s a tall, rail-thin, self-contained woman with hazel-brown eyes that take in everything but give little away. She is perfectly dressed for the season: tweed jacket, woollen skirt, leather boots, a scarf wrapped turban-style around her head.

‘Sis!’ Martin hugs her. ‘I thought you had already left for London again.’

‘The weather’s so beautiful.’ She sips her tea. ‘I thought I’d take an evening train.’

Martin grins at her. ‘Well?’

‘Well, what?’ Roseen bends down and scratches Scamp’s back.

‘What did you think of her?’ Martin’s face brims with anticipation.

‘She’s delightful.’ Roseen finished her tea. ‘Funny. Intelligent. Good-looking.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘But we only had half an hour or so in the pub yesterday evening.’

Martin beams, then looks down at the ground, self-conscious, boyish. ‘I know this sounds really soppy, but . . . I’m in love.’

‘You’ve certainly been behaving oddly of late.’ Roseen pinches him.

‘More oddly than usual, you mean?’ Martin smiles. ‘How’s Andrew, by the way?’

For some months Roseen has been stepping out with Andrew Freeth, an up-and-coming portrait painter she met at an exhibition in London. ‘He’s fine,’ she says, lighting up. ‘We’re going to the Tate Gallery together next week. To see the Canadian exhibition.’

Martin looks at his watch. ‘God! Better be off.’

‘Will you be home for lunch?’ Aunt Dorothy snips a bud from a rosebush.

‘Not today, Aunt D.’ He plants a kiss on his aunt’s white hair, embraces his sister, then races out of the garden.

‘Good luck with the parentals!’ Roseen calls after him.

The Bomb gleams in the driveway. You can tell a lot about a man from his car. And this sleek, two-seater sports car with its V8 engine, curved fenders and spare wheel mounted on the back suggests both style and a hint of danger. Martin checks the fickle sky, then rolls back the roof and climbs into the car, Scamp scrambling in after him.

It’s only five minutes to Grove Road, though the way Martin drives it will take half that. Mustn’t be too early, though. Better to be fashionably late. A gust of wind stirs the branches of the beech tree. The leaves tremble. Impatient, he turns the key in the ignition. Pats the dashboard, revs the engine. The car vrooms. On the radio, Bing Crosby croons from ‘I’ve Got A Pocketful Of Dreams’.






Blythe Cottage is set back from the road, tucked away between two much larger houses, and Martin zooms right past the flowerbed bright with Michaelmas daisies and the peach tree her father has trellised on the wall. It’s far more modest than Whichert House. A cosy dwelling on a handkerchief-sized plot. But it’s her house. And that makes him love it.

Knowing he is early, Martin glances anxiously at his watch and checks his hair in the rear-view mirror. He’s light-headed and his stomach is tight as a drum. Climbing out of the Bomb, he skips through the gate and rings the doorbell. Nothing. He counts to ten. Rings it again. Nothing. Steps back and looks up at the windows. Sticks his hands in his pockets. Breathes deep.

The door opens with a waft of Chanel. Martin slides his arms around her waist and tries to kiss her.

‘Tino!’ She tuts, disengaging herself. It’s her nickname for him. Her special name, that no one else uses. ‘You’ll smudge my lipstick.’

Her parents are waiting for them in the living room. Nancy’s mother, Peg, is a tiny, slightly hunched woman, with white skin set off by too much red lipstick, henna-coloured hair, and the small, alert eyes of a sparrow.

‘Nancy’s told me so much about you.’ He hands Peg the roses. ‘Aunt Dorothy sends her regards.’

‘How lovely!’ Peg simpers. ‘Darling, fetch a vase will you?’ Nancy disappears into the kitchen.

‘Leonard Whelan.’ Nancy’s father holds out his hand. He’s a tall, slim man with an angular face and silver hair, impeccably dressed in a grey suit, with a gold half-hunter watch peeking out of his waistcoat. ‘LJ. To family.’

‘LJ it is, then. Pleased to meet you.’ Martin pauses, unsure. They give each other a firm handshake. Test one, passed. LJ ushers him over to an armchair. As he lowers himself into it, something sharp sticks into his buttocks and he leaps up; a pair of silver knitting needles poke out of the cushions.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ Peg rushes over, lifts the cushion, and pulls out the knitting needles, a ball of red wool, and a pattern book.

Nancy comes back in with a vase for the flowers, just in time to see the rumpus.

‘It’s fine.’ Martin chuckles. ‘I’m well cushioned.’

A ripple of laughter goes round the room. LJ goes over to the drinks cabinet. ‘Sherry?’

‘Please!’ Martin nods.

Over the fireplace, there is a small painting: a harbour scene, with brightly coloured boats. An upright piano stands in the corner. Next to it is a music stand with a flute resting on it. Sheet music.

‘Mummy and Daddy play duets,’ Nancy explains.

‘Piano. Badly.’ Peg points at LJ. ‘Flute.’

‘Nancy has a beautiful singing voice.’ Her father beams.

‘A musical family.’ Martin smiles at Nancy.

‘My family make pianos.’ Peg lights a long, slim cigarette, coughs. Nancy looks at her, askance. ‘Squires of Ealing? Perhaps you’ve heard of them?’

Martin looks blank. ‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘We’re not well known, like Bechstein or Steinway. But they have a nice tone.’ LJ pulls a pipe from his pocket, a packet of St Bruno, pinches a measure of tobacco between his thumb and forefinger, presses it into the bowl of the pipe, tamps it down, strikes a match, puffs contentedly. He looks over at Martin. ‘Terrible news coming out of Germany.’

‘Shocking . . . ’ Martin is momentarily tongue-tied. ‘I think Chamberlain has acted disgracefully.’

Peg adroitly changes the subject. ‘How’s your Aunt Dorothy?’

‘Jam-making.’

‘My damson wouldn’t set.’ Peg smooths her skirt, takes another puff of her cigarette, coughs. ‘Not enough pectin, I think.’

Nancy waves the smoke away. ‘Mummy, must you? You know it’s bad for your asthma.’

LJ sucks at his pipe. ‘Nancy tells me you’re at Oxford?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Martin squares his shoulders. ‘Law and Modern Languages.’

‘You must be very busy.’ Peg stubs out her cigarette.

‘Teddy Hall, isn’t it?’ LJ lets out a ring of blue smoke.

Martin nods. He wants to take Nancy in his arms and swing her out of the door.

‘We lived in Oxford before we came here.’ LJ puffs away. ‘Nancy loved every minute of it, didn’t you, pet? Concerts, the Playhouse, punting on the river.’ He reaches forward and taps the bowl of the pipe on the ashtray. ‘So, what are your plans?’

‘After I graduate I’ll look for work in a law firm, I suppose.’

‘I mean today.’ LJ sucks on his pipe again.

‘We’re going for a picnic.’ Nancy looks across at Martin. ‘So we’d better get our skates on – or we’ll miss the sun!’






Outside Blythe Cottage, Martin opens the door of the Bomb and watches as Nancy turns sideways, lowers herself into the car, swings her feet in after her and smooths her dress over her knees in one fluid movement, like water sliding through a mill race, except Scamp is kissing her face. She’s wearing a new hat: a red, Robin Hood-style cap.

‘Is that new?’ He knows girls love you to notice their clothes.

‘Do you like it?’ She tilts her head to the side. ‘It’s French.’

‘Je l’adore.’ He closes the door after her, runs around to the other side, lifts Scamp off the seat and tosses him in the back.

‘Poor old Scamp.’ Nancy reaches back to pet him, as the Riley takes off, like a racehorse. At the corner, Martin presses the clutch, slips the gearstick out of fourth, revs the engine, double declutches, slides it into third, swings through the bend, accelerates, shifts up. Hedges scroll past. The sun breaks through the clouds. A herd of brick-red Hereford cattle amble across a field. Martin slows, then turns right down a narrow lane. The branches of the trees meet overhead, like the ribs of a Gothic cathedral.

Nancy giggles, holding on to her hat to stop it from flying off. He leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

‘Did I pass the test?’

‘The knitting needle test?’ Nancy’s laugh is snatched by the wind. ‘Definitely.’

At the village of Penn, Martin cuts the engine and clambers out of the Bomb. Scamp races off, in hot pursuit of rabbits. Martin grabs a tartan rug and they set off down a footpath towards Church Path Wood.

Deep in the wood, there is an ancient oak tree. Roughly the same distance from Blythe Cottage as Whichert House, it is the perfect cover for their trysts. Some say the oak dates back to the time of the Spanish Armada, more than four hundred years ago. It’s not the most beautiful tree in the wood. The oak’s limbs are crooked with age, like the arthritic limbs of an old man. There are gnarly lumps on its branches. Whole sections no longer bear leaves. But they have come to love the tree, as a friend and protector.

On one side of the trunk is a heart-shaped hole from a lightning strike. The wood is still blackened, though the seasons have long since washed away any trace of soot or charcoal. On stormy days, they have sometimes squeezed inside and stood pressed against each, kissing and giggling in the dark, like two children playing in a cubbyhole under the stairs, as the wind shook the leaves above their heads and the branches creaked and scraped against each other.

Martin spreads the rug under the tree and they lie down, staring up through the canopy of leaves. A cloud floats across the sun, the sky blackens and a few drops of rain begin to fall. Nancy pulls her cashmere cardigan tighter around her.

‘What do you want to be . . . ?’ Nancy lets the question hang in the air.

‘ . . . when I grow up?’ Martin laughs.

‘Well, let’s start with when you leave Oxford.’

‘I don’t want to be a lawyer, for a start.’

‘That’s what you’re studying, isn’t it?’

‘I know. But I find it so dull.’ He sits up and lights a cigarette. ‘I’d love to write . . . ’

‘Poetry? Like your uncle?’

‘Not sure I have the talent.’ He blows a smoke ring, then swallows it. ‘How about you?’

‘I think I can confidently predict that typing in an insurance office is not going to be my life’s work.’ She sits up next to Martin, clasps her knees. ‘By the way, I got that part I auditioned for in London.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ Martin enthuses. ‘With the Players’ Company?’

Nancy nods. ‘It’s just a small, walk-on part. But I’ll have to attend the rehearsals, so I’ll get a chance to see how it’s all done. Luckily, they’re all in the evening.’

They fall silent, each lost in their thoughts. Then Martin reaches over and kisses her. Nancy closes her eyes and lies back. His kisses become more passionate, and he begins to slide his hand up her thigh. She pulls away, but he grabs her and carries on trying to reach up under her skirt.

She sits up abruptly and straightens her clothes. ‘Tino, we’re at the beginning of a journey.’ She takes his hand and strokes it. ‘There is so much more to find out about each other.’ She kisses him on the tip of his nose. ‘And if we go too fast, then the happiness . . . ’ she looks into his eyes ‘ . . . and pleasure that could be ours – should be ours – might be spoiled.’ She knits her eyebrows together. ‘I want us to be special.’

‘Me, too,’ Martin replies. He pulls a slim volume of poetry out of the picnic basket, searches for the page. She lies back, staring up into the branches of the hollow oak. A wood pigeon coos, as Martin reads, clear and unfaltering from ‘Our True Beginnings’ by Wrey Gardiner.



Her hands are clasped in the blue mantle of heaven

And the sea, her haven, is flecked with the white of love

‘That’s how I feel about us.’ He brings his lips to hers, his heart thumping in his chest at what he is about to say. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’ Nancy kisses him. Deep and long. ‘The very white of love.’


12 NOVEMBER 1938 (#ulink_3827b6eb-fe34-5c33-98f6-4794db68efe1)

London (#ulink_3827b6eb-fe34-5c33-98f6-4794db68efe1)

Familiar stations flash by in a blur of rain. Seer Green and Jordans. Gerrards Cross. West Ruislip. Martin has managed to get back to Whichert House for another weekend before term ends in December. They sit side by side, legs touching, hands clasped. It’s Nancy’s daily commute to her job as a secretary at an insurance firm in Holborn. Now he is sharing it with her. At Marylebone, they get on the bus to Oxford Circus, sit up top in the front seat, like excited children, watching London scroll across the glass screen of the double-decker’s window. She has a new outfit: a little black dress, with a grey velvet jacket, which makes her look like a film star. She points out her favourite landmarks. This is her city, Oxford his. Each stone, each street has a story, a story they are becoming part of together.

‘Us on a bus . . . ’ Martin starts to hum a tune by his favourite jazz artist, Fats Waller. Nancy joins in.



Riding on for hours

Through the flowers

When the passengers make love

Whisper bride and groom

That’s us on a bus

They run down the stairs, laughing, and jump off the bus. But they are soon wrenched back to the dark clouds of the present. As they walk through Soho, a man in a threadbare overcoat bellows the Evening Standard headline: ‘Night of the Broken Glass. Read all about it!’

Martin counts out a handful of coppers, points to the headline. ‘At dinner the other evening, one of the college tutors was saying that all this about the Jews is propaganda by the Rothschilds and the rest of the bankers.’ Martin frowns. ‘To drag us into a war with Hitler.’ Martin shakes his head. ‘There are loads of students, too, who think Hitler is the best thing since tinned ham.’ Martin indicates the newspaper headline. ‘Tell that to my uncle, Philip Graves.’

‘The foreign correspondent?’ Nancy sounds impressed.

‘Yes. He was one of the people who helped expose that hateful book, The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, as a forgery!’

Nancy nuzzles against him. ‘You come from such a talented family.’

‘Somehow it seems to have bypassed me.’

‘You got the looks.’ She kisses him on the nose.






They have an hour until the performance begins. Nancy is taking him to a musical revue at the Players’ Theatre Club, in King Street, the company where she has got a small part in a production next season. They are making waves on the London theatre scene. Churchill is a fan and, through rehearsals, Nancy is meeting the actors, including the famous comedienne, Hermione Gingold.

She leads Martin through a warren of streets, their shoes keeping time together, his chunky Church’s brogues next to her tiny, brown boots, their soles touching the same pavement. Love is opening new paths, streets he would never have known if it were not for her, fields where they have walked hand in hand, cafés and bookshops he would never have entered without her, places that are now special to him because of her. And as they walk side by side, he thinks about the thousands of other places that they will visit, the lakes they will see, footpaths they will tramp. England. France. Perhaps Italy. Shared journeys stretching into the future.

‘How about this?’ She has stopped in front of a little Italian bistro on Greek Street: a bog-standard Italian with red and white check tablecloths; cheap Chianti in straw-covered bottles; framed photos of Italian tourist spots; wicker baskets of day-old bread. Martin stares at her reflection in the window. Another place, transformed by love.

‘Perfect.’ He puts his arms around her and turns her face towards his, bends and kisses her: a kiss that seems to go on and on.

They take a table by the window, it’s so cramped Martin hardly fits on his chair, but they have their backs to the other diners and can look out onto the street, watching their own private Movietone of London in 1938.

Nancy orders linguine with clams in a red sauce. Martin chooses lasagne. They share a salad – chunks of spongy tomato, wilted lettuce, some slivers of red onion, brown at the tips. As the tines of their forks touch, they burst out laughing, reach across the table, kiss. Then Nancy pulls away, her face suddenly anxious.

‘Do you think there’ll be another war, Tino?’

It’s a question that has been secretly nagging at Martin ever since Hitler invaded the Sudetenland, like toothache. But, until now, he has not shared his fears with Nancy. ‘I hope not.’ He squeezes her hand. ‘We have so much ahead of us.’

‘But I am not sure appeasement will work.’ Nancy frowns. ‘Not with Herr Hitler. He’ll just take it as a sign of weakness.’

‘I agree.’ Martin leans forward, intently. ‘What we need is tough, military sanctions. But through the League of Nations.’

‘Has the League of Nations actually achieved anything?’ Nancy regrets saying it as soon as the words leave her mouth.

‘I know that’s what people say.’ Martin’s eyes blaze. ‘But if you look at their track record, they’ve actually done a lot for peace. And, I mean, what else is going to stop barbarism from occurring?’

Nancy twizzles some pasta onto her spoon. ‘You know, when I was studying in Munich in 1935, we saw Hitler at the opera.’

‘Really?’ Martin is bug-eyed.

‘Mummy watched him through her opera glasses.’ Nancy grimaces. ‘Said he had beautiful hands. Pianist’s hands.’

The idea that Hitler has beautiful hands seems incongruous and repellent for a man who was currently tearing up the peace in Europe. But Martin says nothing.

‘You remember that little painting that hangs over the fireplace at Blythe Cottage?’ Nancy lays down her fork and spoon.

‘The seascape?’ Martin pours them both a glass of wine.

‘It’s by an Italian painter I got to know when I was living in Munich.’ She takes a sip of wine. ‘Jewish Italian. Paul Brachetti.’

‘Rhymes with spaghetti.’ Martin reddens with embarrassment at his lame joke.

‘He was almost twenty years older than me.’ She takes up her spoon and fork and digs at her pasta.

‘In love with you, no doubt.’ Martin squeezes her knee.

Nancy ignores him by twizzling her fork and spoon. ‘He used to call me his little English rose,’ she says. ‘We would meet for coffee in the English Gardens. Talk about El Greco, his hero. God’s light, he called it.’ She smiles at the memory, then her face darkens, as though a shadow has passed across it. ‘One day, he arrived in a terrible state. They’d broken into his studio, smashed his paintings, daubed swastikas on the walls.’ She reloads her fork with spaghetti. ‘His paintings were what they called entartet. Decadent.’ Her laugh is a staccato howl. ‘Seascapes!’ She takes another sip of wine. ‘Three days later, we met again. A café near the station.’ Nancy lays her napkin on the table, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘He was carrying a battered suitcase and some parcels, wrapped in newspaper. His hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot.’ Her pupils darken. ‘He’d come to say goodbye.’ Nancy’s voice quivers.

‘Where did he go?’

‘He said he would try and get to Spain, first.’ She smiles. ‘He wanted to seeToledo, where El Greco learned about light. Then Lisbon. Maybe a ship to America.’ She looks across at Martin, tears in her eyes. ‘I tried to give him some money. But he wouldn’t hear of it.’

Martin reaches across the table and takes her hand. Suddenly, he feels much younger than the two-year age gap between them, less experienced. The only time he has been to Europe was when he was a schoolboy and he stayed in Zermatt at a posh hotel with his parents. She has seen swastikas daubed on the walls and helped rescue a Jewish painter.

‘I wish I could have met him,’ he says.

She opens her bag and takes out a handkerchief, blows her nose, then brightens.

‘We’re going to miss the curtain if I carry on like this any longer.’

‘Come then, my love.’ Martin kisses her hand and waves for the bill.

There is a play to be seen, friends to meet, songs to be sung. The crisis in Europe can wait.






‘Nancy, darling!’ a voice calls out across the packed room.

Martin watches as a tall, dashingly handsome man advances towards them. Something about his face seems familiar but Martin can’t place him. The only thing that is clear is that he is no stranger to Nancy.

‘Michael!’ Nancy holds her cheek out to be kissed.

Instead, he gives her a boozy kiss on the lips. ‘You look gorgeous as ever.’

Martin scowls. Nancy blushes. ‘Michael, this is Martin Preston. Martin, meet the incorrigible Michael Redgrave.’

Martin’s eyes widen. The famous actor! He stares at Nancy, impressed by this new side of her he has not seen before.

‘So, you’re taken already?’ Redgrave gives a crestfallen look. ‘Then I suppose I’ll have to find myself another redhead.’

He is about to turn away, when a bosomy woman swathed in what looks like a Turkish robe sashays across the floor towards Redgrave, like a Spanish galleon.

‘Dorothy!’ Redgrave hugs her. ‘Murdered anyone recently?’

‘Scores, darling.’ The woman pulls a wry grin, tips back a G and T.

‘Nancy, allow me to introduce you to the doyenne of crime fiction.’ Redgrave’s baritone booms across the room. ‘Dorothy Sayers. Nancy Whelan. Martin Preston.’

Martin bows slightly and holds out his hand. His uncle, Robert, has spoken warmly of the great detective writer and Martin has read all the Lord Peter Wimsey books. ‘I’m a huge fan!’

Sayers sizes him up. ‘Steady on, you’re sounding like an American.’

Martin feels embarrassed for a moment. Then laughs. Nancy joins in as Miss Sayers tips back the rest of her G and T, kisses Redgrave on the cheek, then heads for her seat.

It’s a tiny space for a theatre: just one half of a pub. The audience sit at tables, so close they almost touch the stage. Others stand at the back. Blue smoke hangs in the air. Waitresses weave in and out of the chairs. There is laughter; conversation; the camaraderie of the boards.

The programme is titled Ridegway’s Late Joys, after the theatre’s founder, Peter Ridgeway, and consists of various song and dance acts introduced by the ‘Chairman’, a plump, rosy-cheeked man with a huge handlebar moustache. An all-male chorus in black tie and tails sing a song called ‘Strawberry’. It’s all very camp, and British. Next, a curvaceous blonde in a sparkly leotard, boots and feathers on her head, croons a song called ‘La Di Da’.

‘Isn’t that Peggy Rutherford?’ Martin whispers to Nancy, pointing at a woman two tables along.

Nancy raises a finger to her lips, as the highlight of the show begins: ‘Tell Your Father’, a Cockney ballad about the perils of alcohol, performed by the well-known singer, Meg Jenkins, who appears on stage wrapped in a black shawl, looking lugubrious.

By the end, the whole audience is singing along with the chorus. Clouds are gathering over Europe, but London is determined to enjoy herself.






They only just make the last train home. Martin pays for seats in first class and, as it’s so late, they are the only passengers. They are both a bit the worse for wear and almost immediately fall into each other’s arms, kissing until their lips are red and swollen, as empty stations slip by under a gibbous moon. By the time they reach Beaconsfield it’s past midnight. Luckily, Martin has left the Bomb there and in a few moments they are racing through the moonlit lanes.

‘Fancy a nightcap?’ Martin suggests. ‘I don’t want this night to end.’

‘Perhaps a quick one.’ Nancy smiles. ‘My mother will be waiting up for me, I’m sure.’

There are no lights on as the Bomb crunches to a halt on the gravel outside Whichert House. Martin gingerly lets them in by the back door then puts his fingers to his lips and takes Nancy’s hand and tiptoes towards the living room, feeling like a conspiratorial child about to steal some chocolate.

The living-room fire is still glowing in the grate. Martin puts on another log, takes Nancy’s coat and switches on the lamp by the fireplace, then searches for something to cover the lampshade. He picks up a shawl, drapes it over the lamp, plunging the room into shadow.

‘Better not set Aunt D.’s shawl on fire,’ Nancy jokes.

Martin pours two nightcaps, then goes over to the gramophone, takes a record from its sleeve, lays it on the turntable and drops the needle. There’s a brief hissing, then a piano refrain, light and delicious, like champagne. Little trills on the high keys; the plunk of a double bass; a strumming guitar; warbling trumpet. Fats Waller. Today’s musical theme.

Her waist is smaller than his encircling hands, and he feels for a moment she’s so delicate she might break in his arms. But she presses into him, emboldened by the promise of a shared future, not fragile or porcelain, but a flesh and blood woman dancing in his arms, laughing uproariously as he mimics Fats Waller’s throaty growl.



Everybody calls me good for nothing

Because I cannot tell the distance to a star

But I can tell the world how wonderful you are

I’m good for nothing but love

Night and day they call me…

Nancy holds her finger to her lips, worried they might wake Aunt D.

‘…good for nothing,’ Martin croons.

‘Yes, yes!’ she repeats with him, hamming it up with Fats, laughing.

Then she pulls his face towards hers and kisses him hard on the mouth.


CHRISTMAS EVE 1938 (#ulink_3433d06b-b057-5667-88fd-b7776516421c)

Whichert House (#ulink_3433d06b-b057-5667-88fd-b7776516421c)

The weeks have raced by with a scramble to finish end of term essays, a round of boozy Christmas parties and the final hockey matches. But, finally, it’s the vacation again, he’s back in the bosom of his surrogate family at Whichert House and, most importantly, he can see Nancy almost every day.

But, as a cloud of snow sprays from the tyres as the Bomb screeches to a halt outside Blythe Cottage, he doesn’t feel his usual heady sense of anticipation. Instead, his nerves are as taut as piano wire. The time has come to introduce Nancy to his famously unpredictable mother.

All the way from Wiltshire, after picking her up from her nursing home, Molly had been nothing but negative about the person Martin now cares about more than anything in the world; the person who, as he walks towards Blythe Cottage, its windows and gables picked out with fresh snow, appears at the door ensconced in a fur muff, with fur glove warmers and a fur-trimmed coat, like a character in a novel by Turgenev, then races down the path and into his arms.

‘What do you think?’ she says, doing a little pirouette in the snow.

‘You look enchanting.’ He kisses her. ‘Ravishing.’ Kisses her again. ‘Bewitching.’

Laughing, they clamber into the Bomb. Even though it’s cold, he’s got the top down. It’s only two miles. ‘Don’t expect too much, carissima,’ he says, honking at a lorry. ‘She’s a terrible snob and likely to go on the pot about the von Rankes, Uncle Robert . . . ’ He rolls his eyes and laughs.

He has explained the convoluted genealogy typical of an upper-class British family and even drawn a family tree: how his mother is Robert Graves’ half-sister, from their father’s – Alfred Percival Graves, also a poet! – first marriage; how Robert is from the second marriage, to Amelie von Ranke. ‘She loves that von!’ he says, shifting gear. ‘Even though, as someone recently reminded me at a family funeral, we’re really only . . . half-Graves.’

He glances over at Nancy. How will his fiery redhead handle his mother? Will Molly be rude and condescending? It’s enough to make him turn the Bomb around and escape back to the middle-class comforts of Blythe Cottage and Peg’s knitting needles.

‘I brought her a gift.’ Nancy pulls a small parcel out of her bag, beautifully wrapped in pink tissue paper.

‘A book?’ Martin reaches down and touches her leg tenderly. ‘You really are determined to educate us, darling.’

‘Well, you are only a half-Graves.’ She reaches over and kisses him on the cheek. He revs the Bomb, so the Riley’s eight-cylinder engine throbs beneath them.

The driveway at Whichert House is lined with Chinese lanterns that glow in the murky half-light of an English winter day. As they walk inside, he sneaks a kiss, then straightens up, shoulders back, like a soldier about to go on parade. ‘Ready?’

The family is gathered in the living room. A Norway spruce stands in the corner of the room. A log fire roars, casting a reddish light on the wood-panelled walls and ceiling.

‘Mother, I’d like you to meet Nancy Claire Whelan.’ He touches Nancy’s waist as reassurance.

Molly reaches out a black-gloved hand. She’s swathed in a heavy, dark velvet dress, the sort of thing Martin associates with séances or midnight mass. A rope of enormous pearls hangs between her equally impressive breasts. She raises an ivory-handled lorgnette to her eyes, and peers at Nancy as though she is some exotic, and rather dangerous, animal. ‘So this is the girl who has you all topsy-turvy?’

‘It is, indeed!’ Martin’s arm is secure around her now, where it belongs.

‘Martin has told me so much about you . . . ’ Nancy enthuses.

Molly doesn’t reply but looks Nancy up and down again, like a trainer appraising a racehorse. Martin has the queasy feeling that, any moment, she will ask to see Nancy’s teeth.

‘Darling!’ Roseen rushes forward to rescue them, kisses Nancy on the cheek. Since their brief encounter in the pub in Knotty Green in October, they have become fast friends, meeting up in London for drinks, going to the theatre, or taking long walks through Kensington Gardens. ‘You look chic as ever.’

‘I love those colours on you.’ Nancy admires Roseen’s black and grey outfit. ‘You look like a Cubist painting!’ She hugs Roseen then moves along to Aunt D.’s two unmarried sons, Tom and Michael.

Nancy has caught glimpses of the two brothers in her visits to the house. But this is her first, formal introduction. Martin has prepped her, explained how, though they are in their thirties, they both still live at home. How Michael has Down’s syndrome and can’t work, except to help in the garden or fix machines; how Tom, the elder brother, commutes to London to the family law office with Uncle Charles. And how adored they both are by Aunt D. and the rest of the family.

Tom tilts his head, like a heron, then shakes her hand, formally. ‘Happy Christmas.’

Michael steps forward. His face beams, innocent and eager to please; his glasses are as thick as the bottom of a whisky bottle. He pumps her hand. ‘You smell . . . like roses!’

There’s an awkward silence. Tom glowers at his brother. Then everyone bursts out laughing. Everyone except Molly, that is.

‘Michael, that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me all week.’ Nancy kisses him on the cheek.

Martin watches her move among his family, shaking hands, kissing cheeks. The people he loves most in the world all together in the same room.

‘Nancy, dear, come and warm yourself by the fire.’ Aunt D. pats the Chesterfield next to her.

‘Bubbly?’ Uncle Charles, her husband, holds out his hands, palm up, like an Italian priest offering communion wine.

‘Bloody Mary for me, Charles.’ Molly’s voice is loud, stentorian.

Martin frowns at his mother.

‘What will you have, darling?’ Martin whispers in Nancy’s ear.

‘Oh, just something light.’

‘I’ve got a delicious elderflower cordial,’ chirps Aunt D. ‘From last summer’s crop.’

‘Sounds divine.’ Nancy settles back in the cushions, crosses her legs.

‘Martin tells me you work in London.’ Molly stares at Nancy, like an explorer who has just discovered a new species of beetle. Uncle Charles hands her the Bloody Mary. ‘You did put Worcester sauce in, Charles?’

Nancy smooths the front of her skirt. ‘I work for an insurance company.’

‘Insurance?’ Molly’s voice rises with incredulity. ‘You mean, in an office?’

‘She’s a secretary, Mother,’ Martin interjects. ‘To the manager.’

‘I see.’ Molly peers at Nancy even more inquisitively.

‘She studied in Grenoble and Munich . . . ’ Martin jumps in.

‘Rather wasted in an insurance office, isn’t it?’ Molly’s silver bracelets jangle as she lifts her drink to her mouth. ‘And what about your parents? What do they do?’

‘Mother, it’s not an inquisition . . . ’ Martin protests.

Nancy touches his hand. ‘He’s a civil servant. With the Inland Revenue.’

‘A taxman?’ Molly makes it sound like something unpleasant she has just found in the garden: a slug, or a pile of dog poo.

Nancy sips her elderflower cordial and tries to smile. ‘When we lived in Dorset, he used to cycle round to Thomas Hardy’s house to do his taxes.’

‘How fascinating!’ Aunt D. twinkles.

‘Hardy was a terrible grump.’ Nancy laughs.

‘No wonder!’ chimes in Tom. ‘After writing all those tragic novels.’

Molly stares into her empty Bloody Mary glass. ‘I heard from Robert!’ she announces. ‘You know, of course, my brother is Robert Graves.’ She jangles her bangles at Charles for a fill up. ‘They’ve fled to Majorca. Robert’s in a terrible state; hates France; hates London; says if there’s a war, he will emigrate to America.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Pennsylvania or somewhere ghastly like that.’

‘That’s patriotic!’ Martin jibes.

Molly frowns. ‘Well, he did do his part in the last war, as you know. I’m sure you’ve read his work, Nancy.’

‘He was even declared dead, wasn’t he?’ Nancy fiddles with her drink.

Molly frowns at her, but Uncle Charles grins. ‘Yes! There was even an obituary in The Times! Robert had great fun sending out letters to everyone after he got back from France, saying that reports of his demise had been greatly exaggerated.’

Everyone laughs heartily except Molly, who merely smiles, like a cat that has just got the cream, then turns to Nancy. ‘Do you have anyone famous in your family?’


12 FEBRUARY 1939 (#ulink_5418d4ab-e6a7-5b74-a42c-6ff5a50609a4)

Oxford (#ulink_5418d4ab-e6a7-5b74-a42c-6ff5a50609a4)

He wakes late, lies back in the pillows, watching the sunlight play on the wall of his room at Teddy Hall. There’s a hint of spring. The way the sun slants over the roof. The song of a thrush in the tree outside the window. Martin rolls over, opens a drawer in the bedside table and takes out a sheath of letters. Since term started in mid-January, their lives have diverged again and the post, an occasional telephone call and, on one occasion in late January, a telegram, saying he was coming up to London for a day and would she meet him at the Café Royal, have been their only means of staying in touch.

He opens the letter on top of the bulging sheath, then sinks back into the pillows and reads: ‘My darling Tino . . . ’

His eyes travel across the page, following the blue river of her handwriting, as it flows from her heart to his. He imagines standing behind her, watching her as she writes at her desk, up in her bedroom at Blythe Cottage, her red hair spilling over her shoulders, the faint rasp of the nib on the paper, like a mouse nibbling a cracker. Imagines the curves of her body, the narrow waist and full hips. A body like a violin, he thinks.

A loud banging on the door rouses him from his daydream. Martin leaps out of bed and opens up. A surly-looking young man with a face like a slab of dough stands in the doorway.

‘Clean your room now, Mister Preston?’ The voice is gruff, unfriendly.

‘Where’s Frank?’ Martin stares at the man.

‘Flu.’

Martin waits for him to say more. But he just stands in the doorway, glowering.

‘And you are?’

‘Dudley.’ He glares at Martin. ‘Your new scout.’ He pauses. ‘For now, anyway.’ Then, almost mockingly: ‘Sir.’

‘I see.’ Martin sits up, straightens his hair, irritated. ‘Let’s hope Frank makes a speedy recovery.’

The scout lumbers into the room, like an elephant, banging into a chair and nearly knocking over a standing lamp. He clears a few cups and saucers away into the sink, with a clatter; folds a newspaper; picks one of Martin’s shirts off the floor and drops it on a chair; kicks an upturned corner of the carpet flat. Then he goes to the fireplace, thrusts the poker into the ash like a sabre, rattles the grate, then slams the poker down, goes to the door and opens it. Without so much as a word to Martin, he steps out, slamming the door behind him with a bang.

Martin jumps up and starts to pull on his clothes. He’s been asked to be a steward at a motor trail in the Chilterns. He wishes he had said no. He has a law book to read, not to mention a long overdue essay.

He picks up a dark brown sweater, drops it back on the chair, goes to the chest of drawers and takes out a bright yellow wool one. He pulls it over his head, checks himself in the mirror and realizes it is inside out, takes it off, turns it the right way round, inserts his head through it, then picks up his grey herringbone, Raglan overcoat. Though the sun is shining, standing around for hours on a hillside in south Oxfordshire is bound to be frigid. He pulls his Teddy Hall scarf off the hook next to the door, winds it round his neck, and stuffs his chamois driving gloves into the pockets of his overcoat.

He has left the Bomb at a friend’s house in Fyfield Road, so he decides to head north along the river. A tomcat on a sunny wall watches him with amber eyes. A rugby ball arcs through the sky, chased by a gaggle of skinny boys in muddy shorts. What is she doing today? At church with Peg and LJ? Reading? Next week is Valentine’s Day, their first together. Which reminds him: he has not sent a card.

As he reaches the river, he pauses and looks back at the dreaming spires of the city. The first snowdrops are showing. A fisherman on a campstool waits for the telltale twitch of his float. A sculler sweeps by, his oars fracturing the latticework reflection of bare branches in the water. Two lovers hurry past, talking in Spanish. He turns his face to the sun, closes his eyes, revelling in its warmth on his skin. Oxford. On Sunday. In love.






The motor trial site is on an escarpment of the Chilterns, near the village of Crowell. Seeing the ranks of gleaming Alvis, MGs and Talbots, Martin rather wishes he had entered himself.

‘Martin!’

Martin turns to see his friend, Hugh Saunders, striding along the hillside. He’s in the year above Martin at Oxford: a tall, broad-shouldered twenty-one-year-old, with an angular face, cropped brown hair and narrow-set eyes. Next to him is a short, almost painfully skinny girl in a flimsy coat. ‘Hugh! Are you taking part?’

‘No. Strictly spectator.’ They shake hands, then Hugh makes the introductions. ‘Martin Preston, Sacha Richardson.’

Martin shakes her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’ The girl’s eyes narrow as she smiles. ‘Hugh was telling me about you the other day.’

‘Oh dear.’ Martin winces. ‘Hope some of it was good.’

‘Nearly all of it, actually.’ The girl shivers. ‘Hughie, darling, can we go and find a hot toddy somewhere?’

‘Of course.’ Hugh turns to Martin. ‘Fancy joining us?’

Martin shakes his head. ‘You go on. I have to go and sign in.’

‘Good luck, then!’ Hugh calls over his shoulder.

Martin heads for the stewards’ tent. The race will start in half an hour and a large crowd has already gathered. Some students, some local farmers in wellingtons and Barbour jackets; and a few townspeople from High Wycombe or Cowley. Whatever clouds may be gathering in Europe, no one is going to let it spoil their enjoyment and Martin listens happily to the animated discussions going on all around him about new kinds of supercharged fuel; the competitive strengths of the Bugatti versus the Alvis; and the secret of tyre pressures.

‘First time is it?’ an elderly man with a white, walrus moustache asks.

‘Yes.’ Martin grins. ‘Friend roped me in. Anything I need to know?’

‘It’s simple. You are basically there to see that the cars don’t cut any corners.’ The official smiles. ‘Literally.’ He hands Martin a flag and a clipboard. ‘If the car fails to properly complete your section of the course, you raise the flag. And scribble down the details. All clear?’

Martin’s position is on a gently sloping track between a copse of fir trees and an escarpment. Here, the cars will be travelling downhill after climbing one of the course’s many hills. Though it is sunny today, there has been a fair bit of rain recently and Martin guesses that the track will soon be churned up into a quagmire.

The first car down is an Austin Seven sports car, the driver muffled up in a heavy scarf and goggles. As it passes Martin, its tyres start to slide and only a deft series of tugs on the steering wheel keeps it from crashing into the woods. Next up is a V8 Allard, a car that Martin particularly loves with its boxy lines, bug-eyed headlamps, and monster engine. This one is white – or was, it’s now spattered with mud – and as it roars up over the hill, its front tyres leave the ground and, for a moment, the car is airborne. The driver, a thick-set man wrapped in a black overcoat, with a flat cap perched on his head, smiles and gives Martin the thumbs-up.

As the race goes on, the field thins out as more and more cars break down or crash out. In the increasingly long gaps in between, Martin sits or even lies on the bank behind him, staring up into the blue, winter sky. The sun is warm on his face. The bracken is soft, like a mattress. If only she were here, but she promised her mother to go shopping. But just the thought of her makes him feel full of life. And optimism. And love.






Back in his college room that night, he spreads another sheet of paper on his desk, uncaps his pen and writes:



Nancy, my very darling,

I felt so happy when I found a magnificent envelope addressed in your handwriting waiting for me when I got back today. I wondered what exciting things it was hiding and when I saw that there was a more than characteristic letter from you in it, I brushed the hair out of my eyes and rushed up to my room to read it. Darling, anything to do with you turns me upside down.

He lifts the pen and smiles. It’s almost eleven o’clock at night. The gas fire in his room gutters. Outside, a drunk is shouting at the top of his voice. Martin goes and puts a record on the gramophone. Billie Holiday. The new sensation from America.



Today, I went as a marshal in a motor trial but instead of concerning myself with cars (however supercharged) I pictured you to myself. Fortunately, the day turned out to be warm and bright and quickening so that I could lie contented on a bank by Crowell Hill looking at the sky. But you always seemed to come between me and the blue.

I had no time for tea or dinner when I returned to Oxford because I was due to visit two parties and to act in a review at 8.30 p.m. I felt rather peculiar and hilarious; however all went well and we looked too sweet in our gym tunics and socks and sandshoes. My falsetto solo was indescribable but people laughed. ‘April Showers’ was scandalously under-rehearsed but the audience seemed to enjoy it.

Last weekend, I went to a cocktail party chez Enid Starkie, the modern languages don of Somerville, who has a beautiful house in St Giles. She wore a Chinese dress – a sort of billowing negligee, really – and smoked cigars. I met the poet, Stephen Spender, and his wife; and a peculiar Russian girl. Spender talked about the Spanish Civil War and read some poems. He said a group of Basque children is performing a concert at St Hugh’s next Sunday evening. I might go.

I’m enchanted to think that your room is enlivened by bright posters, that you can look out of the window and see the broken pieces of winter metamorphosing into spring. One day I must come to see you bent engagingly over your desk. I shall gently straighten your lovely figure and kiss you, one day soon.

Have you dared to buy any more hats? I’ve just rashly spent some of my term’s dwindling resources on a new pair of shoes – brown, light brogue. I’m not sure that I like them now – but I’m quite, quite sure that I love you – now and then.

Martin.


25 APRIL 1939 (#ulink_bc823924-5c8d-5226-a7a7-cbe5dbc2366c)

The Oxford Union (#ulink_bc823924-5c8d-5226-a7a7-cbe5dbc2366c)

Martin races down the stairs and sprints across the quad. In half an hour, a debate will be held in the Oxford Union on the question of conscription. An idea that had up till now been merely theoretical – that Martin and the rest of his generation may be called up for military service – has now become real.

Two months have flashed by since he lay on that bank on Crowell Hill, during the motor trial, seeing her eyes reflected in the blue winter sky. The Easter holidays have come and gone. Like fugitives from love, they have managed to snatch a few days together, either at Whichert House or in London. But Nancy has been either chained to her desk typing insurance claims, or spending most evenings and weekends rehearsing her play in London. They had hoped to spend Easter together but at the last minute he was summoned to Wiltshire again by his mother. Not an hour goes by when he doesn’t think of her but term has started again with a bang. There are books to read, essays to write, tutorials to attend.

In that time, clouds have darkened over Europe. In March, Hitler’s Panzers rolled into Czechoslovakia. Hitler has smashed Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement with an iron fist. Now, the world is holding its breath to see if Poland will be next. Love and war are now entwined in Martin’s and Nancy’s destinies.

‘Hugh!’ Martin spots his friend amidst the throng of students heading for the Union.

‘Think it’s going to be 1933 all over again?’ Hugh pulls out a cigarette, lights it and offers Martin one.

The so-called King and Country debate in 1933 had shocked the nation, when the Oxford Union adopted a pledge not to fight in the event of war with Germany, a pledge Churchill called ‘vile’ and ‘squalid’. Tonight’s debate won’t have any more legal standing than that one, but it will be an important barometer of public opinion. For weeks, it has been a hot topic of debate in college dining rooms and studies.

‘I don’t think so.’ Martin draws on his cigarette. ‘The mood in the country is different. Hitler has revealed his true intentions.’

Arriving at the Union, Martin and Hugh join a scrum of students pushing their way inside. Martin has never seen anything like it. Normally, these debates are languid affairs conducted in front of a half-filled hall. Tonight even the galleries are crammed to overflowing with students, leaning over the balustrades, whistling or calling to their friends on the floor. Hundreds more students stand or lean against the raspberry-coloured walls.

Martin and Hugh manage to find a seat near the front, on a bench facing the dispatch boxes. Martin looks around, waves to some friends in the gallery, then turns to the front, where the three speakers are waiting to address the throng. The atmosphere is electric, somewhere between a bullfight and a parliamentary vote of no confidence.

‘How’s Nancy?’ Hugh asks.

‘She’s fine.’ Martin pulls a face. ‘Hardly seen her, though. We’ve both been too busy. Did I tell you, she’s got a small part in a play in London?’

‘I didn’t know she acted. Where?’

‘Players’ Club. They have a little space on King Street.’

‘Near Covent Garden? I know it,’ Hugh interjects.

‘That’s it. Michael Redgrave is involved.’

‘Better watch out, Martin.’ Hugh nudges him in the ribs. ‘I’ve heard he’s a terrible womanizer.’

Martin knows his friend is only joking but the thought that Nancy might be unfaithful gives him a sharp pain, like a dagger stuck between his ribs. But his attention is quickly focused on the sight of the President of the Union rising from his high-backed chair on the dais behind the dispatch boxes. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. And welcome to the Oxford Union.’ A wave of applause echoes round the walls. The students in the gallery drum on the wooden railings. ‘As war threatens Europe once again, the question of conscription has again leapt to the top of the national debate.’

‘No war!’ a heckler shouts from the back of the hall.

The President holds up his hand for silence. ‘And I am pleased to welcome three eminent speakers, who will debate the question from their own different, unique viewpoints.’ He turns and motions to the three speakers. ‘The Right Honourable Stephen King-Hall.’

There are a few boos.

‘ . . . Captain Basil Liddell Hart . . . ’

Liddell Hart waves, cheered by a group of undergraduates in the gallery.

‘And, last but not least, the Right Honourable Randolph Churchill.’ A cacophony of cheers and hissing erupts. Churchill waves, in an avuncular manner.

In 1933, he spoke in favour of war and a student hurled a stink bomb at him. There are a few jeers and whistles from the pacifists in the hall. But the hubbub soon dies down.

‘I now invite the Right Honourable Stephen King-Hall to debate our motion,’ booms the President. ‘Should conscription be reintroduced?’

Cries of ‘No!’ and ‘Yes!’ echo round the hall, a mixture of boos and cheers. Martin is torn in his views about the possibility of war. His Uncle Robert’s stories and poems about the horrors of the Great War have made him instinctively opposed to military conflict as a means of solving problems, and the sort of bellicose rhetoric espoused by Randolph Churchill, which is why he is a strong supporter of the League Of Nations. On the other hand, he has come to believe that Hitler presents such a threat to Europe that, if Britain does go to war, he will do his duty and join up. Even if it means being away from Nancy.

‘Looks like this is going to be quite a firecracker,’ he says as King-Hall gets up and goes to the dispatch box. He is smartly dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and tie. His polished head gleams under the lights.

‘Mr President, as many of you know, I served in the Navy during the last war.’ He looks up at the gallery. ‘My service on HMS Southampton showed me what war can do. The terrible toll in blood and gold. The sacrifice of tens of thousands of young men, in the flower of their youth.’

He looks out at the sea of young faces in front of him. ‘But there is another way of winning a war.’ A few boos start to echo round the hall. ‘Non-violent resistance.’ He pronounces each word singly, and with emphasis.

The hissing gets louder. Someone in the gallery shouts: ‘Communist!’

‘Here we go . . . ’ Martin nudges his friend.

‘Order! Order.’ The President gets to his feet. ‘I would like to remind the house that booing or hissing a speaker is both a grave and a pointless discourtesy, and an abuse of the forms of the House!’

More cheering and booing. King raises his voice: ‘But what are the principles of non-violent resistance?’ He looks out into the packed hall. ‘In conventional military thinking, occupation by enemy forces represents the end of the war and victory for the enemy. However, in the case of non-violent resistance, such thinking is wrong!’

Someone at the back of the hall shouts: ‘Rubbish!’ Others turn and hurl insults at him. There is more hissing and wolf-whistling

King struggles on. ‘ . . . by shifting the area of conflict into the sphere of non-violence, using techniques like civil disobedience, non-violent demonstrations, sit-ins, go-slows, . . . ’

Next up is Basil Liddell Hart, the well-known military strategist and writer. His ascetic features and steel-rimmed glasses give him the appearance of a Russian intellectual.

‘This should be interesting,’ Hugh says under his breath. ‘He’s a brilliant speaker.’

‘There are many reasons to oppose conscription,’ Hart begins. More boos echo round the hall. ‘First, it is impracticable. Soldiers need to be trained. But we have neither enough men nor enough qualified instructors. More importantly, conscription is alien to a democratic society!’

A wave of applause and cheers rises from the crowd. Their opponents shout, ‘Nonsense!’

‘Whatever the case for compulsory service in an earlier generation, when other democratic nations adopted it, it is inevitably affected now by the fact that we are threatened by nations who have made it not merely a means but an end – a principle of life . . . ’

There is cheering. A group of students in the gallery drum on the balustrades.

‘ . . . and for us to adopt compulsory service under pressure of their challenge would be a surrender of our own vital principles – and admission of spiritual defeat.’

There is thunderous applause, interspersed with a few boos. Martin looks at Hugh and raises his eyebrows.

‘He’s right, of course. But I can’t see him winning, can you?’

‘Not a chance.’ Hugh shakes his head. ‘You’re for fighting, aren’t you?’

‘Of course. If nothing else works. I just wish the League of Nations had some real teeth,’ says Martin, remembering his conversation with Nancy last November.

‘You might have to wait a long time for that,’ says Hugh, dismissively.

Hart leaves the dispatch box and returns to his seat to prolonged applause. The President gets up again. ‘Our final speaker, ladies and gentlemen, needs no introduction . . . ’

Martin has only seen Randolph Churchill in photographs. In the flesh, the young MP is even more different from his famous father. The face is gaunter, more sallow, the shoulders narrower. A red silk handkerchief pokes from his breast pocket.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.’ His plummy voice is drowned in a wave of applause, mixed with catcalls and whistles.

‘Tory scum!’ a bearded student in a donkey jacket shouts from the gallery.

Churchill ignores him. Martin rolls his eyes. ‘It is now nearly six years since this House adopted that shameful pledge not to fight for King and Country.’ A barrage of insults and jeers erupts from sections of the crowd. Others cheer and clap. ‘An oath my father, Winston Churchill, rightly called . . . ’ He lets the pause hang in the air, then raises his voice. ‘Abject. Squalid. And shameless!’ A wave of foot stomping echoes round the hall. ‘Since then—’ His voice is drowned out by catcalls and whistles. ‘Since then, Herr Hitler has continued to arm Germany at an alarming rate.’

The mention of Hitler’s name elicits a chorus of boos and hissing. Churchill raises his hand. ‘And, as a result, this great country that we love . . . ’ he leans against the dispatch box, letting his words sink in ‘ . . . now faces a threat more grave than any in the last thousand years.’

Someone shouts: ‘Hear, Hear!’ Churchill brings the palm of his hand down on the dispatch box with a loud bang. ‘Across the Channel, for the last three years, a war has been going on for the hearts and minds of the French people, as Nazi propaganda attempts to poison the minds of our allies.’ He thumps the dispatch box for a second time. His voice drips with disdain. ‘A war we are losing.’

Martin and Hugh exchange glances as more cheers, even louder this time, echo round the red-painted walls of the debating chamber. People begin to stamp their feet. Martin does not join in.

‘Yet, here, in Great Britain, we have so far only made . . . ’ he sneers ‘ . . . gestures of defiance.’ Martin feels Churchill’s eyes as he rakes the hall with a glare. ‘But we have reached a point where gestures are not enough!’

A shout goes up from the gallery: two students are flailing their fists. Others join in. The noise gets louder and louder. Churchill pulls the red handkerchief from his breast pocket, mops his brow. ‘We want not only gestures,’ he calls out to the crowd, letting the words sink in. ‘We want an army!’ Another wave of stamping and cheering erupts from the crowd. Churchill presses his hands down on the dispatch box, stares defiantly out at the crowd, and roars: ‘And that quite soon!’

A huge cheer goes up. People spring to their feet. Martin and Hugh remain seated, clapping enthusiastically.

The President gets to his feet. ‘And now, my honourable friends, the time has come to vote on our motion. Ayes to the right, please. Nos to the left.’

There is a cacophony of benches scraping, coughs and stamping feet, as the audience gets to its feet and files out of the debating chamber. As Martin reaches the brass rail dividing the votes, he hesitates, then steps to the right.

Martin and Hugh follow the crowds to the Eagle and Child pub, known to generations of Oxford students as the Fowl and Foetus. C. S. Lewis and Tolkien can normally be found in the back room talking about hobbits and magic wardrobes with other members of ‘The Inklings’. Not tonight. It’s bedlam. The heat is intense, the air blue with smoke. Everyone is arguing about the debate.

‘They should bloody shoot that Stephen King chap,’ a plummy-voiced young Trinity student sneers. ‘Or send him off to the Soviet Union!’

‘Liddell Hart’s not much better!’ his companion snipes. ‘Total Bolshie. Even looks like Lenin!’

Martin rolls his eyes as he tries to wriggle his way through the crowds to the bar. ‘The usual?’ he calls back to Hugh. Hugh gives him the thumbs-up.

Martin keeps trying to attract the barman’s attention, but he is wedged between two rugby players. He’s impatient. Can’t wait to get back to his room and write to Nancy about what has happened. The motion was easily carried. But though he knows the outcome has no ultimate meaning, he feels as though the war, which until now had seemed far away, has crept one step closer to their lives, like a fog rolling across winter fields.

Finally, he manages to commandeer two pints and edges his way back through the jostling, shouting crowd, holding the glasses above his head.

‘Cheers!’ says Hugh, relieving him of one of the glasses.

‘Cheers!’ Martin takes a long, deep draught. ‘So, what did you think?’

‘Exciting.’ Hugh has to shout to make himself heard. ‘You?’

Martin gulps his beer. His heart is torn between two powerful emotions: his love for Nancy and his feeling of duty towards his country. A third emotion – anger at Hitler – only adds to the waves crashing against each other inside him.

‘It’s still sinking in,’ he says to Hugh, not yet ready to share his feelings, even to a good friend.






On his way back to Teddy Hall, Martin stops and looks up into the sky. It’s as clear as a bell and is like a sheet of black satin, the stars a thousand glimmering diamonds. He imagines Nancy looking up into the same sky at Blythe Cottage, two young people at a crossroads in their lives. At that moment, a plane passes overhead, its lights clearly visible.

The first thing he does when he gets back to his room is pour himself a large, dry martini and light a cigarette. The gas fire sputters. On the desk is a pewter tankard engraved with the college crest. Her Christmas gift. And a letter with a poem written by her.



I took a ladder from the wall

And held it up against the sky

And said, ‘I’ll climb the steps

And pick some stars

And throw them down to you.

That, when soft summer comes,

We’ll plait a basket

And walk, hand in hand,

Giving our stars to children

By the way; yes, all but one

That one our love shall light

Both day and night.’

Martin smiles, reads it again, then takes a sheet of writing paper and spreads it on the table. Inhales deeply on his cigarette, unscrews his pen and writes the words ‘Claire de lune’.

It’s his nickname for her: a play on her second name, Claire, and one of their favourite pieces of music, ‘Clair de lune’, by Claude Debussy.



I just got back from the debate on conscription. The Union voted for conscription by 430 votes to 370. So everything hangs fire, not only the season. Everyone is uncertain what conscription will mean to us. It is harder than ever to concentrate on my studies. There is so much more to do and experience and so many other places to explore. I know all this has been thought by other young people since time immemorial but it strikes all of us just now because these ideas have been highlighted by the gloom of war.

I’ve never bothered you talking about engagements or marriage and I think you feel the same way. But I’m a little frightened, so it’s natural to want to hold your hand more tightly, isn’t it? I’m hopelessly in love with you and want to keep you for myself for the rest of my life. I understand why you want to wait. And I respect that. I don’t mind waiting. I can be patient, although it’s hard. I’m full of emotional energy but also a bit patrician, so there is always a struggle going on inside me. I’m extravagant, a little unscrupulous, a little lazy, and rather too pleased with myself. But I have some good points, which I hope you can see.

Aunt D. came to tea yesterday with Dr Brann, an evacuee from Heidelberg, who she is putting up at Whichert House with his wife and child, until they can find somewhere of their own in Oxford. He told us all the latest from Germany. He says they are rounding up all the Jews and putting them in special camps. Can you believe this is happening in the country that gave the world Beethoven?

The clock of St Giles strikes ten. He looks at his watch. Pours himself another drink and lights a second cigarette. Scribbles on.



Did you see the sky tonight? Flawless, and infinite, with the stars pointed to it and shining goldenly. As I was walking, a solitary aeroplane flew over. I could see its lights. Red, green, yellow, all so clear. It must be perfect, flying now in the cold, clear light. There are so many things like that I long to share with you.

He lifts the pen, smiling at the memory, then draws on his cigarette. The outcome of the debate is sinking further in. Martin chews nervously on his pen top then brings the nib back to the page.



Whatever happens, you mustn’t worry about me: even if I don’t get my officer’s commission (which I should get) it will be no dreadful hardship to be conscripted. There will be ideas and people to line the sackcloth uniforms with fine silk to make them wearable and life liveable. To be loved by you is like sitting with the small of your back to a warm fire after wandering about in the winter and the chilliness.

I’m going to be fanatically busy this week because I must work extra hard to make up for last week’s lapses. So I’m writing this before the law books close in and around me.

Darling, I’m longing to see you. I think perhaps a half-hearted (metaphorically) meeting before term ends would add to the strain. What do you think? I shall have so much to do that I will have my mind occupied. And the holidays will soon be with us.

Forgive the scrawl. I’ll try to write properly soon, a little less chatter and more prose worthy of a poem, a masterpiece and enchantress all of which you are.

All my love, Martin.


25 JUNE 1939 (#ulink_53449ae1-e08e-5180-bc24-c9f29106219c)

The River Isis, near Oxford (#ulink_53449ae1-e08e-5180-bc24-c9f29106219c)

Martin pulls on the oars of a skiff. Nancy lies in the prow, her head resting on a blue velvet cushion. The sun dapples her frock: blue gentians on white Egyptian cotton, bought in Paris a few years ago. Martin is in shirtsleeves and khaki trousers. A picnic basket is tucked under the seat in the back of the boat.

‘Don’t you sometimes wish a day could last for ever?’ He lets the skiff drift, looking down at her chestnut hair. The way it tumbles over her shoulders, her pale, freckled skin and perfect features make him think of a painting he once saw at the National Gallery by one of the Pre-Raphaelites.

‘Mmm . . . ’ is all she can manage at first. Then: ‘“Time is a river without banks”.’

‘Who’s that? Shakespeare?’

‘Chagall!’ She sits up, laughing. A dragonfly hovers over them, then darts away, a tiny explosion of blue and green.

Their eyes meet and hold. He shifts in the boat. It rocks. He lays down the oars. Leans forward. As their lips meet there is a loud thump as the prow of the skiff rams into some submerged roots. They are both tipped forward. One of the oars is knocked out of its rowlock. The skiff is perilously close to capsizing.

‘I am so sorry, Nancy, I can’t believe what a clumsy oaf I am!’

Nancy bursts into laughter. Martin feels embarrassed but when he realizes she is not laughing at him, but with him, he bursts into laughter, too, then retrieves the oar and slides it back into the rowlock and rows towards the bank. When the water is shallow enough, he clambers out, pulls the skiff in, helps her ashore, passes the picnic basket and champers, the rug. Nancy throws the rug over her arm, and they set off along the bank.

‘What about here?’ Martin stops by a weeping willow close to the bank, puts the picnic basket down.

‘Perfect!’ She spreads the rug out on the ground.

Martin comes over to her and slips his arms around her. She lets herself be pulled down onto the rug, then wraps her legs around his and kisses him, long and deep. Martin responds with even greater passion. Their lovemaking is like a wild fire. It only takes a spark to ignite a flame, which quickly flares up into an uncontrollable blaze.

‘Calme toi, Tino.’ Nancy sits up and straightens her frock. ‘Someone might walk past.’

In the distance, there is a large, country house, set back from the river, enclosed by a high wall and surrounded by trees. ‘Let’s go over there. It’ll be more private.’

They pick up the picnic things and trudge towards the house, in silence. Martin stares at the ground, dragging his feet through the grass.

‘What’s wrong?’ Nancy asks.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Time is flying by so fast. The uncertainty about the war. It puts me on edge.’ He turns to her, his hands raised in dismay. ‘I just love you so much.’

‘I know, Tino.’ She puts her arm through his. ‘It’s just sometimes, I think you use that word as an excuse.’

‘An excuse?’ Martin stares at her. ‘For what?’

‘For sex.’ She stares across the lake.

‘What’s wrong with sex?’ His voice is harsh, mocking.

‘There’s nothing wrong with sex!’ Her voice rises. ‘I dream about it as much as you.’

‘So, we’re on the same . . . ’ he searches for the right word ‘ . . . wavelength.’

‘Of course we are.’ She kisses him. ‘I love you, Martin. More than I have ever loved anyone.’ Tears prickle her eyes. ‘But women see these things very differently from men. It’s how we are brought up. What society expects.’

‘Society? In case you haven’t noticed, society is going up in flames,’ Martin grumbles. ‘The battalion could be called away to France any day!’

‘I know!’ She wipes another tear away. ‘That’s why I want us to wait!’

‘Wait? For what? For me to leave?’ His voice is full of sarcasm. ‘That’s a great idea!’

‘That’s not what I meant!’ She clenches her fists, stamps her feet. ‘Oh, God, I don’t know what I mean!’

She storms across the meadow. Martin wants to follow her, but he suddenly feels so sad that he turns and walks on, disconsolately, searching for a new spot to spread the picnic. Near the house, he finds a patch of clover. It’s screened from view by the wall and protected by the lake. He spreads out the rug, and begins to unpack the picnic things. Plates, glasses, cutlery, napkins. A blue and white check tablecloth. Salt and pepper filched from the dining hall. A loaf of fresh-baked bread. Guernsey butter. Port Salut and Double Gloucester cheese. A jar of Aunt D.’s tomato and apple chutney. Smoked salmon. Some pears from the garden at Whichert House: tiny, lemon yellow fruits with a pink blush.

‘I’m sorry.’ She puts her arms around him.

‘It’s me that should apologize.’ He holds her against his breast, stroking her hair. They kiss, tenderly, slowly, then Martin draws away. ‘You hungry?’

‘Ravenous!’ She reaches forward and takes a plate, cuts a slice of Port Salut, then picks up the packet of butter. She reads the label, delighted. ‘Guernsey butter!’

‘In honour of your father’s roots.’

‘Ah, how sweet you are.’ She leans forward and kisses him again, then spreads a thin layer of the butter on her bread, lays the cheese on it, tastes.

‘That’s delicious! Where did you get it? The market?’

‘Fortnum & Mason. Aunt D. forced it on me last weekend.’ He cuts a piece for himself, tastes it. ‘Mmm, that is good.’

‘How is everyone?’ Nancy lifts her empty glass.

‘Same old, same old.’ Martin pours her some more champagne. ‘Uncle Charles is working too hard. Michael smokes too much. Frances, the cook, threatens everyone with a rolling pin if they come too near the kitchen. Aunt D. gardens.’

‘Are they worried?’

Martin looks at her questioningly, tears off another hunk of bread, loads it with smoked salmon, passes it to her. ‘About the possible call-up?’

She nods and nibbles the salmon.

‘You know how they are.’ Martin laughs. ‘Carry on. Keep calm.’

They fall silent, each lost within their own thoughts, looking across the river. A pair of mallards rescues them from their thoughts, rising up close to the shore, their wings beating against the water. They watch them wheel away across the river. Martin reaches forward, takes her head in his hands and slowly brings his face to hers. This time he doesn’t try to kiss her. He just touches the tip of his nose to hers, moves it in a circle, brushes her nose again, draws back, then touches his nose to hers again, beaming with happiness.

‘You didn’t tell me you were an Eskimo.’ She circles his nose with her own, then slowly brings her lips to his, as lightly as a bird unfurling its wings.

‘I love you,’ he whispers.

‘I love you, too.’


3 AUGUST 1939 (#ulink_2308cce2-c330-5d50-acf1-7caa0c8a0735)

Whichert House (#ulink_2308cce2-c330-5d50-acf1-7caa0c8a0735)

England is draped in all its summer glory. Fields of gold. Hedgerows choked with flowers. Learie Constantine leading the West Indies out at Lord’s. But Nancy’s not here to enjoy it with him. She’s on holiday in Devon until tomorrow. Martin mooches about at Whichert House or takes Scamp for long walks, counting the days until she will return.

Letters fly back and forth, his with snippets of news from Whichert House – tennis games with Hugh Saunders; the quality of Aunt D.’s rhubarb; local gossip.



Now you must be able to gaze over broad headlands and endless sea. While I can only look disconsolately about a deserted village. You have taken with you the chief charm of the place. There is no trim, chic black-dressed figure to return to here in the evenings to whom I can smile or speak a few words, knowing that later there would be a loving conversation down the telephone or a close goodbye at your garden gate. I’ve even had to plunge into the sombre pages of my Roman law books and the harmless pleasures of the country, like taking the dog for a walk, playing tennis, cycling to the post office or playing at soldiers. I’ve hardly seen a car and I wear sandals all day. One morning, Scamp and I ran right round the garden after breakfast – I had just found a postcard from you waiting for me.

Hers, effusive with descriptions of sunset walks and the enchantments of rock pools; or eating lemon sole with LJ and Peg at a much talked about hotel in Budleigh Salterton (‘overrated’ is Nancy’s verdict). Tucked between the sheets of one letter, she pressed some wild flowers: thrift, sea lavender, kidney vetch. When he held them to his nose, he smelled salt and sun. And Chanel No 5.

Though everything seems surprisingly normal, lurking under the surface of this English summer, with all its rituals and pleasures, there is a growing sense of unease. No one any longer doubts that there will be a war with Germany. It’s now a question of when, not if. Martin has already received his commission as a Second Lieutenant in the Ox and Bucks, as the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry is known. A Territorial regiment, with a proud fighting history. He will be the youngest officer in the regiment, a distinction that makes him both proud and anxious. Training is set to begin in three days’ time at a camp in Sussex.

Which is why he is standing on tiptoe with a hooked pole in his hand, trying to open the trapdoor of the attic at Whichert House. Ever since Aunt Dorothy’s son, Michael, broke his leg trying to get up into the attic it has been strictly out of bounds. But Martin has to retrieve some kit.

The metal hook slides across the face of the trapdoor, but doesn’t find its mark. Martin lets his weight back onto the soles of his bare feet, wipes his brow, then gets up on tiptoe once more, and starts to guide the stick towards the bracket. He looks around him for something to stand on. Then tries again. This time he manages to get the hook into the bracket. He grips the pole with both hands, pulls until the accordion ladder is fully unfurled, tests it for stability, then places his right foot on the first rung.

At the top of the ladder, he hauls himself upright, careful not to bang his head on the beams, lights a lantern. Old toys. Worn-out carpets. Leather suitcases and trunks. Tea tins filled with rusty nails. Cardboard boxes full of back numbers of The Cornhill Magazine.

He moves further into the attic, stepping carefully from beam to beam, as only the middle portion is covered with boards. Uncle Charles’ stuff should be at the end of the attic, on the right, under a groundsheet. He holds up the lantern. A sideboard draped in a white sheet drifts like an iceberg in the dark. Two discarded tennis racquets, with frayed and broken strings, lean against a copper fireguard. A jumble of old picture frames lies on the floor. A groundsheet.

Everything has been left exactly as it was when Uncle Charles came home from Flanders thirty years ago. A battered shaving bowl. A camp bed. A collapsible lantern. The last time the lantern was lit was in the trenches on the Western Front. Martin’s generation vowed that the horrors of the trenches would never happen again. But, in a few weeks, or months, he will be lighting this same lantern. Same battalion. New war.

He dismantles the lantern and puts it back in its case, picks up the camp bed and puts it and the other things in the groundsheet, carries them across to the trapdoor and goes back down the ladder.

‘You found it!’ Uncle Charles is sitting in the kitchen polishing his shoes: a row of black and brown brogues laid out in a neat row next to a shoebox.

Martin takes out the canvas pouch with the collapsible lantern.

‘Goodness! I didn’t know I still had it!’ The older man takes the pouch, opens it and puts the lantern together. ‘These hinges are the tricky part.’

Like Aunt D., Martin thinks of Charles as a surrogate parent. Ever since he was a boy, Martin has spent his holidays here and in that time he has come to feel far closer to his uncle than he ever felt to his own father. The idea that Martin may carry the same lantern into battle only makes this connection stronger.

‘There!’ Uncle Charles clicks the glass sides into place, places a candle inside and lights it. He looks over at Martin with an expression both of love and sorrow. ‘Good company on a cold night. I hope it serves you well, too, dear boy.’


5 AUGUST 1939 (#ulink_aed2a730-bcaa-5b2c-8636-4b6d678d2a57)

Whichert House (#ulink_aed2a730-bcaa-5b2c-8636-4b6d678d2a57)

The sun is high over the Chilterns as Martin speeds through the lanes in the Bomb. It’s his last day before training camp. There’s a fluttering feeling in his stomach, the same he used to get when he was driven back to start the new term at Marlborough when he was a boy. But he is determined to enjoy these last few hours of freedom. Nancy has arrived back from Devon and Hugh Saunders has asked them both over for a game of tennis. On the back seat lie his trusty Dunlop racquet and a bottle of chilled white wine.

Nancy is already waiting outside Blythe Cottage, dressed in a pleated white skirt, white top, white socks and white plimsolls on her feet. In her arms is a Ladies Slazenger racquet.

‘Ready for battle?’ He kisses her and they speed off.

‘Not so sure my tennis will live up to the outfit,’ Nancy shouts, holding her hair in the wind.

The light dances off the bonnet of the Bomb. A field of golden corn stretches away to the right. The hedgerows are choked with wild flowers: cow parsley, vetch, water avens. In Bulstrode Park, a herd of cattle stand chewing the cud, flicking their tails. The branches form a canopy of green above their heads.

‘England, in August!’ he cries. ‘Is there anywhere so beautiful in the world?’






Hugh Saunders is waiting for them in the driveway of a large, Queen Anne, brick house in Gerrards Cross. Since meeting him in the spring, Nancy has come to like this tall, fresh-faced young man, with his inquiring eyes, broad shoulders and athlete’s body. Like Martin, he has been commissioned into the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry. One rank higher, though: as a captain.

‘Come and say hallo to everyone.’ Saunders leads them down a path to a grass tennis court. He motions towards a svelte, grey-haired woman sitting under a blue umbrella, in a white tennis skirt and shirt.

‘Martin!’ The woman starts to get up. ‘Lovely to see you again.’

‘You, too, Connie.’ He gestures to Nancy. ‘And this is Nancy Whelan.’

‘Delighted to meet you at last!’ They shake hands. ‘We’ve heard so much about you.’

‘Some of it good, I hope,’ Nancy jokes.

‘Nearly all of it.’ Hugh’s mother grins affectionately, then indicates a tanned, young girl sitting next to her, reading Vogue and brooding fashionably behind dark glasses. ‘My daughter, Helen.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Nancy leans forward and shakes the girl’s hand.

‘Marvellous!’ says the girl to no one in particular, extending a pale, limp hand.

Saunders points at a jug and glasses laid out on a folding table covered in a floral tablecloth. ‘Lemonade, Nancy?’

‘Thank you, yes.’

Sitting in the sun, they drink lemonade and talk about the latest news of the battalion, who has got what commission, whose family is trying to protect their son from joining, then Hugh picks up his racquet and a net of balls. ‘Anyone for tennis?’

As a child, Martin dreamed of playing at Wimbledon. He was good for his age, with a wicked sliced backhand and a serve-volley game ideally suited to grass. He played on his school team and, in the holidays, in Junior tournaments, winning the Under 14s at Great Missenden two years in a row. And he now plays on the Teddy Hall team. The thock of ball on strings. The sunshine on his bare arms and legs. The white outfits. The feel of the grass underfoot. If he ever goes to heaven, he hopes there will be a tennis court there.

‘Martin, you team up with Helen, all right?’ Hugh opens the net and drops the balls onto the grass.

‘At your service,’ Martin says with a theatrical bow.






Hugh and Nancy easily win the first set, 6–2. Helen is a left-hander, and not very mobile. But in the second set, Martin begins to find his range and volleys.

‘You’re poaching at the net too much, Martin!’ Nancy pretends to glower at him, as they change ends. ‘It’s very unsporting of you.’

‘Just because we are winning . . . ’ Martin kisses her on the cheek.

At the changeover, they return to the shade of the umbrella for more lemonade. Everyone is in a jovial mood, but beneath the good humour there is an undercurrent of anxiety. Tomorrow, none of this will exist. Tennis parties and dances, punting on the River Isis or rambling through the fields of Buckinghamshire will all be a thing of the past. In twenty-four hours, Martin’s life as a student and a civilian will come to an end and his new career, as a soldier, will begin. He will sleep in a camp bed and wear only khaki. Tennis racquets will give way to guns. He will be separated from Nancy and his family for weeks, if not months. Will he rise to the challenge? Will he be man enough to fight for his country – and for her?

‘Hugh tells me you are getting your uniforms today,’ Connie says.

‘Yes.’ Martin sips from his glass, says, excitedly: ‘Right after this. At the drill hall.’

‘Well, that’s a start.’ Mrs Saunders frowns. ‘Have they also got some ammunition for you? Apparently, we are months, if not years, behind the Germans.’ She tut-tuts. ‘And now they have all those munitions factories in Czechoslovakia to draw on, too.’

Martin looks across at Nancy, then says, gravely: ‘We’ll be ready when the time comes.’ He tips back his lemonade, then turns to Hugh. ‘See you at the drill hall?’






They drive back to Blythe Cottage in silence, each wondering what the next weeks and months will bring. In a few hours, Martin will be in uniform. Another chapter in their lives is beginning.

‘I wonder what we’ll be doing next summer?’ says Nancy, wistfully, as they pull up outside Blythe Cottage.

‘Same as this, I hope.’ Martin leans over and kisses her, then watches as she slides out of the car, her tennis skirt high up her thigh. ‘See you tomorrow? At the station?’

He waves then drives away, watching her grow more distant in the side mirror. Half an hour later, he pulls up at the drill hall in Aylesbury, the battalion’s base. A line of Bren Carriers is parked outside. Probably be driving one of those soon, Martin thinks.

James Ritchie, another of the battalion’s captains, greets Martin as he pulls up. He’s a banker, married to the daughter of the Wethered brewing family in Marlow, and a descendant of the writer, William Thackeray. He’s also ten years older than Martin, and senior to him.

‘Captain Viney and the rest of the officers are already inside.’ Ritchie points to a tent in the middle of the parade ground. ‘You can collect your uniform there.’

The tent is full of men stripped down to their underpants and smells of sweat and beer. Bawdy jokes about the respective size of the officers’ ‘packages’ fly back and forth. Boxes of battledress uniforms, just arrived from London, stand open: a woollen blouse and a pair of trousers that look rather like something you would wear in the Alps.

‘Hugh!’ Martin calls over to Saunders.

‘You made it.’ Saunders stares down in dismay at the trousers he is trying on and pulls a face: they are up around his ankles.

‘Is this the longest you’ve got?’ he says to an orderly.

‘I’ll see if I can find a thirty-four.’ The orderly goes out.

Martin pulls on his own trousers. ‘Not quite so elegant as tennis whites, are they?’

‘Lovely girl, Nancy,’ Hugh says. ‘Needs a bit of work on her serve.’ He grins. ‘But seriously, Martin, I can’t believe how much more cheerful you have become since you met her. I think I am going to start calling you the Happiest Man in the World.’

‘I am!’ Martin smiles at his friend. ‘I can’t bear the idea that we are going to be separated.’

‘I can imagine.’ Saunders sighs. ‘Sometimes I think being a bachelor has its advantages.’

The orderly returns. ‘Try this one, sir.’

Saunders steps into the new pair of trousers. They are fitted high in the waist, like a ski suit, with a large exterior map pocket at the front and button flies. This time they fit.

‘What’s this?’ Saunders says to the orderly, sliding a finger into a slit-shaped pocket at the side of his trousers.

‘That’s for your knife, sir.’

‘My what?’

‘Your jackknife.’ The orderly opens the blade. ‘Best Sheffield steel, sir.’

Hugh takes the knife and slides it into the pocket.

‘And this?’ Martin points to a small, horizontal pocket at the front of the trouser.

‘For your field dressing, sir.’ The orderly passes him a small canvas bag, marked ‘First Field Dressing’. ‘There are two dressings inside, sir. Both in waterproof pouches.’ The orderly looks him in the eye. He hands him another packet. ‘And this one is your shell dressing.’

‘What’s that?’ Martin asks.

‘For your . . . er . . . head, sir,’ says the orderly, shifting his feet awkwardly.

‘Won’t be needing that then,’ Martin jokes. ‘It’s all hollow.’






Back at Whichert House that night, Martin perches at the little table in his attic room, drinking a large gin and tonic, with a slice of cucumber in it. Tomorrow, he will be leaving for camp in Sussex. Why a Buckinghamshire regiment has to train in Sussex, he doesn’t understand. All he knows is that it will make it that bit more difficult to see Nancy.

Through the window he can just see the full moon. He imagines them watching it together, his arm around her waist, her hair spilling across his chest. After slowly unscrewing the top of his pen, he brings it to the paper. He has come to love this intimacy between pen and paper: their secret tryst. His chance to be alone with her. Make love to her in words. Express through his pen, as it moves across the page, the passion he feels in his heart. He adjusts the notepaper, a single sheet of grey Oxford Union vellum. And the gold-tipped nib of his Waterman pen begins to rush on.



Nancy, my darling,

You were bubbling over today. I’m so glad because I could never tire of hearing what you say or reading what you write. I know unshakeably I’ve never known anything so well in all my life than I am helplessly in love with you and that I would keep you for myself all our lives.

I think I have everything for camp: a camp bed, a folding chair, a lantern, a basin and a bucket, a suitcase, and a kitbag. My uniform has arrived, too. Needless to say, I look ever so smart.

Everyone sends their love. Michael is back from his weekend away in Worcester. He disappears most of the day doing errands for Aunt D. Roseen is on holiday in Ireland.

He looks at his watch, rubs his eyes.



It’s past midnight now, so I must go and dream – perhaps about you lying in bed, your beautiful hair flowing over your shoulders. I think you have a soft pillow and your head is nestled deep in it. You see, I have all the pictures mixed because I’m drowsy.

I love you.

Martin.


6 AUGUST 1939 (#ulink_a1e01515-0be8-5b19-884a-8f9bc01d631c)

High Wycombe Railway Station (#ulink_a1e01515-0be8-5b19-884a-8f9bc01d631c)

The station is packed with soldiers, getting ready to embark for the battalion’s training camp in Sussex. There’s a festive atmosphere. Union Jacks and bunting hang from the wrought iron fences and pillars. The battalion’s band plays a rousing marching song. Wives and children huddle proudly around their loved ones, as the August sun floods the station with light.

For many of the men, this is the first time they will have left the county. There’s a mood both of excitement and fear. Words of comfort and encouragement are exchanged. Babies dandled. Kisses planted.

Martin looks on, anxiously. Nancy promised she would try to get here to say goodbye. But there’s only twenty minutes till the train leaves. He knows if she doesn’t make it that there will be a good reason. He’s not a child, who needs someone to see him off at the station. But, as he watches a young soldier run towards a woman and child on the platform, and fold them in his arms, he can’t help feeling a pang of loneliness.

He glances at his watch. Two soldiers almost run into him as they push a trolley full of baggage along the platform. The band strikes up a new tune. Martin darts another look at the crowd milling around by the entrance then hurries along the platform to where his platoon of sixteen men is assembling.

‘Everyone here, Sarge?’ Martin asks his platoon sergeant, Joe Cripps, a short, muscular man, built like a fireplug.

‘All present and correct, sir.’

Martin is still getting used to his new role as an officer. Like most of the men in the platoon, Cripps is nearly twice as old as Martin; married and with children. As a twenty-year-old student, who has not even graduated, Martin feels awkward giving him orders. By rights, the sergeant should be telling him what to do.

‘Your family here to see you off?’ Martin asks his sergeant.

‘We’re from the north of the county, sir.’ Cripps lifts a huge canvas bag full of equipment and throws it into the train. ‘It’s too far, what with all the kids.’

‘How many have you got?’ Martin grins.

‘Just the two, sir.’ Cripps spots one of the platoon members swigging from a bottle of beer. ‘Hoy! You! Get rid of that bottle, or I’ll break it over your head!’ He turns back to Martin. ‘You, sir?’

Martin is miles away, peering fretfully around the station, looking for the most beautiful redhead in the world. ‘Sorry?’

‘Are you married, sir?’

‘Not yet, Sarge,’ Martin replies. ‘Soon, I hope.’

‘Better hurry then,’ the sergeant says. ‘We’ll probably be in France before Christmas.’

A deafening hiss of steam escapes from the locomotive, followed by a whistle. Martin glances anxiously towards the entrance.

‘Carry on here for a moment, will you, Sarge?’

Martin doesn’t even wait for the answer but turns and hurries down the platform, bumping into other soldiers and almost tripping over a pile of sacks. Another whistle sounds. Orders are barked. The last men start to board. A young wife, with a blonde baby on her arm, clings to her corporal husband, sobbing. Another whistle pierces the air.

As he approaches the entrance gates, Martin spots a woman with red hair. A blast of steam from the locomotive’s pistons obscures her in a swirling cloud.

‘Nancy!’ He breaks into a run, weaving through the knots of women and children, who now stand waving through the windows of the train to their loves ones.

The cloud of steam clears. The woman turns. Martin’s heart sinks.






Six days later, Martin opens his eyes to see an orderly dressed in khaki standing next to his camp bed.

‘Cup of tea, sir?’

‘Thank you, Jenkins.’ He yawns. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just before six, sir.’

Martin swings his legs over the edge of the camp bed and sits hunched over, sipping his tea. Their training camp is near the village of Lavant, in Sussex. In the distance, the South Downs stretch away to the north. To the south lie Chichester and the coast. Nancy’s absence is like a dull ache in his side. Luckily, he has his hands full. The men are unfit, badly equipped and homesick. They need constant chivvying along and training. Every day brings new frustrations – and challenges.

As the youngest officer in the battalion, Martin is already the butt of a few jokes from some of his mess mates; and the general dogsbody. Yesterday, he was just about to sit down and write to Nancy, after a day spent practising marching in pouring rain, when the second-in-command, Major Brian Heyworth, made him drive twenty miles into Chichester to fetch some rope.

‘Sleep well?’ Saunders greets him as Martin walks into the mess tent.

‘Fine.’ Martin yawns. ‘Just not enough. How about you?’

‘I’ve had better nights’ sleep.’

Martin twists his torso to the right. ‘My back is killing me after that route march yesterday. Twenty miles! I really think it’s a bit unnecessary.’

‘Apparently, one platoon got lost and ended up marching halfway to Reading!’

‘One of ours?’ Martin tips back his cup.

Saunders shakes his head. ‘Bloody 4th Battalion, of course.’

Gibbens, the battalion’s medical officer, comes and joins them. He is older than Martin, a twenty-seven-year-old Scot with a pale face; dark, crinkly hair that is already beginning to recede; gentle, dark eyes; and a wry sense of humour, who was working at St Thomas’ Hospital when the war broke out. His family are related to the Hartley jam family. Since they first met at the beginning of camp, Martin, Saunders, and he have become regular mess companions.

‘Any more cases of flu?’ Martin bites into a piece of cold toast. The mess tent is packed, so that he has to shout to make himself heard.

‘Still just the six.’ Gibbens taps his head. ‘Touch wood.’ An orderly comes and pours him some tea. ‘But it’s ridiculous to work the men so hard. They can hardly keep their eyes open – let alone move their feet.’

After breakfast, Martin assembles his platoon for trenching practice. The generals are convinced that this war will be like the last one: static forces dug in within shouting distance of each other. It’s his platoon of sixteen’s job to dig the trenches; erect roadblocks, put up barbed wire, do carpentry or construction jobs, dig latrines – and bury the dead.

To transport their gear – picks and shovels, fence posts, sledgehammers, nails and screws, band saws, wood – they have a huge Guy ‘Vixen’ removals van, donated by a furniture manufacturer in High Wycombe and repainted camouflage green and brown. Martin calls it the ‘Panopticon’, a play on the word Pantechnicon, the term commonly used for furniture removal vans. A Panopticon is the name given to an imaginary penal colony by the philosopher, Jeremy Bentham, in which the guards can observe the prisoners from a circular watchtower without the prisoners being aware that they are being watched. In other words, a bit like Army life. The name stuck and the Panopticon has now become the pride of the battalion. On the radiator is the Guy Motors logo: a metal badge with an Indian chief in a feather war bonnet surrounded by a wreath of bay leaves. Their lucky talisman.

After they have unloaded shovels and picks, Martin and his men begin to dig in unison, throwing the soil over their shoulders. ‘What did you do on civvy street, Cripps?’ Martin asks the sergeant, in between shovelling.

‘I was a master carpenter, sir.’ Cripps throws a shovel full of earth up over the lip of the trench, his pale, bony shoulders glistening with sweat. Though he is only five feet eight, with a long, thin face and ears that stick out from the sides of his head, he works harder and more efficiently than anyone else in the platoon.

Like many of the non-commissioned men, Cripps comes from north Buckinghamshire, around the light industrial centre of Aylesbury. By far the biggest provider of men in the battalion is the printing works of Hazell, Watson & Viney, in Aylesbury, one of the largest in Britain. Martin thinks it ironic that men who previously set type for Penguin paperbacks are now learning to dig trench latrines or clean a rifle.

‘Spent most of my life in and around Waddesdon.’ Cripps pulls a packet of tobacco from his pocket and some papers, and begins to roll a cigarette.

‘Where the Rothschilds live?’ Martin slams the shovel into the dark earth.

Cripps licks the paper and rolls the cigarette between his fingers. ‘That’s it.’ He takes a deep drag of smoke. ‘I do odd jobs at Waddesdon Manor, as a matter of fact.’ He pulls his pick out of the ground. ‘I feel more like a miner these days.’

‘Or a bloody mole,’ a voice calls out from further along the trench.

‘A mole’d shift more earth in a day than you, Topper.’

Topper is the nickname of Jim Hopkins, Private; lead trombonist in the battalion band; stretcher-bearer; resident joker. He starts to sing ‘Underneath the Arches’, waving an imaginary top hat, after which he is nicknamed, above his thinning blond hair.

Soon they are all singing along at the bottom of the trench, their pickaxes and shovels striking the earth in time to the tune.

Topper does a soft shoe shuffle, waves his imaginary hat once more, then takes a theatrical bow. The platoon clap and cheer.






In the evening Martin slips away to the mess tent to write to her. A group of officers are playing bridge. He waves to Hugh Saunders. Less than a week ago, he was wearing tennis whites and had a tennis racquet in his hand. Now, he is in khaki and packing a Colt 45. Other officers were solicitors, bank managers or doctors. From a leather armchair at the back of the tent, the commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Burnett-Brown MC, BB for short, a stocky, barrel-chested man with a bristling moustache and bullish head, is digressing on the French tactics at the Battle of Austerlitz, his polished breeches kicked out in front of him, as though he were at his Pall Mall club. His nickname among the officers is ‘The Little King.’

Martin remembers his conversation with Uncle Charles about pals battalions. Apart from the second-in-command, Major Brian Heyworth, a tall, plain-speaking barrister from Manchester, who only joined the battalion after moving to Beaconsfield, and is regarded by some as an outsider, Martin has known most of these men and their families since boyhood. Over there are the Viney brothers, scions of the Aylesbury printworks, now officers in the battalion: Lawrence with his bald pate and narrow-set eyes, Martin’s current tent-mate; and his elder brother, Elliott, a ruggedly handsome captain with a pencil-thin moustache and the same chiselled jawline as his brother. Their family has been linked with the battalion for several generations. Oscar Viney, the brothers’ father, commanded a Company on the Somme in 1916; their mother is an old friend of Aunt D.; and Martin has known the brothers since boyhood.

The young man next to them is David Stebbings, the battalion’s intelligence officer or IO. Stebbings’ small features and narrow eyes, which give his face a compact, slightly inscrutable look, added to his keen mind, make him perfect as an intelligence officer, one of the key roles in the battalion, responsible for the collection and distribution of all intelligence as it affects the battalion, observing and making maps of enemy positions, as well as distributing the latest news of the campaign.

His mother, Anne, has known Aunt D. since the 1920s and in the summer holidays Martin spent many happy days with David, riding their bikes through the woods or climbing trees.

Martin’s sense of the battalion being like an extended family is enhanced by the fact that, unlike in regular army units, officers address each other by their Christian names, whatever their rank. Captain Viney is not ‘sir’ to Martin, he’s Elliott. Captain Ritchie is simply James. The fact that, in the year since Nancy came into his life, many of them, like Hugh Saunders, have also become familiar to her, makes Martin’s affection for them even greater.

Martin collects a gin and tonic and a sheaf of writing paper and finds a quiet corner of the tent. In the background, the sound of a Tommy Dorsey song, ‘All I Remember Is You’, drifts across the tent. It’s true, thinks Martin, smiling.

He arranges the paper, takes out his pen, removes the cap and begins to write. But the ink has run out. He crosses the tent and asks the orderly if there is any more. The orderly hands him a bottle of Parker’s permanent black ink. Martin returns to his perch at the back of the tent, unscrews the barrel of the pen, dips the nib into the bottle, then lightly squeezes the filler between his forefinger and thumb, watching as the rubber sac is engorged with ink. Like his heart, he thinks. Bursting with love.



Carissima mia,

I am a little shy of writing to you after reading that marvellous letter which you sent me. This will be neither as long nor as picturesque as yours but it may give you a glimpse of the life I’m leading now while you are basking in the sun lying on the heather, dreaming and criticizing the skies.

I wish you had been to see me off at Wycombe – all the men’s sweethearts came, so I felt a bit lonely. I’ve been put in command of No. 5 platoon of HQ Company, a platoon that call themselves Pioneers and spend their time digging trenches, putting up barbed wire, etc. I have been busy supervising the digging of a long zigzag trench on the edge of the parade ground to be used in case of air raids. It isn’t likely that we will be raided, but it keeps the men occupied.

This being England, it has rained almost constantly. The weather is helped by the multitudes of motor vehicles of all kinds, which are driven furiously all over the camp by terribly keen young territorials on most unimportant duties. But the men are keeping well and dry, thank goodness – only one member of our platoon has been reported sick and been detained in the hospital tent. They are cheerful and keen. The brighter soldiers among them are already beginning to show themselves.

I share a tent in the officers’ lines (the opposite side of the battalion parade ground from the men’s lines) with Lawrence Viney, who is a pleasant tent companion. I have a batman, a man of about thirty from Beaconsfield, from the Old Town I think, called Jenkins. He’s also the driver. We have to get up soon after six o’clock having been woken up by the orderly with tea and hot water. Breakfast at eight o’clock. Chief parade of the day at nine o’clock from which we should, if the weather allows, march or ‘proceed’ to training areas or routes for our route marches. I walk about with a sword. For patrols I have a shining, silver, studded cross belt. On our return there is lunch, then another lecture or instruction from the brigadier or someone at two o’clock until 3.15 p.m. This afternoon we learned about map reading and how to set a compass. We only had one compass to learn with so I hope I remember something. I take notes of everything in the most copious Oxford way.

The brick-red canvas behind him glows in the setting sun. A gust of wind blows under the tent. Raindrops start to spatter the canvas. Martin lifts the pen and looks around. Major Heyworth snores in an armchair with a book open on his chest. The rain pitter-patters above his head.



The other officers are very friendly and pleasant. There are about six I’ve got to know quite well. Sometimes I feel rather younger than usual because many of them are about twenty-eight and quite a few married. After the formalities of dinner are over (we can’t smoke or move off until the colonel has done so) we drift into the antechamber, so to speak – the first of two hospital tents which are used as the mess – and talk, read, write letters, or sing songs. Then I usually go to bed about eleven o’clock but by the time I have found the lantern (it works very discreetly and efficiently), taken off my uniform, tidied everything off the bed and got into the bed, it is 11.45 so I get to sleep about 11.50 and I lie in a deep slumber except when the cold gets through my blankets on the more stormy nights until six o’clock.

There’s a flash of lightning, followed by a muffled clap of thunder. The major snorts, then hauls himself out of the armchair and staggers out with his book in his hand. The rain hammering on the canvas sends gouts of water pouring down the sides of the tent.



The mess sergeant is looking a bit unhappy about all his nice writing paper I’m using. There’s only a limited amount but I assured him that it is very important.

It is pouring hard now. And I soon must go to my Austrian blankets and collapsible lantern. We all sometimes feel terribly weak around the middle from standing about waiting for things to happen. But my heart is very strong and it beats a little harder when I am thinking of you instead of warfare, the delight instead of the grim spectre in the background. You are always in front. Or sometimes you deign to march by me and we go arm in arm.

So much love, Martin.

A flash of lightning lights up the date stamp on the side of the tent: 1939. The brick-coloured canvas glows, like fire. Martin counts. Ten, nine, eight. A clap of thunder explodes above his head. The storm is moving closer.


3 SEPTEMBER 1939 (#ulink_b640facf-e931-5cfa-9685-15a206321413)

Blythe Cottage (#ulink_b640facf-e931-5cfa-9685-15a206321413)

Martin takes off his helmet and goggles, glances in the side mirror of his Norton army motorbike, smooths his cowlick back, then slides off the saddle. With the bunch of wild flowers he picked for her on the side of the road in hand, he walks towards her front door. The Battalion has been ordered back to its base in Aylesbury. He’s supposed to be delivering some documents to the drill hall at High Wycombe but he has managed to slip away for a few hours. It’s a special day. The anniversary of their meeting. A possible announcement by the Prime Minister. Love entangled with war.

Before he can knock, the door flies open and Nancy is in his arms.

‘My love.’ He kisses her hair, her cheeks, her lips.

‘I thought you wouldn’t make it.’ She latches the door behind her. Kisses him hard, then soft, then everything in between.

‘Not exactly what we imagined for our first anniversary, is it?’ He gives her the flowers.

She kisses him again. ‘Just think what might have happened if you hadn’t almost knocked me over . . . ’ They laugh together, then grow quiet. ‘Is there any more news?’ She looks up into his face.

Martin knits his brow, takes her hand, squeezes it. ‘The British Ambassador delivered an ultimatum to the Germans at 8 a.m.’

‘Maybe sanity will prevail at the last second.’ She pouts, angrily. ‘It’s so unfair! On this, of all days!’

Martin kisses her. ‘Chamberlain should have asked our permission.’

They laugh together, Nancy grows serious. ‘Tino, there’s something I wanted to say . . . ’ Martin raises his eyebrows, a little tremor of alarm running through him. ‘About that day when I didn’t make it to the station to see you off.’

‘Oh.’ Martin flips his hair back. ‘That’s ancient history.’

‘No.’ Her eyes water. ‘I was racing to catch the train in Beaconsfield and the pedal broke . . . ’

‘Oh, darling.’

‘So I dumped the bike in the ditch, and tried to run, but the heel came off my shoe!’ She sobs again. ‘It was as though the gods were against us!’

Martin puts his arm around her, all his feelings of abandonment gone. ‘My love. The gods aren’t against us. It was just Sod’s Law.’ He strokes her hair.

‘But I so wanted to be with you!’ Her shoulders heave.

‘I know, darling.’ He kisses her tear-stained face. ‘And now you are.’

‘Coo-ee!’ Nancy’s mother calls from inside the house. ‘It’s about to start!’






In the living room, LJ adjusts the large, brown wireless set but gets up to shake Martin’s hand as they enter. ‘Dear boy . . . ’ He is about to say something more but turns away. ‘Come and sit down.’

Peg pecks him on the cheek. ‘So glad you could get away.’

‘Me, too.’ He glances at Nancy and they settle themselves on the sofa, their legs touching. Nancy takes Martin’s hand and holds it in her lap, the first time she has done it in front of her parents.

‘Whisky?’ LJ gestures towards the drinks cabinet.

‘Better not.’ Martin shakes his head. Then changes his mind. ‘Oh, why not?’

‘Drink, darling?’

Peg glances towards the decanter. ‘I may need something to steady my nerves. But just a finger.’

LJ squirts soda in his wife’s glass. ‘Nancy?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

Nancy’s father distributes the three drinks, then goes back to his perch by the wireless. There’s a screeching, then six pips: the BBC call sign. Everyone leans forward. Chamberlain begins.

‘I am speaking to you from the Cabinet room in Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final Note stating that, unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us.

‘I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that consequently this country is at war with Germany . . . ’

Nancy gasps involuntarily and buries her face in her hands. Peg rubs her back.

‘You can imagine what a bitter blow it is to me that all my long struggle to win peace has failed. Yet I cannot believe that there is anything more or anything different that I could have done and that would have been more successful . . . ’

‘So why did you sign that bit of paper in Munich!’ Peg explodes.

LJ raises his finger to his lips. ‘Let’s listen to what the man has to say.’

‘Up to the very last it would have been quite possible to have arranged a peaceful and honourable settlement between Germany and Poland, but Hitler would not have it. He had evidently made up his mind to attack Poland whatever happened, and although he now says he put forward reasonable proposals which were rejected by the Poles, that is not a true statement . . . ’




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