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

‘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.