As he pushed open the gate, the first thin blowing of rain met him and, before he’d gone a hundred yards, it was pelting down. On either side of the lane, the ploughed fields had become a waste of mud; black, leafless trees were stencilled on to a white sky. Everything he saw, everything he felt, seemed to be filtered through his memories of the front line, as if a thin wash had been laid over his perceptions of this scene. Columns of sleety rain marched across the fields while, in the distance, grey clouds massed for another attack. Somehow or other, he had to connect with the present, but he found it almost impossible. Turning to look back down the lane, he saw the pony and trap of that pre-war visit turn the corner and come towards him, the fat, chestnut pony twitching its skin against the flies. And there, on the left-hand side of the trap, was his younger self, staring up into the green canopy above his head. There’d been a smell of hot tar, of warm dust on nettles. A bluebottle had zoomed drunkenly about, trying to settle on his upper lip. He remembered it all so vividly, and yet he couldn’t get back inside the mind of that young man. Boy, really, though he would not have said so. He’d been recovering from a love affair with one of the models at the Slade; no doubt he’d thought his heart was broken, though actually he’d been more than ready to fall in love again. And there in the farmhouse, waiting for them, was Elinor; and beside him, in the trap, was Kit Neville, who also loved her.
Three years and many lifetimes later, Paul watched the trap carrying two raw, hopeful young men reach the crest of the hill and dip into the hollow beyond it, and then, forcing his stiffening leg to move, he turned and limped after it.
It had become a preoccupation of his — almost an obsession — working out how the war had changed him; other people too, of course. He never managed to talk openly about it, not even to men he’d served with, perhaps because, for him, the changes had been mainly sexual. The young man in the trap had been a romantic: deferential, almost timid, in his approach to women. Three years later, he’d become coarser, less scrupulous, his behaviour verged, at times, on the predatory. For two years, his relationship with Elinor had protected him, but then her letters had become shorter, colder, until eventually she’d stopped writing altogether; after that, he’d regarded himself as free to take what he wanted.
Ahead of him, the farmhouse appeared and disappeared behind waves of rain, like an outcrop of rocks at low tide. The last hundred yards was up a steep hill. When, at last, he reached the gate he paused, not wanting to arrive breathless and in pain from the cramping of his leg. It was a full five minutes before he was ready to go on, and then he was aware, as he trudged up the drive, of a face looking down at him from an upstairs window. Elinor. A girl’s face at an upstairs window, framed by ivy leaves. It seemed like the beginning of a story, though after her silence of the last few months their story must surely be drawing to a close. One visit to the hospital. One. People he hardly knew had visited more often than that. And then, during his stay in a convalescent home in Dorset, when he’d been bored almost to distraction: no letters, no card, nothing. Right, he’d thought. That was that. Over.
And then, out of the blue, this invitation to spend a weekend at the farmhouse. Not with her parents either; the note had made it clear they’d be alone. But no warmth in the note, no expression of love or longing, no hint that she continued to feel for him what he still felt for her. He’d found the tone chilling — and yet it hadn’t occurred to him not to accept.
Outside the door, he paused again. He was just raising his hand to knock when the door opened and there stood a tall, thin girl dressed in black. It took him a second to recognize her. ‘Elinor.’
‘Paul.’
A moment’s uncertainty, then she raised her face for him to kiss. Her lips were as dry and cracked as baked mud and she pulled away from him immediately.
‘You sound surprised,’ he said. ‘I haven’t got the day wrong, have I?’
‘No, of course not, come in.’
The porch was exactly as he remembered it: a jumble of muddy boots, umbrellas, mackintoshes. A powerful smell of wet dog hung over everything, though it was a while before a springer spaniel appeared, his claws clicking on the stone flags: old, milky-eyed, but still going through the motions of defending his mistress and his home.
Paul knelt down and rubbed behind the dog’s ears, producing grunts of contentment. ‘Hello, boy.’
‘Oh, he’ll take any amount of that.’
‘I don’t remember him.’
‘He’d have been in the kitchen; he used to live there more or less. Nowadays, he’s got the run of the house.’ She led the way into the hall. ‘I expect you’d like to freshen up before tea?’
He followed her upstairs, watching the sway of her hips under the narrow skirt, hearing the whisper of silk as her thighs brushed together. Suddenly, he was aroused, impatient to hold her. He’d have liked to reach out now, but knew he had to be careful. She seemed so … friable, as if one rough movement might break her. He’d never seen her like this before.
‘I’ve put you in Toby’s room.’
She opened the door and stood aside to let him pass. He swung his kitbag on to the nearest chair. When he looked round she was standing by the bed, stroking the jade-green counterpane. He heard the click of silk threads as they snagged on the palms of her hands.
‘I’m afraid I’m not very well organized these days.’ She didn’t meet his eyes, wouldn’t look at him, kept chafing her arms as if she were cold. ‘I paint till my head spins and then there’s no time left for anything else.’ An attempt at a smile. ‘Anyway. Come down when you’re ready.’
He moved towards her, but she slipped past him.
‘I’ll be in the kitchen. Give me a shout if there’s anything you want.’
I want you.
She’d gone. He heard her footsteps running downstairs.
Left alone, he poured tepid water into a bowl and splashed his face and as much of his neck and chest as he could easily reach. Still dripping, he went to stand in front of the mirror. The face looking back at him had a pink, excited, slightly furtive look. Behind his reflection, he could see one side of the double bed; he didn’t intend to sleep in it alone. The house creaked and sighed all around him. How long had she been living here by herself? Painting, she said, till her head spun, and obviously neglecting herself: she was stick thin. The house, too, seemed bereft. He’d glimpsed dust sheets shrouding the furniture in some of the downstairs rooms. She was not so much living here as camping out, and he felt a stab of pity for her, mingled with curiosity. What on earth possessed her, to shut herself away like this? Of course, her brother’s death must have been devastating, but for a few weeks after it, she’d been seen frequently in town. But then — and nobody seemed to know why — her trips to London had ceased, and she’d walled herself up here, alone.
Well, no doubt she’d tell him, sooner or later. He dried his hands and face and went downstairs.
She was making a cup of tea. ‘I’ve forgotten if you take sugar.’
‘Two, please.’
It mattered, that she’d forgotten. When they first became lovers ‘sugar’ had been their private word for sex. One weekend they’d stayed in a boarding house on the coast — Eastbourne, was it? No, Brighton. Elinor was wearing a wedding ring he’d bought in Woolworth’s. Over tea, sitting in a prim, chintzy lounge on a fat, overstuffed sofa, she’d leaned towards him and said, in a stagey whisper, ‘Darling, I can’t remember, do you take sugar in your tea?’