He chose the path through the woods. It was still dark, though on the fringes of the wood the trees were beginning to let in shafts of stronger light. Frost, everywhere. A single leaf fell to the ground and immediately he was back inside the landscape of his dream. The girl in the white nightdress belonged in that dream. Nothing that had happened between them belonged to the waking world. He went on his way, rustling through dead leaves, cracking twigs, breathing heavily, no doubt in a fug of his own hot stink. All around him, he felt small animals shrink into the shelter of the trees.
He came out into an open field enclosed by hawthorn hedges. Because he’d just been looking at Elinor’s painting, he saw the place through her eyes, more clearly than he could have seen it on his own. Thorns pulled at his sleeves. He blew on his fingertips to warm them, but the real chill was in his memories of last night.
Something had been wrong from the start. He’d felt it, but pushed on anyway, he couldn’t stop; and he’d thought he could make it all right. But even in the most passionate moments — and there weren’t many — Elinor had seemed to pull away. Of course, she was grieving for her brother … And it wasn’t as if he didn’t know about grief; his mother had killed herself when he was fourteen. It had taken him years to get over it: if he ever had. It seemed, looking back, that he’d grown around the loss, that it had become part of him, as trees will sometimes incorporate an obstruction, so they end up living, but deformed. He certainly didn’t underestimate what Elinor was going through. Only he’d felt there was something else, a shadow falling across them, cast by something he couldn’t see. He’d never known lovemaking like it. It had felt like a battle, not between the two of them — there’d been no antagonism — no, more like he was struggling to pull her out of a pit and sometimes she’d wanted to come with him, and at other times she’d turned back into the dark.
Always before, even at the most difficult moments in their long, wrangling love affair, sex had never failed them. Last night, it had.
He’d hoped to find her downstairs waiting for him when he returned, but the kitchen was empty. No fire; only one log left in the basket. Well, however useless he’d been in bed, at least he could chop wood. He went across the yard to the fuel store, where he found a pile of logs and an axe.
The first blow sent shock waves up his arm. He freed the axe, struck again, and the two halves fell sweetly apart. A smell of raw wood, sharp on the cold air. He was reaching for another log when he realized Elinor had come up behind him. She smelled of oil paint and turps, and that smell, mingling with the more feminine scents of skin and hair, took him back to the Slade and ‘the wild girls’. They were the best thing about the Slade, those girls. The memory softened him towards her.
‘Did you have a good morning?’ he asked.
‘Quite good.’
He sensed her excitement. ‘I’ll just finish these, then I’ll come in.’
‘Have you been for a walk?’
‘Just up the hill there. I wish I’d had a gun, I could’ve got you some rabbits. Place was hopping.’
‘You’re a town boy, aren’t you? Who taught you to shoot?’
‘The army,’ he said. Very dry.
‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry.’
She was blushing. He positioned the next log and swung the axe, smiling to himself as the blade bit.
Five minutes later, he came into the kitchen carrying an armful of logs. She was by the range, heating up the remains of last night’s stew. He put a hand on her shoulder and she turned round; her face was pale, but her eyes glittered with barely suppressed excitement.
‘You have had a good day,’ he said.
‘The thing is, I think I might have finished. But you never really know, do you?’
‘Let it settle.’
He began to build up the fire, feeling an immense, simple satisfaction as he saw the first lick of flame. Holding a sheet of old, yellowing newspaper across the fireplace, he heard the roar of the draught behind it. Columns of names curled and blackened in the heat. Worse than the Somme, people were saying, as the lists grew longer day by day. A black hole edged with sallow gold appeared at the centre of the page and he whisked the paper away in a whirl of smoke and sparks. ‘There.’
Elinor was ladling steaming stew into two big bowls. He sat at the table and reached across for the loaf. Elinor passed him the knife. They were a good team, he thought. In surprising, simple ways they made a good team.
‘Do you really think it’s finished?’ he asked.
‘Well, I don’t know. I thought it was.’
She looked pinched now, coming down the other side and, my God, he knew every step of the way. ‘Can I see it?’
‘If you like. Not now, though. Let’s eat.’
Paul fetched a bottle from the dresser and poured them both a glass. ‘Congratulations.’
‘You haven’t seen it yet.’
But she clinked glasses with him and took the first sip. By the time she’d finished the glass, she’d lost that white, glittery look and was back among the living. They ate the stew, which was actually rather better than last night, and she seemed more interested in him. Or perhaps she was just being polite.
‘How have you been, really, since you got back?’
He decided to tell the truth. ‘Pretty bad. I mean, the leg … well, there’s nothing to be done about that, I’m lumbered with it. But I can’t seem to fit back in. You know, I go to the Café Royal, I make myself go, and it’s like I’ve landed on another planet. And sometimes I just drift off in the middle of a conversation and …’
‘But you’ll get past that.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
As soon as they’d finished eating, she stood up. ‘I want to show you something.’
Of course, the painting. He got to his feet.
‘No, you stay there, I’ll bring it down.’
She was gone no more than two minutes. When she came back she was holding a piece of paper: crumpled, stained, with that unmistakable smell. Oh, God, the last letter.
‘I found this in Toby’s tunic, they sent the spare uniform back, the one he wasn’t wearing, well they couldn’t send the other one back, could they? I mean —’
She was gabbling. Gently, he took the page from her. ‘Would you like me to read it?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
He sat down, this time with his back to her, and quickly read the letter. Then, slowly and carefully, he went through it a second time, thinking, What on earth am I supposed to say about this?
‘He never sent it,’ she said. ‘They must’ve moved forward before he finished it and then I suppose he changed his tunic and forgot all about it. It’d dropped through a hole in the lining, you see, that’s why we didn’t find it when the parcel came … I only came across it a week ago.’
A week ago she’d written to Paul inviting him to stay. He had no doubt that this was why he was here; this was why she’d got in touch again after the long weeks of silence. He was starting to feel, very subtly, used. He folded the page, running his thumb and forefinger along the crease, wondering why she’d waited so long to show it to him. They’d talked about Toby last night; it would have been natural to mention the letter then. ‘At least you know his last thoughts were of you …’
‘Oh, come on, Paul. I won’t be coming back this time.’
‘People do have premonitions.’
‘If you ever want to know more, I suggest you ask your friend Kit Neville … He’s been no friend to me.’
‘One sentence, Elinor, crossed out, in a letter he didn’t finish, let alone send. For goodness’ sake.’