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

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

Whichert House

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’.