Уильям Николсон - Motherland

‘More cider?’ says Ed, pouring from the flagon.

An extended family goes trudging by, grandparents, parents, children, dog, carrying baskets, rugs, umbrellas. A steamer crosses the horizon, moving without seeming to move. From time to time Nell strokes Armitage’s arm, as if to reassure him she’s still there.

Then they have a sudden violent row. It’s about letting their visitors see his studio.

‘I’m not a zoo animal,’ he says.

‘You exhibit , don’t you?’ demands Nell. ‘You’re an exhibitionist , aren’t you?’

‘I don’t care if no one ever sees my work.’

‘That is such shit! You hypocrite!’

‘Cow!’

‘You’re afraid, aren’t you? Bloody hell!’ she appeals to the others. ‘He sells everything he does. He’s got famous people begging him to paint them. He gets compared to Titian. And all along he’s wetting himself with fear.’

‘Bitch!’

‘Oh, yes! Very effective! That’ll shut me up, won’t it? That’s a really conclusive argument!’

Armitage gets up and stalks away down the beach.

‘Go on!’ Nell shouts after him. ‘Run away! Coward!’ Then in a suddenly normal voice to the others, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take you to see his studio.’

‘But if he doesn’t want it,’ says Geraldine.

‘Why should he be the one who gets what he wants? What about what I want?’

They gather up the picnic and brush the sand off their bottoms and troop back to the house. Armitage is nowhere to be seen. Nell leads them up the stairs to the back room on the first floor. Here what was once a large light bedroom has been transformed into an artist’s studio. Canvases lean against the walls and stack up on a long paint-spattered table. Two easels, both bearing works in progress, stand by the window. An armchair draped with a multicoloured shawl occupies the middle of the room. The portraits taking shape on the easels are of an old man and a stout middle-aged woman.

Larry and the others look round the studio in silence, examining the paintings.

‘I hate to say it,’ Larry says, ‘but the bastard’s got even better.’

‘Why are they all so sad?’ says Kitty.

‘Tony would say he just paints what he sees,’ Nell says. ‘The way he sees it, most people are disappointed by their lives.’

‘Do you think he’s right?’

‘Probably,’ says Nell.

‘I think that’s ungrateful,’ says Geraldine.

‘Ungrateful to who?’ says Nell.

‘To God, actually.’

Nell gives her an incredulous look.

‘We’re supposed to be grateful to God?’ she says. ‘What for?’

‘For being our Creator,’ says Geraldine. ‘I know it means nothing if you don’t have faith.’

‘Take it from me,’ says Nell, ‘I know about creators. It’s all vanity. It’s all look at me, aren’t I wonderful? As far as I’m concerned God is just another immature egotistical artist whining on about how no one appreciates him.’

Driving back to Bellencombre, Kitty says, ‘You’ve got to admit they’re not dull.’

Geraldine says, ‘I thought they were pitiful.’

In their bedroom that night she says to Larry, ‘I don’t understand how you could ever have loved her. I just don’t understand.’

‘I was young,’ says Larry.

‘It’s only five years ago. You weren’t a child. She’s just so … so crude. So loud. So coarse.’

‘She’s fun as well. You must see that.’

‘Fun! Is that your idea of fun? All that childish swearing?’

Larry feels the stirrings of anger.

‘It’s late,’ he says. ‘That was a long drive.’

‘No, Larry. I want to know. Did you really love her?’

‘I thought I did. For a time.’

‘Was it just because of … you know?’

This is the closest she can come to talk of sex.

‘Maybe it was,’ says Larry.

‘I could understand that,’ says Geraldine. ‘I know that makes perfectly sensible men do really stupid things.’

‘Not really stupid,’ says Larry. ‘Don’t say it was really stupid to love Nell. Don’t say that.’

‘Well, what am I supposed to say? Why else would you give a creature like that more than a glance?’

‘A creature like that.’ He feels his heart pounding. ‘What do you know?’ His voice is rising. ‘Who are you to criticise her? Who are you to tell me why I do what I do? You think you do everything so bloody perfectly. Well take it from me, you don’t!’

Geraldine lies perfectly still beneath the bedclothes.

‘Please don’t swear at me,’ she whispers.

‘I’ll bloody well swear at you if I want!’ shouts Larry.

‘Hush!’ she says. ‘Keep your voice down.’

‘No! I won’t! And don’t shush me! I’m not a child.’

‘Then I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then don’t say anything at all. If all you can do is insult my friends I’d rather you said nothing. Why should everyone be like you? What makes you so right about everything?’

Geraldine says nothing.

‘And in case you haven’t noticed, we’re not in Arundel any more. We’re in France. They do things the French way in France. And why the hell shouldn’t they?’

He feels her shudder, but still she says nothing.

‘Well?’ he demands.

‘I was told not to speak,’ she whispers.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Geraldine!’

Robbed of opposition, his anger trickles out of him. They lie side by side in a wretched silence, both feeling sorry for themselves. After some time, wanting to go to sleep, Larry attempts a half-hearted resolution.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says. ‘I just didn’t know.’

‘Didn’t know what?’

‘That you don’t love me at all.’

‘Oh, please.’

‘It’s all right. It’s not the first time.’

‘Geraldine, you’re taking this far too seriously. It’s just a row. People have rows. It’s not the end of the world.’

‘I’m not blaming you. I know it’s my fault. I try so hard, but somehow I’m never good enough.’

‘No, darling, no.’ He feels only a heavy weariness now. ‘You know that’s not true.’

‘I’ve always known I’m not good enough, deep down.’ She goes on whispering to herself, hearing nothing he says. ‘I’ve never felt anyone’s really loved me. Not Mummy or Daddy. Not even God.’

‘Oh, darling.’

‘There’s something wrong with me. I don’t know what it is. I try so hard. It’s nothing physical. Not physical. I say to myself, I must just try harder. I must do better. And I will. I promise you. I’ll be a good wife.’

‘Of course you will. You are.’

But as he lies beside her in the night Larry is overwhelmed with desolation.

‘This life is such a hard journey,’ she whispers. ‘All I ask is that from time to time you hold my hand. So I know you’re still there.’

He reaches out under the bedclothes and holds her hand.

‘Thank you,’ she says, her voice almost inaudible.

Next day Geraldine appears as charming and elegant as ever. She’s especially attentive to Kitty, teasingly aligning herself with her against the boorishness of the men.

‘What are we to do with them, Kitty? Sometimes I think men have no manners at all. You see how Larry leans on the table, and reaches for whatever he wants, as if he’s the only person at breakfast?’

‘You should pity me,’ says Larry, smiling. ‘I had no mother to teach me manners.’

‘Ed has a mother,’ says Kitty, ‘but he might as well have been raised in the jungle.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ says Ed, deep in the morning edition of Le Figaro . ‘You may like to know that Princess Elizabeth has had a baby girl. The princess is naturally radiant, and naturally she repeated the words she uttered on her marriage, and on the birth of her son. “Nous sommes tellement chanceux, Philip et moi.” Odd that she said it in French.’