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

25 JUNE 1939

The River Isis, near Oxford

Martin pulls on the oars of a skiff. Nancy lies in the prow, her head resting on a blue velvet cushion. The sun dapples her frock: blue gentians on white Egyptian cotton, bought in Paris a few years ago. Martin is in shirtsleeves and khaki trousers. A picnic basket is tucked under the seat in the back of the boat.

‘Don’t you sometimes wish a day could last for ever?’ He lets the skiff drift, looking down at her chestnut hair. The way it tumbles over her shoulders, her pale, freckled skin and perfect features make him think of a painting he once saw at the National Gallery by one of the Pre-Raphaelites.

‘Mmm . . . ’ is all she can manage at first. Then: ‘“Time is a river without banks”.’

‘Who’s that? Shakespeare?’

‘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

Whichert House

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.

At the top of the ladder, he hauls himself upright, careful not to bang his head on the beams, lights a lantern. Old toys. Worn-out carpets. Leather suitcases and trunks. Tea tins filled with rusty nails. Cardboard boxes full of back numbers of The Cornhill Magazine.

He moves further into the attic, stepping carefully from beam to beam, as only the middle portion is covered with boards. Uncle Charles’ stuff should be at the end of the attic, on the right, under a groundsheet. He holds up the lantern. A sideboard draped in a white sheet drifts like an iceberg in the dark. Two discarded tennis racquets, with frayed and broken strings, lean against a copper fireguard. A jumble of old picture frames lies on the floor. A groundsheet.

Everything has been left exactly as it was when Uncle Charles came home from Flanders thirty years ago. A battered shaving bowl. A camp bed. A collapsible lantern. The last time the lantern was lit was in the trenches on the Western Front. Martin’s generation vowed that the horrors of the trenches would never happen again. But, in a few weeks, or months, he will be lighting this same lantern. Same battalion. New war.

He dismantles the lantern and puts it back in its case, picks up the camp bed and puts it and the other things in the groundsheet, carries them across to the trapdoor and goes back down the ladder.

‘You found it!’ Uncle Charles is sitting in the kitchen polishing his shoes: a row of black and brown brogues laid out in a neat row next to a shoebox.

Martin takes out the canvas pouch with the collapsible lantern.

‘Goodness! I didn’t know I still had it!’ The older man takes the pouch, opens it and puts the lantern together. ‘These hinges are the tricky part.’

Like Aunt D., Martin thinks of Charles as a surrogate parent. Ever since he was a boy, Martin has spent his holidays here and in that time he has come to feel far closer to his uncle than he ever felt to his own father. The idea that Martin may carry the same lantern into battle only makes this connection stronger.

‘There!’ Uncle Charles clicks the glass sides into place, places a candle inside and lights it. He looks over at Martin with an expression both of love and sorrow. ‘Good company on a cold night. I hope it serves you well, too, dear boy.’

5 AUGUST 1939

Whichert House

The sun is high over the Chilterns as Martin speeds through the lanes in the Bomb. It’s his last day before training camp. There’s a fluttering feeling in his stomach, the same he used to get when he was driven back to start the new term at Marlborough when he was a boy. But he is determined to enjoy these last few hours of freedom. Nancy has arrived back from Devon and Hugh Saunders has asked them both over for a game of tennis. On the back seat lie his trusty Dunlop racquet and a bottle of chilled white wine.

Nancy is already waiting outside Blythe Cottage, dressed in a pleated white skirt, white top, white socks and white plimsolls on her feet. In her arms is a Ladies Slazenger racquet.

‘Ready for battle?’ He kisses her and they speed off.

‘Not so sure my tennis will live up to the outfit,’ Nancy shouts, holding her hair in the wind.

The light dances off the bonnet of the Bomb. A field of golden corn stretches away to the right. The hedgerows are choked with wild flowers: cow parsley, vetch, water avens. In Bulstrode Park, a herd of cattle stand chewing the cud, flicking their tails. The branches form a canopy of green above their heads.

‘England, in August!’ he cries. ‘Is there anywhere so beautiful in the world?’

Hugh Saunders is waiting for them in the driveway of a large, Queen Anne, brick house in Gerrards Cross. Since meeting him in the spring, Nancy has come to like this tall, fresh-faced young man, with his inquiring eyes, broad shoulders and athlete’s body. Like Martin, he has been commissioned into the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry. One rank higher, though: as a captain.

‘Come and say hallo to everyone.’ Saunders leads them down a path to a grass tennis court. He motions towards a svelte, grey-haired woman sitting under a blue umbrella, in a white tennis skirt and shirt.

‘Martin!’ The woman starts to get up. ‘Lovely to see you again.’

‘You, too, Connie.’ He gestures to Nancy. ‘And this is Nancy Whelan.’

‘Delighted to meet you at last!’ They shake hands. ‘We’ve heard so much about you.’

‘Some of it good, I hope,’ Nancy jokes.

‘Nearly all of it.’ Hugh’s mother grins affectionately, then indicates a tanned, young girl sitting next to her, reading Vogue and brooding fashionably behind dark glasses. ‘My daughter, Helen.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ Nancy leans forward and shakes the girl’s hand.

‘Marvellous!’ says the girl to no one in particular, extending a pale, limp hand.

Saunders points at a jug and glasses laid out on a folding table covered in a floral tablecloth. ‘Lemonade, Nancy?’

‘Thank you, yes.’

Sitting in the sun, they drink lemonade and talk about the latest news of the battalion, who has got what commission, whose family is trying to protect their son from joining, then Hugh picks up his racquet and a net of balls. ‘Anyone for tennis?’

As a child, Martin dreamed of playing at Wimbledon. He was good for his age, with a wicked sliced backhand and a serve-volley game ideally suited to grass. He played on his school team and, in the holidays, in Junior tournaments, winning the Under 14s at Great Missenden two years in a row. And he now plays on the Teddy Hall team. The thock of ball on strings. The sunshine on his bare arms and legs. The white outfits. The feel of the grass underfoot. If he ever goes to heaven, he hopes there will be a tennis court there.