Read Online Summer in February by Jonathan Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Smith
Tags: General Fiction
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Meanwhile,
Gilbert stopped looking at Munnings and started looking at Florence.
The length of her fingers, the delicacy of her hands, was the first thing he remembered as he sat over his diary, on the edge
of his narrow bed, at three o’clock the next morning. And her dark hair, though it wasn’t dark, that was the point: as it
dried imperceptibly in front of the fire, it turned lightish or auburny brown. Her fingers, her voice, her hair, and the way
she walked across the room were the most striking first impressions, and her very upright position, and as for her face –
her face was not unlike one he had seen – not in the street, not anywhere in real life, but in a famous painting, but as he
knew very little about art he couldn’t for the life of him remember it. It was Harold Knight a few days later who provided
the answer. Botticelli’s Venus.
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Gilbert said. ‘That’s the one.’
‘I agree, I’ve never seen such a likeness,’ Harold added, with unusual warmth, ‘and to think she’s living next door to us.’
Alfred Munnings was standing in the middle of his studio, hands on hips, with little doubt in his posture that he had been
seriously interrupted and had waitedlong enough. He glared. Once again the assembled revellers slowly subsided. He glared again. Dolly, giggling to Joey, was
the last to fall silent. For the second time that evening the silence deepened. For the second time Alfred tensed his face
and half closed his eyes. Once again he raised his finger … but then with consummate skill swept up Florence Carter-Wood’s
black cape from the fender, showering fine drops of rain on his listeners, before settling it high over his shoulders. Now
he was a sharply pointed, stagey raven, hovering over the packed room of artists. And now he began:
‘Once upon a midnight dreary, whilst I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.’
He recited the whole poem, all eighteen stanzas, without one hesitation or one loss of total control.
All Gilbert, his heart a slow hammer, wrote in his diary that evening was:
Horribly wet. Studio party. Stayed late. Munnings rather stole the show.
Sammy’s Birds’ Eggs
After only a few hours of restless half-sleep, punctuated by some terrible dreams, Gilbert was up at 6.30 the next morning.
He was up early every morning, except on Sundays, and even then he always tried to make the early service at St Buryan.
Already obsessed, he opened the curtains in his little bedroom and looked down the valley towards the cove. The sea was slate
grey and the sky streaky bacon. The violence of the storm had blown itself to bits, the land was swept bare, and at the side
of the hotel the sodden grass was trying to shine in the watery light, but the light was not quite strong enough to help.
Still, it wasn’t raining, which was something, so Gilbert ducked down and put his head out of the bedroom window, leaning
right out, to see if all was well underneath his sill. Good, the house-martin’s nest was still securely there. All was well.
Next he checked to see if his trousers, hanging up behind his bedroom door, had dried out. They had, more or less. Good. He
pulled them on, and as he pulled them on, he thought of Florence.
He usually took his breakfast downstairs alone, wellbefore anyone else, because he liked to be properly organised and on site at Boskenna before the first of the workmen arrived
in the yard. That was part of his army discipline, part of what a decent officer should do, and it also suited him to eat
early because he liked to be fed, not fussed over. After a plate of bacon, egg and sausage he cleaned his teeth and prepared
to leave.
Before he did so (and it was the very last thing he did each morning before leaving) he opened
Gilbert stopped looking at Munnings and started looking at Florence.
The length of her fingers, the delicacy of her hands, was the first thing he remembered as he sat over his diary, on the edge
of his narrow bed, at three o’clock the next morning. And her dark hair, though it wasn’t dark, that was the point: as it
dried imperceptibly in front of the fire, it turned lightish or auburny brown. Her fingers, her voice, her hair, and the way
she walked across the room were the most striking first impressions, and her very upright position, and as for her face –
her face was not unlike one he had seen – not in the street, not anywhere in real life, but in a famous painting, but as he
knew very little about art he couldn’t for the life of him remember it. It was Harold Knight a few days later who provided
the answer. Botticelli’s Venus.
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Gilbert said. ‘That’s the one.’
‘I agree, I’ve never seen such a likeness,’ Harold added, with unusual warmth, ‘and to think she’s living next door to us.’
Alfred Munnings was standing in the middle of his studio, hands on hips, with little doubt in his posture that he had been
seriously interrupted and had waitedlong enough. He glared. Once again the assembled revellers slowly subsided. He glared again. Dolly, giggling to Joey, was
the last to fall silent. For the second time that evening the silence deepened. For the second time Alfred tensed his face
and half closed his eyes. Once again he raised his finger … but then with consummate skill swept up Florence Carter-Wood’s
black cape from the fender, showering fine drops of rain on his listeners, before settling it high over his shoulders. Now
he was a sharply pointed, stagey raven, hovering over the packed room of artists. And now he began:
‘Once upon a midnight dreary, whilst I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
Whilst I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.’
He recited the whole poem, all eighteen stanzas, without one hesitation or one loss of total control.
All Gilbert, his heart a slow hammer, wrote in his diary that evening was:
Horribly wet. Studio party. Stayed late. Munnings rather stole the show.
Sammy’s Birds’ Eggs
After only a few hours of restless half-sleep, punctuated by some terrible dreams, Gilbert was up at 6.30 the next morning.
He was up early every morning, except on Sundays, and even then he always tried to make the early service at St Buryan.
Already obsessed, he opened the curtains in his little bedroom and looked down the valley towards the cove. The sea was slate
grey and the sky streaky bacon. The violence of the storm had blown itself to bits, the land was swept bare, and at the side
of the hotel the sodden grass was trying to shine in the watery light, but the light was not quite strong enough to help.
Still, it wasn’t raining, which was something, so Gilbert ducked down and put his head out of the bedroom window, leaning
right out, to see if all was well underneath his sill. Good, the house-martin’s nest was still securely there. All was well.
Next he checked to see if his trousers, hanging up behind his bedroom door, had dried out. They had, more or less. Good. He
pulled them on, and as he pulled them on, he thought of Florence.
He usually took his breakfast downstairs alone, wellbefore anyone else, because he liked to be properly organised and on site at Boskenna before the first of the workmen arrived
in the yard. That was part of his army discipline, part of what a decent officer should do, and it also suited him to eat
early because he liked to be fed, not fussed over. After a plate of bacon, egg and sausage he cleaned his teeth and prepared
to leave.
Before he did so (and it was the very last thing he did each morning before leaving) he opened
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