Read Online Summer in February by Jonathan Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonathan Smith
Tags: General Fiction
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the small drawer full of birds’
eggs, displayed carefully on cotton wool. Each morning he opened this drawer and each morning his heart clenched, then sank.
These eggs belonged to Sammy. He touched the eggs with his fingertips, very lightly. ‘Sammy’, as his younger brother Basil
was nicknamed, died last year. On the fateful Friday, Friday the 13th of August, he was bitten on the lip by an insect. It
all looked innocuous enough at first, just a hard little red dot, but on the Monday he suddenly developed a fever and started
to wander in his mind. Gilbert sat up all night with him, talking to him, telling him about the best tries the Welsh three-quarters
had scored, telling him everything would be all right in the morning, Sammy, very much better in the morning; but on the Tuesday
afternoon Sammy died.
Gilbert resettled the eggs and closed his eyes. How could such things happen to such a lovely boy? Who ‘allowed’ them to happen?
Who? What explanation or comfort could there be? Gilbert remembered sitting through a hopelessly inadequate sermon on this
subject at Rugby. To him it was an inexplicable grief. Each day Gilbert asked himself ‘Who?’ and ‘Why?’ and each day, unable
to answer these questions, he opened the drawer and took out the birds’ eggs as his tribute to Sammy, a private ceremony to
remind himself how fragile life was, how vulnerable not only Sammy was but all mankind, how precious a gift lifewas (and here he thought of Florence) and how much he would try to be worthy of it.
Strangely enough, leaving Cardiff and coming down to Cornwall, which was partly done to overcome the pain, had only intensified
the loss. One of the reasons for this, strangely enough again, was Joey Carter-Wood, because Joey bore more than a passing
resemblance to Sammy. Sometimes, indeed, it was uncanny: there was the same shy look in his eye with girls, the same walk,
the same generous laugh, the same optimistic spirit and the same love of the countryside. Both Sammy and Joey enjoyed clambering,
rucksacks on backs, over slippery rocks and steep hills. No doubt, had he lived to be a man, Sammy would have turned into
just the sort of splendid fellow Joey was.
Thinking of Joey made Gilbert think again of Joey’s sister, now asleep up in the middle one of the low cottages, made him
think of her fingers and her face, her black cape, and her drying hair. On what pretext could he call on her? He was not sure.
But call he would. And every morning from now on, merely seeing the birds’ eggs, feeling their almost weightless bodily presence
and the oblique access they gave to Sammy’s life, would open the same happy-sad sequence of circular thoughts in Gilbert:
Sammy, Joey, Florence,
Florence, Joey, Sammy.
He decided, all being well at Boskenna, he would bicycle across after lunch to see the carpenter (for Laura) and then contact
the chimney sweep (for A.J.) and then, perhaps for tea, to the Carter-Woods, why not, and if they weren’t in, he could easily
and naturally drop in next door on Laura. Having them all so conveniently placed at the top of the lane was a bonus. And,
if they were out, no matter, it was good exercise. If you hadsomething gnawing away at your heart and mind exercise was the thing.
He put away the birds’ eggs.
Yes.
The world was once again a fine place as Gilbert set off from the hotel, high on the saddle, riding his bicycle up the lane,
and he cut a fine, upright figure. To everyone in the village he was very much ‘Captain Evans riding over to Boskenna’. There
was not much in the whole district he did not pass his eye over, and everyone, in return, waved to him.
Laura Knight and Alfred Munnings were up early, too. Among the artists they were always the first risers. However late their
night, however unsteady Alfred’s hand was on his razor, they pushed themselves out into the elements.
Her hobnails ringing on the road, her overcoat buttoned up
eggs, displayed carefully on cotton wool. Each morning he opened this drawer and each morning his heart clenched, then sank.
These eggs belonged to Sammy. He touched the eggs with his fingertips, very lightly. ‘Sammy’, as his younger brother Basil
was nicknamed, died last year. On the fateful Friday, Friday the 13th of August, he was bitten on the lip by an insect. It
all looked innocuous enough at first, just a hard little red dot, but on the Monday he suddenly developed a fever and started
to wander in his mind. Gilbert sat up all night with him, talking to him, telling him about the best tries the Welsh three-quarters
had scored, telling him everything would be all right in the morning, Sammy, very much better in the morning; but on the Tuesday
afternoon Sammy died.
Gilbert resettled the eggs and closed his eyes. How could such things happen to such a lovely boy? Who ‘allowed’ them to happen?
Who? What explanation or comfort could there be? Gilbert remembered sitting through a hopelessly inadequate sermon on this
subject at Rugby. To him it was an inexplicable grief. Each day Gilbert asked himself ‘Who?’ and ‘Why?’ and each day, unable
to answer these questions, he opened the drawer and took out the birds’ eggs as his tribute to Sammy, a private ceremony to
remind himself how fragile life was, how vulnerable not only Sammy was but all mankind, how precious a gift lifewas (and here he thought of Florence) and how much he would try to be worthy of it.
Strangely enough, leaving Cardiff and coming down to Cornwall, which was partly done to overcome the pain, had only intensified
the loss. One of the reasons for this, strangely enough again, was Joey Carter-Wood, because Joey bore more than a passing
resemblance to Sammy. Sometimes, indeed, it was uncanny: there was the same shy look in his eye with girls, the same walk,
the same generous laugh, the same optimistic spirit and the same love of the countryside. Both Sammy and Joey enjoyed clambering,
rucksacks on backs, over slippery rocks and steep hills. No doubt, had he lived to be a man, Sammy would have turned into
just the sort of splendid fellow Joey was.
Thinking of Joey made Gilbert think again of Joey’s sister, now asleep up in the middle one of the low cottages, made him
think of her fingers and her face, her black cape, and her drying hair. On what pretext could he call on her? He was not sure.
But call he would. And every morning from now on, merely seeing the birds’ eggs, feeling their almost weightless bodily presence
and the oblique access they gave to Sammy’s life, would open the same happy-sad sequence of circular thoughts in Gilbert:
Sammy, Joey, Florence,
Florence, Joey, Sammy.
He decided, all being well at Boskenna, he would bicycle across after lunch to see the carpenter (for Laura) and then contact
the chimney sweep (for A.J.) and then, perhaps for tea, to the Carter-Woods, why not, and if they weren’t in, he could easily
and naturally drop in next door on Laura. Having them all so conveniently placed at the top of the lane was a bonus. And,
if they were out, no matter, it was good exercise. If you hadsomething gnawing away at your heart and mind exercise was the thing.
He put away the birds’ eggs.
Yes.
The world was once again a fine place as Gilbert set off from the hotel, high on the saddle, riding his bicycle up the lane,
and he cut a fine, upright figure. To everyone in the village he was very much ‘Captain Evans riding over to Boskenna’. There
was not much in the whole district he did not pass his eye over, and everyone, in return, waved to him.
Laura Knight and Alfred Munnings were up early, too. Among the artists they were always the first risers. However late their
night, however unsteady Alfred’s hand was on his razor, they pushed themselves out into the elements.
Her hobnails ringing on the road, her overcoat buttoned up
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