‘No. Strictly spectator.’ They shake hands, then Hugh makes the introductions. ‘Martin Preston, Sacha Richardson.’
Martin shakes her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’ The girl’s eyes narrow as she smiles. ‘Hugh was telling me about you the other day.’
‘Oh dear.’ Martin winces. ‘Hope some of it was good.’
‘Nearly all of it, actually.’ The girl shivers. ‘Hughie, darling, can we go and find a hot toddy somewhere?’
‘Of course.’ Hugh turns to Martin. ‘Fancy joining us?’
Martin shakes his head. ‘You go on. I have to go and sign in.’
‘Good luck, then!’ Hugh calls over his shoulder.
Martin heads for the stewards’ tent. The race will start in half an hour and a large crowd has already gathered. Some students, some local farmers in wellingtons and Barbour jackets; and a few townspeople from High Wycombe or Cowley. Whatever clouds may be gathering in Europe, no one is going to let it spoil their enjoyment and Martin listens happily to the animated discussions going on all around him about new kinds of supercharged fuel; the competitive strengths of the Bugatti versus the Alvis; and the secret of tyre pressures.
‘First time is it?’ an elderly man with a white, walrus moustache asks.
‘Yes.’ Martin grins. ‘Friend roped me in. Anything I need to know?’
‘It’s simple. You are basically there to see that the cars don’t cut any corners.’ The official smiles. ‘Literally.’ He hands Martin a flag and a clipboard. ‘If the car fails to properly complete your section of the course, you raise the flag. And scribble down the details. All clear?’
Martin’s position is on a gently sloping track between a copse of fir trees and an escarpment. Here, the cars will be travelling downhill after climbing one of the course’s many hills. Though it is sunny today, there has been a fair bit of rain recently and Martin guesses that the track will soon be churned up into a quagmire.
The first car down is an Austin Seven sports car, the driver muffled up in a heavy scarf and goggles. As it passes Martin, its tyres start to slide and only a deft series of tugs on the steering wheel keeps it from crashing into the woods. Next up is a V8 Allard, a car that Martin particularly loves with its boxy lines, bug-eyed headlamps, and monster engine. This one is white – or was, it’s now spattered with mud – and as it roars up over the hill, its front tyres leave the ground and, for a moment, the car is airborne. The driver, a thick-set man wrapped in a black overcoat, with a flat cap perched on his head, smiles and gives Martin the thumbs-up.
As the race goes on, the field thins out as more and more cars break down or crash out. In the increasingly long gaps in between, Martin sits or even lies on the bank behind him, staring up into the blue, winter sky. The sun is warm on his face. The bracken is soft, like a mattress. If only she were here, but she promised her mother to go shopping. But just the thought of her makes him feel full of life. And optimism. And love.
Back in his college room that night, he spreads another sheet of paper on his desk, uncaps his pen and writes:
Nancy, my very darling,
I felt so happy when I found a magnificent envelope addressed in your handwriting waiting for me when I got back today. I wondered what exciting things it was hiding and when I saw that there was a more than characteristic letter from you in it, I brushed the hair out of my eyes and rushed up to my room to read it. Darling, anything to do with you turns me upside down.
He lifts the pen and smiles. It’s almost eleven o’clock at night. The gas fire in his room gutters. Outside, a drunk is shouting at the top of his voice. Martin goes and puts a record on the gramophone. Billie Holiday. The new sensation from America.
Today, I went as a marshal in a motor trial but instead of concerning myself with cars (however supercharged) I pictured you to myself. Fortunately, the day turned out to be warm and bright and quickening so that I could lie contented on a bank by Crowell Hill looking at the sky. But you always seemed to come between me and the blue.
I had no time for tea or dinner when I returned to Oxford because I was due to visit two parties and to act in a review at 8.30 p.m. I felt rather peculiar and hilarious; however all went well and we looked too sweet in our gym tunics and socks and sandshoes. My falsetto solo was indescribable but people laughed. ‘April Showers’ was scandalously under-rehearsed but the audience seemed to enjoy it.
Last weekend, I went to a cocktail party chez Enid Starkie, the modern languages don of Somerville, who has a beautiful house in St Giles. She wore a Chinese dress – a sort of billowing negligee, really – and smoked cigars. I met the poet, Stephen Spender, and his wife; and a peculiar Russian girl. Spender talked about the Spanish Civil War and read some poems. He said a group of Basque children is performing a concert at St Hugh’s next Sunday evening. I might go.
I’m enchanted to think that your room is enlivened by bright posters, that you can look out of the window and see the broken pieces of winter metamorphosing into spring. One day I must come to see you bent engagingly over your desk. I shall gently straighten your lovely figure and kiss you, one day soon.
Have you dared to buy any more hats? I’ve just rashly spent some of my term’s dwindling resources on a new pair of shoes – brown, light brogue. I’m not sure that I like them now – but I’m quite, quite sure that I love you – now and then.
Martin.
Martin races down the stairs and sprints across the quad. In half an hour, a debate will be held in the Oxford Union on the question of conscription. An idea that had up till now been merely theoretical – that Martin and the rest of his generation may be called up for military service – has now become real.
Two months have flashed by since he lay on that bank on Crowell Hill, during the motor trial, seeing her eyes reflected in the blue winter sky. The Easter holidays have come and gone. Like fugitives from love, they have managed to snatch a few days together, either at Whichert House or in London. But Nancy has been either chained to her desk typing insurance claims, or spending most evenings and weekends rehearsing her play in London. They had hoped to spend Easter together but at the last minute he was summoned to Wiltshire again by his mother. Not an hour goes by when he doesn’t think of her but term has started again with a bang. There are books to read, essays to write, tutorials to attend.
In that time, clouds have darkened over Europe. In March, Hitler’s Panzers rolled into Czechoslovakia. Hitler has smashed Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement with an iron fist. Now, the world is holding its breath to see if Poland will be next. Love and war are now entwined in Martin’s and Nancy’s destinies.
‘Hugh!’ Martin spots his friend amidst the throng of students heading for the Union.
‘Think it’s going to be 1933 all over again?’ Hugh pulls out a cigarette, lights it and offers Martin one.
The so-called King and Country debate in 1933 had shocked the nation, when the Oxford Union adopted a pledge not to fight in the event of war with Germany, a pledge Churchill called ‘vile’ and ‘squalid’. Tonight’s debate won’t have any more legal standing than that one, but it will be an important barometer of public opinion. For weeks, it has been a hot topic of debate in college dining rooms and studies.