Summer in February by Jonathan Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

did tell you, and the downpipes need clearing.’
    ‘Can you arrange it, my friend? Can you?’
    ‘I’ve already told you I—’
    ‘Amazing chap’ – here A.J.’s volume increased to include all those within earshot – ‘he fixes everything for me, don’t you?
     Now
that
is what I call a friend. A friend.’
    ‘Ev’ was something of a new one, but if A.J. started to use it there was little doubt that ‘Ev’ would soon be his current
     name. On the matter of loud general introductions, Gilbert tried to explain quietly to A.J. not to bother, because he knew
     enough people in the room to be getting on with, thank you, and that once he had dried out a little by the fire he would be
     quite all right, but he might as well be bidding the ocean to cease because A.J. told him not to move a muscle, not a muscle,
     mind, until he brought him back a glass, a full glass of something guaranteed to warm the cockles of his soldier’s heart.
    Gilbert peered through the blue smoke. ‘Lamorna’ Birch, with his clay pipe, nodded a greeting. A scantily dressed London model
     (he did not remember her name, though he remembered her smile) half turned and half smiled. A.J. was now heading back, elbows
     right out, with a jug of steaming punch, holding it in front of his face and shouting out above the hubbub:
    ‘Special Norfolk recipe, this, Ev, got it in The Swan at Harleston … or was it the Maid’s Head in Norwich, can’t remember
     for the life of me, who cares, whichever, it’s bloody good stuff so drink it.’
    ‘Your very good health, A.J.’
    ‘“A.J.’s Special” it’s called all over Norfolk, rum, brandy, sherry, shimmered – no, I’ll say that again – simmered cloves,
     lemon rind, lots of fruit and whatever else I feel like throwing in.’
    And on his way Munnings went, leaning over shoulders with his steaming brew, nudging the young models, topping them up, encouraging
     more excess, dropping a filthy limerick here and a filthy limerick there. It was hard for Gilbert to believe that this man
     had only been in Lamorna a few weeks: he behaved as if he, not Colonel Paynter, owned the place, if not the county of Cornwall.
    Gilbert moved to join Laura and Joey Carter-Wood but within seconds of being with them A.J. was back there again, elbowing
     Laura.
    ‘More, yes, come on, Good God, Laura woman, don’t argue, lift it higher, I can’t reach down to your boots, can I?’
    ‘You’re a wicked man, Alfred Munnings.’
    ‘Of course I am, so lift your glass up.’
    As she did so, Gilbert noticed Laura’s wide strong lips were already stained blue-red with the wine. Her eyes bulged.
    ‘Lovely, Alfred, that’s plenty, thanks, I said
that’s plenty
.’
    ‘Don’t thank me, Laura, thank the Leicester Gallery, thank the clients, thank all the buyers!’
    ‘I know, wonderful news, well done.’
    ‘Talent, Laura, talent, that’s all it is, and you and I have it.’
    ‘You have, Alfred, that’s clear.’
    Munnings looked round the room.
    ‘Where’s your husband, he needs some of this, put a bit of life into him.’
    ‘He’s at home, I’m afraid.’
    ‘At home?’
    ‘Yes, still working.’
    ‘What’s wrong with the fellow, last time he had toothache.’
    ‘Well, you know Harold.’
    ‘Gilbert, you’re a man at least, have some more!’
    ‘No, I still haven’t—’
    But Gilbert moved his hand just a fraction too late. His glass was brimful again.
    ‘That’s it, give me a man who can enjoy life, a man and a soldier.’
    ‘But not an artist, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Listen, Gilbert Evans, there are too many bloody artists in this room, too many in Newlyn, too many in Lamorna, too many
     in London, far far too many, they need stamping out. Stamping out!’
    ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
    Alfred put his arm firmly round Gilbert’s shoulder.
    ‘Of course you wouldn’t, my brave, and that’s why I’m telling you. And that’s why you need me!’
    Alfred now took up his performing