Love and War Read Online Free Page A

with curly greyish hair and rather wicked eyes which look sideways at you. He painted my picture when I was in Sixth Form and it won a prize in some exhibition in Brecon.
    ‘I’ve still got that painting I did of you,’ he says, as though reading my thoughts.
    ‘Have you? I thought you painted over your old ones.’
    ‘I usually do. But that was one of my better efforts. My Renoir period. You were quite plump in those days. It showed very nicely even under your gym-slip... Two coffees and two buttered scones, please.’
    ‘I had such a strange dream last night.’
    ‘Nothing in the world bores me as much as other people’s dreams. Even my own bore me.’
    ‘I wasn’t going to tell you, anyway. It was a bit rude.’
    He leans towards me. ‘I don’t mind them so much if they’re rude.’
    He’s got a really friendly smile which completely changes his rather melancholy face. I wish I saw more of him. His room is at the very top of the school and he keeps himself to himself.
    ‘Are you Church or Chapel?’ I ask him, my mind still hovering on the Catholic Church and the peace it seemed to promise.
    ‘Is that always the first question you ask a man who invites you for a coffee? What if he doesn’t intend any serious entanglement? Sorry, love. I was brought up chapel. Congregational.’
    ‘Like me. But I’ve never seen you in Tabernacle.’
    ‘Haven’t been for years. Don’t believe in any of it.’
    ‘Really? Really ? Do you mean you’re an atheist? Like Shelley? How very interesting. I think you’re the first atheist I’ve ever met. Do you mind if I stare at you a bit?’
    The waitress, a girl from up our way, brings us our coffee. ‘We’ve had quite a run on the sultana scones,’ she says, ‘but I’ve brought you some Madeira.’
    Gwynn Morgan doesn’t say anything, just looks sourly at the two yellow slabs of cake on the thick white plate.
    ‘Thank you,’ I murmur, ‘very nice. Thank you.’
    ‘Perhaps you’ll sit for me again, sometime,’ he says, after a moment or two.
    ‘Oh no. How could I?’
    ‘Do you mean because I’m an atheist?’
    ‘Because I haven’t got the time. I don’t get any free periods this year. Not since Roy Lewis was called up.’
    ‘You could always come to the house. You know where I live.’
    ‘Oh, but I wouldn’t want to do that. I couldn’t – there’d be talk. Anyway, I’m not pretty any more.’
    I wait for him to contradict me – I must be looking at him rather expectantly – but he doesn’t.
    ‘This cake isn’t as bad as it looks,’ I say, to cover my disappointment. ‘Try some.’
    He shrugs his shoulders, drinks some of the pale grey coffee and takes out a cigarette.
    ‘I’ve been feeling depressed lately,’ I say, ‘and wondering whether what I need is some new, vital sort of religious experience.’
    He looks at me with an expression I can’t quite fathom. ‘I thought it was a new dress you were after,’ he says.
    I consider this. It seems an important moment. ‘Well, perhaps it is. I’d better go – Studio Laura shuts at twelve on a Saturday.’
    ‘I wanted to ask you about your lodger,’ Gwynn Morgan says, stubbing out his cigarette in his saucer. ‘Ilona something, isn’t it?’
    ‘Ilona Hughes,’ I say, sitting down again. ‘What did you want to know about her?’
    ‘Do you think she’d sit for me?’
    ‘I could ask her. Do you really want me to? Do you think she’s pretty?’
    He seemed to give my question serious consideration. ‘She looks like a Cranach painting. Little squashed face, small breasts, big hips.’
    I almost smile. ‘I’ll ask her. I’ll let you know on Monday.’
    ‘Tell her I pay five bob an hour for a life model.’
    I can feel myself blushing. ‘Thank you for the coffee.’ As I get up again, I catch sight of the sea from the window; bathed in a stormy, violet light, its chilling beauty takes my breath away.

    The window of Studio Laura has nothing in it but a twisted tree with hundreds