41

We walked, leaving his ornamental gardens behind, crossing a stream, out across the open expanse of heath, following a ribbon of white sand where the thin layer of soil had been worn away by years of footsteps.

A small downslope appeared gradually in front of us, the way it can on the Forest – an expanse that looks featureless from a distance resolving into hidden details as you close in, like the countryside between the Leckies and the works. We found ourselves amidst birch and pine. I smelt woodsmoke, and heard laughter.

Vaughn grinned, like a conjuror showing us a new trick.

We emerged from the trees, into a clearing of short-cropped grass and a small, thatched cottage, like a fairy tale.

Two elderly women sat on kitchen chairs that had been brought outside onto the lawn. Both of them had easels in front of them, with half-finished paintings. One of the women was dressed in a pastiche of the country life, a big floral dress and a floppy sunhat. The other was dressed in trousers and a shirt. Both were barefoot, and both were smoking.

An axe smacked into a log, splitting it with a satisfying thunk. It was the artist, down by the side of the cottage, hidden in the shade. The young man squinted at us, then returned to his task, picking up another log and dropping it onto the chopping block. His trousers were rolled up to his knees, his shirtsleeves past his elbows, black braces holding his trousers up. Like the women, he was barefoot. He was sweating from the exertion.

‘Hello!’ Vaughn said cheerily, ‘mind if I pop in?’

‘Of course not, darling,’ the woman in the floppy hat said. ‘Always glad of an excuse to stop work on this abomination.’ She waved her cigarette at her painting.

‘Speak for yourself, dear,’ the other woman said, delicately dabbing a touch of colour to her own canvas.

‘I’m giving Mr Cook the guided tour,’ Vaughn said, as I followed him out of the woods, onto the lawn. The artist swung his axe and the blade glanced off the log, burying -itself in the grass near his feet.

‘You don’t want to be doing that barefoot,’ I said. ‘Easy way to lose a few toes.’

‘See, Freddie? I told you, didn’t I?’ the woman in the hat said.

Freddie scowled and set up for another swing. He inched his feet back. This time he got the log square-on and the blade sunk in without splitting it. He rocked the axe back and forth but it was firmly stuck.

I joined him.

‘Got any steel-capped boots?’ I asked.

‘Must have left them in London,’ he said.

It was a miracle he hadn’t taken his foot off. I took the axe from him and pulled it out of the log. He had a respectable pile of split wood to one side.

‘You did all that?’ I asked.

‘I was doing fine,’ he said.

‘That’s the thing with equipment like this,’ I said. ‘When it works, you can get a lot done. But you’ve got to be ready for the time it doesn’t work.’ I placed my foot next to his and showed him a split in the leather on the side.

‘I was doing the same thing once,’ I said. ‘Wasn’t concentrating and the axe bounced off. Went through my boot like butter.’

‘Did it hurt?’

‘No, but I felt pretty stupid when I had to go in and tell Mum.’

I handed him the axe.

‘What size are you?’

‘Eleven.’

‘I’ve got an old pair of boots that would do the trick,’ I said. ‘Drop by sometime and you can pick them up. Home Farm, on the way to Uckfield.’

The blousy woman, Constance, poured tea. She’d brought out a plate of bread and jam, with apologies for not having biscuits or cakes.

‘How long have you been here?’ Margaret asked.

‘A few weeks,’ Constance said. ‘Right, Kay?’

Kay, the other artist, shook her head.

‘Four weeks tomorrow.’

‘We’re so grateful to Vaughn. It’s amazing what he’s doing. Everyone thinks so.’

I must have looked quizzical. Constance answered.

‘The artists’ colony. Such a perfect idea, especially now.’

‘Where were you before?’ I asked.

‘We have a small house in Bloomsbury,’ Kay said.

‘It’s getting unbearable in town,’ Freddie said. ‘Blackouts, air-raid sirens. You can’t hear yourself think.’

‘Freddie’s sensitive,’ Kay said. ‘He needs peace and quiet for his work.’

‘What do you do?’ I asked.

‘He’s a poet,’ Constance said, slapping Freddie’s hand as he reached for a second piece of bread. ‘Leave some for our guests, darling.’

‘Mr Cook was a bit suspicious of me, moving out some of my old tenants,’ Vaughn said. ‘I think he thought I was clearing the way for a Nazi invasion.’

‘How diligent of you,’ Kay said. ‘Can’t be too careful.’

‘You’re not worried?’ I asked. ‘You’ve moved right into the invasion zone. This could be a battlefield in a few weeks.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Constance said. ‘It won’t be as bad as that. More of an administrative change-over, like after a general election. I don’t think it will need to bother people like us.’