CHAPTER TWELVE

Passion

It was becoming possible for Paul to earn enough money to live by painting alone. He had sold many paintings over the past year. And many people in the art world were starting to mention his name when they talked about the painters of the future.

He was twenty-four, when he said to his mother:

"I'll become a great painter, one day."

His mother smiled, but said nothing. Inside, she was very happy to see him aiming for greatness.

All his thoughts, if they were not about painting, were about Clara. They had grown close since his break with Miriam. It had happened without either of them planning it, but without trying they had become the closest person in each other's lives.

The hours when he was not with her went very slowly. As soon as he left her he could not wait until they met again. His heart would quicken at the thought of her.

One day they were sitting together on the train to Nottingham. She leaned her shoulder against him. He took her hand. He felt himself waking from a long sleep. Her ear, hidden in the long blond hair, was very near to him. All he wanted to do was kiss it. But the train was full of other people.

He looked away. She was moving with the motion of the train. Her body was rubbing against his. He held her hand very tightly and tried to send all his feeling through it to her. Clara turned her head and looked at him.

"What happened with Miriam?" she asked.

"I left her," he answered.

"But I thought you two had been together for years," Clara replied.

"We had been, but I decided that I did not want to marry her. So I thought it was best if I ended it," he said.

"And now you don't want anything to do with her?" she asked.

"No. It's no good," he answered, feeling more and more helpless.

They were quiet. They spent some minutes looking out at the country moving by them. It was raining and the view from the train window put them both in a thoughtful mood.

"How old are you?" Clara asked, breaking the silence.

"Twenty-five," he answered.

"And I am thirty," she said, "soon to be thirty-one."

"I didn't know, and I don't care. What does it matter?" he said.

They left the train and walked towards the hills. Their plan was to walk to the river, Paul thought the rain would have made the road muddy, but Clara still wanted to go. He let her have her way.

When they got near the river they could see that it was flooded. They took off their shoes and kept walking. The rain was getting heavier. It had made them both very wet. Clara's clothes stuck to her body. Paul could see the beautiful lines of her figure.

As they were making their way through some trees, Clara slipped. Paul helped her to get up. She was in his arms, their wet bodies pressing against each other. They kissed.

She pulled away and ran ahead. Paul ran after her. She was laughing like a schoolgirl. He caught her and kissed her neck. They were both very excited.

They made it to the top of a hill. Paul had dropped their shoes in the mud, and he was kneeling down trying to clean them. She put her fingers in his hair, pulled his head towards her and kissed him.

"What am I meant to be doing, cleaning shoes, or falling in love? Answer me that," he said laughing.

"Whatever you want, my dear," she said.

In the train on the way home, Paul was as happy as he had ever been. All the other people looked great and the night was perfect, everything was good.

Mrs Morel was sitting reading when he got home. Her health was not good now and she was beginning to look very old.

"You are late," she said, as he came through the door.

"I know mother, but today it is worth it," he said.

"She must be a very special woman, my son, to make you feel so happy. But I am worried. She is a married woman after all, what will people say?" she asked.

"I don't care what people say, mother. She no longer lives with her husband and it has been that way for many years," he said, defending his love.

There was silence for a while. He wanted to ask her something, but he was afraid.

"Would you like to meet her?" He asked finally.

"Yes," said Mrs Morel, "I would like to know what she is like."

"Then, if you don't mind, I will bring her for lunch one Sunday," he said.

"I don't mind, and what difference would it make if I did?" she said, knowing her son all'too well.

One day in town, he met Miriam walking down the street. They began talking and the conversation turned to Clara, then to marriage. It hurt Miriam a great deal to talk about those things with him, but he did not notice; he was so caught up in his love for Clara that the rest of the world had become distant.

"You see," he said, "she never understood the importance of marriage. She was so young that she thought nothing in life was forever. Then she grew up, and learned about the world. It was then that she saw her husband for what he was."

"She left him because he didn't understand her?" Miriam asked.

"I think so. She had to leave him. It is more than a question of understanding; it is a question of living. With him, she was only living half her life. The rest of her was dead," he said.

"And what about him?" she asked..

"Maybe he loved her the best he could, but he was a fool, who did not know anything," he answered.

It sounds like your mother and father," she said carefully.

"In a way, but I believe my mother had real love for my father at first. That is why she stayed with him. That is the important thing I think, to have real love, real passion," he said.

Miriam thought about this after they had said goodbye. She saw that that was what he wanted, a love that went beyond the normal type of love. He wanted passion. He wanted an artist's love. She knew that he would never be happy until he had it. Perhaps he needed to feel different kinds of love before he could settle for one. It hurt her to think that he loved another woman, but if that is what he needed to do in order to be happy, then she felt he must.

On the next Sunday, he went to meet Clara at the train station. She was laughing as she put her hand out to him, their eyes met. They walked quickly away from the train station. He had to use all his strength to stop his feelings for her from showing themselves. She looked beautiful. It was as if the sun shone just for her. He felt great pride to be walking next to her.

As they walked over the fields he picked some flowers and put them into her hat. As she watched his hands move it was as if she were seeing him for the first time. Until then, everything had been unclear.

As they neared the house, she became quiet. It did not enter his mind that she might be worried about meeting his family. To him she seemed capable of anything.

Mrs Morel sat in her chair. She was trying to remain as calm as she could.

"Mother, this is Clara," Paul said, introducing them.

"He has told me a lot about you," said Mrs Morel.

"I hope you don't mind me coming," Clara said.

Paul felt his heart fill with pain. This was too much happiness for him to bear. His mother looked at him and saw how much of a man he had become. He was tall and good-looking and looked very serious in his Sunday clothes. It would be hard for any woman to keep him for long, she thought. She started to feel a little sorry for Clara.

It made Paul very happy that Clara and his mother spent the afternoon talking like old friends. Clara relaxed more and more as the day went on, she became her natural self, and seemed to be enjoying herself. But still, Paul worried about what his mother really thought. He knew that she could be friendly with someone that she did not like. But he thought that their first meeting had been a success.

A week later they went to see a show in Nottingham. Paul thought himself the luckiest man alive to be sitting next to such a beautiful woman. He did not pay much attention to the show, it was much more enjoyable watching Clara.

The show finished late. Paul missed the last train home, so he had to either stay at Clara's house, or walk the long way home. Clara told him he must stay. The only problem being that Clara lived with her mother.

When they got to her house Clara told her mother that Paul was a friend from work who had missed the train. Her mother was not happy, but there was little she could do at such a late hour.

Their bedrooms faced each other. Paul waited for her mother to go to bed, and as quietly as he could he went to Clara's room. He opened the door; she was sitting on the bed, facing the other direction. He was amazed at her beauty. Her back was long and her skin glowed like the sun.

He walked to her, and she did not turn around. He put one hand on her shoulder and with the other turned her face. She put her arms over his legs. His blood moved hot through him. He picked her up and she put her face against his chest.

His hands moved all over her body. They kissed, deep and long.

"Come to my room," he said.

She looked at him and shook her head. Her eyes were full of desire.

"Come," he said.

Again she shook her head.

"Why not?" he asked.

She looked at him, sorrowfully, and shook her head again. He gave up and went back to his room.

Later, he wondered why she had not said yes. Her mother would have known, but that would have to happen sooner or later. She could have stayed with him all night, and then forever in his heart.

The next morning Clara acted like nothing had happened the night before. She was happy in front of her mother, and when she was out of the room she asked Paul if he wanted to take a holiday together. He did not know what to think. He told her he would think about it.

(end of section)