Then he lazed back , laughing by her side , motionless in the sun .sx He used to drink the cheap , warm wine straight from the bottle .sx 'You first,' he told her , 'I want the bottle neck to be smothered in your kisses .sx ' He made her laugh so much that , sometimes , she spilt it down her dress and left a purple stain on the pique@2 collar .sx 'When I'm rich,' he cried , 'I'll buy you champagne , nothing but champagne .sx You can bath in it , drink it , spill it down your dress and it won't even leave a mark .sx ' With these words he sprang to his feet and cried into the swirling blue , ~'I love her , I love her , I love her .sx . ~It's you I love , you silly girl .sx . Anna and Hugo .sx . Anna and Hugo .sx .' until their names echoed and trembled to the distant hills .sx He chased her barefoot over the scented grass and thistledown until they fell panting into each others [SIC] arms on the ground .sx Then he gasped for breath , his body humped and contorted as he clutched at his own throat in convulsive agony and desperation .sx Between the coughing and the retching , he begged her :sx ~'Don't look , Anna , please don't look at me,' and she would slump to the grass until it was over .sx Sometimes , there was blood even on the flowers , on the daises which had , already , pink-tipped petals .sx The days , the weeks , the months rushed by , express train-like but with no destination , no beginning and no end .sx He used to walk to the studio where he was learning to paint .sx 'To save money,' he told her , 'so I can buy you presents .sx ' He bought her books , flowers , bits of cracked and broken junk which he thought pretty , and sometimes clothes .sx The mackintosh was the last thing he ever gave her .sx 'For once I'm being practical,' he said .sx 'After all , it's meant to rain in England .sx ' He walked everywhere and the endless exercise made him hungry .sx She spent twice as much as he saved to appease the hunger and they both laughed when the false economy dawned on them .sx She bought him fruit , meat , cheese and eggs and together they strived to cook them over the gas-ring in her bedroom with the help of a French cookery book .sx Their faces were smudged , their foreheads sweaty , their hands garnished with garlic and , laughing , they would decide to cook the English way and fall back on fish and chips .sx In the winter , the snow helped to hide the barrack grimness of their surroundings .sx It lay like petals on the deserted garden patch and even transfigured the limp lines of washing into dazzling obelisks .sx Hugo's cough seemed better in the snow .sx He would gather handfuls off the trees , kiss it , eat it and chase her laughing and crying down the street , hurling it into her streaming hair .sx He painted her room for her as 'white as the snow' he said .sx He stripped off the sad wallpaper , almost angrily , and in its place put up fresh and merry whiteness .sx She made him hang his paintings on the walls and could scarcely believe the brilliant transformation .sx 'This is the first time I've ever hung a painting,' he told her smiling , 'and probably the last .sx ' She liked best the pictures of Provence , the fishermen with black nets drying on platinum sand , the baskets of rainbow fish which still seemed to squirm in the sun-glitter .sx She liked the lonely stretches of Camargue wasteland , wild , melancholy and mysterious ; she liked the vastness of the rice-fields , once mistral-torn and mosquito-ridden .sx She loved the pictures of housewives , brawny and good-humoured , haggling with their Midi accent over the monk fish , the grey mullet , the tiny squid and the lobsters while the naked starfish sprawled dead in the sun .sx Even dead , the colours were dazzling- silver sea bream ; slithery , bright pink demoiselles ; the angler with mad antennae-like hooks sprouting from its huge head ; the gigantic turbot and the sleek , black dogfish with its greyhound head .sx When she looked at his paintings , she could hear the auction bids and smell the fish and pebbles , she could feel the sticky salt in the women's hair and the tired sweat on the men's faces .sx Over and over again , he tried to paint a picture of Anna .sx He couldn't .sx 'I love you too much,' he explained .sx 'Anyway , I can only paint fish and peasants .sx ' He made her look sad , he made her look happy but somehow he never captured the startling strangeness which was Anna .sx In the winter evenings , she sat for him hour after hour but , in the end , he hurled the canvas from the easel , cursing himself and his lack of talent .sx She reassured him , told him the light was wrong , that he was tired or hungry , that she loved the picture and it was more real than she was herself .sx Then he burst into laughter and asked :sx 'Do you mind if I turn you into a fish ?sx ' And , in half the time , he blotted out her likeness and brought fiercely to life , the sea-glimmer , sunlight , fishwives and the sparkle of salt water on sealy skin and delicate fins .sx His excuse was always the same .sx 'You see I love you too much , I can't paint the woman I love , the only woman I've ever loved .sx ' 'The only one ?sx ' she asked him .sx He looked at her through flickering lashes , half smiling .sx 'The only one,' he repeated .sx 'The others were just games .sx ' 'What do you call games , Hugo ?sx ' Then he looked guilty like a child caught stealing an apple .sx 'Well,' he said kissing her cheek , 'I knew them in the biblical sense .sx They were nothing to me , just nothing .sx ' Biblical sense or no , she felt sad and jealous and questioned him closely as to their names and faces .sx Whereupon he swept her into his arms and carried her struggling to the bed .sx 'There,' he said as he knelt on the floor by her side , 'on bended knee I swear it .sx The only one , it's you .sx ' He lay his cheek upon hers , silent for a while , then he whispered in her hair :sx 'Anna , make love with me , real love .sx . please do .sx ' Before she could think or answer him , he was a tangled heap on the floor , a spitting , gasping heap , half-sobbing , half-human .sx She ran out to get some water and , when she came back , she found him lying on her bed , laughing .sx 'So I have to make do with this , do I ?sx ' He held up her portrait still wet and sticky .sx 'It's prettier than you , you brutal angel .sx ' 'There's not so much of it though,' she answered truthfully .sx Thereupon he jumped up and said that he was hungry .sx 'And all because of you,' he told her as he kissed her , clung to her and led her away .sx She was glad it hadn't happened .sx She didn't want to be a game , not even in the biblical sense .sx Anyway , he was too ill and she loved him too much .sx Her mother enjoyed having Hugo in the house , her father resented him .sx He didn't like to see other people happy around him .sx It wasn't his Methodist upbringing , it was just his nature .sx He was like a damp cartridge ; however much force or pressure was brought to bear , nothing happened .sx He never exploded , either joyfully or angrily .sx He was simply an unfriendly maggot that you might find under a stone .sx She and Hugo had a secret language which they spoke with their eyes and their hands , and many was the mad , snuffed-out laughter conversation they carried on behind her father's disapproving newspaper .sx He was only concerned that Hugo should pay his rent , not put French coins in the gas-meter slot and not seduce his daughter .sx The third condition was the least important of the three .sx Sometimes Anna wondered if he knew that she wasn't his daughter .sx But of course he knew and that made it worse .sx He didn't mind , he didn't want children of his own or despise his wife's illegitimate one .sx It was this complete indifference to everything , whether mental or physical , that astonished and terrified Anna .sx On both counts he was a miser .sx He gave nothing , he took nothing but he resented everything .sx She could recall Hugo's farewell so clearly .sx It was so vivid that she often wondered if it had not occurred the day before and whether it were not just another good-night with another greeting in the morning .sx It had been July , almost three years to a day since he first appeared in their lives .sx 'We must pretend it's for a day,' he said , 'because we know it's only a month and then we'll be together for the rest of our lives .sx ' 'A day,' she repeated slowly , 'but even a day without you is a lifetime .sx ' 'While I'm away ,' he said , 'you must write to me every single day and I'll write to you .sx You know I can't live without you so promise me you will .sx ' She didn't even bother to promise- it was so unnecessary .sx 'Don't come to the station,' he begged her , 'I'll burst into tears and make a fool of myself .sx ' Nevertheless , she had gone and each tormented minute had been a tiny stretch of happiness .sx He leaned from the carriage window and clung to her , unaware of the selfish noise and activity of a boat-train crowd and they- unaware of him .sx He begged her , made her swear to go on loving him for ever and never to see , touch or talk to another man .sx The whistle went and she brushed the tears from his eyes with her hand .sx 'Keep one,' he said smiling .sx 'I have my own,' she replied .sx The train shuddered , gathered speed and was gone .sx The blurred heads of holiday-makers leaned out , waving and kissing to the platform of spectators , to the litter of squash cartons , ice-cream wrappers and separation .sx She walked away as in a trance , walking always forward but always left behind .sx No one noticed her .sx On a boat-train station , people look sad or happy- there is no in between .sx She went home and looked at her face in the glass .sx It was like a mask of granite which cannot melt , break or be crushed .sx It seemed to have no reason for being there at all- simply a memento of the past .sx She assured herself that in a month everything would begin again as sweetly and smoothly as winding a clock .sx She wrote to him every day for a week and every single day she waited for his answer .sx There was no question of his letters becoming colder , wearier or less affectionate .sx There were no letters- it was as simple as that .sx The postman came to know her face quite well- it was white and drawn and seemed scarcely to exist .sx He gave her gas bills , butcher bills and canvassing pamphlets but her fingers sorted through them hungrily and she closed the door and thanked him .sx She made the lodgers' beds , went to work and returned at night to wait for the morning .sx After a week , she stopped writing letters altogether and after a month she sobbed herself to sticky sleep each night and woke to the swollen-eyed dawn .sx From that time forth , she lived in the past and three years' recollection offers a sort of companionship although it has no future .sx She walked down the streets where they had walked together , went to the same pubs and cafe@2s , visited the same museums and cinemas and even took bus-rides into the country where each blade of grass reminded her of him .sx She wondered if he were ill , she wondered if he were dead and suddenly she realized that she was the ill one , the dead one , the idiot and the possessed .sx Her father was glad it had all ended ; her mother was too busy to comment .sx 'Find yourself a nice steady man,' he told her , 'not a choking , arty-crafty foreigner .sx ' And he returned to his evening paper in justified and contented humour , pleased that he'd been right all along and that his day was over .sx