by Maggie Ford
She wished she could help things along a little, but it wasn’t proper for her to make the first move. Decent young ladies didn’t. If only she could tell him her true feelings; but that would be too forward of her.
All week she was on tenterhooks for next Sunday to come. But when it did, she found him not there after all when she called.
‘He said ter tell yer he’s sorry,’ his mother informed her. ‘One of his mates ’ad an accident failin’ orf a roof what he was working on yesterday and he went with the other blokes ter see ’im in orspital this morning. But he said he’d be ’ere next week if you come.’
Despite her disappointment, it was like music in her ears; but the following Sunday, something totally unexpected occurred to stop her going – something very important, even though it left her wondering afterwards if he might have taken it to mean that she wasn’t that interested in seeing him.
Twenty-Eight
Sundays would see hordes of strollers pausing to gaze at paintings hung on park railings by optimistic artists – rows and rows of them, large and small, some framed, some not, in a variety of subjects and styles. For some it was a Sunday-morning or afternoon diversion before another working week; for the artists there was the hope that at least one painting sold, meaning food for another week.
Lately it had been a day Ellie missed out on, taken up with hopes of seeing Ronnie Sharp. Going all the way to Bethnal Green to chat over a cup of tea, then journeying all the way back, gave no time to show her work, any money she might have made being lost. But seeing Ronnie made it worthwhile.
She’d been so excited about her date with him – if that was what it was – this Sunday. He’d said he’d wait in to see her and she’d been reading meanings into his words all week.
She was ready to go. She would be going alone. Thankfully Dora had decided to stay behind, since rain seemed not far off – heavy rain at that, the air already turning sultry, promising thunderstorms before long. But Ellie shrugged. Nothing was going to stop her.
‘I’ll see you later on then,’ she said to Dora as she took the old, faded black umbrella off the chair where it lay. She frowned as a knock came on the door.
‘If that’s the landlord,’ she snapped as she went to answer it, ‘he can wait until Monday morning. He’s been coming it lately – frightened we’d run off.’
Opening it, she was surprised to see Felix there, his face full of smiles. ‘Someone to see you. He didn’t know where you lived, so I brought him.’
Stepping to one side, he revealed the smartly dressed, bulky figure of Hunnard in a light-grey, single-breasted morning suit, the coat open to show a well-fitted waistcoat with a thick, gold fob chain. He wore a grey-silk top hat and beneath his trim beard a starched white collar seemed to be holding his neck in a vice. The cane he carried had what looked like a silver top.
He looked so immaculate that, for a second, Ellie stared at him with her mind racing idiotically to the shambles of her humble room and what he’d think, seeing where she lived. Even so, she couldn’t keep him standing there. Without speaking, she stood aside for him to enter, which he did, deftly removing his hat. Felix followed him in, his face still wreathed in smiles.
Ellie’s eyes were trained on her main visitor, but with nothing coming to mind to say to him, she just stood there, feeling like an idiot.
‘I’ve not seen you lately,’ he began. He was gazing directly at her, not around at her poor surroundings, thank God. ‘I’ve looked for you on several Sundays, but you don’t show up – a fine way to sell your work, eh? But this young man says you’ve completed another two paintings.’
His gaze began to roam the room. ‘So I should be happy to see them, if I may, young lady?’
Ellie felt her scepticism start to mount. Obviously he had it in mind to buy them, not just to gaze at them. It would mean money wouldn’t be quite so tight for a little while if she sold them to him. But if he thought he could fob her off with another few pounds, he had another think coming. And what about those he’d already had from her? Had he sold them and wasn’t telling her? If he hadn’t sold them, why was he after more of her work?
‘What about those other paintings you bought from me?’ She came out bluntly with it, almost rudely, seeing Felix’s mouth drop open. ‘Are they still hanging on that wall in your gallery?’
Hunnard smiled. ‘As a matter of fact there has been a great deal of interest in them. If your two new paintings are of the same standard, I have in mind to include them in a small exhibition I’m planning. It should prove a success, as all my exhibitions are, though small.’
Ellie’s eyes remained hard. ‘And I suppose you want to buy my others from me for another few pounds, like you did before.’
From the corner of her eye she could see Dora, now up from the chair by the window where she’d been looking down into the street for something better to do as Hunnard entered, tensing with interest at the mention of money. Felix, too, was looking attentive, sensing the possibilities here; but she knew that his interest was centred unselfishly on her welfare.
‘I take it you’re after buying them?’ Ellie went on. ‘If you’ve plans for them, I think I should get a bit more for them than last time. I’ve seen nothing of that last proposition you spoke about.’
Maybe she was being rude, but she felt angry. Months of eking out the last few pounds he’d handed her to have him lord it in here, dressed like a millionaire, on paintings no doubt bought for a song from other struggling artists – she’d rather throw her own in the Thames than hold out a servile hand for his measly few quid!
‘No, so far you haven’t,’ he answered, still smiling. ‘But if your recent work comes up to the standard of the previous two, I may give you cause to take that frown off your face for a long time to come.’
Laying his cane and hat on a chair, he took hold of the one Dora had vacated and brought it to the table where she and Ellie would eat.
Indicating for her to sit on the one on the opposite side of the small table, he glanced up at Felix.
‘I’m much obliged to you for guiding me here. I shall find my own way when I leave. Now perhaps you could take Miss Jay’s young sister for a little stroll – say for half an hour or so while I speak to Miss Jay.’
‘I want them to stay,’ Ellie interrupted sharply. It sounded just a little too forceful and she glanced out through the window. ‘It’s started to rain and I think we’re in for a storm.’
She’d hardly spoken when a low, prolonged growl of thunder rumbled in the distance. Hunnard regarded her for moment, then nodded and turned his back on the other two to rivet his attention on her.
Looking a little awkward, Dora went and sat on the bed in the far corner, Felix going to sit beside her.
‘Now then,’ Hunnard began, leaning towards her, his elbows on the table’s scratched surface, ‘if your recent work is of the same standard as your previous work, I have it in mind to put on an exhibition at my galleries. I am certain it would cause quite a stir. Your paintings are revolutionary to some extent and there are those with money looking for something different. We’ve had impressionism, expressionism, the violent colours of Fauvism.’
He spoke the word almost contemptuously. ‘Your work, young lady, falls between all three. And now, getting down to business.’
He glanced over his shoulder at the other two and turned back to her, lowering his voice. ‘Let me explain in simple terms you might understand. An exhibition will cost money, for which I foot the bill. Therefore I take all the risks. You don’t. I therefore take a commission on every painting sold. So you see, I have to feel confident the paintings will sell well.’
‘You think they will sell?’ she asked, still not quite sure what he was talking about.
‘For quite a lot, if I’m any judge of art. Young lady, you may be pleasantly surprised.’
Surprised! Did he mean rich? She dared not guess. But this talk of commission was worrying. Was she about to be diddled again? Before she cou
ld stop herself, she came out with it and saw him smile.
It was a strange smile. ‘That’s a rather odd remark, but I understand,’ he said. ‘You are very young, alone in a world about which you have very little conception. But I can offer you protection – be your patron, so to speak.’
‘Patron?’ she echoed. The smile hadn’t diminished.
‘I find your work interesting. I find you interesting, and exceedingly brave. You are destined to go far as an artist, but you need the right backing, the protection of an influential patron. I have influence and you’ll not find me lacking in that if you allow me to take you under my wing.’
Ellie had her eyes fixed on him. What was he proposing? She’d seen that same smile on Bertram Lowe’s face – one that could be taken as fatherly and protective, yet seemed to hint at something else not quite as it should be. It made her uncomfortable and she was glad Felix and Dora hadn’t gone out for the stroll he’d suggested.
That oily smile – Ellie felt herself squirm. She’d seen it now on three older men: her father, Bertram Lowe and now Hunnard. What was it about her that made them look at her this way? Had she stayed with Bertram Lowe, would he have shown his true feelings for her? Would that happen with Hunnard? And her father – the same had been true of him, but he’d made no pretence about his intentions, the father gradually turning into the lecher.
But was it her fault? Did she unconsciously seek to attract such men? Had it been her doing that her father had developed an unnatural attraction towards her?
She became aware that Hunnard was still speaking. ‘You show great promise,’ he was saying. ‘With the right teacher, who knows how far you could go? As your patron, I would finance your—’
‘You said you charge commission on whatever you sell,’ she broke in harshly. ‘What sort of commission are you thinking of?’
She saw the smile vanish and he again became business-like.
‘I suggest fifty per cent? Half of what each painting takes,’ he added when she looked confused.
Ellie’s mind was working. If one of her special paintings, as she liked to call them, made roughly thirty pounds and he took half, she’d end up with fifteen. It sounded a lot. If they all sold, it would be a lot more.
She had six such paintings. Six times fifteen? Multiplication of that sort was beyond her, but it sounded as if it could be a fortune. But what if they only sold for a couple of pounds and he took half of that? She could sell her work on the street for more.
Again his voice cut into her thoughts. ‘Of course, I’ll have to see the others you’ve done,’ he said briskly.
Ellie came to herself with a start, her suspicions immediately roused. He’d talked of selling her paintings even before seeing them – a ruse to get her excited with talk of money, then to say they weren’t good enough and offer to buy them for some paltry sum. Well, she hadn’t come down with yesterday’s rain.
But she said nothing yet, as she went over to the corner where the two portraits lay, propped face to the wall: the one of Dora and the other of Felix.
‘There!’ she said tartly, propping them up before Hunnard’s eyes.
She saw those eyes widen as if with appreciation; then they narrowed as they turned towards her.
For a while he didn’t speak. Then he said slowly, ‘These are amazing. I really don’t know how to express it. They are… brilliant, like the rest of your work: unusual. The depth of expression. With my backing these will sell. And I mean sell! They’re virtual masterpieces.’
Ellie wanted to laugh out loud, but something in his face stopped her. Dora and Felix, caught by his exuberance, had come over to see what it was all about.
‘If I am right,’ Hunnard was saying, ‘you’ve a fine future ahead of you. I’ll take these away with me and begin organizing something at once. Leave everything to me. All you need to do is apply yourself to finishing as many of these as you can over the next month or so. Work day and night if you must. And keep away from those awful, slushy, sentimental pictures you’ve been hawking. Don’t even think of going out to sell such mush! Concentrate on more of what you are doing. I wish to see enough to make an exhibition worth its while.’
‘Paint costs money,’ Ellie blurted out. ‘I haven’t got—’
‘Don’t let that deter you,’ he snapped, and before she could say any more he fished into his breast pocket, drawing out a fine leather wallet, and extracted several white banknotes. ‘Buy whatever you need.’
Thrusting them into her hand, he grabbed up his hat and cane and made for the door. ‘I shall send someone tomorrow to collect these two. I shall see myself out,’ he added, as if she was living in a mansion instead of some attic room.
When he’d gone, Felix looked at her with wonder on his thin face. ‘God!’ he breathed. ‘I can hardly believe it.’
‘Neither can I,’ she replied. ‘Do you think it’s genuine?’
‘Of course it’s genuine. Look, I’ll help you buy whatever is needed. Me and Jock will run whatever errands you want.’
‘But I can’t paint to order. I need a subject. I can’t conjure up the feeling I get, not out of the blue. I need…’ She paused. She couldn’t say ‘anger’: he wouldn’t understand. ‘I need passion,’ she said desperately, ‘something in here.’
‘You’ll find it when you need to,’ Felix said and, kissing her on the cheek with excitement, he grabbed one of the banknotes and sped from the room. ‘I’ll be back shortly with everything you need,’ he called back.
She could hear his footsteps running lightly down the two flights of uncarpeted stairs, the door to the building slamming as he let himself out into a virtual cloudburst, a great boom of thunder rolling overhead as if to proclaim her future.
* * *
She hadn’t seen Hunnard for nearly three weeks but letters arrived every so often telling her to keep working, that all was well, that he’d made some very interesting and opulent contacts.
Ellie had persuaded Felix’s Jock to pose for her. What she saw in the young man’s eyes that appealed to her senses was a sort of vacancy coupled with a soul that had been hurt in the past. What he was, the way he had behaved, had been condemned, maybe from childhood. It struck her that he must have had a miserable childhood and it made her feel for him – so much so that the finished work made her almost want to cry.
She dragged her second subject off the streets – a ragged individual she’d seen begging. In him she found pure, unadulterated despair and painted him, dirt and all, so that anyone viewing the subject would almost have felt they could smell the filth on him. He went away happy with the money she handed him, and she just hoped it would give him an incentive to wash.
She’d painted it far too quickly to feel happy with the results, but Felix enthused over it and Dora looked sufficiently sick to make it impressive.
There was also a little girl, not much more than seven or eight, apparently the sole provider for a mother left widowed and desolate and two younger siblings, one only a baby, the girl told her.
Ellie hadn’t asked her name. Somehow that would have made her too real. She just sat the child down in her room and painted her, the wan little face with eyes so terribly empty for one so young, when they should have been bright with childish laughter. Ellie had found her trying to sell pitiful little bunches of flowers she’d gleaned from those dropped by more proficient flower sellers who sat around Piccadilly Circus with baskets of flowers got from the Covent Garden itself. The girl must have thought heaven had smiled on her as she finally left with an apron pocket heavy with the handful of silver coins Ellie gave her.
By the time Hunnard called with news of the approaching exhibition and the numbers of well-feathered clients eager to view his new protégée, all Ellie had to offer was these three paintings. Although, for her, all three had turned out to be immensely satisfying, she felt drained, as if the suffering of her subjects had seeped into her.
‘It’s not a lot,’ she accepted.
‘Enough
to be going on with,’ he said, not noticing how pale she was, her shoulders stooped from exhaustion, with sleepless nights, hours on her feet.
She was beginning to feel that if she continued working like this she’d end up going off her head. With Felix and Jock setting themselves the task of providing her with all the paint and canvas she needed, she hardly saw the outdoors, felt the hot summer sun beating on her face, heard the babble of people she’d have passed in the street.
‘I’ve got to get out for a while,’ she told Dora, who was going off on her own these days to enjoy the company of friends she’d made from those she now associated with.
Left to herself, Ellie began to feel trapped. She hadn’t even been to see Mrs Sharp, hadn’t set eyes on Ronnie, and guessed he’d given up on her, seeing her as too snooty for him. She wanted so much to get into contact again, but Hunnard was giving her no time to herself.
What was it all about, if she found herself deprived of a normal life, of happiness? Yet if she didn’t make the money Hunnard kept referring to, how would she ever be able to search out and confront her father – if she ever did find him. And if she never found him, then what was the point of doing what she was doing?
Perhaps in time it would all come to an end, leaving her free to contact Ronnie again, explain the cause of her absence and hope to goodness that he might ask her to go out with him – that was, if he hadn’t by that time found himself another suitable girl to propose to.
Twenty-Nine
‘We need more,’ Hunnard was saying. He’d been surveying the three further paintings she’d done and said they were exactly what he needed.
‘These will have them begging to buy,’ he had said; then, as bold as brass, had added his need for more.
‘I can’t do any more,’ she told him wearily. ‘I feel worn out.’
Hunnard turned on her almost savagely. ‘That’s not good enough. Your work is all-important.’
