by Maggie Humm
Hearing the gravel crunch, Lily looked up. Mr. Ramsay’s heavy boots were stamping along the terrace. Through the drawing room window, she watched him walk across the room, could hear him speak sharply, but the words were indistinct. There were low murmurs of disagreement and then an inconsolable cry from James. Mrs. Ramsay sat erect and looked anguished, turning her face away from James as if not seeing Lily and the garden, and it felt like Mr. Ramsay had changed the whole energy of the day.
Lily held onto her easel as the old terrier brushed past, almost knocking over her paint stool with his bushy tail. The dog barked at Mr. Ramsay when he stepped out of the house, fiddling with his pocket watch, frowning, to join Tansley, the young man Mrs. Ramsay had introduced her to yesterday, at the other end of the terrace.
“Miss Briscoe, this is Mr. Charles Tansley, my husband’s student,” she’d said. “He writes philosophy—about the nature of reality.”
Lily hadn’t been able to think of a sensible reply.
“There’ll be no trip tomorrow to the lighthouse,” Mr. Ramsay said fiercely, as if tossing the phrase out onto the terrace, and Tansley nodded, trotting alongside like a dutiful pupil as they disappeared into the distance. His ill-fitting suit was of poor quality, and the smell of his tobacco was cheap shag.
Laughter burst from the house, and the other children pelted onto the lawn. Prue and Andrew swung ahead, and Mrs. Ramsay’s green shawl on Prue’s shoulders flew out with the wind, its fringes a whirl of tiny lines resembling feathers on birds’ wings. Cam and Nancy, in flat tennis shoes with rubber tips, ran as fast as their short legs could manage. It moved her to watch the running, higgledy-piggledy group, but aware of her gradually loosening hair and paint-spattered hands, Lily felt a little melancholic being apart and older, thinking how quickly childish games soon passed. She was hampered by her stockinette jacket and grey serge dress. The outfit kept her warm while painting out of doors but was heavy, tickling her neck and making her feel inhibited next to the swift flock and their chatter.
“Do keep to the path!” Andrew shouted as he marshalled them together. How tall he’d become since the sight of him cuddled by Mrs. Ramsay at Studio Day, scarcely reaching to her waist.
Last night at dinner she’d relished his sarcastic remark. “My father’s students never seem to know about anything other than their dissertations,” he’d said as an aside to her when Tansley was intent on ignoring her.
The children crowded around a rock pool carved out of a narrow stream, feeding through the miniature gardens, watering the strawberry beds and the orchard. A breeze ruffled its surface, and the sun lit the tips of tiny waves. Lily wiped her hands and brushes with a scrap of cloth—she must cut more pieces ready for tomorrow—and placed the brushes on the easel.
“I’ll join you all if I may?” she called over.
“Do come, Miss Briscoe,” Prue said, welcoming her with a smile.
Prue was a cloaked medieval lady in the colourful shawl, hanging now from her shoulders right down to the ground. The children watched a boy flick his homemade little boat across the pool. Why hadn’t she noticed him before? There were so many visitors. Mrs. Ramsay always introduced her to new people, but he must have arrived after she’d begun painting for the day. The little paddle steamer shot swiftly across the water’s surface from an elastic band, and the children clapped.
“William—you’re a whiz at boat building!” Andrew exclaimed. It seemed he could safely admire someone his own age. No younger children ever impressed him.
“I’m to be a naval officer when I’m older,” William proudly declared to the admiring small group. “Father’s arranged for me to meet cadets on a frigate.” Even with his transient boy’s face, William was already seeing a secure future he could occupy.
She pictured a man in dark-blue uniform with gold epaulettes and a chest full of shiny medals. All decorated show and no morals, these military men, she thought, visualizing William commanding a warship of His Majesty’s fleet, standing on the bridge, a braided cap pulled down low on his forehead. That’s what little boys became after playing with boats, guns, and miniature soldiers, men whose caps reached too far over their eyes. They’d never notice how the lingering sun had turned the greenhouse windowpanes into shining mirrors. What was the colour, silver or pewter?
Lily stared. In the rear of the greenhouse sat Mr. Ramsay, a cheroot sticking out from his jutting teeth, his knee jiggling up and down. Is this where he came to escape the family? He looked preoccupied, presumably having great thoughts about something or other, although Mr. Tansley had whispered yesterday he wasn’t in the first flight of men. Then he stood up abruptly, frowning, and picked up a flowerpot.
“Damn, damn that woman!” echoed across the space between them as Mr. Ramsay threw the pot at a bench, pieces flying everywhere. At least the windows were intact. His hair-trigger fury was like a dog unchained at the end of the day. As he strode out of the greenhouse across the lawn, Lily turned, pretending to admire a buddleia, sniffing at the flowers. In the distance Mrs. Ramsay was walking towards the greenhouse carrying a trug and brush, glancing sideways at her husband as if too frightened to speak. The crashing sound must have reached the house, although the children, immersed in William’s expertise, had ignored the scene.
Lily stood, hidden by the bushes, and watched Mrs. Ramsay bend down to pick up the pottery fragments, place the trug out of sight under the bench, and return to the house. Everything passed so quickly it seemed almost a brief nightmare. Lily let out her breath, wondering what she’d seen, and looked up at the darkening sky. It was impossible to paint any longer. The fabric of the day had worn through. Mrs. Ramsay had probably gone to the kitchen, giving instructions to the cook about the meal, and they scarcely had an hour to wash and change into evening clothes before assembling around the dining table. There wasn’t any time to mull over Mr. Ramsay’s strange violence, or to return to the town, so her day outfit would have to do. At least she wouldn’t need a solitary tray of cold supper placed outside her room in the lodging house. Mrs. Ramsay had said Mr. Bankes wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow.
She’d begun the portrait, chosen her colours, and the joy of beginning must charge the week ahead. She’d try to forget the scene with Mr. Ramsay; it was Mrs. Ramsay she needed to paint. Lily left the path to stand near the dense escallonia hedge adjoining the house, and its bright purple swept around her. The oblong immensity would look perfect behind Mrs. Ramsay if she’d sit out of doors for an hour or so. The shapes were clear in her mind, and it would be fine tomorrow. She walked on towards the kitchen.
Sophie the cook leaned through the kitchen window to cut a thick string attached to a basket, which fell with a thump into the garden as Lily watched, amused Sophie shared Mrs. Trevelyan’s immense circular shape except topped by even bulkier breasts.
“The mistress doesn’t allow them to eat before dinner,” Sophie said to Lily, “but they do try my patience—lowering their basket from the night nursery for scraps. I must get on.”
“I won’t interrupt,” Lily said. “I merely came to find a soap tablet for washing my hands before the meal.”
Sophie pointed to the kitchen sink and a square of damp towelling hanging on a hook.
“Mrs. Ramsay wants me to make crème brûlée for pudding,” she said, beating egg yolks in a large bowl clutched firmly to her breasts, cream heating on the range, “as if I haven’t enough to do with so many people to feed.”
“Could I help?” Lily asked. “I cook for Father when the servants have a free evening.”
She’d learned to manage the house from her mother—how to make simple meals, to put table linen fresh from the wash at the bottom of the pile to maintain rotation—but too little was learned before Mother died.
Sophie shook her head and Lily stayed silent as the cook sprinkled brown sugar on top of the wide dish, the treacle smell wafting through the room. Lily was a visitor, not a guest staying in the house, and therefore not free to linger in Sophie’
s kitchen. She was midway between the chosen ones, the family and friends in Talland House, and the supplements, those invited to please Mr. Ramsay, and she felt tiny behind Sophie’s broad back.
Walking back through the house, she remembered her watercolour being selected by Louis for exhibition, and Porthmeor Studios, where she’d tried hard to fit in and was never chosen, certainly not by Olsson—but hadn’t she been a little special in Louis’s eyes? Often her mind went back to her first time in St Ives, searching for the first day when she’d seen Louis care for her. It had been the Saturday at the railway station, she’d conclude, and returning with him to Mrs. Trevelyan’s was the moment she’d decided to commit to art. Almost immediately she’d known that was not true because she’d always intended to be an artist, exhausting herself with the effort to be independent. The uncertainty of all this was becoming a shapeless anxiety and could be dispelled if she saw him again, and she’d resolved to visit Louis as soon as Mrs. Ramsay was busy, if he was not in Australia. Frank Rutter in the Art Journal last year had written Mr. Grier was one of the foremost Australian painters of our time.
The train of thought carried her into the dining room. A tablecloth fluttered across the oval table on top of a felt fabric. Standing in the window space, she approved the perfect regularity of each setting as Mildred placed wine and water glasses to the right side, knives on top of napkins, and water jugs and cruets in a straight line down the centre of the table.
“It’s a holiday home, Miss,” Mildred said, glancing at her in the corner, “but Mrs. Ramsay does care about the appearance of the evening meal.”
“It all looks beautiful, Mildred,” Lily said, beaming at the maid.
The formality of the table was at odds with the old lumpy furniture and mismatched chairs, but the paintings looking down sent out stories. Even her small watercolour relayed a shiny reflection of the gas mantles onto the white linen. Mildred had polished the mirrors, and eight tall candles cast wide circles of light. The moment was beautiful, as fragile as slender glass. It was all too exquisite, in which she experienced a shimmering radiance flooding the room, when Mrs. Ramsay swished towards her in a full-length silk black dress picked out with jewellery, and everything seemed to arrange itself around her solid centre.
“You look so stylish, Mrs. Ramsay,” Lily said. “I wish there’d been time for me to change.”
“My dear, we don’t dress for dinner in Talland House,” Mrs. Ramsay replied. “Your outfit is perfect for our company.”
Lily buttoned her jacket, straightening the collar, her eyes brightening, as the dining room filled with mauve. It was the boundary of evening, the moment when things change, colours become deeper and the future denser but somehow more tantalizing.
Visitors and family murmured greetings to Mrs. Ramsay, who was sitting now at one end of the table, holding a welcoming expression. Mr. Ramsay and Mr. Tansley at the other end were talking about the next day’s squally weather as Mildred placed bowls of soup before each guest. Lily had been placed next to Mr. Tansley by Mrs. Ramsay—she wasn’t sure why—and listened to the murmurs from the men broken by the children’s giggles and chatter. Placing her spoon in the bowl, Lily glanced up and noticed Mrs. Ramsay look anxiously at her husband and then straight at her as if in encouragement, but there was no point in speaking since everyone would ignore her contribution, she was sure. The one nature of reality she knew about was in painting. Perhaps it didn’t matter having one topic; the same thing could be said over and over, with other things tacked on, like the Sunday roast at home becoming cold slices on Monday, meat cakes on Tuesdays, and shepherd’s pie on Wednesdays. She couldn’t remember Thursday’s meal. Friday had to be fish.
Mr. Ramsay was leaning over his plate, shaking his head in disagreement again about some opinion or other from a gentleman on his other side. He glanced up at the children’s laughter, and his anger seemed to shoot across the table. Prue caught Lily’s eye, and they grimaced at each other as his deep voice boomed out, “Ragamice—no interruptions please!” almost drowning out the other speakers.
He seemed to say exactly what he thought, however unkind, and do what he liked. Lily remembered his description of the children at Studio Day. It must have been his irritation discomforting Mrs. Ramsay because she was nodding in response to her husband. It was her way to bring everyone into the glow of the moment with her little glances and gestures, trying to calm her husband’s sharp comments, and now the men were looking around for the servant to dispense more wine just as if they were students at high table in college waiting for the port. Lily’s old anxiety loomed up—the worry about getting the rituals right, although she’d been told once it was all in Alice in Wonderland, in the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party characters move from the left like port, and she’d laughed. Glancing at Mr. Tansley sitting next to her, she wondered if she should speak to him. His face was narrow with thin lips, and his downturned mouth seemed to reach his chin, like a man continually immersed in books. She looked at Mrs. Ramsay, who nodded again, and she tried a simple request.
“I should love to visit the Lighthouse, Mr. Tansley,” she said, softening her voice, “when the weather improves.”
“I would be happy to accompany you, Miss Briscoe, if Mr. Ramsay approves,” Tansley replied with a surprised glance. He didn’t bother to mention Mrs. Ramsay. Lily turned, and Mrs. Ramsay blessed her with a smile, but Tansley remained silent, picking at his food, and she couldn’t think of anything else to add. She gazed down at her plate. Where had Mrs. Ramsay found black olives and garlic in St Ives? The familiar smell took her back to the Montmartre café and its special casserole.
Everyone there talked right through the evening while skinny waiters in white aprons almost down to their feet rushed back and forth. With the waiters came wine. She hadn’t drunk wine in London with Father and it was a huge adventure, not thought vulgar at all in Paris for a woman alone to drink in public with men she barely knew, savouring the intoxication, not just of alcohol, but of the easy conversations. Here the men gabbled to each other, ignoring the women, until the meal was finally over.
Cam ran ahead of the other children out of the room, clambering up the wooden staircase towards the night nursery as Mrs. Ramsay stood up, stepped over, and took Lily’s hand.
“I need to tell a story to the children, Miss Briscoe, but Mildred will see to their bedtime preparations. Come and join me for coffee in my garden. We might catch the last rays of the sun joining the first beams from Godrevy Lighthouse.”
The two women sat close together on the garden steps, and Mrs. Ramsay wrapped Lily in her thick shawl as Lily’s hands rubbed back and forth around her coffee cup. The garden dissolved into warmth. Behind them in the house she saw all the men were dark silhouettes, sitting in the gloom drinking their port, but it was pure joy to be with Mrs. Ramsay, lit by gleams from Godrevy, the conversation from the dining room too faint to understand. Mrs. Ramsay’s face seemed atop a statue, marble and firm. She looked so commanding all of a sudden, and Lily felt the rich essence of female connection, a fervent intensity because they were both women and Mrs. Ramsay was a mother. She gave Talland House a point of view, a sense of life, of its odd but necessary capacity.
“Might we postpone my portrait for a day?” Mrs. Ramsay asked. “I’ve visits to make in St Ives tomorrow. There are so many needy souls to care for. And I’ve several letters to write.”
“Of course,” Lily said. “I should be in town myself tomorrow. I need to buy more art materials from Lanham’s shop.”
A day in St Ives would also give her time to visit the studio, to see Louis at last. Trying not to smile, she pushed some loose hairs from her forehead, glancing again at Mrs. Ramsay, who was staring up at the sky.
“In any case,” Mrs. Ramsay said, “my husband told me the weather may not be fine tomorrow for painting out of doors. Too inclement, he said.”
Olsson made the students paint out of doors in any weather, unless there were hurricanes, Emily used to say, but she
couldn’t contradict Mr. Ramsay to his wife.
“Today was perfect,” Lily replied. “The light this afternoon brought out the flowers’ true colours, and the sun shone directly on you through the window as I painted your outline.”
“Sir Walter Scott says a fine day makes one think nothing had been intended for the day,” Mrs. Ramsay said, “but I agree with you, the afternoon seemed to glow. I’ll go up now to tell a little story to the children if you’ve finished your coffee. I conjure up a new tale every night.”
“What are your stories about?” Lily asked, remembering overhearing Mrs. Ramsay reading a fairy tale to James as she painted the portrait.
“Oh, I’m very fanciful. I pick up shards and pieces of the day and weave these into mysteries. We love animals, and our favourite character is a monkey. Just this year in London Zoo a monkey shook hands with the children. Cam squealed a good deal, I’m afraid, but the others adored stroking the sad little beast. My husband told me Darwin loved monkeys too.”
Hearing about the Ramsays’ family life filled Lily with a strange happiness. When she thought of her London life—of her adolescence, of the mews house near Brompton Road, of her governess—she saw herself always filled with a strange anxiety, as if never quite knowing what to do. Now it was the Ramsays’ insignificant little moments in which nothing much was happening but which were beginning to fill her days with meaning, and her sense of belonging grew stronger with each disclosure. Mrs. Ramsay stood up, smoothing down the lines of her silk dress.
“Do stay, Miss Briscoe, as long as you wish. The children need me, but I’m sure the men will have extinguished their cigarettes by now.”
“My landlady will wonder about the late hour,” Lily said, folding the shawl and handing it back. “I should return to my lodging before the evening becomes too dark to see my way.”
The light seemed to fade as Mrs. Ramsay went indoors.
